“The man you call Jesus of Nazareth is of no threat to the Roman Empire,” Pilate replied, trying to keep his voice strong, yet calm and in control. “However, for causing such a disturbance, and for refusing to mount any serious defense of himself…”
“That’s because he has none!” a man in the crowd shouted, leading to him taking a blow to the stomach from the bottom edge of a legionary’s shield.
“And for that,” Pilate continued, “I will have him chastised with the lash. At which time I hope reason and sanity return to your senses!” He then nodded to Abenader, who subsequently led the Nazarene away to where his interrogators would exact the punishment.
“That crowd is getting ugly,” Artorius emphasized once they were back in the atrium.
“I can bring my men up,” Justus added.
“No,” Pilate said, shaking his head. “No more soldiers. We have two centuries already. Any more and I suspect we will have a bloodbath on our hands.”
Ten minutes later, while legionaries kept an uneasy watch on the restless crowd, Artorius ventured down into the pit where prisoners suffered flagellation while tied to a great pillar. The horrifying sight almost caused him to vomit. The Nazarene was barely standing upright, his arms wrapped around the pillar and his hands tied together. His back, shoulders, arms, and legs were all soaked in blood. Countless deep gouges scoured his back, and it was no small wonder that his body had not gone into shock as a result. The torturer was continuing to lash him, only using a large whip covered in barbs that would hook into the flesh and rip it away in grotesque chunks.
“What the hell is this?” Artorius shouted.
There were several other auxiliaries present, all spitting and taunting the Jewish teacher, whose breath was now coming in short rasps.
“Pilate said to lash him, so we are,” the decurion remarked with a shrug.
Artorius found himself unable to control his fury; inner rage that had long lain dormant manifested itself as he walked over to the auxiliary officer and with every ounce of his strength smashed his fist into the side of his face. The decurion collapsed onto his side, eyes open in shock.
“Idiot!” the centurion howled, his wrath fully unleashed. “You were told to chastise, not lash him to death!” He then proceeded to kick the decurion repeatedly. The auxiliaries stood in shock as they watched their officer being beaten by the enraged centurion. But then something happened that no one expected. Artorius suddenly stopped and cried out, as if paralyzed. He looked over his shoulder and saw that it was the Nazarene himself who was restraining him.
No one seemed to question how he’d gotten free of his bonds or that he was even able to stand. The fact that simply placing a hand on the centurion’s shoulder seemed to physically restrain him was unnerving. Artorius caught his gaze, and the man quietly shook his head.
“Why?” Artorius asked.
Instead of answering, the Nazarene fell to a knee, suddenly weakened by his horrifying ordeal. Blood was pooling in the sand, and it was no small wonder that he had not succumbed already.
Artorius looked to the auxiliaries. “Help him up. Put his robes back on him and bring him to Pilate. Surely he’s suffered enough.”
As he made his way up the steps that led back to the atrium and the Praetorium, Artorius worried that the Nazarene’s injuries were already so fearful that he may not survive them. It was another ten minutes before he was returned, this time wearing not his own robes, but shabby ones of purple. That he was able to walk on his own made Artorius speculate that perhaps his injuries were not as fearful as they’d appeared. What appalled him was a crown of thorns stuck into the top of his head. They dug into his scalp in numerous places, leaving trickles of blood that already added to the macabre spectacle.
“A king needs a crown,” one of the auxiliaries said, before spitting on the Nazarene once more.
“I think he’s agonized sufficiently,” Artorius said to Pilate, whose expression was also one of horror.
“Agreed,” he said. Then guiding Jesus by the arm, he took him out to the Praetorium, where the crowd immediately erupted into chants for his execution.
“Behold the man!” Pilate shouted to the crowd. “He has been scourged and chastised sufficiently. Therefore, I am of mind to release him.”
“No!” screamed the crowd. “He must be crucified!”
“There’s nothing for it,” Artorius said in exasperation.
“They’ve all gone mad,” Justus concurred. He then looked to Pilate. “What are we to do? Surely we do not execute a man simply to placate the mob. But we cannot release him now. It’ll start a damn riot!”
“I have one last card to play,” Pilate answered. His eyes were fixed on a priest standing next to Caiaphas, who had remained mostly silent. “You,” Pilate said to him. “You’re the man whose daughter was defiled by a notorious criminal and seditionist called Barabbas.”
“Yes, Excellency,” the man said, averting his eyes in shame.
“What has this to do with the matter at hand?” Caiaphas protested.
Pilate grinned and then looked to the crowd. “It has periodically been a custom for the Roman procurator of this province to pay homage to your people’s Passover celebrations by releasing a condemned person back into society. This has not been done for some years, and perhaps now we should revive this show of mercy. I will therefore give you two choices. Either I release Jesus bar Abbas, a known thief, murder, rapist of young girls, and a man who actually sought open rebellion against Rome, or I can release Jesus of Nazareth, a man who I find no fault in, and who your own King Herod refused to condemn.”
There was suddenly a deepening silence as the crowd was shocked by what the procurator was proposing. The priest, whose daughter had been violated by Barabbas, closed his eyes as if in prayer. When he opened them again, they were black with rage.
“Give us Barabbas!” he screamed.
The mob immediately echoed his cries, demanding the release of the hated criminal.
“What then would you have me do with Jesus of Nazareth?” he asked, his face showing signs of wear and defeat.
“Crucify him!” The crowd’s shouts were becoming louder and more passionate.
Artorius looked back at Pilate, who was, for the moment, transfixed in disbelief. He looked down and saw people beating on the shields of his men. They seemed like wild animals to him, and he was suddenly enraged once more.
“We cannot allow this,” he said to Pilate. When the procurator did not answer, his temper got the best of him once more. “Fuck it,” he growled as he rushed down the steps, unsheathing his sword. He then shouted to his legionaries, “Gladius…draw!”
“Rah!”
The shouting crowd suddenly stepped back quickly as they faced a wall of both legionary shields and swords. Every soldier was down in his fighting stance, ready to strike.
“Wait for the command!” Magnus shouted quickly from his place on the line. “Do not advance or strike until ordered to do so!”
“Just give the word and we’ll clear this place out,” Valens said over his shoulder.
With Artorius occupied on the steps, the optio had taken his spot on the right of the line. Though the hostile crowd had stepped away from the legionaries, their shouts became even more impassioned. Artorius glared at Caiaphas and the other Sanhedrin who goaded them on.
“Crucify him! Crucify him!”
Artorius looked up first at Justus, whose face was pale, eyes shut. He then looked over at Pilate, who knew he had been bested.
Artorius quickly raced up the steps. “Pilate, we cannot let this happen,” he said quietly.
The procurator shook his head. “I gambled everything on offering them Jesus bar Abbas or Jesus of Nazareth,” he replied, his eyes fixed on the mob that was growing in frenzy. “And I have lost. Not only will we have to crucify a man I find no fault in, the terrorist scourge must now be set free.”