The Thief (34 page)

LONGINUS CROSSED THE
width of the cell for the hundredth time. His throat ached from calling out for someone to set him free. Light filtered through the high barred window, and the air became warm and musty. What was happening? Perhaps Jesus had convinced Pilate he wasn’t a threat. Perhaps someone had come forward—the disciples or even Joseph, the Pharisee—to speak for him.

Finally he heard the march of feet outside the window. He hoisted himself up to catch a glimpse of the practice yard. A forest of sandaled feet and armored shins moved past.

“Marcellus! Petras!” His voice was dulled by the thick earth walls, unheard in the outside din.

From what he could see, the entire cohort was assembled. Longinus’s stomach twisted. That could only mean one thing.

Silvanus’s voice echoed against the stone walls. “Tie him to the post.”

Longinus banged his sword against the iron bars. He crossed to the doors and pounded, desperation flooding through him. “Let me out.”

No answer.

Silvanus’s guttural cry sounded as he let the whip fly.

Longinus heard the snap of leather and bone on flesh.

Jesus did not cry out, even as the whip hit again and again.

Longinus closed his fist and slammed it into the oak door hard enough to send a jolt from his knuckles to his elbow.

He sank to his knees. The words in the garden came back to him.

Abba, take this cup from me.

Words spoken by the man now enduring the most agonizing torture. Longinus shivered as he remembered the oppressive evil in the garden. Had Jesus known what was to happen? Had he asked to be spared? The sound of the whip went on. Every legionary knew to submit to the will of a higher power—their centurion, their general, Caesar. Even to the point of death. From the moment his betrayer had kissed him, Jesus had accepted this fate.
Not my will, Abba, but yours be done.

Jesus had prayed in the garden, asking for this cup to pass him by. Longinus closed his eyes. Would this god of Israel hear the prayer of a pagan, a legionary who had killed more people than he could count? If their god struck him down here in the carcer, at least he had tried.

Pater.
He swallowed hard. Jesus had used the Hebrew word.
Abba.
Yes.
Abba. I beg you. If this man is from you, help him. Save him.

The slap of the whip continued. Silvanus’s bellow sounded like a battle cry.

Nothing. What had he expected? A voice from the heavens?

The slap of the whip stopped. An eerie silence fell outside the window. Longinus crossed the room and pulled himself up again. Silvanus barked a dismissal to the cohort.

The men filed out, leaving Silvanus standing over a blood-soaked body.

Was Jesus even alive? Longinus’s arms ached, but he gripped the bars tighter and pulled himself closer to the window.

Silvanus cut the bloody rope around Jesus’s hands. Jesus
crumpled to the ground, his chest heaving, his body shaking like an earthquake. His mouth fell open, as if to cry out, but no sound emerged. Silvanus kicked him in the ribs. “Get him to Pilate.”

Longinus slid back to the ground. Bile rose in his throat, and his eyes burned. He brushed his palms over his burning eyes. Back to Pilate? Then he hadn’t been sentenced yet.

Longinus squeezed his eyes shut.
Abba. Help me. Help him.
The priests of the temple would scoff at his attempt at prayer, but it was all he could manage.

A muffled roar echoed from the agora. “Give us Barabbas! Crucify him! Crucify him!”

The black despair from the garden seeped into Longinus’s soul like icy water.

It’s too late. Give up.

He pushed himself to his knees, resisting the dark hopelessness. As long as he had breath in his body, he would pray and hope that this god of the Jews could hear him.
Abba. Help me . . . help him . . . have mercy on us . . . have mercy . . .

THE CLATTER OF
sandals on the stone stairs outside roused Longinus. He jumped up as the lock rattled and the door swung open.

Marcellus rushed in.

Longinus grabbed his sword from the floor and darted out the door. “What happened?”

Marcellus shook his head and swallowed, his face white. “Silvanus . . . it was like he was trying to kill him.” He leaned against the door like his knees were weak and motioned up the stairs. “Go.”

Longinus took the stairs two at a time. He followed the sounds of shouts and jeers to the corner of the practice square. What he saw there made his stomach heave and his feet turn to stone.

Jesus sat on a stone bench. At least ten legionaries surrounded him, jeering and laughing. Blood streaked his face and clotted in his hair and beard. A crown of reeds circled his forehead,
and what looked like long thorns stuck out at angles and pierced deep into his skin. A red cloak was draped over one shoulder, but the other . . .

Longinus stumbled to a halt.

The other shoulder was nothing but ribbons of flesh, barely clinging to the bone beneath.

Silvanus knelt before him, his helmet off, a cup of wine in his hand. “Hail, King of the Jews.” He raised the cup and drank, then spit a stream of the liquid into Jesus’s face. Jesus flinched. His breath came in tortured gasps as he struggled to remain upright.

Fierce anger darkened Longinus’s vision. He grabbed Silvanus from behind, pulling his shoulder around. Silvanus’s face still held a cruel smile as Longinus smashed his fist into it with a satisfying crack.

Blood spurted from Silvanus’s nose. The cup dropped, and he pulled his arm back, his huge fist lifting like a battering ram. Before his blow landed, Longinus delivered a powerful jab to Silvanus’s slack jaw, knocking him to the ground. His head hit the stone-paved ground with a crack. He groaned and lay still.

Longinus faced the surrounding legionaries. His breath rasped in his throat as he pulled his sword and pointed it to each in turn. “Back off.”

The clatter of footsteps sounded behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Marcellus skidded to a halt behind him. He stood, shoulder to shoulder with Longinus, his sword in his hand. “You heard him. Get back.”

The legionaries stepped back, their faces uncertain.

Longinus looked at the bloody man on the bench. These legionaries would obey him, but only for a short time. They wouldn’t let him walk out of Jerusalem with their prisoner—not without a fight.

His legs trembled as he approached Jesus, afraid to even look at the face of the man he’d longed to meet but, instead, had condemned to this torture. The man he had watched in the garden.
The man who, even stripped and bleeding, had a dignity beyond that of Caesar.

Longinus fell to his knees in front of Jesus. He bowed his head, his heart swelling with a feeling he had never known—reverence, devotion . . . loyalty. More loyalty than he’d felt for any general, even Caesar.

Now that he was free, he’d save this man or die trying.

We’ll move quickly. I won’t have to kill my men, just slow them down.
He’d find a safe place, someplace close until he could get this broken man out of the city. He tensed, ready to make his move, but a burden weighed on his shoulders like a heavy yoke, pressing down on him. He looked up, into the face of the man before him.

Jesus gazed on him, and the burden increased. A burden of knowledge, a heavy knowledge of a task so great, so terrible, it took his breath away.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Not that.
No. Do not ask this of me.

A tingling heat burned through him, filling his chest. The weight on his shoulders increased until he was sure he’d be crushed beneath it.

I can’t.

His ears rang with the voice from the garden. Jesus’ prayer, a prayer that seemed to echo over centuries and empires.
Not my will, Abba, but yours be done.

Longinus opened his eyes and pulled in a shallow breath.
Of course, it must be me.
He, the only Roman who believed in Jesus, must be the one to pound the nails, to crucify him.

Jesus looked at him still, his eyes full of understanding. No fear of death, no panic. Just peace. Jesus was ready to die.

The peace Longinus longed for was right in front of him but beyond his grasp, and death—what he feared the most—was all he had to offer this innocent man.

Chapter 31

N
ISSA’S BODY ACHED
from the soles of her feet to her pounding head. Her hair was damp with the moisture of the night air, but her eyes were as dry as the streets of Jerusalem. How many times had she walked through the city? Searching for what? For whom?

Not for Cedron—she couldn’t face him.

Not for Longinus—he would never forgive her.

The streets were cold and empty, the houses barred and shut. There was no shelter from the cold that wrapped itself around her heart.

She couldn’t undo what she had done. She could never make it right. She was more alone than she had ever been. Her God had abandoned Jesus, who healed in his name, just as he had abandoned her as a child.

As she dragged her numb legs up the Stepped Street, the trumpets rang out from the temple walls. She turned to the east, where the sky was lightening. Dawn already? Despair tightened around her chest like an iron band. Today Dismas would die.

She pushed her feet to move more quickly. Her breath quickened as she passed the temple, where the great doors were already opening to admit the earliest pilgrims for the preparation day. Today, at the ninth hour, the lambs would be sacrificed; the river flowing under the temple would darken with their blood. At dusk, when the trumpets blew, Passover would begin.

She wound through the streets of the upper city. The townspeople were stirring. A servant pulled a sleepy donkey; a woman passed by with a water jar on her head. Shouts sounded around the next corner, where the upper market fronted Herod’s palace. Was she too late? Had they already sent him to Golgotha with his cross? She quickened her pace.

She rounded the corner to see well-dressed Pharisees, priests, and what looked like shepherds in the agora. She ducked under the arm of a linen-clad Jew and veered around a knot of rough-looking Galileans.

When she reached the entrance to the palace, her heart cramped like a closed fist in her chest. Three crosses leaned against the arch. Two men stood before them. Gestas, stripped to the waist, hurled curses at the crowd. Dismas stood silently, his gaze fixed on the ground, his naked back bearing the stripes of the whip.

But the sight of the third man choked her with despair.

He slumped on a bench, a crown—what looked like a crown—pushed onto his head with thorns as long as her little finger piercing his brow. His tunic was dark with blood and dirt.

And before him, kneeling as though in homage, was Longinus.

Longinus’s body was bent in sorrow, his face etched with grief. The urge to comfort him—to smooth her hands down his face—filled her. She jerked forward, then stopped herself.
He doesn’t want my comfort.

Two soldiers shoved Gestas to his cross. They tipped it, leaning the crux on his shoulder. Another ordered Jesus to his. Jesus stood, his body trembling, and stumbled forward.

Dismas darted to Jesus, catching him before he fell. Jesus leaned on the tall Greek, turning his blood-soaked face toward him. For a moment, neither man moved. Then Jesus spoke, just a few words, too low for Nissa’s ears, but they changed Dismas’s bearing as though he’d been given a treasure. His back straightened, his shoulders rose. For a moment, he looked younger, freer.
Two soldiers jerked Dismas away and leaned a cross on his back. Even as he doubled over with its weight, his gaze remained on Jesus.

Nissa started at the sound of Longinus’s deep voice. He had mounted Ferox and was snapping orders to his men. She pulled back into the shadows.

Longinus moved close to Jesus. He growled a command to the soldiers, and they lowered the cross onto Jesus’ back. Jesus bowed under its weight, blood dripping from his brow onto the stone paving.

When Longinus raised his vitis, Marcellus and the cohort flanked the crosses. Longinus barked out a string of commands in Latin.

Nissa understood just one word: “Golgotha.”

The procession moved toward the Jaffa Gate at a slow and excruciating pace. Nissa wormed through the crowd. She darted through the line of soldiers and drew close to Dismas. His shuffling feet stopped, but he didn’t raise his head to look at her. A soldier advanced, his hand raised as if to strike.

She cringed.
I’m not leaving his side.

Before the soldier could land a blow, Marcellus shoved him aside. He nodded at Nissa and motioned toward Dismas. “Be quick about it.”

Nissa’s breath stuck in her throat. She raised a hand to Dismas’s face, pushing the matted hair away from his brow.

His dark eyes closed. “Mouse,” he gasped. “This is no place for you.”

“I won’t leave you, not this time.” Her voice cracked. “You are innocent.”

He shook his head. “Mouse.” He stopped for breath and turned his face to where Gestas labored in front of him. “I’m no better than him.”