Up, up he soared, rising skyward, the ropes singing over the rough timber until the crosspiece met the upper beam of the framework where it jarred to a stop, leaving him suspended high above the crowd, his arms pinioned to the heavy timber beam. There the Blessed Christ swung, writhing with the violence of his crude ascent.
The crosspiece was quickly lashed to the upper beam of the framework, and there-his gentle, healing hands twisted and deformed into the shape of claws-he hung; high above the ground, he hung, blood coursing in rivulets down his arms and sides, mingling with the muddy sweat of his torment. Stretched between earth and sky, the Holy One of God hung, the weight of his broken body dangling from his strong arms.
Meanwhile, two other unfortunates-thieves caught in the act -were likewise crucified and strung up either side of him. As soon as the two wretches were secured, the soldiers produced a long beam, part of the trunk of a tree, and lashed it tight to the uprights just below the knees of the hanging men. The big Roman then proceeded to drive spikes through the victims' anklebones, fixing them to the lower beam. The two thieves screamed and thrashed in their agony while the mob jeered and applauded.
Unable to bear the torment any longer, Jesu opened his mouth and screamed, 'Elo-i!' The cords stood out on his neck with the force of his shout. 'Elo-i!'
The mob fell back at the fearful power of the cry. They looked at one another and murmured. 'He is calling on Elijah,' someone said. 'No, wait!' said another. 'He is calling on God to save him!'
'He saved others,' scoffed one big brute merrily. 'Now let him save himself!'
'Quiet! He is speaking!' shouted a man near the front. 'I cannot hear what he is saying. Here, give him a drink and maybe he will speak again.'
A sop of wine was raised on the end of a stick and held to his mouth, but Jesu bowed his head and said no more.
A group of elder Jews arrived from the city just then; there were perhaps a dozen or so, some dressed in priestly garb, others in costly red robes with chains of gold around their necks. Gathering up their long cloaks to keep them from the dust, they mounted the side of the hill and pushed their way to the front of the throng.
Their expressions smug and hard, they took their places at the front of the mob and stood, like monuments of self-righteous reprisal, glaring up at the dying man. The Romans, having completed their duties, now turned to other amusements. They had some bread and wine with them and sat down a little apart to eat and drink, while they waited for the execution to reach its fatal and inevitable conclusion.
The crowd continued their crude harangue of the dying men, mocking them, laughing at their misery as they tried to keep the weight of their bodies off their pinioned ankles while, at the same time, relieve the searing torment of their arms. Some of the older youths thought it good sport to pelt the condemned with rocks -which they did with increasing impunity. Indeed, one young thug made a lucky throw, striking one of the thieves full in the face, smashing his cheekbone and knocking out the man's eye; the poor wretch moaned and tossed his head back and forth, the mangled eye dangling and bouncing on his crushed cheek, much to the delight of the jeering throng.
This emboldened the rest, who redoubled their efforts, and I believe the condemned might have been stoned to death on the crosstrees if not for a careless throw which struck the beam and careened into the party of Roman soldiers who, having finished their meal, were now playing at dice for the prisoners' clothes and sandals. The stone struck one of the legionaries on the leg, and up he came; he charged into the boys with drawn sword, walloping one or two of the pluckier ruffians with the flat of his blade. They howled like scalded pups and the whole pack fled.
A strange calm descended on the hump-backed hill then, as the crowd settled down to wait. The sky grew darker, the dreadful yellow turning green-grey like a diseased wound, and the air, already still, became stifling. The only sound to be heard was the desperate wheezing and gasping of the men on the gibbet as they struggled to get air into their lungs; though all three looked as if they were past caring, life clung on and would not abandon them.
The mob quickly grew bored with the tedious display and became restless. Soon the crowd was thinning at the edges as the less fervid, having had their fill, began to creep away quietly, leaving the hardened zealots to their gloating. About this time, a Roman commander arrived on horseback. He sat for a moment, taking in the spectacle, and then called a command to the soldiers lolling on the ground.
I could not make out what was said, for I was on the hillside and the centurion remained on the road. But two of the legionaries jumped to their feet and hastened off to where some of their tools and gear were lying on the ground. One of the soldiers reached for the ladder, and the other a hammer and flat piece of wood which were lying there. Resting the top of the ladder against the upper crossbeam, the first soldier climbed up, while the other, standing below, handed up the hammer and wood. The first soldier then proceeded to nail the wooden placard to the upper beam next to Jesu's head.
There was, so far as I could see, nothing written on the placard, but this oversight was soon corrected, for the commander spoke again, and the legionary on the ground bent down and picked up a stick, broke off one end, and passed it to his friend on the ladder. The soldier took the stick and, holding it to the body of the hanging man, dabbed the broken end in his freely trickling blood. He then proceeded to write in ragged red letters these words: lesu Nazarethaei Rex ludae.
Seeing this, the crowd instantly sent up an appalling shriek. The priests and elders standing proudly at the forefront of the crowd flew into a foul rage, wailing and tearing at their clothes and beards. Two of the Jewish leaders hastened down to where the centurion sat on his horse, watching the commotion with a bemused expression.
'Please, hear us, sir,' the senior of the two cried. 'That man is not the King of the Jews!'
'We have no king but Caesar!' added the other. Some of those on the hillside took up the reply as a chant. 'We have no king but Caesar!' they shouted half-heartedly.
A white-haired man in priest's robes joined the two. 'The sign is an offence to our people,' he insisted. 'We beg you, lord, take it down.'
The centurion, enjoying the uproar he had provoked with his innocent order, gazed with unruffled merriment at the three and shook his head slowly.
'My lord,' the old priest pleaded, 'it is an abomination and a stench in the nostrils of God. Please, remove the sign at once.'
Still shaking his head, the commander replied, 'It stays.'
'If it cannot be removed,' one of the other elders suggested, adopting a reasonable tone, 'then perhaps it could be made to read: This Nazarene claimed to be King of the Jews.'
At that moment, one of the ruffians in the crowd darted out from among the throng. Before anyone could stop him, he ran to the ladder and climbed up, almost knocking the legionary from his perch as he tried to grab hold of the sign and tear it down.
The centurion lashed his mount forwards up the hill to the ladder and, reaching out, seized the rascal by the leg and pulled him from the ladder. The man rolled on the ground, yelling and fuming, and the priests and elders quickly gathered around pleading with the soldiers to take down the sign and restore the peace. But the Roman commander, growing tired of their sanctimonious bleating, refused to be drawn into the affray. He ordered soldiers to remove the man who had tried to tear down the sign and, as they dragged him aside, the sky gave forth a low, worrisome growl.