The Black Rood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  My heart trembled within me, and I wanted to look away—but I could not. I watched, clasping my hands together and murmuring helpless, hopeless prayers.

  Bright blood welled up in a sudden crimson gush, and the crowd roared its approval as two more mighty blows drove the cruel spike deep into the stout timber beam—whereupon the soldier rose, stepped over his victim and repeated the procedure on the left arm. Three quick, decisive blows rang like anvil peals, driving the spike between the twin bones of the man’s forearm and into the heavy wood.

  No sooner had the last blow rung out than the soldiers passed ropes under the timber beam and secured the condemned man’s arms at the elbows. They then turned and began hauling the beam up the hill, three soldiers at the end of each rope, dragging their victim with it. The ground was rough and rocky, and Christ’s poor wounded back left a bloody swathe in the pale bone-dry dirt.

  At the top of the hill, they heaved the ropes over the upper beams of the timber framework. The dangling ends were caught and passed to the legionaries beneath who, with the help of a score or more of the more zealous members of the rabble, eagerly seized the lines and pulled hard. The ropes snapped taut, jerking the suffering Jesu from the ground.

  Up, up he soared, rising skyward, the ropes singing over the rough timber until the crosspiece met the upper beam of the framework where it jarred to a stop, leaving him suspended high above the crowd, his arms pinioned to the heavy timber beam. There the Blessed Christ swung, writhing with the violence of his crude ascent.

  The crosspiece was quickly lashed to the upper beam of the framework, and there—his gentle, healing hands twisted and deformed into the shape of claws—he hung; high above the ground, he hung, blood coursing in rivulets down his arms and sides, mingling with the muddy sweat of his torment. Stretched between earth and sky, the Holy One of God hung, the weight of his broken body dangling from his strong arms.

  Meanwhile, two other unfortunates—thieves caught in the act—were likewise crucified and strung up either side of him. As soon as the two wretches were secured, the soldiers produced a long beam, part of the trunk of a tree, and lashed it tight to the uprights just below the knees of the hanging men. The big Roman then proceeded to drive spikes through the victims’ anklebones, fixing them to the lower beam. The two thieves screamed and thrashed in their agony while the mob jeered and applauded.

  Unable to bear the torment any longer, Jesu opened his mouth and screamed, “Elo-i!” The cords stood out on his neck with the force of his shout. “Elo-i!”

  The mob fell back at the fearful power of the cry. They looked at one another and murmured. “He is calling on Elijah,” someone said. “No, wait!” said another. “He is calling on God to save him!”

  “He saved others,” scoffed one big brute merrily. “Now let him save himself!”

  “Quiet! He is speaking!” shouted a man near the front. “I cannot hear what he is saying. Here, give him a drink and maybe he will speak again.”

  A sop of wine was raised on the end of a stick and held to his mouth, but Jesu bowed his head and said no more.

  A group of elder Jews arrived from the city just then; there were perhaps a dozen or so, some dressed in priestly garb, others in costly red robes with chains of gold around their necks. Gathering up their long cloaks to keep them from the dust, they mounted the side of the hill and pushed their way to the front of the throng.

  Their expressions smug and hard, they took their places at the front of the mob and stood, like monuments of self-righteous reprisal, glaring up at the dying man. The Romans, having completed their duties, now turned to other amusements. They had some bread and wine with them and sat down a little apart to eat and drink, while they waited for the execution to reach its fatal and inevitable conclusion.

  The crowd continued their crude harangue of the dying men, mocking them, laughing at their misery as they tried to keep the weight of their bodies off their pinioned ankles while, at the same time, relieve the searing torment of their arms. Some of the older youths thought it good sport to pelt the condemned with rocks—which they did with increasing impunity. Indeed, one young thug made a lucky throw, striking one of the thieves full in the face, smashing his cheekbone and knocking out the man’s eye; the poor wretch moaned and tossed his head back and forth, the mangled eye dangling and bouncing on his crushed cheek, much to the delight of the jeering throng.

  This emboldened the rest, who redoubled their efforts, and I believe the condemned might have been stoned to death on the crosstrees if not for a careless throw which struck the beam and careened into the party of Roman soldiers who, having finished their meal, were now playing at dice for the prisoners’ clothes and sandals. The stone struck one of the legionaries on the leg, and up he came; he charged into the boys with drawn sword, walloping one or two of the pluckier ruffians with the flat of his blade. They howled like scalded pups and the whole pack fled.

  A strange calm descended on the humpbacked hill then, as the crowd settled down to wait. The sky grew darker, the dreadful yellow turning green-gray like a diseased wound, and the air, already still, became stifling. The only sound to be heard was the desperate wheezing and gasping of the men on the gibbet as they struggled to get air into their lungs; though all three looked as if they were past caring, life clung on and would not abandon them.

  The mob quickly grew bored with the tedious display and became restless. Soon the crowd was thinning at the edges as the less fervid, having had their fill, began to creep away quietly, leaving the hardened zealots to their gloating. About this time, a Roman commander arrived on horseback. He sat for a moment, taking in the spectacle, and then called a command to the soldiers lolling on the ground.

  I could not make out what was said, for I was on the hillside and the centurion remained on the road. But two of the legionaries jumped to their feet and hastened off to where some of their tools and gear were lying on the ground. One of the soldiers reached for the ladder, and the other a hammer and flat piece of wood which were lying there. Resting the top of the ladder against the upper crossbeam, the first soldier climbed up, while the other, standing below, handed up the hammer and wood. The first soldier then proceeded to nail the wooden placard to the upper beam next to Jesu’s head.

  There was, so far as I could see, nothing written on the placard, but this oversight was soon corrected, for the commander spoke again, and the legionary on the ground bent down and picked up a stick, broke off one end, and passed it to his friend on the ladder. The soldier took the stick and, holding it to the body of the hanging man, dabbed the broken end in his freely trickling blood. He then proceeded to write in ragged red letters these words: Iesu Nazarethaei Rex Iudae.

  Seeing this, the crowd instantly sent up an appalling shriek. The priests and elders standing proudly at the forefront of the crowd flew into a foul rage, wailing and tearing at their clothes and beards. Two of the Jewish leaders hastened down to where the centurion sat on his horse, watching the commotion with a bemused expression.

  “Please, hear us, sir,” the senior of the two cried. “That man is not the King of the Jews!”

  “We have no king but Caesar!” added the other. Some of those on the hillside took up the reply as a chant. “We have no king but Caesar!” they shouted halfheartedly.

  A white-haired man in priest’s robes joined the two. “The sign is an offense to our people,” he insisted. “We beg you, lord, take it down.”

  The centurion, enjoying the uproar he had provoked with his innocent order, gazed with unruffled merriment at the three and shook his head slowly.

  “My lord,” the old priest pleaded, “it is an abomination and a stench in the nostrils of God. Please, remove the sign at once.”

  Still shaking his head, the commander replied, “It stays.”

  “If it cannot be removed,” one of the other elders suggested, adopting a reasonable tone, “then perhaps it could be made to read: This Nazarene claimed to be King of the Jews.”

&nbs
p; At that moment, one of the ruffians in the crowd darted out from among the throng. Before anyone could stop him, he ran to the ladder and climbed up, almost knocking the legionary from his perch as he tried to grab hold of the sign and tear it down.

  The centurion lashed his mount forward up the hill to the ladder and, reaching out, seized the rascal by the leg and pulled him from the ladder. The man rolled on the ground, yelling and fuming, and the priests and elders quickly gathered around pleading with the soldiers to take down the sign and restore the peace. But the Roman commander, growing tired of their sanctimonious bleating, refused to be drawn into the affray. He ordered soldiers to remove the man who had tried to tear down the sign and, as they dragged him aside, the sky gave forth a low, worrisome growl.

  A sharp gust of wind sent the dust swirling around the hilltop. The commander raised his eyes skyward, and then, as the first fat drops of rain spattered into the dust, he decided that it was time to disperse the crowds before the situation deteriorated farther. Turning to his cohort, he gave the final command: “Finish it.”

  Taking up his hammer once more, the big Roman stepped to the nearest of the victims and with a mighty swing, hurled the flat of the hammer into the man’s leg halfway between knee and ankle. The shinbone cracked with a dull sickening crunch—a sound so appalling it even made the blood-lusting crowd wince. The suffering wretch screamed in agony and passed out. The legionary applied the hammer to the other leg, and the unconscious man slumped down hard, the weight of his body tearing his arms from their sockets as his legs folded neatly in half. He gave a strangled sigh, choked on his tongue, and expired.

  The executioner moved on to the next thief, who was yet aware enough to know what was about to take place. He began pleading and crying to be spared. But the soldier took no heed, breaking both the man’s legs with as many blows of the hammer. The second victim was not so lucky as the first; he did not pass out but screamed and writhed in agony as he kept trying to raise himself up on his ruined legs so as to fill his lungs with air. He jerked and twitched pitifully, the sharp shards of shinbone poking through the flesh of his damaged limbs, each movement bringing fresh torture as the ragged ends of his shattered bones gnashed and splintered like broken teeth.

  Turning his attention to the last victim, the big Roman swung his hammer wide, but withheld the blow at the last instant. Looking up into the face of the hanging man, he said, “This one is dead.”

  The watching elders heard this and raised an outcry at once. “How can it be?” they demanded. “It is not yet evening!”

  “He is not dead!” someone shouted. “He has only swooned.”

  One of the elders, dressed in red robes and wearing a heavy chain of gold around his neck, stepped forward. “See here, centurion,” he said in educated Latin, “the people are right. He has only swooned—revive him, and you will see.”

  The executioner heard this and grew angry. “Do you call me liar?” he snarled.

  “By no means!” said the elder, raising his hands as if to fend off a blow. “But this Jesu was known to be a sorcerer and a magician. He may be using his powers to feign death. Do not be deceived. Rather, do your duty.”

  “I know my duty,” growled the big Roman, moving nearer, “just as I know a dead man when I see one.” Hefting the hammer in his hand, he said, “Maybe you would like to join him in Hades—or wherever it is you people go.”

  The wealthy elder gave a yelp and backed away. The executioner made as if to pursue him into the crowd, but the centurion called him back. “Longinus! Enough! We will prove it to them,” he said, casting an eye to the gathering storm. “Then maybe we can get back to the city before we’re soaked to the bone.”

  The big Roman abandoned his pursuit and returned to the foot of the framework. Taking his spear, he raised it to the Anointed One’s side and thrust it up hard beneath his ribs in the center of his chest. Watery blood burst from the wound, gushing in a pale fountain all at once. There was neither movement nor outcry from the victim, and I knew I looked upon a corpse.

  At that moment, there came a great peal of thunder and the storm broke with a force to shake the very earth. A cold wind whirled around the hilltop, whining like an animal in pain, and kicking up prodigious clouds of dust and dirt. Seeing that the condemned men were dead, the crowd retreated, streaming back to the city, throwing their cloaks over their heads as they ran. The Romans quickly gathered up their weapons and followed the throng back to the city, leaving two of their number behind to keep watch.

  The rain came hard and fast, pelting down in stinging sheets. I looked around, expecting to find myself alone on the hillside, but was surprised to discover a small, miserable knot of people—women, mostly—standing a little apart. They were weeping and clinging to one another, oblivious to the storm crashing around them.

  The wind howled like a wounded animal. Lightning flashed and rolling blasts of thunder shook the ground as if to crack the very walls of Jerusalem. The rain pitched down in great lashing waves—as if the bruised sky had ruptured, spilling out its waters all at once. The dry hillside slowly dissolved into a sticky quagmire.

  Despite the savage blast, I waited to see what would happen, and in a little while the storm which had blown up so quickly, passed the same way. The thunder stopped, and the wind calmed. The air, refreshed from the cooling rain, smelled wonderfully of spices and rare desert flowers. The dead men, their corpses washed, hung dripping from their crosspieces, clean now, and ready for burial.

  Above the sound of the wailing women, I heard someone calling from the road below; I turned to see a young dark-bearded man in a fine yellow cloak hastening toward the hill and hailing the little knot of mourners as he came. Some distance behind him came a man leading a donkey and cart. I do not know if either of them had been present at the execution, but the young man quickly mounted the hillside and joined the group. They held a brief discussion, whereupon he stepped out from among them and approached the timber frame.

  The two soldiers, who had been huddling in the shelter of the rocks, stepped forward and demanded to know the man’s business. He replied, speaking in good Latin, and said that he had come for the body of Jesu. “It is growing late,” he explained. “The Sabbath begins at sunset. We must remove the body before the sun sets, for it is against the law to bury a man on the Sabbath. Likewise it is an abomination to leave the dead unburied.”

  The young soldier frowned. “We were told nothing about this. You must get permission from the governor.”

  “Please,” the young man said, “there is no time.” Indicating the bundle under his arm, he said, “I have brought the shroud, and I will happily take full responsibility for the burial.”

  Reaching into his belt he brought out several pieces of silver which he passed to the soldier. “This is for your trouble. I will need your help to get him down.”

  The second soldier looked at the money, and nudged his more reluctant comrade. “Very well,” the legionary agreed at last. “You can have all three of them for all I care.”

  The young man called to the waiting mourners, still clustered together, sobbing quietly, and two men came out from among them to help. The Romans put up the ladder and one of them ascended with drawn sword, preparing to hack off the hands of the dead man.

  “No! Please, no!” cried the young man. “You must not mutilate the body.”

  The legionary grimaced. “I thought you were in a hurry, friend.” Hefting the broad blade. “A clean chop—it is the best way.”

  “He won’t feel a thing,” added the other soldier helpfully. “He’s dead as dung.”

  Pointing to the group of women now standing below the body, the young man said, “Please, for his mother’s sake, let us preserve what little dignity remains.”

  The soldier shrugged and proceeded to hack at the rope binding the crosspiece to the upper framework. One side gave way and the body slewed sideways. Leaning across the corpse, he cut the other rope, and the body pitched forward, still
attached to the rood piece. Those on the ground caught the blessed body of Our Lord and bore it up while the second legionary raised a massive pair of iron tongs and proceeded to nip the head from the spike through the corpse’s ankles.

  It was difficult work, and the young Jew continually urged the soldiers to use as much care as possible. Before it was over, all of the mourners were needed to help support the body so as to prevent it breaking off at the feet. But at last the legionary succeeded in freeing the corpse and they laid the inert body of the Lord Jesu gently on the wet ground.

  Next, the legionary went to work on the spikes holding the dead man’s arms to the crossbeam. Using the huge tongs, he gnawed and worried the beaten heads from the iron nails, and all the while the young man pressed him to hurry as it was growing late. The soldier grew angry. “Do you want it fast, or do you want it clean?” he demanded. “Which is it?”

  “Joseph,” said one of the women gently. She was younger than the others; long dark hair spilled out from beneath the hood of her cloak. “Do not anger the man. He is only trying to help.” Her voice was a warm balm of comfort poured out to soothe the cold, cruel hurt of the day.

  “Miriam, we must—” He started to object, but she silenced him with a smile of such sweet sadness, it cleft my heart to see it. “Please, Joseph. It will be all right. There is no hurry anymore.”

  “Very well,” the wealthy young man relented. To the legionary, he said, “Take your time, my friend.”

  The soldier, glancing at the woman with something more than benign interest, resumed his work, eventually freeing the right wrist and then the left. The women carefully spread the woven linen shroud on the ground and the body of Heaven’s Fairest Son was laid upon it. The men watched while the women carefully arranged the torn limbs and smoothed back the tangled hair, murmuring a low litany of Psalms the while. Then they folded the shroud over the body and secured it with broad bands around the neck, and chest, and feet. Thanking the Roman soldiers, the men took up the body and carried it down the hillside to the cart which was now waiting on the road. They placed the body of the Savior in the cart and then began the long, slow journey back to the city.