As she translated Pilate’s final words, she gasped at what she learned, because she held a document that proved what she had always believed: God works in mysterious ways.
Pontius Pilate to my sons and heirs.
I sit on the threshold of death, ready to be judged for the things I have done and those I had hoped to do, yet that does not mean I have not already seen the glory of God, for I have witnessed it firsthand, and its magnificence has changed me into the man I am today.
I knew of the Nazarene long before I looked upon him, word of his flock and his miracles spread across the desert like a plague, one that threatened the peace and prosperity of the land placed in my charge. In time I knew word would reach across the sea, as it always does, and I would be asked to place my boot upon the Nazarene before his followers had grown into a mob that Rome would struggle to crush. Yet the opposite occurred, for when I heard from my liege, he spoke to me in hushed tones, asking me to stoke the flames of the fire until we could use the heat for our betterment. I knew not of what he meant but allowed the fire to burn until it heated the walls of Jerusalem, at which time I received the guidance I had been lacking and the steps I had to follow, for they had been sent by Tiberius himself. I was to place the Nazarene on a pedestal, high above the false Messiahs that had preceded him, and give the Jews the proof they needed that this was their true God, that this was indeed him.
It was decided that this could be done only through death, or the appearance of such, for this is a miracle that cannot be faked and one that would assuage even those who did not believe. In time the Nazarene was brought before his peers and for a mere pittance I was able to ensure the outcome, completing the ruse by washing my hands of the events as though I had no part in the verdict. This angered my Claudia, for she felt that I should exert the power of my rule to protect the holy man whom she had seen in her dreams, yet this could not be done, for fear of angering the Roman throne, the one who whispered to me and encouraged my deceit.
To guarantee the illusion of rebirth, the Nazarene was forced to endure brutality on a public stage, for at the end of the day there could be no doubt that this man had been through hell yet survived solely by his station in heaven. I kept apprised from afar since my place was not near the cross, for a man of my status would care not of a common criminal, one of many that was silenced every day under my rule. Instead, members of my elite guard were put on his watch and asked to complete the task that had been laid out before me, and for this they were promised property in a distant land, though they would never enjoy their bounty, for their silence could only be guaranteed with the tip of my blade. The Christ was given a drug that would result in the illusion of death while inducing no more than a heavy sleep that he could arise from at a distant time, yet the dose was too great or his condition too weak, and word came to me that the Nazarene, the man we had chosen as the Chosen One, was no more. I went at once, inspecting the Nazarene for myself, hoping upon hope that his sleep was but deep and his state was but temporary, yet this was not to be, for as I had been told, this man had indeed left the land of the living.
Far from the eyes of Tiberius yet still within his reach, I knew what must be done or I would suffer the same fate as the Christ, only my life would be ended without the peace of mandrake or the glory that is achieved in battle. My allies were few and options limited; thus after a night of no sleep I knew I must flee as this was the only way to ensure my continued life. My preparations started in haste, with me telling no one, not even my Claudia, knowing that word could not leak or I would surely be questioned by those who served the position that I intended to abandon. This continued until the third day, the day I was to leave, when I was greeted by one of my men, a man whom I trusted, one I could count on in the most dire of times, and he gave me word that could not be explained, news that forced me to open my eyes to a new way of life: the Nazarene had risen and walked from his tomb alive.
I knew not how this could be, for no man could wake from the slumber of death from which I bore witness: I felt the cold of his skin, saw blood not weep from his wounds, heard no sound when I rested my ear upon his rib. Yet two days later the holy man from Nazareth, the man I murdered for the betterment of Rome, found the heavenly strength to discard the yoke of death and emerge from the tomb in which he was forever sealed.
Looking back with the wisdom of my many years, the latest of which I have spent repenting in this distant land while living on Roman treasures given to me for the secret task I didn’t achieve, I do regret, after his emergence from the cave, not searching for him in the streets of Jerusalem and falling to his feet and begging his forgiveness for what I had done. I despise myself for not joining his flock and spreading his word, for my presence as a Roman, bearing witness to the death he had risen above, would surely have aided his cause and saved the lives of many of his disciples. But instead I did the worst and most cowardly thing that I could possibly have done: I sent word to Rome that all had been accomplished, that his death had been faked, and his return had been revealed to members of his flock — though unforeseen events prevented it from occurring on the great stage that Tiberius had hoped, for if it had been done as planned, the religion of the Christ would have taken hold at once, and the people of Judea would have sung his praises to the world, and the world would surely have listened, believing that the Messiah had returned as prophesied, and everyone in all lands Roman would have joined hands in unity, and the benefits to the Empire would have been immense.
In retrospect, some might ask why I write this now, why it has taken so long to share my story with those who must hear it, and for that my answer brings me no pleasure, for it means I lived my life as a coward and not as the hero that Tiberius was led to believe: the approach of my death has given me courage I did not have in life, and with this courage, I beg of my sons, and their sons as well, to honor the life of the Christ, for he was the true Messiah.
Author’s Note
(WARNING: Some crucial story lines will be discussed in this section. If you haven’t read the book, you shouldn’t read this note. Some major plot twists will be ruined if you do.)
The concept for Sign of the Cross first came to me in 1998. I was teaching high school English at the time and had just started to outline my first published novel, The Plantation. I loved both concepts equally well but chose to keep SOTC on the back burner since I knew it would require the type of research that I couldn’t do in a rural community.
Looking back, it was the best decision I could’ve made as a writer. Not only because I had access to several world-class libraries when I moved back to Pittsburgh, but also due to the explosion of the Internet. That allowed me to scour documents from the Vatican, view the Dead Sea Scrolls from the Qumran Library, and read letters that were penned by Tiberius himself. All of which allowed me to expand my story beyond the concept that I had originally planned.
Amazingly, SOTC could’ve been a thousand-page book. My agent urged me to stop my first draft at the 711-page mark, even though I had more than enough research to keep it going. In hindsight, I’m glad he stopped me. Otherwise SOTC would’ve killed half the rain forest. Of course, the sad part in all of this is that I saved some of my best research for the end of my original story line and was never able to squeeze it into the shorter version. Oh well, if SOTC ever gets made into a movie, I can include my research in the bonus material on the DVD.