The Madonna and the Political Prisoner, Chapter 24

Chapter 24 AD 26

We’ve somehow got back to the room where we celebrated the Passover just yesterday evening. It seems already an age away. The women try to make me eat but I cannot. John has told them what we’ve experienced and was heard out in doleful silence. All the disciples seem to be there now, well, with the exception of Judas. No-one knows where he is or seems to care. Simon Peter is there, but is very silent for him. He looks as though he’s been crying, something I don’t associate with that big man. I know he’s a close friend of Joshua, but I hadn’t expected tears from him.

No-one knows what to do. The owner of the house has not appeared – some say that we could try to get him to plead for Joshua’s life as apparently he is a man of influence. But nobody knows who he is or how to get in touch with him. That was Joshua’s secret.

Time passes. We sit around. Some are in despair. Mary has not ceased her weeping. Some of the other women are near tears. Susannah and Salome are very solicitous of me. They try to say words of comfort but it is all meaningless. It’s all passed so quickly I can hardly appreciate what’s happening. It’s strange that no tears have come for me. It’s just like a nightmare that perhaps I’ll wake up from in a moment. We can’t sit here like this forever.

It must be the middle of the day by now, though it’s difficult to tell in this dark room – there is but one small window and that is on the eastern side. The sun’s rays have long since ceased to penetrate the room. Thomas and Bartholomew eventually pluck up courage and say they’ll go out to try to establish what’s happening. My son James says he’ll accompany them. If they’re accused of being Joshua’s disciples, he can honestly say that he’s not. I doubt if they’ll discover anything. It’s the Sabbath tomorrow and the Romans will not want to do anything that will offend the Jews with all the pilgrims in the city. I look out of the window and stare at the sky over the roofs opposite. The wind has dropped suddenly and I realise that the sun is not shining. The clouds are ominously dark and it feels so sultry. A rainstorm is in the offing.

John has been telling me to seek some rest, but I have been adamant. I wish to stay awake, to know everything that is happening. But I’ve had no sleep now for many hours. And despite my endeavours, I must have dropped off, even as I was staring out of the window. For, suddenly, the door crashes open and James and the two disciples are in the room.

“It’s too late, we’re too late. There’s nothing we can do. He’s finished!” Thomas shouts to everyone. The man is beside himself, tearing at his clothes as he speaks. “He’s already been executed. We nearly got caught up in the procession of condemned prisoners being led out to execution and the Master was among them.”

“He was in a dreadful state,” says Bartholomew. “He was so weak he collapsed on the way to the execution site. He must have been flogged, his back was lacerated, a bloody mess.”

“There’s no need to distress the women further,” says James trying to shut the two disciples up. “There’s nothing anyone can do, so I suggest we all go back to Nazareth and Capernaum as fast as we can before the authorities realise many of us are still here and decide to arrest us all before we can make mischief.”

“Where is he? I want to be with him.”

“Mother, forget it. It’s no sight for you to contemplate.”

“It doesn’t matter. I should be with him. I’m his mother.”

“No. No. You can’t. It’ll kill you to see him like this. You should have listened to me ages ago and had nothing more to do with him. You can’t go now, I forbid you!”

“I’m going. It’s a mother’s duty. He must see someone he knows and loves. He’ll think we’ve all abandoned him. I’m going. Who’ll come with me?”

“You don’t know where to go.”

“Thomas will tell me.”

“He won’t.”

“Yes you will, won’t you, Thomas?”

“I’ll come with you, Mari.” It’s my sister, Salome.

“Are you coming, Mary?”

She shakes her head. Through her tears she mouths, “I can’t, I just can’t!”

A couple of the disciples’ wives say they’ll come too. Not one of the men. What are they afraid of? Do they think they’ll be arrested as one of his followers? I don’t care. Without Joshua, I don’t care what happens to me. Then John says he’ll accompany us to see we’re safe. Thomas tells John where the crucifixion site is, just outside the Damascus Gate near the area where refuse is disposed of, alongside the highway as is the custom of the Romans, apparently, in order to create a deterrent for the maximum number of people to see.

“Don’t go, Mother. I implore you not to go. The sight will be too much for you. Try to remember him as he was, not as he is now. You won’t recognise him. It’s pitiful to see him like this, even though I’ve always despised all he stood for. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, not even my worst enemy.”

He stands before me, barring my way to the door.

“I’m going, James. I don’t care what you say. Stand aside and let me go.”

“James, let her go. I’ll be with her and the others. It’s distressing, yes, but it can’t be worse than they’ll imagine if they’re kept in ignorance here.” John is emphatic and James gives way.

Six of us – Mary Magdalene, who has changed her mind at the last moment, Salome, Susannah, Joanna, Bartholomew’s wife, another Mary, the mother of another disciple called James and me - escorted by John, hurry through the congested lanes towards the Damascus Gate. The sky overhead looks very threatening, it’s dark in the narrow streets and sultry and I’m perspiring. We can’t progress as quickly as we want because the crowds are ambling and my mind is scarcely on what we are doing. I bump into people, I mutter apologies, I blunder my way forward, I scarce know where I’m going but follow the others blindly.

There’s a queue at the Gate, we have to wait because of the horde of people and animals trying to get in. I want to scream at everyone, let us through, let us through. Why so fast – because I want to reach my dying son, don’t you understand? And if I shouted this, they wouldn’t understand, and if they did, they’d block my path. Why should they make way for the wretched mother of a condemned man?

And when we at last squeeze through against the heavy flow of people in the opposite direction, we find nearly everyone on the Damascus road coming towards us. And I can see the crucifixion site ahead, ugly black crosses against a filthy sky and black figures milling around the bases, strangers come to gawp at the death throes of the condemned men, chatting, laughing while my son dies in agony. The stench from the nearby rubbish tip, nicknamed ‘Gehenna’ or ‘Hell’, adds to the dreadful scene.

“Are you sure you want to go on?” John is anxious. Salome comes to me, puts her arm around my waist and holds me tight.

“Mari, you don’t have to. I’ll stay here with you, while the others go on.”

“No, I must get there. He must see me. He must. I must get there. Please, let it not be too late!”

“Mari, don’t panic. There’s no need to rush. Your son will not be dead yet.” I know he’s trying to tell me that the agony will go on for hours, sometime for days, but he doesn’t want to remind me of this. But I know. I’ve seen crucifixions before. I shall never forget that first time when we visited the festival in Nain and Uncle Pharisee Eli made me look, and I thought it might have been my father.

I’m helped to the edge of this motley crowd. I suppose there might be relatives here of other dying men, but the figures nearby don’t care. They are curious, indifferent. If they are angry, they are resentful of the Romans who devised this torture to afflict their countrymen. They have no pity for those condemned to die, they assume they’ve deserved it. Some are mocking, treating it all as a repulsive joke. I push forward until the distorted faces of the dying men come into focus. I’m searching, horrified that I can’t recognise him, perhaps after all they’ve got it wrong and he isn’t here.

Please God, please let it be wrong!

And then I see him. His eyes are closed. Blood is trickling from his brow. His naked body is contorted obscenely like the others. Some are moaning, groaning. Some are shrieking in their agony. Joshua is quiet, almost asleep? He can’t be. Unconscious already? Am I too late to bid him farewell? Has he already gone?

Then, at last, the tears come. I can’t stop them now. Something has released them. The stark reality before me. It’s as if the pain I see is mine too.

“Mari, please Mari, don’t, don’t!” Why, what am I doing? What does Salome mean? Then I hear my voice, disembodied, nothing to do with me, my conscious self. There’s a strange noise, a groaning, a keening. Both Salome and Susannah hold me tight. I look up at him, and the tears flow so that he’s only visible as a blur. Then I’m conscious that he’s opening his eyes and looking straight at me.

Someone nearby is shouting something. They’re laughing. It’s horrible. Voices are telling him to come down from the cross, heal himself like he healed others. Could he? Could he perform this last miracle, the greatest miracle of all? Could he? I look up at him. He’s not reacting to the jibes. He’s still looking at me. He knows I’m here. He doesn’t say anything, perhaps he can’t. But he must know I’m here. I feel I need to say something, but what can I say? What should I tell him? Can I offer comfort? I feel helpless. God, where are you? Why this? Why this? You said he was to be the Messiah and now you let this happen. Why?

I’m right by the foot of his cross now. There are Roman soldiers milling around, chatting, gambling, looking bored. I’m just staring at him. He is still looking at me. Sometimes he shuts his eyes as if a new wave of pain throbs through him, then he’s looking at me again. Someone has just touched my arm. I think no more of it, it’s John or Salome. But there’s a voice, a different voice, low, with a heavy accent.

“Lady, do you know this man?”

I start. I look at the owner of this voice. He’s a soldier. Is he going to mock, insult me too? Salome whispers to him, tells him that I’m his mother.

“I’m sorry, lady. Something’s wrong. He’s not like the others. I feel bad about it. I don’t like this job. I’m in charge and I have to order my men to carry out these executions. Most of the condemned scream and curse and struggle, but this man? He is very different. He seems sad, he even apologised to me and the soldiers while they were nailing him, apologising that they had to do such a hideous thing. I don’t understand it, I’ve never had to execute someone like him before. Who is he, who are you?”

Is he mocking me? Is he teasing? I can’t take this. But I manage to look him in the face and his eyes are kind. My eyes well up again. I try to speak, but the sounds stick in my throat. John answers.

“He was a prophet, sir. We thought he was the Messiah, sent from God to save our nation. And this lady is his mother.”

“So he was condemned as a rebel? He raised soldiers to fight us Romans?”

“No. He sought to save men’s souls. He was a peaceful man, eschewing violence. But the Jewish priests were jealous of him, he criticised their greed and hypocrisy and they made out to the Roman authorities that he was a threat to them, claiming to be their king.”

“But the inscription scribbled on the head of the cross says he was their king.”

“He never claimed that.”

“But the Governor insisted that the inscription was placed there. I assumed that was the reason for his conviction. Some here tried to get me to change it because they said he was a fake, but I had my orders and I have to obey them.”

“Well, I suppose he was a king, in a way. He was always speaking about God’s kingdom, but he described it as a place of peace and love and care for each other, a place where we would all be one family, Jew and Gentile, men and women, boys and girls.”

“If that’s right, it hardly seems a reason for condemnation. It seems to me like a miscarriage of justice.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

He turns to me.

“Lady, I’m so sorry. I cannot save him, but I can try to reduce his suffering. I’ll order my men to give him a drink laced with herbs that can deaden the pain and I can hasten his death, so as not to prolong his agony.”

He looks me in the face again and I see his eyes are watering too. A hardened Roman soldier, an officer! There is a sudden gust of wind disturbing the dust at our feet and it is getting even darker. There is a storm coming from the north, an occasional flash of lightning on the horizon. Some of the crowd are scurrying for shelter, but we stay still.

Suddenly I hear him call.

“Mother, mother!”

I look up and his eyes are searching for me.

“John will look after you. He will be as your son. John, look after my mother, take her as your own.”

John looks at me.

“I promise. If that is what you need and want, I’ll do it gladly.” He looks up to Joshua. “I promise. I’ll care for her as you have asked.”

I even think he smiled. How could he?

It’s getting so dark now that nearly all have fled the storm. Thunder is crashing all around, and the rain starts, large single drops spattering the dusty earth at first, then a deluge. In no time we are soaked through, but I ignore it. Only our little group and the soldiers are still present. We stand there amidst the storm and cling to each other, the storm cleansing us, even to our very souls. That is what it seems.

The Roman officer is still beside me.

“It seems even the heavens object to what is happening. Perhaps your son was right. Perhaps he was your nation’s Messiah and look what they have done to him. His God and theirs protests. I wouldn’t like to be in the shoes of those who condemned him when they need to face the consequences before the judgment of the God they worship.”

The rain eases after a while, but the darkness remains. The wind has dropped and the storm stays stationary, even circles round us, the lightning illuminating the sky and the ramparts of the city. The officer has been as good as his word. His soldiers have offered Joshua a drink.

“Lady, don’t look now. We’ll help him to finish his agony.”

There is a sudden cry of anguish and I shudder. He’s shouting something but I can’t catch what he’s saying. Then, quite clearly, I hear the words.

“It’s over. I’ve done what had to be done.”

And then he looks down at the soldiers.

“Father, forgive them. They are ignorant of what they are doing.”

Does he mean the soldiers? Is he just referring to them? Or is he thinking back to those who condemned him? Is he even forgiving them?

“Father, I’m coming back to you. Take my spirit into yours.”

And I look at him, and his whole body has gone limp, relaxed, the strain in his face is gone. It is over.

* * * * *

And as I stand there, staring, hardly conscious of my surroundings and my sister, cousin, friends just hold me, I hear another voice. A man, a stranger, speaks quietly to me.

“You don’t know me but I’m a friend. I was a friend of your son. I tried to save him, but I couldn’t. Let me do now what I can. I have a tomb where you can lay his body in the city. It is a quiet place, in a garden, peaceful where I had planned to be laid myself. But it is for him now. I’m so sorry that we never met in happier times. But I offer you now all I can. My name is Joseph. I live here in the city but I come from a Judean town called Arimathea.”

I nod. He takes over and goes to speak with the Roman officer.

“Come, mother.” There is a quiet gentle voice. It is John.