We have no trouble getting back inside the city, thanks to the scroll from Antonius. When we return to the house where we’re rooming, there’s a guard waiting for us at the front door.
“There are many waiting inside for you.”
Oh no. They’re having the feast I requested. How can we feast now?
I turn to Martha and sigh.
“This is going to be difficult. I gave Antonius gold and suggested he have a feast for the staff to join in on the joy of our engagement. I don’t think we can get out of it. Do you think you can fake happiness, in light of what night this is?”
She turns and takes both of my hands into hers.
“I’m happy to be engaged, Cephas. Really I am, but my heart is just so-”
“Heavy? I know. Believe me, doing this a second time isn’t going to make it any easier. Right now, we know He’s being beaten and tortured. What we need to hang onto is that He’s enduring it all because He loves the world so much. They think they’re winning, but they’re fooling themselves. With every lash of the whip and every drop of His blood that’s shed, He’s getting a little closer to His victory. Can you hold onto that?”
“I think so.”
When we enter the house, a yell goes up and the well-wishers rush at us to give us claps on the shoulders and hugs. Very little of the money I gave to Antonius went to buy food. Most of it bought wine, and nobody drinks like the Romans do.
With me translating, Martha charms every Roman in the room. She laughs and jokes and teases the men, while asking the married women for advice. To everyone else, she’s the happy-go-lucky life of the party, but I know better. Her eyes speak volumes to me that nobody else sees. The sparkle is gone from them, and they’re distant and brooding. I wonder if every drop of wine that’s consumed reminds her of His blood that’s being shed as we speak.
Hours later, we manage to excuse ourselves to get some sleep. Many of the young men follow us to our room, hooting and howling. To them, there’s no difference between an engagement and a marriage, so they must presume we’re leaving the party to consummate.
Martha and I curl up on the bed together, fully clothed and completely exhausted.
“You did a nice job acting, but you were thinking of Him the whole time,” Martha says.
“How could you tell?”
“Your voice. You have one of the most expressive and animated voices I’ve ever known, but tonight it was flat.”
“For you, it was your eyes. I’ve never seen your eyes look so distant.”
We lay together in silence.
“I’m sorry I messed up our engagement, Martha. I wanted to remember this night as a joyous occasion, and now all we’ll remember is that we partied - as Christ was being beaten. What’s even worse is this is the second time for me. Right now, my past-self is in a nearby barracks, drinking with Flavius and his men.”
“Well, we’ll never forget the night you proposed,” she replies.
“There’s also the matter of tomorrow.”
“The scourging and the crucifixion,” Martha finishes my thought.
“You need to know up front that it’s horrific. The crucifixion is removed from us by two millennia and we casually say, ‘Christ died for us,’ like He passed away in His sleep or something. It’s not like that. He isn’t going to just die tomorrow. He’s going to suffer humiliation and pain that people from our century can’t imagine. When you see it, you’ll be willing to take a knife and plunge it into His heart as an act of kindness. But, of course, you can’t. He must die the way He was meant to die.”
“You don’t want me there,” Martha says.
“I do want you to be there. It’s the only way I can go through it again.”
****
Martha and I agree to sleep for a few hours and then go to Pilate’s house. My past-self won’t arrive until just before Jesus starts the walk to Golgotha, and will then follow Jesus as He carries His cross. If we’re careful, we should be able to avoid an encounter. Martha and I sleep in the same bed, though still fully clothed. We start the time curled up with each other, but soon both drift into a fitful sleep - full of dreams both good and evil.
I dream I’m back in a blacksmith’s shop, hammering and forming a square piece of metal into a cylinder. I get a sense the work is important, but I don’t know why, so I keep hammering.
I wake up first and find Martha twisted in the blanket, with an arm sticking out here at an angle that looks painful and a tuft of blonde hair poking out there. The sun has not yet risen. By now, Jesus has been tried by the priests; handed to the Romans; sent to Herod, who refused to judge Him; and is now back in the hands of the Romans. I try to let Martha have a little more sleep, but I’m unsuccessful in escaping the bed unnoticed.
“You look like you had a rough night. I’m sure the Romans will give me the credit,” I say.
“From the looks of you, I gave you a good run for your money. Is there time for a quick bath?”
As if in response, we hear a crowd yelling: “Crucify, crucify!”
“We aren’t far from Pilate’s house. Pilate just declared Jesus has done nothing to warrant death, and is going to have him scourged next in an attempt to appease the crowd.”
Martha sighs.
“Then let’s go.”
We’re recognized as Roman citizens, and the guards let us walk freely in the public areas of the Roman compound. I recognize many of them from the engagement party, and they smile and nod as Martha and I pass. We’re able to find a spot on an upper balcony, overlooking the courtyard where prisoners are sent to be scourged. The only “decoration” in the area is a short stone pillar fitted with rings where a prisoner can be chained. The courtyard itself is set with gray cobble stones, but the stones around the pillar are stained black with the dried blood of those who were scourged before Him.
When Jesus is brought in, Martha whimpers slightly. She’s only ever seen Him smiling and happy as He entered the city and taught in the temple. Seeing Him now, after He’s been beaten by both the temple guards and the Romans, is unsettling. One eye is nearly swollen shut from being punched. She’s not ready for what’s yet to come - but then - neither am I.
Jesus is led to the pillar and a Roman orders Him to kneel. When He doesn’t comply quickly enough to suit the Roman, His legs are kicked behind the knee. Next, they chain Him so that His hands are above His head. The courtyard itself is filling with onlookers, including priests from the temple. The Romans do not scourge in private. The process is meant to be as publicly humiliating as it is painful.
Once He’s in place, they strip Him to the waist and two soldiers get into position and await the order to begin. These don’t look like regular Roman soldiers. The soldiers I’ve met are professional men, with flawless discipline and calm demeanors. These two look more like former outlaws, who got the job because they enjoy inflicting pain.
Each man holds a flagellum in his hand - a short, multi-thong whip where the thongs have metal balls tied onto their ends. When they’re given the signal to begin, the men alternate whipping Jesus. Each time they whip Him, they take one or two steps of “wind up” so they can land the blow as hard as possible.
On the first blow, Martha lets out a whimpering gasp that’s so loud, several people in the courtyard below turn around and look up at us. We’re wearing Roman togas and tunics, so they probably assume we’ve never seen such a spectacle. Most ordinary Romans have never witnessed a scourging because it’s considered too cruel a punishment to be inflicted on a Roman citizen. The process may even be considered too cruel for a Roman horse or mule.
The first few lashes cut only through the skin, but produce an immediate oozing of blood and plasma from the capillaries of the skin. What’s less obvious is that, as those initial blows fell, the balls of lead struck with such force that they produced large bruises in the deeper layers of skin and muscle.
Martha flinches and gasps beside me as each blow falls. I manage to hold in my own gasps, but I can still feel each blow land in a deeper place inside of me.
As the leather thongs continue to cut deeper and deeper towards the subcutaneous tissues, those early bruises now break open with a spurt of blood. Some in the crowd cheer, like the first Roman to cause blood to spurt has scored a goal in some sick sporting event. The crowd understands that causing blood to spurt means the Romans have worked their way through the skin, and are now drawing blood from the veins and arteries of the underlying muscles. They may not understand the medical significance, but they know how to keep score in ancient blood sports.
Martha buries her face in my shoulder, but it doesn’t stop her from flinching at the sound. I close my eyes and flinch along with her. Under Jewish law, the maximum punishment would be thirty-nine lashes, but the Romans have no such limitation. I don’t bother to count. All I can do is trust God will stop the scourging at His appointed time.
I open my eyes again when the sound of the lashing stops. The two Romans are breathing hard and are covered in sweat from their efforts. Jesus is hanging by the chains on His wrists, writhing and moaning from the pain. His back is an unrecognizable mass of torn and bleeding tissue, some of it even falling away from His body in long ribbons. They drag Him away.
“Next, they’ll take him back to Pilate,” I say.
We leave the balcony and make our way to Pilate’s house along with other Roman citizens. Last time, I watched Pilate from the courtyard and saw the event from the perspective of a Jew. This time, I’m seeing it from balconies, from the perspective of a Roman. The Roman citizens around us are speaking of all the Jews with contempt. To them, Jesus is just another member of the rabble who are causing trouble and refusing to accept the utopia offered by Rome. I feel like I could throw a com in their ears and transplant them into my time without them missing a beat. Humanity has been living one man’s idea of utopia after another for two thousand years.
“My past-self is down in the courtyard crowd. Cover your head and stand in the shadows,” I say to Martha. “See - there I am.”
I’m standing in a toga near Flavius and some other Roman soldiers. We can see the Pharisees working the crowd to ensure the outcome they want.
“You were hiding,” Martha says. “Just like the Apostles.”
Seeing myself from this perspective, it’s clear she’s correct. I was afraid and was using the Romans for protection. I can’t deny her observation, so I stand in silence.
When Pilate comes out of the house, the crowd quiets, but there are still murmurs. I know the murmurs in the crowd below were mostly rebellious comments about the Roman occupiers and disappointment that Jesus didn’t drive them out. Here in the balcony, the murmurs from the Romans are about the Hebrew “dogs” in the courtyard below.
Pilate says a few words, then reminds the crowd of the generous “Roman tradition” of releasing one prisoner during the Passover celebration. The murmurs in the balcony are that it’s an overly generous tradition, and that all the prisoners should be run through with swords.
“Which one do you want me to release to you, Barabbas, or Jesus who is called the Messiah?”
He then sits to hear the response of the crowd. As he sits, a messenger comes out of the house and speaks in his ear. Pilate gets a curious look on his face, but stays silent in thought.
The Pharisees are moving through the crowd now. I can hear them saying: “Ask for Barabbas” and “Crucify the other.”
“Which of these two do you want me to release to you?” Pilate asks again.
With the Pharisees leading, the crowd shouts “Barabbas.”
“But if I release Barabbas, what should I do with Jesus who is called the Messiah?”
“Crucify Him!” the crowd shouts.
“Why? What crime has He committed?”
Pilate gets no explanation, the crowd just yells louder and louder for Jesus to be crucified. Pilate goes back into the house, but returns a few minutes later.
“I am going to bring Him out to you now, but understand that I clearly find him not guilty.”
Jesus is ushered out of the house by Roman soldiers. He’s wearing a purple robe and there’s a crown of long, sharp thorns pressed into His head. His hands are trembling and His eyes look glassy from the pain.
“Here is the man!” Pilate says.
The priests and the Temple guards start the chant again: “Crucify! Crucify!” and the crowd goes back to its frenzied state.
Pilate’s face frowns with frustration. He wants an explanation of why Christ should be crucified, but he’s getting nowhere.
Many of the Roman soldiers now have their hands on their sword handles, ready to draw their weapons at the first sign the crowd is going to turn on them next. The crowd of Romans in the balcony leans forward, perhaps hoping for just such a bloodbath. Having gotten what they wanted, the Pharisees now work to calm the crowd, and the tension begins to ease.
Pilate speaks to a servant and a few moments later a bowl of water is brought out. Pilate washes his hands for the crowd to see. As he does so, a woman dressed in a Roman toga dumps a bucket of dirty bath water from an upper balcony, dousing several Jews in the courtyard. The Romans around us laugh at the sport of it.
“I am innocent of the blood of this man. The responsibility is yours,” Pilate says.
When the hand-washing is done, the Hebrew servant who brought the bowl dumps the water used to declare Christ’s innocence with the same look of contempt as the Roman woman with the bucket. I’ve now stood in both the balcony and the courtyard to witness this event and listened to Romans and Jews alike declare themselves the victors. Martha and I watch as my past-self slips his Hebrew cloak on and blends in with the crowd again.
The Romans around us praise their system for meting out “justice” so another Jew could get what he deserves. The Jews, and their Pharisees below us, also praise their system, which they used to condemn a sinless man in order to retain their power. In my time, people praise our system of atheistic theocracy disguised as a Republic, but the truth is that little has changed in two thousand years.
Martha turns to leave, but I’m staring at Pilate, who is standing between two columns speaking to someone.
“What is it?” Martha asks.
“Pilate. He tried his best, but it didn’t matter. I am Pilate and he is me - just two small pieces in a large puzzle. Two millennia from now, I’m going to stand between two columns in a toga, playing my part just like Pilate did this morning. Will my part make any more of a difference than his?”