Had the fools never read Plato? Did they think they were the first to execute a man for saying things that offended the elect? What did it do to Socrates but make him a martyr, a symbol for centuries to come? If they wanted a man to be forgotten, they should not deal with him publicly. The fact that these rulers of the synagogue could not figure that out did not speak well of them to Titus.
But he released Barabbas because to do otherwise would result in punishment. He went back in to see to the one who took his place. But inside, he wanted nothing to do with the man they called King of the Jews.
It was his job to lead the man to the Praetorium. He did so hollowly, his face never portraying any emotion. But when the rest of the garrison gathered around and mocked the man, forcing a twisted crown of thorns into his head until the blood dripped down into sorrowful eyes, Titus averted his gaze. It was not the sight of blood that bothered him. It was the sight of blood that should have been Barabbas’s.
“Hail, King of the Jews!” One of the soldiers beside him laughed at the ridiculous form the prisoner made, wearing one of the general’s scarlet robes that would forever be ruined by the crimson blood. A centurion spat on him, another took up a reed and struck him on the head. Titus listened to the crack of the crown and knew that the blow would have driven the thorns even deeper into the man’s head. But the captive only groaned, never fighting back or lashing out like most of the prisoners would have.
“Enough!” Titus stepped forward, hand held up. “Get those off him,” he ordered, motioning toward the scarlet robes, “and put his clothes back on. We have a crucifixion to see to.”
The men jumped to carry out his words. One soldier pulled off the red cloth, another threw on his original garment. Everyone else prepared for the procession to Golgotha. Within minutes, they were on their way. Outside the Praetorium, they thrust the crosses at the three prisoners being led to execution. Only the third had been so beaten that he could not manage his own cross.
“You.” Titus grabbed a man as he walked by. The citizen looked terrified when he looked up into his face, but Titus just tossed him in the general direction of the third cross. “Bear the cross for your king.”
The man looked timidly around him, then his gaze rested on Jesus. Instead of uttering a protest, he shouldered the burden and fell into the line. Titus watched with a hint of amazement. He knew it was not his authority that made the man offer no objection. Perhaps he had just taken pity on the creature doubled up in pain.
“March!” The drums began to beat their cadence.
They were just outside the city when the Nazarene stumbled and fell, unable to get up no matter how many prodded him with unmerciful feet.
“Stop it!” Titus roared when one of his men kicked him in the ribs. “He will die on his own soon enough. Pick him up.”
But the soldier hesitated. Titus did not give the order again. He merely glared at his comrade and reached down himself to haul the abused man to his feet.
“Forgive him.”
Titus froze when he heard the whisper. He looked into the face of his prisoner. One eye was swollen closed, the other bruised but open. The iris that looked at him was a deep brown, filled with improbable compassion. “What?” Titus sucked in a quick breath, unable to believe the man would dare to speak and say something so absurd.
“He knows not what he did.” Jesus’s words obviously took effort. His lips were broken open.
Titus turned from the face because he could not stand to see the mercy within it. What place did mercy have in this world, where good men were killed while criminals ran free? Why should this condemned teacher tell him to forgive his soldier for something that was not even worth forgiving?
“Forgive him,” Jesus whispered again. “He did not wish to be set free.”
Titus lifted the man, put an arm around him to support him, and fell back into line. Barabbas–he spoke of Barabbas. But such an order was impossible. And how would he even know to make it? Had he spoken to Barabbas while they were being held? Had the murderer told the teacher that Titus had been the one to drag him into custody?
No. He had been there the whole time. The two had not spoken, though their gazes had held for a long moment. Was it possible. . . ? No. No man read minds. This one must have just been very perceptive. He must have seen how Titus felt toward Barabbas, how angry he had been to have to release him.
Titus felt a burning on his hand, the one that gripped his prisoner. Looking over in mixed irritation and alarm, he wondered what could be causing it. What he saw was a trickle of the man’s blood running over his own flesh. Strange. He did not feel the tickle of the fluid, or the bodily heat. No, what he felt was an intense sensation that began at the point of contact and slowly coursed through him. He began to shake.
Jesus looked over at him. They were climbing the hill to Golgotha now, approaching the final scene of his life. He knew it. His one good eye said clearly that he knew it, that there was no escape. But still, those split and broken lips turned up into an expression too pained to be called a smile but nevertheless meant to give comfort.