The Kingdom and the Crown

by Gerald N. Lund

  Once the man was fastened securely to the cross beam, it was lifted up and placed on the upright. If the uprights were short, about the height of a man, this could be done by a couple of soldiers. With taller uprights, as were used at Golgotha, the soldiers used block and tackles to raise the condemned man into place. Then a man with a ladder would climb up and, with other spikes, fix the cross beam firmly to the upright.

  That done, the feet were nailed to the cross as well. Generally this required only one spike. It was driven through both heel bones, again to prevent the softer flesh from tearing through. Midway on the upright, a small, triangular block of wood was nailed to provide a crude seat for the condemned. This, like the drink of wine and myrrh, helped carry out the goal of the crucifixion, which was prolonged, sustained agony. By sitting on the seat for short periods of time, the man could relieve the constriction in his chest, which was caused by the intense pain, and thus avoid suffocation.

  Fortunately for Sextus Rubrius, on this day he had a commanding officer who had no more stomach for crucifixion than Rubrius did. Once they had arrived, Marcus had barked out some orders, retrieved another flagon of wine from his saddlebags, and gone up the little knoll above them to watch it all from a distance.

  Sextus gave his orders, then turned away. By now he had seen several faces he recognized in the crowd: David ben Joseph and his wife, Deborah; Simeon and his new wife; Peter the Fisherman; Matthew the Publican; and Luke the Physician, who more than once had treated Sextus or his household servants.

  He couldn’t meet their eyes. He was sure they recognized him, just as he had them, but he kept his gaze fixed on the ground or directly on the soldiers carrying out his orders. With a deep sadness, he realized that never again would he be free to return to Capernaum, where he had spent some of his best years as a Roman soldier.

  A disturbance erupted behind him, and Sextus turned. The first prisoner was already up on his cross, moaning and writhing in pain. The second Zealot was on the ground. He fought violently as the soldiers pinned his arms. He cursed and spit and shouted every obscenity he could bring to his tongue. He kicked out at one of those who held his feet and sent him sprawling. Three more soldiers leaped in to hold him fast. When the mallet struck the first spike, the curses turned into a shriek that rent the air. These were the sounds of Sextus’s nightmares, placed there by crucifixions in the past. They never went away. Perhaps they never would. The man’s body twisted and turned as the waves of pain shot through him. Sextus watched only long enough to make sure his men had the situation under control, then turned away.

  A few feet from the second Zealot, Jesus stood quietly, waiting his turn. Sextus moved a little so that one of his men blocked him from Jesus’ sight; then Sextus studied him with dark, moody eyes. What was going on in Jesus’ mind? What was he thinking, now that he was just minutes from going to the cross? The crowds had mostly broken up and gone back into the city, not having the stomach for what they knew was coming. About a dozen of the Sanhedrin remained, however, including the four leaders. They stood in a tight cluster. There was no horror in them. Their faces were hard as flint. Their voices were low and angry. They would see this out, make sure that nothing went wrong at the last minute.

  The rest who were present were mostly loyal followers of Jesus. The women were huddled together, shawls pulled up and over their heads. They were not talking, and they had become too numbed and exhausted for tears. The men were a short distance away, looking as if they were the ones who had been sentenced to die.

  Sextus grimaced at the sudden irony of it all. Loyal disciples, bitter enemies, hardened and apathetic soldiers—a strange fellowship had gathered to watch this man die. Yet if Jesus was aware of any of them, he didn’t show it. He still wore the scarlet robe and the crown of thorns. His hands were no longer bound—they had been freed when the cross beam had been tied onto his shoulders back at the Praetorium—but they hung limply at his side. The trembling in his body, caused by loss of blood and the terrible pain of the scourging, had steadied. His face was drawn and haggard, but his eyes were calm. His gaze was fixed on some far distant point.

  In spite of himself, Sextus turned and looked where Jesus was looking. There was nothing to see, of course. The green hills of Jerusalem were in the foreground. Beyond that, the sky was gray, covered by a high, thick overcast. The air, though not particularly warm, was already heavy. It was muggy, and by the time the afternoon came it would likely feel quite oppressive.

  “All right, your royal highness,” barked a voice. “It’s your turn.”

  Sextus turned back. Two soldiers were standing before Jesus, removing the robe from his shoulders. For a moment, the old centurion was tempted to bolt up the hill, find Marcus, and blurt out whatever excuse it would take to allow him to stay there with him. Then the sense of duty that had been Sextus’s lodestar for the last thirty years overrode the desire. Only this time it wasn’t duty to the empire that moved him; it was his sense of duty to the man who was about to be nailed to the cross. This man had once treated him as an equal, had healed his servant from a distance, even though Sextus was a hated Roman. There was nothing Sextus could do to stop what was happening, but he could see to it that Jesus had at least one person who viewed him with respect and dignity as he went to the cross.

  He turned and walked swiftly, his sandals crunching on the gravel. The men looked up in surprise. They were removing Jesus’ tunic, stripping him down to the inner garment that covered his loins, but leaving him otherwise naked. Jesus winced and grunted softly as the fabric was pulled away, tearing at the dried blood and flesh of his lacerated back.

  One of the soldiers dropped to his knee and swept out one arm. “Right this way, your majesty,” he cawed.

  “That’s enough!” Sextus snapped.

  The three men looked at him quickly, surprised by his anger.

  “Get on with it. The time for making sport is over.” Without waiting to see their reaction, he walked to the jar that held the wine and myrrh and filled the cup. By the time he turned back, they had Jesus on his back and were stretching his arms out across the long beam. Sextus knelt beside Jesus. He wanted to avert his face, to avoid looking into the eyes that had once looked into his with respect and acceptance, but he couldn’t. He lifted Jesus’ head and brought the cup forward. Seeing what it was, Jesus raised up hungrily. But the moment he tasted it, he jerked away and refused to drink any more of it.

  Sextus let go of his head and stood up. He wanted to speak, to say something. Anything. But nothing came out. He shook his head. What could you say to a man whom you were about to crucify?

  Then he looked down, starting a little. Jesus was looking directly up at him. His eyes were bright and alert and, in that instant, Sextus realized why Jesus had turned away from the cup. He would meet this day with full faculties. And then he saw something else in the man’s eyes. He nearly fell back a step, realizing that it was exactly what he had once seen there before—respect, acceptance. And understanding.

  “We’re ready, sir,” a voice beside him said. Sextus turned. The soldier in charge of placing the nails stood directly behind the cross beam. In his hand, he held a large wooden mallet with steel bands around the head, and a sackful of spikes. The two soldiers who had stripped Jesus of his clothes still knelt, holding his hands and arms.

  “Take care,” Sextus said gruffly. “No mistakes.” He owed Jesus that much. He stepped back, forcing himself to not turn away, forcing down the sickness in the pit of his stomach.

  Jesus gasped as the first blow of the mallet sounded dully. His body jerked violently. His eyes glazed over momentarily, and Sextus thought he might faint. But he did not. As the nail was driven deep into the wood, the chest rose and fell in great heaves. A second nail went through the palm, and Jesus groaned in agony. Then his eyes came open again. He was staring straight up into the heavens. And, to the astonishment of those who stood or knelt around him, the prisoner spoke.

  “Father!” It was a stra
ngled cry torn from parched lips. “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

  II

  Sextus felt a rough hand on his shoulder and turned around.

  “You can’t put that up there.”

  Sextus frowned. It was Azariah, the pompous old Pharisee who was one of the leaders of the Great Council. Right behind him were Mordechai ben Uzziel and the two high priests. Their mouths were twisting in indignation.

  With a grim smile, Sextus turned back and handed the titulus to the nearest soldier. “Make sure it’s secure,” he commanded.

  The soldier, grinning at the discomfiture of the old Jews, took the sign and scrambled up the small ladder that had been placed against the back of the cross. He reached around, placing the sign over the head of Jesus, and quickly tapped two nails through it to hold it in place on the cross beam.

  “You can’t say that,” Azariah protested shrilly. “Don’t say that he was King of the Jews.”

  Sextus glanced quickly at the title board, though he knew very well what it said. The same simple sentence was written in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.” Now Sextus understood why Pilate had been so specific about it, which had surprised him at the time. The Romans always placed a titulus on the cross, a board that carried the criminal’s name and crime for which he was being punished. When Marcus had asked the procurator what title he wanted over Jesus’ head, Pilate gave him a crafty smile. The Jews had insisted that Jesus was making himself a king, and that was treason. So Pilate had rubbed their noses in it. A king he would be.

  “Say not, ‘The king of the Jews,’” Caiaphas suggested, “but only that he claimed to be the king of the Jews.”

  “It was the governor who wrote that,” Sextus said coldly. “If you wish the title changed, then take it up with him.”

  “We shall!” Mordechai snapped right back at him. He didn’t like the insolence of this Roman centurion. “And we shall report your unwillingness to cooperate. Come,” he said to the others. “There are other matters we must discuss with the governor as well.”

  He started away, but Azariah didn’t move. He was staring up into the face of Jesus, now about two or three feet above him. His lips twisted into a mocking sneer. “Jesus!” he called out sharply.

  The head lifted, the eyes slowly coming into focus.

  Azariah moved a little closer. “You said you could destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days,” he taunted. “Well, if you are the Son of God, as you claimed to be, let us see you come down from the cross.”

  Caleb, who was nearby, hooted in delight at Azariah’s joke. “Yes, Jesus,” he called. “You claim to be the Messiah. Surely you can save yourself.”

  Mordechai stopped to watch, not pleased. It was a juvenile thing to do. They had gotten their wish. Their enemy was hanging from the cross. It was done. Yet he was not surprised when Caiaphas turned back and joined Azariah and Caleb. “He saved others,” Caiaphas cackled wildly, “yet he cannot save himself.”

  Others from the council moved in. It was obvious the Romans weren’t going to interfere. Even the centurion had moved back in disgust, but he made no effort to stop them.

  “He is the king of Israel,” one of the Sadducees cried, pointing to the title sign. “Let him come down from the cross, and then we will believe.”

  “Hear, hear!” cried another. “Come down, Jesus, and we will worship you.”

  “He trusted in God,” Caleb said gleefully, “let us see if God will now deliver him.”

  “All right,” Mordechai said, his temper growing short. “We have things to do. Let’s be on with them.”

  Still laughing, the group moved away. As they reached the road, Azariah looked back again. He raised a fist and shook it in the direction of the crosses. “Save yourself, Jesus,” he called. “Then I will believe.”

  III

  Peter put his hands over his ears, trying to shut out the jeering and the mockery. His hands twisted in his hair as he stared at the ground. Andrew sat beside him, staring blankly at nothing. The other apostles stood or sat in small groups. Some could not take their eyes away from the horrible scene before them. Some could not bear to look and had turned their backs to the crosses. Mary Magdalene and Martha had their arms around each other, swaying slowly back and forth as if that might assuage the pain somewhat. Lazarus and his sister Mary stood together, staring across the road at the city walls. Luke sat alone. Matthew and Thomas and Philip were together, but no one spoke. Anna, Peter’s wife, sat on the ground. Jesus’ mother had her head buried in her lap, and Anna stroked her hair gently again and again. John knelt beside them, steadying Mary’s arm as she fought her grief.

  In Simeon’s family, it was no different. His mother and Rachel clung to each other. Leah was prostrate on the ground, her face buried in her arms. From time to time, silent shudders would sweep through her body; then she would lie still again. Simeon knelt by Miriam, who sagged heavily against him. She had a double burden on this day. She was staring at her father, who stood near the cross with the others.

  Simeon put a hand on her cheek. “He’s not part of the mockery, Miriam,” he whispered. “You can see he doesn’t approve.”

  She had seen that, but it was little comfort. Jesus was dying right before her eyes. Perhaps her father wasn’t willing to taunt him now, but he was glad. That showed in every movement, every expression of his face. What did a little reticence about mockery count for at this point?

  Then finally, thankfully, the jeering, taunting group moved away, turning back toward the city gate. To Simeon’s surprise, however, another voice took up the cry. His head lifted, searching for the source of it. To his shock, it was the Zealot who hung to the left of Jesus. “Art thou the Christ?” His voice was hoarse and strained. “If you are, save yourself and us.”

  Jesus turned and looked at him, but then the third man spoke. He was not looking at Jesus, but at his companion. “Leave him alone,” he cried. “Do you not fear God, seeing that we are under the same condemnation as this man? But we indeed suffer justly, for we receive the due reward for what we have done.” He turned to look at Jesus. “But this man has done nothing amiss.”

  There was a long silence. Every eye had turned to the three men. Every person there listened intently to the interchange.

  “Jesus?” The second man’s voice grew softer, almost pleading. “When you come into your kingdom, will you remember me?”

  The head of the Master lifted painfully. “Verily I say unto you, on this day, you shall be with me in paradise.”

  IV

  John came up with a start. The flash of light was followed almost instantly by a crack of thunder, which shook the ground and bounced off the stone walls of Jerusalem. He tipped his head back, astonished at what he was seeing.

  Just an hour before, the sky had been overcast, with little threat of rain. Now it was as black as a beetle’s belly. The clouds were low and visibly rolling toward them from the west. Lightning flickered in the roiling mass, and a rumble sounded in the distance.

  Mary’s head came up too, and she looked around anxiously. John put his arm around the Master’s mother. “It’s all right. A storm is brewing, that’s all.”

  She scanned the sky even as the first puff of wind stirred her hair; then she put her head back down again in Anna’s lap.

  “John!”

  The youngest of the apostles leaped to his feet, staring upward. He walked swiftly to the foot of the cross. “Yes, Master?”

  The tortured eyes lifted. John turned. Mary was sitting up again, her hand to her mouth. When she saw that Jesus was looking directly at her, she rose and walked quickly to stand beside John. “What is it, my son?” she asked, tears spilling over again as she looked up into his face.

  The love she saw there, behind the pain and the agony, made her draw in her breath involuntarily. The tears poured out, and her shoulders began to shake.

  “Woman,” he said, using the title that connoted the great
est respect and honor a child could extend to a parent. “Behold thy son.”

  Her eyes widened; then she slowly turned to John. But John still had his eyes fixed on the man above him.

  More quietly now, as if that first effort had nearly spent him, he spoke again. “John, behold thy mother.”

  John’s head dropped. His eyes were burning. Finally, he lifted his head again. “I understand, Master,” he whispered. And with that, he put his arm around Mary and helped her back to rejoin the others.

  V

  Jerusalem, Upper City, the Praetorium

  “This is an outrage,” Azariah spluttered. “An insult.”

  “It was you who said he was a king.” Pilate turned and gave Mordechai ben Uzziel a long, hard look. “And it was you who suggested that if I didn’t do something about this man who would be king, you would complain to Caesar.”

  Mordechai said nothing. If he had been close enough, he would have grabbed Azariah by the throat and tried to choke off the idiocy coming from the man’s mouth. They were out in the courtyard. The wind was howling around them, and blowing dust stung their eyes. Pilate had come to them, irritation and distaste written all over his face. Mordechai had tried to convince Azariah to go inside and not make Pilate go out into the storm, but the stubborn old fool wouldn’t budge on that either. If they entered the house of a Gentile during the Passover festival, an elaborate ritual of purification would be required before they could be clean. No wonder Pilate was not cooperative.

  “Then at least say he claimed to be a king.” Azariah was not one to let things go easily.

  “What I have written, I have written,” Pilate said shortly, ending the debate.

  Mordechai glanced at Annas, signaling for him to join in.

  “We have another matter,” Annas came in smoothly.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, Excellency. As you know, today is Friday. That means the Sabbath begins at sundown.”

  “After nine years in Judea,” Pilate observed curtly, “I think I have learned a thing or two about the Hebrew calendar.”