The Last One (Long Post)

[Jerub_Baal]

The Last One (Part I) by "Jerub_Baal"

I've been working on this one for about six months; I'm currently waiting on a friend of mine to get back to me concerning what he says are a lot of errors in it. Critiques are welcome.

Have you ever had a job where criminals were a part of your every day life? I did. As the Chief Executioner for Pilate’s Guard, I oversaw the execution of every scumbag in Jerusalem. I’d had the same job for fifteen years; I was as tough as they came, just like the criminals I’d executed. Most of them were traitors to Tiberius; I personally beheaded Sejanus, who was once a trusted friend of Emperor Tiberius himself.

When my replacement reported for his assigned duty, it was my job to get him ready. He was young; he looked like my weakest soldiers could’ve knocked him over with their morning breath. When I approached him, I swear he almost squealed like a little girl to a frog. I was not impressed; still, I had a job to do. Most of his training consisted of strengthening his upper body; I had him hauling crossbeams up and down hills. I also set him to work punishing petty thieves and repairing whips. At first, he was “blood shy;” he hated the sight of a nosebleed, much less a criminal’s back torn to shreds. By the time my retirement came around, though, he enjoyed punishing criminals. He was a good Roman.

I recall that when Jesus came, I was going to be retiring the following day. He was the last one. When they first brought Him in, they read His charge: blasphemy. I don’t treat the rapists I execute so poorly as they treated Him before they brought Him to me. The guards keep records on wounds they observe before they beat the criminals; His report took two pages. Apparently, they’d tossed Him between Herod Antipas and Pontius Pilate a few times; I guess the Jewish guards had their fun with Him then.

For starters, it looked as though Jesus’ face had been beaten so severely, you’d hardly recognize if He was human or not. His cheeks were chewed open, as if repeated fist blows had ground the soft flesh of His mouth against His teeth. He had a few loose teeth; I think one of the Jewish guards had shoved a flogging pole in His mouth.

Save for His labored breathing, Jesus was quiet. His beard had been ripped out in large clumps, taking bits of flesh with the hair. Dirty spittle still hung loosely from his wounds. I usually gave criminals a jeering glare to intimidate them; I dipped my head down and got down on Jesus’ level to look into those swollen, bruised eyes.

I had an obligatory frown on my face when I looked at Jesus; the problem was that His own expression was so...unexpected. I looked into those eyes, and immediately jumped back. Oh, those hauntingly beautiful eyes! Most criminals’ eyes were full of hate and malice; Jesus’ were full of...I don’t know. They seemed to say, “I love you.” I swear, I could almost see Him smiling through those mysterious brown eyes. I found myself holding back tears as I continued my examination, breaking my gaze with Him suddenly.

One of my soldiers used a flogging stick to push Jesus to his knees. Jesus’ bones echoed on the cobblestones just as loud to me as the chariot horses’ hooves on Tiberius’ birthday. His head had suffered the wrath of flogging sticks, fists, wooden planks, rotten food, and buckets of feces poured upon Him. The odors and thought of disease crawling in His wounds was enough to make me gag; I coughed and swallowed my own vomit several times that day.

After we had recorded His injuries, I signaled my disciple to bind Jesus’ wrists and secure Him to the whipping post. With almost too much glee, the recruit did just that. He secured the leather bindings so tight, they begin to cut off the circulation in the wrists. We tied a rope around Jesus’ bindings, and threw that rope over a framework that rose above His head. We pulled on it, which caused His arms to lift above His head, exposing his ribs and back.

I watched as Jesus stood there as quietly as He could; He didn’t seem afraid of the whips. At the time, I remember thinking He was an ignorant fool. He couldn’t have had any idea what was about to happen to Him. Then I remembered a day when the Pharisees had been complaining so much about a possible riot that Pontius had a group of us ride out to find Jesus and survey the situation beyond the Jordan. I recalled who He claimed to be, and what I had heard Him saying that day: “If anyone would come after Me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow Me.”

The realization I came to then was that Jesus knew exactly what was going to happen. I remember hearing about Him; He was born in Nazareth, about twenty-three stadia from Jerusalem. He’d grown up as a good Jew; He was a Rabbi! He had some sort of triumphal entry on a donkey a week before He was brought to me. I remember that, because Pontius had his toga in a twist over what the Pharisees called a “riot waiting to happen.” Jesus had undoubtedly seen crucifixions before; He knew what the whips were and what they did.

When the gravity of Jesus’ gentle yet bold disposition hit me, I guess that’s when the whole execution started to bother me. I was confused, at first. The man was charged with blasphemy because He claimed to be God’s Son. How dangerous could He be? After all, the Jews had been waiting for Him for a thousand years, or so I’d heard. A simple flogging would’ve seemed sufficient, though a king’s crown and a palace to stay in seemed to be a better welcome for their long-awaited Messiah.

Nevertheless, I had a job to do; my soldiers prepared the whip, breaking a clay vessel to embed the shards within the leather strips. I halted the whipping guards as they prepared to start on Jesus’ back; I gave them the excuse that I wanted to examine the whips. Suddenly, the reason why I hated examining our equipment came flooding through my mind.

The whip itself was simple enough. They called it a scourge; it was indeed the scourge of every criminal who had ever done business with it. It was nine strips of leather fastened to a wooden crop. They would then weave shards of glass and metal in the leather; the process would have to be repeated periodically, because bits of the metal and glass would come off in the victim.

As I “examined” the leather straps, I found myself trying to brush off the loose bits of dried blood, flesh, and glass that were on the whip. After the guards began to eye me suspiciously, I figured that I had delayed enough; I reluctantly gave them the signal to proceed. They did, and with a fury that seemed all too unnecessary. I watched as the whip harshly dug into Jesus’ skin, like a hundred vexed vipers subdue their prey. Within a minute, Jesus’ flesh was in strips that hung off of His back; blood pooled and flowed freely from his wounds. His entire muscular structure in His back had been revealed; you could see the actual muscles move as He writhed in agony. Large lumps of His skin hung on the bloody leather of the whip; I tried not to grimace at the sight. I couldn’t help but avert my eyes, though I attempted to make it seem as if I was scanning the crowd. I knew that somewhere, Caiaphas was watching with ever-growing glee.

 

[Jerub_Baal]

The Last One (Part II) by "Jerub_Baal"

Training my eyes back on the bloodbath before me, I gave the order for Jesus to be cut free. The punishment order had simply said to beat Him; that is what I’d done. Still, we had to hand him over to Pontius Pilate for Him to be declared officially done. My soldiers slipped in the blood pools as they forced Jesus to His feet; I was quite frankly surprised that the man was still alive. They hurried him along to Pontius, just a block or so away. As I choked back my vomit yet again, I could hear Pontius giving the people a choice between “Barabbas, the Insurrectionist,” and “Jesus, the Blasphemer.”

My heart nearly broke, but my blood boiled with anger. On any other day, I would nail Barabbas to a crossbeam; I’d heard what he’d done. A while ago, there was a revolt instigated by Barabbas. The carpenter who made the crossbeams for crosses had a son who took the side against Barabbas; Barabbas killed him. There was a rumor that, in his anger, the carpenter made Barabbas’ cross heavier to punish the man even before his crucifixion. The Jews could’ve taken a lesson from us Romans; we always killed our insurrectionists and rioters.

When I heard the people choose Barabbas, I lost control. My throat burned as I felt the vomit spew up and out past my lips; I could feel the caustic odor fill my nose and permeate my lungs. I threw the whip against the stone wall; the leather straps smacked the wall and echoed. I was met by the handle of the whip as it disconnected and came back at me; trying to avoid it knocked me off balance and into the drying blood on the floor. Vomit splattered against the stones, and mixed with the blood. I tried to wipe it off, but to no avail. There was too much; it simply smeared over the leather of my uniform and over my skin.

What added insult to my own injury was the fact that Pontius didn’t own up to his responsibility. He’d always been a little bit stolid, but he had the insolence to wash his hands of Jesus’ death! I swear, if I could’ve, I’d have run him through with my sword right then! The man should’ve listened to his wife; she had some sense. A courier told me that she had a dream that told her they should free Jesus; when she tried to tell her husband, he dismissed it as just a dream.

I had to oversee Jesus’ crucifixion; that was the one thing I dreaded. I did not want to kill this man; I was certain He was innocent. Anger, confusion, and an innate bloodlust ran through me. My soldiers did not share my anger or confusion, but I had no reason to stop them from their bloodlust. They twisted together a crown of thorns, forcing it into His scalp. I watched as the thin needle-thin thorns dug into His skin, shredding it. They wrapped a robe around His bloodied, brutalized body, scoffing at Him as they laughingly bowed down before Him. When the wounds began to scab over, they ripped off the robe, causing the wounds to bleed all the more. Finally, my guards stripped Jesus naked; one of them struck Him in the testicles with the handle of his sword. They had the gall to defile Him by pretending to rape Him.

Enraged, I pushed Jesus away from my guards, commanding them to keep the people back. Several people attempted to pick up stones to throw at Him; I did my best to keep that from happening. In mournful rage, I went through the motions, all the while mentally begging the guards to just get this over with. I didn’t want to see Him suffer; He didn’t deserve this.

The crossbeam was roughly hewn; I could almost feel that weight upon my own shoulders, despite it simply laying upon the ground. It seemed to be the weight of the world, crushing down upon me. I stumbled and fell momentarily, my arm landing around Jesus. He recoiled in pain, falling to His hands and knees. His skin was soft, like tenderized meat made for cooking. For a moment, He turned His head to look at me, again with those wide, haunting eyes. The message was different, though. They held a message of forgiveness...and pain. I looked upon His face, tempted to beg His forgiveness for doing this to Him. He preempted me; His eyes seemed to smile brightly.

As I stood and steadied myself, the crossbeam was placed upon Jesus’ back; at that moment, the crushing weight in my shoulders lifted. My disciple eyed me closely; I gave him an authoritative look, and he quickly averted his eyes. It was now for the Way of Sorrow; that was the name they gave the path we made the criminals walk before their execution. The path led across the city out toward the Damascus Gate, where it terminated at Golgotha. After we had strapped the crossbeam to Jesus’ shoulders, we made Him walk down that road. I heard a few of the guards taking bets on how far He’d make it; gambling was all some of those guards were good for.

For as hard as I pushed Him, Jesus made it far. When I realized He couldn’t carry His crossbeam anymore (the one intended for Barabbas), I picked a random man out of the crowd. I heard his name was Simon, from somewhere in Cyrene. He looked young and strong. He was reluctant, though.

“You there!” I called to him.

“Me, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, you. Carry this man’s cross!”

“No, I cannot. I...”

“Do it, or I’ll hang you there with Him!”

“Ye–ye–yes, sir!” he stammered. He was obviously nervous, but He did alright. We finally reached Golgotha; Jesus seemed relieved. Simon cast down the crossbeam, which bounced with a dull thud as the heavy timber landed. A few of my soldiers quickly rolled it into place over the mounting beam, and I nailed it into place. My replacement had not yet learned the art of hanging a man on his excruciation device, so it was up to me to crucify Jesus.

“Lad, pay attention!” I commanded my disciple. He instantly perked up and watch intently.

“Do you need help?” He asked.

“No!” I snapped, rather harshly. Jesus was helped by the guards into place on the cross; He didn’t fight back at all. His cooperation wasn’t out of weakness–that much I could tell. We had some criminals who kicked and flailed with all the strength they had left. Usually we had to have two or more soldiers restrain them. I think, for some reason, He wanted to die. Any man who had survived his beating could’ve fought back; He chose not to.

As I moved to nail Jesus to the cross, I could feel His gaze upon me. A sweeping sorrow came over me; I felt my eyes well up with tears again, and I had to avert my gaze from my work momentarily in order to carry on with my duty.

I put the point of the spike on Jesus’ wrist; I could feel the rust rubbing off onto my hand as I held it in place. We didn’t clean the nails; we usually just pulled them out of the crosses once the victims had rotted off. We only buried the ones whose families or friends could pay for it. The decay and fetid, coagulated blood caked near the top, and it flaked off as I brought the mallet crashing down on the nail.

Blood splattered into my eyes as it almost exploded out of Jesus’ veins. I could feel His skin rip, and I felt the rusted, decaying metal grind against the bones in Jesus’ arm as the spike went through His flesh. I could hear the flesh squelch against the harsh nail, but the sound served only as understatement to the confused shrieks that escaped Jesus’ lips. I had heard that cry a thousand times before, but it was as if all of Hell itself was crying victory within my ears. I drove the spike with more intensity; the ringing metal seemed to drive the shrieks more intensely.

Blood covered my hands, the mallet, and it pooled in the wound to cover shaft of the spike. As blood began to pour over the crossbeam, Jesus writhed in agony, causing His bones to grind against the metal shaft all the more. Then, I could feel the vibrations in the spike as it dug into the wooden crossbeam; I’d gone through Jesus’ wrist. I pounded the spike so that the head lay flat against Jesus’ bloodied, mangled flesh.

As I moved over Jesus from one side of the cross to the other, I ordered my disciple to restrain Jesus as He writhed in pain. Another guard preempted my order and placed his weight on Jesus’ arm, using his own wrists to hold down Jesus’ free hand. I quickly drove the spike into His wrist, trying to suppress Him. My replacement had pinned down His legs by sitting on top of them; he bent Jesus’ feet downward and lay them on top of one another so I could nail them into place. I drove the last spike into ankle joint of His feet; I could hear bones rubbing against the large metal post that had stretched them almost to the point of cracking.

It was then that my guards nailed a sign to the top of the cross, claiming Jesus to be the King of the Jews. I watched Jesus as we raised the heavy cross up on its end and planted it in the ground. To make the crucifixion worth while, we had brought in two thieves to be crucified alongside Jesus. Through the animalistic screams of that dying man, I heard, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!”

I couldn’t believe it. Joseph, the man everyone had presumed to be Jesus’ father, had died several years ago, and he wasn’t so important that he could forgive people. I had heard Jesus talk about His “Father,” the God of the Jews. I didn’t really buy into it until that moment. Suddenly, my confusion was cleared, but it was replaced with remorse and fear. I was killing a Supreme god’s son! The very child of a god, murdered by my hands. But which god?

 

[Jerub_Baal]

The Last One (Part III) by "Jerub_Baal"

At the same time, I had the thought that this man, as He was dying an excruciatingly painful (and most likely undeserved) death, was truly begging His God to have clemency upon those who were killing Him! What greater example of love could there have been? Here was a man who had such love for mankind that He was willing to forgive them, even in the face of death.

“If you’re God, save yourself and us!” One of the thieves who had been crucified next to Him muttered as he struggled to keep from asphyxiating. The other responded for Christ, saying, “Don’t you fear God? We deserve to be crucified; what has He done wrong? Lord, remember me when You enter Your Kingdom.”

Jesus, through a beaten and bleeding mouth, responded, “Today, you will be with Me in Paradise.” At that exact moment, it was if the sun had been eaten by the darkness; I couldn’t see anything. Torches were quickly lit through the confusion, and fires were built so as to watch the crucifixions.

The blood that had caked on my hands began to itch and burn; I desperately wanted to get it off. I was so focused on the blood that I didn’t immediately realize the ground was shaking. Violently, it shook for ten or fifteen minutes, and finally settled down. A messenger quickly came riding, telling us the veil to the Jewish temple had been torn in two from the top to the bottom. That was when I knew that it wasn’t the son of a god; it was the Son of the God.

Three hours of almost eerie silence passed, then He screamed in the darkness, “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?” My God, my God, why have You forsaken me? I couldn’t do anything for the man; I sent a guard to give Him sour wine. It seems cruel, but to a sober criminal, the pain killing effect of the wine is a welcomed comfort. Jesus used his lips to suck the wine off of a sponge; my soldier averted his eyes from Jesus’. I think he was scared, and rightly so. I was scared!

I looked up at Jesus as light began to shine then; He was gazing toward Heaven. “It...is...finished! Father, into Your hands I commend my spirit!” At that exact moment, His head fell limp, and His body slumped against the nails that held Him to the cross. I looked over at my disciple, who was still shaken from the darkness and the earthquake. He had a spear in his hands; I took it from him and walked over to Jesus’ body. I noticed that He had defecated; the muscles in His body had relaxed, just like every other dead person I’d seen. I knew, even before I slit His side open, that He was dead.

Following protocol, I reluctantly slid the spearhead between his ribs. I felt the resistance of His flesh sliding against the metal and wood. I went through the lung, the sac around His heart, and finally I slid it through His heart and out the other side of it. I quickly pulled the spear out, shuddering as blood and water came pouring out of the wound. The mixture splashed upon my face; I grimaced as I felt the warm, milky fluid fill my ear and flow down my neck and chest. I stumbled backward and fell; the spear broke in half as I leaned upon it to stand again.

As soon as the mixture had emptied from His body, my replacement walked up behind me, taking the useless spear from me. “He’s dead, huh?” he said with a smile, having regained his composure. I glared at him, then looked toward Jesus. Calmly but firmly, I grabbed the young man’s wrist and placed the execution orders for Jesus Christ of Nazareth, the Son of God, within his hand. “Truly, this man was the Son of God.”

As I walked down the hill, I saw Mary, Jesus’ mother, weeping. She was cradled against the shoulder of a young man, one that I’d seen following Jesus. As I saw her grief, I fell to my knees, dry heaving. Tears cascaded from my eyes; they were bitter tears, both for His death and for her grief. I ran to her and fell to my knees yet again, begging her forgiveness. Quickly, she and her companions fled; I couldn’t blame them. Never had a Centurion ever dared to beg the forgiveness of a woman!

Later that day, I was called before my superiors. I was arrested and charged with cowardice, weakness, and dereliction of execution procedures. While they read my charges to me there, a courier came in with news that one of Jesus’ disciples, the one who had betrayed Him to the Jews–Judas Iscariot–had been found hanged by his own doing in the same field that they would later bury Jesus in.

Three days later, I was still sitting in a prison cell, ironically guarded by my disciple. Another messenger came, reporting to my replacement. He bowed in respect, then said excitedly, “Sir, the tomb of Jesus has been robbed! The body is gone!” My replacement dismissed the young soldier, thanking him. I sat quietly, smiling to myself. They had stationed three guards in front of the sealed tomb; somehow, a grave robber incapacitating three Roman guards seemed improbable...for a mere man. Then again, we hadn’t killed a mere man.

I was released from prison long enough to bid my family farewell and to get my affairs in order. During that time, I was walking through the street when I tripped. A hand gripped my shoulder firmly and brought me to my feet. There was a large hole in that hand; I looked up. It was Him. At first, I cowered in fear; surely He was furious for my having killed Him. It only briefly crossed my mind that He should’ve healed; it was later that I was told of His appearance to His disciple, Thomas. His glorified body still had the wounds as a reminder of His sacrifice. It crossed my mind a bit more intensely that, since I had killed Him, He should’ve been...dead.

At that point, I fell to those beautiful, punctured feet, taking hold of Jesus’ robe. As I wept upon it, His words came flooding back to me: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Could it be that I was forgiven? Yes, indeed it could. I felt a peace I could not explain, despite having been the one with the hammer in my hand, and having been just touched by a man that had no earthly business being alive. When I looked up, I was alone.

Tiberius died almost a year after Jesus left us to reign with the Father. It was rumored that the PrFfect of the PrFtorian Guard had smothered him while he slept in Misenum. Herod Antipas was banished by Caligula to Lugdunum, where he died shortly after Tiberus. Caiaphas, the Jewish High Priest who handed Jesus over to us to be crucified, died shortly after the crucifixion, though I’m not sure how.

Tiberus’ successor, Nero, was far worse than Tiberius had ever been. I was eventually put on a sort of probation after I showed sympathies for the Christians; they put me in charge of one of the Christian prisoners named Paul back in Rome. He wrote quite a bit; I smuggled letters to various churches for him. The lessons and discussions we had in the privacy of the night completely transformed me and renewed my mind; God convicted me to admit that I was a Christian. He often told me of Peter and others that were once followers of Jesus Christ while He was here on Earth.

All throughout Paul’s prison sentence, I struggled with the dilemma of admitting my faith; I knew it would mean that I’d be put to death. Was I willing to face that which Christ faced for me? I resolved to either be hot or cold; I would either hide as a coward or blaze as a light before men.

After Paul’s execution, I announced to my commander that I had become a Christian. He had me flogged, and I was tried by Nero himself. I was found guilty, of course. Now, I find myself in the comfort of a cold cell; I’ll be executed tomorrow. There is a messenger, though, who will deliver my story to those who will listen.

Epilogue
I am writing this in honor of my dear friend, whose name I do not know. It was the day of his crucifixion; I–a lowly guard–watched as his apprentice entered the cell block. Before, I had seen him at the crucifixion of the Christ; he was prideful. Now, he seemed to have a certain walk that emanated humility.

As he turned the key slowly in the lock, I heard him fighting to hold back sobs. A single tear ran down his face. Pulling his sword from the scabbard, he scratched a slightly curved line on the stone. My friend looked up at him, questioningly. Then, taking a piece of the stone that had chipped away from the wall, he completed the drawing with another curved line that mirrored the first, and crossed over it at the back.

My friend stood as the executioner re-sheathed his sword. The two men looked at each other for a brief moment, then broke into smiles and tears. They embraced each other for but a few moments, but there was no escaping that which was about to happen.

The slamming iron of the door seemed to speak of finality, but it was truly just the beginning of eternity for one, and the advent of a new walk for the other. My friend was not led out in shackles or bindings; he went willingly. He stood quietly as his Roman citizenship was revoked by order of Nero; he would’ve been beheaded as a Roman citizen, but Christians “deserved” to be crucified. He smiled as the executioner struggled to place the nail upon his wrist, and chuckled to himself, having realized the irony of the situation.

“Didn’t you learn anything?” my friend asked, taking the nail and placing it calmly on his wrist. That was as far as he could offer assistance. His smile faded into suppressed agony as the sound of pounding metal and tearing flesh filled the air. By the time he was affixed, the executioner was sobbing. He couldn’t even give the order to lift the cross, but was replaced by his second in command as he himself was arrested for cowardice and on suspicion of being a Christian sympathizer.

I was the one that helped take his body off the cross after he died; his legs had to be broken after two days. Nero wanted to light him ablaze, but I paid to have his body put in my family catacombs. I remember watching him die; I felt so helpless. As I carried his body in a wagon, I noticed a celebration in the street. Pulling my wagon to a halt, I asked a passing reveler what the celebration was for.

“Have you not heard, good sir? The tyrant Nero has thrown himself upon his sword! The bane of Rome is dead!” I shook my head, popped the reins, and went home to bury my friend.

 

[Bloomin' Pyro]

I suppose I wasn't clear in declaring that I'd like your comments on this story.