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THE SOLDIER
On the top platform, Gaius lies on his back under a warm woolen blanket, listening to the even breathing patterns of his roommates as they sleep. Silent icy winds slithered through the bottom of the closed door and touched on the restless bodies in an attempt to shake them from their dreams. Unsuccessful yet patient, it spread its tenacious fingers wide, then wrapped securely around the only awake soldier in the room. Willing himself not to shiver, the soldier stared deep into the dark recess above him.
Pulling the heavy blanket up and over his shoulders, he bunched the excess under his chin, puzzling through yesterday’s strange experiences. It made little sense. Why would anyone feel threatened enough to play political games with this prisoner whom they now had locked away? Was there truth behind the whisperers that this Jesus, a Nazarene, the son of a carpenter, was a simpleton whom did not understand the solemn accountability of his actions? Or was he one of the many sects whom occasionally popped up faster than weeds in an untilled field waiting to choke off all within their grasp? Surely Caesar did not believe that this rag-tag little group of people whom followed Jesus were a threat to somehow influence the Roman Empire?
***
Gaius squirmed over to his side, resting his head on his arm. He had heard the gossip, and seen what had conspired as the hour of Passover drew nearer. Many Jews were very unhappy with the latest turn of events according to Caesar’s directives and in his justifications regarding tax usages. Pilate's lack of compassion by not treating that which was taken financially from the coffers of earmarked Jewish earnings and applying them to be used solely at Caesar’s and his discretion only helped to add fuel to the political fire. Now this Jesus sparked an outbreak of angry noise, adding more fuel to the flame, causing the gap between Jewish leadership and political agendas to widen. Unfortunately, any whom chose to stand, proclaiming discourse over Governmental choices were judged guilty under the Roman hierarchy system and were often put to a quick, abet painful death. Visual aides such as wooden crosses soberly skirted to dot provinces, towns and villages alike, serving well as a reminder of Caesar’s impatience and intolerance within Roman contingencies.
Gaius knew that Pilate must tread carefully, for his future was cast in shadow. Rumor suggested that Caesar himself was concerned over his lack of control over the latest disenfranchised gatherings. It was becoming more difficult for him to appease the crowds.
Snorting, he stretched out, trying to warm sleepy muscles, acutely aware that as a mere soldier, he had no power to cast judgment - nor voice an opinion. Wisdom recommended keeping the mouth closed, ears and eyes open. But if muscle were allowed to dictate the trail of sun to moon, he would pull this day’s morning light to night’s conclusion and not ponder on what must be done regarding this man, Jesus whom dared to call himself Son of God.
One of the contubernium snored loudly, stirred, then shuffled in turning, shaking his platform and settled back down to sleep.
***
Gaius rose, slipped quietly down from the upper bunk. Goosebumps stood all hairs at attention as the cold floor radiated invisible shards of ice up from the bare soles of his feet and into his body. Reaching out he grabbed through the dark for his tunic which was hanging on the end of the bed. Rough wool scratched against his face as he shoved it over his head, pulling it down. Quickly, he fished his hands through the arms of the warm garment and readjusted the clothing without needing to see. Scratching an itch near his shoulder, his expression shortened to a frown upon discovering a tear which needed mending. Silently, memory directed his feet as he strode through the doorway and out into the lighted room where the supplies were kept. Pulling out a skein of threaded wool and a bone needle from a cubby built into the wall, he stood under one of the lighted torches and expediently repaired the flaw.
Though the night was without moonlight, Gaius instinctively knew that dawn would soon break. In need of keeping his body occupied, he walked down the long hall, listening to soldiers still at rest. With echoes of this waking day running before words, he quickly left the bunk areas, pacing thought with each step. Hurrying, torches flickered into a dancing frenzy of light against dark. Frustrated, yet not knowing why, he tried to worry answers from the questions promoted by politics entangled with faith. Wisely choosing not to voice opinion, he briskly walked through the echoing corridor to the Armor room.
The torches, having burnt the remainder of their fuel, were now cold and absent of light, shrouded the room as a tomb. However, Gaius taught his men well - they prided themselves in not needing light but instead to be dependant on what they knew as fact, not relying on a temporal source of flame. Without hesitation, he confidently grabbed hold of the corselet of metal strips and quietly lifted it up to slide over his head, then straightened it across his bodice over his tunic. Tying the five rows of leather strips together tightly across both sides of the rib protector which now held secure across his trunk, he did a mental count of equipment. Pulling a hammered metal stomach protector from the shelf, he hooked it to the front of his corselet, also securing it tightly.
Choosing his leather sandals of long thong strips with iron studs under the soles instead of his boots, he laced them up without fumbling. Grabbing his helmet, shoved it on his head. Picking up his spear, he exited the room. Stopped. Turned to retrieve his woolen cape and draped it over his shoulders.
***
Rote conditioned specific habits that were hard to break. As usual, Gaius was the first awake in his room, the first readied for the day. Choosing to walk the brief distance to the bake-house for the morning's rations of fresh bread for himself and his roommates, he entered the room, picking a still warm large round loaf resting to cool on a large piece of limestone. Pulling a chunk loose, crusty freckles flew off in complaint. Deeply inhaling its rich aroma, he closed his eyes, enjoying the yeasty aromatic fragrance for a moment, and then stuffed his smaller portion into a leather pouch. Tracing his trail back to the bunkhouse, he placed the remainder of the bread on a small table. Leaving the room one last time, he ventured past the halls, other bunkrooms, out of the fortress itself, and to the familiar trail leading down the hill to the marketplace. Shoving worrisome thoughts aside, he instead pulled from more pleasant times...
Gaius’ father, as was his father before him, were Roman Soldiers. Although they held no Birthright of Noble standings affording them the privilege of career choices through public service such as magistrates, nor held positions worthy of trust such as commanding legions, both of these men from Gaius’ bloodline taught him well. Adhering to a strict daily format of education and building his body for strength and speed, his earliest childhood memories were of trying to heft a weighty blunt practice sword, dragging it behind him through their home. Leaving long trails marked by sword's tip in the hard packed dirt floor, his imagination ran with youth between protector and hero.
Gaius’ family grew up in a community close to Rome. His Mother was a
weaver by trade, filling orders from the soldiers who were in need. Although his parents loved each other, officially the Roman army refused to recognize marriages between soldiers and local women, fearing that the relationships would detract from their commitment to cause. Though not legally binding, those whom quietly chose marriage were commonly acceptable as long as it didn't interfere with their calling.
Gaius, now with a chosen wife and young son, made similar choices to sit his own on his knee, spinning tales marked with bravery and honor. From start to finish, he'd weave truthfully for his child’s benefit, beginning with the first surveyor sent by Caesar to prepare lands for Roman contingencies.
As the embers of the family fire ring would crackle and pop, Gaius added more meat to his child's education through stories of logical persuasion, giving detail of slaves preparing roads; the importance of careful planning and how remarkable, how strong these roads were for advancing troops, providing comfort in travel. Man's modern designs could strongly link Caesar's will to the farthest reaches of land through layering sand, pebbles, stone chips drains and curbs which ran on both sides of roads meant to advance ideals. With pride, Gaius shared with his son the ingeniousness of engineering care leading to victories because of meticulous planning.
As his child sat, waiting, anticipating more of these stories, he'd continue, never tiring: parades of Roman soldiers, sometimes a full legion at a time, with the commander of the legion leading on his fine steed, followed by an unstoppable force of bodyguards, standards, musicians, and soldiers, all marching across these sturdy, dependable roads. Gaius also shared of Caesar's mighty warships, over 80, some large enough to carry over 600 troops, along with a mixed crew of sailors/slaves, often numbering 250! His child would plead, "Please! Share again about the bronze prow that rams into other ships! Tell me again about the lookout tower on this boat! Tell me of the giant seas, the lands..."
Sometimes, Gaius would describe his Father's bronzed certificate given at his retirement from active service, complete with pension. Soldiers whom retired were not only greatly respected, but the Roman Government made sure they were well taken care of. No other soldiers were treated as well, feared as much as they.
***
Walking on, Gaius' mind continued to wander...
There were many factions which a Roman Soldier could advance to. Gaius once held hopes that with his extensive training and background, along with his good family record, that he would be chosen to take on a task of much responsibility
. He was prepared, he was confident. He was skilled, educated, readied. Instead, he was shocked - silent, when his Orders revealed that he would participate as an executioner.
With these formal Orders came a sudden change as friends, neighbors, and acquaintances, all whom crossed his path publicly and privately shunned him. Crowds parted in fear, even in the marketplace as he strode through. Mothers trying to protect their young, pushed their children behind their skirts, hushing them into immediate silence, begging them to be quiet, not fuss. Even the woman who bore his child, claimed to love him, now cried out that she too had been ostracized. Villagers were treating her as though she also, somehow carried death through each breath.
***
Gaius learned to wall up his thoughts. To not look at those whom were to be crucified. To stick imaginary cotton in his ears as the cries rang out. To stick whole imaginary baskets of wool close against his heart as their cries turned to terrified screams of pain when he drove nails into flesh. He hated trying not to look at them hanging. Images burned inside his eyelids, dripped unexpected and unwanted through nightmares of pooled blood under wooden crosses...
He wanted a change of orders. Desperately.
***
Gaius marched purposely past Caiphas’s house, down toward the lower city. The sun was slowly waking. Stopping off for his supplies, he hoisted his heavy parcel over his shoulder, listening to the dull metal slide and settle with each step.
GAIUS' STORY:
I, now as the bearer of all things evil, carry only a heavy satchel with mallet and thick nails as companions.
***
The dawning sun stirred to break over the horizon, casting brilliant hues of color over the hills. Doves, migrating, wearily worked their way home, flying in small groups, swooping softly through the sky, gently landing in the cobbled road leading from the lower city. Walking past the marketplace, I noticed a growing crowd was already stirring, anticipating this day’s progression; all seemed to have carefully metered opinions and peppered these with emotion.
This day was to be long.
Choosing to ignore finger pointing, I heaved the heavy bag over to my other shoulder and walked the familiar path past Herod’s Lower Palace. The fragrance of hyacinth, rich - filled the air with false promises. My stomach fisted into a tight knot. The earlier meal of bread ingested as I strode through the sleeping streets threatened to not stay put.
It sounds strange, even now, but I remember poppies on this walk: bright red, clinging to peek past shadows left from the dark of night, searching for morning, stretching their petals to catch the warmth of early light.
I wished to show the same face, face the warmth.
***
Distancing myself from the border of the lower city and Herod’s Palace, the only sounds which now kept me company were those of cooing doves, the crunching of gravel under my feet. Heading toward the hill, musical discords from my satchel of hard metal mocked my need for control. Even rattling of opinionated complaints from scrub bushes being pushed aside by my sandals added sarcastic commentary of my travel, my daily quota, my goal. I struggle up hill, trying to block the intensity of this day from my thoughts.
***
Reaching the chosen spot, I sit. Wait.
Dried cedar beams lay flat behind me, listening.
Watching.
It did not take long. Small bands of groups led the procession forward, shouting, pushing.
They blended, grew in force, crying out not objections, but encouragement to hurry about with the business of the day. Carrying enough energy compelled by mob anger, they fed off mutual personal rage, deep - without purpose other than to see bloodshed. No true justifications were shouted, crying out to silence all that was evil; instead, the crowd itself seemed to fold into the idea of evil, and called it by name...and it was ours.
Shouting, the crowd parted just enough for me to see the top of the beam which was given to him, this Jesus, to carry.
I did not need to prepare a cross for him.
Squinting, I stared, studying him closely. He was dressed oddly, did not look like someone from Nazareth in Galilee, nor did he look beaten or flogged. A soldier whispered in my ear that another was chosen for this burden, (Simon of Cyrene I later discovered). Simon carried the Nazarene's cross.
*******
On higher ground I witness his slow progression: As he stumbled, falling to his knees, the crowd cheered, roared. Before he could raise himself, Roman soldiers, my men, roughly grabbed his arms, yanked him by his hair, shoving him up and forward. His undergarment, stained with blood and caked soil, clung to his skin. His whole face was masked in pain, covered with fresh bruises. Blood, mixed with sweat covered his feet, without sandals, and I wonder - before shoving the thought aside if the soles of each foot were cut to shreds from rough stones and sharp rocks. Occasionally, he hesitated wherein a fellow soldier, egged on by the crowd kicked him forward, causing him to loose his precarious balance, to crumble once more, starting the process over. His hair, hanging in dark strips swung forward, over his face, clinging to fresh wounds.
Far behind, two other men also facing execution were all but ignored by this crowd.
I turn away. Waiting.
Condemned by Man, this execution by Crucification began.
Simon let loose of the cedar beam. It landed with a thud, settling at my feet. A quick glace at it proved that this Jesus must have carried it part way, for its rough-hewn surface was coated on two sides with blood, skin and threads of linen. The bottom of this cross was caked in dirt where it was dragged from where he was flogged, marking a path to Golgotha, startling the eyes weary of past into a future crushed here, at my feet. As it settled - bouncing plumes of dust dared to distract from my studying this common crucifix. Yet I continue to stare, transfixing on this beam until I feel...him...jostle up, touch the heel of my sandal. With my heart hammering mightier than mallet's history, I jump, trying to focus on anything but he, this man whom some claim to be The Messiah.
Taking two steps away from Jesus I bend down, my back to him, anxious to be about the task.
Reaching inside my bag for the mallet and nails, I grab what is needed.
They feel heavier than usual.
Holding tightly, I rise to stand, square my shoulders and walk to where he was placed. My men are holding him down. I know this without looking; it is part of our routine. Not wanting to look at Jesus, I nod instead to the soldier closest to me.
Grabbing tightly to the thick nail, I want only to touch him long enough to secure an open area through skin.
As I reach down, a bolt of electricity shoots from his palm through my fingertips, shocking me to my core.
Startled, I gasp, my eyes flying to his face before I could stop their movement or prepare to harden my thoughts...and I will never forget…never forget. Our eyes meet.
Shaking, my body cries to not do this thing, yet - I must. Lifting the mallet over my head, it expertly swings wide and down by my will. Its blunt force, with the first crack separates wood with nail through skin and muscle. With the full weight of my body, I hit metal to metal with blunt force, hearing the scream deep: he or I? It started first within me...but echoed of its own, weeping loudly, drowning my voice. From him? Out it flew, through my chest. No room for silence, no room for a breath...his, louder than the thunders of heaven, muted sounds of the cheering crowd. Loudly it flew on wings of my self-hatred, and the depths of disgust crumbled complete all that I thought of as worthy within me, flinging it past the skies.
The second nail goes clean through; claiming adherence to wood, and I...I force myself to look at my handiwork, the blood which now flows without stopping from the wound, which I inflicted. Quickly marking its trail across the beam, it drips down its side to soak into the soil.
The third, I could not do. I would not do. Could...not...
Palming to cradle his torn heels, yes - they are shredded; I hate myself, hating this thing, which must be done. His feet are yanked from my hands and roughly lined to match, prepare against the planed wood. Scraping the knuckles of one hand against the harsh ground, I fumble without looking to grab onto the mallet's handle…and do it.
Other soldiers raise him as the crowd screams.
Stumbling backwards I cannot catch my breath…
Drop the mallet as if it is an implement of Satan’s choosing alone, sure that my part is now complete. My heart beats loud, banging painfully against my metal breastplate.
I look down at my hands, covered…covered in his blood. Shaking, I grab at the hem of my tunic, rubbing hard, wanting to remove all signs of my part...my part in this man’s death.
I lean forward, nauseous. My vision quickly outlines in black. I hold my hands up, palm sides close to my face. They are covered, smeared in his blood. My damp tunic front now wet with his blood that I've smeared, slap against my thigh, and I am suddenly icy cold.
Lurching to my feet, I stand. Want only to flee...to die...remove myself from this place, of this deed that I am guilty of, this man whom….
“...Is innocent, without sin”, came the whisper.
I freeze.
From the last ounce of courage, I pull... Certain that this is truly the last breathe of my life and I chose to look up, to his face, one last time.
I have to see!
It was there; it was there in the refusal not to look, that I see.
I see not hatred.
Not anger.
Not disgust.
Not pain.
He looks directly, totally, completely into my soul, shaking me to my very foundation.
It is I whom crumble to my knees; I whom many think whom simply lost my
balance. I stand on new legs, facing Him. Refuse to move, even when the curtain is torn.
It was I whom stays till the end, until his body is silenced.
It is I whom it is written, whom stands as a witness: “Truly, this was the Son of God!”
And it is I whom now chooses to be a soldier of a different kind, following Him alone.
*******
"...O righteous Father, the world has not known thee, but I have known thee; and these know that thou hast sent me. I made it known, that the love with which thou hast love me may be in them, and I in them." ~ John 17:25-26
Pilate said to him, " So you are a king?" Jesus answered, "You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I have come into the world, to bear witness to the truth. Every one who is of the truth hears my voice."~ John 18:37
" Thus it is written, that the Christ should suffer and on the third day rise from the dead, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins should be preached in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things. And behold, I send the promise of my Father upon you..." ~Luke 24:46:49
-Karen Rice
Submitted by Richard
For more stories visit my external website on my home page.
On the top platform, Gaius lies on his back under a warm woolen blanket, listening to the even breathing patterns of his roommates as they sleep. Silent icy winds slithered through the bottom of the closed door and touched on the restless bodies in an attempt to shake them from their dreams. Unsuccessful yet patient, it spread its tenacious fingers wide, then wrapped securely around the only awake soldier in the room. Willing himself not to shiver, the soldier stared deep into the dark recess above him.
Pulling the heavy blanket up and over his shoulders, he bunched the excess under his chin, puzzling through yesterday’s strange experiences. It made little sense. Why would anyone feel threatened enough to play political games with this prisoner whom they now had locked away? Was there truth behind the whisperers that this Jesus, a Nazarene, the son of a carpenter, was a simpleton whom did not understand the solemn accountability of his actions? Or was he one of the many sects whom occasionally popped up faster than weeds in an untilled field waiting to choke off all within their grasp? Surely Caesar did not believe that this rag-tag little group of people whom followed Jesus were a threat to somehow influence the Roman Empire?
***
Gaius squirmed over to his side, resting his head on his arm. He had heard the gossip, and seen what had conspired as the hour of Passover drew nearer. Many Jews were very unhappy with the latest turn of events according to Caesar’s directives and in his justifications regarding tax usages. Pilate's lack of compassion by not treating that which was taken financially from the coffers of earmarked Jewish earnings and applying them to be used solely at Caesar’s and his discretion only helped to add fuel to the political fire. Now this Jesus sparked an outbreak of angry noise, adding more fuel to the flame, causing the gap between Jewish leadership and political agendas to widen. Unfortunately, any whom chose to stand, proclaiming discourse over Governmental choices were judged guilty under the Roman hierarchy system and were often put to a quick, abet painful death. Visual aides such as wooden crosses soberly skirted to dot provinces, towns and villages alike, serving well as a reminder of Caesar’s impatience and intolerance within Roman contingencies.
Gaius knew that Pilate must tread carefully, for his future was cast in shadow. Rumor suggested that Caesar himself was concerned over his lack of control over the latest disenfranchised gatherings. It was becoming more difficult for him to appease the crowds.
Snorting, he stretched out, trying to warm sleepy muscles, acutely aware that as a mere soldier, he had no power to cast judgment - nor voice an opinion. Wisdom recommended keeping the mouth closed, ears and eyes open. But if muscle were allowed to dictate the trail of sun to moon, he would pull this day’s morning light to night’s conclusion and not ponder on what must be done regarding this man, Jesus whom dared to call himself Son of God.
One of the contubernium snored loudly, stirred, then shuffled in turning, shaking his platform and settled back down to sleep.
***
Gaius rose, slipped quietly down from the upper bunk. Goosebumps stood all hairs at attention as the cold floor radiated invisible shards of ice up from the bare soles of his feet and into his body. Reaching out he grabbed through the dark for his tunic which was hanging on the end of the bed. Rough wool scratched against his face as he shoved it over his head, pulling it down. Quickly, he fished his hands through the arms of the warm garment and readjusted the clothing without needing to see. Scratching an itch near his shoulder, his expression shortened to a frown upon discovering a tear which needed mending. Silently, memory directed his feet as he strode through the doorway and out into the lighted room where the supplies were kept. Pulling out a skein of threaded wool and a bone needle from a cubby built into the wall, he stood under one of the lighted torches and expediently repaired the flaw.
Though the night was without moonlight, Gaius instinctively knew that dawn would soon break. In need of keeping his body occupied, he walked down the long hall, listening to soldiers still at rest. With echoes of this waking day running before words, he quickly left the bunk areas, pacing thought with each step. Hurrying, torches flickered into a dancing frenzy of light against dark. Frustrated, yet not knowing why, he tried to worry answers from the questions promoted by politics entangled with faith. Wisely choosing not to voice opinion, he briskly walked through the echoing corridor to the Armor room.
The torches, having burnt the remainder of their fuel, were now cold and absent of light, shrouded the room as a tomb. However, Gaius taught his men well - they prided themselves in not needing light but instead to be dependant on what they knew as fact, not relying on a temporal source of flame. Without hesitation, he confidently grabbed hold of the corselet of metal strips and quietly lifted it up to slide over his head, then straightened it across his bodice over his tunic. Tying the five rows of leather strips together tightly across both sides of the rib protector which now held secure across his trunk, he did a mental count of equipment. Pulling a hammered metal stomach protector from the shelf, he hooked it to the front of his corselet, also securing it tightly.
Choosing his leather sandals of long thong strips with iron studs under the soles instead of his boots, he laced them up without fumbling. Grabbing his helmet, shoved it on his head. Picking up his spear, he exited the room. Stopped. Turned to retrieve his woolen cape and draped it over his shoulders.
***
Rote conditioned specific habits that were hard to break. As usual, Gaius was the first awake in his room, the first readied for the day. Choosing to walk the brief distance to the bake-house for the morning's rations of fresh bread for himself and his roommates, he entered the room, picking a still warm large round loaf resting to cool on a large piece of limestone. Pulling a chunk loose, crusty freckles flew off in complaint. Deeply inhaling its rich aroma, he closed his eyes, enjoying the yeasty aromatic fragrance for a moment, and then stuffed his smaller portion into a leather pouch. Tracing his trail back to the bunkhouse, he placed the remainder of the bread on a small table. Leaving the room one last time, he ventured past the halls, other bunkrooms, out of the fortress itself, and to the familiar trail leading down the hill to the marketplace. Shoving worrisome thoughts aside, he instead pulled from more pleasant times...
Gaius’ father, as was his father before him, were Roman Soldiers. Although they held no Birthright of Noble standings affording them the privilege of career choices through public service such as magistrates, nor held positions worthy of trust such as commanding legions, both of these men from Gaius’ bloodline taught him well. Adhering to a strict daily format of education and building his body for strength and speed, his earliest childhood memories were of trying to heft a weighty blunt practice sword, dragging it behind him through their home. Leaving long trails marked by sword's tip in the hard packed dirt floor, his imagination ran with youth between protector and hero.
Gaius’ family grew up in a community close to Rome. His Mother was a
weaver by trade, filling orders from the soldiers who were in need. Although his parents loved each other, officially the Roman army refused to recognize marriages between soldiers and local women, fearing that the relationships would detract from their commitment to cause. Though not legally binding, those whom quietly chose marriage were commonly acceptable as long as it didn't interfere with their calling.
Gaius, now with a chosen wife and young son, made similar choices to sit his own on his knee, spinning tales marked with bravery and honor. From start to finish, he'd weave truthfully for his child’s benefit, beginning with the first surveyor sent by Caesar to prepare lands for Roman contingencies.
As the embers of the family fire ring would crackle and pop, Gaius added more meat to his child's education through stories of logical persuasion, giving detail of slaves preparing roads; the importance of careful planning and how remarkable, how strong these roads were for advancing troops, providing comfort in travel. Man's modern designs could strongly link Caesar's will to the farthest reaches of land through layering sand, pebbles, stone chips drains and curbs which ran on both sides of roads meant to advance ideals. With pride, Gaius shared with his son the ingeniousness of engineering care leading to victories because of meticulous planning.
As his child sat, waiting, anticipating more of these stories, he'd continue, never tiring: parades of Roman soldiers, sometimes a full legion at a time, with the commander of the legion leading on his fine steed, followed by an unstoppable force of bodyguards, standards, musicians, and soldiers, all marching across these sturdy, dependable roads. Gaius also shared of Caesar's mighty warships, over 80, some large enough to carry over 600 troops, along with a mixed crew of sailors/slaves, often numbering 250! His child would plead, "Please! Share again about the bronze prow that rams into other ships! Tell me again about the lookout tower on this boat! Tell me of the giant seas, the lands..."
Sometimes, Gaius would describe his Father's bronzed certificate given at his retirement from active service, complete with pension. Soldiers whom retired were not only greatly respected, but the Roman Government made sure they were well taken care of. No other soldiers were treated as well, feared as much as they.
***
Walking on, Gaius' mind continued to wander...
There were many factions which a Roman Soldier could advance to. Gaius once held hopes that with his extensive training and background, along with his good family record, that he would be chosen to take on a task of much responsibility
. He was prepared, he was confident. He was skilled, educated, readied. Instead, he was shocked - silent, when his Orders revealed that he would participate as an executioner.
With these formal Orders came a sudden change as friends, neighbors, and acquaintances, all whom crossed his path publicly and privately shunned him. Crowds parted in fear, even in the marketplace as he strode through. Mothers trying to protect their young, pushed their children behind their skirts, hushing them into immediate silence, begging them to be quiet, not fuss. Even the woman who bore his child, claimed to love him, now cried out that she too had been ostracized. Villagers were treating her as though she also, somehow carried death through each breath.
***
Gaius learned to wall up his thoughts. To not look at those whom were to be crucified. To stick imaginary cotton in his ears as the cries rang out. To stick whole imaginary baskets of wool close against his heart as their cries turned to terrified screams of pain when he drove nails into flesh. He hated trying not to look at them hanging. Images burned inside his eyelids, dripped unexpected and unwanted through nightmares of pooled blood under wooden crosses...
He wanted a change of orders. Desperately.
***
Gaius marched purposely past Caiphas’s house, down toward the lower city. The sun was slowly waking. Stopping off for his supplies, he hoisted his heavy parcel over his shoulder, listening to the dull metal slide and settle with each step.
GAIUS' STORY:
I, now as the bearer of all things evil, carry only a heavy satchel with mallet and thick nails as companions.
***
The dawning sun stirred to break over the horizon, casting brilliant hues of color over the hills. Doves, migrating, wearily worked their way home, flying in small groups, swooping softly through the sky, gently landing in the cobbled road leading from the lower city. Walking past the marketplace, I noticed a growing crowd was already stirring, anticipating this day’s progression; all seemed to have carefully metered opinions and peppered these with emotion.
This day was to be long.
Choosing to ignore finger pointing, I heaved the heavy bag over to my other shoulder and walked the familiar path past Herod’s Lower Palace. The fragrance of hyacinth, rich - filled the air with false promises. My stomach fisted into a tight knot. The earlier meal of bread ingested as I strode through the sleeping streets threatened to not stay put.
It sounds strange, even now, but I remember poppies on this walk: bright red, clinging to peek past shadows left from the dark of night, searching for morning, stretching their petals to catch the warmth of early light.
I wished to show the same face, face the warmth.
***
Distancing myself from the border of the lower city and Herod’s Palace, the only sounds which now kept me company were those of cooing doves, the crunching of gravel under my feet. Heading toward the hill, musical discords from my satchel of hard metal mocked my need for control. Even rattling of opinionated complaints from scrub bushes being pushed aside by my sandals added sarcastic commentary of my travel, my daily quota, my goal. I struggle up hill, trying to block the intensity of this day from my thoughts.
***
Reaching the chosen spot, I sit. Wait.
Dried cedar beams lay flat behind me, listening.
Watching.
It did not take long. Small bands of groups led the procession forward, shouting, pushing.
They blended, grew in force, crying out not objections, but encouragement to hurry about with the business of the day. Carrying enough energy compelled by mob anger, they fed off mutual personal rage, deep - without purpose other than to see bloodshed. No true justifications were shouted, crying out to silence all that was evil; instead, the crowd itself seemed to fold into the idea of evil, and called it by name...and it was ours.
Shouting, the crowd parted just enough for me to see the top of the beam which was given to him, this Jesus, to carry.
I did not need to prepare a cross for him.
Squinting, I stared, studying him closely. He was dressed oddly, did not look like someone from Nazareth in Galilee, nor did he look beaten or flogged. A soldier whispered in my ear that another was chosen for this burden, (Simon of Cyrene I later discovered). Simon carried the Nazarene's cross.
*******
On higher ground I witness his slow progression: As he stumbled, falling to his knees, the crowd cheered, roared. Before he could raise himself, Roman soldiers, my men, roughly grabbed his arms, yanked him by his hair, shoving him up and forward. His undergarment, stained with blood and caked soil, clung to his skin. His whole face was masked in pain, covered with fresh bruises. Blood, mixed with sweat covered his feet, without sandals, and I wonder - before shoving the thought aside if the soles of each foot were cut to shreds from rough stones and sharp rocks. Occasionally, he hesitated wherein a fellow soldier, egged on by the crowd kicked him forward, causing him to loose his precarious balance, to crumble once more, starting the process over. His hair, hanging in dark strips swung forward, over his face, clinging to fresh wounds.
Far behind, two other men also facing execution were all but ignored by this crowd.
I turn away. Waiting.
Condemned by Man, this execution by Crucification began.
Simon let loose of the cedar beam. It landed with a thud, settling at my feet. A quick glace at it proved that this Jesus must have carried it part way, for its rough-hewn surface was coated on two sides with blood, skin and threads of linen. The bottom of this cross was caked in dirt where it was dragged from where he was flogged, marking a path to Golgotha, startling the eyes weary of past into a future crushed here, at my feet. As it settled - bouncing plumes of dust dared to distract from my studying this common crucifix. Yet I continue to stare, transfixing on this beam until I feel...him...jostle up, touch the heel of my sandal. With my heart hammering mightier than mallet's history, I jump, trying to focus on anything but he, this man whom some claim to be The Messiah.
Taking two steps away from Jesus I bend down, my back to him, anxious to be about the task.
Reaching inside my bag for the mallet and nails, I grab what is needed.
They feel heavier than usual.
Holding tightly, I rise to stand, square my shoulders and walk to where he was placed. My men are holding him down. I know this without looking; it is part of our routine. Not wanting to look at Jesus, I nod instead to the soldier closest to me.
Grabbing tightly to the thick nail, I want only to touch him long enough to secure an open area through skin.
As I reach down, a bolt of electricity shoots from his palm through my fingertips, shocking me to my core.
Startled, I gasp, my eyes flying to his face before I could stop their movement or prepare to harden my thoughts...and I will never forget…never forget. Our eyes meet.
Shaking, my body cries to not do this thing, yet - I must. Lifting the mallet over my head, it expertly swings wide and down by my will. Its blunt force, with the first crack separates wood with nail through skin and muscle. With the full weight of my body, I hit metal to metal with blunt force, hearing the scream deep: he or I? It started first within me...but echoed of its own, weeping loudly, drowning my voice. From him? Out it flew, through my chest. No room for silence, no room for a breath...his, louder than the thunders of heaven, muted sounds of the cheering crowd. Loudly it flew on wings of my self-hatred, and the depths of disgust crumbled complete all that I thought of as worthy within me, flinging it past the skies.
The second nail goes clean through; claiming adherence to wood, and I...I force myself to look at my handiwork, the blood which now flows without stopping from the wound, which I inflicted. Quickly marking its trail across the beam, it drips down its side to soak into the soil.
The third, I could not do. I would not do. Could...not...
Palming to cradle his torn heels, yes - they are shredded; I hate myself, hating this thing, which must be done. His feet are yanked from my hands and roughly lined to match, prepare against the planed wood. Scraping the knuckles of one hand against the harsh ground, I fumble without looking to grab onto the mallet's handle…and do it.
Other soldiers raise him as the crowd screams.
Stumbling backwards I cannot catch my breath…
Drop the mallet as if it is an implement of Satan’s choosing alone, sure that my part is now complete. My heart beats loud, banging painfully against my metal breastplate.
I look down at my hands, covered…covered in his blood. Shaking, I grab at the hem of my tunic, rubbing hard, wanting to remove all signs of my part...my part in this man’s death.
I lean forward, nauseous. My vision quickly outlines in black. I hold my hands up, palm sides close to my face. They are covered, smeared in his blood. My damp tunic front now wet with his blood that I've smeared, slap against my thigh, and I am suddenly icy cold.
Lurching to my feet, I stand. Want only to flee...to die...remove myself from this place, of this deed that I am guilty of, this man whom….
“...Is innocent, without sin”, came the whisper.
I freeze.
From the last ounce of courage, I pull... Certain that this is truly the last breathe of my life and I chose to look up, to his face, one last time.
I have to see!
It was there; it was there in the refusal not to look, that I see.
I see not hatred.
Not anger.
Not disgust.
Not pain.
He looks directly, totally, completely into my soul, shaking me to my very foundation.
It is I whom crumble to my knees; I whom many think whom simply lost my
balance. I stand on new legs, facing Him. Refuse to move, even when the curtain is torn.
It was I whom stays till the end, until his body is silenced.
It is I whom it is written, whom stands as a witness: “Truly, this was the Son of God!”
And it is I whom now chooses to be a soldier of a different kind, following Him alone.
*******
"...O righteous Father, the world has not known thee, but I have known thee; and these know that thou hast sent me. I made it known, that the love with which thou hast love me may be in them, and I in them." ~ John 17:25-26
Pilate said to him, " So you are a king?" Jesus answered, "You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I have come into the world, to bear witness to the truth. Every one who is of the truth hears my voice."~ John 18:37
" Thus it is written, that the Christ should suffer and on the third day rise from the dead, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins should be preached in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things. And behold, I send the promise of my Father upon you..." ~Luke 24:46:49
-Karen Rice
Submitted by Richard
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