CHAPTER XX
Paulus moved to stand close behind the prisoner, where he could see the faces of Pilate, before him, and of the priests to the left side. His senior tribune and a centurion stood just behind Paulus, along with a few of his other officers…who seemed interested in the proceedings and somewhat confused by this display of animosity toward a man who had thousands cheering his entrance into the city just a few days ago. He was quickly realizing that this situation was not only beyond his control, but Pilate’s as well.
“What?” said Pilate, into the heavy silence, “shall I do with this man?”
At once the roaring began, like Romans in the arena. “Crucify him!” The men worked themselves into the frenzy of a mob, shouting and shaking their fists. The supporters of the Nazarene could not even be heard.
Pilate walked down the steps, lifted his hands to no avail, and raised his voice to speak to the priests. “What has he done to warrant crucifixion?”
“By our laws he deserves it, for he calls himself the son of God!”
Pilate spoke directly to the Nazarene. “Who are you? ”
He was met with no answer.
“Why don’t you talk to me?” Pilate urged. “Don’t you know that I have the power to release you, or crucify you?”
With an effort, the Nazarene lifted his head and spoke hoarsely. “You would have no power at all over me, unless it was given to you by God. Those who have delivered me to you have the greater sin.”
Looking over the Nazarene’s shoulder, the governor met Paulus’ eyes. He made one last effort. “It is my wish to release this man.”
“No! No!” the priests cried vehemently. Their faces worked; they all but spat with rage. “The Nazarene makes himself a king! If you let him go, you are no friend to Caesar!”
Paulus knew then that it was over. “Friend to Caesar”…a title coveted by every administrator…its denial was poison, in more ways than one. Pilate tried to manage a sarcastic laugh, but it was little more than a grunt.
“So, shall I crucify your king?”
“We have no king but Caesar! Away with him! Crucify him!”
Unaware that he had even been debating with himself, Paulus reached a decision. It would surely be a suicidal move in regard to his career, perhaps to his life, and all for a penniless Jewish carpenter who was saying nothing in his own behalf…but to remain silent in the face of so great an injustice was to ally himself with these fanatical priests. Maybe the Nazarene was crazy, maybe he was a blasphemer, but he did not deserve crucifixion, and Paulus did not think he could live with himself if he allowed it to happen.
He would exercise the full authority of his rank and demand that Pilate release the man. Even if it meant ordering his own men to arrest Pilate, even if it meant a full-scale battle, he must do something to put an end to this farce, this torture and murder of an innocent man. His hand was on the hilt of his sword when, unexpectedly, the Nazarene turned and looked directly into his eyes. The message struck him like a physical blow, as if a voice spoke into his mind…
Put away your sword .
Slowly, his hand dropped to his side. Gradually his accelerated heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm. The Nazarene had not spoken, but Paulus had heard his voice. And he had to obey it. For a moment he doubted his own sanity.
The Nazarene held his gaze, his breathing labored, then he raised his bound hands to wipe blood out of his eyes and turned away. A servant hurried down the steps and handed the prefect a small sheet of papyrus, which Pilate read with a heavy scowl.
“From my superstitious wife,” he muttered, and once more seemed to waver. He was not immune to superstition himself. He looked up. The mob was shouting incoherently; here and there the words “Caesar” and “traitor” could be discerned. The priests waited expectantly for the final word, angry and tense.
Turning abruptly, Pilate climbed the steps to the portico and called for a basin of water. When the servant brought it, he dipped his hands in it and raised them for all to see. He meant it to be a symbolic gesture; certainly the Romans and priests knew that it had no legal meaning and was merely a dramatic way for Pilate to declare he wanted nothing further to do with the matter.
“I am innocent of the blood of this man,” the prefect called down to the priests, glaring at them. “See to it yourselves.”
The Nazarene was to be crucified.
Pilate had no choice but to place his own staff in charge of the execution; he knew Paulus would have refused. He ordered that two other condemned men be crucified as well; perhaps it would be a slight diversion, at least. He then disappeared into the praetorium.
Paulus took it upon himself to order the cap of thorns removed from the prisoner, as well as the scarlet cloak, and saw that the man’s own clothes were put back on him. Then he followed Pilate, who was sitting limply in a chair, staring at his half-eaten breakfast.
“Legate, will you—” Pilate stopped and had to force himself to meet Paulus’ eyes. He was sweating profusely. “Will you go and control the mob? I don’t know what will come of this, or how the people will react.”
Paulus glared at him. “You are still the governor, Pontius Pilate. You have two choices. You may alter your decision before it’s too late, or you can abide by it, and be prepared to accept the consequences.”
At Paulus’ sharp tone, the frightened look began to leave Pilate’s face. “You are quite right, Legate.” He cleared his throat. “Since your presence might prevent a riot, you will accompany the prisoner to the execution site.”
“I will accompany the prisoner,” Paulus said coldly, “but not for that reason. If there is a movement to free the Nazarene, I will make sure that neither your men nor mine interfere.”
He turned abruptly, leaving Pilate to make of that what he would. He didn’t care if the prefect arrested him for insubordination, or treason. He went outside and ordered his horse saddled. When it was brought to him he traveled at a brisk pace down the almost empty street and passed through the gate opening onto the place of execution.
The path led up a gradual incline that ended in a cliff looking down upon two highways, one parallel with it, the other extending northward. The Jews called it Golgotha and the Romans Calvary…the words meaning “the place of the skull”. The cliff face, when viewed from the two highways, had contours and cavities eerily resembling a human skull. Executions were carried out here in full view of travelers, thus emphasizing Rome’s punishment of wrong-doers and at the same time not offending the city with the smell of death, for the victims were usually left there to rot.
Now that it was mid-morning, the news of the Nazarene’s arrest had spread over certain quarters of the city. Dozens of people began to converge on the barren, rock-strewn plateau. Some wept, or appeared to be dazed. But no one seemed to be on the verge of rebellion. None of the disciples had come to fight off the crowds, to shield their master from harm. None were there to comfort him, none had come to die with him.
The Nazarene walked with slow, agonized steps . He wore again his blood and sweat-stained robe. The crossbar to which he would be nailed, the weight of a small man, had been placed over his shoulders. Soldiers flanked the crowd on horseback, while others surrounded the prisoner. When he was forced to stop as soldiers cleared a path for him, one of them lashed at his legs with a leather whip until he began to trudge on again. A group of women cried piteously, reaching out to touch him as he passed. He paused and said something to them, but was driven on by a vicious lash from behind.
Paulus glanced down at the northern road and saw a man walking toward the city, watching the scene with bewilderment and horror. It was Simon, obviously just returning to Jerusalem. Paulus guided his horse to the edge of the precipice and caught his eye, gesturing. Simon immediately walked around the base of the rock “skull” and gained the path leading upward.
The Nazarene stumbled, falling heavily on his knees. He attempted to shift the great cross-beam that chafed against his raw wounds. Behind him, the soldier sneered and raised his whip. As he did so a hard jerk upon it nearly pulled him off his feet. He let go, and a stinging burn appeared on his hand. He swore and whirled in fury, only to look up and meet the formidable glare of the Antonia’s commander.
“You fool!” Paulus snapped. “Return to the fort and report to Pilate that you gave a good account of yourself—beating a dying man!” He threw the whip at the soldier, who caught it deftly, then turned, sullen but obedient, to walk down the incline toward the city. Lowering his gaze, Paulus saw the Nazarene slumped on the ground.
He twisted in the saddle. “Simon!”
“Yes, sir.” The slave appeared amid a sea of faces.
“Help the man carry his cross.”
“Yes, sir!”
Dropping the bag he carried, Simon made his way to the Nazarene, who seemed to have reached the end of his endurance. Stooping beside the prisoner, he took the wooden beam upon his own strong shoulders and carried it the remaining distance. The Nazarene staggered after him, his head lowered, seeming not to hear the lamentations of one group, or the taunts and jeers of another.
“He saved others—himself he cannot save!” The men curled their lips and shook their heads. Even people on the roads stopped to look up and shake their fists. Someone yelled, “You led us to believe you were going to save us—look at you now! You are nothing but a fraud! We called you Messiah, and now you will hang on a tree—accursed of God!”
The priests who had followed the cruel procession also derided him. “See if God will help you! You say you are the son of God…he doesn’t think much of you, does he?”
The slave paused as they reached the flattened area of the execution site. A soldier relieved him of the crossbar. Simon turned to inquire of Paulus what he should do next. Paulus indicated with a movement of his head that he could leave, if he chose.
Simon looked at the Nazarene. He had straightened to look up into the sky; it seemed to Simon that he was involved in some tremendous inner struggle that had nothing to do with what was going on around him. It was as if he gazed at some other world…it was as if he saw something in the sky that Simon could not see.
Then the prisoner drew his gaze down and looked at Simon. And Simon knew he couldn’t bear to stay. He swung about and began descending the knoll.
Paulus’ eyes scanned the group of mourners who stood apart from the main crowd. He still didn’t recognize any of them as being one of the twelve disciples. But wait…there was one of them. The youngest one. And there stood Lazarus, and several women. His attention was drawn by a woman of middle age who bore a slight resemblance to the Nazarene. The look on her face, as though her soul had been torn asunder…surely they had not brought his mother here! This was a sight that even the most seasoned soldiers, if they had a shred of decency in them, found difficult to bear. Paulus followed her agonized gaze with his own.
The team of skilled executioners went quickly to work. The Nazarene was stripped of his garment and forced to lie on the ground, with his shoulders resting against the crossbeam. He was offered a drugged wine by women from a charitable organization, who were present at every execution, but he shook his head, refusing it. A soldier held down one arm, placed a spike over the prisoner’s wrist, and hammered it quickly into the wood. The Nazarene wrenched his head. His hand clenched and spasmed. The soldier nailed the other wrist. The crossbeam was raised with the aid of ropes and pulleys and attached to the center post, which was already set in the ground. His left leg was roughly rotated and the foot placed over the other. A single spike drove through both feet and into the wood of the center bar. The entire procedure, designed to inflict the worst pain and misery imaginable, had taken only a few moments.
With difficulty, the Nazarene spoke, as though to some invisible presence. “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
The legionary who had done the nailing stopped his business of gathering up tools, and stared at the man on the cross. Whether or not he understood the words was not clear; something in the tone had reached him. But the Nazarene was silent now, closing his eyes and rolling his head back against the wood.
“If you are the son of God, come down from the cross!” screamed one of the priests.
As before, Paulus was surprised by the depth of their hatred and hostility toward this man. Especially when he hung nailed to a cross…no longer a threat to either their doctrine or dignity.
Now would come the hours, sometimes days, that the victim would wait to die. His body had been forced into an unnatural position, the hips thrust to one side, the knees bent in the opposite direction. The chest was constricted, and in order to breathe or in an attempt to take pressure off of his wrists, he would raise himself, only to increase the pain in his impaled feet. He would release his weight, and the pressure would again be on the wrists. He could shift himself in such a manner as long as he was able, but the only relief was death.
In that moment Paulus was ashamed of himself, and his heritage. Though he considered this form of punishment so cruel that he never used it, it was a Roman punishment and he was a Roman. Why had he not done something? What if he had misinterpreted the look on the Nazarene’s face, what if he’d only imagined those words he thought he had heard?
Well, it was too late now to save him. The man would never survive, even if Paulus had him taken down from the cross this very moment. He was too badly wounded, he had lost too much blood…the beating had been too severe. And that could be attributed to two Roman soldiers who didn’t even know him and yet hated him…there was something almost diabolical about all this animosity, if one believed in such things.
“Legate, the prefect has requested your presence immediately, at the praetorium, sir.”
Paulus’ head jerked around at the unexpected summons. One of his own men had approached him on horseback.
“Very well.”
The young soldier avoided looking at the three crosses and left. Paulus lingered, offering in his mind a respectful farewell to this courageous man. Then he turned his horse and walked it slowly away. From the two thieves who had been crucified on either side of the Nazarene came almost inhuman moans of agony, but from the man on the central cross, there was no sound.
* * * *
He found on his return that Pilate seemed to have regained control of himself and was involved in a dispute with some of the priests over the wording of a sign he had ordered to be posted over the Nazarene’s cross. It was the custom to post such signs over the heads of criminals, so that the public might be aware of the nature of their crimes.
One of the priests complained, “The sign says—‘This is Jesus, King of the Jews’.”
“I know what it says,” Pilate replied flatly.
“But he is not our king! The sign should read, ‘He claimed to be King of the Jews’.”
“What I have written, I have written.”
“But there was no need to put it in three languages…”
Paulus, who had not yet entered the room, felt a bitter urge to laugh. He walked briskly through the doorway.
“Legate.” Pilate gestured to him wearily. “Come here.”
Paulus complied, eyeing the priests with an expression falling short of friendly interest.
“I think you know Annas, of the Sanhedrin, and Caiaphas, the High Priest.”
Paulus nodded curtly at the older man. “I heard you were ill. It seems you have made a remarkable recovery.”
Annas shrugged. “I was merely indisposed after a long and arduous interrogation. I have not your youth and vigor, Commander.”
Pilate interrupted. “Paulus, these men have come to me with a request, and for once I can see the wisdom of it. I am going to ask you to do it.”
“If you mean taking down the sign, it remains.”
“Yes, the sign remains. There is another request. Annas, you will explain.”
“We want you,” the old man said, “to make certain, beyond any doubt, that the Nazarene is dead. Then, we want guards posted by his grave for at least three full days.”
Paulus was intrigued, in spite of himself. “For what purpose?”
The priests were silent. Pilate made a careless gesture with his hand. “It seems that this Jesus told his followers some time ago that he would be killed, but assured them that within three days he would rise again.”
“Of course,” put in Caiaphas quickly, “the disciples will more than likely attempt to steal the body and present the empty grave to the world, proclaiming the man had risen. Or they may try to take him down before he is dead and revive him, so that he may appear three days hence claiming to be resurrected. It would create a disturbance, and that we must avoid.”
“Yes,” said Paulus. “You killed him for creating a disturbance.”
“He was a blasphemer!” Caiaphas asserted, with sudden balefulness. “In my very presence he declared he was the son of God!”
“And for that you would nail a man to a cross?”
The High Priest drew himself up proudly. “It is notorious, sir, that you Romans take your religion lightly, but with us it is not so. And for a man, a Nazarene, to claim he is the son of God is the utmost profanity!”
“Can you prove,” Paulus asked, with a raised eyebrow, “that the man is not the son of God? After all, he is said to have performed many miracles, among them ridding the Temple of your thieving moneychangers.”
Caiaphas stared and began to sputter helplessly. His father-in-law came to his rescue.
“Legate Valerius.” Annas gave him a placating smile. “Perhaps you are not familiar with our religion…and why should you be? We hold our God in the deepest reverence. For a man to claim he is God’s son is the same as saying he is God himself. That is contrary to our most important commandment, which says, ‘Have no other gods before me’.”
“It seems there has been a difference of opinion on which is the most important commandment, but you are welcome to yours. I do know a little of your religion, Annas, and I know that much as been written of the promised Messiah. Suppose you have crucified him?”
“We, as Sadducees, do not hold to the idea of a Messiah.”
“But you can hardly deny he was an extraordinary man. How do you explain his miracles?”
“Tricks,” said Annas, without blinking an eye. “We do not deny he was a master of illusion.”
“And the bringing of a dead man back to life?”
“Impossible. It was nothing more than an elaborate hoax.”
Paulus was enjoying himself. “Can you be sure of that? There are many witnesses who will swear that the man called Lazarus was dead and in his grave before the Nazarene recalled him to life.”
Pilate interposed at that moment, saving the old man from racking his canny brain for a reply. “Paulus, please, enough of this. I would prefer that you handle this duty, so I can be certain it is well done. They have their own Temple guards, but they want trained men, real soldiers.”
Paulus answered, “I am impressed by the piety of your priests, Pontius Pilate…although it surprises me that they have entered the house of heathens when they are about to begin their ceremony.” He looked at the sullen priests. “Or is this just another law you’ve bent to accommodate yourselves?”
Annas seemed truly offended. “That is a Pharisaic law! We, as the heads of the Sanhedrin, are not required to abide by it.”
“I see.” Paulus’ look of disdain was not lost upon the priests. “I suppose there are any number of laws you, as heads of the Sanhedrin, are not required to abide by. Very well, then. I will confirm the death, and wait with interest to see what happens…in three days.”
No sooner had he left the room than another of his men approached and saluted him. “Sir, they are about to free the prisoner, Barabbas. The document requires your signature.”
“I thought he had already been released.”
“There has been some confusion, sir. Some of the tribunes thought you opposed the release.”
“As I did, but Pilate has ordered it. I gave specific instructions to Tribune Gaius.”
The legionary said nothing and looked uncertain.
“Bring the prisoner and whoever is in charge of him to my reception room.”
“Yes, sir.”
Paulus swore and entered the empty dining hall, where he poured himself a generous draught of wine. A stale loaf of bread had been left on the serving table. He tore off a piece and ate it, though he wasn’t very hungry. Crucifixions tended to dull the appetite.
When he reached his office the bound prisoner and his three guards were there, along with the apologetic tribune, who came smartly to attention.
“I am sorry, sir. I know what your orders were to me, but some of the staff believed you had changed your mind. I did not wish to release this prisoner until I was sure of your wishes, due to the nature of his crimes.”
“If I had changed my mind, I would have made it known to you, Tribune. My order stands. You do recall the exact words?”
“Yes, sir.”
Paulus looked at the prisoner, whose expression was half smug and half disbelieving.
“I wouldn’t say you are a free man, Barabbas. We will find you again, should you resume your former activities.”
The man grinned. “That won’t be so easy. But if I may ask…why did you choose today to make use of that old tradition? It hasn’t been done in years, has it?”
“I wouldn’t know, nor was it my decision. I find it stupid and irresponsible. Give me the scroll, Tribune.”
The officer handed over the document; Paulus sat down at his desk and signed it. “Take him outside and release him.”
The five men turned to leave. Then Paulus said, “Barabbas, have you no curiosity about the man dying in your place?”
The scraggly man turned, his grin fading. “What did he do?”
“Nothing. He was innocent.”
Barabbas quirked an eyebrow. “Roman justice,” he said derisively.
* * * *
There were other matters needing his attention, but Paulus found it difficult to concentrate. It was unusually quiet in the praetorium. He wondered what Pilate was doing.
Suddenly, the entire room went black. It was as though a shade had been put over the window. He groped his way to it and looked out…and saw nothing. Slaves shuffled in, lighting lamps, their faces reflecting fear and alarm. Paulus said nothing to them, doubting they could explain the sudden darkness. An eclipse? He went outside. There was no storm, no clouds that he could see, no wind. The sun had been completely blotted out.
Lamps and torches had been lit all around the fort. Paulus called for his horse. For some reason he felt drawn to the place of execution…as if the Nazarene could explain this phenomenon. Rumor had it he had once stopped a terrific storm in mid-blast…did he have power over the sun as well? Or were the gods mourning over his ill treatment? Paulus couldn’t believe such thoughts were actually running through his head.
There was a rational explanation for everything. Obviously this was an eclipse of the sun, though the Greek and Egyptian astronomers residing at Herod’s palace had failed to predict this one…something they had accomplished in the past with phenomenal accuracy. Nor had he ever heard of an eclipse lasting for more than a few minutes. There was no aura around the sun, no glow from anywhere. Just total blackness, pressing down like a blanket.
His horse pranced skittishly. Few people walked in the street, and those who had ventured out held oil lamps and looked frightened. A group of soldiers perched on jittery horses talked and laughed loudly, as if to prove themselves unconcerned with the strange darkness. It had grown much cooler.
The plateau had been lit with torches, giving it a weird, underworld quality that would make the stoutest heart shiver. Fewer people stood there now. The mob had either wearied of reviling the Nazarene or had grown fearful of the darkness. Some distance away, Pilate’s soldiers…all in various stages of intoxication…played with dice and waited for the men to die.
Standing together, the mourners remained in almost the same position as when Paulus had left them. The woman he thought was the Nazarene’s mother was down on her knees, her head bowed. Her courage and self-possession almost matched that of her son. The two thieves still twisted and sobbed; one cursed intermittently. The Nazarene was still, his head limp, his eyes closed. Perhaps he was already dead. He looked dead.
The flickering torchlight played over him with a red glow. Brutally beaten and disfigured, he scarcely resembled a human being. His ribcage jutted out, giving him a distorted appearance; it looked as though his bones were ready to pierce through his skin. His entire body dripped profusely with blood and sweat.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Paulus’ head jerked around when he heard the hoarse voice of the Nazarene. There was immediately a stirring among the mourners, and only when someone began quoting the remaining verses did Paulus recognize that the Nazarene had called out a portion of the Hebrew psalms. He seemed to try to speak again but looked as if he were gagging. Paulus watched as the centurion said sharply, “You heard the man say he was thirsty—give him something to drink.”
Another soldier ambled forward and lifted up a stick to which was attached a sponge soaked in vinegar. After barely a swallow, the Nazarene lifted his head and, looking at the black sky, he cried out, “It is finished!” There was something triumphant, almost victorious, in the way he spoke. Then he said in a lower voice, “Father, into your hands—I commend my spirit.” His head drooped forward again and he hung motionless.
It was almost as though he had deliberately willed himself to die…though certainly he was a dying man. But it was the other thing he had said that intrigued Paulus…the Greek word he had used for “finished” more implied the payment of a debt than the completion of something. There was a key to that word, he thought…the key to the secret of the Nazarene’s very life.
At that instant a tremor shook the ground. Paulus’ horse neighed and reared, rolling its eyes in fright. Most of the remaining people scattered with alarmed cries and shouts. Paulus fought to control his horse, but the tremor stopped as unexpectedly as it had begun.
One of Pilate’s centurions appeared beside Paulus, staring at the Nazarene. “Surely this man was innocent. Surely he is the son of God!”
Shaken, Paulus didn’t reply. Everything was utterly still but for the nervous stamping of his horse. Suddenly, light appeared, as though a giant mass over the sun had finally passed over. People stood blinking, frowning in bewilderment and looking at each other.
Another soldier approached the centurion, holding a long, stout club. “The prefect has ordered their legs to be broken to hasten their deaths. He said to make absolutely certain they are all dead.” But he didn’t move, looking up at the Nazarene with an expression of dread.
“Do it,” the centurion said grimly. “It will be a mercy.”
The soldier obeyed. The first thief jerked convulsively as the club swung heavily against his legs with a sharp crack, then he went limp and sank into unconsciousness. The second thief only stirred and moaned slightly as he received the same treatment. No longer able to raise themselves to suck air into their lungs, they would soon suffocate.
The soldier paused, and raised the club to strike the Nazarene.
“Wait,” said Paulus, gazing intently into the blood-streaked face. “This man is already dead.”
He carefully edged his horse to the center cross. There was no longer a free flow of blood from the man’s wounds. He was not breathing. One eye was still swollen closed, but the other was partially open and unblinking. Paulus nodded toward one of the sentries standing by with a javelin. “Make sure.”
The sentry hesitated for a moment, then plunged his weapon deep into the unresisting flesh. A flow of blood and clear fluid ran out, but there was no movement.
Paulus looked down and met the centurion’s gaze. “Release the body to his friends.”
“One of the Jews has already asked Pilate for the body, sir. That one. They want to bury him before their holy day begins.” He nodded toward a wealthy-looking, older man, who stood near the young disciple and Lazarus. The women had moved further away, weeping quietly. A black-garbed member of the Sanhedrin, a Pharisee, also stood with the mourners.
“Bring the ladder,” Paulus ordered. “Help them take the body down.”
The centurion quickly went about securing a ladder and giving directions to the Nazarene’s followers. Paulus waited on his horse, looking about and seeing that, after the earthquake, several of Pilate’s soldiers had fled. The centurion had climbed on the ladder and was working to free the Nazarene’s hands. The dead man’s head rolled to the right, his cheek resting against his shoulder.
Paulus dismounted and stood quietly beside his horse some distance away. He was sure these people must hate the sight of him. He heard Lazarus say, “Please…put something over his head.”
The wealthy-looking Jew approached the women, one of whom held in her arms a white burial shroud made of a costly linen. She lifted a smaller cloth away from the larger one and handed it to the man, who carried it back and climbed up the wide ladder, positioning himself just below and to the right of the centurion.
Paulus watched as the man spread the cloth over the Nazarene’s head and face. One of the other women stepped forward, having taken the pins from her head covering, and handed them up to the man on the ladder. The man pinned the cloth in place as best he could. The sweating centurion finally succeeded in releasing one of the hands from the cross. The body rolled to one side. Another soldier stepped forward to help hold it in place. The centurion worked on the other hand. Lazarus, the young man and the Pharisee picked up the ropes lying on the ground, looped them over the drooping body, and handed the ends up to the other man on the ladder. When the second hand was released, he held the body up while the centurion descended the ladder and set to work on releasing the feet. At last the Nazarene was free and lowered slowly to the ground.
Jesus of Nazareth lay for a moment on his right side, and the cloth covering his face was now soaked in bloody fluid. The Jews gently turned him onto his back. One of them tried to staunch the flow from the nose and mouth. The woman Paulus believed to be the man’s mother began to sob.
He couldn’t bear to watch any longer…couldn’t bear the looks on the faces of these people, who had loved this man. He motioned to the blood-soaked centurion, who came to him at once. “Follow them,” he said. “Take these other men with you. You are not to leave the body for one moment. Watch where they bury him, and stay there until you are relieved. I’m sending out a company of men to guard the grave. And I want no one interfering with his burial…especially the priests. He deserves that much.”
The centurion looked mystified, but nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Paulus mounted his horse, tugged gently on the reins, and turned onto the path to the city gate. It was almost evening, and by the Jews’ reckoning would be the beginning of their Passover Sabbath. The day after that was their regular Sabbath, so there would be no activity on the streets by religious Jews for two more days.
He felt deeply depressed. Someone should tell Alysia, he thought. She was probably alone in Bethany. But…how to explain why he had let something like this happen when he knew the man was innocent? How to explain the fact that the events of the day seemed to occur in such a chaotic and yet cohesive way, and completely outside his or Pilate’s control?
How to explain thinking he had had heard the Nazarene tell him to put away his sword!
* * * *
Hours earlier Alysia had stood in her doorway, a look of deep apprehension on her face. The sky had turned completely dark. She could see nothing, not even the outline of the distant mountains. She went inside, closed the door, and slid the bolt into place. She found the one lamp that was always kept burning and went about lighting the other lamps. She had heard about eclipses…perhaps this was one.
She looked at Rachel, who had just been put down for a nap. Her daughter was sleeping peacefully. Alysia returned to the table where she had been making bread, but she kept stopping to listen, not knowing what she listened for, and heard only the anxious thudding of her own heart. She wished Lazarus and his sisters hadn’t gone to Jerusalem. Judith had gone as well. The only people left in Bethany were those too old or too sick to attend the Passover. There weren’t even any travelers on the road outside.
She didn’t like being alone today. It frightened her, this darkness hanging over the land like a cloud of doom. But, no, it was not like a cloud. It was like a blanket, heavy and oppressive, bearing down in suffocating folds of fear and alarm, and an indescribable sorrow.
It was like the end of the world.