Thief (9781451689112)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  Three soldiers grappled Gestas to the ground as he cursed the crowd, the gods, even the sky, but his voice held the terror of someone who knew he was about to die. Three others stretched Dismas on his cross.

  Nissa threw herself next to him and held his face in her hands as a soldier bound each arm to the crossbeam. Another pushed the point of a long iron nail against his palm. Nissa pressed her cheek against Dismas’s rough face. His jaw tightened beneath hers as the hammer rose. At the clash of iron, his body seized upward, arching as a groan of agony broke from deep within his chest. Nissa’s stomach writhed, and her heart seemed to rip asunder as they hammered the second nail and moved to tie Dismas legs to the bottom of the beam. Dismas jerked as another nail pierced his feet, and a low moan shook his body.

  Rough hands wrenched Nissa away and flung her onto the rocks. She squeezed her eyes shut. Blackness swam around her, and nausea rose in her throat. There would be no mercy. Not for Dismas, and not for her.

  The exultant voice howled. Look what you’ve done.

  The voice was right. It had always been right. This was her fault. She was worthless, useless. It would be better if she had never been born.

  She opened her eyes to see the soldiers raising the cross. Dismas’s head swung wildly, and blood streamed from his mouth where he had bitten through his lower lip. A hollow thud echoed over the hilltop as the bottom of the cross found its niche in the rock.

  Nissa crawled to the foot of the cross, her mouth as dry as a potsherd, her bones as soft as wax. She inched up on her knees, reaching to touch Dismas’s foot, pierced by a black nail and dark with blood.

  She leaned her head against the damp wood that smelled of blood and sap. My God, my God, why have you abandoned me? She closed her eyes, and blackness descended upon her.

  Chapter 32

  LONGINUS SUFFERED EVERY tortured step Jesus took as they approached the ascent to Golgotha. He swept the crowds back with his vitis but couldn’t stop their insults or the rocks and debris they flung at the man who staggered, barely alive, under the cross.

  Numb, he watched men gather at the top of the hill. Golgotha. The place of the skull. His gut twisted. Here he would order the death of this man, pound the nails, raise the cross. And these men, these pious Jews, were rushing for the front row.

  Where were all those who should be here—Jesus’ disciples and friends? Had the cowards all abandoned the one they called the Messiah?

  He wouldn’t abandon this man—the one he would crucify today with his own hand—whether he was a man or the son of the one God, as Stephen had claimed.

  He would do what Jesus had so clearly willed him to do. His Father’s will. As soon as Jesus was dead, probably before, Silvanus would run to Pilate and accuse Longinus of treason. It didn’t matter. His friends were now his enemies, and his enemies—the Jews, the followers of Jesus—they hated him, too. He was more alone than he had ever been.

  Wood scraped against the dirt and rock. Jesus’s breath rasped in and out of his chest in tortured gasps. He swayed and fell, the heavy wood beam falling across his shoulders and pushing his face into the dirt. Two legionaries closed in on him, kicking and shouting. He didn’t move.

  Longinus smacked his vitis against a legionary’s helmet. “Help him up.” The legionary obeyed, setting Jesus on his feet and moving ahead to push the crowd back from the path that wound up the rocky hill.

  Longinus’s muscles tensed as Jesus dragged the cross one step forward. He was weakening. He’d left so much blood at the flogging pillar, he should be dead already. It would be more merciful for him to die here, at the bottom of the hill. Anything was more merciful than what awaited him on Golgotha.

  He must die on the cross. Longinus knew it in the same way he knew that he must be the one to get him there.

  He jumped down from Ferox and moved to a knot of bystanders—a man and a few women and children. All had the ebony skin of the southern provinces, Cyrene by the look of them. The women wept and covered their faces, pulling children into the folds of their garments. The man had wide shoulders, thick arms, and eyes full of pity.

  “You there.”

  The man jumped and looked behind his shoulder.

  Longinus pointed his stick. “Help him.”

  “Me?” The man shook his head. “I don’t even know him.”

  “Carry the cross for him, to the top of the hill.”

  The man backed up, a terrified look on his face.

  Longinus took a long, slow look at the women and children. He’d never hurt them, but this man didn’t know that. He raised his stick toward them. “Now.”

  The man jerked forward and hurried to catch up with Jesus. He ducked under the cross and wrapped his thick arms around the beam. When he lifted it from Jesus’ shoulders, Jesus crumpled to the ground again.

  He didn’t move. The Cyrenian looked at Longinus, a question on his face. Longinus’s mouth went dry. He slid his hands under Jesus’s arms and lifted him from the dirt. For a moment, Jesus’ weight was in his arms. His muscles were hard and sinewy, and he smelled of blood and sweat. He was like any other man Longinus had crucified . . . until he lifted his head to meet Longinus’s eyes. There, in that gaze, Longinus glimpsed the peace that he sought—the peace Stephen had found—like water flowing from a never-ending source.

  Jesus could stop this. Longinus could see his power even now, feel it under his hands. Yet Jesus refused to wield it. Why would a god—the God—want his own son to die like this, on a Roman cross? What had Pilate said? Sometimes the innocent have to pay the price for the guilty. Just as Dismas was doing for Nissa. So who was Jesus saving from death? Whose punishment was he taking on his shoulders?

  Longinus leaned Jesus against the Cyrenian. They stepped together, the big man shortening his long steps to accommodate Jesus’ shuffling gate. Longinus pulled himself back onto Ferox and urged the horse up the hill. Dismas’s cross was already raised. He trembled on it, a low groan coming from him. Gestas cursed at the world. The thieves hadn’t lost as much blood as Jesus; they would last a long time. Perhaps even days.

  He hardened his heart at the sight of Nissa, huddled at Dismas’s feet. Her anguish was well deserved. If he could, he’d shorten the thief’s agony on the cross. That was all he could do for Dismas.

  Jesus fell to his knees at the top of the hill. The Cyrenian dropped the cross between the two thieves, his breath heaving. He glanced warily at Longinus.

  Longinus waved him away. “Go now. Back to your family.”

  But the man retreated to the edges of the crowd, his eyes on Jesus, the fear in his face replaced with grief.

  Longinus eyed the dismal hilltop where the Romans crucified murderers and thieves, insurrectionists and rebels. Jesus wasn’t a rebel, not like the others. This man was something else. A prophet? Perhaps. He had spoken to God in the garden. A priest and healer? Yes. Longinus had seen his miraculous power. But more than that, even as he knelt beside the wood of the cross with a crown of thorns on his head, he had the air of a king.

  Two legionaries halted in front of Longinus, waiting for orders.

  This was the last chance. Longinus couldn’t stop what was about to happen, but Jesus could. He bent over the kneeling man. Jesus raised his face to look into Longinus’s eyes.

  Longinus heard the echo of the words in the garden. Not my will, Abba, but yours be done.

  Longinus nodded to his men. They pulled Jesus to his feet and yanked his tunic over his head. His wounds reopened, and bright blood flowed over his back and chest. Clothed only in his linen undergarment, he shivered in the cold wind gusting over the hilltop.

  Longinus swallowed, his mouth tasting like dust and just as dry.

  The wails of the women grew louder.

  A legionary hefted the mallet and chose a nail the length of his hand and as thick as his finger. The other two threw Jesus onto the cross. The sun dimmed, like a shadow had fallen across the heavens.

  A searing pain ripped through Longinus’s templ
e. He must be the one. He, the only Roman who knew this man wasn’t a criminal but something more than any of them could understand. He pushed the legionary aside and jerked the mallet from his hand.

  Jesus didn’t struggle. The two legionaries stretched one arm along the crossbeam. Jesus opened his hand to receive the nail. Longinus knelt beside the cross. He fit the point of the nail into the palm of the man who had healed the blind, raised a man from the tomb. Forgive me. He lifted the mallet and let it fall.

  Iron rang on iron. Jesus cried out. His back arched, and blood spurted onto the dark wood and the white stone. Twice more, Longinus lifted the mallet. Twice more Jesus cried out until the nail head lay flush against his palm.

  Longinus fought the sickness that threatened. He scrambled to the other side of the cross, where his men held Jesus’ other hand. Three rings of the mallet, and the other hand was nailed.

  Longinus closed his eyes and pulled in a breath. The tang of blood pervaded the air. Groans from the thieves and the mocking voices of the crowd pressed down on him. The legionaries moved to the bottom of the cross, pulling Jesus’ legs straight and positioning his feet over the block of wood that would hold the nail. They looked up to Longinus.

  Longinus’s chest squeezed tight, too tight to pull in a breath. He backed away from the cross. No. I can’t do it.

  Jesus’ head lolled to one side. He opened his eyes and fixed them on Longinus.

  Longinus wrenched off his helmet, dropped it on the ground, and swiped a hand across his wet eyes. He kneeled and laid his hand on the feet that had walked the roads of Galilee and the streets of Jerusalem.

  The legionary pushed down hard on Jesus’ feet, flattening the arches against the wooden block, stretching the tendons of his ankles until Jesus let out a low moan.

  Longinus positioned the point of the nail. He raised the mallet, and it fell. The nail pierced the soft flesh, and blood poured from it, over his hands. Another strong, square blow sent the nail through bone and into the wood. It was done.

  Jesus lay on the cross, his muscles standing out in tension, the tendons of his neck tight and defined. The shadows deepened, as though night were falling in the middle of the day.

  Longinus dropped the mallet, his heart straining against his chest. He bent double, coughing and spitting bile from his empty stomach. He wiped his face with his blood-covered hands. He had feared for Jesus in the garden last night. He had felt the presence of death, and now he knew why. He was the instrument of that death. Surely the god of the Jews would strike him down. I hope he does.

  His men looped rope around the cross and raised it between the thieves.

  Men and women gathered. Some shouted insults and threw stones; others watched silently. In front, in the shadow of the cross, stood a group of women and the young disciple who had been in the garden.

  Longinus longed to go to them, to beg their forgiveness. I am their enemy.

  Nissa lay crumpled at the foot of Dismas’s cross. The blood of innocent men was on both their hands, a crime that could never be forgiven.

  Footsteps shuffled, and donkeys’ hooves struck stone. A group of Jews—Pharisees, priests, the ones who had gathered in the front during the trial—approached the cross. One pointed to the sign affixed above Jesus’ head. “It should say, ‘This man claimed to be King of the Jews.’ ”

  Another spit at the foot of the cross. “Let him come down now, and we will believe in him.”

  Anger surged through Longinus. Hadn’t they done enough? Must they now mock him during his agony? He struggled to his feet, clutching his vitis. He’d make them regret their harsh words. At least he could do that for the man on the cross.

  He approached them with his vitis raised, but Jesus strained forward, pushing his feet against the block of wood and taking a deep breath. His voice rang out. “Abba, forgive them.” He battled for another breath. “They know not what they do.”

  The Jews gasped. “How dare he!”

  Longinus froze. How could he? Forgive the men who had falsely accused him, betrayed him, given Pilate no choice but to execute him? A new thought cut through his disbelief, and the vitis dropped from his slack fingers. Abba, forgive them. Did he . . . Could he mean all of them? Even the man who had brought him to Golgotha and pounded the nails into his hands and feet?

  He turned his gaze to the bleeding man on the cross. No. Forgiveness should bring peace. The peace he’d seen in Stephen. He had a knot of guilt in his gut. He held out his hands, covered in the blood of an innocent man. No, Jesus didn’t mean him. He wasn’t a Jew, one of the Chosen People. He wasn’t even a good man, like Stephen or the thief who had given his life for Nissa. He was a Roman centurion. A killer. There would be no forgiveness—and no peace—for him.

  Chapter 33

  NISSA OPENED HER eyes, the sky and land still spinning around her. Her head rested on the wood of the cross; her arms were wrapped around the base. The sky was the color of soot, as though night were falling.

  From the center cross, words scraped through the air. “Abba, forgive them. They know not what they do.”

  Forgive them? Just as he had forgiven the woman that day so long ago. How could he?

  She raised her face to Dismas. He was struggling to get his breath, his eyes on Jesus. “Listen to him, Nissa. Have you ever heard such words?”

  Longinus stood beside Jesus’ cross, his blood-covered hands outstretched. His helmet lay on the ground, and a smear of blood covered his face. His mouth was pulled tight as if to keep it from trembling.

  She sank down into the dirt. There was no forgiveness here in this place of pain and despair. Only regret for what couldn’t change.

  Two women—she’d seem them last night, the mother of Jesus and the beautiful one—and a young man inched closer to Jesus. Longinus moved away from Jesus—reluctantly, it seemed. The women rushed forward and threw themselves at the foot of the cross. Just like Nissa, they huddled there, but their tears flowed freely, while hers were locked deep inside her.

  A man spit at the base of the cross. “He saved others. Why can’t he save himself?”

  Gestas, on the other side of Jesus with no mourners at his feet, struggled to take a breath, then croaked, “Yes, save yourself and us, King of the Jews.”

  Dismas jerked up with a groan of agony, raising himself enough to take a rasping breath. “Gestas, don’t you fear God?”

  Nissa’s heart cramped in her chest.

  Dismas gulped in another breath. “We . . . we deserve our punishment.” He pulled himself higher on the cross and looked toward Jesus. “But this man is no criminal.”

  Dismas’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Jesus.” He bowed his head as Jesus turned to look at him. “I am a sinful man.” Dismas pushed his feet against the block of wood, his legs trembling with effort. “But I beg you, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

  Nissa looked at Jesus—covered in blood, pinned to a cross, almost dead. What can Dismas see that I do not?

  Jesus answered like a king. “Amen, I say to you,” he croaked, as though the words tore at his throat. “This day, you will be with me in Paradise.”

  The scribes scoffed, and the legionaries laughed. Gestas threw another curse before groaning and slumping down. But Dismas looked at Nissa, his eyes cleared for a moment of the agony that had clouded them. “Did you hear him? Today, Nissa, I will be in Paradise.”

  A lump in her throat choked off Nissa’s breath. She rested her cheek on the damp wood. If only she could believe it. She’d thought yesterday that this man could save Dismas, but he couldn’t save anyone.

  A Pharisee spit in the direction of the cross. “The world is rid of two fools today. One who says he is the son of God, and one who believes him!”

  I wish I could believe it. If Dismas went to Paradise today, the Lord was, indeed, merciful.

  You know better, the voice whispered from a lightless place that threatened to swallow her.

  Jesus raised his head. His words rang
out over the windswept hillside and echoed the despair in Nissa’s heart. “My God . . . my God . . . why have you abandoned me?”

  LONGINUS STOOD BESIDE the cross and looked up at the sky. The sun was hidden, as though a storm approached, but no smell of rain or cool wind freshened the air. Instead, a hot, fetid wind blew, and the smell of death surrounded him—blood, fear, and the heavy sweetness of incense from the temple.

  A group of legionaries played dice and drank wine. The others stood guard, their faces stoic, but Longinus knew they were hoping the men would die quickly so they could get back to their tents and have their dinner. He’d been in their position plenty of times.

  He, too, hoped for quick death. Jesus’ tortured breaths were like a knife cutting into his soul. He could do nothing for this man but stand beside him. Was he the son of God, as Stephen had claimed? I don’t know who he is. But he’d seen him defeat the specter of death in the garden. And Longinus knew this cross, this suffering and death—for some reason known only to Jesus—was willingly borne. And it was done at the will of the god of Israel, the Abba that Jesus had prayed to in the garden.

  He would stay until the end, until Jesus took his final breath. Then Silvanus would come, and Pilate would have no mercy.

  A legionary, one of Silvanus’s lackeys, labored up the hill, his cloak blowing wildly in the wind. The man stopped in front of Longinus. “You are to report to Pilate immediately.”

  Silvanus hadn’t wasted any time. Longinus’s hands itched to strike out at the centurion’s messenger. “After he’s dead.”

  “Immediately.”

  Longinus let out a long breath. Whatever they did to him, it couldn’t be worse than what Jesus was suffering. A Roman citizen couldn’t be crucified, but there were many ways to die.

  “You’ve done your duty. Go back and tell Pilate I’ll be there when I get there.” He returned to his position beside the cross. Everyone—except these women and a disciple hardly more than a boy—had left Jesus. He wouldn’t.