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The execution of Jesus, which takes place in Jerusalem at some point between 30 and 33 CE, is an accepted historical fact. It is described by Josephus (37–10 °CE) in his Jewish Antiquities (18: 63–4), and confirmed by the Roman writer Tacitus (56–117 CE) in the Annals (15: 44). The crucifixion is mentioned by Lucian of Samosata (125–18 °CE) and by the Syrian philosopher Mara Bar-Serapion (dates unknown).
It also features as a key event in the gospels of the New Testament (65–10 °CE) and in every record of early Christianity. Despite this extensive coverage, however, none of the sources provide a fixed procedure for Roman crucifixions in Jerusalem. There is no precision about the exact manner in which Jesus was attached to the cross, or the shape of the cross, or whether ropes were used in addition to nails.
Archaeologically, only one relevant artefact has been recovered from crucifixions in early Palestine. In 1968 the physical anthropologist Nicu Haas recovered the remains of a crucified man from a first-century burial cave in north Jerusalem. If these remains are representative, then the evidence worth noting is a right heel bone split by a four-and-a-half inch iron spike. Nothing comparable has been found before or since.
The spike, or nail, remains in the bone because no one could pull it out. The practice at the time, or so it is widely believed, was to reuse nails, but this one has twisted at the point into a fishhook barb. The spike has gone through the bone and blunted itself against a knot in the vertical piece of wood used for the crucifixion.
The wood remnants on the point of the nail are identified as olive. It seems unlikely, given the logistical demands and the expense, that hardwood beams would have been imported to Palestine solely for crucifixion. In the absence of suitable wood for crosses, easier and cheaper to nail offenders into the native olive trees.
One last point, to ensure the picture is clear. The nail goes into the rounded heel bone at right angles to the foot, and not into the bones at the front. This suggests the feet were placed either side of a thinnish piece of wood, with a separate nail for each heel. Mature olive trees have trunks of a suitable width. As for the hands, the dig produced no evidence of bones from the arm or wrist pierced with similar spikes.
In first-century Judaea, outside the city of Jerusalem, the olive trees on Golgotha are stripped of leaves. Many are gouged in the trunk a short distance above the ground, the bark encrusted with blood turned brown. The Romans reuse their nails, and they reuse the trees.
There are smaller stains in the side branches above head height, because a mature olive tree can be re-used for a crucifixion three or four times. If the branches are kindly placed.
A soldier steps between Lazarus and Jesus.
He is wearing full military uniform in the late morning heat. The dented metal, the leather kilt, the sweat, everything about him says he’d prefer to be in Syria for a straight fight against Parthians. He holds his lance diagonally across his chest, and shoves Lazarus back.
Jesus is surrounded by a knot of soldiers, his hands bound, his head bleeding. He is learning his lesson from Lazarus, dying in the open in front of witnesses, a verifiable public death.
Out of the Gennath Gate, up the hill. It is the sick who most stubbornly insist on hurting him. The unhealed and the unbelievers spit on him, and with palm leaves they slice at his upper arms, at his thighs and his face. The Roman soldiers kick him when he stumbles.
Lazarus catches glimpses of his friend’s face, plainly terrified as he tries to protect himself. His disciples, among so many others, have abandoned him. Only his friend Lazarus can help him now.
Cassius had seen his first crucifixion at the Flavian amphitheatre in Rome. The victim had been an adult male lion. He remembers the skin tight over the white belly, and the hideously stretched tendons in the legs. It was somehow worse than watching a man on the cross, although lions, he noted at the time, did not last as long as men.
According to Paul in one of his letters, the crucifixion of Jesus ‘disarmed the rulers and authorities and made a public example of them, triumphing over them in it’ (Colossians 2: 15).
There may be some truth in this.
Cassius, for example, regrets that crucifixion is considered any kind of solution. His own proposal of a client messiah would be more effective at keeping the peace. But the crucifixion, like the resurrection of Lazarus, is happening nevertheless, and the death of Jesus may have its uses. A messiah does not get executed like a common criminal, nailed into the nearest olive tree. Messiahs escape death, and they escape the Antonia Fortress. They are protected by god from the lethal Sicarii.
Crucifixion is ugly and deplorable, but in this instance the fault lies with the regional god. All religions should be true, so claiming to be the one true god is as aggressive a manoeuvre as a divinity can make. Look down now on Jesus. Look at the results. Divine arrogance will not be tolerated, not by other gods, not by the Roman empire.
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It is midday. The sky darkens to the colour of bad meat, silver and purple.
Jesus is hoisted off the ground, and his arms sized against branches. This tree has been used before. One of his arms is angled backwards and lashed to a branch so that his shoulder has to twist, the other is crooked and slightly higher. Two other condemned men go on either side, one in front and the other about level.
The Romans have no interest in aesthetics, or symmetry, as long as the arms are above the head to maximise the pain. The feet, too, must be clear of the ground. Jesus will die with his blackened toes inches from the earth and salvation.
Only the heels are nailed. One four-and-a-half inch spike on either side. The scratch of splintered bone is audible above the heavy thud of the mallet. A woman shrieks, and can’t stop herself. She goes on and on.
Lazarus feels no particular compassion.
Death is a big episode, but it is not the end. It is, after all, only death, however spectacular. Death is not the climax it used to be, not for Lazarus.
The clouds close in — ‘When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land’ (Mark15: 33), and this is when Lazarus is certain. There is a god and he is watching, providing the ideal weather for two boys from Nazareth, clouds blocking the sun that otherwise would blind them to handholds as they climb.
Lazarus watches Jesus. He observes the strain on his body, toes flexing for solid ground, head dropped low on his chest.
Look at me. Look up and look at me. He wills Jesus to obey. Believe in me, and take strength from me.
Jesus looks up.
In the absence of compassion Lazarus is calm, confident about what he needs to do. He projects his thoughts through and beyond the eyes of Jesus, and there inside his friend’s skull he recognises his own death, a brain crying out for an instant and then another instant more of life.
I cannot die, Jesus thinks, with my thoughts and memories and feelings. I have seen things and done things that other people will never see and do.
So has everyone else, Lazarus reminds him. We all die.
Look at me. Lazarus is not giving up. Look, here I am, standing on the shore. I will not intervene, but everything will turn out fine. Every time Jesus raises his chin from his chest his eyes search out Lazarus.
You’re nearly there, Lazarus thinks. Come on, it’s easy.
Death is nothing and there is nothing to fear.
This is what Lazarus is for.
The hours that follow are described in the gospels. Jesus suffers. At some point a sponge soaked in sour wine is lifted to his lips on a stick. This is cruel or kind, designed to mock him or to give him strength: no one can remember.