The leader pushed Abigail forward, hatred burning in his eyes. “This is what we are all fighting to avoid! A Hebrew wench bearing a Roman whelp. The men you killed were her husband and father.”
She expected Barabbas to leer, to lunge, to do something in keeping with the rage that had fueled an uprising. Instead, he looked at her with absent pity. “I am . . .” His voice faded as though he forgot he was speaking. He looked around, his eyes brightening with life and filling with a strange sort of terror.
When they fell on Abigail again, she could not bring herself to throw upon him the hatred she had felt half a minute ago. All she could feel now was the same unbridled panic, the sudden alarm of finding oneself in a situation foreign and unpredicted.
Even before he moved his gaze away from her, Barabbas’s feet started moving. Soon, his whole body followed, and he was running away from them and the crowd behind them as quickly as possible. The religious leader snorted in disgust and strode back into the crowd. Abigail stood where she was left, staring after the retreating figure of her husband’s killer.
“Go home, Abigail.” The voice was cold and angry, and its familiarity did not register until she looked over to find Titus only a few feet away, his face a thunderhead of wrath. She could understand it. He wanted to watch the death of a man and instead had been ordered to set him free. Yes, she could understand it. But quite suddenly her soul was an empty chasm in which such emotions vanished in their endless search for a resting place. She stared at him as if not comprehending his words.
“Go home. This is no place for you.” When still she stood immobile, he growled. “Now! I have no time to see you to safety. I must supervise the crucifixions.”
She nodded, even turned away from him, put one foot in front of the other. But she knew not where she was going. Home lay somewhere in that direction, but it was on the other side of a sea of people who would not part for her and was still cheering.
“Crucify Jesus!” she heard them shouting.
“His blood will not be on my hands.” Pilate dipped his hands in a basin of water.
“Let his blood be on us and our children!” someone called out loudly. The new chant was taken up.
Abigail closed her eyes. Why would they wish the blood of an innocent man upon their people? She did not want her child to suffer for their desires. She did not want to suffer for their unwise choices. For centuries, her people had been paying the prices of their fathers’ sins. It had to end. She did not wish the death of the teacher. She did not know him, she could not judge him. Why did these people decide they could?
Tired, drained of her anger, all she wanted was to go home. She wanted to sit beside Ester, she wanted Dinah to force her to eat, she wanted Andrew to admonish her for her foolish foray that had come to nothing. She would tell the sad news, and they would sit together quietly, wondering what Cleopas would have said, what Jason may have thought of it. What did it mean, that their Christ stood defeated?
But nowhere in the Holy Scriptures themselves have I heard or read of a king come to triumph over nations. I have heard only of a savior come to be defeated. . . It would not be an absolute defeat, friend, just an apparent one.
Her own words from over a year ago echoed now through her mind. Giving up her endless struggle through the masses, she paused in thought. What was it the Scriptures said of the messiah? She did not remember so clearly anymore. She had not studied the Law much in the past year, she had thought about it no more often. Could it be that her master was right? Could this possibly be the fulfillment of the prophesied victorious defeat?
She could not know. She was no interpreter of prophecies, and there was no one to teach her now. Overwhelming helplessness welled up in her then, and her shoulders sagged.
The crowd surged. Caught in their midst, Abigail had no choice but to follow or be trampled. She did not know where they were going and could not bring herself to ask anyone. Each face she looked into was unconscious of all but the excitement. Cries still leapt from throats, arms were thrown up as if in celebration, and everyone pushed forward at once.
She was smaller than most of those around her, men who ignored her presence, and she could see nothing of where she was going. Soon, though, she knew. She had come out this morning intending to make this journey, and her plans were to be fulfilled after all. They were headed out of the city, to Calvary. There, the holes were already dug for the crosses. There, more people were already gathered for the day’s spectacle. She began to feel sick.