by Andrew Crown
Redemption at the Eleventh Hour
Copyright © 2019, by Andrew Crown. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions
First Edition: March 2020
Cover and Formatting: Damonza
ISBN-13: 978-1-7342794-0-5
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While inspired by and influenced by the Bible, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Acknowledgements
I wish to thank my family and friends for all of their patience and support while I worked on this project. I also wish to acknowledge the contributions of my editors, Amy Elizabeth Bishop and Julie Tibbott. Their assistance with this novel has been invaluable.
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Creative license has been taken with situations and figures from the Bible. It was my intention to demonstrate appropriate reverence with these artistic liberties. Biblical passages that appear throughout the novel were referenced from the New Testament of the Gideons International Bible.
Chapter I
With a trio of wooden crosses looming on a hill in the distance, ten Roman soldiers made their way up the rocky road from the city of Jerusalem. All, save for their leader Cassian, were begrudging their assignment—the grisly task of burying dead crucified bodies. The men had been assigned burial detail as punishment for offenses ranging from drunkenness to minor insubordination. They marched after Cassian in the early morning light, longing for another hour of sleep at the barracks as was currently being enjoyed by their fellow legionnaires.
As an optio, second in command to a centurion within a Roman legion, Cassian had jumped at the opportunity for an independent mission—even one that involved supervising malcontents for a couple hours followed by delivering a mundane report. He had to start somewhere if he hoped to move up the ranks.
The burial party arrived at the crest of the hill and looked at the wooden beams in disgust and alarm. Despite being accustomed to death, the soldiers were not prepared for the scene before them.
While the middle cross was bare, two corpses hung from the crosses on either side of it. One of the bodies was intact; the bloody nail wounds on his hands and feet were expected. The other cross, however, caused greater apprehension. Thirty vultures, more than any of the soldiers had ever seen before, were actively picking at the remains, now almost entirely devoid of flesh. The vultures must have been eating all night, Cassian thought to himself.
“How much longer has that one been on the cross?” a soldier asked.
“They died at roughly the same time. About twelve hours ago,” Cassian responded, bewildered by the difference.
“Then why did the vultures only eat one of them?”
“Oy, maybe the other one didn’t taste very good,” another soldier suggested. This elicited a nervous chuckle from some of the men as they stared transfixed at the birds and the skeletal remains on the cross.
Cassian broke the lull. “Men, get to work. I want half of you to take down the bodies and the other half to start digging graves.” He wasn’t yet a centurion but tried to compensate for his lack of formal command with authority in his voice.
The soldiers divided the tasks among themselves and distributed the necessary tools—shovels for the gravediggers and pliers and axes for the men at the crosses. The vultures flew off in a rush as the Romans approached the crosses and began their gruesome duties. Once he saw the men in motion, Cassian went over to inspect the uneaten body. He had a flicker of recognition as he looked up at the lifeless face of the condemned man.
“Oy, Optio,” Cassian turned away from the face at the call of one of the soldiers who was ankle deep in a partially dug grave. “Where’s the body from the middle cross?”
“He was taken away earlier. Special burial,” he responded crisply, unsure of whether to correct the informal tone of the soldier.
The soldier appeared stunned. “That thug Barabbas got a special burial? I didn’t think he was deserving of such honor after the things he did.”
Another soldier answered before Cassian could. “No, I heard the governor made a last moment switch. He let Barabbas go and instead executed that alleged Jewish king everyone has been talking about.”
The first solider looked even more incredulous. “He let Barabbas go? He was a really lucky brute then. I never thought I would see the day where a murderer is released like that.” He shook his head as he continued to dig.
Another soldier asked Cassian, “Who were these two men?”
“The one over there who the vultures seem to like is Gestas, a violent thief. And this one is…”
With a sudden crash, the bones of the vulture-eaten man clattered to the ground as the nails and ropes that held him in place were removed. A few of the bones broke apart as they landed in a heap at the base of the cross. Some of the soldiers nearby began to retch at both the sight and the smell. Cassian held a cloth over his nose and mouth to prevent himself from doing the same.
“Oy, you don’t see that every day,” the same grave digging soldier commented. With a grimace, he turned back towards his shovel.
Another soldier helping to lower down the still-intact criminal called out, “I heard it was a strange execution yesterday. The guards who were there couldn’t describe it to me last night. They were muttering nonsense and shaken like they had just come from battle.”
“Optio,” one of the bent-over soldiers near the reeking bones called out softly as he wiped the last traces of vomit from his mouth. He glanced at the remains of the two dead men and then back at Cassian. “What did happen here?”
Chapter II
Nine Months Earlier
The rough, arid terrain made the riding difficult. Each step over loose earth jarred the rider painfully as the horse hesitantly picked its way between the rocks and divots on the road. Dust from beneath the trampling hooves coated the horse’s gray hide with a brownish silt making the old animal appear even more forlorn.
D
espite the rider’s impatient kicks, the horse made it clear that it was going as fast as it could, grunting each time the sandaled foot connected with its hide. Frequently glancing over his shoulder, the rider instinctively kept kicking to achieve even the slightest incremental gain in speed. Although there was no sign of any pursuit, his mind created specters of Roman soldiers, galloping from over the horizon to deliver the heavy hand of imperial justice. I must ride faster, he thought to himself. He had to cover more ground before nightfall.
Mercifully, the road from Thella to Jerusalem was sparsely traveled as of late. A small caravan of traders passed going in the opposite direction, their carts groaning with goods destined for northern Galilee and beyond. The rider on the decrepit gray horse muttered a greeting which was reciprocated with mutual indifference. Soon the clanging and neighing of the caravan passed into the northern abyss.
Dismas took a draw of water from his animal skin canteen, careful to make every drop count. He did not want to sacrifice his rapid pace to refill water until it was absolutely necessary. His full head of brown hair was soaked with sweat under the hot sun, which occasionally stung his eyes as the perspiration dripped down his lightly bearded face. This pause for refreshment did not alter his habit of checking the road behind him yet again.
Dismas regretted his decision to steal the most easily available horse over a faster and stronger one. His former employer always secured his best horses in a barn in the evening, except for the old gray horse, which he tied to a tree. The owner reasoned that the downtrodden animal would deter potential thieves with its protruding rib cage and ragged gray hide.
With his pockets sagging with coins that he’d liberated from his fat employer’s money purse two days ago, Dismas had taken the first horse he saw, and made his frantic escape into the moonless night. He had worked in the olive groves of his employer for several months, and the rough treatment he’d experienced built his animosity as he bided his time before making his great heist. As he fled towards Jerusalem in the darkness, Dismas was filled with elation. It was only in the morning light that he saw the woeful condition of his mount, its head drooping lower with every mile.
The thirty-year-old thief doubted that the animal would be able to complete the journey to Jerusalem, and he resolved that he would use some of the stolen forty pieces of silver to acquire a new mount at the earliest opportunity.
This idea progressed from a distant future desire to an absolute imperative as the afternoon wore on and the pace became more plodding. The horse slowed to a meandering walk and the hard kicks and slaps of its rider had no coercive power. A heavy, prolonged wheezing soon developed as the horse convulsed in violent heaves in an effort to breathe. Unmoved by the suffering of his mount, Dismas cursed the animal along with his poor planning.
With a sudden jerk, the rider was spilled from his perch as the horse collapsed with a thud upon the sun-drenched gravel. Dismas rolled onto his back, stunned. For a moment, both beast and man lay in the road, the latter recovering his breath before gingerly moving his limbs to ensure that they were not broken. After successfully determining he was uninjured, the thief rose to see his animal’s bony chest rise and fall for the last time. With another hurried glance northward, Dismas relieved the dead beast’s burden with as much haste as his sore body allowed. He grabbed the silver, water, and some olives and bread, also taken from the store of the fat olive grower.
Provisioned with as much as he was able to carry, Dismas resumed his journey on foot. He was prepared to dive behind the nearest available cover, be it rock or tree, at the first sight of riders approaching from behind. However, the road remained quiet except for the calls of vultures circling closer to the dead horse. Soon even these sounds faded behind him.
Dismas trudged along as the unforgiving sun burned his tan skin and caused him to drain his remaining supply of water faster than he anticipated. Soon after, thirst began to tickle his throat and a pounding sensation throbbed in his head like a small hammer. While his skin eventually received respite from the setting sun, his thirst became more and more pressing, as if a dry, sticky salt lined his throat. It was with much relief that he saw a lone gull flying overhead, its high-pitched screech signaling that water was near.
Dismas marched forward with renewed energy. Within a half hour, his brown eyes lit in joy, as there in the fading dusk light stood a lakeside village. Dismas staggered forward, ready to cast himself into the water to quench his terrible thirst.
He dropped to his knees along the bank. The cool soft clay at the water’s edge soothed his aching bones as he bent to drink. Dismas’ dusty hands were rinsed clean as he cupped handful after handful of cool water to his mouth, then washed water over his head, neck, and back. He felt reborn as the dried sweat and dirt fell off his skin in a cool cascade. It was the closest he had come to fully bathing in quite some time.
After the refreshment of water brought his mind back into focus, Dismas began to take stock of his surroundings. Surveying the immense size of the body of water, stretching far off to meet the distant horizon, he correctly surmised that he had arrived at the Sea of Galilee, a freshwater lake.
The last traces of faint sunlight retiring over the western horizon were just bright enough to illuminate a few dozen buildings fanned out near the water’s edge. The small, simple dwellings were constructed of gray clay brick. The homes were spread apart from one another by roughly a hundred feet, a distinct departure from the crowded environment in most cities. There were about twelve single-mast fishing boats drawn up next to the shore, their low sides barely protruding above the water. They slowly rocked back and forth in a hypnotic dance as a breeze pushed little wakes underneath them. Beyond the lapping of the water and the occasional braying of animals brought inside the dwellings for the night, the village was silent, its inhabitants comfortably retired for the evening.
His thirst suitably quenched and canteen refilled, Dismas contemplated his situation. He wasn’t sure if there was an inn in this little village, but the evening was cool rather than cold—perfect outdoor sleeping weather. He quickly found a soft patch of overgrown grass to lie upon not far from the water’s edge. After such an exhausting day, he was prepared to go right to sleep. As he removed his sandals and lay down, Dismas stared up at the vast expanse of stars dotting the sky. He didn’t exactly know his plan for the morning—probably stealing another horse to complete his journey to Jerusalem. Where he would find one, however, was yet to be determined. Maybe in this village, maybe in the next. These half-formed plans played out in his head as he slowly drifted off to sleep.
*
Dismas was awoken by a sharp pain in his shin followed by a body falling on top of him. This was accompanied by the sound of ceramic smashing near his head. Jarred by the sudden attack, he grunted in rage and threw the writhing body off of him. This was followed by a woman’s shriek that startled Dismas even more than the pain in his leg. He quickly drew a small knife from his belt. While more suited to cooking than battle, the little blade could still inflict harm if used properly. Groggily, he realized that the source of the shriek was a woman squirming on the ground next to him. Oblivious to the knife, she kicked his shin again in half anger and half panic.
She glared at the bleary-eyed man. “What fool lies in the middle of the path? You must be the worst kind of drunk to simply fall down there.” It was only then that she noticed the knife in Dismas’ hand. This caused her to quickly temper her rage. “I-I-I’m sorry, I did not see you in the early morning light and I tripped.”
Dismas bent down to massage his shin with his free hand while keeping his eyes on the woman. The fear and alarm that shook him from his slumber dissipated as he made sense of what had happened. He glanced down and realized he had been sleeping on a grassy pathway. Thankfully it was only a young woman who had stumbled upon him, and not the authorities. He put away his knife.
“I’m sorry you fell. I’m just a traveler passing through and I got to town as it was getting dark. I ha
d nowhere to go and didn’t realize where I slept.”
Even in the faint light of dawn, Dismas could tell that this woman was extraordinarily beautiful. Long dark hair fell on either side of her small, round face and her skin was bronzed, typical of those in the region who spent their time outdoors. He guessed she was in her twenties, an age where she was undoubtedly married or soon to be married. The only thing that marred her features was her deep scowl as she gazed at Dismas.
“Most travelers lie under a tree out of the way. A man in a drunken stupor would still have the sense to not lie where you are,” she fumed. Her deep brown eyes flashed with suspicion. “I don’t see a horse nearby. What sort of person suddenly appears in our village without a mount?”
Dismas was prepared to tell the truth—up to a point. “My horse fell ill and died yesterday afternoon. I had no choice but to continue on foot. I could only make it as far as this village before thirst and exhaustion overtook me.”
With this explanation, the woman’s features softened. “I’m sorry about your horse.”
“And I am sorry about your jar,” Dismas said, gesturing to the smashed pottery pieces near where his head had rested.
The woman let out an exasperated moan. “Oh curses, Father will be angry with me for breaking it!” Her brown eyes moistened with tears.
Unmoved by her emotion, Dismas rolled his eyes and gathered his belongings. There was no reason for him to stay here and he did not have the patience for weeping, regardless of the woman’s beauty. He needed to get to Jerusalem.
“Woman,” he said, ignoring the tears running down her face, “Where can I find a horse?”
Cheeks glistening, she looked at him. “There are not many here. None for sale, anyway.” With a gentle wipe of her eyes, the woman regained her composure, and continued, “I am Leah, from the house of Asher.”
“Dismas, from Thella.”
“What brings you to this place from Thella, Dismas?” Leah’s reddened eyes studied his face, her brow furrowing once more. Dismas could see that she was distrustful of outsiders.