I, Claudia

by Charity Bishop

  “I see, so you want me to do it for you.” Approaching them, Pilate asks, “What did this man do to merit such a punishment?”

  The priests look at one another in distress. “Surely, his professions as the messiah—”

  Pilate waves them off. “There’s many gods in Rome. What do we care if Judea claims one more?”

  “By our laws, Prefect, he deserves death!” Jacob shoves his way to the front.

  Recognition glints in Pilate’s eye. “And those that defy the laws of Judea deserve death?”

  Jacob lifts his chin. “Yes.”

  “And those who defy the laws of Rome?” Jacob glares at him. Pilate smiles and rests an arm on the judgment seat. “I will speak with him.”

  “He’s in your prison,” says Caiaphas.

  Nodding to Demetrius, Pilate leaves the room. “Let me come with you,” I plead.

  He considers me and says, “You won’t like it.”

  The steps descend into torch-lit gloom that is damp and smells of urine, blood, and death. Six steps further we enter a large room surrounded in barred cells. The stench intensifies with the unwashed prisoners. Blood stains the stone floor and tables, where presumably the men are flogged and tortured. Filthy faces turn to leer at me, lips snarling in disapproval.

  “Stay away from them,” warns Demetrius.

  Through an arch, I can see more cells, stretching into the darkness. Only one of them is unoccupied, but when I step closer, I make out the shadowy form in the corner. Demetrius snarls, “Barabbas.”

  His eyes glower at me. Shuddering, I move forward. Jesus is at the far end. Pilate nods to the guard and he unlocks the door. His face is battered, his lip bloodied, yet he looks calm. Pilate looks at our guard.

  “He entered thus, Prefect.”

  Stepping in the cell, Pilate motions the temple guards out. Jesus stands in chains. I take hold of the bars. “So you’re the messiah.”

  Jesus searches his face and looks at me. He smiles.

  Pilate tilts his head. “That is what they call you. Caiaphas is offended by it.”

  “He’s offended by what he can’t understand.”

  Torchlight plays across their faces. Pilate circles him and leans over his shoulder. “It’s another name for the King of the Jews. Are you such a king?”

  “Is this your own question or did others speak of me?”

  From his snort, I know Pilate is impressed. “Am I a Jew? Do I care whom the people of Judea call their savior? No, I’m only concerned with a threat posed to Rome.” He stops before Jesus. They regard one another. “Are you a threat to Rome?”

  Jesus’ face softens and his voice is gentle. “I’m not an earthly king. If so, you could not arrest me. My kingdom isn’t of this world.”

  “Then you are a king?”

  The messiah looks at me. “I came to bring truth to the world. All who love truth recognizes what I say is true.”

  Pilate asks, “What is truth?”

  A soldier speaks quietly to Demetrius. He enters the cell and says, “Prefect, there are people gathering at the palace gates. They know he’s here.”

  He nods and returns his attention to Jesus. “You’re accused of many things. Do you give an answer?”

  Sadness is in Jesus’ expression. He says nothing.

  Pilate leaves the cell and the guards lock it. I walk with him out of that wretched place. “Let him go.”

  “I can’t, but I can send him to Herod.” He returns to the judgment chamber and says, “I find no fault in this man. Furthermore, my authority to do as you ask is insufficient. He’s a Galilean, is he not?”

  Caiaphas flushes with displeasure. “Yes.”

  “Take him to Herod, then. Since he shares your faith you may find him more willing to condemn an innocent man.”

  Angry mutters accompany them outside. Motioning to Demetrius, he adds, “Send twelve guards with them. I want four hundred in the city streets. Tell them they are to keep peace but use as little violence as possible. I won’t have riots in Jerusalem on the eve of the Passover.”

  We wait. I sit in anguish.

  Footsteps sound in the hall. I tense and look up as Pilate turns from the window. Demetrius enters. “Herod sends him back to you, Prefect. He says he wants nothing to do with his imprisonment or execution.”

  My heart plummets. I can barely breathe.

  “How many of his followers are in the street?”

  A distant roar moves with the traveling prisoner. Demetrius’ eyes darken. “There’s more every minute, and over two hundred in the last hour.”

  “Bring me Caiaphas and the prisoner.”

  Light shines through the columns. Jesus’ chains drag on the floor. Two temple guards flank him on either side. Caiaphas glares at him in disgust and turns as we enter. I remain behind as Pilate crosses to them. He motions to Jesus’ bloodied face. “Is it your custom to punish the prisoner before his trial?”

  “Surely you don’t have pity on him!”

  Jesus glances at the high priest, who refuses to look at him. Pilate shakes his head. “I see no guilt in him. Even Herod finds him blameless. He’s done nothing to merit Roman punishment.”

  “He’s a pretender,” hisses Caiaphas, his face inflamed. “He claims he’s the messiah, the King of the Jews. Isn’t this against the rules of Rome?”

  Quintus enters the room, a scroll in his hand.

  “Rome cares little for self-professed messiahs. I’ll have him flogged for his insolence, but that’s all.”

  Angry murmurs spread among the priests. Caiaphas shouts, “You can’t deny the people their justice!”

  Pilate holds out his hand and Quintus gives him the scroll. “In his last imperial dispatch, Emperor Tiberius decrees that in honor of his birthday, one prisoner can be released to the crowd at Passover. Since your people call for justice, we’ll let them decide.” He nods to the guard and they leave. I hear the gates drag open and people stream into the courtyard. They take Jesus out and Pilate follows. The mob moves uneasily. Demetrius disappears and returns minutes later with Barabbas. He shoves the man to the base of one of the pillars. He is more frightening up close and those nearest the bottom of the stairs shudder. Caiaphas and his priests take their place.

  Pilate strides out between them. “I offer you a choice between two prisoners. One will be released: Barabbas, a murderer and thief, or your messiah.”

  I tighten my hands on the wall and pray.

  “Barabbas,” says a voice in the crowd. Faces twist to look at him. The cry repeats, “Barabbas! We want Barabbas!”

  I cannot breathe. Quintus is as horrified as I am. Even Pilate is shocked. “You want me to release a murderer instead of your messiah?”

  “He’s not the messiah!” snarls Caiaphas. “He wants an uprising. Better one should die for a nation than all suffer the wrath of Rome!”

  The crowd screams in support, stamping their feet. Barabbas leers at them and spits on his guard. Pilate nods and they release him. He looks at me and I feel sick.

  “What should I do with your messiah?” Pilate asks.

  All my hope is gone. I sink to the floor.

  “Crucify him,” I hear in a haze. “Crucify him!”

  I cover my face with my hands. Pilate says, “An innocent man doesn’t deserve death. He’ll be flogged.”

  The crowd roars in disapproval. He turns to my brother. “Quintus…”

  “Choose another, Prefect.”

  The brokenness of his voice causes me to look up, and I see the misery in his eyes. Pilate falters and turns to another guard. “Make it severe, but keep him alive.” He supports me as we enter the palace.

  I hear each blow, each tearing of flesh and crack of the whip. I flinch and look to my husband. Pilate stands at the window staring into grim skies.

  “I’ve ordered many floggings and never regretted any of them before. Why does he torment me?”

  Crack!

  I cringe. “He’s the son of God.”

  Pilate
glances at me. “You can’t mean that.”

  “Can’t you see it in him?”

  Removing his hand from the ledge, he says, “I don’t know what I see in him. If nothing else, he is a fool. It is within my power to release him, if he would give me a reason! He says nothing in his own defense! It’s as if…”

  Thunderous snaps echo across the courtyard. My voice trembles. “As if…?”

  His eyes search mine, “As if he wants to die.”

  Quiet enters the house and Quintus returns. His gaze remains downcast. “It is finished.”

  “Release him,” I plead.

  Both of them look at me. Pilate says nothing as he goes out to face them once again. I rise and meet a servant in the hall, carrying a familiar basin of water.

  “What is that for?” Hysteria creeps into my voice.

  The boy shrugs. “The Prefect asked for it.”

  I close my eyes and listen to him hurry away.

  Today, the messiah will die.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Shock is in their faces, and in mine. My hand covers my mouth, to look upon what the Romans have made of the messiah. He is bloody and bruised, his scarlet robe barely covering his torn flesh, his head bowed in pain but lips silent. Even Caiaphas lowers his gaze.

  Pilate motions to him. “He’s punished.”

  “This pretender must die.” Jacob pushes his way to the front of the priests.

  A voice in the crowd shouts, “Crucify him!”

  “Yes, crucify him!” the crowd screams.

  His face thunderous, Pilate shouts, “You want an innocent man crucified?”

  “Jesus of Nazareth isn’t innocent! He must die!” Hands wave in the air in a single forward motion, as they chant, “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

  Blood stains the floor under Jesus’ feet. Pilate turns to him. “Will you say nothing in your defense?”

  Guards beat the crowd as they surge forward. Shields knock people over and the priests move aside.

  “Prefect, give them what they want!” Demetrius’ hand is on his sword, concern written in his face.

  Jesus says nothing.

  “What is wrong with you? Don’t you realize I have the power to release or to crucify you?”

  The centurions draw swords and shove men aside. Jesus looks beyond Pilate to me and his eyes soften. “You have no power over me not given to you from my Father.”

  “They want me to execute you!”

  A shadow falls on Jesus’ face as he answers sadly, “The one who brought me to you has the greater sin.”

  Pilate looks to me, resignation in his eyes. I lean my head on the column as he turns to the crowd. Wearily, he asks, “Will you have me crucify your king?”

  “We have no king but Caesar,” says Caiaphas. “If you release this man, you’re no friend of Caesar. Anyone who declares himself king is against Tiberius and the Empire, and those who harbor them are traitors to Rome!”

  It is all I can do to stay upright.

  Pilate says, “I find no evidence against this man. What’s done with him is by your will; I won’t be responsible for his death.”

  “Let the blame fall on us, Prefect,” says Caiaphas.

  The servant is motioned forward. He holds the basin still as Pilate washes his hands. He tells Demetrius “Give them what they want. Pick two others under sentence and do them as well.”

  A dull ache fills my spirit as the messiah walks away. I move along the balcony to keep him in sight, until the crowd swallows him up. Jacob follows at a distance. Entering the outer chamber with us, Caiaphas says, “You’ve made the right choice, Prefect.”

  Pilate looks at him and narrows his gaze. “I want it written on the cross ‘This is Jesus, King of the Jews.’ ”

  “He’s not our king!” Caiaphas turns red. Our scribe looks between them, pen poised.

  Pilate answers, “He is if I say he is. You have your blood. Now take it and get out.”

  The priests retreat. Outside the palace, the crowd retreats into a dull roar. I move toward the door.

  “I forbid it,” says Pilate.

  Fear creeps over me and I look at him.

  “Golgotha is no place for you, Claudia.”

  The hill rises above Jerusalem. I can see it from the palace, the place where men die.

  “I must see it.”

  We study one another and he looks to Quintus. It is a long while before he nods. I tell a servant to fetch my plainest cloak. Grabbing my arm, Quintus says, “This is madness! Have you ever seen a crucifixion?”

  The thought makes me sick.

  “Do you know what happens when men are nailed to a cross and left to die?” His eyes hold as much misery as mine; his voice breaks. He releases me as the servant girl returns.

  I tie the cloak around my shoulders with trembling fingers. “If it’s too much, I’ll come home.”

  People fill the streets, some of them shouting insults at the three men carrying their crossbeams to the hillside; others openly weep. I fight my way through them to see the messiah, dragging under the weight of his burden. He stumbles and from the fresh blood soaking through his cloak, I know he has fallen several times. Centurions shove the crowds, threatening them with whips. I hardly have to move; others carry me with them, Quintus struggling to remain at my side. The voices that once shouted “Hosanna, Messiah!” now hurl slanders and mockery.

  Tears fill my eyes. He collapses and the beam nearly hits him on the head. The guard strikes him and he stays on the ground. Quintus darts forward, gripping his arm and halting the whip. The Roman turns on him in a rage, sees who it is, and the anger leaves his face.

  “Pick someone to help him! He can’t carry it alone!”

  Quintus returns to my side and puts his arm around me, as the soldiers seize a man in the crowd. Scorn fills his face but as he helps Jesus to his feet, it changes into compassion. Hooking their arms together, the man says, “Come on, we’re nearly there.”

  We fall in behind the procession. I feel helpless. It takes forever to pass through Jerusalem onto the road. From there, many return home, but others, including Jacob, march forward with determination. He sees me and the look of triumph on his face sickens me.

  Hearing my name I turn as Libi stumbles over the rocks and falls into my arms. We cling to one another as Jesus collapses on the hilltop. One of the Romans kicks him aside and drags the crossbeam to its place. Quintus begs, “Come away, both of you!”

  One of the other prisoners lands on his cross. Libi turns her face into my shoulder. He screams as they tie his arms and drive nails through his hands. I refuse to watch. My gaze falls on one of several women who sinks to her knees as Jesus falls on his cross.

  “His mother,” Libi whispers.

  She never looks away from him, not even when the nails penetrate his hands. I shut my eyes but am incapable of closing out the sounds, the creak of wood, the pounding of the nails, the cries of agonizing pain from the prisoners. They put the plaque above his head and hoist the cross up. It settles into the hole with a loud thump. Blood soaks into the dry, rocky ground. One of the soldiers kicks dirt over it and picks up Jesus’ garments.

  “Shall we cast lots for the messiah’s robes?” He laughs and others join in. I feel a surge of hatred for them. Instinct shifts me forward; Quintus holds me.

  The weary voice draws our attention heavenward, as Jesus looks into the skies. “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they do.”

  Some of the soldiers’ amusement fades. Demetrius glares at them, sending them away. He looks up at the cross and then walks away. Numbly, I watch the others cast lots for his clothing. Many pass on the road into Jerusalem and climb the hill to read the inscription.

  “The messiah?” a man mocks, gesturing to the cross. On either side of Jesus hang thieves. “You saved others, save yourself!”

  He laughs and his companion shouts, “Come down from there, if you truly are the Chosen One!”

  I curl my fingers into a fist as the
y walk away. “How can they mock him? How can they look upon this and have only hatred in their hearts?”

  Dirt and tears streak Libi’s face. One of the thieves, a gaunt, cruel-looking man, shouts, “Aren’t you the Christ? Save yourself, and us!”

  The other thief coughs up blood. “Be silent! Have you no fear of the Lord? You and I are thieves! We earned our punishment one coin purse at a time! But this man, this messiah, has done nothing wrong!”

  I shiver. Their voices fade into the wind as I turn to the skies. I sense the darkness before it arrives. It closes in and fills us with terror. Those on the road hasten into Jerusalem and many with us on the hillside scatter. It is too dark to see my companions and we cling to one another.

  “Light torches!” Demetrius shouts.

  Something rushes past me, stirring my hair. Quiet fear pervades us as we huddle together. Panicked footsteps pass and stumble; someone falls in a heap. Flames ignite and reveal the soldiers’ pale faces. The man at our side turns over and I recognize him. “You’re one of the high priests!”

  He looks at me in terror and flees.

  They thrust torches into the ground, granting us light. I strain to see the messiah but something hides him from me. Shadows swarm over Jerusalem as lights begin to shine in its upper windows.

  A rumble starts deep in the earth. The pebbles begin to dance. Soon the earth shakes so violently it sends all to their knees. The prisoners scream on their crosses and in the distance, a horrible sound comes from the city, the sound of foundations splitting and columns shattering.

  “Father!” Jesus’ voice speaks over the earthquake. “Into your hands, I commend my spirit!”

  Dust rises all around. I scramble to my feet. No one stops me. Demetrius stands at the foot of the center cross, staring up at the messiah, whose head has fallen to his chest. “Surely he’s the son of God,” he whispers.

  Fear drives the rest away from us; they skid down the embankment toward the road and race for the gates of Jerusalem. Only Jacob remains of the high priests. His face is drawn and pale, his hand curled tightly around his father’s staff. “He’s not the messiah,” he says.

  I clutch my robes and ask, “Do you say it to convince us, or yourself?”