Strangely, I felt no fear of discovery, although it would certainly have brought about immediate execution. On the contrary, I was bathed in a serenity of calm which gave me a feeling of fearless exultation as I set about gently shifting the various items of plunder in the amir's treasure trove in order to uncover the Black Rood. I moved one object and then another, and a few more, and then… the priceless relic lay before me.
'Great High King, reveal your glory through your servant,' I whispered. I said the first thing that came to mind only, but as soon as the words touched my lips, wonder of wonders, the tent began to fade around me-as if the fabric walls had become a thin, gauzy stuff allowing me to see, as through a veil, all the camp around me. Yet, it was not the camp I saw, but a busy road leading to the walls of a great city.
As I tried to make sense in what I was seeing, there arose a shout from the direction of the city. I looked towards the towering walls and saw a crowd of people emerging from the wide open gates.
With a cry like that of hounds scenting blood, this dark raging flood poured out from the city almost as swiftly as the dark storm clouds gathering in the dull yellow sky overhead. The blue-black bulging heads and shoulders of mighty clouds boiled in the stifling desert air, and away in the distance I could hear the low grumble of thunder.
There were others nearby, standing beside the road, waiting for the crowd to pass. I quickly joined them to see what was happening. The crowd came closer and soon reached the place where I was standing, and I saw that they were driving some poor wretch before them -prodding and shoving him along. As they drew near, I saw that his arms were tied to a rough-hewn wooden beam, and when he stumbled, they hauled him up by yanking on the ends of the beam and, once on his feet, they drove him on.
The crowd soon reached the place where I stood, but were so intent in the pursuit of their ambition they paid me no heed. They were a murderous rabble, it seemed to me; dirty beggars, street brawlers, and cudgelmen for the most part-although, here and there amidst the bedraggled mob the glint of a gold ring, a silver brooch, or the high, tapering crown of a well-made hat, gave me to know there were men of rank and power among them-and also a handful of soldiers, dressed in Roman armour.
As they hastened by, the prisoner stumbled and went down. Those foremost in the crowd snatched him upright again, and the pain made him gasp with agony, and I saw why: the wretch's back was a sodden expanse of mutilated skin and muscle forming a massive raw, gaping wound. Merciful God, great tattered shreds of flesh hung from his shoulders, ripped from his broad sturdy back by the wicked, iron-tipped Roman lash. Blood coursed freely down his sides, staining his torn robe and spattering the dusty road with each jolting step.
He took but one more step and fell again. They were on him in an instant, kicking at him and shouting for him to get up. Two soldiers shoved into the throng and while one began pushing people away, the other seized the end of the beam and untied the ropes binding the man's arms.
The crowd howled with rage and three more legionaries appeared and waded in, forcing the rabble back with the shafts of their short spears. One of the soldiers turned and seized a man-a huge black Ethiope on his way to the city, and who, like myself, was merely standing alongside the road watching the fearful procession. Too frightened to resist, the poor fellow was yanked into the wild maelstrom, and pressed into service.
Freed from the crushing burden of the beam, the wounded prisoner made to rise; he lifted his head and looked up, his eyes met my gaze, and my heart caught in my throat, for I knew I looked into the battered face of God's own dear son.
THIRTY-SIX
That once-noble visage was bruised and bleeding, the high, handsome brow shattered and the straight, fine nose broken. A circlet cap had been woven of desert briar and the thorns jammed into his scalp. Blood trickled from the wounds, mixing with the dust of the road to form muddy rivulets down his face. His eyes as they beheld mine, although filled with anguish, were yet keen with intelligence and a burning volition.
That was all I had-a single, fleeting look-but I swear all the grief and care of creation was in that pain-riven glance. The crowd, baying like crazed hounds, urged him on. The soldiers gabbed his arms and hauled him upright. He was shoved on his way with the Ethiope following behind, dragging the heavy crossbeam. And the ghastly retinue lurched along once more.
I stood for a moment, too astonished and terrified to move; and then, before I knew it, I was following the crowd, surrounded by a large number of loudly wailing women, and giddy, excited children. We continued down the road towards a curious, hump-shaped hill no great distance from the city walls.
The hill was topped by a rocky outcrop against which a large timberwork frame had been erected. A small contingent of bored-looking legionaries sat waiting on the hillside near the road. By the time I pushed my way to the front of the crowd, I saw the Lord Christ standing with splendid dignity, head erect, struggling to remain upright while the crowd surged and seethed around him.
The soldiers wasted no time. Grabbing the crosspiece from the Ethiope, they dragged it up the hillside a few paces and threw it on the ground. Then, laying hands on the condemned man, they stripped off his clothes and pulled him up to the beam, turned him around, and pushed him down onto his bloody back. He winced with pain, but did not cry out.
One of the waiting legionaries, a burly, muscled hulk in a leather labourer's apron, rose and stepped quickly to the prisoner. Shirtless, his big arms glistening, he gave a nod of command and the prisoner's right arm was stretched out and held down on the timber. Then, kneeling on the condemned man's arm so as to hold it still, he ground a splayed thumb into the hollow of the man's forearm just above the wrist and held it there for a moment.
With his other hand he reached into a pocket of his leather apron and drew out a thick iron spike which he placed where his thumb had been. Then, with quick, practised efficiency he reached behind him and took up a short, heavy blacksmith's hammer. The movement was so swift I did not see what was happening at first.
I saw the soldier's great arm rise with dread purpose and fall with a solid resonating crack. In the same instant the Lord Jesu's head jerked up, eyes bulging, mouth snatched open in a soundless scream of agony as the hard metal smashed through the flesh and tendons and veins of his wrist.
My heart trembled within me, and I wanted to look away-but I could not. I watched, clasping my hands together and murmuring helpless, hopeless prayers.
Bright blood welled up in a sudden crimson gush, and the crowd roared its approval as two more mighty blows drove the cruel spike deep into the stout timber beam-whereupon the soldier rose, stepped over his victim and repeated the procedure on the left arm. Three quick, decisive blows rang like anvil peals, driving the spike between the twin bones of the man's forearm and into the heavy wood.
No sooner had the last blow rung out than the soldiers passed ropes under the timber beam and secured the condemned man's arms at the elbows. They then turned and began hauling the beam up the hill, three soldiers at the end of each rope, dragging their victim with it. The ground was rough and rocky, and Christ's poor wounded back left a bloody swathe in the pale bone-dry dirt.
At the top of the hill, they heaved the ropes over the upper beams of the timber framework. The dangling ends were caught and passed to the legionaries beneath who, with the help of a score or more of the more zealous members of the rabble, eagerly seized the lines and pulled hard. The ropes snapped taut, jerking the suffering Jesu from the ground.