Saviour

by Christopher Gallagher

  Well, yesterday's tomorrow was today, and he felt good. As good as could be expected. In truth he hadn't slept that well, he’d been far too wired. As far as Beaumont was concerned, the big day was the day of his release. Why else, he reasoned, would he have been allowed the use of his body again? If they were going to kill him, they could have done it at any time by just pumping the chemicals into his body. Anyway, that woman, Swanger, had promised if he talked, he would die humanely. So, it stood to reason, he was either being transferred to prison to await trial or, his preferred option, he was being released.

  He finished towelling himself dry, put on the orange coveralls that had been left out. There wasn't any underwear, which felt a bit strange, but nothing could diminish his joy at being alive. The door opened, a guard stuck his head in. 'You ready?'

  Beaumont nodded and followed him out, down a corridor, where he was placed in a holding cell with other prisoners. He tried talking to one or two, but was met with blank indifference. After a while he gave up, was content to sit in silence and wait.

  ✝

  Governor's Office, York, Northumbria.

  'I wasn't aware my dear Caiaphas that you Jews had the right to pronounce the death sentence.'

  'A recommendation, Excellency.' Caiaphas assured.

  'Hmm.' Pilate glanced at the slip of paper offered by the high priest. He pushed it to one side. 'On what grounds have you convicted him?'

  'He claims to be the king of the Jews.' Caiaphas shrugged his disdain. 'He comes from lowly stock. His father was a builder, wasn't even married to the mother when she bore him.'

  'A bastard?’ Pilate laughed. ‘Not exactly crime of the century, is it?'

  'Of course not Excellency, but he does make rather extravagant claims...'

  'I'd quite like to meet this Jesus.' Pilate interrupted.

  'You want to see him. Jesus?'

  'Why not?' Pilate smiled thinly, 'or have you bumped him off already?'

  'No, of course not.' Caiaphas said, moving to the door. 'I'm sure it can be arranged.'

  ✝

  State Security HQ, York, Northumbria.

  The custody official, portly, middle aged, florid complexion, fondness for ginger biscuits, didn't have to look in the custody book. 'Not here, love.' He pronounced with finality. Swanger frowned. She should have known about this. The official, sensing her confusion, was more than happy to gossip. 'Yeah, surprised you didn't know.' Another biscuit disappeared down his throat. He reached for his mug of tea. 'Booked out an hour ago.'

  'Who booked them out?'

  The official sighed, drew the book towards him, and ran a nicotine-stained finger down the page. 'Name of Heathersedge.'

  'In person?'

  'Naah.' The man closed the book, reached for the biscuits. 'He wouldn't lower himself to visit this level. His name on the chitty is all.' Two more biscuits vanished.

  'But they couldn't walk.' Swanger protested.

  'They could this morning, straight out the door they walked.' He mimed two fingers walking across the desk to the biscuits.

  Swanger wanted to take his head and smack it on the desk, instead forced herself to remain calm. 'Where have they been taken?'

  The man shrugged. He’d lost interest in the exchange. 'Like I'd know something like that. Once they've gone through that door, my involvement ends.' He picked up the empty biscuit packet, made a funnel, tipped the crumbs into his mouth.

  Swanger hoped the fat jobs-worth would choke.

  ✝

  Governor's Office, York, Northumbria.

  A crowd had gathered outside the Governor's residence. In the main, they were ordinary people who earlier had been massed outside the Temple, but were now seeded by agents of the Pharisees. The Polizei held back those by the gates, as two cars either side of a secure van, flanked by motorcycle outriders, swept through the gates, and parked out of sight at the rear. Sirens, flashing lights stopped.

  A short time later Jesus was led into Pilate's office. The guards withdrew and the Governor regarded Jesus with interest. He seemed unlike any criminal or king he'd ever seen before. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Jesus. My wife’s a fan of yours.’

  Jesus inclined his head.

  ‘I understand you’re the king of the Jews?' Pilate said.

  'Is that your own idea,' Jesus asked, 'or did others talk to you about me?'

  'Am I a Jew?' Pilate replied. 'Your own people, the high priest, Caiaphas, sent you to me. What have you done to upset him?'

  'My kingdom is not of this world.' Jesus replied. 'If it were my followers would fight to prevent my arrest. Even now, they would be making plans to free me. My kingdom is from another place.'

  'You are a king, then?' Pilate said.

  'You say that I'm a king,' Jesus answered. 'In fact, the reason I was born and came into the world is to testify to the truth. Everyone on the side of truth listens to me.'

  'Truth.' Pilate retorted. 'What is truth?' He crossed to the big window leading to the balcony. 'If you're a king, these must be your subjects out here.'

  Chants from outside could be heard. Crucify, crucify.

  Jesus shrugged, didn't reply.

  Pilate tried again. 'Where do you come from?'

  Silence.

  'Do you refuse to speak to me now? Don't you realise I have power, either to free you, or have you crucified?'

  Jesus said, 'You would have no power over me if it hadn't been given to you from above. The one who handed me over to you is guilty of a greater sin.'

  Pilate tried several more times to get Jesus to speak but he remained silent. Pilate became irritated by Jesus’ silence. He picked up the phone, and asked for the sergeant of the guard to come to his office at once. He replaced the receiver, told Jesus, 'You won't like this, but it might just save your life.'

  A uniformed sergeant appeared a few minutes later. Clicking his heels, he stood to attention. 'Excellency?'

  'Take this man, Sergeant Blake,' Pilate told him, 'this king of the Jews and flog him severely.'

  The sergeant looked at Jesus. 'Just a flogging, sir?'

  'That's what I said, Sergeant. I want him brought back to me when you’ve finished.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Alive, Sergeant.’

  ✝

  State Security HQ, York, Northumbria.

  'The person you are calling is unavailable.' Swanger pressed the red button, and then the green, same result, Heathersedge was unavailable.

  She'd called round a range of contacts. Nobody knew anything about Beaumont and Bocus, or if they did, they weren't saying. They can't just have disappeared, Swanger reasoned. Been released? No, that’s impossible. They were confessed terrorists. She could understand if someone had terminated them by mistake - wouldn't have been the first time - but this was premeditated. For them to be able to walk out this morning, the medication keeping them immobile must have been stopped last night. Which means, Swanger concluded, they've been taken somewhere for some reason. And the one person who could tell her was Heathersedge, and he was unavailable.

  The lift powered up to the top floor. It was deserted. Considering this was the headquarters of State Security, there was a distinct lack of security. She walked down the corridor as far as Heathersedge's office, and entered confidently. The outer office was deserted, the secretary nowhere to be seen. Swanger listened with her ear up against the door of the inner sanctum. Total silence. She opened the door, expecting a challenge, none came. No sign of Heathersedge. The guy had a nose for trouble, could sense it coming over the horizon and vanished. A red folder lay on the desk, black lettering in bold, Wannsee Protocol. She flicked open the outer cover, revealing a buff folder. Swanger took in the skull symbol, the Saxon words, Streng Geheim, Endlosung.

  Top Secret? Final Solution to what though? Swanger about to pick up the folder, read further but hesitated. Some things were better not known. Under the folder, two sheets of paper were revealed bearing the names of Beaumont and Bocus. She eased them out
, and read in disbelief.

  ✝

  Guardroom, Governor's Residence, York, Northumbria.

  Guard room duty, important, but boring. The six-man squad, without exception, were taking a break from routine duties - watching TV, making tea, reading papers - when Sergeant Blake led Jesus through the door.

  'Aye, aye, Sarg. What we got here then?' Private Gledhill asked.

  'What we have here lads,' Blake replied, 'is a king. To be specific, this is Jesus, king of the Jews.'

  'A king, eh?' Gledhill wisecracked, 'and there's us thinking it was someone important.'

  'Why's he here, Sarg?' This from Lance Corporal Varley.

  'He’s to be flogged.'

  'Flogged, eh?' Private Flint walked round Jesus, thoroughly inspecting him. 'What you have been up to then, you naughty king?'

  The others joined in the game, walking round Jesus, sharks circling a lone bather.

  'If he's a king, Sarg, he'll need a crown.' Gledhill stated.

  'Good point.'

  'And a robe.'

  Blake nodded his agreement. It all added to the fun of the occasion, relieved the boredom.

  Flint stood to attention. 'Permission to leave the guard room, Sarg.'

  'Where you going?'

  'Room, Sarg, get something of interest.'

  'Don't be long, Flint, you'll miss the fun.'

  Private Oldham found an old purple robe in a box of theatrical costumes the Governor's wife had brought in for disposal. Together, he and Varley stripped Jesus of his shirt, and dressed him in the robe while Blake watched with amusement. Gledhill had found a short length of barbed wire and was busy shaping it into a makeshift crown. He jammed it firmly on Jesus' head and twisted. The barbs cut deep. Gledhill could feel them grind into the king's skull, watched as blood ran in rivulets down his face, into his eyes. Jesus blinked at the sticky warmth, said nothing.

  Flint came back carrying a lethal looking object, saw Jesus dressed in the purple robe, crown on his head, smiled, and nodded his approval. 'Nice one. Feller looks like a king now.'

  The others crowded round him. 'Whatcha got there, Flinty?'

  'Flagrum, mate, got it on my last posting in Tuscany. Never used it, mind.'

  'I should hope you haven't, lad.' Blake laughed.

  They passed the object round, examined it. There was a short wooden handle with three leather thongs, each a metre long. On each of the thongs sharp, rough pieces of metal were attached.

  'Are you suggesting we use this on the king here?' Blake asked. The cat o' nine tails was the traditional method of flogging. Painful, but not usually lethal.

  'What the Romans used to use, Sarg.'

  'Genuine, is it?' Oldham wanted to know.

  'Nah, repo mate. Do the job though.' He looked at Blake. 'Fit for a king, that is Sarg.'

  Sergeant Blake turned the evil looking object over in his hand, felt the weight, the balance. He grinned at Jesus who looked back impassively. 'Let's do it then. The old man wants him flogged, so flogged he will be.'

  They led Jesus outside, stripped the robe from his shoulders, and cable tied him half naked to the metal rings set on the top of the stake outside the guard room, where generations of recalcitrant soldiers had been flogged.

  'Who's administering the punishment, Sarg?' Gledhill asked, looking at Flint who held the flagrum and showing no sign of relinquishing it.

  'I think Private Flint should have the honour.'

  'Thank you, Sarg.' Flint grinned. He was going to enjoy this. 'How many lashes, Sarg?'

  'What do ya think, lads, forty?'

  'With that?' Varley stated bluntly. 'You'll kill him.'

  'I expect you’re right, private, let's say thirty-nine then.'

  Laughter from the soldiers.

  'Count the strokes, Varley. Carry on Flint.'

  Flint, his feet apart, positioned himself behind Jesus. He had a practice swing first, and then brought his arm down in a swift movement. The flagrum, doing its job, ripped into bare flesh. The effect of the leather thongs and metal was soon apparent. A deep, painful laceration appeared on Jesus' back.

  'One.'

  'That's a tasty bit o' kit.' Oldham nodded approvingly.

  Flint grinned, raised his arm and struck again.

  'Two.'

  Jesus flinched. His face contorted with every stroke, but he didn't make a sound. His unwillingness to cry out spurred Flint onto to greater effort. His pride dented, he was determined to get a reaction out of this king who'd been provided for his entertainment.

  'Three'

  Flint carried on, grunting with effort, wiping the sweat and blood spatters from his eyes every few strokes. The soldiers crowded round, cheering his every stroke. Varley keeping meticulous count.

  ‘Seven.’

  Jesus' back soon became a torn twisted mass of scarlet, hideously butchered beyond recognition as something human.

  ‘Fifteen.’

  Still, Jesus made no sound. Flint continued, Varley counted, the others now counting with him.

  ‘Twenty Two.’

  Jesus' bladder gave way, the front of his trousers and the robe, were soaked. The soldiers jeered, spat on him. 'King's pissed himself, Flinty.'

  Flint grunted, continued, his arm rising, falling, rhythmically.

  Eventually it was over, the thirty-nine strokes completed. Jesus was untied. He slumped to the ground and lay still. Sergeant Blake, privately worried at Pilate's reaction, bent over Jesus and checked his condition. He was amazed this king of the Jews was still breathing. 'He's a tough nut, Flinty.'

  Flint, breathing hard, agreed.

  A telephone call summoned Blake to the guardroom where he was informed Pilate wanted Jesus back in his office, pronto. Jesus was hauled to his feet, held upright between Oldham and Varley, and then, still wearing the robe and the crown, he was led back to Pilate.

  ✝

  Governor's Office, York, Northumbria.

  Caiaphas was back, waiting in the outer office where the Governor's secretary shot him hostile glances every few minutes. He checked his watch, looked at the woman, and was met with an indifferent shrug. 'He's a very busy man.' She told him.

  I'm a very busy man Caiaphas wanted to tell her. I've got a Messiah to crucify. He smiled at the thought, and forced himself to remain calm. It should be okay, he thought. If the Governor signed in the next fifteen minutes there would be enough time to get Jesus on the cross and hopefully dead before the start of the Sabbath which commenced just before sunset, which today was at 19:43.

  He could have done without that tiresome scene with Judas who'd arrived at the Temple snivelling that it had all been a big mistake, could he give the money back, and have Jesus released? When told he couldn't, he'd snapped the Silver cash card, flicked it on the floor, and then slunk off. Another problem to sort, he thought, as he massaged his temples. What would he now do with thirty thousand Euros? It couldn't go back in the Temple treasury. It was tainted. Blood money.

  Startled, he realised the secretary had spoken. She was looking at him. 'Pardon?'

  'His Excellency will see you now.'

  Pilate met him at the door, ushered him in, told his secretary to take an early lunch, and not to rush back.

  'Look,' Pilate said, 'here is your king. I've had him severely flogged, but in truth I find no basis to carry out the death sentence.'

  Caiaphas glanced at Jesus standing by the desk. Jesus stared back impassively. Caiaphas took in the purple robes, barbed wire crown and dried crusted blood on his face. He looked half-dead already. He wouldn’t last long on the cross. Caiaphas tried to hide his elation, turning his snigger into a cough. He turned his attention back to Pilate. 'He has to be crucified.'

  'I've had him flogged.' Pilate repeated. 'Isn't that punishment enough? Look at him'

  As if on cue, voices floated in through the open window, crucify, crucify. Caiaphas opened his arms wide as if to say, you've heard them, what can I do?

  'You crucify him.' Pilate said. 'A
s for me I find him not guilty of any charge.'

  'What about his claim to be king of the Jews?' Caiaphas asked.

  'What about it?'

  'And his claim to be the Son of God,' Caiaphas continued, 'sent by the Mighty One to set up his kingdom here on earth. Such blasphemy is punishable by death in our law.'

  Pilate sighed. 'We've had this conversation before Caiaphas. It's a matter for you Jews.'

  'There's also the matter of his civil disobedience,' Caiaphas said. 'He opposes the payment of taxes to the Union.'

  Pilate yawned.

  'His kingdom will be set up here in Northumbria.' Caiaphas went on, 'He intends to overthrow the civil authorities, proclaim God's kingdom here in York.'

  'Proof man, where's your proof?' Pilate wanted to know.

  Caiaphas shrugged. A slight movement. 'Would the Fuehrer require such proof?'

  Pilate studied Caiaphas with distaste. Was it possible that this arschlock of a priest was attempting blackmail? He narrowed his eyes, tried to gauge Caiaphas' manner. The priest met his gaze impassively but was that just a glint in his eye?

  Pilate went through a range of contrasting emotions. Annoyance, amusement, bemusement, and settled on cold fury. 'Shall I crucify your king?'

  'We have no king but the Fuehrer.' Caiaphas assured him.

  You won't be quite so keen on the Fuehrer in a few months, Pilate thought. 'Very well, Caiaphas.'

  'You'll sign?' Caiaphas placed the crucifixion order on the desk and slid it towards Pilate.

  In reply Pilate took his pen, signed the paper, pushed it back. 'He's all yours, but I warn you, I'm washing my hands of this matter. I’ll provide the facilities but it’s your show.'

  Caiaphas took the order, slipped it in his attaché case. 'Thank you.'

  Pilate watched in silence as the high priest left. Caiaphas might have won the battle, he thought, but he sure as hell would lose the war. He'd make sure this accursed priest would be on the first transport leaving for the camps. Cattle class.

  TWENTY-FOUR