by Barbara Latta
Quintus wiped his brow and looked over the bodies mingling
with dust, rebellion and r
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Jesus was whipped with a flagrum.
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eligion. His position from horseback gave him a good view
of the populous. Why couldn’t these Jews learn to live in peace under Roman
rule? Now another religious zealot was on the way to his death because of
ideals. This one claimed to be the Son of God.
What God would allow his son to be killed? Lightning bolts
would fall out of the sky if a hand was raised against a son of Caesar.
If he wasn’t the son of a god, then who was he? Never before
had Quintus seen a man endure scourging without crying out for mercy from his
tormentors. The only sound uttered had been moans of pain but no begging for the
lash to stop which had only brought on more stripes from Cassius. And Cassius was
the most brutal soldier who wielded a flagrum.
The condemned man had stood before Pilate in all his
bloodied glory wearing a dirty purple robe and the mockery of a crown. Prison
guards had relieved their boredom with another victim to taunt. Woven thorns
encircled his head piercing tender flesh and drawing more blood to run down the
already mutilated face.
Now the prisoner struggled to walk up the Via Dolorosa on
the way to Golgotha, the place of
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Seven inch spikes were nailed Jesus to the cross.
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execution. Quintus was tired and wanted this
over with. Keeping these crowds from another up-rising was a full time job.
“Keep moving,” he yelled to the soldiers under his command.
The man in the street fell under the weight of the 125-pound beam bearing down
on the raw, bloodied shoulders.
“You there,” Quintus shouted to a man in the crowed. “Carry
the crossbeam for him!” The man shrank back in fear as if he were the one about
to be crucified. One of the soldiers grabbed him and pulled forward on the
man’s arm slinging him out into the road next to the condemned one. The
spectator reached down and helped the man lying on the ground. Tenderness
replaced the fear in the man’s expression and he helped the victim up, putting
the crossbeam on his own shoulders.
Finally, they could get moving again. Maybe the day would be
over soon and Quintus could get some rest.
At the top of the hill, Quintus dismounted and surveyed the leering
audience. The man’s condemners stood nearby. He supposed they were there to watch and make
sure the execution was carried out. Even the man’s own kind had turned against
him.
A guttural moan pierced the air as what was left of the body
was thrown on the ground and his arms stretched out on the wood. Seven-inch
iron spikes were placed against his wrist and the hammer came down hard
splitting flesh and attaching the appendage to the crossbeam. The fingers drew up around the metal in claw-like positions as the nerves in the arms were pierced. The
third nail was driven into the ankle joints and the beam with the sacrifice
attached was raised and placed on the pole. One of the soldiers climbed a ladder and
nailed a sign at the top of the cross. Women’s sobs were heard across the
valley while the crucified man hung between heaven and earth.
No one being crucified ever refused the offered pain killer
of myrrh-infused wine. The one called Jesus had turned his head away when the drink
was placed near his face. Still no words left his mouth to condemn his captors,
instead he forgave them. Forgave them? How could a man treated this way forgive
anyone?
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Thorns encircled His head in mockery.
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The other prisoners were begging for mercy, one of them even
taunting the man in the middle. Apparently the other one had a change of heart
and finally silenced his partner in crime and begged for mercy from Jesus of
Nazareth. How could this man hanging by nails give mercy to anyone? He needed
mercy himself.
While those under Quintus’ command gambled for the man’s
clothes, they all waited for the prisoners to die. Quintus watched the one called
the Son of God. He had witnessed many crucifixions but he had never seen a man
die with so much dignity and humility while in the midst of so much pain. The
man raised his head and said, “I thirst.” Quintus didn’t wait for one of his
soldiers to grab the wine, instead he pushed a spear into the sponge and dipped
into the liquid and raised it to the man’s cracked and swollen lips offering
what little relief he could. He was supposed to be supervising the execution of
a criminal, yet now he was offering comfort to a condemned man.
But something
pulled him toward the massacred face and the eyes that were able to see beneath
the puffed lids looked straight into his soul. Quintus almost dropped the spear
but he held on lest some see him and think he was weak.
His gaze couldn’t leave the man’s body. The other prisoners
had not been beaten like this one and yet they cried in agony. This man’s pain
was obvious, but he looked up toward the sky and cried out to a Father begging
to not be forsaken.
The sky grew so dark Quintus could barely see those around
him. The ground shook and the man spoke his last words, “Father, into your
hands I commit my spirit.” The head hung against the lifeless chest and Quintus
looked again at the sign bearing the title “King of the Jews.”
Son of God? Yes, Quintus
thought. I think He really was.