Pilate rose at that moment, moving to face the crowd. “I find no guilt in this man!” he proclaimed, loudly enough to gain the attention of the masses, who hushed to hear him. “But your courts have found him guilty. Shall I release him to you for the Passover?”
A deafening roar went up, and Abigail could not make out what they were calling for. Her head began its customary throb behind her eyes at the noise.
Pilate could apparently hear better from his position than she could from hers, for his face adopted a look of confusion at what met his ears. “Shall I release the teacher,” he inquired again, “or Barabbas?”
She felt her face freeze. Surely he would not, could not release the leader of the rebellion against Rome. It could not even be an option. But she watched as another man was thrust forward by the centurions, one of which she recognized as Titus, even from this distance.
This time, the crowd was silent for a heartbeat before responding, and this time, their pleas were intelligible even to Abigail. It started in many places throughout the crowd. She could hear the voices, hissing around her. One man spoke from right behind her, commanding over her head, “Call for Barabbas!”
“No!” She wheeled around even as the people took up the chant.
“Give us Barabbas!”
Pilate looked as uncomfortable as Abigail felt, obviously not anticipating this response. He glanced over his shoulder at Jesus. “What shall I do with the man they call the King of the Jews?”
Again, it was a hiss of prompting that preceded the crowd’s shouts of “Crucify him!”
Abigail could feel her hatred curling up within her, pounding with every beat of blood through her veins, rising and rising until she had no choice but to scream. “No! Kill Barabbas! Spare the teacher!”
Her voice was lost in the continuing thundering from the people, but the prompter behind her must have heard her. “Quiet, woman!”
She turned to face him and saw a man whose dress labeled him as a religious leader. Her fury now had a focal point. “I will not! What has the teacher done to deserve death? Nothing!”
The man was aged, but robust. His gray hair and beard were still full, and his face was hard and unforgiving. “The decision has been made, woman. Barabbas is being released, and Jesus will be crucified.”
“No!” Her voice choked on the sob of rage in her throat.
The religious leader looked disgusted with her. “Stay out of politics, wench. Go home to your husband.”
A heated gush of breath brought words spewing forth. “My husband is dead. And the man you just insisted be released so that your political agenda could be met is the man who killed him.”
The man’s cold eyes narrowed. “Barabbas killed no one but Roman wretches.”
“He killed my husband! He killed his father! They were the best men I knew–”
“Roman whore!” The man recoiled from her as if from a serpent. His eyes flew to her stomach. “Is it a Roman whelp, too?”
She was shocked enough by his words to be rendered speechless for a moment. In her second of inaction, the man seized her by the arm and began pulling her toward the doorway that would lead into the fortress. “I will show you what traitors deserve.” He dragged her unwilling form where he wanted it. No one took any notice, just cleared out of the leader’s way and then filled the gap when he went by.
“Let me go! You are hurting me!” His hand was in a death lock on her arm, and the more she struggled against his grip, the more bruising it became. He ignored her appeals.
He stopped in front of the exit from the fortress and gave her a jarring shake. “Hold your tongue.” Turning with expectation to the opening, they waited only a few seconds before the pounding of footsteps was heard.
Abigail’s heart leapt into her throat. She knew now why he had dragged her over here. Barabbas was being released, and this was where the guards would leave him. The murderer would come, and the man beside her would offer her to him, telling him to finish what he started so well during the uprising. For some reason this stranger, this man supposed to lead her people, hated her enough to want her and her child dead. Was it because Jason was Roman? Or because she had objected when he told the crowd to crucify Jesus?
She was inflamed enough to ask but was not given the chance. The commotion within grew louder, and three figures emerged. Her focus was drawn to the central man. He was still dressed as a prisoner. His clothing was old and threadbare, his hair wild and unwashed, and his body bent from hunger and abuse. His face was dazed, and he blinked in the sunlight, the expression he wore one of confusion and astonishment.
“Barabbas,” the man holding her said as if he knew the man, “congratulations on your release. Did I not tell you it would work this way?”
Barabbas just looked at the man before him, slumping when the soldiers who had led him out let go of his arms.