by Russ Durbin
* * *
The thought of that warm day and the “preacher of love” had lingered with him. It seemed that even now, even in his most desperate moment, he could still hear the voice of the carpenter caressing him, warming him in his cold cell.
Demas hadn’t noticed the slow but steady advance of a ray of sunlight across the floor of his cell, and he was startled when the door swung open and a Roman legionnaire ordered him outside.
“Come on, come on you louts,” the soldier shouted roughly, kicking Gestas in the side with his heavy-toed cothurn. “This is your day to shine. Now you’ll find out how Rome deals with traitors.”
Gestas unleashed a string of epithets at the soldiers and Roman might in general, which only earned him a backhanded blow across the mouth. Demas said nothing but moved quietly into the narrow hall. There was no sound but the clanking of the soldiers’ bucklers against their short swords and the measured tread of their feet as they marched through the stone corridors, past cell after cell of condemned men.
Both men blinked and tried to hide their eyes when they stepped into the bright sunlight which filled the fortress courtyard. The place was a bedlam of noise. Frenzied people were shouting and shoving. The waves of sound beat upon Demas until he thought he could stand it no longer.
What was going on? It was some kind of a trial, for he saw the Roman Procurator—Pilate was his name—standing on the elevated stone platform at the far end of the yard. Demas could see the Roman soldiers, their swords drawn, ringing the courtyard, trying desperately to hold back the milling mob.
The prisoner was standing alone in the center. Was it Barabbas? The question leaped into Demas’ mind immediately, but it went unanswered because he was too far away to recognize the man.
A servant was bringing what looked to Demas like a wash basin to Pilate. Demas was surprised to see the Procurator dip his hands into the bowl and dry them on a cloth the servant handed to him. Then he remembered the reason for the bowl. It was the Roman way of absolving themselves of pronouncing a penalty. Pilate symbolically was washing away the stain of the man’s blood. The man’s fate was now up to the people, and Demas knew from the great shout that went up, the man’s fate already was sealed.
A palace guard shouldered his way through the crowd and saluted the commander of the execution detail.
“Sir, the people have demanded the release of the prisoner, Barabbas, and the death of that one.” He pointed to the lonely figure standing in the center of the courtyard. The commander ordered a soldier to free Barabbas.
Barabbas! Demas could scarcely believe his ears. Barabbas freed! It was truly a miracle. Maybe, just maybe, Barabbas is the Messiah. Demas couldn’t keep the thought from his mind. Maybe he would conquer the Romans after all. Maybe the Freedom party’s efforts hadn’t been in vain.
Then Demas remembered his own situation. He, too, was going to die with “that one.” He looked at the man again.
“Lonely,” he thought. “Every man is lonely when he dies.” All roads lead to the same destination—death. He was going there; Gestas was going there; and “that one” was going there, Demas reflected. They were each going alone, each in darkness.
His thoughts were interrupted by the return of the soldier bringing Barabbas. Demas turned to greet his former chief, but the greeting died in his throat when he saw the man. Barabbas looked like a wooly black bear, suddenly routed out of hibernation. He stood weaving and blinking in the bright sunlight. Demas looked into those black eyes and found…nothing, not even the flicker of recognition. The burning spark that had once inflamed peoples’ emotions and imaginations had been extinguished by months in prison. Demas stared in disbelief.
“No,” he thought. “No, this…this hulking animal is not the Messiah.”
The Roman commander gave Barabbas a shove which nearly sent him sprawling. “You have your freedom, Barabbas. Now go quickly before we decide to lock you up again.” He jerked his head toward the man in the courtyard. “That one is going to die in your place, though I’ll never know why. Next time, you may not be so lucky.” Barabbas stumbled away and was lost in the howling mob.
Demas felt himself prodded with the point of a spear.
“Come along, we haven’t all day,” the soldier said. Gestas shuffled along sullenly, and Demas walked a few feet behind. They were surrounded by soldiers to keep the mob away. The two men were led to a corner of the courtyard where the “trees” were kept. In accordance with Roman custom, they were stripped of all but their breechclouts. They hands were tied in front of them with stout pieces of rope so as to leave about six inches between their wrists. Demas set his feet and braced himself for the weight of the rough-hewn wooden timber which was lifted onto his right shoulder. He could hear Gestas swearing at the soldiers, at the crosspiece, and at the mob. Bent slightly under the weight of the wood which he was to carry, Demas looked up as the third prisoner was brought up.
No! It couldn’t be. Demas blinked his eyes to make sure he was seeing correctly. It was the carpenter named Jesus he had heard talk of love that sunny day by the Sea of Tiberius. What was he doing here? What had he done?
Demas wondered as he watched the soldiers strip the man and tie his hands. Then, as the man turned and braced himself for the heavy beam, Demas saw the marks of the flagellum, the whip with the jagged pieces of lead inserted in the ends of the leather thongs. The man had been scourged terribly. Demas couldn’t restrain a slight shudder as he watched the rough wood lowered onto the quivering, shredded flesh of the man’s shoulder and back. Jesus staggered and almost felt.
To the pilgrims who were pouring into the Holy City for the Feast of the Passover, the day was a glorious one. The golden dome of the temple glittered through the shimmering waves of heat.
But to Demas, the day was living hell. He plodded along slowly, the last of the three, between moving walls of Roman soldiers, the howling mob almost snapping like curs at his heels. His hands were blistered as was his shoulder, and blood trickled down his bare back from the raw sore rubbed by the rough wood.
“Baptized,” he thought as he plodded along. “Baptized in sweat and blood.” Funny word. He wondered idly about the origin of the word. It had something to do with Hebrew religion. His chain of thought was broken by an offensive stone in the street which bruised his foot. He wanted to giggle, like a child, but he knew that were never do.
Would the street never end? The street. What was its name? Via…Via…Dolorosa. Yes, that was it. Via Dolorosa.
Demas sweated and plodded, sweated and plodded, sweated and plodded, cursing himself all the while for having been so foolish. Why had he left home where he had wealth and position? Why had he gotten mixed up with Barabbas and his gang of cutthroats? They weren’t liberators but a bunch of thieves and killers. Why? Why? Why? The question seemed to keep time with the tramp, tramp, tramp of the soldiers.
His breath came in short gasps now, and he wondered briefly how Jesus was doing. The man had almost fallen before they left the courtyard. Twice the procession had stopped, but Demas didn’t know why and hadn’t really cared. He hadn’t even looked up. He remembered the last time was at Gennath Gate. Demas could feel the hot breath of the sun on his back as it climbed to its zenith. The young Greek was almost to the point where he would welcome death, and embrace it with outstretched arms. Surely no torture and no death could be worse than this endless plodding.
Worse? Demas wondered as he listened to the dull thud of the executioner’s hammer as he drove heavy spikes through human flesh. Gestas screamed again and again, punctuating each one with a curse.
“I will not yield; I will not scream and curse,” Demas thought grimly. He repeated the words over and over in his mind as the soldiers cut the rope that bound his wrists, and forced him to lay his arms on the cross piece. He saw the executioner draw back the mallet as a soldier held a metal spike over his wrist. The mallet hurtled downward, and Demas heard someone scream, shattering the silence. Then he realized the voice b
elonged to him. Another scream was torn from his parched throat as an iron spike ripped through the other wrist. Demas slipped into a semi-consciousness that mercifully dulled the pain when the soldiers pressed his feet flat against the cross and drove a single spike through both of them.
A red haze blurred Demas’ vision as the cross to which he was nailed was lifted by ropes and dropped heavily into place. At first, the pain was unendurable. Every move of his body to ease the pain only made it worse. He licked his dry lips and cried softly for his mother to come and comfort him, just as she had done when he was a small boy. But there was no one now. He was alone in his pain and suffering.
No. Not alone. There were others. He tried to remember. Yes, two others. Demas twisted his head to see what had become of the others.
He saw his “preacher of love” on the cross next to him. Gestas was on the far side, still cursing, although his voice was weaker now. The burning sun was sapping their strength rapidly, and Demas realized it would not be long for any of them before their suffering would be over. It was getting harder to breathe.
Smoke and stench from the “valley of death” below them where criminals’ bodies were burned after executions curled in the faint breeze and wafted over Golgotha where the three men hung. Demas felt as if he were going to be sick.
“Golgotha, the skull,” Demas thought. “A good name, for here will our bones rot and our ashes be scattered.”
A faint suggestion of a chuckle escaped his lips as he thought, “I wonder what Jesus thinks of his fellow man now? I wonder if he would still preach about love, had he the breath.”
Despite his pain, which was great, the young Greek looked toward Jesus again. He saw the man’s lips move as he looked down at his executioners; the tall Pharisees, their robes wrapped tightly about them, as they nodded approvingly; the coldly factual Sadducees as they sought to adhere strictly to the law; the indifferent Roman soldiers as they gambled at the foot of the cross, and the common people, now hardly more than rabble as they screamed and cursed and taunted.
Demas strained to hear what Jesus was saying, but the noise was so great, he caught only a few words.
“Father, forgive them….”
Perhaps in his delirium Demas had misunderstood the man. Surely he couldn’t have been praying for them! After what they had done to him! Why, they were nothing but street curs, snarling their defiance now that he was helpless. He surely didn’t hear correctly.
Then Demas remembered that day by the sea when Jesus had talked of love and forgiveness.
“If a man strikes you on one cheek, turn the other to him also,” he had said. At the time, Demas had almost laughed.
“A good way to get another blow,” he had thought. Now, he wondered if it really was such a crazy idea after all. It appeared the man believed what he preached and lived it. Demas pushed his own pain into a corner of his mind, and listened to the taunts of the people, marveling at the compassion of Jesus that had moved him to forgive them for what they were doing to him.
“Hah, he saved others, but he can’t save himself.”
“Hey, miracle worker, come down from your cross. Save yourself, and we’ll believe you’re the Messiah.”
The Messiah? Demas wondered about that. If this Jesus was the Messiah, why would he allow himself to be killed? This man was...what? Thirty-two or three? What could be accomplished by dying now? He decided that Jesus was simply a good man, innocent of whatever charges had been brought against him.
The people were hurling Jesus’ own words back at him now.
“You said you were going to tear down the temple and rebuild it in three days. Your time’s running out, carpenter. Better work fast.”
“Where’s your hammer, carpenter?” One burly fellow shouted, taking up the joke. “You already have your nails!” He and others around him laughed raucously.
Jesus didn’t seem to hear them. His head rolled against the hard wood as if seeking a soft spot on which to lay his head to alleviate his pain. His eyes were closed, and, as his head rolled to his right facing Demas, his lips moved again. Demas heard a soft moan, the only one thus far to escape his lips.
“My God, my God, have you forsaken me?”
Strange. He was calling to his god as if he had expected to be rescued momentarily.
“Delirium,” Demas thought. No one, not even the Jewish god, could rescue them now. Then, he saw Jesus open his eyes and look at him. Demas was startled. Where he had expected to find fear, he found assurance. Their glances locked for a fleeting second—this carpenter and this criminal—and Demas felt somehow comforted. Jesus’ glance seemed to say, “Courage!”
Demas closed his eyes and bit his lips until blood flowed, trying to stifle a groan. He heard more shouting. This time, the voice was familiar. It was Gestas.
The burly Jew had pulled himself up on the timber to which he was nailed until his head rested on the cross piece. He was shouting at Jesus, his lips pulled back in a grotesque sneer.
“If you are really the Messiah, then save yourself. Save yourself and us. Don’t let us die. Save us, oh king of the Jews.” His bravado disappeared and his voice turned to a whine with his last words. Fear oozed out of the man like his blood and his life. Demas saw Gestas’ body slip and fall heavily on the nails, tearing the tortured flesh a little more, starting the bleeding again. He screamed in pain as he hurled invective after invective at the suffering Nazarene on the center cross. Demas could take no more.
“Stop it, Gestas!” Demas shouted. “Have you no sense at all? Don’t you see you’re dying too? Have you no fear of God?”
Demas’ voice silenced Gestas’ curses as the Jew turned to stare at his former friend. Demas wasn’t sure what had prompted him to speak up in behalf of this man Jesus but he was glad he had done it. He spoke again.
“We deserve what we’re getting, Gestas,” he gasped. “We have broken the laws and we have killed. We are justly being punished. But this man has done nothing wrong!”
He turned to look at Jesus and thought, “No, this man has done nothing but to preach of love.” Then, he tried to clear his thoughts, “No, not merely preach of love; he has loved.” A third time Demas in his mind, now growing confused in his pain, corrected himself. “No, that isn’t right either.” He searched his feverish mind for the right phrase. “He is love.”
It seemed almost as if Jesus was reading his thoughts, for he turned toward Demas, and, with a look of infinite understanding, he once more smiled at him.
Demas licked his cracked lips with a swollen tongue. “Master,” he croaked. Thoughts whirled through his mind. There were so many things he felt he wanted to say; so many things he felt he needed to say to this man. But he only said, “Remember me when you come into your kingly power.” Demas’ eyes told Jesus more than words could have said at this point.
Jesus, his body racked with pain, spoke with difficulty. His voice soft, almost caressing and soothing. “When the pain and suffering of this day are done, we shall meet again. For I say to you, you will be with me this day in Paradise.” A muscle spasm gripped Jesus, and he closed his eyes.
Suddenly, Demas felt calm; his head was clear; his thoughts sharply in focus.
“Am I on the brink of death?” he wondered. “Strange, but I believe him. There must be some place, some life beyond this one.” He wanted to believe this. He wanted to ask Jesus about this, but he noticed the Nazarene was talking to a young man standing near the cross, his arm about a weeping woman.
As cool breeze whipped across his face, Demas noticed for the first time the dark clouds in the sky that obscured the sun. There was a strange darkness. For some reason, Demas was glad. He was sure something terrible, and yet, something of tremendous importance was taking place. Perhaps this Jewish God was coming to destroy those who had destroyed his son. His Son! The words slipped naturally into Demas' thoughts. The ground at the foot of the cross rocked with each jolt sending new waves of pain through his body.
At the very mo
ment the storm seemed the worst, Jesus raised himself on his bleeding feet, and, with a loud cry, shouted—almost victoriously, thought Demas—“It is finished!” Jesus looked up into the dark clouds and sighed, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” The Nazarene’s head fell forward on his breast, and his body slid down to hang limply on the nails. He was dead, Demas knew.
Tears trickled down his cheeks, but Demas was unashamed of them.
“Never has there been such a man as this,” he thought dimly. “Never will there be such a one again.”
As Demas slid into the coma which precedes death by crucifixion, he murmured, “God, forgive us all.”
The chill spring rain which sprinkled his body reminded him dimly of dew on a morning rose. Suddenly, he was a child again, running to meet his Father with outstretched arms.
* * *
Other Stories by Russ Durbin
The Test
His knees trembled and he felt weak. The trek through the burning sands had been long, and longer still the climb up the mountain. His damp robe clung tightly to his hot body. The breeze that inhabits the high places found him at last and whipped his shoulder-length auburn hair over his forehead in the direction of the river, now hardly more than a bright ribbon from where he stood. He felt faint; for his fast had been long since his baptism in the river by his cousin, John.
The Decision
Judge Henry Davis must decide whether a young man, convicted of murder, should live or die. Thanks to national media attention to the case, forces for and against execution are lined up outside the court when the judge arrives. Adding to the mounting tension is pressure on the judge from a powerful political supporter who wants him to duck the decision. What will he do?