Woman of Sin
Page 28
“Whether you believe me or not, you would do well to put down that knife. There’s no escape for you—I have twenty men behind me. And I will be the one to choose the manner of your death. What will it be, Barabbas? The arrow, or the cross?”
After a long, suspenseful moment, the prisoner swore obscenely and pushed away the sweating centurion, throwing the dagger after him. More guards surrounded him. Paulus ordered the wounded men to be tended and removed, then drew the centurion aside.
“How did this happen?” he demanded.
The centurion rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Sir, I cannot say. One of the Caesarean cohort came and told me that Barabbas was to be released, so I took him to the prison. When the guards were unlocking his chains he somehow overpowered them and got a weapon, and struck them down along with Pilate’s man, and then I swear someone pushed me—only one of Pilate’s men would have done it! They don’t like us, don’t like coming here. And so he got me as well.”
“Are all the prisoners accounted for?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Make certain of it. Take Barabbas and show him to the people, and release him. But my orders are these, and reveal them to no one else. I want Barabbas followed—I want to know with whom he stays and with whom he has contact. The next time he is arrested he may have even more company.”
“Yes, sir.”
“By the way, Centurion, tell the tribunes and commanders and have them spread the word…the Jerusalem legion shall have nothing to do with what happens to the Nazarene prisoner today. Let it be on the head of Pilate and his own men.”
“As you say, Legate.”
Paulus left the dungeon, ascending the long flight of stairs swiftly. He had an uneasy feeling that he had delayed too long…and soon knew it to be so. When he reached the praetorium he saw that the prisoner had been taken to the level below and was tied to the whipping post. His clothes had been removed. Two soldiers, both as muscular as young bulls, wielded the flagella, one after the other. The lead balls hissed through the air to plummet into the Nazarene’s back and buttocks, and over his shoulders to his chest. The prisoner, though powerfully built with well-defined muscles, had collapsed against the post, his back and legs a bleeding mass of torn flesh.
Paulus saw, in one seething glance, that the soldiers involved were those who had escorted the governor from Caesarea. They must have just reached the maximum number of strokes; they dropped the flagella onto the blood-spewed pavement and untied the prisoner. The Nazarene hit the ground hard on both knees, half-conscious.
Incensed, Paulus went up the steps into the praetorium and stalked toward Pilate, who stood staring blankly out a window. “By all the gods,” he gritted out, “why did you scourge him? Your men have torn him to pieces!”
“Then perhaps it will satisfy Caiaphas and spare his life! And you have no right to question me, Legate Paulus Valerius.”
Paulus struggled with his sense of outraged justice. “Now I understand,” he said harshly. “You’ve never missed a chance to antagonize the Jews, Pontius Pilate…even the Sanhedrin itself. But you have lost your ally. Aelius Sejanus is dead. There is no one to support or defend your actions. And if these priests write a letter of complaint to the emperor, your career is finished.”
“I do not fear the priests!” Pilate retorted. “I fear an uprising, and so should you, Legate. Listen to that! Do you hear the crowd?”
“Men employed by the priests to intimidate you, and everyone else.”
“You don’t know that. Caiaphas has no such power.”
“He does, and Annas even more. You’re a fool if you think otherwise.”
When there was no reply Paulus said angrily, “The Nazarene is innocent. You believe that. Be fair and just for the sake of humanity, Governor—not for Jew or Greek or Roman. If you are not, the emperor will hear of it, from me!”
“And so,” Pilate said, in a low but angry tone, “either the priests will report I failed to kill a seditionist, or you will say that I killed an innocent Jew. Which do you think he will deem the worse?”
“Who can say, with Tiberius? But you must consider how you will live with your conscience.”
“Men in our position cannot afford a conscience, Paulus.” The prefect seemed tired, drained of anger and resentment. “I’m sure you know that.”
A knock sounded on the door and Pilate’s tribune entered. “Sir, they have brought the prisoner back to the judgment hall.”
Pilate’s chin lifted and he seemed to take a deep breath. Without looking at Paulus he walked slowly out the door. After a moment Paulus followed, stopping short when he saw the Nazarene standing unsteadily at the bottom of the steps.
The soldiers had made a mockery of him, throwing a scarlet cloak over his shoulders, and cruelly pressing upon his head a spiked cap made of some thorny shrub…obviously someone’s idea of kingly attire. Crooked lines of dark red blood poured from his brow. Except for the cloak he wore only an undergarment, and heavily bleeding scourge marks showed on his chest and the front of his legs where the metal pellets had curled around him from behind. He was deathly pale, his facial muscles lax with pain and shock. Paulus could tell he was making a supreme effort to stand upright.
Sickened and horrified, Paulus thought, I should have seen to it that this didn’t happen. His own men would not have been allowed to treat a prisoner this way. Obviously Pilate’s were not so disciplined.
But even Pilate was speechless. The priests avoided the spectacle, standing in a circle and whispering together. The crowd had stopped shouting. There was a long moment of involuntary silence.
Then Pilate called, “Behold the man!”
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’ ey
es 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.