1 Innocent but guilty
Rosalind Morley Souter
The wind was picking up on the hill now, thunder clambered above and the crowd had gathered around the hill to look.
"Sick vultures," he though as he leaned against the wooded post, "not a day ago they would be screaming to get him down."
The new guard waved a hand to indicate the change; his colleague reached him to stand by the post, he nodded as he reached him and said, "Rough day?"
The first guard groaned "You don't the half of it mate, I tell ya, I fed up with these bloody martyrs and their campaign to bring us down."
The new guard nodded "What did he do?"
This made the first guard stop, he thought for a while and said, "He…. well… I'm not so sure, but our supervisor said not to ask."
"But you said he was a martyr."
"Well, he said, when I was putting him in his cell; "I forgive you." Plus there was some mumbo jumbo about religion."
The new guard raised an eyebrow "Really? Strange."
The first guard said, "You ought to keep the crowd down, they look a bit… thoughtful."
The new guard looked surprised "What about you?"
"I'll be fine, I doubt our friend here is going anywhere do you?"
The other guard walked back into the crowd shouting orders to stay where they were.
He shivered, a wind had picked up now and it had an angry howl in it. The crowd had grown a lot more silent. They stood in awe at the spectacle on the hill, some were crying.
"Now they've changed their tune."
He looked down at his feet, it hadn't been the best of duties, putting this man to death and he was feeling uneasy. For one thing, there was the quietness of the man. He screamed with pain, they all did. Even the strongest freedom fighter cried for mercy when they beat them, but… he didn't curse afterwards. He just, stayed silent.
Then there were the rest of the lads of course; they liked a laugh now and then. So did he come to that, but he felt different about it this time.
It had felt wrong.
Some how.
"You murdering bastards!"
Screams like that, he expected, but none came. The crowd looked like they were attending a funeral, not an execution. The women in the crowd were crying loudly, their screams and shouts were in the native language. He didn't understand the words, but he could understand what they were saying.
"Get yourself down!" Cried a member of the mob, "If you're so great!"
He didn't, he couldn't of course. You'd have to be a god to get yourself down.
The voice belonged to a high official, they were the ones who brought him to trail, but then they usually were.
He looked up, the storm was gathering now and at great speed.
"For God's sake Marcus! Hasn't he died yet?"
The same guard had come back; he leaned against his spear and said, "How long has he been up there?"
"A couple of hours I should say," Marcus replied, "it's hard to tell, the sun's gone in."
The other guard looked up, "Bloody hell, it's only three o'clock."
Marcus nodded "How's the mob?"
"If you can call it a mob, they are like a bloody funeral crowd now. They are calling to their God for forgiveness."
"What the hell for?"
The new guard shrugged "Search me, he was quite special though, some say he was divinely blessed or something."
Marcus laughed "Local religion, cracks me up every time."
"Get yourself down King," muttered a voice above him.
Damned martyrs, they were always the same. Killed for some worthless cause, like the empire's fall.
That wasn't right though was it? He hadn't cursed us had he? Marcus thought, in fact, he said we were forgiven.
"For what?" He said aloud.
"You'll see," said a voice above him.
Marcus looked above him "What'd you say filth?" He asked; he hated the prisoner's backchat.
"You'll see what you're forgiven for."
Marcus stopped, for a moment, the man's eyes pierced through his armour and into something deeper. He felt… vulnerable before this man. It was as if he knew him…
"Shut up Hebrew scum," he spat to the man, "'bout time I-"
"A drink please?"
Marcus raised an eyebrow and laughed "You WHAT?"
"A… drink please?" The man repeated, "I'm a little… thirsty."
Marcus laughed again, "Who am I your slave? Who's being executed here?"
"Please…"
Marcus turned away, and then he stopped again.
What harm could a drink do? …
"Some one get some wine!" He screamed into the crowd, "Claudius! Get some wine on a sponge!"
Another soldier ran off.
"Thank you Marcus," the man said, "I'm very grateful."
Marcus looked up at him and looked away again, "Ask for anything else and I'll break your legs."
Marcus held it up to the sponge up to man's lips and he sipped it carefully.
"Hurry up," he called.
He pulled away the sponge and the man gasped.
"There," Marcus was about to slide down the ladder, when a sign caught his eye. It had four letters on it.
"I.N.R.I," Marcus read, "damn those men are sick."
"Are they right?" The man asked, "Do you think I'm a king?"
Marcus' answer caught in his throat, he coughed and said, "No, a king wouldn't be dying like this."
"Unless he cared for his people," the man said.
Marcus laughed again "What good is this doing for "your people"? Who the hell do you think you are? Bloody messiah?"
The man smiled, his eyes seemed to smile with them and he laughed.
"What are you laughing about? Are you crazy? For Gods sake you're dying!"
"I know," the man winced, "but I know it's worth it."
"Bearing your weight?" Asked Marcus mockingly, "how brave."
"Close my friend, very close."
Marcus gave him an angry look "I'll say it before, I'll say it again; you bloody martyrs are all the same."
"How many bloody martyrs have you seen Marcus?" He asked.
"Several, some screaming that I burn in Hell for my crimes against God."
"How many have blessed you?"
Marcus shook his head "How many do you think?"
The man smiled "I thought so."
"You going to bless me Hebrew?"
"Yes, thank you for the wine. May God put you at his Right hand."
Marcus laughed "Thank you King," He said cruelly; "I'll bear that in mind."
He slid down the ladder, he saw the others playing dice for the man's clothes. Once again he wanted to be sick, but something stopped him.
"Lads," he called, "wait until afterwards will you?"
They ignored him so he let it go.
"Pigs," he muttered.
Then he wondered why.
That man doesn't deserve this, he though, what did he do?
He had the build of a carpenter, he was from a small and rather insignificant community somewhere in the South wasn't he? Something like that.
He was so peaceful, not a word, not a curse or a scream now. He was shivering with pain, the blood coursed down his arms and legs, down his forehead and his hands.
"Oh God…" he whispered, "he's-"
A woman walked towards the cross, her head bowed and her eyes splashing with tears. "I want to see him!" She said, "Please."
Marcus looked her up and down, she had the look of a woman of a "tarnished reputation", her beautiful and honey brown face was streaked red with tears.
"Move along," said Marcus dismissively.
"Please, I'm begging you…" the woman looked on him with pleading and imploring eyes.
"She can look at him for a little 'service'!" Cried a soldier from the huddle around the dice game. The other soldiers laughed cruelly.
"Let her look Marcus, please."
He looked up at the man hanging from the cross "Who asked-"
Marcus stopped.
What harm could it do? Really?
"Fine," he said, "let her through."
Some holy man, he was rumoured to be some sort of messiah; this dying weakling on the cross, and here he was consorting with a common street whore!
"Mary," the man whispered, "don't cry."
"My teacher, lord," the woman sobbed, "I-"
"I'll be alright," he croaked, "I'll be-"
"Get yourself down king!"
There were two others being crucified beside this man, bandits, both as guilty as sin and deserved this death.
The one who had called out said "Acting so high and mighty? If you're so great get yourself down from the cross!"
"Shut up!" Screamed Mary, "You have no right to-"
"Woman! Hold your tongue!" Marcus cried out.
"She's right Gestas," said the other bandit who was named Dimas, "you don't have a right. Not a damn right in the world."
He turned to the man and said "I know who you are, I don't know if I really believe you, but I know that you are doing this for a reason I'll never understand."
The woman named Mary sobbed "Lord you don't deserve this!"
"Which is why he's here," the Dimas took a deep breath "Sir, I can't thank you enough and I hope you've got what you wanted."
"I did, a thousand times over," he said and smiled at the robber "may God reward you in Heaven."
Dimas coughed, blood was specked on his breath.
Marcus signalled to some soldiers "I think this one's nearly gone!"
Dimas shook more with each cough and then…
He fell silent.
Marcus stared at him for a long time, not sure what to do.
"He's dead! Get him down from the cross!" A soldier cried from the crowd.
Marcus pointed to the cross with the dead man, and silently signalled to them to let him down.
The body was carried past him; he looked upon the dead bandit's face and stared in surprise.
He was smiling.
The afternoon toiled on, it was getting darker, and the clouds were moving and rumbling.
Marcus shivered; the wind was getting colder and sharper.
Another woman had joined Mary, his mother apparently, also some men; both had the look of men of the South. Some were built quite solidly, like fishermen, others looked quite average. One looked familiar.
"Levi?"
Marcus recognised him; he was a tax collector! What the Hell was he doing here?!
Levi turned "Marcus? You leading this crucifixion?"
"Yes, what are you doing here Levi? Still a tax collector?"
The man shook his head "I'm a different person, my name's Matthew now."
Marcus stared "Good Gods! Have you gone mad?! You were the best tax collector in the empire!"
"Things change once in a while Marcus," Matthew turned back to the cross "I did."
Marcus gazed at the cross; a large crowd had gathered now, mostly women, some men of various origins and some sick bastards who wanted to see this man die.
"Some Messiah," he said, "he has scum follow him where ever he goes, women, tax collectors, lower races…"
Me.
He looked up at this man, he was really suffering now, blood flowed down him and his breathing was hissing.
"He's nearly gone," said Marcus quietly.
He didn't deserve to die. No. Not at all.
So why was he here? Surely he had done SOMETHING! He had been brought up in front of old Pilate; he was a tough hand he was. No one could not say he was fair, he knew the Jewish customs backwards, he knew the land like he knew his own. He had ruled here for a long time…
He pronounced this man guilty.
Why?
The charge had been blasphemy, but that was no concern of the Roman Empire! They had more important things to think about! It wasn't a criminal offence worthy of crucifixion!
The priests had said to Pilate that he claimed himself the king of the Jews, this could be seen as Treason. That was certainly a criminal offence, there was all those slaves back then who tried to revolt, and they were crucified along the road to Rome.
But this man was no warrior!
He was a strong build, but he couldn't lead an army of unruly slaves! He led a bunch of degenerates to believe he was some sort of messiah, but none of them were revolting now! None of them were trying to break though the soldiers to get him down from the cross.
They were mourning, crying for this man!
This was like a funeral for him, not an execution!
They knew he didn't deserve this! They wanted to get him down from there but they couldn't!
Because they had to let him go, without this execution… no… it wasn't an ordinary crucifixion. It wasn't…
I'm innocent… but I'm guilty… for you and everyone else. I have no weight to bare, but I took yours to save you the long journey to a place you don't need to go.
Because…
Marcus looked to the cross, the wind had picked up and it was colder. It howled cruelly and screamed in his ears.
"Oh God… I'm guilty…" He found himself sobbing.
"But innocent."
Where the voice came from, he could not tell, but he knew who said it.
The man on the cross was shaking and he screamed at the top of his voice in his ancient tongue "My God! Why do you turn away?!"
Marcus felt his tears struggle in his eyes.
"I'm so sorry."
The wailing and crying drowned out the cheers, they screamed for mercy at his death. They knew they were guilty; they deserved to be up there!
He knew it.
Marcus knew.
"Lord…"
Jesus, that was his name. He died today, by my hands, by everyone's hands.
No one was to blame, but everyone. We are all guilty.
"Jesus," sobbed the crowd of his friends.
"My God…" He looked to the heavens, the crown of thorns pierced into him, letting the rivers of innocence run down his forehead. He spoke in Hebrew, but Marcus, letting his spear, shield and his arms drop, understood every single word he said.
"Into your hands…"
"I commend…"
"My soul…"
The silence deafened Marcus.
Even those who jeered this man were lost for words, the soldiers around him, some of Jewish origin and the Jewish priests were still.
Marcus spoke, a lonely, heartbroken voice in the crowd of silent faces.
"He was… the son of God."
He cared for me so much, he loved me, a man that nailed him cruelly to a cross and stood back whilst they beat him.
Jesus, the Son of God loved me.
He was innocent for me, tried for me, wrongly sentenced and guilty.
For me.
For us.
1.1 The End
Rosalind Morley Souter
The wind was picking up on the hill now, thunder clambered above and the crowd had gathered around the hill to look.
"Sick vultures," he though as he leaned against the wooded post, "not a day ago they would be screaming to get him down."
The new guard waved a hand to indicate the change; his colleague reached him to stand by the post, he nodded as he reached him and said, "Rough day?"
The first guard groaned "You don't the half of it mate, I tell ya, I fed up with these bloody martyrs and their campaign to bring us down."
The new guard nodded "What did he do?"
This made the first guard stop, he thought for a while and said, "He…. well… I'm not so sure, but our supervisor said not to ask."
"But you said he was a martyr."
"Well, he said, when I was putting him in his cell; "I forgive you." Plus there was some mumbo jumbo about religion."
The new guard raised an eyebrow "Really? Strange."
The first guard said, "You ought to keep the crowd down, they look a bit… thoughtful."
The new guard looked surprised "What about you?"
"I'll be fine, I doubt our friend here is going anywhere do you?"
The other guard walked back into the crowd shouting orders to stay where they were.
He shivered, a wind had picked up now and it had an angry howl in it. The crowd had grown a lot more silent. They stood in awe at the spectacle on the hill, some were crying.
"Now they've changed their tune."
He looked down at his feet, it hadn't been the best of duties, putting this man to death and he was feeling uneasy. For one thing, there was the quietness of the man. He screamed with pain, they all did. Even the strongest freedom fighter cried for mercy when they beat them, but… he didn't curse afterwards. He just, stayed silent.
Then there were the rest of the lads of course; they liked a laugh now and then. So did he come to that, but he felt different about it this time.
It had felt wrong.
Some how.
"You murdering bastards!"
Screams like that, he expected, but none came. The crowd looked like they were attending a funeral, not an execution. The women in the crowd were crying loudly, their screams and shouts were in the native language. He didn't understand the words, but he could understand what they were saying.
"Get yourself down!" Cried a member of the mob, "If you're so great!"
He didn't, he couldn't of course. You'd have to be a god to get yourself down.
The voice belonged to a high official, they were the ones who brought him to trail, but then they usually were.
He looked up, the storm was gathering now and at great speed.
"For God's sake Marcus! Hasn't he died yet?"
The same guard had come back; he leaned against his spear and said, "How long has he been up there?"
"A couple of hours I should say," Marcus replied, "it's hard to tell, the sun's gone in."
The other guard looked up, "Bloody hell, it's only three o'clock."
Marcus nodded "How's the mob?"
"If you can call it a mob, they are like a bloody funeral crowd now. They are calling to their God for forgiveness."
"What the hell for?"
The new guard shrugged "Search me, he was quite special though, some say he was divinely blessed or something."
Marcus laughed "Local religion, cracks me up every time."
"Get yourself down King," muttered a voice above him.
Damned martyrs, they were always the same. Killed for some worthless cause, like the empire's fall.
That wasn't right though was it? He hadn't cursed us had he? Marcus thought, in fact, he said we were forgiven.
"For what?" He said aloud.
"You'll see," said a voice above him.
Marcus looked above him "What'd you say filth?" He asked; he hated the prisoner's backchat.
"You'll see what you're forgiven for."
Marcus stopped, for a moment, the man's eyes pierced through his armour and into something deeper. He felt… vulnerable before this man. It was as if he knew him…
"Shut up Hebrew scum," he spat to the man, "'bout time I-"
"A drink please?"
Marcus raised an eyebrow and laughed "You WHAT?"
"A… drink please?" The man repeated, "I'm a little… thirsty."
Marcus laughed again, "Who am I your slave? Who's being executed here?"
"Please…"
Marcus turned away, and then he stopped again.
What harm could a drink do? …
"Some one get some wine!" He screamed into the crowd, "Claudius! Get some wine on a sponge!"
Another soldier ran off.
"Thank you Marcus," the man said, "I'm very grateful."
Marcus looked up at him and looked away again, "Ask for anything else and I'll break your legs."
Marcus held it up to the sponge up to man's lips and he sipped it carefully.
"Hurry up," he called.
He pulled away the sponge and the man gasped.
"There," Marcus was about to slide down the ladder, when a sign caught his eye. It had four letters on it.
"I.N.R.I," Marcus read, "damn those men are sick."
"Are they right?" The man asked, "Do you think I'm a king?"
Marcus' answer caught in his throat, he coughed and said, "No, a king wouldn't be dying like this."
"Unless he cared for his people," the man said.
Marcus laughed again "What good is this doing for "your people"? Who the hell do you think you are? Bloody messiah?"
The man smiled, his eyes seemed to smile with them and he laughed.
"What are you laughing about? Are you crazy? For Gods sake you're dying!"
"I know," the man winced, "but I know it's worth it."
"Bearing your weight?" Asked Marcus mockingly, "how brave."
"Close my friend, very close."
Marcus gave him an angry look "I'll say it before, I'll say it again; you bloody martyrs are all the same."
"How many bloody martyrs have you seen Marcus?" He asked.
"Several, some screaming that I burn in Hell for my crimes against God."
"How many have blessed you?"
Marcus shook his head "How many do you think?"
The man smiled "I thought so."
"You going to bless me Hebrew?"
"Yes, thank you for the wine. May God put you at his Right hand."
Marcus laughed "Thank you King," He said cruelly; "I'll bear that in mind."
He slid down the ladder, he saw the others playing dice for the man's clothes. Once again he wanted to be sick, but something stopped him.
"Lads," he called, "wait until afterwards will you?"
They ignored him so he let it go.
"Pigs," he muttered.
Then he wondered why.
That man doesn't deserve this, he though, what did he do?
He had the build of a carpenter, he was from a small and rather insignificant community somewhere in the South wasn't he? Something like that.
He was so peaceful, not a word, not a curse or a scream now. He was shivering with pain, the blood coursed down his arms and legs, down his forehead and his hands.
"Oh God…" he whispered, "he's-"
A woman walked towards the cross, her head bowed and her eyes splashing with tears. "I want to see him!" She said, "Please."
Marcus looked her up and down, she had the look of a woman of a "tarnished reputation", her beautiful and honey brown face was streaked red with tears.
"Move along," said Marcus dismissively.
"Please, I'm begging you…" the woman looked on him with pleading and imploring eyes.
"She can look at him for a little 'service'!" Cried a soldier from the huddle around the dice game. The other soldiers laughed cruelly.
"Let her look Marcus, please."
He looked up at the man hanging from the cross "Who asked-"
Marcus stopped.
What harm could it do? Really?
"Fine," he said, "let her through."
Some holy man, he was rumoured to be some sort of messiah; this dying weakling on the cross, and here he was consorting with a common street whore!
"Mary," the man whispered, "don't cry."
"My teacher, lord," the woman sobbed, "I-"
"I'll be alright," he croaked, "I'll be-"
"Get yourself down king!"
There were two others being crucified beside this man, bandits, both as guilty as sin and deserved this death.
The one who had called out said "Acting so high and mighty? If you're so great get yourself down from the cross!"
"Shut up!" Screamed Mary, "You have no right to-"
"Woman! Hold your tongue!" Marcus cried out.
"She's right Gestas," said the other bandit who was named Dimas, "you don't have a right. Not a damn right in the world."
He turned to the man and said "I know who you are, I don't know if I really believe you, but I know that you are doing this for a reason I'll never understand."
The woman named Mary sobbed "Lord you don't deserve this!"
"Which is why he's here," the Dimas took a deep breath "Sir, I can't thank you enough and I hope you've got what you wanted."
"I did, a thousand times over," he said and smiled at the robber "may God reward you in Heaven."
Dimas coughed, blood was specked on his breath.
Marcus signalled to some soldiers "I think this one's nearly gone!"
Dimas shook more with each cough and then…
He fell silent.
Marcus stared at him for a long time, not sure what to do.
"He's dead! Get him down from the cross!" A soldier cried from the crowd.
Marcus pointed to the cross with the dead man, and silently signalled to them to let him down.
The body was carried past him; he looked upon the dead bandit's face and stared in surprise.
He was smiling.
The afternoon toiled on, it was getting darker, and the clouds were moving and rumbling.
Marcus shivered; the wind was getting colder and sharper.
Another woman had joined Mary, his mother apparently, also some men; both had the look of men of the South. Some were built quite solidly, like fishermen, others looked quite average. One looked familiar.
"Levi?"
Marcus recognised him; he was a tax collector! What the Hell was he doing here?!
Levi turned "Marcus? You leading this crucifixion?"
"Yes, what are you doing here Levi? Still a tax collector?"
The man shook his head "I'm a different person, my name's Matthew now."
Marcus stared "Good Gods! Have you gone mad?! You were the best tax collector in the empire!"
"Things change once in a while Marcus," Matthew turned back to the cross "I did."
Marcus gazed at the cross; a large crowd had gathered now, mostly women, some men of various origins and some sick bastards who wanted to see this man die.
"Some Messiah," he said, "he has scum follow him where ever he goes, women, tax collectors, lower races…"
Me.
He looked up at this man, he was really suffering now, blood flowed down him and his breathing was hissing.
"He's nearly gone," said Marcus quietly.
He didn't deserve to die. No. Not at all.
So why was he here? Surely he had done SOMETHING! He had been brought up in front of old Pilate; he was a tough hand he was. No one could not say he was fair, he knew the Jewish customs backwards, he knew the land like he knew his own. He had ruled here for a long time…
He pronounced this man guilty.
Why?
The charge had been blasphemy, but that was no concern of the Roman Empire! They had more important things to think about! It wasn't a criminal offence worthy of crucifixion!
The priests had said to Pilate that he claimed himself the king of the Jews, this could be seen as Treason. That was certainly a criminal offence, there was all those slaves back then who tried to revolt, and they were crucified along the road to Rome.
But this man was no warrior!
He was a strong build, but he couldn't lead an army of unruly slaves! He led a bunch of degenerates to believe he was some sort of messiah, but none of them were revolting now! None of them were trying to break though the soldiers to get him down from the cross.
They were mourning, crying for this man!
This was like a funeral for him, not an execution!
They knew he didn't deserve this! They wanted to get him down from there but they couldn't!
Because they had to let him go, without this execution… no… it wasn't an ordinary crucifixion. It wasn't…
I'm innocent… but I'm guilty… for you and everyone else. I have no weight to bare, but I took yours to save you the long journey to a place you don't need to go.
Because…
Marcus looked to the cross, the wind had picked up and it was colder. It howled cruelly and screamed in his ears.
"Oh God… I'm guilty…" He found himself sobbing.
"But innocent."
Where the voice came from, he could not tell, but he knew who said it.
The man on the cross was shaking and he screamed at the top of his voice in his ancient tongue "My God! Why do you turn away?!"
Marcus felt his tears struggle in his eyes.
"I'm so sorry."
The wailing and crying drowned out the cheers, they screamed for mercy at his death. They knew they were guilty; they deserved to be up there!
He knew it.
Marcus knew.
"Lord…"
Jesus, that was his name. He died today, by my hands, by everyone's hands.
No one was to blame, but everyone. We are all guilty.
"Jesus," sobbed the crowd of his friends.
"My God…" He looked to the heavens, the crown of thorns pierced into him, letting the rivers of innocence run down his forehead. He spoke in Hebrew, but Marcus, letting his spear, shield and his arms drop, understood every single word he said.
"Into your hands…"
"I commend…"
"My soul…"
The silence deafened Marcus.
Even those who jeered this man were lost for words, the soldiers around him, some of Jewish origin and the Jewish priests were still.
Marcus spoke, a lonely, heartbroken voice in the crowd of silent faces.
"He was… the son of God."
He cared for me so much, he loved me, a man that nailed him cruelly to a cross and stood back whilst they beat him.
Jesus, the Son of God loved me.
He was innocent for me, tried for me, wrongly sentenced and guilty.
For me.
For us.
1.1 The End