The Expected One (48 page)

“You will not miss me because I will not be gone. It will be better than it is now, because we will never be apart after this.”

Mary and the children were led from the rear of the Fortress Antonia by Claudia Procula’s Greek slave. Mary asked to meet Claudia and thank her in person, but the slave shook his head and spoke to her in his native tongue.

“My mistress is much distressed by the events of this day. She tells me she cannot face you. She tried everything she knew to save him.”

“Tell her I know that. And Easa knows as well. And tell her that I hope one day we will meet and I will be able to look into her face and give her my thanks, and his.”

The Greek nodded humbly, and left to attend his mistress.

Mary and the children emerged into the chaos that was Jerusalem on this holy Friday. She needed to get the children away from this area, needed to get as far away as possible before the sounds of the scourging reached their ears. The safe house that Salome had provided was nearby. Mary decided to go there to find Martha and instruct her to get the children back to Bethany.

The Great Mary and the two elder Marys were at the house, but Martha was not. She was out searching for the Magdalene and the children, not realizing that they were coming back to the house. Mary Magdalene had the difficult task of relaying the morning’s events to Easa’s mother. The Great Mary nodded, tears filling her aging eyes that held so much wisdom and compassion. “He saw this long ago. We both saw it,” she said finally.

The women made the decision to face the mob in Jerusalem. They would find Martha and see that John and Tamar were taken to safety — and then they would find Easa. If he were to be sentenced and crucified today, they would not leave him. Mary had promised. He had asked only for her and for his mother in these final hours.

As they prepared to leave the house, the Great Mary came to her daughter-in-law holding the rich red veil of their rank. She handed it to Mary Magdalene. “Wear this, my daughter. You are a Nazarene and a queen, now more than ever.”

Nodding slowly, Mary Magdalene took the full-length red veil and draped it over her body, fully aware as she did that her life on earth would never be the same again.

“Crucify him! Crucify him!” The crowd swelled with the chant. Pilate watched with a mixture of helplessness and disgust. The vicious bloodletting of the Nazarene had not satisfied them. Indeed, it had functioned only to urge the mob into more of a frenzy as they called for the prisoner’s life. A man had come forward carrying a crown twisted from the razor-sharp branches of a whitethorn tree. He threw it at Easa, who was still slumped against the whipping post, back laid open to the glaring morning sun. “Here’s your crown, if you are a king,” the man yelled as the crowd laughed derisively.

Praetorus unshackled Easa and was in the process of moving him from the whipping post when Longinus picked up the crown of thorns and shoved it cruelly onto Easa’s head. The flesh of his scalp and forehead ripped, causing blood mixed with sweat to pour into his eyes as the hostile crowd whooped approval. “That is enough, Longinus!” Praetorus growled at his watch partner.

Longinus laughed, a harsh and bitter sound. “You’re getting soft.” He spat at Praetorus’ feet. “You showed no sport at all in the flogging of this king of the Jews.”

When Praetorus replied, it was in a voice so deadly that it caused a chill to run up the spine of the hardened Longinus. “Touch him unnecessarily again,” Praetorus said, “and I will match that scar on your other cheek.”

Pilate stepped between them then, sensing real danger within his own men. He couldn’t have that, not today. What these two chose to do to each other later, out of sight of the mob, was one thing, but he had to take control now before things became worse. The procurator held up his hands to address the crowd.

“Behold the man,” Pilate said. “The man, I say. But I think not a king. I see no fault in this man and he has been scourged under Roman law. There is no more for us to do here.”

“Crucify him! Crucify him!” came the chant, again and again as if it had been rehearsed and staged. Pilate was furious at the manipulation of the crowd and at the position he found himself in because of it.

He put his hand on Easa as he bent to speak to him. “Listen to me, Nazarene,” he said quietly. “This is your last chance to save yourself. I ask you, are you a king of the Jews? Because if you say that you are not, I have no grounds to crucify you under Roman law. I have the power to release you.” The last sentence was said with utmost urgency.

Easa looked at Pilate for a long moment.

Say it, damn you! Say it!

It was as if Easa read the thoughts of Pontius Pilate. He replied in a whisper, “I cannot make this easier for you. Our destinies were chosen for us, but you must now choose your own master.”

The tension in the crowd was escalating as more screaming rang in Pontius Pilate’s brain. There were cries in favor of the Nazarene, many of them. But they were drowned out by the bloodthirsty shouts of the mercenaries who had been paid heartily to accomplish this task today. Pilate’s nerves were drawn as tight as a bow as he balanced his duties, his ambition, his philosophy, and his family on the shoulders of this frail Nazarene. A shout to his left startled him, and he looked up to see the envoy of Herod, the tetrarch of Galilee.

“What is it?” Pilate snapped at him.

The man handed Pilate a scroll with Herod’s seal. The procurator snapped the wax and read the scroll.

“Have done with this Nazarene matter immediately for I would set out early to Rome knowing that I may give Caesar a fine report of how you deal with threats against His Imperial Majesty.”

It was the final blow for Pontius Pilate. He read the scroll again and realized that it was covered in blood — the blood of the Nazarene, which coated Pilate’s hands. He called for a servant, and a silver basin filled with water was brought to him. Pilate submerged his hands in the water, scrubbing the stains from them, trying not to witness the water turning red with the blood of the prisoner before him.

“I wash my hands of this man’s blood!” he yelled at the crowd. “Crucify your king, if that is what you are determined to do.” He turned without another glance at Easa and stormed into the Fortress Antonia.

But it wasn’t over for Pontius Pilate. Caiaphas came to see him moments later with several men of the Temple in tow.

“Haven’t I done enough for you in one day?” Pilate shot at the priest.

“Almost, your excellency.” Caiaphas smiled smugly.

“What more do you want from me?”

“It is the tradition for a sign to hang on the cross, a title to show the world what crime the man has committed. We would have you write that he was a blasphemer.”

Pilate called for the materials to create the title for the cross. “I will write what I have sentenced him for, not what you ask of me. That is the tradition.”

And he wrote the abbreviation INRI, and under it the meaning — Easa the Nazarene, King of the Jews.

Pilate looked to his servant. “See to it that this is nailed above the prisoner on his cross. And have the scribe write the same in Hebrew and Aramaic.”

Caiaphas was taken aback. “It should not say that! If you must, write, ‘He claimed he was king of the Jews’, so the people will know that we do not honor him as such.”

Pilate was finished with this man and his manipulations, today and forever. He dripped venom in his reply. “What I have written, I have written.”

And he turned his back on Caiaphas and the others, retreating to the quiet of his quarters, where he locked himself in for the remainder of the day.

The crowd swelled and moved as a living thing, taking Mary and the children along with it. She clung to John and Tamar, one on each hand, as she struggled to move through the crowd in search of Martha. Mary was able to tell from the talk in the crowd that Easa had been sentenced and was on his way to the hill of Golgotha to be executed. Gauging the movement in the crowd, she had an idea of where Easa was in the procession that marched through the street. Desperation was growing in her. She had to find Martha, had to see her children to safety so she could spend this final time with Easa.

And then she heard it. Easa’s voice in her head as clearly as if he stood beside her. “Ask and it shall be given to you. It is so simple. We must ask the Lord our Father for what we want, and he will provide it for the children he loves.”

Mary Magdalene squeezed the hands of her children and shut her eyes. “Please dearest Lord, please help me find Martha so I may deliver my children to safety and be with my beloved Easa in his time of suffering.”

“Mary! Mary, I am here!” Martha’s voice cut through the crowd to reach her sister-in-law within seconds of the prayer. Mary opened her eyes to see Martha pushing toward her in the crowd. They threw their arms around each other in an emotional embrace. “You are wearing your red veil. It is how I found you,” Martha said.

Mary fought the tears. There was no time, but Martha’s presence was such a comfort to her. “Come, my little princess,” Martha said to her niece, scooping up Tamar. “And you too, my young man,” she said as she grabbed John’s hand.

Mary hugged each of her children tightly to her for a moment, assuring them she would meet them in Bethany as soon as possible. “Go with God, sister,” Martha whispered to Mary. “We will keep the children until you can come home to us. Be safe.” She kissed her younger sister-in-law, now a woman and a queen in her own right, and moved to fight the crowd once more, children in tow.

It had been a struggle for Mary Magdalene to make her way through the crowd. She was able to stay parallel with the surging mob, but could not get close to Easa. She saw the red veils of the Great Mary and the other Marys within the crowd and followed them on the winding path to Golgotha, trying to reach them, but she was pushed farther and farther back as the multitude surged to follow their quarry.

As the centurions reached the top of the hill known as the Place of the Skull, she saw that they were at least a hundred meters ahead of her. There was the huddled figure of Easa and the red veils of his mother and the other Marys. The crowd was still dense on the path, blocking Mary’s way. She no longer cared; there was no time to think of anything but getting to Easa. She skirted the mob, left the path, and began to climb the rocky hillside. It was jagged with sharp stones and encrusted with nettles, but none of this mattered to Mary Magdalene. Her body felt nothing as she moved with absolute determination to reach Easa.