“Yes,” said Lucanus. “I understand.” He put his palm against the feverish cheek like a father, and his breast heaved. He tried to smile. “But all is not lost,” he added, in a comforting tone, and in the mechanical fashion of a doctor.
Priscus rolled his head on his cushions. “All is lost,” he said quietly.
“One must have hope,” said Joshua.
“I no longer desire to live,” said Priscus, simply. “You speak of my body, good Joshua. I do not have a care for my body.” He put his hand into that of Lucanus, like an exhausted child. “I must talk with my brother, alone,” he said. “There is much to say before I go on my long journey.”
“I comprehend,” said Joshua, wrung with his own grief, for he had come to love Priscus, as all who knew him did. “But you must not tire yourself.”
“Unless I am relieved of my burden I shall not be able to join my father and my mother and my sister in peace,” said Priscus. “I have little time.”
“Only the gods know that,” said Nicias, coldly. He inclined his head, and Joshua followed him from the room, and at the last, the slaves. Priscus watched them go, and then with forced strength he said to Lucanus, “Lift me on my cushions, dear brother, so I may speak more easily.”
Lucanus lifted him, and he was appalled at the lightness of the soldier’s body, the absence of flesh. But he made himself smile comfortingly. Priscus’ head fell back on the raised cushions, and he panted weakly for some moments. He closed his eyes. “I must speak,” he said, with something of Diodorus’ imperiousness. “You must not tell me not to tire myself. I must say all that I must say, Lucanus.”
“Yes,” said Lucanus. Priscus’ hand groped for his, and he smiled faintly. “It is a terrible story,” he said, after a moment or two, and his face changed and became ghastly, as though he had just died in torment. And then he began his tale.
The lamps flickered or quickened in the sea breeze which came through the columns outside. The odors of the East rode on the wind, and the sounds of the tinkling fountains. And Priscus spoke steadily, with an urging of last strength, and Lucanus did not interrupt him once.
Plotius had been stationed in Jerusalem for a considerable time. He had found the city fascinating and full of excitement. The Jews were a strange people, but never were they dull or flaccid. They looked at the Romans coldly, and avoided them, except for the rich merchants and politicians and the owners of cargo vessels. The lesser and humbler people despised them, except for the high priests whose families were engaged in trade and had their fortunes to make. “The people are at once realistic and as materialistic as are we Romans,” said Priscus, “and yet are full of piety and mysticism. Even the grossest and most exigent of the tradesmen and merchants and manufacturers will thrust aside worldly concerns on the holy days and become as unworldly as shades, forgetting everything. The Temple is filled with the smoke of sacrifices and the scent of incense, and there is wailing and weeping on some holy days, and rejoicing and dancing on others. The Jews weep eternally, even when they smile. And they speak of a Messias who will deliver them from Rome, and Who will set His foot on the prostrate breast of Rome and never permit her to rise again.”
Priscus, youthful and ever full of curiosity, had heard much of the religion of the Jews, for he wished to be friends with those who spurned his friendship. But no one would discuss religion with him, not even his merchant and trader acquaintances. From that subject they would recoil, and their wine-flushed fat faces would darken and turn away. And then he began to hear rumors of a strange, country rabbi, of no learning, from the hills of Galilee, of a people despised by the Jerusalem worldlings and cultured men. He was a man of no family, no wealth. He had nothing but the poor clothing on His back and the rope sandals on His feet. Nor did He possess a horse or a litter, or even the lowliest ass. Yet when He came to Jerusalem He was surrounded by crowds; where He moved, they moved also, listening to Him. It was rumored that He healed the sick and raised the dead. The priests at first laughed, then were angered. It was all nothing to Priscus, who could never understand the Jews, their many quarreling sects, their insistence on certain rituals, their constant vehement arguments about the niceties of the meanings of ancient prophets — even the city rabble would quarrel about these things! They regarded their religion with sternness and devotion, and observed it meticulously. This was true of the meanest man or the highest and most honored. They had no cynical doubts of it, as did the Greeks, nor had they the earthy superstitions of the Romans. That doubtless explained the excitement over the rabbi who was rumored to raise the dead and heal the sick and perform many other miracles. It also explained the wrath of the patrician high priests who detested the common folk and found even their poor sacrifices unworthy. The rabbi was invading their sacred purlieus and was distracting the people from their duties. Almost as bad as this, it was rumored He was inciting the people against Rome, and that was most dangerous.
It was finally rumored, with immense excitement, that He was the Messias. He would rescue His people Israel from the power of Rome, and with throngs of angels would drive the Roman legions from the walls of Jerusalem. For the first time, then, Pontius Pilate, who never interfered with any Jewish affairs, being a discreet man, became concerned. Let the Jews fight among themselves, as they did interminably over some doctrine or other, so long as the fights did not threaten the authority of Rome. The tetrarch, Herod, half Greek, half Jew, was approached by the high priests, who declared that the Jews were in danger because of the teachings of this miserable rabbi, who not only asserted He had come to fulfill the laws of the prophets and that the priests were deceiving the people and oppressing them, but He was causing confusion and diversion inimical to the peaceful relations between the Jews and their masters, the Romans. Herod discussed the matter with Pilate, who visited Jerusalem, which he did not like, and he was annoyed that this visit was forced upon him. He called Plotius and Priscus to him and questioned them. Plotius shrugged and declared that the priests were always in a frenzy and one should not listen to them seriously. Priscus spoke to Pilate of the rumors of miracles, and Plotius laughed. Pilate was more concerned with a possible uprising of the Jews than with the rabbi as a Person.
“I am not certain what happened next,” said Priscus, in his feeble but insistent voice, and staring with queer and vivid eyes at his brother. “The affairs of the Jews were nothing to me. I understand, however, that the high priests demanded the death of the wandering, footsore rabbi, and that He was brought before Pilate for a judgment. Pilate found no fault with Him, but the rabble howled for His death, not because they particularly disliked Him but because they wished excitement. It was the Jewish Passover, and I was there, and I was ordered to keep peace. At the Passover the Jews address us as Egyptians, and this is incomprehensible, and insulting. My Jewish friends withdraw from me for the period.”
It was the eve of the Passover. The excitement in the city over the rabbi was growing to an unbearable pitch. Groups fought in the streets, and cursed the soldiers who separated them. And then Priscus received his orders to execute the disturbing rabbi with two thieves who had been condemned to death. It was only another disagreeable task, and Priscus followed his orders.
It was customary, under Roman law, that those criminals who had been condemned to the vilest death on the cross be scourged before execution. Priscus had ordered two of his lesser officers to officiate on that occasion; the rabbi was in prison awaiting the final punishment. He himself waited for the hour when he would lead his soldiers and the executioners to the usual place, a mount known as Golgotha, or the Place of Skulls. He sat on his horse, bored to the point of fatigue, for he had spent hours in a favorite tavern the night before, and he was restive that this mean task had been relegated to him. The criminal was only a wretched Jew, stricken with poverty and unworthy of the attention of a high officer such as himself. He did look about at the turbulent, excited throngs with a slightly curious eye. But the Jews were always excited, and quite often o
ver the most insignificant things. He heard muffled curses thrown at him as he sat on his horse among his mounted officers, but the Jews, especially when their holy days approached, frequently cursed the Romans even when on other days they were friendly to them. It was nothing of importance. He even laughed good-naturedly, and jested with his officers, and yawned.
The crowds had gathered all along the narrow road leading from the prison to the Place of Skulls. Priscus was suddenly arrested by the expressions of many of the people. The volatile Jews were unusually, and quickly, silent. Hundreds of women were openly weeping; others held their little children high in the manner of mothers who wish their offspring to catch a glimpse of an approaching prince or high potentate. Many men were wringing their hands and weeping in silence, or beating their breasts. A strange air of doom hung over the city and the people. A mysterious hot light bathed the earth; it was as if the sun, losing his natural golden color, had become fiercely incandescent. And in this light the colors of the garments of the people took on a vivid hue; crimson and blue, striped red and white, yellow and black, rose and emerald — they glowed as if about to burst into flame. The faces became imminent; every line, mold of nose or mouth, color of eye, glimmer of forehead and chin, even those most distant, had a wild clarity and vehemence. The odor of sweat pervaded the burning air. There were no priests in that crushing yet oddly quiet throng; they had done their work; they were in the Temple preparing for the Passover. Priscus glanced uneasily at the sky. There, over the bronze mounts, the sky was a most peculiar color. It was as if a cauldron boiled out of sight beyond the Place of Skulls, throwing up its gathering steam of pale red and purple. The steam smoldered and moved. Priscus called the attention of his nearest officer to it. The officer was a young man, and superstitious, and he looked at that malign and colored movement with dismay. “Who is it that we are to execute?” he asked. Priscus had replied, “Only three criminals.” The young officer had fingered an amulet and had shaken his head and had muttered, “I do not like this. There are portents here.” Priscus had laughed at him, but he had shifted on his horse. He sneezed; the fiery air, so flaming, was filled with hot yellow dust. He sweated under his armor.
Then there was a turbulence before the gates of the prison. A roaring cry assaulted the ears, and a deep groaning and wailing. Priscus and his officers rode nearer the gates. A man was being dragged forth by foot soldiers. He was a tall man, with golden hair and a golden beard. He appeared prostrated. He wore a torn garment of white, and over that a crimson cloak of poor cloth. On His high head a crown of thorns had been thrust, and His white face streamed with blood. “What is this?” muttered the young officer to Priscus, but Priscus could not reply.
For he saw the face of the criminal, which, despite the blood and dirt, was noble beyond imagining, and calm and gentle, and appeared to radiate with a light of its own, greater even than the furious light of the sun. His was the countenance of a king, majestic and holy, and removed from any fear. A cold horror, which he could not explain, seized Priscus. This was no criminal; this was a man of the highest blood. His garments took on the majesty of purple; the crown of thorns was a crown of gold. The horror increased in Priscus. Was this the wretched rabbi, in truth? Was this the countryman of no family and no wealth? It was incredible. He had the aspect of an emperor, though the soldiers pushed Him and beat Him, and laughed at Him in the way of all coarse subordinates, and spat in His face.
“Hail, King of the Jews!” shouted the soldiers, and the market rabble howled. But hundreds of sobbing women fell on their knees and stretched forth their arms, and hundreds of men wailed and their faces ran with tears, and hundreds of little children cried. The scene was too chaotic for a single pair of eyes, and the eyes of Priscus became frantic with trying to encompass all things. But finally he could see no one but the condemned, who was staggering under the blows of the soldiers.
Priscus wheeled his horse, and his hands trembled on the reins. He motioned to his officers, and they began to canter towards the gates of the city, which were creaking open. Priscus said to himself, Who is this who is about to die? He looked back over his shoulder. A cross had been thrust upon the shoulders of the weakened rabbi, and He was weaving desperately under it, trying to keep to His feet under the weight and the blows of the soldiers. The horror deepened in Priscus. He reached within his armor and clutched his own amulet, a talisman against evil. But the metal burned his fingers, and it was wet with his sweat.
About and around him he heard the most deafening howls and screams and cries and wailings. The light was insufferable; it was as if a dozen suns had joined their incandescent brother. The glare stung the eyelids and inflamed the forehead. The stench of humanity and the acrid taste of rising dust nauseated the young Roman. His head ached fiercely; it was as if his bones within him trembled and quivered. All colors blazed too savagely for him; he half closed his eyelids to escape that fury of hue and fiery light. The near and distant buildings danced wildly before him; heat waves shimmered over all things, giving them the aspect of madness and instability. And beyond Golgotha the red and purple clouds streamed up into the sky like flickering tongues, spreading themselves over the white-hot heavens, leaping from behind the copper of the mount.
A greater cry assaulted the awful air, and again Priscus glanced over his shoulders. The criminal had fallen in the dust; a young woman, her face covered with tears, was wiping his face. A soldier had shouted peremptorily to a bystander, and the man, dark of skin, and huge, came at once and lifted the cross from the shoulders of the condemned. With the assistance of the soldiers he placed the cross over his own shoulders, and he stood up from the crouching position, and a deep smile played on his features. He looked at the sky, and tears and sweat burst out on his sun-browned flesh. He moved on docilely, like one in an ecstatic dream, and with strength, not faltering. It was as if he bore on his shoulders the litter of a king, proudly. And behind him stumbled the criminal, His lips moving. The populace followed like a varicolored river, shouting or groaning, shaking their fists in the air or weeping. And over it all poured that unearthly and shattering light.
Then Priscus heard a voice, speaking in slurred Aramaic, but pure and sure and strong, like the voice of a ruler: “Daughters of Jerusalem! Weep not for me but for your children. For behold! days are coming in which men will say, ‘Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bore, and breasts that never nursed!’ Then they will begin to say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us!’ And to the hills, ‘Cover us!’ ”
Priscus was stunned by that voice and the strange words it had uttered. It was as if a thousand oracles had spoken; it was as if Apollo, moved by the agony of men, had wept for them. It was as if Zeus had hurled thunderbolts into the sky. And the people, so clamorous, so beset, so weeping, and so torn with grief, fell silent for a moment.
“Who is He?” cried the young soldier to Priscus, and Priscus could not answer.
The hot and furious climbing road lay before them, rising to Golgotha. And Priscus said to himself in terrible and nameless despair, I must not look behind me again! But he could not shut from his awareness the tremendous lamentation that mingled with the disastrous light, a lamentation that followed the condemned man like the tide of sorrow and despair. And over and above this tide shrilled the shrieks of the market rabble, lusting, as always, in its instinct of hatred and menace and eagerness for a victim.
The yellow battlemented walls of the city fell behind, and the narrow way rose sharply to the Mount of Golgotha, whose copper rise appeared to fume with an infernal fire of its own. Stones shifted under the hoofs of Priscus’ horse, and dropped back, rumbling. He could hear the clatter of the horses of his followers, and their frightened, muffled curses. Dazed, he looked about the heat-stricken countryside, the terraced hills with their burdens of cypresses and olive trees, its patches of green gardens. But all bore the sinister glare of a nightmare, shifting and without substance. Sweat poured down the face of Priscus, and he removed his helmet to wi
pe his head and face; his breath came heavily and with enormous effort. I must not think! he cried to himself. I am sick; I see with the eyes of sickness. This is nothing significant; this is only the execution of one who is a criminal before Rome, an inciter of mobs against our authority.
But the terror and the horror grew in him like an explosion, pressing against his heart and his mind and the organs of his flesh. He was appalled at the sky above the mount; the colored flames rose higher, devouring. He could actually feel their palpitation. His superstitious Roman spirit cowered. The lamentations filled the baleful air.
Priscus said to his nearest officer, “Hold back the mob! Let them not cover the top of the mount; they must remain below! Who knows what they will do to us? For we are few, and they are thousands, large with excitement and emotion.”
The officers wheeled on their struggling horses and rode down against the mobs, but Priscus would not look back. Panting, he dropped his head on his breast and waited. After a little it seemed to him that the cries and the wailings dimmed slightly, as his officers and their foot soldiers turned back the people to prevent them from ascending to the final height. Then Priscus saw that two crosses were now being lifted against the ominous and streaming sky, leaving a place between them. He could see the naked men clearly, though he was still at a distance, and below. They had dark, contorted faces; their arms stretched in agony on the crosses; one screamed.