Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller (28 page)

King Charles turns back to the crowd. "But why? What evil has the Teacher done? What crime has he committed?"

They only cry louder, "Deacon! Deacon! Deacon! Deacon! Deacon!"

King Charles looks like he is ready to explode, but he reigns in his emotion. "Then what do you wish me to do with the man you call the 'king of the South'?"

Fat Belly says it first. It doesn't take long for the others to concur. Gray Beard raises his fists. Fat Belly cups his hands over his mouth and hollers. Soon the verdict is unanimous.

They shout, "Crucify him!"

King Charles reluctantly nods and the centurions throw me off the landing and into the crowd.

People trample me as they storm away to the palace courtyard where the Teacher will be flogged before his execution. I try to get up, but the herd of people knocks me back to the ground.

I decide to die and am amazed by how quickly I accept it.

I've caused irrevocable damage. I've been played for a fool. I've caused my people—those I was supposed to liberate—more death and sorrow. I'm not just a failure; I'm a murderer. King Charles is right; their blood is on my hands.

Someone stomps my chest, but I no longer feel any pain because my mind is floating back in time. Back to Jude.

Why didn't I see it? How could I have been so naive?

He played me from the start. It must have always been a double cross. He worked both sides. Who knows how far back it goes, but at some point the Kingdom got to him. They knew he was close with my father, and they turned him. Jude betrayed the South to get rich. All they needed was to get me home.

Take away my parents. Show me the money. Give me the gun. Lead me to the men. Shut down the resistance; snuff out the rebellion.

It was so simple—so tragically simple—yet I danced to their music like a drunken fool.

Jude gave the Kingdom my army, and he got me to help deliver the Teacher to the religious authorities. It was a win-win for everyone eager to see life continue as is.

Especially for Jude, who stole all my money.

Dr. Stone and Henrik never betrayed their Kingdom.

I bite my tongue, as if chewing through a tough piece of meat, and try to sever it. I beg my heart to stop pumping. I hold my breath.

The pain rises inside me like lava to the brim of a volcano. The pressure in my head nears detonation.

I'm alive.

Still alive.

Still alive.

Then I fade. I can't breathe. The pain is unreal. I'm past the tipping point. I slide away. Here it comes...death.

Take me, please!

Wet lips snatch my spirit as it rises slowly from my body. Small hands push it back down into my chest. A tender voice relaxes my jaw and opens my eyes.

Maria.

It is always Maria. She says, "Come, before it's too late."

I breathe in and choke on the air. I begin to speak, but she presses a finger to my lips and helps me to my feet.

The pain is intolerable. I drape my arm around her and hobble as she leads me through the rough sea of people. We follow the others until we're led to where the Teacher has been taken.

The flogging already has begun. The Kingdom has stripped the Teacher naked and chained him to a post. He's on his knees. A centurion cracks a whip against his back, and he writhes in pain. Maria shouts for them to stop; others plead for mercy.

But others—many others—cheer their approval.

In shock, I say nothing. I think of how it should be me, and not him, taking this beating.

A centurion flogs the Teacher until there is no longer skin on his back; it's a muddy river of blood and exposed muscles and tendons. I can see the white of bone. He bleeds so profusely that I think he'll die at any moment. No man can survive such punishment, such unfettered violence.

When the flogging is finished, the Teacher is lifted to his feet and clothed in a purple cloak. One of the centurions shoves a crown of thorns onto his head. Blood drips off his eyebrows. They salute him, saying, "Hail the Teacher, the king of the South!" Each centurion takes a turn bowing in sarcastic respect before him. Rising up, they spit in his face and strike his head repeatedly, until his eyes, which never have done anything but emit kindness, fill with blood.

When they're satisfied, they strip him once again and put his pants back on him. Then they lead him out of the courtyard to crucify him.

The Teacher is in no condition to carry his own cross.

The centurions compel a man who is passing by to carry it for him. They point a gun in his face and order him to do it. He complies.

Our dark procession leads us out of the city and up a hill known locally as "the Skull." Atop the hill the centurions lay his cross on the ground and prepare to nail the Teacher to it.

Maria helps me along until we get as close to the Teacher as possible, which is about the dumbest thing she and I could do. If I were smart, I'd take Maria away from this place, and I'd do it now, at this very moment.

Everything is lost, destroyed. I was completely wrong, and Maria knew it all along. Yet here we are, both alive and together. We can still escape and find our life together. We can still go to Mexico. I want that so terribly.

I search the small crowd that has come to the Skull to witness this death on a cross.

There is no Miles. No Petra. No Jude. I don't see a single person from our group; not one of the Teacher's students is here. Maria is the one who has stuck by his side, the only one unafraid to be associated with him.

"Why did you leave the safe house?" I ask her. "You could have been killed."

"Petra came to me," she says. "He found Jude last night, moments before he—"

"What?
Petra saw Jude? Where is he?"

"Dead," she says. "He hanged himself. He confessed his sins to Petra. Then he told him where I was."

"I can't believe he's dead. He has my money. He can't be dead."

"The Teacher's prophecy about Petra was true—about the denial. Before the cock crowed, Petra denied knowing the Teacher three separate times. Can you believe that? He was distraught, rambling like a madman. I tried to calm him, but it was of no use. I don't have a clue where he is now."

Picturing Jude hanging and Petra as a madman spins my head. "How did you know I was in trouble?"

"I didn't leave the safe house for you," she says," her eyes fixed on the Teacher, who's being offered a final cup of wine mixed with myrrh. "I came for him. I came for my beloved messiah."

"I understand," I say softly. Tears stream down my face as I watch centurions lift nails and hammers.

The Teacher is affixed to the cross. It is nine in the morning and brutally hot. The centurions drive nails through his hands and feet. He screams wildly. Above his head an inscription reads, THE KING OF THE SOUTH.

Two other men are crucified with him. Both are bandits, we're told, one on his right and one on his left.

We watch the Teacher die. It takes a very long time.

During his torture many people pass by and mock him, saying, "Aha! You who would destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself, come down from the cross."

I pray to the one true God that he will. Even now—now that I understand his path is the truer path to freedom—I don't understand why he doesn't save
himself from this death. Why not pull the nails from his body and heal his own wounds?

Fat Belly and Gray Beard appear along with a cohort of religious leaders and other holy men. Gray Beard says, "He saved others, yet he can't save himself."

Fat Belly adds, "Let the messiah, the king of the South, come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe."

Even the dying men to the Teacher's right and left taunt him.

At noon the clouds roll in. For the next three hours, the sky is as dark as night. Thunder booms overhead, but no rain comes. The earth is angry.

At three in the afternoon, the Teacher lifts his weary head to the heavens. "My God, my God," he says, "why have you forsaken me?"

Maria and I hold each other close.

I say, "Death has drawn near to him."

"He's quoting the Scripture," Maria says. Then from memory, she recites, "'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? And are so far from my cry and from the words of my distress?"'

"I remember pieces of it," I say. "'Many young bulls encircle me; strong bulls of Bashan surround me. They open wide their jaws at me, like a ravening lion. I am poured out like water; all my bones are out of joint; my heart within my breast is melting wax.' That's all I can remember."

Maria nuzzles her head into my chest and whispers, "'For kingship belongs to the Lord; he rules over the nations. To him alone all who sleep in the earth bow down in worship; all who go down to the dust fall before him.'"

"Yes," I say. I remember it now. '"My soul shall live for him; my descendants shall serve him; they shall be known as the Lord's forever.'"

We speak the final line together. '"They shall come and make known to a people yet unborn the saving deeds that he has done.'"

One of the centurions, a short man with dark skin, fills a sponge with sour wine, puts it on a stick, and raises it to the Teacher's mouth. Another centurion says, "Wait, let's see whether his prophets will come to take him down."

Yes,
I think.
Save him!
I pray to the one true God and plead on the Teacher's behalf. If he is your messiah, bring him down from the cross and lift him up. Give him the power to overthrow this wicked Kingdom.

But nothing happens. The heavens do not open. The God of our ancestors does not intervene. There will be no last-second clemency for the Teacher.

Instead he gives a loud cry and breathes his last.

The earth shakes violently beneath us. The quake is so fierce that many onlookers are knocked off their feet. A look of uncertainty creeps across the callous-faced centurions. Maria sobs into my chest. "Is he really dead?" she says. "Can it be true?"

"He's gone," I say flatly, stunned by the quake. "He no longer suffers."

When the earthquake finishes its rumble, the centurion standing closest to the cross turns toward us and, with amazement in his voice, says, "Truly this man was God's son!"

His words cut me in half. Could this be right? Did the one true God send the Teacher? I stare up at his lifeless face and am haunted by my own thoughts: A messiah is either victorious or he dies.

Maria runs toward the cross. I chase after her. "Maria! Wait. We must leave! Now!"

She falls to her knees and reaches for his bloodied feet. His body doesn't move.

I fall to my knees next to her as the sky finally releases its water. Everything inside me tells me to run, to take Maria and escape. My survival instincts roar within me.
Get out! Do it now! While you still can!

But I don't rise.

Instead I sob for my sin.

I sob for my betrayal.

I sob for my parents.

I sob for my dead army.

I sob for my fellow Southerners.

I sob for the innocent man I condemned.

I sob for Maria, for not being the man she needs.

I sob for fear that I have just killed God's son.

Then it gets worse.

I'm yanked from the mud by my shoulders. Shackles are quickly secured around my hands and legs. Another is fastened around my neck. A fresh-faced
centurion, one who has just arrived at the scene, says, "King Charles heard that you were here, that you hadn't fled the city."

"No!" Maria screams.

"Shut up!" the centurion yells at her. He refocuses his murderous stare on me. With a smile he says, "The venerable King Charles wishes to see you."

y meeting with King Charles was brief. All he said was, "You and I will speak in the North, after we've fled this Southern hell. If you behave yourself, I might let you speak to your mother."

"What!"

But the king just waved his hand in dismissal. "Take him away!"

That was three days ago. My departure date has arrived.

We board the train like cattle to the slaughter. We prisoners are herded en masse and without regard for individual dignity, for we have ceased to be human in the eyes of the Kingdom. All that matters now is that the group is shoved aboard and the train departs on time.