Thief (9781451689112)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  Jesus hung limply, his head bowed, his breath quick and shallow. He opened his eyes as Longinus approached, looking at him alone. Longinus dropped his gaze to his bloody hands. Did Jesus despise him? Hate him for pounding the nails, for inflicting this torture? If I could do something to ease his suffering, I would.

  “I thirst.” The words left Jesus’ lips like a sigh.

  Longinus jerked to attention. He ran to the legionaries, grabbed a hyssop branch, and speared it through a sponge floating in a jar of sour wine.

  He carried the dripping sponge to Jesus and raised it to his cracked and bleeding lips.

  Jesus put his mouth to the sponge and swallowed. Jesus’ eyes met his for a moment. The peace he saw in them stretched to eternity. Longinus pulled the sponge away, his heart pounding. How could this man—dying on a cross—have such peace?

  Jesus pushed his feet hard on the block at the base of the cross and took a short breath. His gaze went to the younger woman and the lone disciple. Finally, he looked at the older woman.

  His mouth formed words, hardly more than whispers. “It is finished.”

  The shofar blew from the temple mount, signaling the sacrifice of the lambs for Passover was complete. Jesus’ head fell to the side. His straining legs and arms relaxed, and his body sank low on the cross. As the last echo of the horn faded, Longinus bowed his head and closed his eyes. It was over. Death had triumphed, victorious even over this man who had worked miracles.

  A deep tremble shot through his legs. He opened his eyes. The ground shook. The wind howled like a pack of wild dogs. Men and women shouted and grabbed one another to steady themselves.

  Where was Nissa? There, still wrapped around the base of Dismas’s cross.

  The legionaries standing in formation broke ranks but didn’t run. Marcellus stumbled toward Longinus. “What is it?”

  Longinus shook his head. The wrath of God? Or the wrath of the underworld?

  The trembling intensified, and the sky continued to darken into a night without stars or moon. What was next? Hail? Lightning bolts? His men called out to their gods and looked at the sky. He needed to get them out of here.

  One of the scribes approached through the gloom. His face was white and his chest heaved, but he motioned to the crosses and raised his voice over the wind. “They can’t stay up there. It’s Passover.”

  Longinus’s hands tightened into fists. The wrath of God descends, and these scrupulous cowards worry about Passover? He pushed the scribe aside and nodded to Marcellus. “Get the mallet. Break their legs.” At least he’d be able to shorten Dismas’s suffering.

  Marcellus picked up the iron mallet and slammed it into Gestas’s shin. Gestas screamed. The next blow broke his other leg. Gestas’s body slumped, unable to support him. His screams turned to gasps for air as Marcellus moved on to Dismas.

  The earth shuddered and groaned. Stones tumbled from the side of the hill down into the ravine below. The hot wind increased, spinning coils of dust over the hill.

  Nissa threw her body against Dismas’s cross. She pressed her cheek against his feet, her hands covering his lower legs. If Marcellus swung the mallet, surely he’d hit her.

  Longinus looked up at the Greek, dying for Nissa’s crime. Jesus forgave the men who had sentenced him to death. His heart hardened. But I can’t forgive Nissa. She didn’t deserve forgiveness any more than he did. He staggered toward Dismas’s cross as another tremor shook the earth. He’d make sure Marcellus could do his job.

  The scribe intercepted him. “Wait. What about him?” He jutted his chin toward Jesus.

  Jesus? Longinus stepped between the scribe and the center cross. “He’s already dead.”

  “I have to make sure.” He glanced around, his eyes wild with fear. “Now. Break his legs, too.”

  Longinus raised his voice over the screaming wind. “He’s dead, I tell you. Now go back to your precious temple.”

  The scribe didn’t back down. “If you don’t do it, I’ll find someone who will.” His voice cracked. “I want to know the man is dead. And I want it done now.”

  Longinus’s vision narrowed. What more did these infernal people need? Hadn’t this man’s body been abused enough today? Hadn’t these women before them witnessed enough? But the scribe’s face was set in stubborn lines.

  Longinus stomped to a sentry and tore his spear from his hand. “You want to see that he’s dead?” The wind wailed over the hilltop. His stomach twisted in a knot as he approached Jesus’ left side, raising the spear.

  The women and the young disciple drew back, their eyes wide.

  Using all his strength, Longinus thrust the lance into Jesus’ bloody side, piercing through his ribcage to where he knew the heart of Jesus lay still and unbeating. He yanked the spear out again. That should show this fool that Jesus has nothing left to give.

  Blood poured from the wound and splashed over Longinus’s hands and arms like a lamb sacrificed on the temple altar. For a moment his hands were covered in red. Then, from the same pierced side, came water—clear and clean—water that washed away the blood, cleansing him like a rushing stream.

  Longinus dropped the spear. A burst of energy shot through him, like he’d been struck by lightning. Hot and cold. A pain so profound and searing it slammed him to his knees. He clutched at his chest, unable to breathe. His vision failed, and a roaring filled his ears.

  I’m dying.

  Suddenly, a silence came over him, a calm stillness, like in a deep forest. A profound peace suffused him. A peace so immense, his heart was surely too tiny to hold it, his mind too puny to grasp even a corner of its meaning.

  I’m not dying. No, for the first time he was truly alive. His vision cleared, and he held out his hands. They were clean. Like he’d just washed in the Pool of Siloam. He looked up at Jesus, his heart swelling like it would burst from his chest. Even dead, he could give me this peace. He raised his voice, speaking to the howling wind, the rumbling clouds, the quaking earth. “Yes, this man was the son of God.”

  Peace filled him, but chaos still reigned on the hillside. The scribe was already halfway down the hill. Marcellus stood next to Dismas’s cross, the mallet hanging limply in his hand, his eyes wide as he looked from Jesus to Longinus. Nissa stared at him. Dismas groaned and drew a tortured breath.

  Longinus looked up at the man next to Jesus, meeting the innocent thief’s eyes. They were full of pain but also peace. Peace that he knew had come from Jesus, just like he’d seen in Stephen. Peace that was within him now.

  Forgive them. They know not what they do.

  Longinus stood, his mind clear and his body free from the heavy weight he had brought to Golgotha. He pointed to Dismas. “Marcellus. Help him.”

  Marcellus stepped forward, gripping the mallet again.

  Longinus went to Nissa. He pulled her away from the cross and wrapped his arms around her. Her arms flailed; her fists struck at him. He pulled her closer, restraining her against his armored chest. He bent and whispered in her ear, “It’s better this way, Nissa.”

  Dismas pushed himself up to gather a last breath. “Mouse,” he gasped.

  Longinus loosened his hold, and Nissa strained toward the man on the cross.

  “You are worth dying for.” He nodded to Marcellus and closed his eyes.

  Marcellus raised the mallet and took aim.

  Longinus pulled Nissa tight against him, covering her ears with his hands. He buried his face in her hair, wishing he could shut out the sound of breaking bones and Dismas’s scream.

  He waited until Dismas’s tortured breaths ceased. Nissa shook in his arms. If only he could give her the peace Jesus had given him. If only it could seep from him into her and lighten her sorrow. He looked at Jesus, limp and bloody on his cross, like any of the hundreds of criminals he’d executed. And Dismas, just another Greek pickpocket.

  But they were so much more than that.

  Dismas had died for Nissa. And Jesus had died to give him—a Roman, a pagan—the peace h
e longed for. How he knew he couldn’t say, but he knew it like he knew the wind blew and the ground quaked beneath him.

  And he could share it with Nissa. But first, he must forgive her.

  “Nissa.” His throat closed tight. How could he tell her? Here, where the skies threatened to fall upon them and the earth to split open. He tipped her chin up, meeting her red-rimmed, frightened eyes. Show her.

  He bent his head and set his lips on the soft curve of Nissa’s cheek. A kiss of peace. A kiss that—he could only hope—would tell her what he couldn’t say. I forgive you. Forgive me.

  For a breath of time, they stood motionless. The wind, the tremors of the earth, the darkness—all faded as he willed her the peace he’d been given. Shalom. He lifted his head. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, but no words came from her.

  A shout sounded over the wind. A cohort of legionaries crested the hill, led by Silvanus. When he saw Longinus, he shouted to his men, and they surged forward.

  Silvanus’s words came back to him. I had a talk with the little thief. Longinus gritted his teeth. He needed to get Nissa to safety, to tell her that Gestas had given her away. He looked behind him. The other side of the hill was a sheer cliff. Marcellus stood to his right, but he couldn’t ask him to take on this fight.

  He dipped his head and whispered to Nissa, “Get out of here. Now. Leave Jerusalem.” He pushed her behind him and faced Silvanus.

  Twenty men advanced with Silvanus, their swords raised. “Longinus. On Pilate’s command, I arrest you for treason against Rome,” Silvanus bellowed.

  Longinus willed himself not to turn to see if Nissa had followed his order. Go, Nissa. Before Silvanus realizes who you are.

  Marcellus came to his side, his hand going to his sword.

  “Don’t.” He put his hand on Marcellus’s shoulder and growled into his ear, “Just make sure she gets out of the city.”

  “But—” Marcellus shook his head, his eyes still on Silvanus.

  Longinus pulled himself up. He was still a centurion—at least for a few more moments—and he had given an order. “Leave me.”

  Marcellus nodded and stepped back.

  Another earthquake shook the ground. Silvanus and his men staggered. They looked at the sky, then to their commanding officer.

  Silvanus motioned with his vitis. “If he fights you, kill him.”

  Longinus moved forward, pulling his sword. The men advanced. He could kill a few of them, maybe even Silvanus. But he couldn’t fight the whole cohort, and he didn’t want to. The weight of his father’s sword was no longer welcome in his hand. It seemed foreign, like an object from another lifetime.

  He dropped the sword on the still-quaking ground and raised his hands. His killing days were done. He’d face Pilate on charges of treason. He would be flogged, perhaps even executed. It didn’t matter. It was finished.

  The legionaries surrounded him. One struck a blow that bent him double. Another wrenched his hands behind his back. The peace instilled by the blood and water glowed inside him. It was so absurd, he almost laughed as the ropes tightened around his wrists. He knew now where his loyalty lay. It was with this man—the son of God—dead, on the cross behind him.

  Finally, he was fully alive. And now he was not afraid to die.

  Chapter 34

  NISSA DRAGGED HER aching body through the streets of the upper city, keeping the two soldiers in sight. They pushed a handcart, carrying Dismas and Gestas away like offal.

  She felt no hunger, although she hadn’t eaten in days. No thirst, even as the hot wind dried her throat with every breath. Her mind spun with the words and images of Golgotha.

  Dismas was dead. You are worth dying for.

  Jesus was dead. My God, why have you abandoned me?

  Longinus, bound and hauled away by his own men. She put a hand to her cheek. That kiss, what did it mean? A tiny hope, like a bubble of water in a dry well, rose inside her. The kiss had felt like forgiveness, but how could he forgive her? Why would he?

  Before she could even speak, Marcellus had pushed her away from the crosses, warning her to leave Jerusalem: “They know where you live. Get out before they come for you.” What did it mean? What would they do to Longinus? Her stomach coiled in knots. It’s my fault.

  She stumbled at the Jaffa Gate and fell to her knees. People pushed past her, hurrying to get to their Passover meal. If she could just stop here for a while, just make sense of what had happened. But she couldn’t rest; she had to follow the men who had Dismas. She wouldn’t let the wild dogs tear his body to shreds and scatter his bones. She would do this last thing for him. After that, she didn’t care what happened to her. It didn’t matter.

  She dragged herself to her feet and followed the rumbling handcart to the western wall, out the Dung Gate, and into Gehenna. Of course, they would take them here, to a place already defiled.

  Ten paces outside the Dung Gate, Nissa pulled her mantle over her face. It did nothing to block the stench. Fires smoldered among the rubble. Piles of rotting carcasses buzzed with flies and crawled with maggots. Shards of broken pottery cracked under her feet like dry bones.

  The soldiers stopped next to a brushy scree. She stumbled into a copse of trees, their shadows deepening as the day grew dimmer. She could hide here, give the soldiers time to finish, then go to Dismas.

  A movement deep in the murky shade of the trees made her catch her breath. It was a man. Who was out here, on Passover, hiding? She ducked sideways. A crow cawed and flapped away, its cry loud enough to wake the dead. The man didn’t move or turn. Something was wrong.

  Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and a scream froze in her throat.

  It was a man, but he dangled from a rope, his feet hovering a handbreadth above the ground. His eyes bulged over a slack mouth, but even in death she recognized him. Judas.

  She covered her mouth and turned away. Her empty stomach heaved, and a wave of dizziness washed over her. His voice filled her mind. The desperation. The despair. Deal with your guilt as you must, the priest had told him. And he had, in the only way he could.

  The hot wind gusted, rustling the dry leaves and sending Judas’s body spinning. He did what he had to do. The bleak voice coiled through her mind, familiar and intimate, the only companion that she hadn’t lost. You are worthless, just like your father always said. God has abandoned you. You are just like Judas.

  She stumbled out of the trees. The soldiers clattered back toward the Dung Gate with their empty cart. Gestas and Dismas lay in a heap at the foot of a sloping hillock. She threw herself down beside Dismas’s lifeless body.

  Was the voice right? Had it been right all along?

  Dusk crept over the hills, and the shofar blew, signaling the beginning of the Passover feast. She knew what had made Judas put the rope around his neck. Anything would be better than living with what he had done. Even death had to be better. Was he at peace now? Had he atoned for his sin?

  A bark and howl of wild dogs sounded not far from her.

  Her body weakened, and her throat was as dry as the wasteland surrounding her. It doesn’t matter if I die out here. She’d lost everyone. She’d disgraced Cedron, Dismas was dead, Longinus arrested. Marcellus had said not to go back to her home, and that could mean only one thing. Gestas had betrayed her before he died. They would find her, and soon.

  But what would happen to Longinus? Marcellus’s face had been grim as he’d pushed her down the hill of Golgotha. Do you know what Pilate does to traitors?

  The names beat in her head like a drum. Cedron, Dismas, Longinus. Her sins had betrayed them all. She’d be better off dead, just like Judas. But not until she’d done what she came to do.

  Dismas lay facedown. She laid a hand on his shoulder. It was cold but not yet stiff. She pushed, rolling him over, then pulled and tugged until he looked like he was sleeping, his hands crossed over his bare chest.

  Nissa forced herself to look at Gestas. She couldn’t leave him like that, crumpled in a heap. He was a murde
rer and a thief, but so was she. She grabbed a fistful of his tunic and pulled him to lie next to Dismas. She stood, panting, her head spinning. Two thieves: one good, one bad.

  She began the slow process of covering Dismas’s body with rocks. First over his blood-covered legs, then his chest and shoulders. She gripped the last stone, looking long at his peace-filled face before it was hidden forever from this world. She remembered his quick smile and his whisper of a laugh. His love of women—all women. How he’d saved her from Longinus so long ago. You aren’t worth dying for, Mouse.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. But he had died for her. With his last breath, he had renounced his own bitter conviction and all that the dark voice had told her: You are worth dying for.

  And to Jesus he’d said, Remember me when you come into your kingdom. What made Dismas—a thief hanging on a cross—say such outrageous words to a man hanging next to him? Dismas had known something that she did not, and he’d taken the secret to this shameful grave.

  Longinus, too, had treated Jesus like a king. This man was the son of God. A Roman—a pagan—believed Jesus was the son of God. Longinus, who had risked everything, been arrested and taken away by his own people for her sake. But not before he had given her a kiss of peace. Maybe even forgiveness.

  Were they right to believe Jesus was more than a man? Were those words—Abba, forgive them—meant for her as well?

  Look what you’ve done. You are just like Judas. You don’t deserve forgiveness. The voice was strident now. Jesus was just another false prophet. Now he’s dead, just like the rest.

  Who should she believe? Dismas and Longinus? Or the voice that had brought her into this pit of despair and hopelessness?

  The hot wind whipped over her, dry and smelling of death. Dust coated her throat, and her eyes burned with grit. A small whisper spoke like a rustle of dry leaves: Trust in his mercy.

  What if she once again called on the Lord and he didn’t answer? Dismas had courage, even on the cross. Longinus had risked everything. Did she have enough courage to turn back to the Lord? Fear clawed her chest. What if he turns his face from me again? Would she end up like Judas, dead by the hand of despair?