on
earth.'
'That is news to me,' said Pilate with a laugh. ' But perhaps I am too
ignorant of life. You need take no further notes,' he said to the secretary,
although the man had taken none for some time. Pilate turned back to the
prisoner :
'Did you read about that in some Greek book? '
'No, I reached that conclusion in my own mind.'
'And is that what you preach? '
' Yes.'
'Centurion Mark Muribellum, for instance--is he good? '
'Yes,' replied the prisoner. ' He is, it is true, an unhappy man.
Since the good people disfigured him he has become harsh and callous. It
would be interesting to know who mutilated him.'
'That I will gladly tell you,' rejoined Pilate, ' because I was a
witness to it. These good men threw themselves at him like dogs at a bear.
The Germans clung to his neck, his arms, his legs. An infantry maniple had
been ambushed and had it not been for a troop of cavalry breaking through
from the flank--a troop commanded by me--you, philosopher, would not have
been talking to Muribellum just now. It happened at the battle of
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