The Ironsmith (55 page)

“Right now your cousin is probably being scourged. They use leather whips with pieces of bone and sharp metal woven into the lashes. They will not stop until he is covered with wounds, until he is half dead. When you see him next he will look like nothing human.”

“You said there was something we could still do to help him.”

“Yes. One thing.”

 

48

Gaius Raetius did not like Jerusalem. He liked Caesarea, which was on the sea and where the food was better. There wasn't much going on in Caesarea, which was another advantage.

But in Jerusalem there was always trouble. The legions came up here four times a year, for the festivals, and the crowds were always getting excited about something. Soldiers had to stay in their barracks to avoid “incidents,” because the Jews hated them.

And then there were the executions.

In Caesarea there weren't more than five or six crucifixions in a month, but in Jerusalem there were sometimes that many in a day. Crucifixions were boring duty. If you flogged a man to death or cut off his head, the thing was done in a few minutes, or maybe half an hour, but crucifixions took a long time, and you had to post a guard while the bastards died and then after they were dead, to keep relatives from stealing the bodies.

The only thing good about crucifixions in Jerusalem was the site. In Caesarea, criminals would be left on the cross until they rotted off, and then the dogs got them. But in Jerusalem there were just too many, so you had to take them down and dispose of them. And Golgotha, which someone had told him meant Place of Skulls, had been a stone quarry, so there were lots of deep holes in the rock. You dropped the corpse into one of the holes, dumped in a little quicklime, and that took care of it.

Still, it was boring duty. You stayed busy until the day's batch was nailed up but, after that, there was nothing to do except sit around and play dice.

At least this time Raetius was getting paid. Gideon, who wasn't a bad fellow, said his cousin wanted to be sure the execution was properly carried out, and the fifty silver pieces they had agreed on would be paid as soon as this Joshua was dead.

Raetius didn't care anything about reasons. One Jew wanted another killed, and who cared why. But if he had to take sides he would have preferred it the other way around, because he didn't much like Gideon's cousin. Joshua, though, would have made a good soldier.

Put a man under sentence of death and you find out fast enough what he's got inside him. Joshua didn't beg or cry or piss himself. He kept his dignity, which was a thing one had to respect. Of course, he would scream like all the others when the nails bit into him, but that didn't count.

He took the scourging pretty well.

In Caesarea the scourgings were carried out in public. It was entertainment for the crowds, who were mainly Greek and felt no kinship with the condemned. But in Jerusalem a public scourging might cause a riot, so they were done in the garrison, where there was no audience in front of whom a man might feel he had to display courage.

This morning there were three: two bandits and Joshua. Each man got a quarter of an hour by the water clock—if he collapsed, the clock was stopped until he was back on his feet, and then it started again. A quarter of an hour, not a minute less.

A quarter of an hour under the scourge was a long time. It ripped a man apart. The very air grew pink with blood. By the end, his whole body was covered with open, bleeding tears, and the wounds were sometimes deep enough to leave the bone exposed. It was not uncommon for the lash to take out a man's eyes.

Raetius ordered that Joshua go first. He was really doing him a favor, because scourging a man for a quarter of an hour is hard work, and the first man always got the worst of it. The worse the scourging, the weaker they were and the less time they had to spend dying on the cross.

Joshua was pretty good. He only went down once, not on his face but only on one knee, and he got back up on his own. He groaned a lot, but they all did. Who could help it?

Then came the hard part. Golgotha was less than half a mile from the garrison, but that was a long way for half-dead men who had to carry their crosspieces the whole distance. It was an ordeal.

Some men had to drag them, but Joshua simply picked his up, balanced it across his shoulders, and carried it. He did it as if he had been bearing such burdens all his life. Perhaps he had.

The whole route was outside the city walls, but there were always crowds and they were always hostile. It took at least thirty men to guard the prisoners and overawe the crowds. Any less and there was a good chance of a disturbance.

Less than half a mile, and it usually took at least an hour.

But it also served its purpose. Sometimes a man died before he ever reached the execution grounds, and the ones who didn't were worn down all the more. It just meant less time on the cross, which was better for everyone.

Once they reached Golgotha, it was time for the actual crucifixion.

Raetius had fought in scores of battles and had killed more men than he could remember. He was hardened to suffering—his own as well as others'. It did not bother him to drive nails into men's flesh and leave them to die. He could listen to them sob and beg for water or for death and feel no pity. His world was full of horrors, and he was accustomed to them.

Golgotha was a little hill, and it really did look like a skull. There was a path to the top, where the uprights were already in place, and the prisoners carried their crosspieces up that path and then threw the crosspieces to the ground and sat down on them.

For most of the soldiers, their job was done. They collected in little groups and had their midday meal. Some had wine in their canteens.

And while the others ate, a crew of four men, who had been especially trained, got to work crucifying the prisoners.

One after the other, the condemned were made to lie down on the ground, their shoulders resting against the crosspiece. Then their arms were roped to it, from about the center of the upper arm to the elbow. When all three were secure, a soldier with a bag of nails and a hammer went from one to the next.

The nails were driven into their forearms, about three fingers' width above their wrists. First a small piece of wood was positioned over the spot, which would prevent the condemned from pulling loose from the nail. Then the nail was driven through the piece of wood, through the arm, and into the crosspiece. First the right arm and then the left.

Everyone screamed. Everyone. Raetius was not sure why. He had seen men have a hand hacked off in battle without making a sound. But everyone screamed when their arms were nailed. With every stroke of the hammer, they screamed. They couldn't seem to help it.

The two bandits were done first, the younger one and then the older. The younger one wasn't even twenty, and he couldn't seem to grasp what was happening to him. He begged and pleaded and wept, and when the nails went in he screamed with that mingling of fear and pain one hears in children.

Then the older one, who took it better, and then Joshua. Joshua was good. He was a strong man. If he screamed, no one could hold that against him.

Then, on either side of the upright, wooden tripods were set up, each with a pulley dangling just beneath the apex. Ropes were run through the pulleys and tied to the ends of the crosspieces. The uprights were tapered at the top, and the crosspieces had holes at the center. A man would work each rope, hoisting up the crosspiece, with the prisoner dangling from it by his arms, and then a third man on a ladder would position the hole in the crosspiece over the top of the upright. Then the crosspiece was lowered into place.

Finally, the prisoners' feet were nailed to the sides of the upright. The nails went through the heels, and again were held in place by pieces of wood. Somehow that didn't seem to bother them as much. Perhaps there was some limit to how much pain can make itself felt.

Once the work was done, the crew could clean up and eat their meal. There was always extra wine for the crew.

When everything was finished, Raetius always took a little tour of inspection. He liked to look the condemned over and form some idea of how long they were likely to last. In Caesarea the men would lay bets on it, but in Jerusalem there were too many executions to leave a man hanging until he died. Tomorrow there would be another batch, and this lot would have to be thrown into a hole to make room.

So sometime before nightfall one of the crew would take a hammer and break their legs. They would die quick enough after that and, except for a small guard, everyone could go back to barracks.

The crosses weren't high. If a prisoner could somehow have gotten a foot free, he probably could have touched the ground with his toe. Raetius would look each of them straight in the face, just to see how they reacted. Then he would know.

The young bandit just whispered, “Please, please, please,” over and over. He seemed to be out of his head—that happened sometimes. The older bandit was conscious, but little more. Raetius thought that one wouldn't last very long.

Joshua was another matter. When Raetius spoke to him, Joshua licked his lips, which were caked with blood, and said, in Greek, “I forgive you.”

Raetius smiled.

“Don't forgive me yet,” he replied, his face no more than a span from Joshua's. “See how you feel about it in three or four hours.”

Joshua used his arms to push himself up and fill his lungs. A little cry of pain escaped him as his nailed wrists and feet took the weight. From now until he died, every breath would be agony.

“I forgive you,” he repeated. “I will pray for you.”

Raetius only shook his head and walked away. That one was strong, he thought to himself. In Caesarea, where the thing would have been done right, that one would last for days.

*   *   *

Noah came within sight of Golgotha just in time to see Joshua dragging himself up the little hill, carrying a large piece of lumber across his shoulders. At least he thought it was Joshua. The man was taller than the other two prisoners, but it was difficult to know for certain. He was covered in blood, even his face. At the sight, Noah could feel his eyes filling with tears. The Lord Eleazar had warned him, but it was still a shock.

Noah stopped and leaned against the city wall, struggling to recover himself. He could be of no use to Joshua if he could not mask his feelings.

In truth, he did not know if he could be of use—if he could bring himself to do the one thing that would spare Joshua from the full extremity of his suffering.

Tied to his belt was a small leather water pouch, which the Lord Eleazar had given him.

“I have mixed something in,” he had said. “It is slow to take hold, but it will ease the pain and, eventually, after a few hours, end his life. It is common for a man to die suddenly on the cross. The Romans will have no idea that you drugged him.”

“Thou shalt not kill,” said the commandment. It was not wrong to kill in war or in defense of one's own life, but would it be wrong to kill Joshua to end his ordeal?

May God guide me to the right choice,
he thought.

The consciousness of his dilemma helped to sober him. It was like ice in his heart.

Noah had had few dealings with Romans, and none with Roman soldiers. But he assumed that they were like other men—hardened, no doubt, by the brutal discipline of military life, a life inseparable from cruelty and death, but still subject to the customary human weaknesses.

So Noah, as a practical man, realized that he would have to appeal to those weaknesses. He would have to befriend these murderers and wheedle favors from them.

He began with the guard posted at the bottom of the little trail leading up to the execution ground.

“You can't go up there.”

The soldier scrambled to his feet. He was about sixteen, with copper-colored skin, tall and slender as a reed. From the way he barred the path, planting the butt of his spear in the dirt and holding it out at arm's length in front of him, he gave the impression that he thought he was protecting the whole Roman Empire.

“Why can't I?” Noah asked, careful to keep any hint of a challenge out of his voice. He spoke in Greek, since the boy's Latin was as imperfect as his own.

He thought he detected the hint of a smile, before Caesar's legionnaire remembered his dignity.

“You just can't.” The answer was also in Greek. “They don't allow anybody up there until they've finished.”

“Finished what?”

“The crucifixion. It takes a while. Once the prisoners are in place, then maybe.”

In place. It was an interesting way to put it.

“Then I'll have to wait,” Noah said. He sat down. He had been carrying a large jar, which he placed ostentatiously before him on the ground.

After a minute, the guard sat down too. He couldn't take his eyes off the jar.

“What's inside?” he asked finally.

“Wine. Would you like some?”

Noah had supplied himself with a dipper. Without waiting for a response, he broke the seal on the wine jar, lowered the dipper inside, and then offered it to the guard.

They drank to the accompaniment of inhuman screaming from the top of the hill. Noah fought hard to appear not to notice.

“They squeal like pigs, don't they,” the guard said, grinning. One could see that it affected him, but he was a soldier, and very young, and he wanted to appear callous.

“One of them is my cousin,” Noah answered, as if stating a neutral fact. He offered the guard another dipperful of wine. “Where are you from?”

“Alexandria.” The guard seemed grateful for the change of subject. He drained the wine and then added, “That's in Egypt.”

“I know. I've never been there, but I hear it's a beautiful city.”

“Not the part of it I come from.” He kept glancing up the trail. The top of the hill was not visible, but the screams of the condemned were an immediate presence.