The centurion at the cross
The deed was done. All we had to do was wait… But today, it would not be long as the Jewish Sabbath would begin at sundown and if the blistering sun did not kill the three crucified men we’d break their legs and hasten death. While soldiers guffawed, gambling for Jesus’ robe, I stared at the writing above His head, ‘King of the Jews’ and wondered how I’d got myself involved in all this.
I was posted to Jerusalem to maintain law and order during Passover, the Jewish festival, when crowds throng the city. I drawled, “Lucius, it’s going to be boring! No one will dare start a riot with us Romans around.” How wrong I was!
Strolling up a street overlooked by the Mount of Olives, Lucius and I were lost in a jubilant crowd waving palm branches, welcoming a simple man riding a donkey. “Who is He?” I murmured. A reveller grinned, “Don’t you know Him? Jesus!
He has come to save us!” I sniggered, raising my eyebrows at Lucius.
When Jesus said Jerusalem would one day be destroyed, I nudged Lucius, “Unbelievable! This is a fortified city.”
Lucius jolted me awake, “Marcus! There’s a riot in the Temple.” I was thunderstruck for there was an angry Jesus in the centre of the pandemonium of buyers, sellers and moneychangers declaring they had made His house of prayer a den of thieves. “Think we should have the soldiers here?” Lucius whispered tugging my sleeve. “No, this is not a riot! Just watch.” We did.
Jesus’ eyes met mine. He awed me.
Soon a shocking rumour reached my ears. The priests and teachers jealous of Jesus’ popularity, as teacher and healer, were plotting to kill Him. I had to stop this. I didn’t want a riot and a murder on my hands.
The next few days passed like a
dream with the arrival in Jerusalem
of King Herod and the Roman Governor Pontius Pilate demanding my attention.
Late on Thursday night, Lucas burst into my room gasping, “Marcus!
The Temple priests and guards arrested Jesus in a garden! He was praying!
A disciple betrayed Him with a kiss!
For 30 silver coins!”
“Where is He now?” I stuttered.
“They have taken Him to Caiaphas the High Priest’s house for questioning.”
Dawn brought a summons from Pilate. Dressing hurriedly and donning my armour I arrived at the Praetorium, the Roman Governor’s headquarters.
Pilate looked troubled. “Marcus, welcome. We have a problem – Jesus.
A strange man who won’t defend himself and the priests envy Him.”
Down in the courtyard stood Jesus, a prisoner. Behind Him, robust Caiaphas, aged Annas, a horde of priests, temple guards and a snarling mob.
Tempted to retort, “Yes, Governor it’s not Jesus, it’s the priests.” I held my tongue realizing the crafty priests had come to Pilate only because we Romans had the sole power to pass the death sentence.
The babbling ceased.
Seated on his judgement seat, Pilate asked, “Are you the King of the Jews?”
I held my breath.
“You say so,” Jesus replied with an intense look.
“Your people, the Jews, call you ‘trouble maker’ and say you call yourself ‘King’. Is that so?”
My eyes pleaded with Jesus to defend himself. To my dismay, He was silent.
“Nothing to say?” coaxed Pilate.
Facing the crowd, Pilate declared, “I don’t find Jesus guilty of any crime deserving death.”
The crowd roared, “Crucify Him!”
“Why? What crime has He committed?” Pilate demanded.
“Crucify Him!” they demanded.
Pilate paced, perplexed, then spun on his heels announcing, “I’ll flog him and release him.” My heart thudded. Jesus didn’t deserve a Roman flogging, 39 lashes, bloody, brutal and merciless. My agonized eyes met His calm gaze. I supervised the flogging, flinching as the whip sharp with metal, ripped His flesh.
Soldiers dressed Him in a purple robe and pressed a crown of thorns on His head tormenting and taunting Him.
“Enough!” I thundered.
Jesus stood, bloody and bruised. “Look! Here is your King! Are you satisfied?” Pilate demanded wryly.
“I’m permitted to release one prisoner at Passover. Here’s Barabbas a notorious murderer, and there’s the innocent Jesus. Make your choice!”
“Release Barabbas!” the crowd shouted.
Pale-faced, Pilate stuttered,
“Wha… what about Jesus?”
“CRUCIFY HIM! CRUCIFY HIM!”
they chorused deafeningly.
Solemnly, he washed his hands.
“I am innocent of this man’s blood.
Take Him!” he gestured impatiently.
Caiaphas smiled triumphantly.
Annas rubbed his palms gleefully. Barabbas tossed his head derisively
and sprang into the jeering crowd.
I was baffled. Was this the same crowd that welcomed Jesus a few days ago?
Some women wailed, their arms outstretched as Jesus laboured under the weight of the heavy cross placed on His shoulders. My roving eyes fell on a brawny African who glanced at Jesus sorrowfully and then quickly moved aside.
“Stop!” I commanded. “What’s your name?”
“Simon, sir, I’m a Cyrenian.”
“Help Him to carry the cross.”
Simon hesitated, then cradled the beam on his shoulders. Jesus’ eyes drifted from mine to Simon’s.
Continued on Page 11