“It is as they say,” he whispered.
Titus did not have to ask what it was they said. The thought had crossed his mind a heartbeat before the man spoke.
*
Abigail watched the first to pass by. Soldiers, those who would stand guard to be sure the masses did not swarm forward during the execution. They were followed by one of the prisoners. He staggered under the load of the cross that was on his shoulder, but the soldiers that followed had no mercy. The whip lashed out, and curses were hurled in Greek and Latin. The crowd roared out a chorus of derogatory epithets in Hebrew and Greek.
“A thief,” Jairus said to Abigail. “He was caught stealing from the tax money bound for Rome.”
Abigail nodded, absently rubbing at the ache forming in her lower back. She watched the second group of Romans march by, then the second criminal. He stumbled before them under the burden. One centurion kicked him, another grabbed the cross long enough for the man to stand, then put it back on his shoulders.
Jairus nodded. “One of the rebels caught in the uprising. Caught, I might add, with a considerable amount of gold stolen from a wealthy citizen I know.”
“Barabbas would have been in his regular company.” Her eyes moved down the row of people marching by in search of the one who had taken his place.
“Indeed. And Jesus, too, though very differently. He spoke to the wretched to give them hope. Now he will die as though one of them.”
The third cross came into view, but the man carrying it was obviously not the convicted. He wore clean garments, and he bore the burden with strength. His face, however, betrayed his turmoil. The reason for it soon became clear. Before him staggered the Nazarene, so beaten that he could not walk under his own power, so weakened he would have dropped under the weight of the cross. Abigail could not tear her gaze from the pitiful man. His hair was tangled and matted with dried blood, fresh life oozing from wounds on his face. From the side, Abigail could see that his lips were cracked, his nose bleeding, his eyes swollen. Nausea burst in her stomach, but still she could not look away.
She had never seen the man in person before, certainly never so close. The stories she had heard, the image she had drawn was a far cry from this reality before her. What she saw was a man broken, battered, abused. What she had expected was someone with shoulders thrown back in strength, laughing in the face of the world. From what she could see as he stumbled nearer to her, he was weak–but still, a breath at the back of her neck told her there was more than merely what she could see. Even as he was half dragged along, there was a power in him. A strength that she saw in his silence, something that went deeper than anything she had within herself.
He was close now, only a step away, and Abigail had a horrible fear that he would look at her. Quite suddenly, that thought struck her as unbearable. She knew, knew with every portion of her being, that if he looked at her, he would see her in her completeness. He would see how black her soul had become with sin and hatred and bitterness. He would see all she had done and thought to do and wished herself capable of. He would see that though she wished him spared, it was only so that another could die in his place.
Something within her drew back the closer he got, pulled at her until she wanted to turn and flee to escape his approaching presence. But Jairus was still at her side, gazing silently now at the man before him.
Jesus stumbled on a rock and would have fallen if it had not been for the centurion holding him up. All of her focus, all of her concentration was on the man who was falling toward his knees. Then an arm caught him, and he jerked against gravity. Jesus’ head flew back, his eyes turning to heaven and his mouth opening as if to speak.
The action broke open one of his wounds, and his crimson life dripped onto the ground. He was pulled to his feet, and his head was once again jarred. A stray drop of blood arched through the air and landed on the round of Abigail’s stomach.
Immediately, she felt a burning on the flesh beneath her garment. It was so quick, so debilitating that she could not even respond. A fire spread through her, devouring her, leaving in its wake a relief that brought tears to her eyes. She looked down at the stain on her clothes in disbelief. It was so small, so insignificant. One little drop of red, a perfect starburst against the faded blue of her woolen tunic.
One little drop to soil her garment.
One little drop to cleanse her soul.