The Black Rood (38 page)

As I tried to make sense in what I was seeing, there arose a shout from the direction of the city. I looked toward the towering walls and saw a crowd of people emerging from the wide open gates.

With a cry like that of hounds scenting blood, this dark raging flood poured out from the city almost as swiftly as the dark storm clouds gathering in the dull yellow sky overhead. The blue-black bulging heads and shoulders of mighty clouds boiled in the stifling desert air, and away in the distance I could hear the low grumble of thunder.

There were others nearby, standing beside the road, waiting for the crowd to pass. I quickly joined them to see what was happening. The crowd came closer and soon reached the place where I was standing, and I saw that they were driving some poor wretch before them—prodding and shoving him along. As they drew near, I saw that his arms were tied to a rough-hewn wooden beam, and when he stumbled, they hauled him up by yanking on the ends of the beam and, once on his feet, they drove him on.

The crowd soon reached the place where I stood, but were so intent in the pursuit of their ambition they paid me no heed. They were a murderous rabble, it seemed to me; dirty beggars, street brawlers, and cudgelmen for the most part—although, here and there amidst the bedraggled mob the glint of a gold ring, a silver brooch, or the high, tapering crown of a well-made hat, gave me to know there were men of
rank and power among them—and also a handful of soldiers, dressed in Roman armor.

As they hastened by, the prisoner stumbled and went down. Those foremost in the crowd snatched him upright again, and the pain made him gasp with agony, and I saw why: the wretch's back was a sodden expanse of mutilated skin and muscle forming a massive raw, gaping wound. Merciful God, great tattered shreds of flesh hung from his shoulders, ripped from his broad sturdy back by the wicked, iron-tipped Roman lash. Blood coursed freely down his sides, staining his torn robe and spattering the dusty road with each jolting step.

He took but one more step and fell again. They were on him in an instant, kicking at him and shouting for him to get up. Two soldiers shoved into the throng and while one began pushing people away, the other seized the end of the beam and untied the ropes binding the man's arms.

The crowd howled with rage and three more legionaries appeared and waded in, forcing the rabble back with the shafts of their short spears. One of the soldiers turned and seized a man—a huge black Ethiope on his way to the city, and who, like myself, was merely standing alongside the road watching the fearful procession. Too frightened to resist, the poor fellow was yanked into the wild maelstrom, and pressed into service.

Freed from the crushing burden of the beam, the wounded prisoner made to rise; he lifted his head and looked up, his eyes met my gaze, and my heart caught in my throat, for I knew I looked into the battered face of God's own dear son.

T
HAT ONCE-NOBLE
visage was bruised and bleeding, the high, handsome brow shattered and the straight, fine nose broken. A circlet cap had been woven of desert briar and the thorns jammed into his scalp. Blood trickled from the wounds, mixing with the dust of the road to form muddy rivulets down his face. His eyes as they beheld mine, although filled with anguish, were yet keen with intelligence and a burning volition.

That was all I had—a single, fleeting look—but I swear all the grief and care of creation was in that pain-riven glance. The crowd, baying like crazed hounds, urged him on. The soldiers gabbed his arms and hauled him upright. He was shoved on his way with the Ethiope following behind, dragging the heavy crossbeam. And the ghastly retinue lurched along once more.

I stood for a moment, too astonished and terrified to move; and then, before I knew it, I was following the crowd, surrounded by a large number of loudly wailing women, and giddy, excited children. We continued down the road toward a curious, hump-shaped hill no great distance from the city walls.

The hill was topped by a rocky outcrop against which a large timberwork frame had been erected. A small contingent of bored-looking legionaries sat waiting on the hillside near the road. By the time I pushed my way to the front of
the crowd, I saw the Lord Christ standing with splendid dignity, head erect, struggling to remain upright while the crowd surged and seethed around him.

The soldiers wasted no time. Grabbing the crosspiece from the Ethiope, they dragged it up the hillside a few paces and threw it on the ground. Then, laying hands on the condemned man, they stripped off his clothes and pulled him up to the beam, turned him around, and pushed him down onto his bloody back. He winced with pain, but did not cry out.

One of the waiting legionaries, a burly, muscled hulk in a leather laborer's apron, rose and stepped quickly to the prisoner. Shirtless, his big arms glistening, he gave a nod of command and the prisoner's right arm was stretched out and held down on the timber. Then, kneeling on the condemned man's arm so as to hold it still, he ground a splayed thumb into the hollow of the man's forearm just above the wrist and held it there for a moment.

With his other hand he reached into a pocket of his leather apron and drew out a thick iron spike which he placed where his thumb had been. Then, with quick, practiced efficiency he reached behind him and took up a short, heavy blacksmith's hammer. The movement was so swift I did not see what was happening at first.

I saw the soldier's great arm rise with dread purpose and fall with a solid resonating crack. In the same instant the Lord Jesu's head jerked up, eyes bulging, mouth snatched open in a soundless scream of agony as the hard metal smashed through the flesh and tendons and veins of his wrist.

My heart trembled within me, and I wanted to look away—but I could not. I watched, clasping my hands together and murmuring helpless, hopeless prayers.

Bright blood welled up in a sudden crimson gush, and the crowd roared its approval as two more mighty blows drove the cruel spike deep into the stout timber beam—whereupon the soldier rose, stepped over his victim and repeated the procedure on the left arm. Three quick, decisive blows rang like anvil peals, driving the spike between the twin bones of the man's forearm and into the heavy wood.

No sooner had the last blow rung out than the soldiers passed ropes under the timber beam and secured the condemned man's arms at the elbows. They then turned and began hauling the beam up the hill, three soldiers at the end of each rope, dragging their victim with it. The ground was rough and rocky, and Christ's poor wounded back left a bloody swathe in the pale bone-dry dirt.

At the top of the hill, they heaved the ropes over the upper beams of the timber framework. The dangling ends were caught and passed to the legionaries beneath who, with the help of a score or more of the more zealous members of the rabble, eagerly seized the lines and pulled hard. The ropes snapped taut, jerking the suffering Jesu from the ground.

Up, up he soared, rising skyward, the ropes singing over the rough timber until the crosspiece met the upper beam of the framework where it jarred to a stop, leaving him suspended high above the crowd, his arms pinioned to the heavy timber beam. There the Blessed Christ swung, writhing with the violence of his crude ascent.

The crosspiece was quickly lashed to the upper beam of the framework, and there—his gentle, healing hands twisted and deformed into the shape of claws—he hung; high above the ground, he hung, blood coursing in rivulets down his arms and sides, mingling with the muddy sweat of his torment. Stretched between earth and sky, the Holy One of God hung, the weight of his broken body dangling from his strong arms.

Meanwhile, two other unfortunates—thieves caught in the act—were likewise crucified and strung up either side of him. As soon as the two wretches were secured, the soldiers produced a long beam, part of the trunk of a tree, and lashed it tight to the uprights just below the knees of the hanging men. The big Roman then proceeded to drive spikes through the victims' anklebones, fixing them to the lower beam. The two thieves screamed and thrashed in their agony while the mob jeered and applauded.

Unable to bear the torment any longer, Jesu opened his mouth and screamed, “Elo-i!” The cords stood out on his neck with the force of his shout. “Elo-i!”

The mob fell back at the fearful power of the cry. They looked at one another and murmured. “He is calling on Elijah,” someone said. “No, wait!” said another. “He is calling on God to save him!”

“He saved others,” scoffed one big brute merrily. “Now let him save himself!”

“Quiet! He is speaking!” shouted a man near the front. “I cannot hear what he is saying. Here, give him a drink and maybe he will speak again.”

A sop of wine was raised on the end of a stick and held to his mouth, but Jesu bowed his head and said no more.

A group of elder Jews arrived from the city just then; there were perhaps a dozen or so, some dressed in priestly garb, others in costly red robes with chains of gold around their necks. Gathering up their long cloaks to keep them from the dust, they mounted the side of the hill and pushed their way to the front of the throng.

Their expressions smug and hard, they took their places at the front of the mob and stood, like monuments of self-righteous reprisal, glaring up at the dying man. The Romans, having completed their duties, now turned to other amusements. They had some bread and wine with them and sat down a little apart to eat and drink, while they waited for the execution to reach its fatal and inevitable conclusion.

The crowd continued their crude harangue of the dying men, mocking them, laughing at their misery as they tried to keep the weight of their bodies off their pinioned ankles while, at the same time, relieve the searing torment of their arms. Some of the older youths thought it good sport to pelt the condemned with rocks—which they did with increasing impunity. Indeed, one young thug made a lucky throw, striking one of the thieves full in the face, smashing his cheekbone and knocking out the man's eye; the poor wretch moaned and tossed his head back and forth, the mangled eye dangling and bouncing on his crushed cheek, much to the delight of the jeering throng.

This emboldened the rest, who redoubled their efforts, and I believe the condemned might have been stoned to death on the crosstrees if not for a careless throw which struck the
beam and careened into the party of Roman soldiers who, having finished their meal, were now playing at dice for the prisoners' clothes and sandals. The stone struck one of the legionaries on the leg, and up he came; he charged into the boys with drawn sword, walloping one or two of the pluckier ruffians with the flat of his blade. They howled like scalded pups and the whole pack fled.

A strange calm descended on the humpbacked hill then, as the crowd settled down to wait. The sky grew darker, the dreadful yellow turning green-gray like a diseased wound, and the air, already still, became stifling. The only sound to be heard was the desperate wheezing and gasping of the men on the gibbet as they struggled to get air into their lungs; though all three looked as if they were past caring, life clung on and would not abandon them.

The mob quickly grew bored with the tedious display and became restless. Soon the crowd was thinning at the edges as the less fervid, having had their fill, began to creep away quietly, leaving the hardened zealots to their gloating. About this time, a Roman commander arrived on horseback. He sat for a moment, taking in the spectacle, and then called a command to the soldiers lolling on the ground.

I could not make out what was said, for I was on the hillside and the centurion remained on the road. But two of the legionaries jumped to their feet and hastened off to where some of their tools and gear were lying on the ground. One of the soldiers reached for the ladder, and the other a hammer and flat piece of wood which were lying there. Resting the top of the ladder against the upper crossbeam, the first soldier climbed up, while the other, standing below, handed up the hammer and wood. The first soldier then proceeded to nail the wooden placard to the upper beam next to Jesu's head.

There was, so far as I could see, nothing written on the placard, but this oversight was soon corrected, for the commander spoke again, and the legionary on the ground bent down and picked up a stick, broke off one end, and passed it to his friend on the ladder. The soldier took the stick and, holding it to the body of the hanging man, dabbed the bro
ken end in his freely trickling blood. He then proceeded to write in ragged red letters these words: Iesu Nazarethaei Rex Iudae.

Seeing this, the crowd instantly sent up an appalling shriek. The priests and elders standing proudly at the forefront of the crowd flew into a foul rage, wailing and tearing at their clothes and beards. Two of the Jewish leaders hastened down to where the centurion sat on his horse, watching the commotion with a bemused expression.

“Please, hear us, sir,” the senior of the two cried. “That man is
not
the King of the Jews!”

“We have no king but Caesar!” added the other. Some of those on the hillside took up the reply as a chant. “We have no king but Caesar!” they shouted halfheartedly.

A white-haired man in priest's robes joined the two. “The sign is an offense to our people,” he insisted. “We beg you, lord, take it down.”

The centurion, enjoying the uproar he had provoked with his innocent order, gazed with unruffled merriment at the three and shook his head slowly.

“My lord,” the old priest pleaded, “it is an abomination and a stench in the nostrils of God. Please, remove the sign at once.”

Still shaking his head, the commander replied, “It stays.”

“If it cannot be removed,” one of the other elders suggested, adopting a reasonable tone, “then perhaps it could be made to read: This Nazarene
claimed
to be King of the Jews.”

At that moment, one of the ruffians in the crowd darted out from among the throng. Before anyone could stop him, he ran to the ladder and climbed up, almost knocking the legionary from his perch as he tried to grab hold of the sign and tear it down.

The centurion lashed his mount forward up the hill to the ladder and, reaching out, seized the rascal by the leg and pulled him from the ladder. The man rolled on the ground, yelling and fuming, and the priests and elders quickly gathered around pleading with the soldiers to take down the sign and restore the peace. But the Roman commander, growing
tired of their sanctimonious bleating, refused to be drawn into the affray. He ordered soldiers to remove the man who had tried to tear down the sign and, as they dragged him aside, the sky gave forth a low, worrisome growl.

A sharp gust of wind sent the dust swirling around the hilltop. The commander raised his eyes skyward, and then, as the first fat drops of rain spattered into the dust, he decided that it was time to disperse the crowds before the situation deteriorated farther. Turning to his cohort, he gave the final command: “Finish it.”

Taking up his hammer once more, the big Roman stepped to the nearest of the victims and with a mighty swing, hurled the flat of the hammer into the man's leg halfway between knee and ankle. The shinbone cracked with a dull sickening crunch—a sound so appalling it even made the blood-lusting crowd wince. The suffering wretch screamed in agony and passed out. The legionary applied the hammer to the other leg, and the unconscious man slumped down hard, the weight of his body tearing his arms from their sockets as his legs folded neatly in half. He gave a strangled sigh, choked on his tongue, and expired.

The executioner moved on to the next thief, who was yet aware enough to know what was about to take place. He began pleading and crying to be spared. But the soldier took no heed, breaking both the man's legs with as many blows of the hammer. The second victim was not so lucky as the first; he did not pass out but screamed and writhed in agony as he kept trying to raise himself up on his ruined legs so as to fill his lungs with air. He jerked and twitched pitifully, the sharp shards of shinbone poking through the flesh of his damaged limbs, each movement bringing fresh torture as the ragged ends of his shattered bones gnashed and splintered like broken teeth.

Turning his attention to the last victim, the big Roman swung his hammer wide, but withheld the blow at the last instant. Looking up into the face of the hanging man, he said, “This one is dead.”

The watching elders heard this and raised an outcry at once. “How can it be?” they demanded. “It is not yet evening!”

“He is not dead!” someone shouted. “He has only swooned.”

One of the elders, dressed in red robes and wearing a heavy chain of gold around his neck, stepped forward. “See here, centurion,” he said in educated Latin, “the people are right. He has only swooned—revive him, and you will see.”