Christmas 2014
He thought he knew
all about pain. He did not. He thought his life could get no worse. It had. He
thought he had reached the limit of his rage. He had not. The pain and rage he felt now was endless.
His mind had room for nothing else. His screams were met with jeers and
mockery. His fourteen years of life were coming to an end as entertainment and
an example to any who would challenge the way of the Roman empire. Crucifixion
was reserved mainly for revolutionaries and slaves. He was a slave born of copae
and the only end to his pain would be the end of his brief, tormented life.
Most considered him
lucky to have lived at all. His birth had come at a convenient time for his
mother’s master. The cook was getting old and he hated the thought of the
expense to replace him. He declared the next boy slave born to one of his
serving maids would be raised and trained to cook. The fate of all boy slave
babies, and most girls, awaited them in a field not far away. A huge ditch lay
full of skeletons, decaying corpses, and some still whimpering infants. The
tavern used only women to serve and whore. It had no use for boys. Others used
the ditch for unwanted females, although some just left them in the field or
even by the side of the road. He had not been the next boy born. The next born
was puny and ended up in the ditch anyway. But his cries had been loud and
hardy; and so he had been allowed to live.
Once his mother quit
nursing him, her master began to regret his decision. He was still too young to
do much work. Unfortunately, he still needed to be fed. He was always hungry. He ate from the
leftovers of the customers, but that was very little; and he had many times
stolen bread from the kitchen and been beaten for it… until the day the problem
was solved.
His mother was one of
the more comely of his barmaids; and like his mother, he had dark ringlets that
fell down his shoulders. His honey skin and almost black eyes made people
comment often of his beauty. The master knew that some paid for boys to whore but
it had never been his trade until a Roman citizen of some wealth happened by
his tavern while waiting for a horse to be shoed in the town. The man’s eyes
followed him around and when the man had offered him some food, he had gladly
taken his place in the man’s lap. By the time he began to feel uncomfortable,
his master, the tavern owner, had seen his opportunity.
“His mother could
entertain you while you wait,” he offered.
The man looked
hungrily into his master’s eyes. “I have no interest in his mother.”
“The boy, of course,
would be much more expensive,” his master said slyly. “He is very young. I have
plans for him that would cost me were he to have an accident.”
“ I will not only pay
you well. I will be careful,” the man replied as he began to rub his body more
vigorously, running his fingers playfully through his curls.
The deal was made and
at four years old, he began to make his master’s investment in his life
prosper. That first experience was a blur of pain and tears and blood. The man
did not kill him. He came back many times and told his friends. He made more money than his mother. He was a
specialty. He learned quickly that submission brought less pain. He learned not
to cry, to take all of his feelings to a place inside himself that no one would
ever see. Rage, like sediment on the shore, took its place transparent beneath
his skin.
But there was no reason
to contain his rage any longer and he ranted and cursed and screamed at a crowd
that laughed and mocked him. He was joined by the revolutionary on the far
side, but the man beside him merely moaned with his pain. In all their time
together, the boy had never heard him curse. He could not read but he knew from the
jeers of the people around them that the man’s name was Jesus, and his sign
said that he was king of the Jews.
This Jesus didn’t
seem to be much of a king. His wounds bled more copiously than his own. The
beating of this Jesus had been worse than his own. Jesus had been beaten so
badly that he had been unable to carry his own crossbeam. Although it was
apparent that once Jesus had been strong, he fell so many times that it was
obvious to even the soldiers that he could not be made to bear the weight no
matter how many times he was lashed. A black man from Cyrene was commanded to
carry his beam. The boy had benefited from the rest Jesus’s falls had given him and
cursed the man for not refusing, even knowing that no one could refuse a Roman
soldier. Jesus had actually thanked the man and then continued to walk, now unburdened
by the extra weight but still slipping on feet wet with blood.
Women wept as they
passed, some for Jesus, some for the other revolutionary. No one wept for him.
There was no one to care whether he lived or died today or any day. It would be
as if he had never lived, never dreamed, never hoped for something more.
Jesus turned to the
women distractedly saying,” Don’t weep for me. It is yourselves you need to
weep for.” Jesus didn’t even appreciate
that these women cared enough for him to weep. It was so unfair. At that
moment, Jesus turned towards him, as if he knew his thoughts. The soldier hit
Jesus from behind making him lose his balance and he didn’t turn around again,
but the look from Jesus stayed with him. It was not angry. He was familiar with
anger in a man. This was something different. Something he had never known.
His own mother, who
might have wept for his passing, was dead. It was said that two babies had been
taken to the ditch from her before his coming. He knew that two had gone there
after his birth. The last had taken his mother with him. He had watched them
take the first, shortly after his initiation to prostitution. He revisited the
ditch for two days before she had stopped whimpering. He volunteered to take
the brother that had killed his mother. He screamed with the infant as he
pressed him to his chest. At last, the baby was silent. His tiny face looked at
peace as his mother’s had not. He shed the last tears of his life there. Even
now, he raged but did not cry.
The mother of Jesus
sat at some distance, surrounded by women and a single man who held her. The boy
would have thought him Jesus’s brother and a brave man had he not heard Jesus
give his mother to this man from the cross. She had not born him, but he promised to
care for her as a loving son. It still puzzled him why a man would do that and
why he would risk the whimsical ire of the Roman soldiers by watching a
crucifixion as a friend and possible co-conspirator. It was a dangerous
gesture.
There were rich women
among the ones surrounding Jesus’s mother. He could tell by their clothing that
at least one was from Magdela. Some of the men who came to him wore the purple
cloth of that place. It was soft and fine, something a king might wear and he
touched their clothing as much as he dared. He had once dreamt of wearing such
clothing.
One of those women
must have given Jesus the undergarment that was so beautiful that even stained
with blood the soldiers had decided to draw lots for it rather than tear its
carefully woven fabric. He had joined the revolutionary in cursing Jesus then.
Why would anyone who had such a precious and costly bit of clothing need to
rebel against the Romans? Why make such claims to royalty to end up on a cross
next to the son of a whore? If he had the power to save others, he should save
himself, and those beside him, too.
He felt himself
growing weaker but the agony in his arms and feet were sharp. He had quit
screaming because of the effort it took. His mouth was so dry and his breathing
so difficult. He found some relief pushing up from his feet but that pain was
almost more than the breath was worth.
Beside him, he heard Jesus say, “I am
thirsty.”
Immediately, one of
the rich women of Jesus’s group offered money to the soldier. The soldier
dipped a sponge in vinegar soaked myrrh and offered it to Jesus. As soon as
Jesus tasted the drug, he closed his mouth and shook his head. He cursed Jesus then. What kind of man
would refuse help from this pain? Jesus nodded to the woman and the sponge was
offered to him.
He sucked it fiercely;
jealous of any drops that fell to touch his stinging chest. Soon it was dry and
still he sucked. As the soldier took it
away, there was another nod from Jesus to the woman and money again exchanged
hands. A second sponge was offered to the revolutionary beside Jesus.
Before he could
wonder any more at this, the drug began to take effect. His head spun and began
to take flight. There was an easing of the pain and he felt himself being
surrounded by what felt like a river sweeping him along. There were spasms of
pain, as if the river was filled with debris that bumped and prodded, but
mostly there was relief.
Whether he floated
for minutes or hours, he did not know. The sporadic pain of the river’s rubble
became sharper. The river seemed to slow and then stop and as he looked around
him, he found himself not in the river but in the baby ditch. Sharp skeletal
remains grasped his wrists and half dead infants gnawed at his feet. The terror
made him gasp and he awoke.
Once again, he was a slave dying on a Roman
cross.
Suddenly, the sky began to darken and in a
matter of moments the day became night. The noise from the crowd became louder
as people speculated on what might be happening. Would angels come down from
the clouds to rescue this so called king? Would they take his companions with
him? Jesus did not look to the sky but to his mother and his friend. This was
not a man looking to be rescued.
The man revolutionary began to taunt Jesus, demanding that he show his power, the kindness of
the drug having worn away. The injustice of the abuse towards Jesus aroused something in the boy. “Why do you speak to him so? He has done nothing wrong.” Somehow he knew
this was true. A man who had killed, who had known men in the way of a whore,
who had stolen and cheated and mocked other men on crosses never dreaming he
would one day be there would not have acted as this Jesus did. “Do you not fear
God to treat this man so? You and I are suffering for what we have done. This
man has done nothing such as us.”
He felt the eyes of
Jesus upon him, loving him. How could Jesus offer love to a stranger? How could
he look upon him with such pity? A flicker of hope lit within him. “Lord,
remember me when you come into your kingdom.” He spoke with respect, offering
Jesus all he had, acknowledging his kingship in spite of the circumstances that
denied its possibility.
“I promise you
today,” Jesus spoke to him. “You will be with me in paradise.”
His pain did not
suddenly end. His physical torment continued to ravage his body, but he felt an
unnatural calmness settle over him. His rage gave way to grief as he thought of
all that he had lost. He still remembered lying beside his mother, her body
keeping him from the cold of the night. He remembered her fingers stroking his
curls with a gentleness that the men had caused him to forget. He had once been
loved. He had forgotten.
Most of all, his
shame left him. All of his life he had been powerless, but in these last hours
he had chosen to replace curses with respect for this most unlikely of kings.
He felt the connection that brought Jesus peace, a peace he had shared with him
just as the drug which had so briefly soothed his pain. A peace he prayed that would
last longer than the drug.
He felt the heat in
his body as every part of his body began to ache and tremble. He could see the
same in his companions. “My God, My God,” Jesus quoted. “Why have you forsaken
me?” He felt the same desperation in his pain but the peace remained.
“It is finished.” As
Jesus whispered the words, a deep rattle began in his lungs and followed his
breath out of his body. He spoke no more, nor did he take another breath. Jesus
was gone.
The boy cried for
the last time in his life. He was joined by the women and Jesus’s mother. As he
listened to their wailing, he imagined his mother with them, weeping for her
son. He remembered how she looked away, never seeing the babies she bore only
to die, except for him. Had she lived, he was certain that she would be there
weeping with the mother of Jesus.
He grew weaker still,
each push of his feet bringing less air. Men approached the soldiers. He heard
their voices but could not distinguish their words. One of the soldiers brought
a club and with one swift movement broke the legs of the revolutionary. He
whimpered a curse. The soldier saw that Jesus had already died and stuck his
spear into his side where the blood and water seeped but did not gurgle.
He knew he was next.
Jesus’s words came back to him. “I promise you today that you will be with me
in paradise”, and he believed.
