Marcus of Rome: Friday

First-century Jerusalem

Friday, the day before Passover

Marcus cracked his neck. He looked forward to a day of rest. He’d been working for ten days straight and he had plans to visit Flavius’s sister—if he could keep it hidden from Flavius. She’d sent him a message that said she would meet him near the fountain after breakfast, and Flavius was on duty all day.

He placed his armor and helmet on the shelf above his bunk, then slipped his sword into its sheath. Stepping through the door, he blinked in the rising sun’s bright light.

Decimus blocked his exit. “Where are you going?” His gruff voice matched his bear-like appearance, large, hairy and rough.

“Out.” No way would he tell his commander. He’d go straight to Flavius.

“Can’t. We’re on duty today. Three executions. Well, three trials. But we know how they’ll end.” He chuckled dryly.

Marcus groaned. “We’ve been on for the last ten days. It’s B squad’s turn.”

“Paulus and his men were sent north. Get your armor on and quit complaining.”

He dressed and stepped into the courtyard of the barracks, where Aulus, Gaius, and Lucius waited with the commander.

“We’re to report to the Praetorium. Let’s go.” Decimus turned on his heels and the others fell into step.

On the portico of Pilate’s expansive residence, two criminals, already tried and convicted, waited to the side. Bound hands and feet, they bore the marks of the professional lictors on their backs. Their wounds were raw and bloody, and wrapped around their sides onto their chests.

Marcus leaned toward his commander. “They started early today. The sun’s barely up.”

“The Jewish leaders are incensed with this one.” Decimus pointed to the Man before Pilate. “They tried him last night, but they can’t legally sentence him to death. He appeared before Pilate once this morning already. Pilate sent him to Herod, and Herod sent him back.”

Marcus studied the Man. He stood tall, said nothing. He didn’t seem afraid, worried, or even resigned to his fate.

He acted as if none of this bothered Him at all.

Pilate rose. “I have examined this Man and found no basis for your charges. Neither has Herod. He has done nothing to deserve death.”

“No! We have found Him guilty, and you must punish Him!” The Jewish leaders pressed in, and guards moved to push them back.

Pilate sighed. “It is your custom for me to release one prisoner at the time of your Passover. Do you want me to release this ‘king of the Jews’?”

“No, not him! Give us Barabbas!”

Marcus turned to his teammates. “Barabbas? Isn’t he the one who started a riot last month?”

Aulus nodded. “And murdered several men in the process.”

Why would they want this Man killed so badly they would let Barabbas go free?

Pilate raised his hands and let them fall. “All right. Have him flogged, and then I am done with this.” He disappeared into the depths of his palace.

The lictors approached the prisoner. One untied His hands, removed His cloak and tunic, then led Him to a stone pillar about chest high. He wrapped the Man’s hands around the column and tied them to a ring on the other side.

Through all this the Man offered no resistance, spoke not a word. He didn’t loudly proclaim His innocence or beg for mercy.

He did none of the things most did in His position.

The lictor drew his arm back and landed a blow. Before he’d pulled the flagellum all the way back the one on the opposite side followed suit. They continued, first one side, then the other, the leather thongs and their metal shards ripping into His skin and muscle, down to bone.

Marcus lost count.

The Man suffered, that was obvious. He arched his back, moaned, cried out. When the lictors finished, his back was raw, flesh hanging in strips, blood flowing to his ankles. He collapsed against the column.

And what exactly was His crime? Marcus wasn’t sure.

The soldiers and lictors dragged the Man into the palace.

“Call everyone in here!” The commander of the palace soldiers ordered the company to report. While he waited, he ripped a thorned branch from a potted bush on the edge of the tiled porch and stripped it of its leaves. “Ouch!” Shaking his hand, he laughed at the blood dripping from his fingers.

“Get a couple more,” he ordered a soldier. “But mind the thorns.” He laughed again. Cautiously weaving the bare stems together, he shaped a circle.

What did he mean to do with that?

Marcus’s stomach soured as he realized the man’s intent.

The commander raised the ring high in the air, to great applause, then jammed it onto the kneeling prisoner’s head. Blood gushed from the wounds, streaking down His face, into his eyes. Soldiers struck him with their staffs until His eyes were swollen shut.

He grunted and groaned, but did not struggle.

“Wait! A king needs a robe!” Another guard removed his own red cloak. The Man groaned and winced as they draped it over His bloody back.

“Decimus, stop this. I’ve seen mocking before, but this is going too far,” Marcus whispered.

His commander rolled his eyes, but strode toward the action. “We need to get the executions underway. We have three, and they will take some time. Have your men stand down.”

The palace commander glared for a moment, but ordered his men out.

Aulus and Gaius removed the scarlet cloak from the prisoner.

Marcus grabbed the Man’s own tunic. “It will be better than the wood on your bare skin,” he said, as he gently slipped it over his head. They joined the others on the portico.

“Lucius, grab the crossbeams.” Decimus pointed to a pile of wooden beams.

Lucius gave each man his crossbeam. The team led the trio out of the Praetorium and the city on the short walk to the execution site.

The Man fell. Not surprising with the amount of blood He’d lost between the scourging and the thorns. Marcus glanced around for someone strong.

A large African man, well-muscled, waited beside the road with his two boys. “You there! Carry this for Him.”

His eyes widened and he backed away.

Marcus stepped nearer. “What’s your name?”

“Simon. I am from Cyrene.”

“It’s Roman law.” He pointed to the Man. “Look at Him.” He softened his voice. “He can’t do it. He’s nearly dead as it is.”

Simon glanced at the Man. “What did He do?”

Marcus shook his head. “I have no idea.”

Simon knelt to face his boys. “Stay on the side, but follow me.” He caught up with the Man, picked up the beam like it was a sack of barley and followed Him down the road.

On the hill, the uprights waited. Decimus oversaw the four of them as they tossed crossbeams to the ground then lay the condemned on top of those.

After the team took care of the thieves, they moved to the Man.

Marcus stretched his arms out along the wood while Aulus leaned on his chest, Gaius on his right arm. Lucius held his legs. Feeling for the space between the bones at the top of his wrist, Marcus placed a nail there, and slammed the hammer down.

The Man screamed in agony, His back arching.

The sound ripped though Marcus’s soul. He pounded the nail again.

Another roar of pain.

He switched places with Gaius and repeated the process on his left wrist. Then, with Aulus grabbing the other end, and Gaius grasping his torso, they climbed the steps placed at the foot of the upright. Struggling, they dropped the beam into the mortise carved into the standing wood.

The Man cried out as His body fell, ripping his wounds even further.

Marcus stepped down, placed one of the Man’s feet against the side of the upright while the others still held him still. He positioned a nail against the heel, pounded it into the flesh and into the wood. He moved to the other side, affixed that heel to the wood, then stepped down.

Aulus offered the Man wine mixed with myrrh to help deaden the pain, but He refused. Then he attached a sign, written in Greek, Latin and Hebrew that said, “This is the King of the Jews.”

By Jupiter, he was already exhausted, and it was only mid-morning. He blew out a deep breath. The squad would have to stay until all three died. That could be up to three days.

Decimus sorted through the Man’s clothing, giving a piece to each of the others—loincloth, tunic, belt, sandals. Marcus declined.

Decimus held up the Man’s cloak, turned it over and over. “This cloak is remarkable. I’ve never seen work like it. It has no seams—it’s one piece from top to bottom. Let’s roll the dice for it. Marcus, are you in?”

Marcus walked away. He’d gambled for clothing before. It was part of their pay.

He wasn’t sure why, but not this time.

The Man lifted his head. “Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing.”

Marcus walked away and dropped to the ground. Pulling off his helmet, he tossed it aside.

Forgive them? How could that Man possibly say that? They’d just pounded nails into His body.

No one would ever forgive him.

 

Find out what happens to Marcus on Saturday and Sunday.