The Crown and the Cross: The Life of Christ (42 page)

In all the tumult, no one heard the cry of grief and pain that was torn from Jonas by Abiathar’s act. At last the little hunchback realized why he had been sent to gather the thorns on the hillside yesterday. In his ignorance he had made possible this final degradation of the innocent man who was now being driven out to be killed.

This is Jesus, the King of the Jews.

Matthew 27:37

It was not often that Veronica was able to leave her father’s house, for Jonathan, busy with his studies at the scribes’ school, was not available to lead her mule and all the others were occupied with their work. Once a year she looked forward to a holiday, a visit to the home of her mother’s kinsman, Joseph of Arimathea, with its lovely garden and its beautiful trees and flowers. In Jerusalem no one worked on the day following the Passover celebration, and Veronica had been planning for a long time to make the trip across the city to Joseph’s home on that day.

Joseph was rich and Veronica would not have thought of shaming him by visiting his home in anything but her best garments. During the year, she had been saving to buy a head veil like one she had seen in the pack of a merchant who had paused one day to buy some of the small vases she painted with scenes of the Jerusalem area. The veil was of a wonderfully fine fabric, a type of cloth that had been woven for a thousand years in the Phoenician city of Byblos on the sea-coast to the north, a material prized, she had been told, even by the women of Pharaoh’s court in Egypt. Of an almost gossamer thinness, the cloth of Byblos shone with a luster of its own.

Ever since she had seen the head veil, Veronica had begun to lay aside whatever money she could to buy one for herself. Only a few weeks ago the merchant had appeared again and had agreed to take what she had saved in partial payment for a length of the cloth, letting her have it then and collecting the rest when he came again. Since that time, Veronica’s nimble fingers had been busy whenever she had a free moment, binding the cut edges of the cloth with a fine, even stitching and making the whole into what was, she was sure, the loveliest head veil in all of Jerusalem. Only yesterday, while watching the paschal lamb roasting upon its bed of coals in the courtyard, she had finished the stitching. Now, as she rode out into the bright morning sunlight on the way to visit Joseph of Arimathea, her hair was covered by the veil, the fabric only a little more lustrous than the golden hair.

Veronica tried not to reveal her pride in the lovely veil, for it was not good to be proud of one’s possessions when so many others did not have things equally valuable. But this was the first thing of much value that she had ever bought with her own work, and she could not help feeling that the passersby were admiring the beautiful veil, although in truth they were admiring as much her own fresh loveliness.

Veronica’s conscience did prick her a little, for she knew many poor people who could have bought food with the money she had paid for the cloth. Still she had also saved for her usual gift to the temple. She and Jonathan had even sacrificed a dove this year in addition to the paschal lamb provided by the family, so she could tell herself she had done what the Law required. The head veil made her happy and she was sure the Most High would not hold it against her if she chose a little happiness when so much of her life had been filled with pain from her crippled leg.

One thing only marred Veronica’s happiness, the news that Jesus of Nazareth had been arrested during the night and was even now before Pontius Pilate for sentencing. She knew Pilate’s reputation as a ruthless man, but she still dared to hope he would be just and recognize in the Nazarene the qualities of gentleness and kindness to others which she had heard so many people say were the essence of His teachings. It was rumored that Jesus and His followers had sought to make Him king in Judea and overthrow the rule of Rome, but Veronica found that hard to believe. From the glimpse of the Nazarene she had had that day on the road to Jerusalem, He had seemed to be a kind and deeply pious man, not the sort of revolutionary who occasionally stirred up Jerusalem as Barabbas and his followers had done.

The home of Joseph of Arimathea lay at the northern edge of the suburb which had grown up west of the sanctuary area on some rising ground, not far from the traditional place of execution called Golgotha. The Roman term was Calvaria, which had the same meaning, namely, the skull. From their home at the edge of the Tyropean Valley near the great aqueduct, Veronica and Jonathan had to pass through much of the suburb lying between the Place of the Skull and the fortress of Antonia. So it was that their route soon joined that along which Jesus was being driven by the soldiers and the rabble stirred up by Abiathar.

When they came to the way leading to Golgotha, their progress was stopped by a great crowd lining the roadway on both sides, waiting for the procession headed by the condemned man to pass on its way to the place of crucifixion. Since they could go no farther, Jonathan was forced to halt the mule, but, not being able to walk, Veronica remained upon its back. Many people were weeping, but for the most part the crowd was made up of the merely curious, who delighted in anything sensational, even if it were a public execution.

“Jonathan,” Veronica begged. “Let us go back. I don’t want to see Him.”

Jonathan would have obliged his sister, but the press of the crowd around them made it impossible to move, except into the roadway. And this area was kept clear by guards from the temple.

“The crowd is too great,” he told Veronica. “We’d never get through now.”

Just then a rising clamor of voices warned that the condemned man was approaching, and soon the head of the procession came into view, moving slowly because the crowd pressed in on both sides, eager to get a close look at the doomed man who wore a crown of thorns upon His head.

First came a dozen Roman legionnaires, clearing a way through the crowd with the butts of their spears. Behind them Jesus staggered, carrying upon His back the heavy crossbeam, called the patibulum, to which His arms would be nailed.

Crucifixion was the most horrible form of death, not simply because of the immediate pain but because the condemned man would hang upon the Cross sometimes for days before he died from exposure or loss of blood. Originally devised centuries before by Egyptians as a punishment for escaped slaves, it had been adopted by the Romans for the most heinous of crimes because of its spectacular lesson to would-be lawbreakers. Death by crucifixion was a stigma, the most degrading form of execution, and the ultimate humiliation that in itself identified the victim as belonging in the lowest class of criminals.

Veronica could not repress a cry of indignation and sympathy when she saw the doomed man approaching. With the heavy beam of the patibulum upon His back, He was barely able to stagger along and had fallen repeatedly into the dirt. His face, already wet with blood and sweat, was caked with dust and Gis tortured eyes looked out at His tormentors as if through a mask. Behind Him two other men, identified by the crowd as dangerous thieves who had been sentenced to death by crucifixion, also stumbled along with the patibula strapped to their backs. But they were strongly built and fared better than the gentle Nazarene.

Veronica did not try to hide the sobs that shook her slender body or the tears that poured down her face. Around her women were weeping everywhere, and she recognized the beautiful woman of Magdala among those who followed close behind Jesus, supporting an older woman whose face was also ravaged by grief.

Jesus stumbled to His knees a few paces away from the girl and the guards had to jerk Him to His feet, cursing Him for not being able to stand. When He was just opposite Veronica, His knees buckled once more and He fell again, burying His face in the dust of the roadway because, with His arms held by thongs around the patibulum, He had no way of protecting Himself.

The Romans on either side of Jesus pulled Him to His knees, but this time the centurion Pelonius brought the procession to a halt and came back to look closely at the prisoner as He swayed in the grip of the soldiers. It was obvious that, if they released Jesus, the weight of the patibulum would only force Him to fall again.

“Loosen the beam from Him,” Pelonius ordered. His eyes were surveying the crowd and now lit upon a heavy-set man who stood nearby. “You there,” he called. “What is your name?”

The big man looked startled. “Simon. Simon of Cyrene.”

“Take the beam and carry it for Him,” Pelonius ordered.

Simon did not hesitate but stepped forward. The soldiers had already loosened the thongs and lifted the patibulum from Jesus’ back. Now they raised it so that Simon could slip his arms through the thongs and ease the timber upon his broad shoulders.

With the weight removed from Him, Jesus straightened His body and looked around Him. Veronica could have touched Him from where she sat on the back of her mule. As she looked into the Nazarene’s eyes, she was amazed to find no resentment mirrored there, only pain and suffering and, she was sure, a look that seemed to be one of compassion even for those who were torturing Him. Obeying an impulse she did not stop to question, Veronica, while the soldiers were adjusting the patibulum to the broad shoulders of Simon the Cyrene, quickly removed the veil from her head and handed it to Jesus.

He took the lustrous cloth in His two hands and pressed it to His face, wiping away the sweat, blood, and dirt that was caked there. As He handed the veil back to Veronica, stained by the print of His face almost as if its outlines had been painted upon the cloth, He smiled gently at her in thanks.

Veronica felt as sudden warm feeling of happiness and security flood her body, though just why the smile of this man to whom she had never spoken should do this, she did not know. But before she could say a word, the soldiers had jerked their prisoner by the arms and He had moved on, holding Himself erect now that the weight of the beam no longer pressed upon His back.

Veronica stared at the cloth with the print of Jesus’ face upon it. She felt no sorrow that the beautiful veil was ruined. She knew she would never try to remove the stains from the gossamer fabric, for the cloth, stained as it was, was now far more precious to her than it had been before. What she had seen in Jesus’ eyes when He had looked at her, the memory of His smile, was something she knew she would treasure all her life in the print of His features upon the veil.

“Veronica! Veronica!” A shrill voice calling her name brought the girl suddenly out of her reverie. She saw Jonas, his face set and white, his eyes like those of a hunted creature, leading Eleazar as rapidly as he could through the crowd with Zadok on the animal’s back. The hunchback stumbled in his haste, like a man walking in his sleep, and seemed oblivious to the screeching of the cripple.

“Stop him, Veronica!” Zadok pleaded. “Stop him or I will be killed!”

Jonas showed no sign of having heard or even of recognizing the girl or her brother who had always been his friends. Zadok’s face was livid with fear and he called Veronica’s name again as the mule came abreast of her.

Without thinking, she slipped from her mount, and moving over to Eleazar, quickly seized Zadok about the waist and helped him swing to the ground where he lay in the roadway, panting with relief.

“Jonas—Jonas has been like one possessed—ever since he saw Abiathar place the—the crown of thorns on the Nazarene’s head!” he gasped.

“Why?”

“Jonas gathered the thorns. Abiathar paid him a shekel to do it. Now he says he must ask forgiveness of Jesus. Before He goes to the cross.” He mopped his brow. “You saved my life, Veronica.” Then his eyes grew wide and he swung his body up with his powerful arms and backed away from her.

“What is it, Zadok?” Veronica asked. “Is anything wrong?”

“You walked!” the cripple said incredulously. “You walked and lifted me from Eleazar’s back!”

Veronica looked down at her feet and saw that they were standing firmly upon the road. To reach Zadok, she had taken three steps and yet had been conscious of no pain. She had not even limped. Instinctively, she swayed a moment and reached out toward Jonathan and the mule for support, but they were still several paces away, her brother still engrossed in watching the crowd that now swirled in the wake of Jesus toward the place of execution.

“I did walk!” she whispered, and moved her crippled leg tentatively, then when she felt no pain or unsteadiness, stepped bravely upon it. “I am well, Zadok!” she cried. “I have been healed!”

The beggar looked at her narrowly. “How did this happen?”

“Jesus—and the veil!” She held up the cloth with the Nazarene’s face still outlined upon it in blood, sweat, and dirt. “It is why I felt so different when I took the veil from Him! It had healed me as soon as I touched it!”

“Maybe He really is what they say,” the beggar said slowly. “The Messiah.”

“You can prove it, Zadok!” Veronica cried, holding out the veil to him. “Touch it and you can be healed as I was!”

But the deformed man now backed farther away in fear. “Keep it away from me!” he screeched, swinging himself off through the crowd with his powerful arms as if a demon were in pursuit.

Veronica turned to look about her at the crowd that was already thinning out as the people fell in behind the Romans and their prisoner to follow them from the city. Jonathan saw that she was not on the mule and with a cry of concern started toward her. Then he stopped as, her eyes shining, Veronica walked to him.