I had hardened my heart for the challenge I put him to, but as I gazed on the suffering brow I had once kissed in reverence, I felt my heart melting.
“If I have told you earthly things and you believe not, how shall you believe if I tell you of heavenly things?”
But I had believed, I of all had believed. Why else had I challenged him? For I loved him as none of the others. My love was greater, for I demanded more of him.
And now the vulgar barbarians of Rome were spitting on him and dealing him blows. They were pleased to taunt him, offering him a cup of water, then quickly withdrawing it as he lowered his head to drink.
“If this be the King of the Jews,” cried one, “no wonder the Jews are the most despised of people.”
He had been on the cross for three hours, the hot sun had been beating down mercilessly on his head, bare save for its crown of thorns. The cruel spikes festered his flesh and his tortured frame stretched agonizingly on the tree to which he was nailed. I prayed to God, who had deserted him, that he would soon grant him the boon of oblivion. But, still, the end was not here.
I could almost reach out and touch the bleeding feet I would have denied the comfort of the soothing oils. How narrow and small-minded I had been to have grudged him anything, I, who was at the glorious beginning and now the dreary end. The Romans had examined my Temple credentials and let me be. Joseph of Arimathea, being accounted a friend of Pilate’s because he knew his father, had been allowed to pass through the city gates to Golgotha with a party including Mary, the mother of Christ, Mary Magdalen; the mother of Mark, Nicodemus, and the disciple John. There were also the Temple dignitaries and their creatures. Otherwise there would have been none but Romans to watch him die.
The others in the throng, for fear of demonstrations, had been permitted only so far as the gates. There had been a considerable procession, many weeping as they trailed after him. For at noon Friday, on Passover Eve, all work had ceased in the Holy City, and the Amharetzin who still cared for him had joined the march as the word spread like the wind.
I saw Susanna in the crowd, and she was sobbing as if she had lost her only friend. As usual, the wailings of the women were the loudest, and Jesus, hiding his own agony, turned to quiet their lamentations.
“Daughters of Jerusalem,” he said, “weep not for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. For, behold, the days are coming, in which they shall say. Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bear, and the paps which never gave suck. Then shall they begin to say to the mountains, Fall on us, and to the hills. Cover us. For if they do these things in a green tree, what shall be done in the dry?”
He could be excused his obscureness, but even so, it was plain that in his heart he was bitter, and he spoke of the great calamities that his Father would visit on an unrepentant world.
He had been compelled to bear his own cross, but then an old man, who seemed to pity him as he stumbled, asked if he could carry the cross for him. The Romans had laughed uproariously at the sight of this decrepit ancient who would take this burden upon his frail shoulders, but had agreed because of the comic figure he cut for them. I moved forward to shake this man’s hand, and then I saw who it was and stopped short. It was my old foreman, Simon the Cyrene, a penitent sinner, who was to walk this last mile with the Master.
But there was none to share the cross with him now. The two on either side could not lighten his burden, nor could he help them. It pained me to watch. His cross was higher than the others, his feet dangling fully three feet from the ground, causing him almost unbearable strain. And yet, save for closing his eyes from time to time, he had given no indication of his suffering.
It was well that the Romans had banned the crowds. Otherwise the Amharetzin who loved him would surely have torn him from the cross and the Roman legions would have repaid them a thousandfold, without the result being altered in the slightest.
Happily for my own emotions, the hood concealed my face. But the others who agonized with him were not similarly shielded from the stares of the profane. I could see Joseph’s tears, but John and the mother Mary were dry-eyed, though their faces were pale and pinched. They appeared to be praying. I could hear John reciting under his breath from the prophet who heralded the coming.
“He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth. He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he opens not his mouth. He was taken from prison and from judgment. And who shall declare his generation? For he was cut off out of the land of the living. For the transgression of my people was he stricken.”
The others joined in the prayer. It may have been the lowering skies, or the solemnity of the moment, but the Roman soldiers stopped their taunting of him and leaned uneasily on their spears.
“I like not that sky,” said one, and in truth it had become almost like the night, as a deep purplish aura cast its ominous shadow on the earth.
“Could it really be that his God is wroth at what we do here today?”
The idea was so absurd that in their relief they fell to laughing and scuffling once more. He turned at the sound, and a groan escaped his lips. To my surprise, I saw a centurion, sternly quiet till now, approach the cross and bring a sop of wine to his mouth. I had not noticed this Roman before, for all Romans looked alike to me in their helmets and cuirasses. But now with a start I saw that it was the centurion Cornelius, whose servant the Master had healed over my objections. His lips were drawn together, and he seemed paler than before, but otherwise his features were set with the stony expression of the legionnaire.
He had eyes for only the one man on the cross. The others did not exist for him. They were only Jewish brigands, caught in the act of stealing. But of course it wasn’t mentioned that they were captured while looting the Roman arsenals of weapons, for this would have given them distinction as patriots. The Romans made an art of degrading their enemies before destroying them.
The Syrian Cestus, who had dreamed with me of another Maccabean, railed deliriously at the Master. I forgave him, for I knew in his final throes he knew not what he was saying. “How can you save us, Jesus of Nazareth, when you cannot save yourself?”
But the other, the Idumean, Dysmas, rebuked his fellow, saying weakly: “Do you not see that he suffers for us? We should ask forgiveness for misjudging him, for he was never of our thinking. But through him we may still find salvation. Look how he faces death with a smile.”
Some say the dying are given a glimmer of the truth in their last extremity. Had Dysmas been so favored on the cross? His eyes rested on the sign above Jesus’ head, which said: “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.”
“Yours was a greater kingdom, and we knew it not. Lord, prepare me when you come into your kingdom.”
Out of the timeless depths of his soul came an encouraging smile.
“Verily, I say unto you, that you shall dwell with me in paradise. For your faith has set you free.”
Those were their last words together.
The two Zealots lapsed into a coma. They had been hanging for hours before he came to the cross. It was a major concern of the Temple authorities that all die before the sunset, so there would be no breach of the Sabbath and the Passover as well. What hypocrites they were.
As was customary, the soldiers took up cudgels to smash their legs and ribs so there would be no question of death. Cestus and Dysmas no longer showed any life. Their eyes looked out vacantly. Their jaws hung slackly, showing their parched tongues.
I thought for a moment that he had expired. But he stirred slightly at the sickening crunch of their breaking bones. No sound came from their lips. The Romans took down the bodies and prepared them for an unknown grave. They looked inquiringly at the lone figure on the uprights, but Milo, the centurion in charge, after a glance from Cornelius, shook his head.
He had languished quickly, but still hung on. It was a merciful sign that a victim should collapse on the cross in so fe
w hours. But the High Priests, standing by, taunted him nonetheless.
“If he be the King of Israel,” cried Annas, “let him now come down, and we will do him honor.”
Even with the mongrels snapping at his feet, as the psalmist foretold, I had hoped that he would save himself. He had healed the sick and returned the dead to life. I had seen him feed the thousands and vanish in a crowd. Peter had watched him calm the waves and walk on water. He was a man of miracles. Was there anything he could not do? He had said that with faith in the Father we could all move mountains. And Rome certainly was no mountain. I had still thought, even as he was flogged, even as the sharp nails cut into his flesh, that he could be free with a word, a thought, a prayer. I saw his cracked lips moving, and I strained to hear him. He was reciting a psalm of David which began: “My God, my God, why has thou forsaken me?”
He seemed at an end. But even so his gaze was unwavering, dimly searching. His eyes fell finally on his mother and John. His lips forced a painful smile and, as his eyes moved on, I saw that he recognized me even with the hood over my face.
I held his gaze, beseeching him to save himself and show himself mightier than Rome. But his eyes were lifted upward now, and he continued from the psalm, not in Aramaic or Greek or Latin, but in the Hebrew of his fathers.
“I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of my bowels.
“My strength is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws, and thou hast brought me into the dust of death.
“For dogs have compassed me, the assembly of the wicked have enclosed me, they pierced my hands and feet.”
The Romans clapped their thighs and laughed uproariously, pointing to “the King of the Jews” scrawled on the crossbar overhead.
Milo held up the robe given Jesus in mockery. “What am I offered for this royal cloak?”
There was more merriment in the scramble for the simple tunic he wore under the robe, and the scrubby sandals tied with a single thong. The little pastime continued with the casting of lots for the tattered garments. He must have heard them, for he murmured as though from far away:
“They part my garments among them, and cast lots upon my vesture.
“But be not thou far from me, O Lord. O my strength, haste thee to help me.”
His head slumped forward and he gave a great sigh. A sublime expression came over his face, as it had after the transfiguration on the mountain. There was an angelic look in his eyes, and I knew with a sad, sinking feeling that he was leaving us. His taut fingers loosened and his whole body appeared to relax. A scrap of parchment fell unnoticed from his hand.
I scooped it up, unseen, then slipped it inside my tunic.
But Caiaphas and Annas had not finished with him and were still venting their hate, for this is what motivated them.
“He saved others,” cried Caiaphas, “but himself he cannot save. If he be the King of Israel, let him come down and we will believe him.”
I cared not whether they knew me. “It matters not what you think, but what he is,” I said in my passion.
Their noses raised in the air, and they took no notice of me.
“He called God his Father,” sneered Annas, “so now let his Father deliver him. Did he not say: ‘I am the Son of God’?”
I could see the defeat in the sagging shoulders and the bowed head. I saw the slight pulse in his throat. His eyes gazed out again where his mother stood with John, and he spoke in a faltering voice. “Woman, behold your son.”
His eyes turned for a moment to the young disciple. “Dearly beloved, behold your mother.”
The disciple took Mary’s hand and nodded. She dropped to her knees before the cross and said softly: “O Lord, how I dreaded this day when my soul should be pierced, but let it be your will and not mine.”
A smile came to his eyes, such a smile as I saw after he came down from the mountain and spoke of meeting the Lord.
His lips parted slightly, and he said: “Father, I thirst.”
We who were with him at the well knew what he meant.
Not understanding, Joseph of Arimathea held up a beaker of wine with hyssop.
He drew his head back and sighed. “It is finished. Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
His head fell forward, and unbelievably, incredibly, it was over. I fought back a desire to pull him down and take him in my arms. But I could not move.
Finally, Cornelius broke the silence.
“Certainly,” he said, “this was a righteous man.”
Joseph of Arimathea looked into the sky, and his eyes gleamed in the murky light. His face was pale, and he spoke in awed tones:
“The star is the same that I saw at his birth.”
I looked and could see but one star in the heavens. It was a fiery red, almost the color of blood, and it was set in a giant white cloud in the shape of a cross.
I saw Joseph of Arimathea cross himself, and I knew then that my eyes had not deceived me. He had seen the same sign.
It was now almost totally dark, and the very skies seemed to be dropping on our heads. The Romans held up their hands, as if shielding themselves from the heavens, then cowered on their knees, all but Cornelius, praying fervidly to Jupiter and Apollo.
Cornelius’ eyes gleamed in the darkness. He seemed transfixed, as if he had seen a vision.
“He lives,” he cried, “I see him in his Father’s arms, and there is a smile in his eyes. I tell you, he lives.”
The soldiers looked at him as if he were mad. And then the one who called himself Crito, a Syrian mercenary who had laughed loudest at Jesus, picked up a spear and quickly thrust the point into the Master’s left side before any could stop him.
“Now you are dead,” he shouted, “you King of Satan.”
I watched the blood dribble out, and then came a flow of water, as if from a fount. In my anguish, I saw Jesus, as I had first seen him, standing quietly before the Baptist, as the water splattered over him.
A cold wind blew against my face. The trees trembled and bent low before the heavy gusts stirring the air.
Cornelius pushed aside the mercenary and tenderly cut down the body while Joseph of Arimathea came forward to claim it in the name of Jesus’ friends.
My brain was in turmoil, but dimly I still saw Caiaphas and Annas, laughing together as if the world had not ended. I remembered Jesus saying to turn the other cheek. But, oh, how I hated them at that moment, and desired their destruction.
The heavens were rumbling now, and daggers of lightning rent the darkness. Cornelius and John, with Nicodemus, were helping Joseph with the Master’s body.
I had moved off to a side of the mound, away from Joseph and Nicodemus, and paid little attention to the discussion over the burial. What difference did it make, now that he was dead? He was gone and with him the dream of a victorious Israel. Rome had won as always, and Pilate would be praised.
I found myself alone. The bodies had been removed, and the executioners had hurried off before the threatening storm. The remains of Dysmas and Cestus were bound for the criminal pits. I no longer had any heart for the insurrection. For who else would the people follow?
I had to keep moving. I needed to talk to somebody, to anybody who knew him as I had, who would understand that I meant him no harm.
I took the path to the city by the Gennath Gate and soon overtook the mourners. Mary Magdalen had been weeping, and his mother had her arms about her, consoling her. The other Mary, the mother of Mark, walked silently between John and Nicodemus. Joseph had hurried off to prepare the sacred ground.
At my footsteps, John’s soft eyes turned in my direction. I had the impulse to speak to him. Of all the disciples he was the gentlest, the most imbued with the word of Christ.
He stared for a moment, then fell back as if stung by a serpent.
“Judas,” he cried between his teeth, “traitor, thief, apostate, murderer. How do you live when
he whom you slew with a kiss lies cold and still?”
“He told us he would live forever in his Father’s house. I knew not what he meant. He would know this and forgive me if he were here.”
“There is no forgiveness for him by whose offense he left this earth. Woe unto you by whom this offense came.”
He pulled up the hem of his robe with an expression of loathing.
The mother laid her hand on the disciple’s arm. “He said that no man took his life. It was prophesied of old. From his birth, I feared this day.”
John’s face was rigid. “Let those forgive who can.”
“Think of how he would have you be.” She gave a little sigh. “Though my heart is heavy, I feel him about me now.”
John took her arm. “Let the traitor live, but let him take himself out of our sight.”
Mary Magdalen eyed me bitterly. “I forgive Caiaphas and Annas, even Pilate and the rest. They hated him because he held the love of the people, and they knew not what he might do with it. But you, Judas, he trusted as his own.” Her gaze held mine without compassion.
“From him to whom much is given, much should be received.” How often had I heard him say this.
“What,” she asked, “did he receive from you?”
A moan escaped my lips. “He forgave your sins, Mary Magdalen. Can you not forgive mine?”
“Not while the memory of that body stretched on the cross is still fresh in my mind.”
She had learned nothing from him.
Nicodemus and the mother of Mark were too overcome to do more than listen.
“Let him be,” said Nicodemus finally, “he is not the only sinner among us.”
The Master’s mother touched me lightly on the forehead. “Had it not been you,” she whispered, “it would have been another. He knew this.”
It had all been prophesied, the spear stabbed deep into his side, and his bones left unbroken, even the thirty pieces of silver, but would that it had been another. Had they not prophesied forgiveness as well? But first one must repent, and how did one repent what was only a mistake?
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