Crispus tried to hang back. He still didn't truly understand the charges against this man, so he couldn't comprehend why he had been sentenced to crucifixion. As if that weren't going to be bad enough, Pilate had tried to appease the Jews by having this Jesus of Nazareth flogged.
He looked down at the flagrum in his hand; it had been hand tied by his mentor and given to Crispus with pride, the bones tied in to the ends sharpened to hook-like points. He had used it in the past as an object for meting out justice, but somehow this time it just didn't seem like justice.
His fellow soldiers didn't seem troubled. In fact, some were relishing in what they had been called on to do. Someone had twisted a mass of thorns together and pressed the make-shift "crown" onto his head, making blood mingle with the sweat from his brow and run down his face.
An elbow caught Crispus in the side as its owner motioned for Crispus to get in on the flogging. Hesitantly, he stepped forward, the flagrum weighing heavily in his hand. Though he couldn't explain it, somehow he didn't want to be part of this. He swung his flagrum, glad for the others flying through the air because no one could tell that his moved with no real force behind it. It wouldn't matter, though. There was so little flesh left on the man's back that his flagrum wouldn't have had anything to grab hold of and tear out. When he couldn't stand anymore, someone grabbed a cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders, bowing and saying, "Hail the King of the Jews!" The man looked up.
Crispus' breath caught. Those eyes. There was something there that he couldn't quite comprehend. This Jesus was looking into the eyes of a man who had been beating him, tearing the flesh from his body. And yet, what Crispus saw in his eyes wasn't hatred. If anything, it was pity.
It seemed everyone noticed the same thing for a moment. Then the closest soldier spit in the face of the King of the Jews. His eyes closed and the momentary spell was broken. The rest of the soldiers joined in the mockery, bowing and clapping the man on the back and spitting in his face. Crispus found himself pulled in to the charade, even though somehow at the core of his being he knew that this man didn't deserve what was happening.
Finally, someone brought out the cross beam that Jesus was supposed to carry to Golgotha. The cloak was ripped off of Jesus, pulling with it the bits of flesh that had stuck to its fibers, and the heavy beam was thrust onto his shoulders. Jesus fell under its weight, barely able to stand on his own let alone while carrying another 45 pounds. There was no way he would be able to drag the beam all the way through the city.
As they started out, Crispus grabbed a man out of the crowd. "What's your name, man?" he demanded.
"Simon, of Cyrene."
"Well, Simon of Cyrene, today you will carry his cross."
The man started to protest, but soon thought better of it. Or perhaps, Crispus thought, he can see it, too.
Stepping forward, Simon stooped beside Jesus. Crispus watched as their eyes met, that same strange expression still evident in the eyes of Jesus. Carefully, Simon came up alongside Jesus and pulled the beam onto his shoulder. Jesus staggered to his feet, standing beside Simon, his blood running onto the other man's shoulder as they walked together down the long road to Golgotha.
Crispus let the flagrum fall from his hand as he stared after the group moving toward the place of crucifixion.
***
This post is the third installment in a series of fictional accounts of the events leading up to Easter. You can find the first one here. Though I've taken creative liberties, my goal is still to remain true to the gospel accounts.
He looked down at the flagrum in his hand; it had been hand tied by his mentor and given to Crispus with pride, the bones tied in to the ends sharpened to hook-like points. He had used it in the past as an object for meting out justice, but somehow this time it just didn't seem like justice.
His fellow soldiers didn't seem troubled. In fact, some were relishing in what they had been called on to do. Someone had twisted a mass of thorns together and pressed the make-shift "crown" onto his head, making blood mingle with the sweat from his brow and run down his face.
An elbow caught Crispus in the side as its owner motioned for Crispus to get in on the flogging. Hesitantly, he stepped forward, the flagrum weighing heavily in his hand. Though he couldn't explain it, somehow he didn't want to be part of this. He swung his flagrum, glad for the others flying through the air because no one could tell that his moved with no real force behind it. It wouldn't matter, though. There was so little flesh left on the man's back that his flagrum wouldn't have had anything to grab hold of and tear out. When he couldn't stand anymore, someone grabbed a cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders, bowing and saying, "Hail the King of the Jews!" The man looked up.
Crispus' breath caught. Those eyes. There was something there that he couldn't quite comprehend. This Jesus was looking into the eyes of a man who had been beating him, tearing the flesh from his body. And yet, what Crispus saw in his eyes wasn't hatred. If anything, it was pity.
It seemed everyone noticed the same thing for a moment. Then the closest soldier spit in the face of the King of the Jews. His eyes closed and the momentary spell was broken. The rest of the soldiers joined in the mockery, bowing and clapping the man on the back and spitting in his face. Crispus found himself pulled in to the charade, even though somehow at the core of his being he knew that this man didn't deserve what was happening.
Finally, someone brought out the cross beam that Jesus was supposed to carry to Golgotha. The cloak was ripped off of Jesus, pulling with it the bits of flesh that had stuck to its fibers, and the heavy beam was thrust onto his shoulders. Jesus fell under its weight, barely able to stand on his own let alone while carrying another 45 pounds. There was no way he would be able to drag the beam all the way through the city.
As they started out, Crispus grabbed a man out of the crowd. "What's your name, man?" he demanded.
"Simon, of Cyrene."
"Well, Simon of Cyrene, today you will carry his cross."
The man started to protest, but soon thought better of it. Or perhaps, Crispus thought, he can see it, too.
Stepping forward, Simon stooped beside Jesus. Crispus watched as their eyes met, that same strange expression still evident in the eyes of Jesus. Carefully, Simon came up alongside Jesus and pulled the beam onto his shoulder. Jesus staggered to his feet, standing beside Simon, his blood running onto the other man's shoulder as they walked together down the long road to Golgotha.
Crispus let the flagrum fall from his hand as he stared after the group moving toward the place of crucifixion.
***
This post is the third installment in a series of fictional accounts of the events leading up to Easter. You can find the first one here. Though I've taken creative liberties, my goal is still to remain true to the gospel accounts.
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~Mandy