The Daggerman

by Glenn Starkey

  At the next gate Hanan fought his way through the masses to allow Miriam to reach the fence’s iron bars. Again, he stood behind her like a wall to prevent the people from surging forward and crushing her. At the iron bars she cried out from her grief and placed her hands over her mouth when she saw her son

  ***

  Since Yeshua’s midnight arrest in the moonlit Garden of Gethsemane, he’d been dragged from one priest’s house to another, taken to the temple, the prefect’s palace, the tetrarch’s residence and back to the governor. Along the way and at every location, he was scorned, taunted and struck, but no beating would compare to the Roman scourging he was about to receive.

  The crisp morning sunlight in a clear sky bathed the soldiers’ yard. Legionnaires trained in its loose, thick soil to cushion their falls, but in the middle of the yard stood a tall, sturdy blood-stained post with iron rings positioned at different levels.

  Spurius Ligustinus Magnus, the thirty-five-year-old Roman centurion, squinted against the sunlight as he walked into the yard to take custody of Yeshua. He’d been summoned from his office and given the responsibility for ensuring Pilate’s orders were executed without fault. A professional soldier from Legio X Frentensis, Magnus was battle-hardened and respected for his mindset; obey and fulfill his orders unto death. His bravery in battle had earned him multiple military honors, yet not as many as his namesake, Spurius Ligustinus, who had received six Corona Civicas, the highest Roman award for heroism.

  Four of Magnus’ ten-man special squad were Greek Syrian auxiliary troops from the Chors I Sebastenorum unit who hated Jews and relished inflicting pain upon them. They were the lictors; the whippers. Five of the remaining men were Samaritan auxiliary legionnaires from Samaria, and the sixth was a Roman legionnaire. These men were known as Crucifixion Guards. They escorted condemned prisoners to Golgotha, the hill of the skull outside the city walls, where they crucified them and stood guard until death arrived for the doomed.

  The Crucifixion Guards waited by a wall, jeering and watching with arms crossed. The prisoner’s punishment meant nothing to them other than how long it would take to be administered. But the four lictors laughed as they walked about Yeshua, at times pelting him with balled fists while mockingly calling him the king of the Jews. They stripped away his clothes and the purple robe before tying him to an iron ring by his wrists which kept him partially bent over.

  “Thirty-nine lashes. If you strike forty, you will wish you had never been born,” Magnus ordered. The centurion knew he wasn’t restricted to a specific number, but forty was the maximum lashes by Jewish law. The Jews always halted at thirty-nine to ensure the law was never violated, and Magnus chose to do the same, refusing to give anyone reason for protest to the prefect.

  Removing his horsehair crested helmet, he held it under his left arm, and with his right hand raised his vine stick cudgel, the symbol of his rank. The lictors nodded and walked to a table to retrieve their whips.

  ***

  At the iron fence citizens, gawkers, and pilgrims squeezed close to one another to watch. Hanan blocked an area where Miriam, her companions and John the disciple stood to peer through the iron bars. The constant talking, crying, and shouts of ‘release him’ and ‘scourge him’ from the crowd made it difficult to hear the legionnaires in the yard, but Hanan thought it best. Miriam didn’t need to hear the verbal abuse her son was receiving. Hanan leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

  “Miriam, please, do not stay. You shouldn’t see what they are going to do.”

  Eyes red and swollen from crying, she wiped tears from her eyes and cheeks and looked over her shoulder at the brawny man. She shook her head. “I must be here with my son.”

  Simcha stood near his master. He covered his mouth with a hand and averted his gaze from the soldiers’ yard. “I cannot watch this. I’ve seen scourging before. If you have no further need of me, I will leave before they begin.”

  “Go down the road and wait. I may need you later... I don’t blame you for wanting to leave,” said the leader of the Sicarii. He watched the little man shrink back into the crowd and push his way through until free of the throng.

  ***

  The first pair of Greek Syrians appeared alike; their bald heads with beardless faces sat almost without necks atop tanned, barrel-chested bodies with arms as massive as slave rowers on a Roman galley. They wore sandal boots as the regular Roman soldiers did but were bare-chested with only a lower tunic to cover their thighs. The second pair of lictors were identical to the first two men with the exception of having close-cropped hair.

  Each man chose their whips and swung them one-handed to test the balance and flexibility of the nine leather thongs that were the length of a man’s arm. The thongs were tightly woven with embedded pieces of bone, jagged metal, or small iron balls attached at the tips.

  The bald-headed lictors took their positions, one to each side of Yeshua, while the second pair of whippers awaited their turn. The Crucifixion Guards taunted and laughed at the lictors then ridiculed the prisoner, spat at him and called out, “All Hail the King of the Jews!”

  Gritting his teeth, the first lictor swung his whip with might in a wide arc and lashed Yeshua’s back, ripping deep wounds across his slender frame. The howl of agony that burst from the young rabbi’s mouth was blood-curdling to all within hearing distance. The mob watching from outside of the iron fence angrily shouted, women cried and wailed in sorrow. Miriam screamed and pleaded for the whipping to stop.

  Hanan grimaced and grabbed the iron bars, squeezing until his knuckles hurt. His fury flowed from him in a long, guttural roar. Seeing Yeshua’s eyes flare and mouth go agape at his suffering, Hanan shuddered as if a fiery torch had been pressed against his chest.

  When the nine thongs stuck to Yeshua’s back, the lictor jerked them free, tearing flesh away or ripping the skin into short strips. Taking turns, the second whipper struck the prisoner’s back with his whip, grunting as he exerted his strength. The thongs spread apart and laid horrid wounds and blood streaks across Yeshua’s back at all parts. Blood flowed down his back and off his ribs, dripping onto the loose soil. The whippers worked at a slow pace because the jagged metal and pieces of bone kept digging into Yeshua’s muscles and bones, and nearly every lash had to be jerked free.

  A Samaritan soldier sitting at the yard’s equipment table, kept count and marked each lash on a document, verifying it had been administered. Having lashed Yeshua fifteen times, the first two lictors stood blood speckled and spattered from face to chest and arms, breathing heavily, their blood drenched whips by their side. They had begun at mid-back, whipped upward to his shoulders, then downward to his buttocks and backs of his legs. The prisoner’s back was awash in glistening crimson blood and abysmal wounds. There were horrid lacerations and red streaks on his ribs where thongs had wrapped about him, and one facial cheek bled where the tips of the thongs sliced him open. He had been screaming in misery and howling from his agony, but after fifteen lashes he could only weep and shudder from the intense pain of each strike. When Yeshua’s legs buckled from the shock to his body, and he fell to the dirt still tied to an iron ring, the lictors had never ceased and lashed him where ever they could strike.

  Against the wall, several of the Crucifixion Guards mimicked Yeshua’s suffering and shouted, “How does it feel now to be a king of the Jews?”

  Magnus stood as if carved from granite. He never spoke, flinched or averted his gaze when blood sprayed the air from each thong’s impact. Once when Yeshua cried out and struggled to raise himself from the dirt, the centurion gave an almost imperceptible nod of respect for the prisoner’s courage but otherwise remained motionless while the punishment was administered.

  The fresh pair of lictors stepped into position and renewed the whipping, hideously smiling when the prisoner’s body quaked in anguish and his mouth went agape.

  “Nineteen... Twenty... Twenty-one,
” the soldier at the table called out for all to hear.

  Chaos had broken out in the crowd watching from beyond the iron fence. Their cries, shouts, wails, and arguments carried through the yard. And still the smack of the thongs as they struck the prisoner and dug deep into his flesh could be heard.

  “Twenty-three... Twenty-four... Twenty-five.”

  The centurion let his cold gaze drift to the wailing woman sitting on the ground leaning against the iron bars. Behind her stood a mountainous man, face contorted from watching the ruthless whipping, hands gripping the bars as if he were trying to rip them loose.

  The prisoner was convulsing against the post and though his mouth was open, cries and howls no longer came.

  “Twenty-eight... Twenty-nine... Thirty...” the soldier at the table stated.

  “Halt!” Magnus ordered.

  Caught up in the madness, the lictor to Yeshua’s right side, raised his whip as if to continue. The centurion drew his sword. The sound of it being drawn from the sheath was enough to make the lictor immediately drop his whip onto the dirt and back away. Sheathing his sword, Magnus walked to the prisoner while easing his helmet onto his head. He stood gazing at the bloody pulp of a man. Ordering the four blood-spattered lictors to leave, Magnus motioned the Crucifixion Guards to take custody of the prisoner.

  Earlier, one of the guards had intertwined slender branches of a thorn bush to make a barbed head-wreath. He walked to Yeshua, laid it atop his hair, then used the hilt of his sword to press it down onto the prisoner’s head. The finger long, sharp thorns all about the wreath pierced the skin of the head. Yeshua winced and cried out as blood flowed from the punctures.

  “Every king should have a crown,” the soldier gleefully stated, and his companions about him laughed at the torture.

  The wrist bonds were cut away and Yeshua collapsed in the dirt.

  The prisoner was pulled to his feet and held until he showed signs of consciousness. His breechcloth was put on him and the purple robe, Antipas’ gift of royalty, was draped over his shoulder. Within seconds the robe was soaked in blood from the open wounds and once drenched, stuck to his body.

  “Carry him if you must, but don’t let him fall,” Magnus ordered. “We’re returning him to the prefect.”

  “Centurion, we are nine lashes short of what you ordered,” said the soldier at the table as he rose with the punishment document in hand.

  The officer raised his vine stick cudgel toward the slender, bloody prisoner. “My orders were to scourge him, not kill him. He’s barely alive now. I halted the lashing and my command will stand.”

  Magnus started toward the adjacent courtyard, and Yeshua staggered forward with the Crucifixion Guards surrounding him and holding onto his arms. When they crossed through the gate, the prisoner left a trail of blood on the stone pavement of the courtyard. Magnus ordered his men to stand with Yeshua away from the high priest and his followers, but where Pilate could see the scourged man.

  The centurion climbed the porch stairs and gave his report. Pilate nodded and walked to the edge of the porch to look down at Caiaphas and his priests.

  Hanan rushed to the courtyard’s iron fence, shoving people away to allow Miriam, her two companions and the disciple, John, to be near the iron gate. She was still crying when she turned to Hanan.

  “Will they release him now?”

  All the brawny man could do was despondently shake his head.

  With the crowd having grown momentarily silent, Hanan heard the prefect.

  “Here, look at him. He is only a man and has been punished for causing you problems.” Pilate pointed to Yeshua who stood with eyes closed, viciously whipped, crimson blood dripping from him into puddles about his feet. His left cheek was ripped open and he wore a crown of thorns with the drenched purple robe hanging from his shoulders. The prisoner staggered and was kept from falling by the Crucifixion Guards to each side holding his arms.

  “Scourging is not enough. We have a law, and according to that law he must die because he has claimed to be the Son of our God, Elohim,” the high priest demanded. “He claims to be a king which is against Caesar. Only you may execute him because our right to do so was taken away by the Romans.”

  The prefect straightened his posture and stood erect with fists on hips. His head slowly shook; his face a mask of disgust as he stared at Caiaphas.

  “Shall I crucify your king?” Anger filled the governor’s voice.

  “We have no king but Caesar,” shouted the other priests surrounding Caiaphas.

  The prefect looked to the door leading into the palace. Claudia was not in sight. He let his gaze drift to his aide, then nodded toward a small table and waited.

  Towel draped over his forearm, the soldier lifted a large brass water bowl from the table and carried it to the governor.

  The shouting dwindled while Pilate dipped his cupped hands into the water and rubbed them together. He raised them above the bowl, lightly shook them then took the towel from the aide’s forearm.

  “I am innocent of this man’s blood,” the prefect stated to Caiaphas, drying his hands on the towel. He let it fall to the polished marble floor. “It is your responsibility.”

  The high priest gazed at the prefect but displayed no emotion. The priests behind Caiaphas shouted, “Let his blood be on us and on our children!”

  Again, priests and their followers bellowed from beyond the fence’s iron bars. “Crucify the false prophet.”

  Pilate turned to Magnus who wore a granite expression. His words rang like iron.

  “Crucify him.”

  The Roman commander clapped a knotted fist against his chest and started away, but after three steps, the prefect stopped him.

  “Fasten a sign in bold letters to his cross that says ‘Yeshua of Nazareth, The King of The Jews,’... Write it in Aramaic, Latin, and Greek so all will know.”

  The fierce centurion clapped his chest with a fist and left.

  “Do not write such words,” Caiaphas yelled in annoyance. “It will make people believe the deceiver is truly our king.”

  A humorless grin formed on Pilate’s lips as he gazed at the high priest.

  “What I have ordered will not be changed,” he replied, and returned into the palace.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Friday, Month of Nisan, Day 14

  Two of the soldiers with Yeshua broke away and ran to the training yard. They returned carrying a wooden beam and square board. An aide on the porch took the board and wrote words on it as the prefect had commanded. The two soldiers supporting the condemned pulled his purple robe away and dressed him in his one-piece, seamless tunic. Every movement Yeshua made, and every touch of the guards’ hands upon his brutalized body evoked an intense grimace or shriek of agony.

  Miriam gasped and pressed her hands tightly over her mouth when the soldiers removed the purple robe. Her son’s face, arms and back, chest and the backs of his legs were an intricate patchwork of bright crimson lash stripes, glistening red strips of flesh hanging loose, and gaping wounds that trickled blood to paint his body. Her eyes slowly closed as she lowered her chin to her chest and wept.

  Pulling Yeshua’s mother and her companions away from the iron fence, Hanan wanted them safe from the soldiers’ spears that would soon be driving people back from the gate. Having seen the commotion of soldiers and priests in the courtyard, he realized they were preparing to leave for Golgotha, the Hill of the Skull, outside of the city.

  The disciple John was the last to leave the fence. He wiped his eyes dry and followed Hanan out into the street that was growing more congested with festival pilgrims and citizens by the minute. Orders were shouted, spears drove through the fence forcing gawkers back, and the wide iron gate swung open.

  The centurion led the way at a slow walk from the courtyard with the prisoner trailing and three soldiers to each sid
e of the condemned to push him on and keep the crowds away. Across the nape of Yeshua’s neck and stretched along his arms lay the rough wooden cross beam of the cross he would be crucified on. His arms were fully extended, and his hands held onto the beam as best he could to keep it balanced. His steps were more of a shuffle and in his beaten condition, he could barely retain his balance.

  Hanan looked at the length and girth of the thick beam and estimated it was at least seventy-five pounds. It appeared bigger than Yeshua’s skinny body.

  Magnus cleared a path for his squad and the prisoner through the sea of screaming, crying, shouting people. Once out into the street, he started along the Way of Sorrow, the Way of Grief, a winding half-mile route to Golgotha that all condemned walked to their death.

  People spat at Yeshua as he painfully shuffled along the dirt and stone route. While some accused him of being a false prophet, others wept and pleaded for mercy for him from the soldiers. The chaos rose, but the centurion continued his slow trek, pausing at times for the condemned man to catch up. One of Magnus’ soldiers followed the prisoner with a regular whip of nine thongs, not one with metal and bone attached, striking him at times and shouting commands to move faster. Yeshua was gasping for air and screamed in agony when struck. The beam pressed his crown of thorns into his head, pushing the thorns deeper, releasing more blood than before to drip down his face and body. His tunic had absorbed so much blood that little of its original crème color could be seen.

  Miriam cried out for her son, wanting to touch him, and Hanan hurried her further along the path to a bend in the route so she would be close enough. Yeshua fell when he reached that point. She leaped from the crowd, weeping, and laid her hands upon him, but her touch made him wince. When he turned his face to her, he appeared lost within his mind. A soldier saw her and swung his spear to club her, but Hanan stepped in to take the brunt of the blow to protect her. It was at that moment Yeshua and Hanan locked gazes. Yeshua’s good eye focused and Hanan believed his friend recognized him. But that second passed, and a dull gaze returned.