A Stray Drop of Blood (38 page)

One little drop to soil her garment.

One little drop to cleanse her soul.

It was gone. The sin, the bitterness, the darkness, the hatred. It was gone, and it did not leave her empty as the disappointment had. It left her filled. Filled with life, filled with hope, filled with
him
.

She sagged against Jairus, willing now that Jesus would look her way. She wanted to look into his eyes, she wanted to cry out her epiphany, she wanted to fall at his feet and worship him. He was the Christ! He was Messiah! He could see her sins, he could see her ugliness, and he could forgive her. The questions of how she would know if he were what he said were suddenly irrelevant. How could anyone not know? How could anyone feel the power of
him
and not realize he was not only
of
God, but that he
was
God?

“
Hosanna,” Abigail whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“
Hosanna,” Jairus echoed, behind her now, since he had turned to follow Jesus’s progress with his eyes. “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest!”

“
Hallelujah.” Abigail sobbed quietly. “It is he. Blessed be the Lord, for he has heard the cries of his children and has answered! Father, forgive my doubt. It is he. It is he!” She fell to her knees with the force of her sudden emotion, and Jairus did not seem to notice. Indeed, he seemed to forget her presence; he wandered away, toward the place where the men would be attached to their crosses. It was a place to which Abigail did not wish to follow.

~*~

They stripped the prisoners, dividing their clothes among the centurions that attended them; it was part of the reward for supervising a crucifixion, this piece of clothing that one could keep and take home.

“
It is without seam!” One of the three centurions with Titus held up the tunic that Jesus had been wearing. He eyed his companions warily. “It would be a shame to divide it.”

Titus growled, shaking his head. “So cast lots. Later. We have a job to do.” He motioned toward the crosses.

The other soldiers dropped the clothes and all set about the task. The crosses were laid on the ground, the writhing men held down onto them. Getting the first one into position was not very difficult, but the screams that were torn from his throat as they hammered the spikes through his wrists, then his feet, were enough to throw the second criminal into a fevered pitch of panic. It took four of them to hold him down.

“
Just knock him out,” Titus suggested from where he stood, hammer and spikes in hand, waiting for them to subdue him.

“
And deprive the masses of his cries?” One of the soldiers sneered. “Never. There, we have him. Hurry.”

Titus bent down, looking only at the hand in front of him. It was clenched tightly, still trying to turn away from the soldier who grasped him. As soon as Titus touched the spike to his flesh, he let out a blood curdling wail. Titus raised the hammer and drove it with a single blow into the wood of the cross. One more secured it, then he moved to the other side and the other hand. Within moments, the thief was fixed. As two of them lifted the second cross into the second hole, the rest of them moved to the last convict.

“
What was he saying to you on the road?” one of his companions asked Titus as they walked the few steps.

“
Nothing.” Titus knew better than to say the truth to this man. He would not understand that his flesh still burned from where Jesus’s blood had touched it, he would not understand the knowledge that had been in that one-eyed gaze. He would not understand that Titus’s stomach turned at the thought of having to drive stakes into the wrists of one man when he had not hesitated a minute before.

As it was, another already stood ready with the tools. Titus approached Jesus, who was being stretched out on the wooden beams of the cross. He made no objections, no opposition. He let his arms be extended, his feet put one on top of the other. His good eye moved to Titus, then, when he felt the cold tip of metal against him, he closed his eyes. When the stake pierced, his body jerked with the pain and he emitted a low groan. None of them knew if he was too weary to manage more, or if it was a last show of quiet strength. He was raised, and the cross slid to its place in the ground.

“
Let us cast the lots,” a soldier proclaimed.

Titus turned from them in disgust.

~*~

“
We can wait no longer.”

Andrew turned to see anxiety written on Drusus’s face. “The sky grows darker, and aside from the storm, night will overtake us if we do not leave soon. We have given her hours.”

Simon and Andrew looked at each other, exchanging a silent message. Simon nodded. “You are right, Lord, we need to get the mistress moved soon. I will stay and wait for Abigail.”

Andrew threw back his shoulders.“I will stay.”

Drusus sighed. “Neither of you can stay. You will both be needed to carry Ester’s litter.”

Andrew ran his tongue over his teeth in thought. “Then we shall just leave her a note. The general promised he would help in any way he could; we will tell her to go to his house and ask one of his servants to accompany her to the inn.”

Simon nodded, Drusus looked at him curiously. “A note? She reads?”

Andrew and Simon’s gazes met again, and they laughed. “She reads,” Simon verified. “I shall fetch some parchment and ink. Andrew, tell the others that we will be going.”

“
No!”

They all turned to the doorway, where Samuel had approached unheard. “I cannot leave her! I will not!”

“
Samuel, she will join us by nightfall.” Andrew reached for the boy.

He dodged Andrew’s grasp, his eyes wide and frightened. “No. You cannot make me leave her! I will not!
I will not
!”

He dashed from the room before any of them could so much as take a step. Andrew took off after him, calling his name, but the child had headed straight for the door. By the time Andrew reached the threshold, he had disappeared from sight. He shouted and slammed a fist against the post.

“
I do not have time for this!”

“
He will return,” Dinah said calmly from behind him. “Probably not in time to come with us, but he will wait for Abigail. He will be all right, Andrew. Come, we are ready.”

Andrew had no choice but to turn back inside. Within ten minutes, the note was sitting on the worktable in the kitchen, weighted down by a bowl, and the group of five had left the house laden down and headed out of the city.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Abigail heard the people mock him. The criminal on his left. The soldiers beneath him. But Jesus would not fight back. He would hurl no insults. He would acknowledge no demands. Their cries of “Save yourself if you are the Son of God!” went ignored and unanswered.

By that time, the clouds on the horizon had obscured the sun, lending the entire event an ominous current. The electricity in the air must have had everyone on edge; the masses erupted in shouting, cursing, and insults aimed not only at those hanging before them, but at each other.

Abigail barely paid it heed. Her attention was riveted on the face that she could see on top of the middle cross, where Jesus listened in agony to the mockery that was hurled his way. She had gotten back to her feet at some point; she could not have said when. She kept her eyes on one point only, and had only blinked when necessary. When they offered him vinegar on a sponge, she was watching when he refused it. When they hung the sign Pilate had made, she read “This is Jesus, King of the Jews” in all three languages. The words stung with equal force in each one.

No one understood what it meant to be king of the Jews. The Hebrews thought it should be a position of honor and resented that such a wretch would call himself by such a name. Did they not remember that Israel should have had no king but God? That even the wise and successful kings like David and Solomon had faltered, failed, and been torn by bloodshed and sin? To be Israel’s king was not so much an honor as an allotment. And Rome–Rome thought Israel was a broken nation. They appointed their leaders, changed their titles on a whim . . . all according the will of Caesar, not of God.

But Jesus, as he looked out over the swarms of angry people, arms stretched wide and chest heaving, reigned supreme in ways none of them could ever know. Abigail wished he
would
call down his legions of angels, just to show this faithless generation that he
was
the Son of God. But she knew he would not. The man whose face held her gaze was humble, low, and weighed down by the sins of them all. As his eyes brushed over the faces in the crowd, brushed over hers, her heart swelled up. He knew them all. He saw their souls. And even as he loved them, he mourned for their failings. The longer he hanged, the more she could see its weight upon him.

The other criminals still spoke, probably numb to the pain. One cursed Jesus, the other cursed the first and begged Christ to make a place for him in his kingdom.

Jesus looked over at the dying man on his right and offered a bruised smile. Abigail saw his mouth move and could hear just enough to make out his words. “You will surely be with me in Paradise.”

Then the darkness grew more pronounced. Some of the crowd began to disperse, but Abigail remained where she was. She could not leave. What it was that riveted her to her spot she could not have said, but she knew she would see it through to its end.

~*~

Titus watched, listened. He kept his face in the same impassable expression as always, but something had shifted within him. He did not participate in the wagers his fellow soldiers were making, nor did he say so much as a word after the crosses were raised.

His mind traced over his life. That one open eye had seen more than Titus ever had in any introspection, and that was unacceptable. He remembered his stubbornness as a child, his willfulness as an adolescent. He recalled the many angry words he had tossed at his father, the fits of rage that had usually ended in a beaten servant or days of moody silence. He remembered the women, the revelries, the drunkenness. He remembered judging everyone for every fault without ever seeing his own.

How had he missed his shortcomings all of these years? How had he convinced himself that beating a slave for no reason was acceptable simple
because
he was master over the creature? Had he truly said not so long ago that the more women one could take, the better off one would be?

His stomach burned with the faults. A month ago, he never would have labeled them as such, but now he knew, in that place deep within that he had forced into dormancy long ago. It had finally reawakened in a spurt of destruction to rival Troy. His carefully constructed life was lying in tatters around him, all of his glories suddenly filthy parasites he wanted only to be rid of.

But how?

Forgive him
. The words echoed again within his mind. Which “him” was it now? His father, for never understanding him, never trusting him, for teaching him that the way to get what he wanted was to take it by force? Jason, for being better than he without ever trying, for getting killed before Titus could ever apologize for his misjudgments? Barabbas, for killing his one true friend? Abigail, for taking that friend away? Cleopas, for raising him so well? Did he need to forgive Menelaus for never being what he wanted him to be, Apidius and Lentulus for never being more than what they were? Did he truly have to forgive Pilate for giving in to the crowds, the crowds for their fickle will, the religious men for their jealousies, Jerusalem for its weakness?

He looked up into the face of the man on the center cross, and the King of the Jews looked to heaven.

“
Forgive them, Father,” the dying man said barely loudly enough to be heard, “for they know not what they do.”

A shudder ran down Titus’s spine. How could a man hanging on a cross, innocent of every crime but offending a few, be begging for forgiveness for his foes? How could he cast his face up to the heavens and expect a response when he found himself in such a situation? If he were what some said, if he were the Son of God, why did he not do as the crowd suggested and save himself? Why did he let his body weaken and die, why did he let his spirit shake? How could he still love a Father who let this happen to him?

“
Eli, Eli.
” Jesus’ cry sent a murmur through the crowds.

“
He is calling for Elijah!” one citizen shouted nearby.

“
Fool,” another reproached, “it is Hebrew.”

“
Eli
!” Jesus called again. “
Lama sabachthani?
”

Titus needed no interpreter to tell him what the words meant. He could feel them in his soul, feel them in the form of a tremor that started in his stomach and shook him all the way through. Why had God forsaken him? Even the man they called Christ did not know, he had to ask, he felt the loneliness that was man’s punishment for imperfection.