by James Mace
The rest of the cohort had turned out, in case of a major disturbance, and those not following the Nazarene and the other condemned criminals went ahead with Artorius. People were already flocking all along the route, the column of Roman soldiers signaling the pending procession of sorrow.
As the group reached the rock of Golgotha, no one said a word. Artorius looked over his shoulder and saw that Magnus and Praxus were there with him; Cornelius and Julius had turned out with their men and elected to accompany Justus. To his right, his signifier planted the standard and leaned against it. To his left, several dozen legionaries formed up, removed their helmets, and grounded their shields and javelins. It had been a short walk of just a few miles, but the men were already soaked in sweat, and they greedily drank from their water bladders. With a few quiet orders from Centurions Magnus and Praxus, the men gratefully started to remove their body armor.
“We’re going to be here a while,” Magnus observed. “No sense in the lads suffering in the heat more than they have to.”
Artorius nodded, though his gaze was fixed on the execution plateau below.
The sound of the crowd was deafening. Whereas the mob that the Sanhedrin had brought into the forum had called for the Nazarene’s death, now people were wailing and crying at his fate. It was a paradox that was not lost on Justus, though lost as he was in his own thoughts. His eyes remained fixed on the man he was set to execute, and it broke his heart. Though he had never admitted it openly, something had awakened inside of him at this man’s teachings. It was the most brutal of ironies that he, a Roman soldier who had spent a life killing in the name of the empire, would come to understand the Nazarene’s message of love and compassion more so than the seemingly most devout of Judea’s religious sects.
The centurion’s spirit had hardened like granite over the past five years since the death of his son. No one, not even his wife and daughter, had been able to break through the barriers that had engulfed his very soul. This man called Jesus, with his simple message of love in a world that was otherwise consumed by hate, had done what no one else could. It was the bitterest irony that Justus would now have to enact Rome’s most severe sentence on him.
Justus cringed as he saw the Nazarene succumb to the weight of the crossbeam and collapse into the dirt. In truth, he was amazed that the man could walk at all, much less carry the crossbar to which he would soon be nailed. An auxilia started lashing him with a whip, but the man could only crawl at this point. A Judean in the crowd forced his way past the auxiliaries and picked up the large brace. Whether he did so because he was ordered to or of his own volition, Justus did not know. He watched as Abenader roughly dragged the Nazarene to his feet and the macabre procession started once more. The two condemned criminals that carried their crossbars behind the Nazarene were a pathetic sight. They had been spared the lash and were relatively unscathed by comparison, yet their lowly demeanor and open sense of self pity paled to the quiet dignity with which the Nazarene carried himself.
The crowds had mostly dispersed by the time they finished the long trek to Golgotha. Only a small group, including the Nazarene’s mother, was permitted to watch the execution. Watching from above were Artorius along with a group of officers and legionaries.
Justus paced around the field as the two criminals screamed piteously for mercy and then in pain as they were nailed to their crosses. He ignored the men, his eyes fixed on the Nazarene. He continued to step, never watching where he was treading; men moving out of his way as he walked past them. He cringed as a pair of auxiliaries tore the robes from the man. The scabs which stuck the robe to his skin were torn open, and his wounds bled afresh. Though he winced in pain he made not a sound. All was silent with the exception of the moans of the two criminals and the stifled sobs from the Nazarene’s mother.
Justus’ gaze was transfixed as the auxiliaries threw the Nazarene back onto the cross. They stretched his arms out so roughly that he could hear an audible pop as one shoulder was dislocated. His wrists and ankles were then tied down. Though silent up to this point, he cried out as the heavy spikes were driven into his wrists and feet. Once the cross was erected and slammed into its posthole Justus finally looked away.
“Eli Eli lama sabachthani!” the Nazarene cried out.
Justus understood his words, which said, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Time passed and yet hardly a sound was made. There had been a brief commotion when the two criminals argued amongst themselves. Justus, who spoke Aramaic, thought that one was scoffing at the Nazarene while the other chastised him and said that at least their fate was deserved, that the Nazarene was blameless of any crime. The second man then implored Jesus for his pardon. Though he could not say for certain, for the response was in a low and raspy voice, Justus thought he heard the man known as Christ reply, “I promise…today you will be with me in Paradise.”
“Paradise,” a legionary, who also spoke Aramaic, scoffed. “Their corpses will be rotting in the ground or else a feast for the carrion birds.”
“Yes,” Justus concurred, though his expression betrayed his doubts. He could not fathom why he was suddenly uneasy. After all, he had crucified more than his share of condemned men during his tenure in the legions. The Nazarene, who had so recently been thought of as a possible ally, was now a wretched sight. His naked body was covered in blood from numerous lacerations wrought by the terrible scourging. The crown of thorns gouged into his scalp, blood coagulating in his matted hair. His head hung low, his left eye beaten shut, and his voice barely audible above a harsh whisper. And yet for all that, there was something more that Justus simply could not place.
A small handful of his legionaries stood clustered at the edge of the clearing. The rest of the soldiers that paced quietly were auxiliaries. The legionary who spoke Aramaic leaned against a long spear that he carried, his face wrought with boredom. The crowds that had followed the long trek to Golgotha had mostly dispersed. Huddled together near the crucifixes were a middle-aged woman, who Justus thought was the Nazarene’s mother, along with a younger woman, and a couple of men.
“I would just as soon finish the poor bastard and be done with it,” the legionary said as he spat into the dust.
“So would I,” the centurion agreed quietly.
The difference was the legionary wished to dispatch the Nazarene so he would not have to stand guard anymore. For Justus it was a rare feeling of mercy. Even if by an impossible stroke they were told to cut him down and release him, Justus knew the poor victim would never survive the fearful wounds he had already sustained. The spikes driven through his wrists and feet had smashed through bone and created gaping holes that oozing blood coagulated around; already drawing the feasting of horse flies. It was a terrible sight! Justus Longinus, the hardened centurion who had been devoid of emotion since his son was killed five years before, felt a single tear roll down his cheek.
Artorius sat with his back against a rock. He wasn’t sure how long they would have to stay there, especially since it could often take a couple days for one to die by crucifixion. He suspected that given the fearsome injuries Jesus of Nazareth had sustained already, he would last a day at the most. The sky clouded in the late afternoon, and he was thankful for the overcast reprieve from the heat.
“The lads have come back from patrol,” Magnus said as he sat next to his cohort commander. “It’s pretty quiet. I don’t think our friend from Nazareth will have any rescuers coming for him.”
“His followers are docile,” Artorius remarked. “They are not zealots. And even if they did wish to come cut him down, his wounds will let them know that he’s not long for this world anyway.”
As they sat quietly, the cloudy sky suddenly grew black. Artorius opened his eyes and was suddenly alert, as were the men around him. All were immediately on their feet as a slight tremor shook the earth beneath them.
“Earthquake,” his signifier said.
The sky grew even darker, and the trembling wa
s now accompanied by sounds like thunder though there was no flash in the darkened sky.
“Get everyone out of there!” Artorius ordered Magnus as he stood, pointing to where Justus and his men still lingered along the three crosses.
“But the condemned…” Magnus started to say.
“Finish them!” Artorius snapped.
The Norseman nodded and signaled down to Justus as Artorius ordered his men to don their armor and make ready to move. Once the legionaries were on their feet, Artorius walked back to the ledge and gazed at the scene of chaos below. A few onlookers were fleeing in terror, and the auxiliaries had also broken and ran. Only Justus and his legionaries stood their ground, as did the Nazarene’s mother and her few companions. It was then that Artorius took a deep breath and uttered the immortal words, “Here was the Son of God.”
The signal was unmistakable, and it brought Justus a sense of relief. He was anxious to leave that cursed place and found he could no longer bear the sight of the stricken Nazarene, whose bloodied body had since grown still.
“Break their legs and then get ready to move out!” he shouted to the nearest soldier as the sounds of thunderclap grew louder.
A legionary grabbed the hammer that had been used to drive home the crucifixion stakes and quickly smashed the legs of the two criminals. The men gave renewed cries of anguish as their shin bones snapped, though their passage into oblivion would now be hastened. The soldier then rushed to the base of the Nazarene’s cross and made ready to swing when suddenly he stopped.
“What the hell are you waiting for?” Justus shouted. “Finish him already!”
“I think he’s dead, sir!” the legionary responded.
The earth heaved beneath them and the man suddenly panicked.
With a growl of rage, Justus grabbed the other legionary’s heavy spear, which he had since left at the base of the cross. He looked up at Jesus, and he did, indeed, look as if he were already dead. Still, he had to make certain. He swallowed hard and gritted his teeth.
“Please forgive me,” he said quietly. He then thrust the spear just beneath the Nazarene’s ribcage. The weapon plunged into the man’s flesh, penetrating all the way to the heart. As he wrenched free the crimson-soaked blade, a jet of blood and fluids splashed him in the face. He gave a great cry and fell to his knees as if he had been struck down, his helmet knocked from his head.
After a moment the rumble of the earth subsided, though the sky remained black. Justus glanced around and realized he was alone. Shivering despite the warmth in the air, he donned his helmet and gazed down at the bloodied spear. He clutched the weapon close and looked up at the cross once more. Without another word he solemnly walked away.
It was a long walk back to the barracks and the principia. Artorius had ordered Cornelius and Julius to keep him posted on the disposition of the crowds. There had been a brief panic following the tremors, and with the sky still dark it seemed that most of the people were cowering in fear.
It was late afternoon, and yet, the blackened sky made it feel like it was already night. The wind blowing was warm, but Artorius felt a chill run up his spine. His stomach was twisting in knots, and he found he was sweating. This was not unusual for him, for he loathed crucifixions and each time he had the hateful task of taking part in one he would pray to whatever deities were listening that it would be his last.
What was it he said? ‘Here was the Son of God’? Had he unconsciously acknowledged the divinity of one whose bloodied carcass hung from a cross in the most indignant form of execution the Romans had devised? The very thought frightened him, as it went against all reason and logic; threatening his very sanity. Though not an atheist and hater of religion like Justus, he was more than assailed by doubts regarding mankind’s understanding of the divine.
As he attempted to sort out the wave of a thousand conflicting thoughts, he was distracted by a stooped over person, huddled beneath a hooded cloak. He could not tell if it was a man or woman, as they were deliberately hiding their face and hands. Artorius walked over and pulled the hood back, revealing the face of a very young man with fair skin and blonde hair. The lad’s smooth face was streaked in tears, his eyes red.
“You’re no Jew,” Artorius noted. “Nor are you a Roman.”
“N…no, sir,” the man said quickly in a heavily accented voice.
“So who the bloody hell are you?”
“M…my name is Alaric,” the man replied. He then stood upright and regained his composure as he seemed to recognize the centurion. “I know you, sir. I came with you on ship from Ostia.”
“Did you now?” Artorius asked.
Alaric nodded his head quickly.
“Yes, sir. I was an oarsman under Stoppello. We fought the pirates together. My friend is Hansi Flavianus.” The lad’s response took Artorius aback.
“If you were a crewman of Stoppello’s, what are you doing here?”
“Looking to find myself,” Alaric responded as he started to walk down the dirt road.
Artorius walked beside him, surprised that they were the only two souls on the road. It was as if the darkened sky and brief tremor had scared away the entire province. He had deliberately taken a different path back to the city than the one he had sent Magnus and his legionaries on.
“You’re from the Nordic realms,” Artorius surmised, though Alaric shook his head.
“No,” he replied, his voice no longer showing fear of the centurion. “Germania was my place of birth. I was of the Marsi.”
The mention of this tribe caused Artorius to halt in his tracks.
Alaric looked at him and sighed. “You know of my people and how we were practically exterminated by Rome.”
“I do,” Artorius replied coolly. “Though your tribe still remains.”
“Ha!” Alaric scoffed. “There are but a few scattered remnants even after all these years. I daresay, sir, you are probably old enough that you could have taken part in my people’s destruction.”
“So what if I did?” Artorius retorted defensively, though secretly grateful to have something else to occupy his time besides the crucifixion of the Nazarene. “The Marsi were part of the Germanic Alliance under Arminius, who ambushed and murdered nearly twenty-thousand of my people, including my brother.”
“I mean no offense,” the young German replied, catching the growing hostility in Artorius’ voice and growing fearful of the armed centurion. “Hostilities between our peoples have existed for centuries. One side commits atrocities upon the other, all in the name of vengeance for a previous wrong. It never ends.”
“Interesting then, that you fought beside us against the pirates,” Artorius noted.
“The irony of which has never been lost upon me,” Alaric remarked. “But I did not fight for Rome. I fought for my own survival. When I left home…”
“And where do you claim as home?” Artorius interrupted. “Seeing as how you say you were of the Marsi, speaking in a past tense.”
“Britannia,” Alaric answered. “And I pray that Rome leaves that isle well enough alone. I was just a boy when my mother saved me from our village as it was destroyed. I remember very little from the time she carried me across the raging river, lashed to her back, to when we landed on Britannia’s shores. We were saved from starvation in the wilderness by King Breogan of the Brigantes. He was kind enough to take us into his household and practically raised me as a foster son.”
“And now you wander through Judea and the east,” Artorius noted.
“I saved enough during my time at sea that I’ve been able to live to some degree of comfort since landing here,” Alaric explained. “I figured once I started to run out of coin, I would find work aboard another ship. But then I met him…”
“Who?” Artorius started to ask. He then raised an eyebrow in realization. “You mean the Nazarene?”
“I’ve been following him for the last three years,” the young man continued. “Many called him ‘rabbi’, though I don’t think he was ever r
ecognized by any synagogue. I think that is why so many, especially us who are not of the Jewish faith, simply called him ‘teacher’.”
“And what did he teach you?” the centurion asked.
“Mostly how we should be to each other,” Alaric answered. “It is difficult to explain. He was of deep personal faith, yet he loathed the hypocrisy of organized religions. Sad that he met such a violent end when all he wished was for people to love one another.”
“Do you think he was the Son of God?” Artorius’ question caused Alaric to stop abruptly.
The young German turned to face him, a single tear running down his cheek. “I followed Jesus of Nazareth,” he said, “because I thought he could teach me to forgive. Rome destroyed my family and my people. When I see your armored soldiers, all I see is death. I asked him…no, I begged him to teach me forgiveness, lest I never find peace within my soul. I do not know whether or not he was the Son of God, as his followers claim, but I do know he was more than just a man.” With that, he abruptly turned and walked away as quickly as he could, leaving Artorius completely alone once more.
Artorius was taken aback when he saw Justus enter the principia. He had walked the entire way from Golgotha with the bloody spear clutched to his chest. His forearm, hand, and face were also covered in sticky crimson. His fellow centurion simply walked over to a table, dropped his helmet onto it, and collapsed into a chair, holding the spear close. His face was filthy from the flaking blood that had splattered him, his hair matted with sweat, eyes completely vacant.