His mind traced over his life. That one open eye had seen more than Titus ever had in any introspection, and that was unacceptable. He remembered his stubbornness as a child, his willfulness as an adolescent. He recalled the many angry words he had tossed at his father, the fits of rage that had usually ended in a beaten servant or days of moody silence. He remembered the women, the revelries, the drunkenness. He remembered judging everyone for every fault without ever seeing his own.
How had he missed his shortcomings all of these years? How had he convinced himself that beating a slave for no reason was acceptable simple because he was master over the creature? Had he truly said not so long ago that the more women one could take, the better off one would be?
His stomach burned with the faults. A month ago, he never would have labeled them as such, but now he knew, in that place deep within that he had forced into dormancy long ago. It had finally reawakened in a spurt of destruction to rival Troy. His carefully constructed life was lying in tatters around him, all of his glories suddenly filthy parasites he wanted only to be rid of.
But how?
Forgive him. The words echoed again within his mind. Which “him” was it now? His father, for never understanding him, never trusting him, for teaching him that the way to get what he wanted was to take it by force? Jason, for being better than he without ever trying, for getting killed before Titus could ever apologize for his misjudgments? Barabbas, for killing his one true friend? Abigail, for taking that friend away? Cleopas, for raising him so well? Did he need to forgive Menelaus for never being what he wanted him to be, Apidius and Lentulus for never being more than what they were? Did he truly have to forgive Pilate for giving in to the crowds, the crowds for their fickle will, the religious men for their jealousies, Jerusalem for its weakness?
He looked up into the face of the man on the center cross, and the King of the Jews looked to heaven.
“Forgive them, Father,” the dying man said barely loudly enough to be heard, “for they know not what they do.”
A shudder ran down Titus’s spine. How could a man hanging on a cross, innocent of every crime but offending a few, be begging for forgiveness for his foes? How could he cast his face up to the heavens and expect a response when he found himself in such a situation? If he were what some said, if he were the Son of God, why did he not do as the crowd suggested and save himself? Why did he let his body weaken and die, why did he let his spirit shake? How could he still love a Father who let this happen to him?
“Eli, Eli.” Jesus’ cry sent a murmur through the crowds.
“He is calling for Elijah!” one citizen shouted nearby.
“Fool,” another reproached, “it is Hebrew.”
“Eli!” Jesus called again. “Lama sabachthani?”
Titus needed no interpreter to tell him what the words meant. He could feel them in his soul, feel them in the form of a tremor that started in his stomach and shook him all the way through. Why had God forsaken him? Even the man they called Christ did not know, he had to ask, he felt the loneliness that was man’s punishment for imperfection.
“Into your hands I commit my spirit.” Titus watched the serenity descend upon the man’s countenance, watched him seize in pain and cry out, “It is finished!”
The shaking this time was not in Titus. The earth beneath him trembled as he watched Jesus breathe his last, the skies split open into a terrible peal of thunder that echoed over the land as if it were protesting the absence of this man’s soul. Titus watched half the crowd take flight and run, the other half shifting uncomfortably, as if ashamed to leave but afraid to stay. The tremors in the ground did not last long, were not intense, but were enough to put fear into every face.
“He truly is the Son of God.” Titus looked in awe at the corpse that hung above him, closed his eyes when tears surged into them. When he opened them again, his fellow soldiers were staring at him with the same look of disbelief on their faces that he felt on his. They all knew him, though not well. The not well was because he was known to be unapproachable, unfeeling, and unfriendly. He could barely imagine what they must be thinking now. If anything close to what was going through his mind, it was unbelievable.
Their eyes followed his to where the Christ was hanging. He heard them all murmuring. One proclaimed Jesus a righteous man, another agreed, a third said he had never seen a man so perfect.
“Who is in charge?”
Titus turned to the man who had spoken. His garb said he was one of the elders of the synagogue. “I am.”
The man motioned anxiously to the three on the crosses. “Sundown in approaching, and it will be our Sabbath. They cannot be hanging then. Break their legs and take them down.”
Titus nodded. “It will be done. Musianus, Luke.” He pointed them to either side, then motioned to Jesus. “This one is already dead.”
“Dead?” The man’s brows lifted. “So soon? Impossible.”