Rosslyn Treasury

by P. L. Snow

  The three offered their gifts and spoke prayers of worship and thanksgiving that they had succeeded in their journey. The child seemed to receive their presence in the room, their gifts and prayers with the serenity of the wisdom of ages.

  It was already dark when they left the house of Joseph, and went to the inn where their beasts were stabled.

  ‘In the morning,’ said Melchior, ‘we must return to Herod, and tell him where this child is to be found. Such was his last request to us.’

  Balthazar looked out of the window overlooking the little stable, and remained silent.

  The massacre of the innocents

  In the royal palace, Herod spoke urgently to his Captain of the Guard: ‘The foreign priests have told me of the star that they have followed, and this child that they seek could have been born any time in the last two years. Captain, go forth with your best men, and put all the children of that age to death.’

  The Captain was dumbfounded. ‘All the children two years old or under? All of them?’ he asked, his face paling in the lamplight.

  ‘Of course,’ said Herod, ‘they should not do it for normal wages. They shall be paid extra for this task.’

  Before dawn the following day, the three gathered to greet the rising sun. Melchior was the first to speak.

  ‘I dreamed a dream last night,’ he said, ‘in which I saw the figure of Death at Herod’s shoulder.’

  ‘I, too, dreamed,’ said Caspar. ‘I dreamed of our initiations in the dark corridors, where we learn of evil and suffering of the most dismal kind.’

  ‘I dreamed a dream, too,’ replied Balthazar, ‘but it was of the Dark Brother of Ahura Mazdao, who I saw whispering in Herod’s ear. Ahrimanes himself was inspiring the king to murder and massacre. And indeed, having seen his household, I do believe it.’

  ‘Then we must return to our homes by separate ways, and avoid Herod’s company at all costs,’ said Melchior, and thus they resolved to part and go home, but not before they expressed to each other the wonder of what they had seen, and how it would live in their souls for all their lives.

  ***

  When the three kingly men had left, Joseph was inspired by his good genius to take his wife and child and leave Bethlehem, their home, as great danger was approaching. As soon as they could, they made their way to Egypt, where they remained with a group of Therapeutae, a group with close affiliations to the Essenes. On the way, the path was beset with dangers and miracles. When they were hungry, a date palm bent its tall trunk to deliver its fruit into their hands. As Herod’s soldiers drew near to them in pursuit, they took refuge in a cave, where spiders wove webs across the entrance, so that none would think that anyone could have entered.

  At last, Herod died, screaming with fear on his deathbed that he was harnessed to rats, cats and mice, and bound for hellfire. Joseph was still wary of returning home, and again, at the promptings of his higher genius, returned not to Bethlehem, but to Nazareth, in Galilee, where they lived close to an Essene community, and soon made friends there.

  As for the three, they made their ways safely home, and returned without incident or mishap. However, Caspar was not to live very long. He was the youngest of the three, and the first to die of a sudden and violent illness, but at the moment of his death, he was looking towards Jerusalem, as though willing his spirit to accompany the child that he had visited in His father’s house through His mission on Earth.

  Melchior returned to his home and took over the running of his household from the faithful Viligratia. He continued to watch the skies and interpret the meaning of the movements of the stars, but he, too, did not live long.

  On the journey home, Balthazar, the oldest of the three, dreamed of the voice of a woman in Ramah, weeping and crying for her murdered children. He knew that the birth of the child had shown Ahura Mazdao’s dark brother Ahrimanes the wrathful and cunning that his time was not long, and that at the last, he would be overcome by the child that he, Balthazar, had gone to seek, led by a star.

  The pendent boss: Mother and Child to the centre, Kings to the left, Death to the right.

  10. Saint Veronica

  This is the story of the woman whose story has survived through the ages giving her the name Veronica, which means: ‘true countenance’. Other tales were told of this individual, but as always, with legends, the truth disguises itself in a story that survives the passage of time, until the underlying truth can be found again.

  Saint Veronica carving, showing the veil with the face of Christ to the right.

  The legend of Faustina

  Once there was a young woman called Faustina, who was born of parents each of whom suffered from leprosy. In time, she, too, began to feel the disease take hold of her, but she had heard of a great healer and prophet who had the power to cure this sickness. She went to Him, and begged for His help to cure her, and found that a word from Him cleansed her skin and body of the terrible contagion.

  Time passed, and it happened that the Emperor Tiberius was stricken by the same foul illness. He forbade all his servants except a trusted few, to come anywhere near him. He would issue his orders to the Captain of the Guard and to his secretary, but kept everyone else at a distance.

  The news of this state of affairs reached his old nurse, Faustina, whom he remembered as the only person who would tell him the truth when he was surrounded by hypocrites and toadies, only too willing to encourage him in his decadent excesses. He longed for her presence at this time of his suffering, and eventually, the news came to her in the mountain village where she was staying. She offered to come to him as long as she would not have to see the pomp, arrogance and cruelty that had surrounded him when she was part of his household.

  At last, she arrived on the terrace where Tiberius was taking the air, swathed in bandages to cover the extent of his disfigurement. She approached him, and sat beside him on a stool beside the couch where he lay. He at once knew her warm, quiet presence, and asked: ‘Faustina, is it truly you?’

  She made no answer, but drew his bandaged head to her breast, and, feeling a comfort unknown to him for longer than he could remember, he fell asleep.

  Later, they spoke.

  ‘If anyone could cure me of this, you could. But nobody can,’ he said.

  ‘There was One who could,’ she replied. He shifted uneasily on the couch.

  ‘I should like to see such a person,’ he sighed. Faustina rose, and fetched a cloth from her small bundle of belongings. For it was she who, on the path to Golgotha, had offered the Saviour her best cloth to wipe His face of the tears, blood and sweat that covered it. She unrolled it to show the face that remained printed on the fine material. Tiberius looked at the face, and something moved in him.

  ‘This man is truly human,’ he said at last. ‘We others are animals and beasts; not yet human. But this man is indeed a true Human Being.’

  The Emperor was healed, by and by, of his sickness, and the cloth was kept carefully and reverently, as it still bore the image of the countenance of Jesus in the midst of His greatest sufferings. It was known to have miraculous powers of healing, and, over a thousand years later, was a source of inspiration for the Templars, who would incorporate images of the Cloth, or Veil of Veronica in their buildings, with the Countenance of Christ at the centre. Faustina, or she who bears that name in the legend, became known as Veronica, as it was given to her to bear the true countenance of the Christ.

  ***

  That is one of the tales of Saint Veronica; however, she was an historical individual, whose simple, heartfelt act of compassion enraged certain people, and changed the minds of others in an instant. The events described below will be familiar to those who know the Easter story from the Bible or elsewhere. But there are certain people who have a direct and living experience of those events. This has a constant and profound influence on their life and work. One such person is Judith von Halle, whose description of Easter in her book Secrets of the Stations of the Cross is far more compelling and ha
rrowing than anything given here, but retold in her book with a warm objectivity and deep compassion, as well as a firm and unwavering sense of duty to her destiny as a Christian. With the first part of this story, and the story of Longinus that follows it, we enter a completely different mood from that of the first tale bearing the name of Saint Veronica.

  Saint Veronica: A modern seer’s account

  The name by which she was known in Jerusalem is lost to us. She was a well-to-do, respectable married woman of about sixty, who kept an inn, a little way to the north of the city, though her house was within the city walls, situated somewhat to the west.

  She had developed a connection with the Essenes, and belonged to those who yearned for the coming of the Messiah, the Anointed One. At the funeral of John the Baptist, she was seen to wear a garment torn over the breast to show mourning.

  On many occasions, she had welcomed Jesus of Nazareth and His followers into her inn, and recognized in Him a truly great Master. But now, the Master had been arrested, many of His followers had gone into hiding, and there was to be a trial before the Roman Governor, Pontius Pilate at the Feast of Pesach.

  The trial took place in the open air, in front of Pilate’s house, and in full view of the Forum, where the crowds, made up of people from many nations and all walks of life, jostled for space to see. Between the forum crowd and the accused stood those priests and officials who wished to see judgment brought upon the head of Jesus. A cordon sanitaire of darker coloured stones, set into the paving, marked off the area beyond which the priests could not go, for fear of becoming contaminated by the ‘impure ones’ brought for trial. They were not a quiet and dignified group as they shouted their wishes and instructions to Pilate from their ‘hygienic’ position, safe from the taint of criminals.

  Veronica had no wish to see these proceedings, and kept to her house. Only later did she hear the descriptions of those who witnessed the events leading up to the long, insufferably painful walk to Golgotha.

  Jesus had been mercilessly thrashed. His robe, when it was returned to Him after this treatment, was soaked in all manner of foul-smelling filth, the more to humiliate Him. A broad, coarse leather belt was put round His waist, with metal rings to hold the shackles that bound Him before his judges. Two men accused of murder stood on either side of Him; again, to emphasise how low He was being brought.

  Pilate, on the judgment seat, knew that he dare not upset the civil authority of Jerusalem, and that this meant that the man before him must be found guilty, even though he could find no fault in the prisoner. Accordingly, he uttered the sentence of death. This pleased his audience of priests and officials, but when he added his justification to the sentence, that he had agreed to the demand for the death penalty to accede to the wishes of the people, and to avoid riot and rebellion in the streets, they shouted their anger. Pilate was shifting the blame for the death of the prisoner on to them, while they had hoped that he would take it upon himself. Furthermore, the document that Pilate signed for the sentence referred to Jesus as ‘King of the Jews’, to which the High Priests and officials took bitter exception. However, Pilate refused to change it, or any other part of his ruling, and so the sad procession began to make its way out of the city towards Golgotha, the place of execution.

  Trumpeters preceded Pilate into his house with all its rich furnishings. As he left the judgment seat, he felt that, in spite of putting his mark on the proceedings by insisting on his own form of words, and refusing to alter any details, he was being led by circumstances; he was not in command of his destiny here in this stony place, so far from the mild climate of his place of birth.*

  The shackles were removed from Jesus’ wrists, so that He had hands free to carry the great load of timber that was to be the machine of His death. The cross-pieces were strapped to the main upright, and, holding His heavy, drenched and filthy woollen robe in one hand to avoid tripping on its hem, and carrying the wood of the cross over His right shoulder, He was led away.

  Ropes were tied to the metal loops on the leather belt, and four soldiers each held an end of each rope, two in front to drag; two behind. A crowd followed, egged on by the Pharisees, who rode their donkeys up and down the procession, shouting encouragement to those who were willing to scream abuse, spit and throw garbage at Him on the way to the hill. The priests, meanwhile, hurried to the Temple, satisfied that their work of condemning a heretic was done, and began to make ready for the Feast of Pesach, the festival of the sacrifice of lambs.

  Through the crowded streets they made their way; first the soldiers holding the hammers and nails, ladders, ropes and instruments of torture. After them came a boy with a wooden board, with ‘Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews’ written on it in three languages.

  Then came Jesus Himself, bearing His awful burden. A cap, as if a crown woven of long, sharp thorns, had been roughly jammed on to His head, and beaten into place with the stick. After Him were the two murderers, each tied to his cross by the cross-pieces.

  Veronica heard the noise of the crowd coming ever closer, and busied herself about her work, doing what she could to contain her grief.

  A noise went up from the crowd; Jesus had fallen in the street, trying to cross on the stepping-stones across the central drainage channel. The Pharisees exulted. Here was more humiliation, and it was vitally important to them that this man should be brought as low as possible. To see Him in the ditch was a small triumph. The soldiers hauled Him to his feet again after beating Him with their fists. The cap of thorns had fallen off, and it was violently replaced.

  The procession turned a corner, and there, hurrying to see what help they could possibly give, were John the disciple, the mother of Jesus, Mary Magdalene, Salome, Martha and the mother of the disciple James. At the sight of these, His strength went out of Him, and he fell for a second time. A stillness fell on the crowd as His mother came and stroked His bloodstained cheek with a gesture that touched the heart of some of the soldiers. However, they had their orders, and these were barked out in plain language. Jesus was hauled to His feet again, and the procession continued.

  Jesus fell a third time, dropping the timber of the cross again. Such were His sufferings that his tormentors began to fear that he would die before reaching the hill of execution. A man was dragged from the crowd; one who was just passing. His name was Shimon, and he was a gardener. He was forced to help Jesus to His feet; a task which, taking into account the filth and rubbish sticking to His sopping wet robe, he had no taste for. He resented the imposition on him greatly and even more so when he was required to help to carry the cross.

  On they all went again, coming nearer and nearer to Veronica’s house. They were going to pass right outside her door. What could she do? She could no longer try to distance herself from this disgraceful, disgusting spectacle of ritual humiliation and those who revelled in it. She went to her door, and saw the procession coming closer. Now, she made up her mind. She would do exactly what she would do under normal circumstances. She would offer Him a handkerchief to wipe His face, and a cup of wine to restore His strength.

  She left the doorway and went to fetch these things. But now a thought struck her; instead of a handkerchief, she went to the chest and drew out the finest piece of cloth she had, and draped it over her left shoulder, and carried the wine in her right hand.

  Jesus had arrived right outside her door. It was unmistakably her teacher, though beaten, flogged, abused and spat upon. At once, she knew how important it was to do what she had made up her mind to do. In spite of the violent mob, ignoring the soldiers and ignoring the power and influence of the Pharisees, she went out and knelt before Him, and offered Him the cloth. He took it and wiped His face with it, leaving the imprint of His face in blood and sweat on the fine cloth. He even tried to fold it, so that in handing it back to her, it would be clean side uppermost. The mob, for a moment, became quiet. This gesture of respect and veneration was unexpected, and had its own power among the crowd watching. She then offered Him
the wine, but the spell was broken, and the soldiers pushed her away, not allowing Jesus any of it.

  The Pharisees were furious. Their aim was to see this man rendered as low as the dogs, and yet, here was a woman who showed Him reverence, who knelt before Him, who treated Him as though He were a person worthy of respect. They rode their asses back and forth hurling curses at her, and admonishing the crowd not to follow her example.

  But it was too late. Some had seen what had happened, and were touched by it. Among those was Shimon the gardener, known to history as Simon of Cyrene, who felt his disgust for the task and for the prisoner change to a deep compassion. All the way to the place of execution, he did what he could to make it easier for the prisoner, though that was precious little.

  Jesus fell three more times before reaching the top of the hill, and at last, He fell for the last time, at which the soldiers took advantage of His prone position to put the pieces of the cross together and to nail Him to the timber.

  And so the purpose of the High Priests and the officials and the Pharisees was achieved. What they could not guess was that, at the same time, Jesus Christ’s mission in the world was accomplished.

  Veronica experienced the darkness that spread over the earth, and heard what she took to be the rumblings of earthquakes in the next days. She was told that the veil of the Temple, hiding the Holy of Holies was torn by no human agency. She also learned, some time later, that He had been seen since the crucifixion; that He had walked and talked with the disciples. Her humility was such that only gradually did she realize the significance of her act of love and compassion for a revered teacher. But then, as she said to herself on occasion, what else could she possibly have done? She quite simply could not have acted otherwise, for love was what she had learned from her teacher.