Judas turned to see Pilate astride a white horse—the Prefect of Jerusalem must have ridden up the switchbacks to the crossroads. He had several soldiers in attendance. Each of them was fully armed with javelin and shield and wore a heavy metal breastplate of a sort rarely seen outside of times of war.
Judas nodded and followed Pilate’s entourage from the crossroads up the path to Golgotha.
In the center of the rocky slope stood a large wooden cross atop a platform. It appeared to have been quickly assembled, and the naked white wood shone in the morning light where axes had hastily hewn its shape. Several soldiers stood underneath it. As Pilate and Judas made their way up the slope, the soldiers turned in unison to face them, the silver tips on their long spears glinting. Though it was difficult to see from the road, it appeared that a man had already been hung upon the cross’s other side.
Pilate frowned and urged his horse onward to get a better view. From high on the hill, he could see that a large number of people had come to observe; they were gathered in a semicircle further down the slope.
“Be wary,” he shouted to the soldiers at the platform. “His believers might attempt a rescue.”
“Prefect, those are not his believers,” Ceint called out, appearing astride a horse of his own. He gave his mount’s neck a blow with the flat of his hand to urge it on. “They are people from town come to see the crucifixion—that is all. I spotted several of the kohanim among them.”
Pilate rode up to the cross with Ceint and Judas following close behind.
Jesus had been writhing in agony up there for nearly four hours by now, having been crucified with the first light of dawn. His arms were spread wide along the horizontal beam of the cross and tied at the wrists with crude twine, and a long nail had been driven through the palm of his left hand. The rust-covered heads of two other nails could be seen protruding from his ankles at the bottom of his limply hanging legs. A line of blood trickling from the wound on his right leg made a path across the top of his soiled foot and ran down to collect and harden at the tip of his toenail. Ash-colored hair caked with grime and sweat was plastered to his forehead, making his face difficult to see, though Pilate could clearly hear his occasional moaning and muttering.
“Any idea what he’s saying?” Pilate asked Ceint.
“Something about wondering where God in Heaven has gotten to, I hear.”
Just then, a stone came flying up from the crowd on the hillside and struck Pilate’s horse on the rump. Startled, the prefect’s mount whirled in a circle, rearing and stamping its hooves as he struggled to calm it. The exposed layers of the rocky slope were slippery, and the horse’s sliding hooves made a dry sound like a clattering of bones that echoed off the boulders around them.
“Lord Prefect! I’ve caught the culprit—this is the man who threw that stone!”
A soldier came from the crowd, dragging a young man behind him. The captive opened his sunken blue eyes wide and glared at Pilate with all the malice of a viper.
“You there,” Ceint asked the man, “are you a follower of Jesus of Nazareth?”
The man did not so much as glance at Ceint, but instead leaned toward Pilate sitting atop his horse and spat ferociously. He was too far away to actually hit the prefect, and the spittle fell short, becoming a tiny dark spot on the hot, dry ground between them.
“Insolence!”
Pilate urged his horse nearer and, lifting the rod in his hand, struck the man across the face. The prisoner lurched backward, held up by the soldiers who clutched his arms on either side.
“Forgive him. He understands nothing,” said a clear voice from above their heads. All of them looked up to see Jesus gazing down on them from the cross, his head bowed as though in supplication. “Forgive that man. He is just a fool.”
The blood had long since drained from the dying man’s face, leaving his skin the color of clay. A brilliant green horsefly was perched below one of his ears.
“You call me a fool?” The young captive was the first to speak. “I threw that stone because I pitied you—I wanted you to see me get back at Rome for you! And you call me a fool?”
The prisoner writhed, fighting to free himself, his face filled with terrific rage. The soldiers yanked hard on his arms, pulling him back farther from the base of the cross.
“Who are you to call me a fool? If you really are the Son of God, then step down off that cross yourself!” The man’s shouting echoed down the slope.
“Jesus of Nazareth. I am Judas Iscariot. Do you know me?”
At the sound of Judas’s voice, Jesus again opened his eyes with great effort. His gaze wandered until he found the speaker.
“I do not recall it well . . . but I believe we met once . . . in Galilee,” he gasped between breaths.
“That’s right. I spoke with you about the Final Judgment you preach. At that time you told me you were the Son of God—that you were a true prophet.”
“Yes, that’s right, I am a prophet. I am the mouthpiece for God’s will . . .” Jesus’s voice trailed off into a low moan.
“Jesus of Nazareth!” Ceint called out, his voice heavy with loathing. “Will you not take back your words? Say only that you are not the Son of God, that you are not a prophet, and I will release you from your pain.”
Jesus made no reply but, with head hanging low, began to softly mutter the words of a prayer.
“Father in Heaven, please forgive these poor men, my brothers. They do not know you, they do not know that you truly exist. Father in Heaven, please . . .”
“Do it!” Ceint commanded, as though he could drive Jesus’s prayer back into the man’s mouth with the force of his own voice.
Two soldiers advanced, brandishing long spears held at an angle. A clamor rose up from the spectators around the hill, though it was impossible to say whether they were lamenting or cheering.
“Well, liar of Nazareth? Shouldn’t your God be coming to save you about now?”
The rod in Ceint’s hand made a whistling sound as he swung it through the air, a final signal.
One of the spear-wielding soldiers reached upward, thrusting the silvery tip of his weapon deep into the side of Jesus. When he stepped back, blood flowed from the fresh wound, staining the soiled hempen ropes of the wounded man.