by James Mace
The Nazarene remained silent as Herod approached him, as did several of his assembled priests.
“Is this the man who wishes to make himself king of our people?” one of the men asked.
“I hear he can perform miracles,” another said with a voice dripping of sarcasm.
“Yes, a miracle!” Herod said excitedly, then calling for a cup of water. “I hear you raised a man from the dead, but I will not ask such extreme things from you. Only, can you turn this cup of water into wine like we were told you did at a wedding this last summer?”
A servant nervously held the cup up to Jesus, who simply glanced at it but said nothing.
“No?” Herod asked with a trace of disappointment in his voice. He slapped the bottom of the cup, sending it flying out of the servant’s hands, the contents spilling all over the Nazarene. Herod then walked slowly around him, eyeing him closely before breaking into a fit of nervous laughter. “Bah! This man is no messiah, nor is he a king. Caiaphas’ men seem to have rattled his brain and his ability to speak. This man is a fool, but completely harmless. Get him out of my sight!”
“Herod has refused to deal with the Nazarene,” Valens said as he entered Pilate’s study, where the procurator was conversing with both his wife and Centurion Artorius. Justus had sent the optio ahead while he escorted Jesus back to the Praetorium.
“What?” Pilate snapped.
“He said that the man is a fool but a harmless one.”
“So he did not acquit him, exactly,” Pilate muttered. “Meaning that he has deferred to me once more. Bastard…”
“My love, please!” Claudia protested.
“Look, I cannot just do nothing,” Pilate retorted, his voice full of irritation. “I have to settle this matter once and for all. I’m going to put an end to this, and after today I hope I never hear about Jesus of Nazareth ever again!”
As Pilate left the office, his temper rising, Artorius turned to Valens. “Summon the rest of the century, and notify Magnus. I want him and his men here as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
The throng of people outside the Praetorium had grown substantially and now numbered in the hundreds. The sight of so many people, all calling for the Nazarene’s blood, unnerved Pilate. He was relieved when he saw Centurion Magnus and Optio Valens leading their centuries, who posted in columns on either side of the steps leading up to Pilate’s chair.
“Excellency,” Caiaphas said, “King Herod has declined to pass judgment on this man, knowing that it is only for you to determine guilt or innocence here. And if guilty, then it takes a Roman magistrate to pass capital sentence.”
“I am well aware of my responsibilities,” Pilate glowered. He glanced over at the Nazarene and then back to the high priest. “You charge this man with three crimes. The first is perverting of your nation. I could give a vat of piss about your religious laws, and so whatever blasphemies you say he has committed mean nothing to me or to Rome. The second charge you say is he has forbidden the payment of tribute. I have several witnesses, including one of my own centurions, who will attest otherwise. Render unto Caesar were these man’s words. Therefore, of the first two crimes, I can immediately declare Jesus of Nazareth not guilty. The third charge; that of sedition against the Roman Empire is the one I must weigh carefully.”
“The man professes to be a king!” Caiaphas spat. “Your own soldiers heard it!”
“Crucify him!” a voice shouted from the crowd, which was quickly echoed by several others.
“Enough!” Pilate boomed as he rose to his feet. “I will speak to this man alone and ascertain the truth.” He then turned and went back into the atrium.
A pair of legionaries led the Nazarene to the secluded area, where Pilate dismissed them.
“Have you nothing to say?” the procurator asked. “I want to help you, but you must help me if I am to save you.”
“It is not I who needs to be saved,” Jesus said calmly.
“Do you not hear that?” Pilate asked, waving towards the Praetorium, where the voices of the angry crowd continued to shout for the Nazarene’s death. “They say you claim to be a king, and as such you seek to subvert the authority of Rome.”
“My kingdom,” Jesus replied slowly, “Is not of this world.”
“So you are a king, then!” Pilate said.
“You say that I am a king. The reason I came into the world is to testify to the truth. If one is on the side of truth, they listen to me.”
“But what is truth?” Pilate asked in frustration. He paused for a moment, and when the Nazarene did not speak he said to him, “Your lack of defense is putting me in a bind. If you would but say a few words of reason on your own behalf, I could pass the final verdict of not guilty and be done with this! Yet you leave me with few options.”
“As I said, it is not I who needs to be saved.”
“Damn it, man!” Pilate snapped. Then shaking his head he said, “You leave me no choice. You will be chastised under the lash, and hopefully that will appease this mob.”
As the procurator returned, Caiaphas turned to the throng and signaled for them to cease in their shouting. He then nodded to Pilate. “What words have you for us, Excellency?”
“I find no fault in his man,” Pilate answered, eliciting a furious backlash from the masses, all screaming for the Nazarene’s torture and execution.
Artorius signaled to Magnus and Valens, who led their men into a semicircle of two ranks on the bottom two steps. Yet even the sight of Roman soldiers behind their shield wall did little to quell the mob’s growing rage.
“Did he not confess to being a king?” Caiaphas persisted.
“The man you call Jesus of Nazareth is of no threat to the Roman Empire,” Pilate replied, trying to keep his voice strong, yet calm and in control. “However, for causing such a disturbance, and for refusing to mount any serious defense of himself…”
“That’s because he has none!” a man in the crowd shouted, leading to him taking a blow to the stomach from the bottom edge of a legionary’s shield.
“And for that,” Pilate continued, “I will have him chastised with the lash. At which time I hope reason and sanity return to your senses!” He then nodded to Abenader, who subsequently led the Nazarene away to where his interrogators would exact the punishment.
“That crowd is getting ugly,” Artorius emphasized once they were back in the atrium.
“I can bring my men up,” Justus added.
“No,” Pilate said, shaking his head. “No more soldiers. We have two centuries already. Any more and I suspect we will have a bloodbath on our hands.”
Ten minutes later, while legionaries kept an uneasy watch on the restless crowd, Artorius ventured down into the pit where prisoners suffered flagellation while tied to a great pillar. The horrifying sight almost caused him to vomit. The Nazarene was barely standing upright, his arms wrapped around the pillar and his hands tied together. His back, shoulders, arms, and legs were all soaked in blood. Countless deep gouges scoured his back, and it was no small wonder that his body had not gone into shock as a result. The torturer was continuing to lash him, only using a large whip covered in barbs that would hook into the flesh and rip it away in grotesque chunks.
“What the hell is this?” Artorius shouted.
There were several other auxiliaries present, all spitting and taunting the Jewish teacher, whose breath was now coming in short rasps.
“Pilate said to lash him, so we are,” the decurion remarked with a shrug.
Artorius found himself unable to control his fury; inner rage that had long lain dormant manifested itself as he walked over to the auxiliary officer and with every ounce of his strength smashed his fist into the side of his face. The decurion collapsed onto his side, eyes open in shock.
“Idiot!” the centurion howled, his wrath fully unleashed. “You were told to chastise, not lash him to death!” He then proceeded to kick the decurion repeatedly. The auxiliaries stood in shock as they watched thei
r officer being beaten by the enraged centurion. But then something happened that no one expected. Artorius suddenly stopped and cried out, as if paralyzed. He looked over his shoulder and saw that it was the Nazarene himself who was restraining him.
No one seemed to question how he’d gotten free of his bonds or that he was even able to stand. The fact that simply placing a hand on the centurion’s shoulder seemed to physically restrain him was unnerving. Artorius caught his gaze, and the man quietly shook his head.
“Why?” Artorius asked.
Instead of answering, the Nazarene fell to a knee, suddenly weakened by his horrifying ordeal. Blood was pooling in the sand, and it was no small wonder that he had not succumbed already.
Artorius looked to the auxiliaries. “Help him up. Put his robes back on him and bring him to Pilate. Surely he’s suffered enough.”
As he made his way up the steps that led back to the atrium and the Praetorium, Artorius worried that the Nazarene’s injuries were already so fearful that he may not survive them. It was another ten minutes before he was returned, this time wearing not his own robes, but shabby ones of purple. That he was able to walk on his own made Artorius speculate that perhaps his injuries were not as fearful as they’d appeared. What appalled him was a crown of thorns stuck into the top of his head. They dug into his scalp in numerous places, leaving trickles of blood that already added to the macabre spectacle.
“A king needs a crown,” one of the auxiliaries said, before spitting on the Nazarene once more.
“I think he’s agonized sufficiently,” Artorius said to Pilate, whose expression was also one of horror.
“Agreed,” he said. Then guiding Jesus by the arm, he took him out to the Praetorium, where the crowd immediately erupted into chants for his execution.
“Behold the man!” Pilate shouted to the crowd. “He has been scourged and chastised sufficiently. Therefore, I am of mind to release him.”
“No!” screamed the crowd. “He must be crucified!”
“There’s nothing for it,” Artorius said in exasperation.
“They’ve all gone mad,” Justus concurred. He then looked to Pilate. “What are we to do? Surely we do not execute a man simply to placate the mob. But we cannot release him now. It’ll start a damn riot!”
“I have one last card to play,” Pilate answered. His eyes were fixed on a priest standing next to Caiaphas, who had remained mostly silent. “You,” Pilate said to him. “You’re the man whose daughter was defiled by a notorious criminal and seditionist called Barabbas.”
“Yes, Excellency,” the man said, averting his eyes in shame.
“What has this to do with the matter at hand?” Caiaphas protested.
Pilate grinned and then looked to the crowd. “It has periodically been a custom for the Roman procurator of this province to pay homage to your people’s Passover celebrations by releasing a condemned person back into society. This has not been done for some years, and perhaps now we should revive this show of mercy. I will therefore give you two choices. Either I release Jesus bar Abbas, a known thief, murder, rapist of young girls, and a man who actually sought open rebellion against Rome, or I can release Jesus of Nazareth, a man who I find no fault in, and who your own King Herod refused to condemn.”
There was suddenly a deepening silence as the crowd was shocked by what the procurator was proposing. The priest, whose daughter had been violated by Barabbas, closed his eyes as if in prayer. When he opened them again, they were black with rage.
“Give us Barabbas!” he screamed.
The mob immediately echoed his cries, demanding the release of the hated criminal.
“What then would you have me do with Jesus of Nazareth?” he asked, his face showing signs of wear and defeat.
“Crucify him!” The crowd’s shouts were becoming louder and more passionate.
Artorius looked back at Pilate, who was, for the moment, transfixed in disbelief. He looked down and saw people beating on the shields of his men. They seemed like wild animals to him, and he was suddenly enraged once more.
“We cannot allow this,” he said to Pilate. When the procurator did not answer, his temper got the best of him once more. “Fuck it,” he growled as he rushed down the steps, unsheathing his sword. He then shouted to his legionaries, “Gladius…draw!”
“Rah!”
The shouting crowd suddenly stepped back quickly as they faced a wall of both legionary shields and swords. Every soldier was down in his fighting stance, ready to strike.
“Wait for the command!” Magnus shouted quickly from his place on the line. “Do not advance or strike until ordered to do so!”
“Just give the word and we’ll clear this place out,” Valens said over his shoulder.
With Artorius occupied on the steps, the optio had taken his spot on the right of the line. Though the hostile crowd had stepped away from the legionaries, their shouts became even more impassioned. Artorius glared at Caiaphas and the other Sanhedrin who goaded them on.
“Crucify him! Crucify him!”
Artorius looked up first at Justus, whose face was pale, eyes shut. He then looked over at Pilate, who knew he had been bested.
Artorius quickly raced up the steps. “Pilate, we cannot let this happen,” he said quietly.
The procurator shook his head. “I gambled everything on offering them Jesus bar Abbas or Jesus of Nazareth,” he replied, his eyes fixed on the mob that was growing in frenzy. “And I have lost. Not only will we have to crucify a man I find no fault in, the terrorist scourge must now be set free.”
“Artorius!” Magnus shouted from the line.
He looked down and saw the crowd was becoming more brazen and advancing once more on the wall of legionaries.
“Give the word!”
“Do it!” Justus echoed. There was a look of fierce determination in Justus’ eyes that unnerved Artorius.
Pilate sensed it and immediately acted. “Stand your men down,” the procurator ordered.
Justus closed his eyes and grimaced.
“I’m sorry,” Artorius said as he placed a hand on his fellow centurion’s shoulder. He then turned towards his men below. “Centuries…stand down!”
Though there were numerous muttered curses from the ranks, the men sheathed their weapons.
Presently, the wretched creature Barabbas was brought up from the dungeons by a couple of auxiliaries. He was unkempt and looked as if he’d been beaten every day since the date of his capture. He walked with a limp, but was still grinning broadly in defiance.
“You have been granted the mercy of Rome,” Pilate said. “Do not squander our generosity.”
Barabbas did not say a word, only continued to grin inanely. Artorius wondered if the beatings given to him by the torturers over the past couple months had caused permanent damage to his mind. His stomach turned when he watched Barabbas saunter over to the priest whose daughter he’d molested. The man looked at him with contemptuous horror, seeming to regret the words that brought Barabbas’ release. The wretched thief laughed out loud, grabbed the priest by the shoulder, kissed him on the cheek, and with a shout of triumph stumbled into the now-welcoming crowd.
All eyes returned to the Nazarene and the Roman procurator. Pilate then signaled for a servant, who brought him a bowl of water, in which he symbolically washed his hands.
“I am guiltless of this man’s blood!” he shouted to the crowd.
“Then let it be on our heads!” Caiaphas retorted.
Pilate ignored him but then turned to Artorius. “Have him taken to Golgotha and crucified,” he ordered. He could not bring himself to look again at the Nazarene as he quickly walked away.
“I know this man means much to you,” Artorius said to Justus, “So I won’t have you take part in this.”
His friend stared at him, eyes wet with tears for the first time since losing his son. He then slowly shook his head. “No,” Justus replied, “I will go.”
“Alright,” Artorius nodded, �
��But I will not have you take part in the actual crucifixion. The auxiliaries will handle that. Take two centuries and fall in behind them. Just make sure the crowds don’t create a disturbance. This Nazarene has many enemies here, but also many more amongst the people who love him. They must not be allowed to interfere.”
“Understood.” Justus’ face was now hard as stone, and he walked back up the stairs signaling for his men to follow him.
“There’s a pair of condemned criminals set to be executed as well,” Abenader said as he walked over to Artorius.
The centurion could only nod in reply as he walked over to the Nazarene. He waved off the pair of auxiliary infantrymen who were readying to drag him away. The man was a fearful sight. The crown of thorns cut deep into his scalp, the streams of blood coagulating all over his face. One eye was closed shut from the beating he had taken, but his face was the least of it. The purple robes that he was covered in were soaked with blood and sticking to his skin. Artorius reckoned that even if they had been able to save him from the cross, he most likely would have died of infection from his terrible injuries. The marks scoured deep, in places his ribs were exposed from where the flesh was torn away. Perhaps crucifixion was a mercy at this point. Still, it did not relieve the sense of guilt that engulfed him.
“Why?” he asked. It was all he could find to say. “Why did you not let us save you?”
The Nazarene looked at him, his one open eye rather serene, despite the torment of pain that showed upon his face. The man’s response would echo in his mind for the remainder of his days, in a mystery that he would never fully understand. They were the same words he had uttered to both Pilate and Justus.
“It was not I who needed to be saved.”
Chapter XXIX: Paid in Blood
***
The afternoon was unseasonably hot and dry. Artorius and a handful of men decided to take the long way around and avoid the crowds that clamored to watch the fate of the man who was either loved as the Messiah, or despised as a horrid blasphemer. Neither meant anything to the centurion; it was all the same to him. He abhorred the religion of the Jews. Even more so he despised their hypocrisy and sense of superiority, even in the face of their conquerors. Many deaths had he ordered over the years; men, women, even children had perished either by his directive or under his very hand. So why did the pending execution of this one man affect him so? He could not say for certain. Certainly the Nazarene had had an effect on a number of his men, Justus Longinus in particular. And Pilate was right. He could find no fault in him.