The Daggerman

by Glenn Starkey

  The centurion forced a path clear at sword-point, then ordered his men to increase their pace. They could only go as fast as their prisoner could shuffle his steps. The route was narrow, and the escorting soldiers struggled to keep people away from their prisoner. A hundred yards further and Yeshua fell again. The beam rolled over his head, pressing his face into the stone paved road. His vision was marred by the trail of blood flowing into his right eye from his head wounds.

  From the wailing crowd a young woman knelt by his side and placed her veil in his right hand. “Here, Rabbi, please wipe your face so you may see,” she said, trying to speak as she wept at his misery.

  Yeshua pressed the cloth against his face and was handing it back to her when a whip lashed him. Trying to rise, he fell back onto the pavement. Hanan rushed forward and lifted the beam, blocking the soldier from striking his friend again. The prisoner rose and Hanan eased it onto his shoulders. At hearing Yeshua cry out from the pain of the beam’s weight pressing into his gaping wounds, Hanan could no longer hold back his tears.

  The woman held the veil in her hands, and when she glanced at the cloth, the impression of the prisoner’s face was clearly on it, made by his blood. She held it to her chest and cried.

  Magnus shouted and the escort renewed their walk with the condemned. Another hundred yards passed then Yeshua fell, no longer able to carry the beam. He was whipped as he laid on the ground, but the soldier stopped and looked at a man walking near.

  “What is your name?” the soldier with the whip asked a dark, olive-skinned, heavily muscled man

  “Simon of Cyrene.”

  “Carry the beam for him.”

  The man protested but a soldier pressed a spear’s point into his chest. Simon lifted Yeshua off the ground then grabbed the beam. Resting it on his shoulders as Yeshua had, Simon carried the beam and tried to support the condemned man as they walked toward Golgotha.

  The march continued for several more minutes before the prisoner and his escorts reached the top of the hill. Simon dropped the beam and slowly lowered the battered, bleeding man to the ground between two men crucified on crosses. He heard their moans and glanced at them. A soldier pushed him away with a spear and ordered him to leave.

  ***

  Laying on his left side, Yeshua could see his mother and two women standing and watching, held back at spear-point by two soldiers. Crying and wailing carried to him, but shouts and arguments were no longer heard. Each breath he took seemed to shoot a wretched pain throughout him. Then came the centurion’s firm voice ordering the soldiers to finish their duties.

  Two soldiers stripped him of his seamless tunic and cast it off to the side. Hands cruelly threw Yeshua onto his back and dragged him by the wrists several feet before dropping him onto a beam. The rough wood against his flayed back pressed into open wounds, and again the horrid pain exploded within him. He wanted to scream but choked on blood dripping into his mouth from his face. A stout-built soldier tried to give him a bitter drink of wine mixed with myrrh but Yeshua turned his mouth away.

  “Take it... It’s to help with your pain.” The soldier held the small jug to the prisoner’s closed lips.

  Still, Yeshua refused to drink.

  The warm sun beat down on him from the cloudless sky, yet he shivered from the cold racing over his body at times. His right eye opened. He glanced at the sun, closed his eye and wept.

  “Father,” Yeshua whispered in a pleading voice, but his mouth was dry, and no more words came.

  Shadows from the soldiers fell across him as they stepped over him to reach his outstretched arms on the cross beam. Turning his head to look was too painful and only made the thorns of his crown drive deeper. Strong hands gripped his arms and held fast. A burly soldier stood holding a mallet and a seven-inch-long, tapered iron spike with a thick, square shaft. He smirked as he knelt at the condemned man’s left arm.

  Yeshua felt the tip of the stake press against the flesh of his forearm then saw the mallet rise high into the air. The first strike drove the stake through his forearm and partially into the beam. The second and third strikes drove it deep into the wood. His tortured body shuddered from his blinding misery. Yeshua screamed in torment then gasped for air as his anguish refused to let him breathe for several seconds.

  Stepping over him, the soldiers moved to his right arm and drove a stake through its forearm with three strikes. A fresh wave of pain flooded Yeshua as he cried out in agony. But when they grabbed his feet and twisted his legs to get them in alignment, fear made him tremble.

  The stake drove through the top of one foot and into the other beneath it. This time it took several strikes to enter the wood. His mouth shot agape. He wanted to cry out from his suffering but couldn’t. His body shook and the anguish engulfing him drove him to the edge of oblivion. Waves of agony swept throughout him.

  Nine hours had passed since his arrest at midnight.

  When the soldiers raised him into the air upon the cross and let its base slide to a jarring halt in a hole in the ground, he passed out.

  ***

  Holding the square sign proclaiming Yeshua as the King of the Jews, a slender soldier climbed a ladder and nailed it to the top of the vertical beam.

  The six soldiers kept the crowd back but let the condemned man’s friends and family move to within ten feet of the cross. Using the prisoner’s dried tunic to gamble on, the soldiers sat on the ground and cast lots for the seamless tunic. The granite-faced centurion stood away from his men with arms crossed over his chest armor, staring at the crucified man, studying him.

  Yeshua drifted in and out of consciousness, speaking little yet groaning in pain through the morning. He awoke to find the soldiers had stripped away his breechcloth, leaving him nude with his mother and two women crying as they knelt before him. The disciple John stood beside Hanan behind Miriam. They gazed at Yeshua, almost unable to recognize him from the pitiless scourging and protruding spikes.

  Seeing the soldiers argue over his tunic, Yeshua looked skyward.

  “Father, forgive them for they know not what they are doing.”

  Miriam heard him and tried to stand, crying as she gazed at her son. John clung to her so she didn’t fall.

  “Woman,” Yeshua said, “Behold your son.” He looked at John. “Behold your mother.”

  To each side of Yeshua were crucified men who called out for him to save himself.

  “Truly I say to you, today you shall be with me in paradise.” Yeshua’s voice was weak, and his words were difficult to speak between the spasms of pain striking him. He grimaced and cried out in delirium, “Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani?”

  Hanan wept as he gazed at his friend, then gradually lowered his chin to his chest.

  The centurion’s brows lowered, and he glanced about him for anyone close. Seeing Hanan, he walked to him.

  “What tongue does he speak?” Magnus asked in sincerity. “What did he say?”

  Never lifting his head, not wanting the Roman to see the tears upon his cheeks, Hanan spoke. “It’s Aramaic. He asked God why he has been forsaken.”

  Magnus’ gaze carried to Yeshua. The centurion nodded slowly then started away.

  “I am thirsty.”

  The centurion heard his prisoner and abruptly halted. He looked at the slender soldier driving a spear’s blade into a vinegar-soaked sponge. “Give him wine with gall and myrrh to ease his mind.”

  Another soldier brought the jar they had first offered to Yeshua. The sponge still dripped vinegar, but they emptied the jar over it. Raising the sponge to Yeshua’s lips, he turned his face at tasting the sour wine.

  ***

  At noon the sky began to grow dark as menacing clouds appeared and spread over the land as far as could be seen. Except for Yeshua’s mother, her companions, the disciple and Hanan, few people remained to watch the condemned man die. The lower ranking pries
ts that helped Caiaphas entice the masses to a murderous rage of wanting crucifixion, had returned to the temple to be with the high priest. Within three hours, at the mid of afternoon, Caiaphas would officially open the Passover Festival with the ritual slaughtering of lambs for sacrifice.

  Miriam sat on the ground staring at her son on the cross. She no longer wept. She had no more tears to cry.

  With the day steadily growing darker, the soldiers stood holding their spears, nervously glancing at one another. None could ever recall a day of such weather.

  Yeshua spoke little more than mutters for the next three hours, and his pain-wracked groans came less. He hung on the cross, gazing out over the land.

  Having edged forward to be near his friend, Hanan saw Yeshua inhale deeply then lower his face to look at Hanan.

  “It is finished,” Yeshua said, closing his right eye.

  The hour was mid-afternoon.

  ***

  Hanan was about to turn away but saw Yeshua’s crimson painted ribs lightly move.

  Magnus believed the prisoner died and motioned his only true Roman soldier to him.

  “Longinus, bring your spear.”

  “Sir, do want me to break his legs to see if he’s dead?” The breaking of a crucified man’s legs was standard Roman procedure to check for death.

  “No, break the legs of the other two, but only spear this one.”

  The soldier Longinus went to the prisoners and bashed their legs with an iron rod. The crack of bones came loud, making Hanan, Miriam and the others startle. The crucified men never moved. Hanan glowered as he watched.

  Spear in hand, Longinus walked to Yeshua’s right side and stood ready, awaiting the order from the centurion. He squinted to better see the prisoner’s ribs in the swiftly dimming daylight.

  “Are your eyes good enough to make a proper strike?” Magnus asked, knowing the soldier had complained of increasingly weak eyesight. The centurion saw the soldier nod. He looked up at Yeshua, hesitant to give the order. It was then he saw movement.

  Yeshua’s face rose to the swirling clouds that had begun to blacken.

  “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit,” he cried out then his head fell forward and to the left. His ribs ceased to move, and he drew motionless.

  “Now, Longinus,” came the order as the howling wind blew a wall of dust and dirt across the land.

  Hanan grimaced as the spearhead punctured Yeshua’s right side, drove deep into him, then was withdrawn. A short stream of blood and watery fluid spewed before dwindling to a wide trail that ran down Yeshua’s side.

  The stream struck Longinus in the face. Yelling in surprise, he jumped back but tripped and fell to his knees. He feverishly wiped blood from his face.

  The black clouds twisted, churned and hid the sun. Thunder rumbled as if the end of the world had come. It became deafening. The wind blew harder and cast dirt with strength across everyone on the Hill of the Skull. Miriam was almost thrust off her feet, but the disciple John caught her and held fast. Hanan raised an arm to protect his face and Miriam’s companions pulled their head shawls tight over their faces. Then the earth emitted a deep growl and the ground shook.

  ***

  In the temple’s courtyard before the monumental Holy of Holies sanctuary, priests held sheep for ritual sacrificing by the High Priest Caiaphas. Pilgrims waited about them, anxious for the opening ceremony of the Passover festival.

  When the Romans took control of Judea and the temple, they took possession of the high priest’s ritual vestments. These were kept until the first day of a festival then issued to wear until the festival concluded. To avoid staining his vestments during the sacrifices the high priest wore a white tunic and robe, then would later change. But Caiaphas knew the bright red splotches upon the white cloth provided a more dramatic appearance to the pilgrims which encouraged greater monetary offerings to the temple.

  He walked out into view of the masses yet gazed at the strange clouds and dim daylight. A lower level priest laid the first sheep on the altar, but Caiaphas’ attention kept returning to the sky. The ominous clouds grew darker until they were black with opaque blue and gray swathes within them, then the sun vanished. Day became a dim dusk. He tried to focus on his duties at the altar, but fear forced him to repeatedly glance at the eerie sky. Raising a dagger over his head, ready to slice the sheep’s throat, he recited prayers for the sacrifice to Elohim, but paused when the deafening thunder rumbled.

  The high priest laid the dagger aside when the courtyard shook. He lost balance several times and had to grip the altar to prevent himself from falling. But a startling noise made him spin about to look at the Holy of Holies. A massive curtain stretched across its wide opening and hung from roof to floor. The cloth ripped the entire length, down its middle, and the thick support pole snapped like a twig. The curtain descended to the polished stone pavement, furling about by the furious wind gusts. Inside the Holy of Holies could be seen the raised stone altar where the Ark of the Covenant had once sat before being stolen. Only the high priest was permitted to see the altar once per year on the Day of Atonement. Yet now all could view it.

  Dropping to his knees, the high priest’s eyes were wide with fear as he gazed mouth agape at the roiling black clouds. He prayed aloud but the rushing wind drowned his words. Priests released their holds on the sacrificial sheep and knelt, beseeching Elohim’s mercy as they saw Caiaphas doing. The surrounding pilgrims shouted, screamed in terror, and stampeded from the temple.

  The echoing thunder settled, and the blustery wind ceased. In time the temple no longer shook, and everyone stood, nervously looking about them. Caiaphas raced to the eastern roof wall of the temple and gazed at Golgotha. The ominous black clouds highlighted in blue and gray streaks continually churned but had parted in their center, allowing a brilliant ray of sunlight to shine through onto the Hill of the Skull. From the towering temple the high priest saw the sunbeam upon the crucified men.

  Caiaphas stared at the crosses then staggered back from the edge of the temple wall, eyes wide, shaking his head and muttering words no one could hear.

  ***

  The beam of sunlight bathing the hilltop spread as the black clouds broke. The dim light across the land brightened and the clouds dissipated. Within minutes the tempest passed as if it had never occurred.

  The battle-hardened centurion looked about the hilltop for his men. Longinus knelt in the dirt with hands pressed over his face. His five Samaritan legionnaires stood fifteen paces back from the cross, their faces pale with panic in their eyes. Magnus swung an arm, silently ordering them to return to him. He heard Longinus crying.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Lowering his hands, the Roman soldier rose from the dirt. He stared at his commander and lightly shook his head. “I can see. My eyes are healed.”

  Magnus gazed at him for several seconds then looked at Yeshua on the cross.

  “Truly this was the Son of God.”

  Longinus walked to Yeshua’s feet and gently laid a hand on them. “We have crucified the Christ,” he whispered. Raising his head, the legionnaire gazed at Yeshua’s face and the crown of thorns. “Forgive me.”

  “Centurion!”

  Magnus turned in the direction of the voice. An aged man in priestly clothes was walking up the hill followed by several servants and another equally ancient man in the clothes of a temple priest.

  “I am Joseph of Arimathea. I have permission from the prefect to take custody of the man’s body so he may be buried by our laws,” the elderly priest said, halting before Magnus.

  The centurion knew this went against the standard orders for crucified criminals. Normally, the body was left on the cross for days to deteriorate and feed the vultures, then would be removed and left in the desert for wild animals to devour.

  “Here is the signed order from Pontius Pilate,” said Joseph, h
is breathing labored from the long walk from the governor’s residence. “This is Nicodemus who has permission to accompany me.”

  Taking the document held out to him, Magnus inspected its seal, broke it and read the parchment. He closed the document. “Your paper is in order. My men will remove the stakes.”

  “He was my friend, centurion. May I help get him off the cross?”

  Magnus cast a distrustful eye at the heavily muscled man who approached him. “And your name?”

  “Hanan ben Netzer.”

  The centurion nodded in recognition. “You translated earlier for me, didn’t you?”

  “The Aramaic words.”

  Without replying, Magnus stepped aside. He looked at his men and swung the vine stick cudgel toward the crucified man. “Take him down.”

  The soldiers began their work, draping a breechcloth about Yeshua and removing the stakes while Hanan waited at the base of the cross. A long cloth was twisted into a makeshift rope and wrapped about Yeshua’s body. When the last stake was removed, the soldiers lowered the body into Hanan’s arms.

  The thorns of the crown dug into Hanan’s chest and right arm, making him grimace as he shifted his friend’s body for a better hold. Gaze drifting over Yeshua, he carried him to the burial cloth spread across the ground and eased him onto it. Kneeling beside Yeshua, Hanan fought back his tears. His heart ached but rage came like an inferno charring his soul. His tunic and robe were smeared with Yeshua’s blood, adding fuel to the fire within him.

  Miriam knelt at her son’s head, her tears falling onto his face as she gently pulled at the embedded crown to remove it.

  “He weighs no more than a feather,” Hanan softly said, speaking his thoughts aloud as he looked at the emaciated body.

  Laying the crown aside, Miriam reached out and laid a hand upon Hanan’s shoulder. Exhaustion painted her face and her eyes were red and swollen. “You were always a good friend to him, Hanan. I know he loved you.”

  Hanan’s grief grew worse at hearing her. He rose to his feet, ready to leave, unable to endure anymore tragedy. The disciple John moved to him.