Fifth Gospel(139)

‘You cannot name him thus! You have no right to give him that title!’

‘What is written is written!’ Pilate dismissed and ordered Cassius to take Jesus away.

Cassius felt dreariness in his soul as he took the man through the crowds but he had not a moment to dwell on it, since a great clamour and uproar now broke out over the titulus and all his thoughts turned to keeping the peace.





69


VIA DOLOROSA




Wearing the seamless robe she had made him those years ago her son, bounded by four soldiers and led by a centurion, was taken to his death through the streets of Jerusalem carrying the patibulum, or crosspiece, to which his arms were tied. It rested on his shoulders and the weight of it combined with his wounds, his thirst and his exhaustion, made him lose his balance.

People lined the narrow streets, shouting obscenities and jeering, and beyond these shadows of evil she stood with Magdalena, Lazarus-John, and her sister-in-law Mary of Cleophas. The procession headed north from the praetorium to the place of execution outside the city walls and so it descended through the streets until it came through the gate of the first wall.

Here, she did not hear the people taunting him, she did not hear the lament of the women, she did not see the Romans whipping his body and making all his wounds deeper, she saw only her son, and her God, and they saw her. His eyes asked:

Where is Simon-Peter, why has he not come to help me carry my cross? Where are my disciples? Where are my followers? Are they still asleep?

She could not answer him, for she knew not where they were. Instead she took upon herself his suffering, so that she knew how heavy was the wood that tore at the ligaments of his lacerated shoulders, how hard was the way over the stones with his bare feet full of cuts and sores and gashes, she felt how his head throbbed from the thorns that continued to pierce it, how great was his thirst, which made his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth, how the chills of fever shook him to his very centre, and how his entire being screamed with hurts because his wounds, both physical and spiritual, made inroads into his heart.

She understood now that this passion had begun the moment the God had entered into Jesus at his baptism, and that is was culminating in this dolorous way to his voluntary sacrifice.

His petition to her at the cenacle had never seemed more difficult than now. How was she to rise above her suffering in order to transform it into love? Love even for those Romans who called out abuse and dragged him by his weeping arms, scraping his skinless knees to raise him, love for the centurion who carried the titulus which would be nailed to his cross, love for his judges and executioners, love for those who were full of hate, who abused him for his alleged profanity from the rooftops and threw stones and rubbish at him.

The last gate out of the city was situated in the busy suburb of Akra and it opened onto the road that led to the place of execution. Here he fell and could not get up no matter how many times he was whipped. This forced a halt in the cohort of Romans headed by Pilate that came from behind escorting two more malefactors also destined for crucifixion.

Outside the first gate, in this suburb, those who loved her son outnumbered those who were swayed by the hate of the Sanhedrin and those who were paid to taunt him. They begged the Romans to stop beating and kicking him. But the Romans returned the supplications of the people with blows from their staves and whips. This commotion diverted the soldiers long enough to allow her a space in which to come near to him. Leaving the others behind her she went down on her knees and crawled to where he lay on the cobbles with his arms pinned down by the cross piece. She put her face to the ground so that he might see her and put a hand to his hair, matted and bloodied, to remove it from his disfigured eyes.

From somewhere came the smell of roses.

He looked at her and her heart trembled. She gasped for breath and in that gasp a window in time was opened and held still. This was the last moment between them and when this meeting flew away she would not come so close again, until he was dead.

‘I thirst!’ he said, and there was the trace of a smile in his misshapen face.

‘You are always thirsty!’ she answered, smiling through the tears, ‘But I have no water that tastes of wine to give you my son!’

She could say nothing more for there were no wise and useful words left to her only sorrow-filled ones and these were held back for fear of breaking the enchantment of the moment.

‘Get up woman!’ a voice said, and she felt herself dragged away from him, away from those eyes.

‘Leave her be Abenader! That is the mother!’ she recognised this voice, ‘See to him, or he will die before he gets to his execution! It will not do to lose him now after he has come so far! Find someone to help him!’ It was the same centurion from the night before, the one upon his horse, his voice and words recalled to her mind that moment at the gates of Jerusalem those many years ago. He ordered a guard to take a pagan Greek from the crowd.