Pilate looked away, dismissing him. Brother Paul got to work on the plaque. He seemed to remember it, historically, as having been made of stone, but what they provided was a rough wooden board. Well, that would have to do. "What shall I inscribe?" he asked the legionary.
The man shrugged. He seemed amiable enough when out from under the eye of the Governor. "What is he accused of?"
"Of being the King of the Jews," Brother Paul said, half facetiously.
"Then write that." Case closed.
Brother Paul took the heavy chalk and printed out the seven words as boldly and clearly as he could: THIS IS THE KING OF THE JEWS.
One of the Temple priests came by as he was completing it. "That isn't right!" the man protested. "He isn't really the King of the Jews. You should write that he says he is—"
"Go soak your head," Brother Paul muttered.
Angrily, the priest went a few paces to complain to the Governor. In a moment Pilate's half-ironic response sounded above the clatter and hubub of the proceedings: "What I have written, I have written."
Brother Paul smiled privately. By assuming authorship of the plaque, Pontius Pilate had squelched all further complaints.
The legionary also smiled, briefly. "Serves the hypocrite right," he said, glancing at the disgruntled priest. "I'd like to see the whole lot of them crucified." He studied the plaque. "Does it really say—?"
He was illiterate, of course. That was why Pilate had needed a literate volunteer. Otherwise Pilate would have had to write the words himself, and that would have been beneath his station as well as to a certain extent again involving him in the matter he had supposedly washed his hands of. "It really does," Brother Paul assured him.
"King Herod should see that!" the legionary remarked appreciatively. Obviously he resented the whole troublesome tribe of Jews and enjoyed a good insult to any of them. "Now go take it to the cross. Hurry, before they erect it."
Suddenly Brother Paul had a legitimate way to get close to Jesus. Yet now that the opportunity was upon him, he found himself hanging back. How could he participate so immediately in this abomination?
"Move!" the legionary snapped, fingering his sword hilt. "They're about to mount him."
Brother Paul moved. He brought the plaque to the cross where it lay on the ground. "The Governor says to put this—"
"Yeah?" another soldier said. "How'd you like to put it up your—"
"It's all right," the first legionary said from behind Brother Paul. "Governor Pilate did order it."
The soldier shrugged. "If you say so, Longinus. Here, you take over this spear; I'm going to need my hands."
Longinus took the spear. "Hammer it in above his head," he told Brother Paul. "They're stretching him out now."
And while Brother Paul held the plaque, they made Jesus lie down upon the cross, placing his feet on the partial platform near the base and stretching his arms out along the crosspiece. Jesus was nearly naked now; they had stripped all his clothing except a loincloth: part of the humiliation of this form of execution. It was not enough that a man die; he had to die with his pride effaced. Brother Paul's heart seemed to freeze for several beats, seeing him there. Was there no way to abate this horror? Yet of course there was not.
A soldier handed him a heavy, crude hammer—really a mallet—and a large iron nail. "Right above his head," he said.
Brother Paul laid the plaque on the upper projection of the cross, set the nail, and pounded it in. It was a hard chore because the nail was handmade and somewhat crooked, but he made allowances and got it done.
"Okay," the legionary said approvingly. "Now do his hand."
Brother Paul stared at the Roman, appalled. "I couldn't—"
The legionary blinked. He seemed to have some trouble with his eyes. This was a mechanical thing, not related to the crucifixion; some infection that reddened the eyeballs and evidently gave him chronic pain. Brother Paul was sure this affliction did not improve the man's temper. "Come on, come on, we're wasting time. You've got the hammer, here's a nail—pound it through the wrist, well-centered so it won't tear loose. The Governor wants to get this job finished."
Brother Paul looked across at Pontius Pilate still astride his horse. The wind had picked up considerably, and clouds were coalescing. There might be a storm. Naturally the Governor wanted to wrap this up and get back to his palace! But for Brother Paul to have to do this thing himself—"
Yet if he balked, he might be changing history, and lose sight of the aura. He had tried to exert his own will in prior Animations and suffered terrible precession; he could not afford to do that now. He had to let the vision take its own course, now that he was in it.
"Forgive me," he murmured brokenly. Then he took a new nail, set it on Jesus' pale wrist, steadied it with an effort of will, controlling the shaking of his hand—and with that contact felt the aura. It was the same one he had known in the other scene: incredibly strong, stronger than his own, electric and encompassing and wonderful. The Holy Ghost.
Jesus reacted. His eyes stared straight up into the swirling clouds and his body did not move, but he was obviously aware of Brother Paul's own aura. "Paul," he murmured. "The mountain pool..."
Brother Paul dropped the hammer. "I can't do it!"
Still Jesus did not look at him. "Do it, Brother," he said. "My flesh will not suffer when the hammer is wielded by the hand of a friend. Do not let the scoffers nail me to the cross."
And Brother Paul, unable to deny that plea, picked up the hammer and pounded in the nail. The flesh was no harder to penetrate than the board had been.
Then he turned his face to the side and vomited.
Rough hands hustled him off. By the time he regained his equilibrium, the soldiers had finished nailing Jesus and had erected the cross. Now they were packing in the dirt around the base, steadying the upright.
Jesus hung by the cruel nails, the demeaning plaque above his head. He had been crucified. "Father, forgive them," he said, grimacing with pain, "for they know not what they do."
Suddenly the storm struck. The noon sun, already obscured behind amazingly dense clouds, disappeared entirely, and the whole scene darkened. There was a shudder in the ground. The wind whipped so ferociously across the hill that it seemed the crosses would be blown down.
"A tornado," Brother Paul murmured. But that wasn't it; there was no funnel cloud. "An earthquake." But, though the earth rocked, that could not account for the darkness. Yet this was no ordinary storm. There was a strange, burning smell, as if Hell itself were extending its environs across this territory.
"A volcanic eruption!" he cried, finally placing it. Some deep venting of pressures, spewing ash voluminously, blotting out the sunlight until it cleared. A blast like that of Thera of 1400 B.C., occurring in the same region of the globe, affecting the entire Mediterranean basin, coincidentally with Jesus' execution—"
Coincidentally?
Brother Paul looked up at Jesus, hanging on his torture stake. How could this obscuration of light, this groaning of the very earth, be coincidental? Yet if God so protested the sacrifice of His Son, why had He not acted before to prevent it? Even now, it would be far more dramatic to have the cross shaken down and apart, releasing its captive. Dramatic phenomena whose origin and purpose the spectators did not comprehend—such things were wasted effort. Most of the people of Jerusalem would never connect this with the crucifixion.
He knew the answer: because this sacrifice was necessary to His purpose. Jesus Christ had to die in this highly visible and final manner so that his Resurrection would have meaning. God asked nothing of any person that He would not require of his own Son—and here was the proof in the form of the most horrible, demeaning, seemingly useless death this society was capable of inflicting. Here was the proof that any person, no matter how insignificant he thought himself, could achieve salvation. Provided only that he follow the example of Jesus and believe.
Yet Brother Paul dared not believe—for he was here to ve
rify and judge objectively the presence or absence of the Holy Ghost. Without that Spirit there could be no survival of consciousness after the demise of the body. No life after death—for Jesus or any other person. Jesus' resurrection would seem like fakery and be meaningless if his death were not dramatic—but his death would be pointless without the Resurrection. So this was not the end of the story, it was the central nexus, the significant turning point, the key event in the founding of a major religion.
And what if the aura dissipated upon Jesus' death? If there were no Resurrection, no Holy Ghost? Where was his own faith then?
Brother Paul got shakily to his feet and walked toward the cross. No one interfered with him; the darkness and turbulence had scattered the crowd. Governor Pilate had hastily departed, leaving only a few guards at the crucifixion site. They had recovered enough from their initial surprise to revert to their natural pursuit: shooting dice. The stakes were Jesus' clothing, particularly his seamless robe: who would get what as booty.
The aura manifested as Brother Paul approached. He was now able to feel it at some distance. The closer he came, the more intense it became, until he stood immediately before the hanging man.
The hanging man: the card of the Tarot, one of the Major Arcana. Now he knew the ultimate referent for that presentation. Jesus—crucified. Upside down, on the card, because this whole thing was inverted: the innocent suffering in lieu of the guilty—willingly. Sacrifice.
Jesus opened his eyes, feeling Brother Paul's approach. "Where have you been, Gentile friend?" he inquired. "Four years I have looked for you since you disappeared after saving my life at the pool, and I have tried to perfect your suggestions—"
"No!" Brother Paul demurred hastily. "I have no responsibility!"
"Because of you, I learned to harness the power of the parable," Jesus insisted. "It has been my most effective teaching tool. Because of you I have ministered to Gentiles as well as to Jews. Always I have sought your aura—"
"No, no!" Brother Paul protested faintly. "You did it all yourself! I only passed by—"
"Except sometimes when my temper got the better of me. Once I cursed a fig tree because it had no fruit for me, and the tree shriveled and died. That was wrong."
"Siddhattha would not have cursed any fig tree," Brother Paul agreed. "Such a tree was the setting for his Awakening."
"Who—?"
"He was another great teacher, called the Buddha. Yet each person must seek his own enlightenment. You did what you were fated to do. I had no part—"
The eyes focused their lambent gaze upon him. "Do you also deny my friendship, Paul, now that the end comes?"
Brother Paul, stricken, reached up to touch Jesus' knee. "No, never that! I merely meant I deserve no credit for your accomplishments. You are the Son of God, the Savior; I am only—"
"A friend," Jesus finished for him. "And what greater accolade can there be?"
A soldier looked up. "Get away from that cross—he ain't dead yet!" he snapped at Brother Paul. But Longinus, leaning on his spear, murmured something, and the man relaxed.
"Farewell," Brother Paul said, his eyes stinging. He broke contact and stepped back—and something fell on the back of his hand. It was a drop of Jesus blood from the nailing Brother Paul had done.
"This was my destiny," Jesus said.
"Anything I can do—" Brother Paul said, looking at the blood. Yet what could he do?
He walked numbly away and sat on the ground, awaiting the inevitable. Time passed slowly. The air cleared, and the afternoon sun emerged. From time to time people approached the cross to speak with Jesus, and sometimes Jesus cried out in pain and despair as the weight of his body dragged at the nails, but he did not struggle. Brother Paul tried to close his ears to the horror of it and felt guilty for doing so. "Christ equals Guilt," he murmured. "If he can suffer, I must at least pay attention."
Then, clearly, Jesus said: "I thirst."
A soldier dipped a sponge in vinegar, put it on a pole, and lofted it up to Jesus lips. Jesus took some. Apparently this was not an additional torture, but a mechanism to moisten parched lips. The tang of vinegar might distract the attention of the dying man momentarily from his situation.
"It is fulfilled," Jesus said.
The body on the cross sagged—and the back of Brother Paul's hand itched. Distracted by his horror of the end, he rubbed that spot—and felt the blood, sticky on his fingers. The blood of Jesus.
Brother Paul stared at it, feeling as though the nail had penetrated his own flesh at that spot. His whole hand became hot as if held in fire. The sensation spread up his arm and into his shoulder, not unpleasant but strangely exhiliarating. It was like heartbreak in reverse.
Abruptly Brother Paul felt the presence of a second aura, inhabiting his body beside his own. "Hello, friend," Jesus said inside him.
"This—this is Transfer!" Brother Paul exclaimed, amazed.
"There are things I have yet to do in this realm," Jesus said, "before I return to my Father."
"But this isn't—I'm not supposed to—" Brother Paul was unable to organize his protest. "Historically, I wasn't—"
"I understood you were willing to help," Jesus replied with gentle reproach.
"I—had hoped to ascertain—you see, I'm not of your framework," Brother Paul tried to explain.
"I understand that—now," Jesus said. "I can perceive your thoughts, for I share your body. Without you, I might have been unable to complete my mission on Earth. I shall not intrude long; will you not indulge me so that the work of my Father and yours be accomplished?"
Brother Paul could hardly turn down this plea, no matter how it complicated his investigation. "I will help you."
The soldiers were breaking the legs of the two thieves on the crosses to either side of Jesus' own so that the felons would die sooner and not extend the torture into the next day, the Sabbath Saturday. The body of Jesus was spared because it was already dead: a phenomenon the spectators found remarkable.
The legionary Longinus, skeptical about so sudden an expiration, took his spear and stabbed it into the side of the corpse. Fluid poured out, running down the shaft of the lifted spear. Longinus danced back, while the others laughed, but still got splattered across the face with blood.
"Shame! Shame!" a Jew cried, rushing up to try to catch the blood in a cup. "The sacred blood must not be spilled on the ground!"
"Who the hell are you?" Longinus demanded, wiping his face and blinking.
"I am Joseph, a—an interested party. I have—I have a tomb in a cave over there, and—if you will let me bury the body there—"
Longinus considered. "Oh, all right. Here, I'll help you take it down." He blinked again. "The day is certainly getting bright! I never saw things so clearly before."
"Let us depart this vile place," Jesus said. Brother Paul was glad to oblige.
Under Jesus' guidance, Brother Paul went to the temporary residence of Mary Magdalene. "I am a friend of Jesus," he told the grief-stricken woman. "I came late and have no place to stay."
She hesitated, peering closely at him. She had been at the Crucifixion; he recognized her now. But her eyes had been only for Jesus; Brother Paul had been lost in the crowd. Then, without a word, she gestured him in, making space for him in the crowded room. Mary's friend, also called Mary, and other Disciples were there, but Jesus did not make himself known. "I suffer at their suffering, but it is not yet time," he said to Brother Paul.
They rested all day Saturday, the Sabbath, as was required by the Jewish religion. "You know," Brother Paul said in passing to Jesus, "in my day we rest on Sunday, the first day of the week. I believe that custom stems from an adjustment in the calendar somewhere along the line."
"What the day is called does not matter," Jesus said. "So long as one day in seven is set aside to honor my Father."
They slept, for it had been a tiring occasion. Brother Paul had nightmares of humiliation and agony, and woke to realize that these sufferings were from
the mind of Jesus, not his own. Strangely, it was the thirst that was worst, not the nails or ridicule.
As evening came, Jesus roused Brother Paul. "Come, we must go to the tomb."
Quietly, they departed, leaving the room and then the city, walking toward the Place of Skulls where Jesus body had been sealed in a tomb. Night was closing in; the guards at the gate looked curiously at Brother Paul as he went out because few people cared to leave the city at night.
Suddenly the ground shook. It was another quake! Brother Paul was flung to the ground, alarmed—but soon the earth quieted. He was only bruised and somewhat dirty. They resumed their walk.
The quake had done other damage. The great stone sealing the entrance to the tomb had been rolled aside. "Thank you, Father," Jesus said. Then, to Brother Paul: "we must remove the body and bury it separately so that it will never be found.
Brother Paul did not question this. Once he started asking questions, he would never stop! He entered the silent tomb.
The body lay there, tossed askew by the tremor, un-pretty. Brother Paul nerved himself, put his hands on it, stripped off the clothing, and dragged it out of the tomb. He tried to close his nose against what he thought he smelled. He hauled it well into the foliage of the garden, then found a fragment of stone and scooped out as deep a grave as he could. The work was grueling in the dark, and every time he heard a noise not of his own making he paused, holding his breath, afraid the guards were returning. They had evidently been frightened away by the quake, but that would not keep them away forever.