Simon nodded, Drusus looked at him curiously. “A note? She reads?”
Andrew and Simon’s gazes met again, and they laughed. “She reads,” Simon verified. “I shall fetch some parchment and ink. Andrew, tell the others that we will be going.”
“No!”
They all turned to the doorway, where Samuel had approached unheard. “I cannot leave her! I will not!”
“Samuel, she will join us by nightfall.” Andrew reached for the boy.
He dodged Andrew’s grasp, his eyes wide and frightened. “No. You cannot make me leave her! I will not! I will not!”
He dashed from the room before any of them could so much as take a step. Andrew took off after him, calling his name, but the child had headed straight for the door. By the time Andrew reached the threshold, he had disappeared from sight. He shouted and slammed a fist against the post.
“I do not have time for this!”
“He will return,” Dinah said calmly from behind him. “Probably not in time to come with us, but he will wait for Abigail. He will be all right, Andrew. Come, we are ready.”
Andrew had no choice but to turn back inside. Within ten minutes, the note was sitting on the worktable in the kitchen, weighted down by a bowl, and the group of five had left the house laden down and headed out of the city.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Abigail heard the people mock him. The criminal on his left. The soldiers beneath him. But Jesus would not fight back. He would hurl no insults. He would acknowledge no demands. Their cries of “Save yourself if you are the Son of God!” went ignored and unanswered.
By that time, the clouds on the horizon had obscured the sun, lending the entire event an ominous current. The electricity in the air must have had everyone on edge; the masses erupted in shouting, cursing, and insults aimed not only at those hanging before them, but at each other.
Abigail barely paid it heed. Her attention was riveted on the face that she could see on top of the middle cross, where Jesus listened in agony to the mockery that was hurled his way. She had gotten back to her feet at some point; she could not have said when. She kept her eyes on one point only, and had only blinked when necessary. When they offered him vinegar on a sponge, she was watching when he refused it. When they hung the sign Pilate had made, she read “This is Jesus, King of the Jews” in all three languages. The words stung with equal force in each one.
No one understood what it meant to be king of the Jews. The Hebrews thought it should be a position of honor and resented that such a wretch would call himself by such a name. Did they not remember that Israel should have had no king but God? That even the wise and successful kings like David and Solomon had faltered, failed, and been torn by bloodshed and sin? To be Israel’s king was not so much an honor as an allotment. And Rome–Rome thought Israel was a broken nation. They appointed their leaders, changed their titles on a whim . . . all according the will of Caesar, not of God.
But Jesus, as he looked out over the swarms of angry people, arms stretched wide and chest heaving, reigned supreme in ways none of them could ever know. Abigail wished he would call down his legions of angels, just to show this faithless generation that he was the Son of God. But she knew he would not. The man whose face held her gaze was humble, low, and weighed down by the sins of them all. As his eyes brushed over the faces in the crowd, brushed over hers, her heart swelled up. He knew them all. He saw their souls. And even as he loved them, he mourned for their failings. The longer he hanged, the more she could see its weight upon him.
The other criminals still spoke, probably numb to the pain. One cursed Jesus, the other cursed the first and begged Christ to make a place for him in his kingdom.
Jesus looked over at the dying man on his right and offered a bruised smile. Abigail saw his mouth move and could hear just enough to make out his words. “You will surely be with me in Paradise.”
Then the darkness grew more pronounced. Some of the crowd began to disperse, but Abigail remained where she was. She could not leave. What it was that riveted her to her spot she could not have said, but she knew she would see it through to its end.
*
Titus watched, listened. He kept his face in the same impassable expression as always, but something had shifted within him. He did not participate in the wagers his fellow soldiers were making, nor did he say so much as a word after the crosses were raised.