Soldier of Rome: Journey to Judea (The Artorian Chronicles) (33 page)

“I think he’s agonized sufficiently,” Artorius said to Pilate, whose expression was also one of horror.

“Agreed,” he said. Then guiding Jesus by the arm, he took him out to the Praetorium, where the crowd immediately erupted into chants for his execution.

“Behold the man!” Pilate shouted to the crowd. “He has been scourged and chastised sufficiently. Therefore, I am of mind to release him.”

“No!” screamed the crowd. “He must be crucified!”

“There’s nothing for it,” Artorius said in exasperation.

“They’ve all gone mad,” Justus concurred. He then looked to Pilate. “What are we to do? Surely we do not execute a man simply to placate the mob. But we cannot release him now
. It’ll start a damn riot!”

“I have one last card to play,” Pilate answered. His eyes were fixed on a priest standing next to Caiaphas, who had remained mostly silent. “You,” Pilate said to him. “You’re the man whose daughter was defil
ed by a notorious criminal and seditionist called Barabbas.”

“Yes, Excellency,” the man said, averting his eyes in shame.

“What has this to do with the matter at hand?” Caiaphas protested.

Pilate grinned and then looked to the crowd.
“It has periodically been a custom for the Roman procurator of this province to pay homage to your people’s Passover celebrations by releasing a condemned person back into society. This has not been done for some years, and perhaps now we should revive this show of mercy. I will therefore give you two choices. Either I release Jesus bar Abbas, a known thief, murder, rapist of young girls, and a man who actually sought open rebellion against Rome, or I can release Jesus of Nazareth, a man who I find no fault in, and who your own King Herod refused to condemn.”

There was suddenly a deepening silence as the crowd was shocked by what the procurator was proposing. The priest, whose daughter had been violated by Barabbas, closed his eyes as if in prayer. When he opened them again, they were black with rage.

“Give us Barabbas!”
he screamed.

The mob immediately echoed his cries, demanding the release of the hated criminal.

“What then would you have me do with Jesus of Nazareth?” he asked, his face showing signs of wear and defeat.

“Crucify him!”
The crowd’s shouts were becoming louder and more passionate.

Artorius looked back at Pilate, who was
, for the moment, transfixed in disbelief. He looked down and saw people beating on the shields of his men. They seemed like wild animals to him, and he was suddenly enraged once more.

“We cannot
allow this,” he said to Pilate. When the procurator did not answer, his temper got the best of him once more. “Fuck it,” he growled as he rushed down the steps, unsheathing his sword. He then shouted to his legionaries,
“Gladius…draw!”

“Rah!”

The shouting crowd suddenly stepped back quickly as they faced a wall of both legionary shields and swords. Every soldier was down in his fighting stance, ready to strike.

“Wait for the command!” Magnus shouted quickly from his place on the line. “Do not advance or strike until ordered to do so!”

“Just give the word and we’ll clear this place out,” Valens said over his shoulder.

With Artorius occupied on the steps, the
optio had taken his spot on the right of the line. Though the hostile crowd had stepped away from the legionaries, their shouts became even more impassioned. Artorius glared at Caiaphas and the other Sanhedrin who goaded them on.

“Crucify him! Crucify him!”

Artorius looked up first at Justus, whose face was pale, eyes shut. He then looked over at Pilate, who knew he had been bested.

Artorius quickly raced up the steps.
“Pilate, we cannot let this happen,” he said quietly.

The
procurator shook his head. “I gambled everything on offering them Jesus bar Abbas or Jesus of Nazareth,” he replied, his eyes fixed on the mob that was growing in frenzy. “And I have lost. Not only will we have to crucify a man I find no fault in, the terrorist scourge must now be set free.”

“Artorius!”
Magnus shouted from the line.

He looked down and saw the crowd was becoming more brazen and advancing once more on the wall of legionaries.

“Give the word!”

“Do it!” Justus echoed
. There was a look of fierce determination in Justus’ eyes that unnerved Artorius.

Pilate sensed it and immediately acted
. “Stand your men down,” the procurator ordered.

Justus closed his eyes and grimaced.

“I’m sorry,” Artorius said as he placed a hand on his fellow centurion’s shoulder. He then turned towards his men below.
“Centuries…stand down!”

Though there were numerous muttered curses from the ranks,
the men sheathed their weapons.

Presently, the wretched creature Barabbas was brought up from the dungeons by a couple of auxiliaries. He was unkempt and looked as if he’d been beaten every day since the date of his capture. He walked with a limp, but was still grinning broadly in defiance.

“You have been granted the mercy of Rome,” Pilate said. “Do not squander our generosity.”

Barabbas did not say a word, only continued to grin inanely. Artorius wondered if the beatings given to him by the torturers over the past cou
ple months had caused permanent damage to his mind. His stomach turned when he watched Barabbas saunter over to the priest whose daughter he’d molested. The man looked at him with contemptuous horror, seeming to regret the words that brought Barabbas’ release. The wretched thief laughed out loud, grabbed the priest by the shoulder, kissed him on the cheek, and with a shout of triumph stumbled into the now-welcoming crowd.

All eyes returned to the Nazarene and the Roman procurator.
Pilate then signaled for a servant, who brought him a bowl of water, in which he symbolically washed his hands.

“I am guiltless of this man’s blood!” he shouted to the crowd.

“Then let it be on our heads!” Caiaphas retorted.

Pilate ignored him but then turned to Artorius.
“Have him taken to Golgotha and crucified,” he ordered. He could not bring himself to look again at the Nazarene as he quickly walked away.

“I know this man means much to you,” Artorius said to Justus, “So I won’t have you take part in this.”

His friend stared at him, eyes wet with tears for the first time since losing his son. He then slowly shook his head.
“No,” Justus replied, “I will go.”

“Alright,” Artorius nodded, “But I will not have you take part in the actual crucifixion. The auxiliaries will handle that. Take two centuries and fall in behind them. Just make sure the crowds don’t create a disturbance. This Nazarene has many enemies here, but also many more amongst the people who love him. They must not be allowed to interfere.”

“Understood.” Justus’ face was now hard as stone
, and he walked back up the stairs signaling for his men to follow him.

“There’s a pair of condemned criminals set to be executed
as well,” Abenader said as he walked over to Artorius.

The
centurion could only nod in reply as he walked over to the Nazarene. He waved off the pair of auxiliary infantrymen who were readying to drag him away. The man was a fearful sight. The crown of thorns cut deep into his scalp, the streams of blood coagulating all over his face. One eye was closed shut from the beating he had taken, but his face was the least of it. The purple robes that he was covered in were soaked with blood and sticking to his skin. Artorius reckoned that even if they had been able to save him from the cross, he most likely would have died of infection from his terrible injuries. The marks scoured deep, in places his ribs were exposed from where the flesh was torn away. Perhaps crucifixion was a mercy at this point. Still, it did not relieve the sense of guilt that engulfed him.

“Why?” he asked. It was all he could find to say. “Why did you not let us save you?”

The Nazarene looked at him, his one open eye rather serene, despite the torment of pain that showed upon his face. The man’s response would echo in his mind for the remainder of his days, in a mystery that he would never fully understand. They were the same words he had uttered to both Pilate and Justus.

“It was not I who needed to be saved.”

Chapter XX
IX: Paid in Blood

***

The afternoon was unseasonably hot and dry. Artorius and a handful of men decided to take the long way around and avoid the crowds that clamored to watch the fate of
the man who was either loved as the Messiah, or despised as a horrid blasphemer. Neither meant anything to the centurion; it was all the same to him. He abhorred the religion of the Jews. Even more so he despised their hypocrisy and sense of superiority, even in the face of their conquerors. Many deaths had he ordered over the years; men, women, even children had perished either by his directive or under his very hand. So why did the pending execution of this one man affect him so? He could not say for certain. Certainly the Nazarene had had an effect on a number of his men, Justus Longinus in particular. And Pilate was right. He could find no fault in him.

The rest of the cohort had turned out, in case of a major disturbance, and those not following the Nazarene and the other condemned criminals went ahead with Artorius.
People were already flocking all along the route, the column of Roman soldiers signaling the pending procession of sorrow.

As the group reached the rock of Golgotha, no one said a word
. Artorius looked over his shoulder and saw that Magnus and Praxus were there with him; Cornelius and Julius had turned out with their men and elected to accompany Justus. To his right, his signifier planted the standard and leaned against it. To his left, several dozen legionaries formed up, removed their helmets, and grounded their shields and javelins. It had been a short walk of just a few miles, but the men were already soaked in sweat, and they greedily drank from their water bladders. With a few quiet orders from Centurions Magnus and Praxus, the men gratefully started to remove their body armor.

“We’re going to be here a while,” Magnus observed. “No sense in the lads suffering in the heat more than they have to.”

Artorius nodded, though his gaze was fixed on the execution plateau below.

The sound of the crowd w
as deafening. Whereas the mob that the Sanhedrin had brought into the forum had called for the Nazarene’s death, now people were wailing and crying at his fate. It was a paradox that was not lost on Justus, though lost as he was in his own thoughts. His eyes remained fixed on the man he was set to execute, and it broke his heart. Though he had never admitted it openly, something had awakened inside of him at this man’s teachings. It was the most brutal of ironies that he, a Roman soldier who had spent a life killing in the name of the empire, would come to understand the Nazarene’s message of love and compassion more so than the seemingly most devout of Judea’s religious sects.

The
centurion’s spirit had hardened like granite over the past five years since the death of his son. No one, not even his wife and daughter, had been able to break through the barriers that had engulfed his very soul. This man called Jesus, with his simple message of love in a world that was otherwise consumed by hate, had done what no one else could. It was the bitterest irony that Justus would now have to enact Rome’s most severe sentence on him.

Justus cringed as he saw the Nazarene succumb to the weight of the cross
beam and collapse into the dirt. In truth, he was amazed that the man could walk at all, much less carry the crossbar to which he would soon be nailed. An auxilia started lashing him with a whip, but the man could only crawl at this point. A Judean in the crowd forced his way past the auxiliaries and picked up the large brace. Whether he did so because he was ordered to or of his own volition, Justus did not know. He watched as Abenader roughly dragged the Nazarene to his feet and the macabre procession started once more. The two condemned criminals that carried their crossbars behind the Nazarene were a pathetic sight. They had been spared the lash and were relatively unscathed by comparison, yet their lowly demeanor and open sense of self pity paled to the quiet dignity with which the Nazarene carried himself.

The crowds had mostly dispersed by the time they finished the long trek to Golgotha. Only a small group, including the Nazarene’s mother, was permitted to watch the execution.
Watching from above were Artorius along with a group of officers and legionaries.

Justus paced around the field as the two criminals screamed piteously for mercy and then in pain as they were nailed to
their crosses. He ignored the men, his eyes fixed on the Nazarene. He continued to step, never watching where he was treading; men moving out of his way as he walked past them. He cringed as a pair of auxiliaries tore the robes from the man. The scabs which stuck the robe to his skin were torn open, and his wounds bled afresh. Though he winced in pain he made not a sound. All was silent with the exception of the moans of the two criminals and the stifled sobs from the Nazarene’s mother.

Justus’ gaze was transfixed as the auxiliaries threw the Nazarene back onto the cross. They stretched his arms out so roughly that he could
hear an audible pop as one shoulder was dislocated. His wrists and ankles were then tied down. Though silent up to this point, he cried out as the heavy spikes were driven into his wrists and feet. Once the cross was erected and slammed into its posthole Justus finally looked away.

“Eli Eli lama sabachthani!”
the Nazarene cried out.

Justus understood his words, which said,
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Time passed and yet hardly a sound was made. There had been a brief commotion when the two criminals argued amongst themselves. Justus, who spoke Aramaic, thought that one was scoffing at the Nazarene while the other chastised him and said that at least their fate was deserved, that the Nazarene was blameless of any crime. The second man then implored Jesus for his pardon. Though he could not say for certain, for the response was in a low and raspy voice, Justus thought he heard the man known as Christ reply, “I promise…today you will be with me in Paradise.”

“Paradise,” a legionary, who also spoke Aramaic, scoffed. “Their corpses will be rotting in the ground or else a feast for the carrion birds.”

“Yes,” Justus concurred, though his expression betrayed his doubts. He could not fathom why he was suddenly uneasy. After all, he had crucified more than his share of condemned men during his tenure in the legions. The Nazarene, who had so recently been thought of as a possible ally, was now a wretched sight. His naked body was covered in blood from numerous lacerations wrought by the terrible scourging. The crown of thorns gouged into his scalp, blood coagulating in his matted hair. His head hung low, his left eye beaten shut, and his voice barely audible above a harsh whisper. And yet for all that, there was something more that Justus simply could not place.

A small handful of his legionaries stood clustered at the edge of the clearing. The rest of the soldiers that paced quietly were auxiliaries. The legionary who spoke Aramaic leaned against a long spear that he carried, his face wrought with boredom.
The crowds that had followed the long trek to Golgotha had mostly dispersed. Huddled together near the crucifixes were a middle-aged woman, who Justus thought was the Nazarene’s mother, along with a younger woman, and a couple of men.

“I would just as soon finish the poor bastard and be done with it,” the legionary said as he spat into the dust.

“So would I,” the centurion agreed quietly.

The difference was the legionary wished to
dispatch the Nazarene so he would not have to stand guard anymore. For Justus it was a rare feeling of mercy. Even if by an impossible stroke they were told to cut him down and release him, Justus knew the poor victim would never survive the fearful wounds he had already sustained. The spikes driven through his wrists and feet had smashed through bone and created gaping holes that oozing blood coagulated around; already drawing the feasting of horse flies. It was a terrible sight! Justus Longinus, the hardened centurion who had been devoid of emotion since his son was killed five years before, felt a single tear roll down his cheek.

Artorius sat with his back against a rock. He wasn’t sure how long they would have to stay there, especially since it could often take a couple days for one to die by crucifixion. He suspected that given the fearsome injuries Jesus of Nazareth had sustained already
, he would last a day at the most. The sky clouded in the late afternoon, and he was thankful for the overcast reprieve from the heat.

“The lads have come back from patrol,” Magnus said as he sat next to his
cohort commander. “It’s pretty quiet. I don’t think our friend from Nazareth will have any rescuers coming for him.”

“His followers are docile,” Artorius remarked. “They
are not zealots. And even if they did wish to come cut him down, his wounds will let them know that he’s not long for this world anyway.”

As they sat quietly
, the cloudy sky suddenly grew black. Artorius opened his eyes and was suddenly alert, as were the men around him. All were immediately on their feet as a slight tremor shook the earth beneath them.

“Earthquake,” his
signifier said.

The sky grew even darker
, and the trembling was now accompanied by sounds like thunder though there was no flash in the darkened sky.

“Get everyone out of there!” Artorius ordered Magnus
as he stood, pointing to where Justus and his men still lingered along the three crosses.

“But the condemned…” Magnus started to say.

“Finish them!”
Artorius snapped.

The Norseman nodded and signaled down to Justus as Artorius ordered his men to don their armor and make ready to move. Once the legionaries were on their feet, Artorius walked back to the ledge and gazed at the scene of chaos below.
A few onlookers were fleeing in terror, and the auxiliaries had also broken and ran. Only Justus and his legionaries stood their ground, as did the Nazarene’s mother and her few companions. It was then that Artorius took a deep breath and uttered the immortal words, “Here was the Son of God.”

The signal was unmistakable
, and it brought Justus a sense of relief. He was anxious to leave that cursed place and found he could no longer bear the sight of the stricken Nazarene, whose bloodied body had since grown still.

“Break their legs and then get ready to move out!” he shouted to the nearest soldier as the sounds of thunderclap grew louder.