Woman of Sin

by Debra Diaz

  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 of
f 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 quick
ly 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.