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Chapter Forty-One

The Crucifixion

As James, Peter, and I headed toward town, we could see the torches of the guards in the distance. It was the worst nightmare of my life. It was a good thing James managed to keep his wits or Peter and I would have walked off somewhere in a daze. Now we had a visible goal: Jesus was among those coarse men. I could picture Jesus being dragged along toward an uncertain fate. As if he wanted to catch up with them at first, James walked with long strides awhile, and then as we drew much closer, prudently slowed down.

“That’s close enough.” He sighed. “Let’s wait for them to enter. There’s a bunch of people outside the temple. Keep quiet, men. Let’s keep our hoods over our heads.”

James was in charge now. Though we were only three, his leadership would grow in importance when he remained in Jerusalem while everyone else fled. Now, as we approached the temple and saw the illuminated faces of men and women surrounding a makeshift fire, he bravely took the initiative.

“This is the entrance of the temple,” he noted with concern. “I don’t know who those people are, though. There’s not many of them. They look like riff-raff. News of Jesus arrest must’ve been kept a secret.”

“Why are we here?” I managed to ask. “They won’t let us in.”

That moment, as we entered the circle of firelight, the men and women—some old, some young, glanced warily at us. Their dark, probing eyes and glowing features seemed ominous. Out this late at night, these persons weren’t typical townsfolk. By their dress and scraggly appearance, they might even have beggars or criminals for all we knew. James, who stood in front of us, studied these misbegotten souls, a worried expression playing on his face. “This wasn’t a good idea,” he mumbled. I nodded in agreement. There wasn’t anything we could do here except draw attention to ourselves. I kept myself in the shadows behind my brother. Peter, the Rock, who moved closer to the fire, stood out significantly among this group. Having drawn his hood far down over his face, all that could be seen were two frightened eyes, twinkling in the firelight. This was a bad idea, too. Instead of protecting his identity, his concealment only made him look suspicious. An old crone, leaning on a cane, hobbled toward him that moment, a fearful look on her face.

“Are you a leper?” she asked, brandishing her cane.

“No,” Peter answered.

“Then show us your face!” demanded an old man.

“Yes.” A second woman stepped forward. “Lower you hood.”

James gave Peter a nudge. “Do it!” he whispered curtly.

When he lowered his hood, I heard several gasps. Out of the shadows a young woman appeared. Judging by the fabric of her dress and cape and her unblemished features, she didn’t belong in this group. In their scrolls, Matthew, Mark, and John would claim that she was the servant of the priest. They also recorded a dialogue on their scrolls recounting Jesus’ trial. In both cases, I am puzzled as to how they knew this information without being eyewitnesses, which they weren’t. The young woman could have been a prostitute for all I knew. She just stood there listening intently for a few moments. As the men and women surrounded Peter, he was momentarily cornered. Though not wanting to leave Peter with this bunch, I felt the urge to make my exit, but James and I were also trapped.

“He-he,” the crone uttered, pointing a gnarled finger, “you were with that Jesus fellow—the one arrested tonight.”

“No,” Peter blurted, “I don’t know the man.”

James and I were stunned by his denial. That moment we heard the familiar crow of a rooster. Remembering what Jesus had said to Peter at the table, James and I stared at each other in disbelief. The young woman, who appeared suddenly in front of the temple, now pointed a bejeweled finger at Peter.

“Yes,” she said accusingly, “he was with that preacher, as were the other two. I saw them entering the gate.”

“Have you no ears?” Peter growled, shaking his head. “I don’t know him. Leave me be!”

“Moses beard!” I groaned.

“Keep your mouth shut!” James whispered into my ear. “Don’t say a word!”

At this point, the young woman and riff-raff around the fire closed ranks around Peter, as James and I hung back in the shadows.

“Surely you’re one of them,” the young woman said tauntingly. “You are a Galilean; your speech proves it. That’s where Jesus of Nazareth is from. Why do you deny it? Admit it, you are one of his men!”

Peter exploded in frightened rage, cursing under his breath, and saying over and over, “I don’t know him! I don’t know him.”

That very moment the rooster crowed a second time. Jesus prophecy had been fulfilled. Peter elbowed his way through the circle of antagonists, heading in the direction of Mark’s house. We expected someone, possibly, the young woman, to go notify the priests of our presence, but, as I looked back, I saw them all just staring at us, muttering amongst themselves. The young woman, however, called out to us shrilly, “Give up this foolishness, go back to being fishermen. Your master is a blasphemer against our faith!”

That was no ordinary woman of the streets. Before we turned on a side street, I looked back once more and saw a darkly clad hooded figure standing in the midst of the group. The woman was nowhere in sight. I recalled the specter we once saw on the road, and I knew who it was: Satan. Very likely, the crone, who spoke first, may have been it, too. Though I was almost certain of this, I didn’t share this insight with Peter or James. Peter was devastated by his betrayal of Jesus. James only concern was to find Nicodemus and ask him to intervene on Jesus’ behalf. The first thing we did on our way, though, was drop Peter off at Mark’s house. He was beside himself with remorse and would be of no help. Mark was very understanding when he greeted us. After all, he had ran like a coward upon seeing the guards approach, but his mother, who hadn’t wanted anything to do with our band at first was suddenly self-righteous, upon hearing Peter confess his sin.

“All those fine words.” She tossed back her head. “Peter, the Rock he called you, and you denied him three times!”

“Shut up, mother!” cried Mark. “I ran like a frightened lamb. If asked, I would’ve denied him four times!”

James and I followed Peter up the stairs to the upper room where, to our surprise, all of the disciples sat around the table in various stages of dejection and doubt. Despite Peter’s grief and expectation of rebuke for his cowardly act, no one condemned him. As James and I stood by that fire listening to Peter being questioned, we understood the position his inquisitors had put him in. Though John would exhibit his courage later, everyone, except James, who acted bravely and clear-headedly, behaved cowardly tonight. Like Mark, I would have denied him repeatedly if questioned. Because Peter had been called the Rock, however, he felt especially remorseful.

“Jesus was right,” he said tearfully. “Before the cock crowed twice I denied him three times. In his hour of need I failed our Lord. I should’ve killed that traitor Judas when I had the chance!”

“Jesus wouldn’t let you,” James reminded him.

“What good would it do if you did?” asked John.

“You might’ve gotten all of us killed!” his brother grumbled. “I’d expect Simon to do something like that, not you.”

“Oh, I wanted to.” Simon nodded. “I really did. I wanted to cut off that traitor’s head!”

“Well, you better control your tempers—both of you,” advised Andrew. “Malchus could be right. After tonight, we might be wanted men!”

“Really?” Thomas said with wide unblinking eyes. “Wanted men—criminals?”

“I’m not so sure.” James stroked his beard. “Malchus could’ve arrested us if he wanted to, but he let us go. This seems to be a personal matter between Jesus and the high priest. Jude and I are going to talk to Nicodemus. He has some influence with the Sanhedrin and the temple. Because of Jesus’ message, the priests are jealous of him. But Jesus has never challenged authority. He never called for the overthrow of our Roman oppressors. He’s isn’t a threat to the priesthood either. Maybe Nicodemus can reason with Caiaphas and convince him of this.”

“Hah!” Philip sneered. “Have you forgotten that Nicodemus is a Pharisee? He won’t side with Jesus. None of them will.”

“Philip’s right,” said Bartholomew. “Nicodemus is a coward. He backed off from Jesus as if he had the plague!”

“Well, I’m going to try.” James said with resolution. “Come on Jude.” He motioned to the door. “Let’s pay old Nicodemus a visit.”

“How could Judas do such a thing?” We heard Matthew ask, as we clomped down the stairs.

“How could anyone do it?” replied John.

These were questions that believers would ask long after these dark days. For Jesus’ disciples these first hours would be the hardest test in our service to him. No one knew what to expect next.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked nervously, as we stepped out into the night. “What if they spot us on the street?”

“You mean the guards?” James waved dismissively. “They had their chance. For that matter, why would the Romans care? They passed us on the road and seen us in towns countless times, and the town magistrates have never been a serious threat. This is Caiaphas’ plot!”

******

When we arrived at Nicodemus house, Nathan, the chamberlain, refused us admittance. James beat vigorously on the door when there was no immediate response. Then, when that didn’t work, he shouted, “Nicodemus, it’s me James, your student!” Through a crack in the great wooden door, Nathan barked, “My master is unwell. Come back later!”

“That bastard!” James stomped his foot.

“What do we do now?” I looked around self-consciously.

“This is unacceptable,” James banged relentlessly on the door. “This is an emergency, Nicodemus! Please let us in!”

Whether or not Nicodemus was really sick or just afraid to be associated with Jesus’ brothers and followers, the chamberlain was most uncivil. He was even more discourteous than he had been before. Already we were feeling like outcasts among our people. Despite this cold reception, James made so much commotion, he forced Nicodemus, himself, to come to the door. After pounding on the wood and shouting repeatedly, the graybeard poked his head out and snapped querulously, “It’s late, James! What do you want?”

“Jesus has been arrested!” James came straight to the point.

“Abraham’s bosom!” cried Nicodemus. “It finally happened. Dear merciful God! I was afraid it would happen, but on the Passover? How dreadful and unseemly. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” “Come in! Come in!” he insisted, throwing open the door.

Nicodemus didn’t look sick to me, but, judging by his flighty, wide-eyed mannerism, he was obviously scared. With a contrite expression, the chamberlain appeared that moment with mugs and a pitcher of wine.

“Tell me, when did this happen?” asked Nicodemus, pouring us all a goblet of wine. “I knew Caiaphas would get him sooner or later,” he added under his breath.

“There’s no time for this.” James shook his head. “Every moment counts. Please, Nicodemus, go to the temple and talk some sense into them. There’s no telling what they’re going to do.”

“Go to the temple at this hour?” He looked with amazement at James. “This is a clandestine move by the high priest. One has to be invited by Caiaphas. Knowing my friendship with Jesus, I doubt very much I’ll be on his list.”

“I knew it!” I threw up my hands. “Philip and Bartholomew are right. This Pharisee won’t help us. He asked Jesus a lot of questions, but he never believed in him—not really. Like all graybeards his head is stuck in the past!”

“Jude, that’s enough!” James chided, holding up his hand.

“That’s all right,” Nicodemus mumbled, taking a long swig of wine. “… It’s true… I’ve been a coward. It’s hard to teach an old man new things.” “But your wrong, young man.” He paused and frowned at me. “I do believe… I just don’t know what to do about it. There’s no question in my mind that Jesus is not one of us. I’ve given this much thought. The problem is, Jude, he doesn’t fit neatly into our prophecy—not the one preferred by most of the people.” “… He’s a different kind of deliverer,” he searched for the words. “Isaiah is much to blame. In one breath he speaks of a suffering servant but in the next he’s talking about a conqueror. These two images are drastically different. I know in my heart who he is, but my mind—the Pharisee you speak of—keeps getting in the way.”

As he spoke, I drained my mug. James gave me a look of disapproval, yet managed to take a few swallows, himself. Nicodemus took another long drink from his mug, wiped his beard, and stood there staring into space. I recalled the time he came to warn Jesus of Caiaphas’ intentions. As I listened to him reflect upon that hour, I knew I was wrong about him.

“Born again,” he said softly, “I had trouble with that. All those years reading dusty scrolls never prepared me for that. I’ll never forget the peace I saw on his face. His words about being born again have haunted me. In all my years of studying the Torah and the prophets, I’ve never been so moved. I knew after that day, I’d never been the same,” “and now they’ve arrested him,” his voice broke, “a man of peace, with such a simple formula for life.” “Damn them!” He slammed his mug down. “They murdered the prophets and now they plan on murdering the greatest of them all!”

“Nicodemus… Nicodemus,” James was saying, tugging on his sleeve. “We must go. You must stand up for him and change the high priest’s mind. What he’s doing isn’t even legal. Without counsel, he had Jesus arrested in the dead of night. The Romans have no issue with Jesus. This is a private grudge, between Caiaphas and him. Please, Nicodemus—no more hesitation. You must make a stand!”

Nicodemus paused in his reflections, emptied his mug, and called to his chamberlain.

“Nathan.” He snapped his fingers. “Fetch my cloak and cap.” “James and Jude,” he turned to us. “They won’t let you into the high priest’s chambers. You must stay out of sight!”

James nodded, wide-eyed with worry. “All right…. We’ll go back to Mark’s house. Please let us know what happens, Nicodemus. Caiaphas has made Jesus his personal enemy. He’s turned the other priests against him, but the elders in the Sanhedrin obey the Torah, not the high priest. Surely, you and your friends can talk sense into him. Caiaphas isn’t above our laws!”

“As soon as I find out what’s happening, I’ll send word,” promised Nicodemus. “You’re right about this being illegal, James.” He patted his shoulder. “I’m certain the high priest will call the Sanhedrin. He has too. I know most of those men personally. They do, in fact, believe in upholding the law. If I get there before them, I’ll have to wait until they arrive before business begins, but I’ll have a chance to see how Jesus is. Caiaphas must really hate him to pull something like this. I can’t believe the Sanhedrin would condemn an innocent man on the word of this man.” “Don’t forget,” he reminded us, “we’re governed by Roman, not Hebrew, law. For once, that’s a blessing. It’s true; the Romans have no issue with Jesus. It’s just our high priest. Unfortunately, Caiaphas appears to have a score to settle with him. No matter that there a numerous factions in our religion, he sees Jesus’ simple message as a threat to his authority and the Hebrew faith.”

As he left, escorted by Nathan, who was carrying a lamp, I realized how hopeless this might be. Caiaphas had already made up his mind. After having Jesus arrested in the dead of night on the Passover, this seemed painfully obvious. There was no telling how many Pharisees and scribes would side with him. Nicodemus’ conscious had prickled him, and he was acting courageously considering the animosity most Pharisees and scribes had for Jesus, but just how many friends could he muster onto his side? I could count on my hands how many graybeards and scribes supported Jesus in the past. In Jerusalem that number had shrunk to one. James’ strength in this hour was admirable but naïve if he thought Nicodemus could have an effect. Yet I kept my doubts to myself. After all, Jesus was a miracle worker. He could, as he told Malchus, muster an army of angels to protect him from harm. Jesus own words, however, belied that fiction.

******

When we arrived at Mark’s house it was past midnight. Mark let us in, the hulking shadow of his mother in the background, hands-on-hips, indicating her displeasure at this late hour.

“You won’t believe who’s here!” chirped Mark.

“Don’t tell me,” I grumbled, “Caiaphas? Or is it Malchus sent to bag us, too?”

“Come, come!” Mark said excitedly, leading us up the stairs.

“You sound awfully chipper.” James frowned. “Are you drunk?”

When we entered the upper room, Mark giggled foolishly. James and I gasped. There seated at the table were my mother and, of all people, Mary Magdalene. I could understand our mother being here during the Passover, something she tried to do every year, but Mary Magdalene? It was an untimely appearance for them. Both women appeared quietly devastated by the news. I was curious even in my state of mind to know how they knew about Jesus, especially Mary Magdalene, who had been in Capernaum staying with Hosea and Rhoda. James later suggested that they were guided by the Holy Spirit. This may be true for Mary Magdalene, but for our mother it’s possible it could have been a coincidence. As it turned out, the explanation for Mary’s presence was answered when John, who sat next to her, holding her hand, asked her point blank, “How did you know Jesus was in trouble?”

“I had a vision,” she answered promptly, staring glassy-eyed into space, “I heard a voice, and an angel appeared in my dream—”

“Not now!” Andrew waved impatiently. “No one else had a vision, woman. Why would one appear in your head?”

“I had a feeling…. Perhaps it was mother’s instinct,” my mother looked up sadly. “Before I ever arrived in Jerusalem, I knew something was wrong.”

“You had a feeling,” Philip said mockingly, “but Mary had a vision!”

“I have visions,” Andrew joined in the sarcasm, “usually when I’m drunk.”

“What did he say?” Our mother looked at James and me.

“You mean Nicodemus?” James knelt down to press her knuckles. “…We’re hopeful. Nicodemus has a lot of influence in the Sanhedrin.”

This, of course, was a lie, but I nodded in agreement. “Yes, Mama,” I clasped her other hand tightly. “He has many friends.”

Matthew gave me a dubious look. Andrew, Philip, and Bartholomew laughed with scorn. I doubted very much, after his association with Jesus, that Nicodemus had many friends. He was, as I heard Thomas comment, on a fool’s errand. According to James, he was, by Pharisaical standards, a free thinker and preferred like-minded scholars, which were few and far between in Judea. What could I say to our mother, except empty platitudes? Peter sat by himself, inconsolable, looking at the floor. I was certain he was quite drunk. It appeared as if only James and was sober and had kept his head. All of the other disciples were in various stages of drunkenness. A few of them looked as if the might just fall asleep. After drinking at Nicodemus house, I was tipsy myself, which was quite foolish of me. I needed my wits. I wanted, in addition to consoling my mother, to comfort Mary Magdalene, also stricken with grief, but John had beaten me to it. On her other side was Simon, another admirer, holding a mug of wine. Both John and Simon were tipsy like myself, and yet there they were, each playing the role of comforter, and all Mary could muster up for me was a wan smile. Our adventure together in Capernaum spreading the word now seemed ages ago.

Rising up unsteadily, I found myself walking over to Peter. He seemed so lost, a mere shell of his old self. Despite the tolerance I thought I saw earlier for his action, Peter’s denial of Jesus was sinking into the fishermen’s rustic minds.

“Leave him alone,” advised Matthew. “He doesn’t want to talk.”

“I don’t blame him,” John’s brother snarled. “I’d be silent too.”

“It’s not his fault!” chided James. “You act so high and mighty. We were right outside the temple when they came at Peter. If they cornered you, you’d deny him too.”

“No, I wouldn’t!” he spat. “I’d never deny our Lord!”

“I wouldn’t either!” John sprang to his feet.

“That’s enough,” my brother scolded. “You weren’t there, James and John. You have no right to condemn Peter. Jesus foretold this. If you think about it, it’s God’s will.”

“Oh, is it God’s will that Judas betrayed Jesus?” asked Simon.

“Yes it is.” I looked back him. “It was no accident that Judas joined our group. I never told anyone this, but Jesus told me that he would serve a purpose. I know what he meant now. I feel sorry for Judas. He’s a tortured soul.”

“I agree.” James gave me a nod. “Despite being a traitor and being despised, he fulfilled prophecy. He served God’s end.”

“He’ll burn in hell for eternity!” Simon cried.

James shook his head. “You don’t know God’s will, Simon—none of us do. Jesus once told us to forgive our enemies. What greater enemy is there than a man who betrayed Christ? When he was asked how many times you should forgive someone, Jesus implied that the number is limitless. By this he included Judas, too!”

“Humph!” grumbled Simon. “You’re preachy tonight!”

“Yes, James,” Matthew said thoughtfully. “Something’s come over you. You’re awfully calm. Do you really believe Nicodemus can help?”

“He believes he can.” James tried to sound positive. “What Caiaphas is doing is illegal. If Nicodemus can talk the other Pharisees into seeing this, I think Jesus has a chance.”

“You might think,” muttered Andrew, “but you don’t know.”

“What if Nicodemus can’t change their minds?” Matthew raised the question. “What can be done then? Does Nicodemus go to the magistrates for justice?”

“Listen Matthew, Andrew—all of you,” James looked around the room. “The Sanhedrin still has to go through Pilate, our Roman procurator. I heard he really hates Jews, most of all our religious leaders. In the first place, Jesus hasn’t broken any laws. So far the Romans have given us little trouble. To maintain order they tolerate all religions, pagan or otherwise. If they bring this case to Pilate, he’ll see it for what it is: a squabble between religious sects. It’s likely he’ll decide in Jesus’ favor just for spite.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.” Matthew studied him. “What you say makes sense. I just hope you’re right!”

“I once studied to be a scribe,” explained James. “In Jerusalem, I learned a lot about Roman attitudes toward our religion. They’re forced by the emperor to respect our temple and its priests, but they’re indifferent to their religious laws. The Romans want order and define law differently than the Pharisees, scribes and priests. To them Jesus is just another religious leader, another prophet from the desert, preaching about an invisible God. They don’t understand our God and have no desire to. They want no more Judah the Galileans and won’t tolerate unruly Jews. What they want are peaceful subjects, who mind their own business and let other people live. Jesus once told us, “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is Gods.” We know now that he’s not another Judah nor, for that matter, a warrior King like David. He’s a man of peace, who brings salvation, not the sword. I want to believe that, if the vote goes against Jesus, Pilate will see Caiaphas’ action for what it is: a move to squelch dissent and nothing more.”

“So,” Andrew said anxiously, “you’re saying things might go against Jesus and it’ll be up to Pilate to cast the final vote.”

“I’m optimistic about the Sanhedrin,” clarified James, “but yes: Pilate is our best hope!”

“I’ve heard dreadful things about that man.” Thomas frowned. “They say he’s cruel, especially to Jews. One thing I’ve learned about the Roman is that they fear insurrection. What if Caiaphas paints a picture of Jesus as a revolutionary like Judah? Pilate might make an example out of him just to make a point!”

I know now that the mild-mannered and indecisive Thomas was closest to the truth. That moment, however, I clung to James’ logic and counsel. James thought about Thomas’ words a moment, then, hands behind his back in deep thought, he stopped suddenly before our mother, and said with great resolution, “Jesus has lived his life following his father’s will. Can we do any less?”

It was true, of course. What else could James say? I had great respect and admiration for him now. He half believed what he said about Nicodemus’ mission, and was trying desperately to bolster our spirits, but his efforts seemed to fall on deaf ears. Looking down at Peter that moment, I tried thinking of something clever to say—words of comfort or counsel. Instead I plopped down beside him, placed my hand on his calloused knuckles, and sat there quietly with him as we waited for the news.

******

Until Nicodemus sent word to us, we were plunged into gloomy silence. When word finally came, another calamity appeared to confront us, making the news that much more of a crisis. Nathan, the chamberlain, who apparently ran all the way here, was out of breath but quickly, as he arrived at the door, managed to say, “Caiaphas had his guards bring Jesus in for questioning. Now they’re taking him to the procurator, Pontius Pilate!”

“Caiaphas is that sure of himself?” James clasped his forehead. “What does this mean?”

“You must hurry!” Nathan insisted, making shooing motions. “Nicodemus did all he could. He believes the high priest wants Pilate to see this as a threat to law and order. Caiaphas might round up as many followers as he can to prove this point. You’re lucky he doesn’t know you’re here. Nicodemus shrugged his shoulders when the high priest asked him where you’re hiding. It’s the first time I’ve heard him tell a lie. He would let you stay in his house, but, after his defense of Jesus, it’s the first place the guards will look. If you hurry, there’s still time. You might run into Caiaphas’ men if you exit the East Gate, which is near the temple, so take the Damascus gate not far from here, which is further away. Go quickly!”

“At this hour?” Andrew looked at him in disbelief.

“I hate traveling in the dark.” Thomas shuddered.

“You have no choice!” Nathan pointed to the stairs. “The Romans aren’t a part of this yet. There’s no time to waste. Tell anyone asking that you must get on the road before dawn.”

“Where will we go?” asked Mary Magdalene.

“We’ll go home!” Philip suggested. “It’s the safest place to be.”

“No.” I shook my head. “That’s too far. Bartholomew’s mule’s in the stables. He’ll have to walk.”

“I’ve lived my life,” Bartholomew said magnanimously. “Let me stay here with Mark and his mother. I’ll be just fine.”

“Why can’t we go to Lazarus house?” suggested Simon. “That’s not too far to walk.”

“Bethany?” the chamberlain scratched his head. “That’s pretty close. Caiaphas has spies everywhere.”

“If that’s true,” replied Matthew, “his men could round us up on the road!”

Nathan nodded slowly. “… Whatever you do, get out of Jerusalem. Nicodemus has a bad feeling about this.”

“What does that mean?” James lurched forward.

“That’s all Nicodemus said,” he confessed. “He’s very upset. He’s the only one to vote in Jesus’ favor.”

“The only one?” screamed our mother. “How can that be?” “You told us he would help Jesus!” she turned to James. “How is it possible that so many have turned against my son?”

“Listen, Mama,” James gripped her shoulders, “I said he’d try, but I also said Pilate is the last resort. This isn’t a Roman matter. It’s a Sanhedrin matter: a bunch of priests, scribes, and graybeards fearful of losing their prestige.” “Please, everyone.” He scanned our frightened faces. “Let’s keep our heads. It won’t do to panic now. I still stay Caiaphas could have nabbed us in Gethsemane. How are eleven men proof of a rebellion? He can’t round up all of Jesus followers tonight.”

Once again it sounded like sound logic to me, but the messenger insisted we leave at once, repeating much of what he had said before. Like Simon, most of the disciples thought we should flee to nearby Bethany. After all, as Andrew pointed out, it was in the safety of Lazarus our friend’s house. What better place was there to wait it out? In the morning one of us could slip into one of Jerusalem’s gates and find out what happened. It was, of course, a cowardly act, but the urgency in the courier’s message convinced the majority to make their getaway before Caiaphas’ men arrived. I know now that the messenger had exaggerated the threat, which had probably been influenced by Nicodemus’ concern. As Andrew, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Simon, and John’s brother, filed out, clomping down the stairs, Simon called back to Mary Magdalene, “Aren’t you coming?”

“No, I’m staying,” she replied, folding her arms.

“And me.” John took Mary’s hand.

“That goes for me,” Bartholomew laughed nervously, “I’m resting these weary bones.”

“Well, I’m not going either.” James frowned. “I’m staying put!”

“So am I.” Our mother rose solemnly. “I won’t abandon him. Simeon said a sword would pierce my soul… That hour has come.”

James turned to me. “Well, Jude,… what’re you going to do?”

Feeling a pang of jealousy as I looked over at Mary holding John’s hand, I nodded reluctantly. “I’m staying… I’d like to know what’s going on.”

Peter appeared in our midst, receiving a cold stare from my mother and John.

“If you people insist on staying.” The chamberlain sighed heavily. “I’ll keep you informed. I heard Jesus speak in front of the temple. He’s brave for challenging those priests. I’m not one of his followers, but he impressed me greatly. Jeremiah, one of the chief priest’s scribes I befriended, was a pupil of Nicodemus. The Sanhedrin’s meeting with Pilate shouldn’t take long. He’ll probably shoo them away. I’ll send a temple servant in to fetch Jeremiah if he returns to the temple. I might even go to his house. He’ll tell us what happened. Until then, stay indoors, all of you!”

Mark and his mother stood at the entrance of the stairway gazing at us. At this dreadful hour, his mother seemed understandably irritated. Not only had we imposed upon her hospitality, we had made her an accomplice in Caiaphas’ mind. Mark had a frightened look on his face, nothing in his boyish expression that might indicate what he would one day be. With the exception of James and, perhaps, John, none of Jesus’ disciples resembled the men they should be or hinted at future greatness in the service of the risen Lord. These were the darkest hours for Jesus—a great test in which most of us failed.

While we huddled in the upper room, Mark and his mother overcame their fear enough to join us in our vigil. Not more than an hour had passed when the first report came from Nathan, Nicodemus’ chamberlain, after his discussion with Jeremiah, the scribe. By then, Bartholomew had fallen asleep in a sitting position, his chin falling into his beard, but the remainder us had managed to keep awake. The knock on the door below jarred us and sent James scurrying down the stairs.

Our mother’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh merciful God!” she cried. “What now?”

“There-there,” Mary Magdalene comforted her. “Don’t worry. Pilate won’t humor those silly men, especially the high priest!”

“Yes, Mother Mary,” John cooed. “I’m sure it’s good news.”

Even during this dark hour, I felt irritation at John’s pretensions. Not only did he take advantage of Mary Magdalene’s grief, but he also attached himself to my mother, calling her ‘Mother Mary.’ I can’t speak for Mary; it appeared that she was an orphan, but John had a mother of his own, who once asked Jesus to give her sons preeminence over the rest of us. Jesus, of course, rebuffed her, but this haughty attitude lingered in her sons. Tearing me from this selfish line of thinking was the sound of my brother James sobbing in the stairwell.

“No-no,” he cried, “tell me it isn’t so!”

“I’m sorry,” Nathan said sadly. “Please, listen to me. Now that Caiaphas has had his way, he’ll go after Jesus’ disciples. You must leave Jerusalem at once!”

As the two men entered the upper room, followed by Mark and his mother, we stared in horror at Nicodemus’ chamberlain. James embraced our mother who wept uncontrollably. Mary Magdalene, who let out shriek, lapsed into silence in John’s arms, as I stood there beside them in shock. At that point, Nathan shared with us what Jeremiah had told him.

“Tell us everything you’ve heard,” Peter said in a strained voice.

According to Jeremiah, as it was reported by Nathan, Jesus had a total of six trials. Jeremiah’s account of the trials was similar to what Mark and John wrote in their scrolls. Both apostles must have used his report in their account of Jesus’ life. What Matthew and Luke wrote about this event, in turn, was taken almost verbatim from Mark’s scroll, the most accurate version of Jesus’ life. Of the four apostles accounts of the trials, which differ slightly, only John listed six, rather than the five trials recorded by Mark, Matthew, and Luke. According Nathan, through Jeremiah’s first hand account, Jesus already had two trials before he was taken to Pilate. We had thought that Caiaphas was the first inquisitor to question Jesus, but it was Caiaphas father-in-law, Annas, as John would claim, who was present when the guards brought Jesus in. Annas had also been high priest like his son-in-law and was addressed as such. Curiously enough, he was angry at Caiaphas’ machinations. Calling it illegal and inappropriate for our holiest of days, he would have nothing to do with this business, himself, and yet, like Caiaphas, treated Jesus deplorably.

When questioned about his teaching, Jesus answered, “I have spoken openly to the world. I taught in the synagogues and even in the temple, where Jews come together. I have said nothing in secret. Why question me? Ask those who heard my message. They know what I said.” After Jesus said this, one of Annas’ men struck Jesus. “Is this how you answer the high priest?” he demanded. “If I said something wrong,” replied Jesus, “testify as to what is wrong. But why strike me if I spoke the truth?” Annas dismissed Jesus, with a wave of his bejeweled hand, saying, “This is Caiaphas’ game, not mine. Let him break our laws.”

Annas, who wanted no part of this, virtually did as Pilate would do, washed his hands of this affair, and sent Jesus, bound like a criminal, to Caiaphas, the current high priest.

After this, as Jeremiah tagged along, the Sanhedrin, which included Nicodemus at that point, entered Caiaphas chambers. It was, during this second trial, explained Jeremiah to Nathan that the injustice of the arrest and treatment of Jesus worsened. From the beginning, Nicodemus lone voice had little effect upon the Sanhedrin. Pharisees, scribes, and priests couldn’t find anything more than hearsay evidence against Jesus, which amounted to fabricated stories and outright lies. It was, ironically, a witness who told the truth, whose account led to Jesus’ undoing. An old man, Jeremiah recognized as one of Jesus’ followers, claimed that Jesus said he would destroy the temple made with human hands and in three days build another, not made with hands. At that point, Caiaphas stood before him and demanded, “Jesus answer this charge these men bring against you!” But Jesus remained silent and gave no answer. So again the high priest spoke to him, asking him a question that would seal his fate.

His eyes narrowing to slits and voice rising in intensity with each word, Caiaphas asked, “Are you the Messiah, the Son of the Most High?”

“Yes, I am,” Jesus answered unequivocally. “And you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of Him, coming on the clouds of heaven.”

Though Matthew had Jesus give his standard enigmatic reply, “You have said it,” leaving the interpretation open to the reader, both Luke as well as Mark, the most reliable of the apostles’ scrolls, reported, as did the original source, Jeremiah, an unequivocal answer from Jesus, leaving no doubt as to the meaning. Hearing Jesus response, the high priest, with what Jeremiah described as a touch of drama, tore his clothes. 

“What more do you need?” Caiaphas turned to the Sanhedrin. “Do we need any more witnesses? You have heard blasphemy, utter defiance against the Most High.”

“Sire,” Nicodemus spoke up. “Jesus meant that figuratively. He won’t really destroy the temple. I know this man. He’s a messenger of peace. Nothing he has said is a threat to our faith!”

“Really?” Caiaphas turned to the others. “Shall we take a vote…. All in favor of setting this blasphemer and heretic free raise your hands.”

Sadly, as Jeremiah recounted, only Nicodemus and he raised their trembling hands. He lost many friends that hour, added the scribe.

“So it’s settled.” Caiaphas stood by his throne above the assembly. “The Sanhedrin, our sacred counsel, has spoken!” As if on cue, the self-righteous graybeards, scribes, and priests spat upon Jesus. Erbal, a notable Pharisee, even blindfolded Jesus and he and the others struck Jesus with their fists, crying out repeatedly, “Prophesy! Prophesy!” Then, on Caiaphas’ orders, as Malchus stood apart, with a downcast look, the guards took their turns, beating Jesus to the floor.” What Nathan told us was far worse than we expected. Nicodemus chamberlain was about to continue Jeremiah’s report when John shook his head and waved his hands.

“Enough!” he cried. “His mother has heard enough!”

“Yes,” Mary wailed, “tell us no more!”

“No,” Peter shook his head, “I denied our Lord. I won’t stop up my ears. Take the women down stairs, John. I must hear it all.”

“…. Me too,” James mumbled.

“Go with John,” I reached over to pat her wrist. “You shouldn’t hear this.”

“No-no.” She braced herself. “This is my son. I shall stay.”

“Then I shall stay too,” Mary said with resignation.

“Very well.” John sighed heavily. “Continue Nathan. Tell it all!”

“It doesn’t get any better,” he warned. “As you might know, the Sanhedrin couldn’t exercise the death sentence, so Jesus was taken straightaway to the procurator, Pontius Pilate. To avoid being contaminated for the Passover in a Gentile household, they didn’t meet in Pilate’s palace but in his outer court.” “As if they hadn’t contaminated themselves already!” Nathan added with a snarl. “Jeremiah was ashamed to be in the company of these men. From the beginning, Pilate had contempt for the Sanhedrin. Almost immediately as they shuffled in, Pilate shouted, “What charges do you bring against this man?”

“Sir,” Caiaphas said with a bow, “if he weren’t a criminal, we wouldn’t have brought him.”

“You people have your own law,” Pilate waved dismissively. “Judge him yourself!”

“But sir,” Erbil, the oldest of the graybeards objected, “we aren’t allowed to execute criminals.”

“Humph.” Pilate looked down at Jesus from his dais. “You’ve certainly roughed him up!”

“He insulted the high priest,” explained Erbil. “He is insolent as well as blasphemous.”

“Hah!” Pilate replied with great contempt. “You people! This is a religious quarrel, nothing more!”

“No-no,” Hammon, a chief scribe waved his hands. “You don’t understand. It’s much more than that—”

“Silence!” Pilate shouted. “All of you calm down. I shall speak to Jesus alone and hear what he has to say.”

“But Pilate,” protested Caiaphas. “Jesus claimed he was king of the Jews. Isn’t that a threat to Rome?”

“Ah-ah-ah!” Pilate wagged a finger. “Say no more, high priest. Did I not demand silence? I shall, the gods willing, make up my own mind!”

Eying his guards, he motioned impatiently to them. As Caiaphas, the Sanhedrin, and Jesus’ two advocates, Nicodemus and Jeremiah, waited, intimidated by Pilate’s mood, the guards quickly returned with Jesus, now bound in chains. At this point, they heard Pilate ask Jesus, “Is what that fellow said true, are you king of the Jews?”

“You have said it,” Jesus gave his familiar answer. “What do you believe?”

“Hah!” Pilate snorted. “Am I a Jew?”

Then Jesus replied loudly, “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my followers would fight to prevent my arrest by the Jewish leaders.  But now my kingdom is from another place.”

“So!” Pilate laughed. “You are a king!”

“You say that I’m a king,” Jesus replied indirectly again. “In fact I was born into this world to testify to the truth. Everyone who believes listens to the truth.”

“Truth?” Pilate said with a chuckle. “What is truth?”

As Nicodemus and Jeremiah looked on impotently, the high priest and Sanhedrin were outraged at Jesus’ claim. In fact the reaction to his last claim, Jeremiah told Nathan, was almost as bad as when Jesus admitted he was the Son of God.

“Now you see what I mean!” Caiaphas came forward wringing his hands. “Surely you see this man as a threat!”

“Yes!” Erbil wrung his fists. “Hasn’t Rome crucified such troublemakers?”

“Nonsense—all of it,” Pilate snarled. “He’s not talking about this world. He’s talking about what we Romans call the Elysian Fields—heaven. Why is he a threat to your religion? This man’s addled in the head!”

“No-no, he’s anything but addled!” Caiaphas shook his head. “People are beguiled by this sorcerer. If you don’t make an example of him, his followers will grow like locusts—”

“Shut up!” Pilate roared. More calmly, after pacing the floor awhile, he turned to the high priest, asking him, “Where is this rascal from?”

“Galilee.” Caiaphas frowned. “He’s a Nazarene no less.”

Pilate gave the high priest a crafty look. “That is Herod Antipas’ domain, is it not?”

A worried look came over Caiaphas face. “Yes, but—”

“No ‘buts’.” Pilate waved dismissively. “This is Herod’s problem. I find nothing wrong with this man. Let that jackal decide!”

Nathan’s voice grew hoarse. When Mary Magdalene gave him a goblet of water, he took a gulp then brought us back to the scene playing in our heads:

“According to Jeremiah, the court was filled with outries and much head wagging. Contrary to Jesus own words, members of the Sanhedrin told the procurator that Jesus was an agitator causing rebellion in Galilee and Judea, but Pilate retreated to his chambers without a second glance. This mockery of justice was now deferred to Herod Antipas’ court. Unlike Pilate, Herod was happy to see Jesus. Having heard about Jesus’ wondrous deeds, he wanted him to perform a miracle. When Jesus refused, Herod’s enthusiasm began to wane. In the background the Sanhedrin grumbled to themselves after stating their charges against Jesus. Nicodemus and Jeremiah still had a flicker of hope. No friend of the high priest or temple, Herod dismissed the charges outright and questioned Jesus himself. Herod cared not a wit about Jesus’ message or this quarrel among Caiaphas and this man. He wanted to know about the miracles Jesus perform and clarification of just who he was. Did he really believe he was the Messiah? Surely he didn’t believe that rumor he was the Son of God. “Are you John the Baptist back from the dead?” he asked half-seriously. When Jesus remained silent, the tetrarch of Galilee grew irritated. His light-hearted attitude disappeared, and was replaced by scorn. Herod and his guards began mocking and ridiculing Jesus. Jeremiah’s report to Nathan, so branded in the chamberlain’s mind, had caused all of us to weep and grind our teeth. I could envision Jesus standing before Annas, Caiaphas, Pilate, and now that reprobate ruler Herod, suffering silently for the sake of his prophecy. I was angry with God, the priests, Pharisees, and scribes, and the majority of my people who didn’t understand who he was. I should have blamed Isaiah for his prophecies, but it was, in fact, Judas who, in accordance with Isaiah’s fateful passages, set in motion Jesus arrest and condemnation.

“Finally,” Nathan continued with a sigh, “they put a purple robe on him, a color indicating royalty, bowed mockingly, and, with no more fanfare than Pilate’s send off, Herod sent him back to Pilate with the words, “I find no fault in this man.” To his credit, Herod said to Jesus as they led him away, “If I were Pilate, just to spite his enemies, I’d set you free!”

Jeremiah who had taken notes throughout the ordeal, which Nathan referred to occasionally, scribbled this message down too. His notes of Jesus’ ordeal, which would corroborate and add to Nathan’s report that night, were the basis for the apostles’ accounts. As I record this event, I recall something Luke told me: from that day forward, Herod and Pilate became friends, both men tainted and implicated in the Sanhedrin’s crime.

“Now that the matter was left up to Pilate,” Nathan now continued, “the procurator was still confronted with unreasonable rancor against Jesus. Caiaphas and members of the Sanhedrin now elevated the danger Jesus posed by claiming he would lead a revolt against Rome. Their logic appeared to wear Pilate’s patience down. Hadn’t Judah, also a Galilean, perceived as the Messiah, turned his mission into full-scale insurrection? They asked. There were times when Pilate appeared ready to order his guards to clear the courtyard, but the charge that Jesus threatened the Pax Romana wormed its way into his mind. Nicodemus had remained silent throughout most of the trials, but now spoke out again on Jesus’ behalf.

“Sire,” he said with a bow, “I am a lone voice among my peers, but please hear me out. I know this man. What they are saying are lies. As you heard Jesus say, his kingdom is not of this world. The only guilt they can heap on him is based upon his words—a message of peace and hope. It’s strictly a religious matter, nothing more.”

“It’s true!” Jeremiah stepped forward finally. “This man is innocent of any crime!”

Like a drowning sailor thrown a rope, Pilate grabbed this line, turned to the grumbling men and announced his verdict: “I have made up my mind. You brought this man to me, accusing him of leading a revolt, but I’ve heard no such reports until now. I find your charge unfounded and self-serving. After listening to Jesus and hearing Nicodemus verify what I heard before, I find him innocent. Herod came to the same conclusion, as did Annas, who was once your high priest. Nothing this man has done calls for the death penalty, but because he is accused of a religious crime, I shall allow the type of punishment that local magistrates and your temple guards are allowed by Roman law to perform: flogging.”

While the Sanhedrin protested and gnashed their teeth, Jesus was taken outside the courtyard and flogged with a lead tipped whip. It wasn’t enough that Jesus was tortured in this manner, the Pharisees, scribes, and priests wanted his death. By now, perhaps at the connivance of Caiaphas’ agents, a crowd had assembled out in the street: rabble gathered from throughout the city, some of whom once hailed Jesus as king.

As Nathan described the crowd, I wondered whether or not he was not garnishing his story. Though he had notes at his disposal based on Jeremiah’s eyewitness account, his report seemed too perfect. Unless the scribe gave him copious notes, which wasn’t evident in the scraps of parchment in his hand, he would, like myself, require near perfect recall or the Lord, himself, must have filled his head with details. This portion of Jeremiah’s report given by Nathan was especially shocking, far worse than Jesus’ flogging. James, normally, a teetotaler, had poured himself a mug of wine. Despite her attempt at being strong for her son, what came next was too much for our mother, and yet she refused to be escorted from the room. Mary Magdalene had crumpled onto a chair alongside of her comforter, John.

With James and I on each side of our mother and Peter standing to the side with bowed head, Nathan finished his account most solemnly, his eyes brimming with tears.

“When Jesus was brought to the Sanhedrin, his back and chest were covered with stripes, Nicodemus and Jeremiah broke down into sobs, but the Sanhedrin were unsatisfied. They wanted his death. So Pilate screamed at them, “Look at him. He’s been flogged as your law demands. What kind of men are you that you would kill an innocent man?”

Pilate wanted to set Jesus free. Looking down at Jesus after demanding silence again, he pleaded with him: “Speak up for yourself. Deny these charges. Don’t you realize I have the power to set you free or have you crucified?”

Jesus answered calmly, “You would have no power over me if it were not given to you from above.  Therefore the one who handed me over to you is guilty of a greater sin.”

Pilate looked over at Caiaphas now with great contempt, and then, strolling over to the balcony overlooking the street, studied Jesus’ foes. “I don’t understand,” he muttered aloud. “One moment they hail him as king, and the next moment they want his blood!” Outside, probably orchestrated by Caiaphas’ agents, a loud, deep voice boomed, “If you let this man go, you’re no friend of Caesar. Anyone claiming to be king opposes Caesar.” This and other similar demands including the dreaded “Crucify him! Crucify him!” rang out at the agents’ bidding, until a sea of voices, as though it was the whole town, were chanting for Jesus’ death.

It was a sympathetic counselor, who had been standing on the sidelines, who unwittingly sealed Jesus’ fate. As Pilate stared at the bleeding frame of Jesus, with a troubled look on his face, the counselor told him of a custom practiced by Romans: the freeing of a convicted man from execution. It seemed foolhardy to me when I heard Nathan explain this. The crowd had already made up its mind. Nevertheless, Pilate gathered his wits, went to the balcony overlooking the rabble, with Jesus in tow and gave them a choice.

“Citizens of Jerusalem,” he used the word lightly. “There’s a bandit and insurrectionist who has terrorized Judea and Galilee for years. He has been sentenced to crucifixion for murder and mayhem.” Turning to Jesus who stood beside him, he announced with great conviction: “Here before you is an innocent man, whose only crime is claiming he’s king of an invisible world. This man is innocent of murder and mischief.” “Who should I pardon: Jesus, a harmless preacher or the criminal Barabbas?”

All of us remembered that dreaded name. We were speechless, as we heard Nathan quote the rabble’s reply. “Give us Barabbas! Give us Barabbas!” they shouted as one coarse, unfeeling voice.

“I don’t believe it!” I was finally able to utter. “That can’t be!”

“It’s true.” Nathan nodded.

“But the man they released killed hundreds of Jews,” exclaimed John. “Because Jesus is spiritual king of the Jews he must die? This is insane!”

“Nonetheless.” Nathan sighed brokenly. “They chose Barabbas. After that point, Jesus was taken away. Nicodemus and Jeremiah, along with the Sanhedrin, gloating in their victory, left Pilate’s courtyard. Caiaphas ordered the ‘traitor’ Nicodemus to leave the Sanhedrin at once. In great sympathy with the old Pharisee, Jeremiah accompanied him to his home. It might not seem like much, but Nicodemus did all he could. As the Romans say, he’s now persona non gratis among his peers…”

As Nathan’s voice trailed off, Peter asked in disbelief. “Is that it?…. No one followed them. They’re going to nail him to a cross?”

“I’m so sorry.” Nathan looked around at us. “I wasn’t there, myself. Had I been an eyewitness, I don’t know what I’d do. Before I left Nicodemus’ house, Jeremiah told me that Caiaphas planned to have all of you arrested, but I’m not so sure. With your leader dead, Pilate might think he’s done enough. Just the same, the high priest has inflamed the rabble, so stay out of sight!”

“Not anymore!” Peter set his jaw. “I’m going down there. Come on men, are you with me?”

“I’m coming.” James nodded with resolution.

“Me too!” I felt obliged to say.

“Well, I’m staying with Jesus mother,” John reached out to clutch her hand. “She’s suffered enough.”

“All right,” I tried not to sound petulant, “but she’s our mother too. If anyone should comfort her it should be her family. I wish she was safe and sound in Nazareth with her daughters. Nathan might be right. Jerusalem is too dangerous for her now.”

“Let’s go Jude,” James tugged at my sleeve. “John will take care of our mother.”

“Very well,” I shrugged, falling behind Peter and James.

Looking up from the bottom of the stairway, as if ready to join our procession, was Mark and his mother. It seemed as though Mark’s mother, after hearing Nathan’s account, shared her son’s faith.

“Wait!” our mother called out, as we began clomping down the stairs. “I must go too!”

“As I,” Mary Magdalene said, breaking free of John’s hand.

John quickly fell in step, a bewildered look on his face.

“People!” Nathan shook his head vigorously. “This isn’t a good idea. I told you it isn’t safe! If you must go out, keep silent, no outbursts, and blend in with the crowd. Only Peter stands out very much. Keep your hood over your face, Peter, and keep in the shadows. I must return to Nicodemus. Please, all of you, be careful on the street. On my way over here, I heard the crowd in the distance—probably the same rabble who called for Jesus’ death… Whatever was going to happen next, has already begun!”

******

As Nathan had feared, the rabble spotted us as we approached the Antonia, Pilate’s headquarters in Jerusalem. That very moment, as providence cruelly decided, a contingent of legionnaires were dragging out three men, all of whom were carrying the cross beams to their crosses. This time, when men and women pointed at Peter and also James, who caught their eye, there was no response from them. As we had headed toward the Antonia, Peter vowed not to deny Jesus again, but it grew more difficult as we elbowed through the crowd.

“Take the women away from here, John!” Peter demanded. “Don’t argue. I know you want to be brave, but get them to safety. James and Jude are Jesus’ brothers. I must show our Lord I’m here. Please, John, do as I say!”

Once again, Peter was the Rock. James and I wholeheartedly agreed. This could prove too dangerous. As our mother protested in a whisper, she and Mary were ushered away by John. Somehow Peter, James, and I managed to plough through the onlookers, who continued to mutter back and forth, “It’s them—two of his men!” They hadn’t recognized me yet, perhaps because I had stood behind James when Peter denied Jesus.

It was a spirit-shattering sight. First came two men ahead of Jesus, probably thieves or murderers, and then, bloodied and wearing what looked like a crown of thorns came Jesus, who because he had been badly abused dropped his crossbeam. Peter lurched forward as if he might carry Jesus load, but another man—a tall dark skinned fellow in colorful clothes and turban stepped forth, at the prodding of a soldier, and hefted Jesus’ load. That moment, as Jesus struggled to his feet, a young woman ran to him with a skin of water.

“Step away from the prisoner,” barked the soldier. “You hear me, woman.” He brandished her with his whip. “Go!”

With his attention drawn to the woman, who cowered in fear, a second bystander—this time an old man, hobbled up to hold the water skin to Jesus mouth. “There, master,” I heard him mutter. “You’re going to a better place!” When the same soldier raised his whip to strike the old man, the young woman bent down, pulled off her veil and wiped Jesus’ face. “You cured me, master,” she sobbed, “you made me whole!”

As the big dark skinned man, lifted up Jesus cross beam, he cursed the Romans. That moment, Jesus was also assisted by two other men, who helped him to his feet, then darted back into the crowd. During the procession, Peter, James, and I edged our way along, sometimes being elbowed in the ribs or spat upon, but, despite our fears, no one informed on us or even called us out. There was simply too much happening right now. Clearly, as we watched people in the crowd shake their fists at Jesus, a few even tossing rotten fruit, we were aware of a minority of citizens who sympathized with his plight. The young women and old man who tried to comfort Jesus, as well as the two young who helped him to his feet, might have been converts. One piercing voice, “Oh, Jesus, my Redeemer. What have they done?” summed up the sentiment of this few, but the overwhelming feeling of the rabble was a mindless fury.

In spite of his travail, Jesus managed one last sermon, as he staggered to his fate. Turning to a small group of believers or sympathizers, he said in hoarse voice, “Daughters of Jerusalem, don’t weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children.  For the days are coming when they will say, ‘Fortunate indeed are the women who are childless, the wombs that have not borne a child and the breasts that have never nursed.’ People will beg the mountains, ‘Fall on us,’ and plead with the hills, ‘Bury us, for if these things are done when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?”

It was the most remarkable thing I had ever heard Jesus say. Even then, during his darkest hours, he was able to preach.

“What did he do to deserve this?” a woman beside Peter asked. “The Romans are killing our miracle worker. How did he fall into their dirty hands?”

“He is without sin,” Peter spat bitterly. “He dared to tell the truth; that was his crime, but don’t blame the Romans. Blame his accusers. The priests, Pharisees, scribes, and the rabble crying for his blood are guilty. Pilate was just a coward, as was I.”

Suddenly, because of this disclosure, the suspicions of those around us worsened. Several people pointed in our direction. Some of them even knew Peter and James names.

“You’re him!” an old lady behind us cackled. “I saw you in front of temple. You’re the one they call Peter, the Rock. You got some nerve coming here!” “He-he!” She pointed at James. “I recognize you too. You’re James.” “Am I correct?” She poked them. “They’re looking for you men. You’d better hide!”

“Yes, I’m him” Peter whirled around angrily, “I’m Peter, the Rock and that’s James. What of it?”

“Moses beard!” James groaned.

Suddenly, a horseman appeared in the procession, winding his way rudely toward the front. “Get out of the way!” he cried, waving his sword.” I recognized him immediately. A few years ago, I was told that the Centurion of the First Cohort in Galilee had been transferred to Jerusalem and here he was in charge of this dreadful affair.

“James!” I pointed excitedly. “It’s Longinus!”

“Where?” James said nervously. “…You mean that fellow on the horse?… Oh yes, it’s him!”

That very moment, as Longinus trotted passed, several men, possibly Caiaphas men, laid hands on us, and began dragging us from the street.

“Longinus!” I cried out. “Help! Help!”

Turning his mount, the centurion scattered the onlookers, shouting, “You there! Unhand those men. What is the meaning of this?”

“We’re companions of Jesus,” I explained prudently. “They would do harm to us for being his friends.”

The six ruffians, who had grabbed us, disappeared into the crowd. As the procession continued, Longinus sat on his great black stallion, the same stony expression I remembered before on his face. With his glistening armor and sparkling helmet with its sideways plume, he looked like a typical no nonsense officer. If we didn’t know who this man was, his gruff speech and mannerisms might have been intimidating, but this was, I remembered fondly, our family’s one time protector and friend.

“They’re taking those men to the Golgotha, a hill at the end of the road,” he explained, sheathing his sword. “Jude and James—I’m sorry I’m a part of this. I’ve heard great things about Jesus. I couldn’t believe they picked Barabbas over him. If you wish to witness this awful event, some of my men will escort you to the hill. After today, however, until this blows over, get out of Jerusalem. Your sect will lose its leader. I wasn’t there at the trial, but I heard Caiaphas wants to stamp it out.”

“You’re not to blame, Longinus,” Peter looked up at him, “the Sanhedrin is. But your leader Pilate is a coward, as was I. He should’ve set Jesus free. Instead he caved in to the high priest. You’re wrong if you think this will blow over… It’s just begun!”

“Well, I must go.” Longinus said wearily. “Pilate wants this done efficiently. We Romans pride ourselves on that.” “But you’re right” he added, looking down at Peter, “Pilate’s coward. Cornelius, my prefect in Galilee, would’ve set Jesus free. Your friend is innocent. Pilate knows this. All of his men know this, too. He’ll have to live with this the rest of his life!”

******

Riding ahead, Longinus, called to four of his men in the procession, ordering them to escort us to the hill. At first we were greatly relieved for the protection. It appeared as though the normal rabble were more bark than bite. James believed that the men, who grabbed us and were disguised as ordinary citizens, were hand picked by Caiaphas. Though the horror of this ordeal had filled us with sorrow and dread, our minds were set on seeing this through. The four legionnaires accompanying us to the hill were husky young men that no one would wish to trifle with. I had noticed in the past that Roman soldiers could be cruel if ordered to do so, but when they were by themselves they seemed to be carefree, almost boyish in their lust for life. These same youths might have been the very same soldiers who scourged Jesus and drove that hideous crown of thorns down upon his brow. Right now, as they chattered amongst themselves, they a shielded us against Caiaphas’ men.

Soon, after our guards cleared a path for us with menacing stares and the flicking of their whips, we arrived a the base of Golgotha, a Hebrew word, which meant appropriately enough ‘Place of the Skulls.’ What we saw ahead of us was almost too terrible to describe. Without delay, the three men, including Jesus, were being nailed to their crosses. My first glimpse of this terrible scene brought to my mind those nightmares I had of the three crosses that Jesus had tried to downplay. Now here they were again, this time as real life images. Sure enough, standing nearby overseeing this business, reminiscent of the onlookers I saw in my dreams, where none other than the high priest, several other men, probably members of the Sanhedrin, and a mob of men and women, perhaps part of the same crowd below the Antonia calling for Jesus’ death. It was much worse than my nightmares. What had been silent dreamscapes, with faceless, motionless characters, became a noisy, smelly panorama of cursing, taunting, and weeping on the hill. Very soon, however, as more people crowded onto Golgotha, our view became blocked. There must have been, at this stage, hundreds of people on the scene. To our dismay, all we could see were the top of their heads.

“Halt!” one of the guards barked.

James and I froze in our tracks. Peter, however, as he had in the garden, lost control. “I’m gonna put a stop to this!” He surged forward, shaking his fist.

“You’ll do no such thing!” roared the guard, grabbing his collar.

All four guards had to restrain Peter. Caiaphas, who had caught sight of this, pointed excitedly at this scene. Thanks to Peter, the high priest had alerted both the Sanhedrin and the mob to our presence. James and I wrung our hands in despair as the guards brought Peter to the ground.

“Are you mad?” scolded the first guard. “Now he’s seen you. We heard about him. He’ll sick that scum on you. We don’t have enough men to fight off that mob!”

“I-I want to see our Lord!” sobbed Peter.

“No.” He shook his head. “Absolutely not. Until we clear this hill, this is as far as you go!”

“But that’s Jesus, my brother!” I cried.

“I don’t care if it’s Zeus himself!” he snapped. “You’re staying put!”

“So when are they going to clear it?” James gave him a desperate look.

“I dunno.” He shrugged his shoulders. “There’s a wall of people in front us. They just keep coming. Don’t worry; they won’t dare attack us, but mobs are unpredictable. I wish I could signal Longinus. He must be worried about this. It’s getting out of hand.” “All right.” He looked down at Peter, glancing back at his men. “You fellows watch them, especially that one, while I check this out. If he tries that again, knock him out!”

Those moments, as the rabble blocked our view, John, Mary, and Jesus’ mother, braved the crowd, and managed to find a place below Jesus’ cross. According to John, Jesus was, after being nailed in place, raised up on the cross in the middle two thieves, Dismus and Gestus. Soon after being lifted, he asked God to forgive his tormentors, because they didn’t know any better—a concession that must have included the soldiers who had beaten, whipped, and nailed him to his cross. Not one of those conniving priests, Pharisees or scribes was innocent of guilt. Also missed by us as we were watched by the guards, was when a pre-made sign was placed over Jesus head that read ‘Jesus, King of the Jews.’ Caiaphas and his cohorts protested this alleged blasphemy, but the guard informed them that the order had come straight from Pilate. Soon, after being hung up, Jesus looked down at his mother and said, woman behold your son, and then to John he said, “Behold your mother!” Much later, when we could look at this clearly, I asked James if Jesus might have been angry with us for not being there (a situation that wasn’t our fault). James had no answer for this, and, indeed, considering that our mother had four other sons, including James and me, and John had a mother of his own, it made no sense.

Nevertheless, John wouldn’t invent such a story. What we knew of this brief period during the crucifixion was learned from him. In the company of our mother and Mary Magdalene, who John had grown closer to, he was privy to the conversation between Jesus and the two other men sentenced to death, Dismus and Gestus. Gestus, the criminal on his left side, taunted Jesus, “If you’re the Son of God,” he cried, “save yourself and us!” Then Dismus, who hung on his right side, scolded his cohort: “We deserved our punishment. This man is innocent of a crime.” “Lord,” he added with a gasp, “when you enter your kingdom, remember me!” and Jesus replied quickly, “Fear not! Today, you’ll be with me in paradise!”

After this, according to John’s report, Jesus asked God why he had forsaken him. He also cried out, “I thirst!”

Those moments before Longinus returned to us, above the heads of the crowd, we saw the silhouettes of the three crosses. Distant taunts from below Jesus cross were a forewarning and reminder of who are enemies would always be: the Pharisees, scribes, and priests. For the time being it seemed as though the powers that be had won. Jesus had warned us that we would suffer for his name. Now, in his death agony, our suffering had begun in earnest. As the centurion galloped up on his black stead, he wasn’t alone. A contingent of armored legionnaires who, we learned later, entered the East Gate instead of the West, appeared behind him, startling Caiaphas and his followers, sending them skittering from the scene, along with most of the crowd. The mere sight of this force, without bloodshed, had cleared the hill. At least an hour had passed since Peter, James, and I sought out Jesus… At last, our moment had come. We had a clear view of the crucifixions and the remaining bystanders on the hill.

Dismounting his horse, Longinus wiped his brow, and motioned to us, as the other horsemen began patrolling the grounds, on the watch for rabble-rousers. Except for a few onlookers below Jesus, including John, Mary Magdalene, Jesus mother, and a handful of soldiers also gazing up at the cross, the hill was free of hecklers.

“These will be orderly executions!” he exclaimed. “Come!” He motioned. “For your master it’s almost over!”

As we approached the scene, James and I braced Peter, who wept uncontrollably now. I could see John, Mary Magdalene, and our mother turn around finally and walk from the scene.

“They’re leaving,” Peter said in a broken voice. “He must be dead!”

“Let’s stop!” I nudged James. “I want them to know we were here!”

As I cupped my mouth prepared to yell, however, James shushed me. “No, Jude. We’ll tell them later. We have nothing to prove.”

“I do!” Peter groaned. “I wanted Jesus to see me. Now it’s too late.”

“Maybe not,” replied Longinus.

Handing the reins of his horse to an aid, he led us solemnly up to the middle cross. The other two men were still awake, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed down at us, but Jesus hung on his cross with head bowed, unmoving. Not far away soldiers appeared to be gambling. A purple robe, the one Jeremiah told Nathan about, lie on the ground below their game of chance. Overhead, after a normal sunlit day, with few clouds, the sky had begun to darken with a thunderhead. In the quiet, a few of the previous onlookers, perhaps even a few of Jesus’ hecklers returned, silenced by the strange calm. Peter hugged the cross, banging his head repeatedly on the wooden post. James knelt below the cross, weeping softly now. A familiar supporter—the finely dressed patrician woman that expressed sorrow during the procession—appeared, saying tearfully, “They have murdered a God!”

I just stood there staring up at Jesus, almost drained of feeling. Glancing at the woman, I wondered if this Gentile knew how close she was to the truth.

“Do you know who that is?” Longinus looked back at me.

“No.” I shrugged.

“That’s Claudia,” he said, with a snicker, “Pilate’s wife. What irony! I heard her beg him after the sentence against Jesus, to rescind his order. She claimed to have a dream in which a voice told her that he was, in fact, a god.”

“I pity her living with such a man,” I said with great bitterness. “I know Caiaphas is to blame for this, but Pilate could have stopped it. He let it happen. History will judge him too!”

“Listen Jude,” Longinus said thoughtfully, “we Romans are the instrument, but your people are the cause. Pilate wanted to let Jesus go, but he was too great a threat. I’ve heard what his followers call him. They believe he’s God’s son. That makes him a god, too, and yet most of your people wanted a king, not a god. After today, I wonder if they understood him. They wanted him to smite we Romans. Instead he was crucified.” “Look at him now.” He pointed sadly. “That’s your Messiah. Until this moment, I had begun to believe what his followers called him… How else can one explain such fantastic stories? If I had my way, Jude, it would be Caiaphas on that middle cross, not Jesus. Your brother was a righteous man!”

Following Longinus’ words, there was a peel of thunder, then another, and the sky turned so dark it seemed like night. The centurion backed away, startled. The soldiers, who had been gambling on Jesus robe, retreated, wide-eyed with fear. Fear was also etched in Longinus’ stony features, as he scanned the heavens. The remnant of onlookers that had returned, including the patrician began to flee.”

“He shall punish us!” she screamed, pulling her hood over her face.

That moment, to our surprise, Jesus stirred on the cross. With great effort, his head rose and he cried out hoarsely, “Father, unto you hands I deliver my spirit!” As Peter, James, and I looked up, witness to God’s wrath, a gust of wind blew across the hill, the centurion stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Jesus on his cross, exclaiming above the storm, “Truly this was the Son of God!”

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