The wood remnants on the point of the nail are identified as olive. It seems unlikely, given the logistical demands and the expense, that hardwood beams would have been imported to Palestine solely for crucifixion. In the absence of suitable wood for crosses, easier and cheaper to nail offenders into the native olive trees.
One last point, to ensure the picture is clear. The nail goes into the rounded heel bone at right angles to the foot, and not into the bones at the front. This suggests the feet were placed either side of a thinnish piece of wood, with a separate nail for each heel. Mature olive trees have trunks of a suitable width. As for the hands, the dig produced no evidence of bones from the arm or wrist pierced with similar spikes.
In first-century Judaea, outside the city of Jerusalem, the olive trees on Golgotha are stripped of leaves. Many are gouged in the trunk a short distance above the ground, the bark encrusted with blood turned brown. The Romans reuse their nails, and they reuse the trees.
There are smaller stains in the side branches above head height, because a mature olive tree can be reused for a crucifixion three or four times. If the branches are kindly placed.
A soldier steps between Lazarus and Jesus.
He is wearing full military uniform in the late morning heat. The dented metal, the leather kilt, the sweat, everything about him says he’d prefer to be in Syria for a straight fight against Parthians. He holds his lance diagonally across his chest, and shoves Lazarus back.
Jesus is surrounded by a knot of soldiers, his hands bound, his head bleeding. He is learning his lesson from Lazarus, dying in the open in front of witnesses, a verifiable public death.
Out of the Gennath Gate, up the hill. It is the sick who most stubbornly insist on hurting him. The unhealed and the unbelievers spit on him, and with palm leaves they slice at his upper arms, at his thighs and his face. The Roman soldiers kick him when he stumbles.
Lazarus catches glimpses of his friend’s face, plainly terrified as he tries to protect himself. His disciples, among so many others, have abandoned him. Only his friend Lazarus can help him now.
Cassius had seen his first crucifixion at the Flavian amphitheatre in Rome. The victim had been an adult male lion. He remembers the skin tight over the white belly, and the hideously stretched tendons in the legs. It was somehow worse than watching a man on the cross, although lions, he noted at the time, did not last as long as men.
According to Paul in one of his letters, the crucifixion of Jesus ‘disarmed the rulers and authorities and made a public example of them, triumphing over them in it’ (Colossians 2:15).
There may be some truth in this.
Cassius, for example, regrets that crucifixion is considered any kind of solution. His own proposal of a client messiah would be more effective at keeping the peace. But the crucifixion, like the resurrection of Lazarus, is happening nevertheless, and the death of Jesus may have its uses. A messiah does not get executed like a common criminal, nailed into the nearest olive tree. Messiahs escape death, and they escape the Antonia Fortress. They are protected by god from the lethal Sicarii.
Crucifixion is ugly and deplorable, but in this instance the fault lies with the regional god. All religions should be true, so claiming to be the one true god is as aggressive a manoeuvre as a divinity can make. Look down now on Jesus. Look at the results. Divine arrogance will not be tolerated, not by other gods, not by the Roman empire.
It is midday. The sky darkens to the colour of bad meat, silver and purple.
Jesus is hoisted off the ground, and his arms sized against branches. This tree has been used before. One of his arms is angled backwards and lashed to a branch so that his shoulder has to twist, the other is crooked and slightly higher. Two other condemned men go on either side, one in front and the other about level.
The Romans have no interest in aesthetics, or symmetry, as long as the arms are above the head to maximise the pain. The feet, too, must be clear of the ground. Jesus will die with his blackened toes inches from the earth and salvation.
Only the heels are nailed. One four-and-a-half inch spike on either side. The scratch of splintered bone is audible above the heavy thud of the mallet. A woman shrieks, and can’t stop herself. She goes on and on.
Lazarus feels no particular compassion.
Death is a big episode, but it is not the end. It is, after all, only death, however spectacular. Death is not the climax it used to be, not for Lazarus.
The clouds close in—‘When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land’ (Mark 15:33), and this is when Lazarus is certain. There is a god and he is watching, providing the ideal weather for two boys from Nazareth, clouds blocking the sun that otherwise would blind them to handholds as they climb.
Lazarus watches Jesus. He observes the strain on his body, toes flexing for solid ground, head dropped low on his chest.
Look at me. Look up and look at me. He wills Jesus to obey. Believe in me, and take strength from me.
Jesus looks up.
In the absence of compassion Lazarus is calm, confident about what he needs to do. He projects his thoughts through and beyond the eyes of Jesus, and there inside his friend’s skull he recognises his own death, a brain crying out for an instant and then another instant more of life.
I cannot die, Jesus thinks, with my thoughts and memories and feelings. I have seen things and done things that other people will never see and do.
So has everyone else, Lazarus reminds him. We all die.
Look at me. Lazarus is not giving up. Look, here I am, standing on the shore. I will not intervene, but everything will turn out fine. Every time Jesus raises his chin from his chest his eyes search out Lazarus.
You’re nearly there, Lazarus thinks. Come on, it’s easy.
Death is nothing and there is nothing to fear.
This is what Lazarus is for.
The hours that follow are described in the gospels. Jesus suffers. At some point a sponge soaked in sour wine is lifted to his lips on a stick. This is cruel or kind, designed to mock him or to give him strength: no one can remember.
Many in the crowd would have been hoping for better entertainment. ‘Let the messiah, the king of Israel, come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe’ (Mark 15:32). They note the sudden storm-clouds, the reputation of Jesus, and the presence of Lazarus. They assume there’s a good chance of seeing a spectacular reversal, and with luck even a miracle.
Jesus takes three hours to die, which for a crucifixion is neither mercifully short nor proof of abnormal endurance. It is an average, ordinary life expectancy when a body is mistreated in this way.
The influence of Lazarus is evident to the end and beyond. When Jesus stops breathing, the soldiers have orders to confirm his death. ‘But when they came to Jesus and found that he was already dead, they did not break his legs. Instead, one of the soldiers pierced Jesus’s side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water’ (John 19:33–34).
Jesus continues to improve on the death of Lazarus. Crucifixion, then the spear to make sure. No one will ever doubt that he died.
‘Jesus said, “It is finished.” With that, he bowed his head and gave up the spirit’ (John 19:30).
It is finished. For Jesus it is finished, but not yet for Lazarus.
7.
1.
In churches observing the Byzantine Rite, Lazarus Saturday is a leading religious festival. Bright colours are used for vestments and the Holy Table, and, uniquely in the Christian year, the standard order of service for a Sunday can be celebrated on a different day of the week.
For one Saturday every year, a week and a day before Easter, Lazarus is the equal of Jesus. In the Apolytikion for St Lazarus they sing We cry out to you, O Vanquisher of Death! On Lazarus Saturday the Russians bring out the caviar. The Greeks make a spiced bread called Lazarakia, shaping the dough into a man bound for burial.
Catholics and Protestants are less enthusiastic: perhaps they’re inhibited by the three out of f
our gospel writers who ignore Lazarus completely. In some ways they’d prefer him to disappear, but Lazarus keeps coming back. The memory of Lazarus is stubborn, and insists on his survival.
In Jerusalem on the Saturday after the execution of Jesus, one week after the resurrection of Lazarus, it is feasible that Lazarus Saturday will become the central day of a newly forged religion. Jesus will be secondary, because Lazarus has vanquished death. He is the survivor, and the only living pathway to god.
2.
The evangelist Mark provides the fullest record of Holy Week. He reports on every day between Palm Sunday and Friday’s crucifixion, but he has nothing to relate about the Saturday. For Jesus, at that point, the story is finished. He said so himself.
From Friday afternoon at about three P.M., when Jesus dies, Lazarus becomes god”s representative on earth. Something extraordinary would need to happen to displace him.
Lazarus watches strangers haul his friend down from the olive tree. They fumble the body, a heavy object thumping hard to the ground. The corpse is gathered up again, gently, as if the dead care.
The crowd breaks up, falling away from Lazarus. He doesn’t notice them go, nor, at first, does he realise that someone has come to stand very close beside him.
‘You’re still alive,’ Cassius says. ‘You’re a very lucky man.’
Luck has nothing to do with it, because Lazarus could have foretold this moment, like a prophet. As a child he’d felt special, and without him Jesus was always likely to come to harm. He remembers the amphitheatre in Sephoris, when he’d saved Jesus from falling. He’d never understood how he’d managed to do that.
From inside the city comes the single note of a trumpet, announcing the start of the Sabbath. Stragglers turn away from the manhandling of the body of Jesus: there is a rush to bury him before the sun goes down.
‘You have the rest of your life in front of you,’ Cassius says. ‘The man who came back from the dead.’
No one but Cassius acknowledges the presence of Lazarus. The last witnesses give up their wait for a miracle. Jesus is not the messiah, and therefore none of the stories were true. Lazarus is not true. He can safely be ignored.
‘Only you have vanquished death,’ Cassius says. ‘It must feel like being chosen.’
Lazarus questions his purpose on earth, as he has done every day since he emerged from the tomb. Usefully, he has acted as a distraction to the authorities, allowing Jesus an extra week to preach in Jerusalem. He has consoled Jesus in his last living hours, and that is a wonderful thing to have done. But what is he for next, what is he for now?
‘Someone will have to take up his work,’ Cassius says.
‘Jesus is dead. It is finished.’
‘For him, yes. One messiah at a time is enough.’
Lazarus spends Friday night on the hill, outside the city walls. Golgotha is an area of tombs and quarries, with access routes and steps joining the various levels. The bare olive trees make twisted silhouettes on the ridge line.
He sits with his arms round his knees, and in the nighttime the tiniest incidents are possible visits from god. Every breath of wind is a sign, as is the sand chasing its tail over a moonlit rock. He listens for restless demons, for strays sweeping across the empty spaces, and for jackals, wolves, lions. He imagines himself in the wilderness like a lost prophet, waiting for the word of god.
Yanav sits down beside him. He has instructions from Cassius to encourage the notion that only a messiah can come back to life. It is written in the scriptures. He should suggest that a messiah with a genuine commitment to the Judaean people would listen carefully to Rome.
‘Jesus was an interesting man,’ Yanav says. ‘I liked him. What he did for you was miraculous.’
‘I know.’
The two men sit side by side, not speaking. Yanav hates getting involved with religion. He heals the devout and they tell him that god is working through a healer. Which may be true, but the faithful should appreciate that Yanav is an important part of the process. If it weren’t for him, Lazarus would have died months earlier. He’d have muddled the timings of god.
Until today’s crucifixion, Yanav had preferred the coherent thinking of the Romans. He admires them for their trust in observable cause and effect. He has believed, on balance, that the Roman version of progress is preferable to any other. Now he’s not so sure.
The heavy clouds of earlier in the day have cleared. The moon is out, and on its surface is the familiar blurred image of Cain slaying Abel.
‘What does it all mean?’ Lazarus asks.
Yanav picks out the stars in their fixed, impenetrable patterns. He has his instructions from Cassius, but he chooses to disobey them.
‘Lazarus, let me help you. Demons are trickier than anyone can imagine. They’ve possessed you once and they’ll want you again. You’ll need my expertise.’
‘I don’t think so. I came back to life. I don’t feel at risk.’
A shooting star grazes the night sky. The gods are up to something. Yanav saw the signs in Jesus when he heard that Lazarus was sick, and again when Lazarus stumbled from the tomb. Whatever the gods have in mind, Yanav doesn’t trust them to do it without consequences. He does trust them, being gods, to get it done.
‘Don’t stay in Jerusalem, not after this. I’m travelling south. You can be my assistant.’
‘I should stay.’
‘My partner, then. We’ll split whatever we earn.’
‘I can’t. What about Mary and Martha? And Lydia. I have too many reasons to stay.’
‘And one big reason to leave. Cassius has plans for you. He’ll expect you to teach.’
‘He thinks people will want to follow me.’
‘And prophesy. That’s a basic requirement of the job he has in mind. Can you read the future?’
‘As well as Jesus could.’ Lazarus looks towards the knuckled olives on the brow of the hill.
‘The healing, the signs, the wonders,’ Yanav goes on. ‘He wants more from you than you can give.’
‘You could stay and help me. Especially with the healing. We could work it out together.’
‘Did you hear about the boy from Nain? Yes, the dead one. Resurrection doesn’t have to end happily.’
‘He didn’t have the support of the Romans.’
‘Leave while you can. Tonight. Be gone by the morning. That’s my honest advice.’
3.
Saturday is the Jewish Sabbath. Lazarus is woken by sunshine over the walls of Jerusalem, and the sun rising day after day is astonishing. Yanav is nowhere to be seen.
Sabbath restrictions mean that not many Judaeans will venture from the city to the tombs on a Saturday, and for an executed criminal like Jesus there is neither mourning nor wailing. Instead, Lazarus hears a noise that reminds him of his father in Nazareth: mallet on chisel on stone. A steady, determined tap.
He goes to investigate the sound out of curiosity, but with no clearer ideas than that. He wishes he and Jesus had talked more. Like everyone left behind, he regrets not asking more explicitly for guidance while Jesus was alive.
The Romans ignore the Sabbath. Conscripted soldiers chisel at the edges of the stone that closes the tomb of Jesus. They widen the join so that mortar can be plugged into the gap, to seal the entrance. Jesus is buried in a small, single-chamber tomb, and their work will soon be done.
‘We’re making certain,’ Cassius says. ‘No tricks this time, no preplanned miracles.’
‘So you’re back on duty?’
‘No one else knew what to do.’
Rome’s defeated enemies will stay dead. There are few truths more essential to the sustainability of the empire. ‘It won’t happen twice.’
‘Is that what you’re expecting?’
‘Everyone saw Jesus die. He’s not coming back.’
‘You have Roman soldiers tending a corpse.’
‘I know,’ Cassius says. ‘A complete waste of time and a perfect job for the military. How did you sleep?’<
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‘How do you think?’
Mary is approaching from the direction of the tented pilgrim encampment to the north of the city. Her eyes are red from weeping, and when she sees Lazarus she bursts into tears and runs headlong towards him. She throws herself at his feet.
‘I knew you’d be here.’ She hugs his legs and crushes her cheek against his knees. ‘Do what you have to do.’
Christians usually interpret Lazarus as a prefiguring of Jesus, who is Christ. This is the purpose of Lazarus’s life, for those who believe in his literal existence, and his narrative function in the bible for those who don’t. The death and resurrection of Lazarus foreshadow those of Jesus, and of all the dead to come.
Yet Jesus Christians (those who believe that Jesus is Christ) rarely appreciate the full extent of the advance work performed by Lazarus. In the history of their friendship, Lazarus always goes first. He suffers and dies first. He grieves first and disbelieves in god and leaves home first.
Jesus watches and learns. He will not be leaving his tomb after only one day. Too soon. He knows this from Jairus’s daughter, and even after the violence of a crucifixion he will want to avert suspicion that he simply fell unconscious. At the other extreme, Lazarus was dead for four days. Too long. Four days invites awkward side issues, like the smell. Lazarus is the trial and Lazarus is the error. He enables Jesus to identify the ideal period to be dead before coming back.
Mary can’t be expected to know this. Like anybody aggrieved by the death of a loved one, she wants him back immediately.
Mary takes her brother by the hand. ‘You know what you have to do.’
I could be happy as a favoured son of god, Lazarus thinks. He alone has survived death and burial, and returned fresh from the dead: his childhood passion for the scripture heroes was in fact an education. God was watching, and god has plans for him.
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