Tell it Abroad

By Glen Moyer

Tell It Abroad introduces Andronicus, the third son of Simon of Cyrene, the bystander conscripted by the Roman centurions to assist Jesus of Nazareth in carrying his cross to Golgotha. Moyer adds flesh and bone to the brief mention of Andronicus in Paul's letter to the Romans, "Greet Andronicus and Junias

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookTrail Publishing
• Release date: May 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637670576

Glen Moyer

Glen Moyer, an ordained minister, entrepreneur, and retired dentist, has given motivational speeches and written first-person dramas for use in Christian settings and has published a novel set in the beginnings of the Christian church. He is an honors graduate of both Muhlenberg College in Allentown, Pennsylvania and Lancaster Theological Seminary in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He lives in Vermont with his wife of over fifty years, Suzanne.

Book preview

1

Remus!

I knew without looking that the voice was that of Cornelius, standing behind me. I also knew that any errand he would be sending me on was not an official one for the Romans. I sighed to myself and turned from the fire where I was warming myself and looked at him. His requests were always made of me since he assumed I would never report his unofficial activities because of my inability to speak clearly. I sighed to myself and looked up at him from my seat on the ground.

Remus, I have an important assignment. He said the last two words slowly, thinking it would help me understand him better. No one, but Marcellus, had a notion that I was not an idiot, no matter how often others referred to me that way. Marcellus and I had developed an ability to communicate over the years, so he suspected there was something going on behind my mumbled communications and my face that rarely showed expression.

Listen carefully, Cornelius continued, speaking with slow deliberate words. Go out behind the latrine. He paused and looked at me closely. You do know where that is, don’t you? I nodded, eagerly writhing inside, as I did so often at being condescended to. Good boy, dumb ox. Another title I hated, but one never used by Marcellus. Okay, you’ll have to go across the courtyard. Just ignore all the Jews milling about there. They’re just fussing about some prophet or other. So go back there at the latrine, again saying each of the last words slowly to make sure he got his message across to me, And gather a bunch of those thorn plants that grow there; gather them up for me. Understand? Thorn plants for me. I need to make a little, er, wreath about this big. He held up his hands in a circle the size of his face. Can you do that? I nodded again, wishing my inability to speak or even show any facial emotion had not plagued me all my life, but that was never going to change. Great. And bring them to me, understand, and not to Marcellus? I nodded again, knowing all too well that this was proof that the request was not an official order from my Roman keepers, but some stunt or other that Cornelius was up to. Well, get going! he barked. I had long ago learned that not fulfilling these sorts of odd requests would only lead to bad treatment of some sort, so I stood up and walked off with an obedient nod in his direction. Cornelius was smiling and rubbing his hands together, apparently eagerly anticipating some sort of practical joke.

The courtyard I had to cross was usually mostly empty, but today there was quite a crowd of people, mostly Jews, it seemed, all looking up to the portico where Pilate was standing, apparently waiting for something. One man I passed by was saying to another, What kind of choice is that? Barabbas or Jesus. Barabbas at least might help us lead a revolt against these damned Romans.

Yes, said another man. Jesus might be a nice guy and teacher. I understand he’s even healed some people, and others say he’s even walked on water. But that sure isn’t going to help us defeat the Romans. I say we pick Barabbas. And with that the two of them shouted, Give us Barabbas! Shortly there seemed to be a chant going through the crowd, yelling out for Barabbas’s release.

I worked my way through all the people to the other side of the courtyard to get to the latrine area to carry out my assignment. Very well, then, it was Pilate whose thin, whining voice that called out during a pause in the crowd’s yelling, you shall have Barabbas released to you. But then what shall I do with this Jesus called the Christ?

A man standing near the back of the crowd called out, Crucify him! which was followed by a series of similar shouts, Kill him. Crucify him. Put him to death. As I reached the other side of the courtyard, I saw Pilate hold up his hands toward the crowd and shout out, asking, Why? What has he done?

It doesn’t matter! someone shouted. Just put him to death.

Yes, crucify him! shouted another. As I left the courtyard, it was only a short walk to the latrines. Even here, I could continue to hear the people all yelling. Behind the latrine were brambles and thorn plants of all sorts growing in an ignored plot of dirt. So like me, I thought, ignored except when needed for some dirty job. I gathered up a half dozen of the thorny plants by breaking them off near the ground where there were fewer stiff thorns. My hands were callused from years of manual work, so they didn’t bother me anyway, and I gathered them up.

I could hear Pilate speaking to the crowd again, but couldn’t make out his words. Whatever he said did not seem to matter to the crowd, and they began to chant again for the death of Jesus. Sounds like it’s all over for him, I thought to myself. Less than a week ago, the city had been in a great stir about this Jesus coming into Jerusalem, and that had almost turned into a riot. Some of my captors had wondered if they were going to have to take some sort of crowd control action, but this man and his followers apparently didn’t break any rules, so the Romans just ignored the incident, although Cornelius had scoffed about the Jews expecting this carpenter from the north becoming king and defeating Rome. He had marveled at the stupidity of the people and laughed mockingly about their futile hopes.

As I got to the other side of the courtyard, I could see Cornelius standing with several of the other soldiers. So, when I took this teacher to Herod’s palace, he just stood there in front of the great Herod, like he was totally stupid. It was unbelievable; he just stood there as Herod asked him to perform a miracle for him. Useless as a hole in the road, sort of like dumb ox, here, and with that he patted me on the head like a dog, even though I was almost as tall as him. Several of the soldiers standing there joined in the laughter. I held out the thorny bouquet toward Cornelius.

Well, look at these, he exclaimed. He’s not totally useless after all. Just lay them there. I’ll take care of them. Good work, boy. And he patted me on the head again, ruffling my hair in the process. It annoyed me, because he could not have been but a few years older than me. Come on, guys, let’s make this Jewish king a crown, eh? And he and his cohorts walked off with the weeds as if I wasn’t even there.

I sighed to myself again and walked back to the fire to keep warm until there would be some official job for me to do. Apparently there was going to be at least one crucifixion, so Marcellus would eventually call out for me, and I should be near enough to hear him call me. I could hear activity continuing in the courtyard and apparently a beating was going on in the praetorium. I had gotten used to some of the Roman cruelties, but the scourge seemed among the worst. Only the crucifixion process seemed worse. After awhile, I could hear the crowd in front of Pilate’s palace chanting something in unison. I walked over to the archway and heard Pilate’s thin voice crying out over the confusion.

Behold, your king, he said with great mockery. And I could see Cornelius shove Jesus out onto the portico next to Pilate. Jesus had thorns wrapped around the top of his head. He was bleeding from the scourging I had just heard and looked weak and vulnerable. So, continued Pilate, what shall I do with him? He seemed to expect the crowd to pity the suffering man next to him. I could also see Cornelius smirking at the crowd from the side.

There was a pause of silence that seemed to thicken the air, but suddenly the crowd burst forth:

Crucify him. Put him to death.

Pilate held up his hands for silence which slowly spread through the crowd. If Pilate had expected the crowd to change its mind, he was completely wrong. From all I had heard of Pilate’s relationships with the Jews, he had never been very successful at winning them over. Indeed, he seemed to blunder his way through his governorship from what many said behind his back in the palace and the barracks. Those who knew of my inability to speak weren’t afraid to say their true thoughts in front of me, and many held Pilate in contempt as being inept. Some wondered how much longer Rome would tolerate him before replacing him.

Pilate looked at Jesus and then back at the crowd. Very well, do what you want with him. I wash my hands of this whole affair. Take him away. Pilate waved his hand in the direction of Cornelius and stormed back into the palace as Cornelius advanced, grabbed Jesus and led him away. I knew we’d be heading toward Golgatha soon and so returned to the fire to wait.

2

I had barely sat down when I heard Marcellus: Remus! He was coming toward me and then stood in front of me as I stood up once again. You can get things ready. That’s three for the hill. He held up three fingers so he would be sure I understood. Even after all these years together, he was never sure I fully understood him. I nodded and held up three fingers to confirm. Just then Cornelius came by nearly dragging Jesus behind him.

Let’s get going, king of the Jews, shouted Cornelius, suddenly standing still and shoving Jesus to the stones in front of him.

Marcellus was shaking his head slowly and scowling. I hope you’re happy with your fun times, Cornelius. You’ve done a good job on him.

Don’t blame me. I didn’t order the beating. That was Pilate’s doing!

I know that. But the thorns, the robe, the mockery, it’s all childish foolishness. You’re just a kid playing at soldier.

Listen, Marcellus, I have had it with your uppity ways. Just because you come from a family of wealth in the city, and I’m a country boy, doesn’t make you any better than me. How often have I heard this argument before? I thought.

But I’m your commanding officer, and if you want to avoid the whip yourself, you know you had better get that prisoner down to the staging area, and I mean now! Am I making myself clear? Cornelius nodded and grabbed the prisoner’s shoulder and lifted him to his feet.

Let’s move it there! said Cornelius as he and Jesus left. Marcellus shook his head and gave a swift kick to a loose stone, sending it across the courtyard.

If I didn’t like him, I’d court-martial his stupid ass right out of this army. As always, Marcellus felt free to speak his thoughts in front of me, knowing I couldn’t really tell anyone about them. I had often seen and heard the two of them, good friends at times, and at other times just as ready to draw swords on each other. I especially recalled them getting drunk together and then fighting over whose prostitute had been the prettiest that evening. Cornelius would insist that Marcellus had more money and so got the prettier woman. And since Marcellus was higher rank, Cornelius always ended up yielding in every dispute. I sighed to myself and got up to head for the storage area. When I got there, I loaded my large wicker basket with six iron spikes, three longer spikes, some pegs, a mallet, and assorted ropes and rags, and carried it out to the staging area behind Pilate’s palace. Several soldiers were bringing two prisoners up from the jail section, and Cornelius was pushing Jesus along in front of him.

Move along, king of the Jews, laughed Cornelius as he shoved him forward into the open staging area. Gaius, get out three crossbars, and let’s get going here, he shouted.

Marcellus liked everything in order, and everyone knew it. Three soldiers pulled crossbars off a heap on one side and dragged them forward. It was a common, almost daily, routine. Gaius would lead the parade with a few other soldiers to make way through the streets and open a path through the crowds. The two thieves were each pointed toward a crossbar. Pick them up, one for each of you. It’ll only be worse for you if you don’t. Gaius cracked a small whip at the prisoners’ feet, and they hopped and swore at the Roman, but lunged at the crossbars and picked them up.

Smart boys to obey but not smart enough to avoid getting caught, heh? sneered Cornelius. Then he turned to Jesus, who was barely able to stand up, it seemed. You, too. Pick that third one up, and he shoved the bleeding man toward the remaining crossbar. He grabbed Jesus’s cloak and lifted him almost off his feet. C’mon, let’s see your stuff, mister. Show us what you’re made of, king of the Jews! and he snorted a brief laugh.

That’s enough, Cornelius! it was Marcellus. Just get him in line with the rest. And I mean now!

The two stared at each other with a moment of hatred, and then Cornelius whirled away toward his charge. Okay, pick it up, king of Jews! Cornelius said it with as much childish mockery as he could manage. Jesus stumbled forward to pick up the remaining crossbar. I couldn’t sort out how this man could possibly be accused of being a king. The bleeding man glanced at Marcellus, and next at me for just a brief moment. He tipped his head a bit and seemed to nod at me. Then shuddering in pain, he bent over and placed the crossbar on his bleeding shoulder.

And with that, the soldiers were lined up for the processional to Golgotha. Marcellus walked toward the head of the line at the gate leading to the street. He always walked the line to make sure all was in order. First were Gaius and a few soldiers, then a thief and one soldier who was to make sure that the prisoner stayed in line, and then the second thief with his guard, and then Jesus with Cornelius to keep him in check. Marcellus came to where I was standing near Jesus.

It all looks good, Remus. Come on. And with that, we filled in at the rear of the line, he with his spear in hand and me carrying the large basket of supplies. All the soldiers were delighted that I was here to take on a job none of them really liked: handling the tools and nails and all the bloodied items used in the crucifixions. As far as I was concerned, it was just the price I had to pay for a place to live and food to eat, such as it was. All the years since I had run away from home seemed but a blur in retrospect, but I could never see any way out of this trap, this routine in which I had placed myself. It was all the result of my own choices, but I couldn’t see any way out, so this was just my lot in life, me an almost mute Jewish young man, far from home and struggling to communicate every day. Marcellus had been the only one to try and connect with me, so I treasured his apparent caring for me, but was never really able to tell him that.

All right, Gaius, shouted Marcellus, open the gate, and let’s get moving. With that, Gaius opened the heavy wooden door on the courtyard. Milling crowds outside apparently were blocking the exit, but not for long, as Gaius and two of the other soldiers brandished their swords and threatened the crowd with spear points. There was a lot of yelling, more than usual, it seemed, but a path through the crowd quickly opened up, and our procession to Golgotha got under way.

As we passed through the gateway into the street, a soldier closed the door behind us as Cornelius jabbed at Jesus. The bleeding man was weaker than most of the prisoners who were forced to march out to the hill, but Cornelius seemed to have a special interest in prodding him on. C’mon, king of the Jews. Move on there. The prisoner struggled under the weight of the crossbar but moved on with the rest of the procession.

Often there were a few people in the streets just wanting to see what was going on, probably thankful that they were not condemned to die, or enjoying the misery of a fellow human being in trouble. Today there seemed to be a few more than usual, mostly interested in our third victim, Cornelius’s charge.

This was an unusual crucifixion, in my eyes. Very rarely were the prisoners beaten up as much as this Jesus. Sometimes they were beaten a bit to weaken them, but the Romans wanted the criminals to be in good enough shape when they were put on the cross so that the torture would last as long as possible. Marcellus once observed to me that the point of a crucifixion was not so much to kill the criminal as to have the torture of the crucifixion act as a way to keep others fearful of breaking the laws. But it also seemed to me that what the Romans really wanted was for the criminals to be able to carry the crossbar to the hill themselves. The soldiers would never do that themselves: too heavy, too hard work, and it was part of the punishment, anyway.

3

Jesus was struggling under the weight of the wood with all the blood loss and the beating he had already had. We had not gone very far when he fell and could barely stand up, let alone carry the crossbar. Cornelius came over and gave him a kick.

Get up! he shouted. You’ve got to carry that to the hill, so get moving.

Jesus tried to stand up, but he seemed too weak and tired to comply with Cornelius’s mockery. Come on now, king of the Jews, show us your stuff! Jesus tried to pick up the crossbar again, but couldn’t seem to bear the weight. Cornelius leaned down over Jesus, looking him in the face. What good are you, huh? And he kicked him again. Jesus groaned and seemed to be looking around, first toward me then at the surrounding crowd. Marcellus looked at the scene with disgust. It seems obvious, Cornelius, that the fun you have all had has weakened him too much. And a crown of thorns? What’s that all about?

They were saying he was a king. Seemed he needed a crown.

Childish idiocy, snapped Marcellus. Jesus tried to lift up the crossbar again and fell once more.

So what now? Cornelius scoffed toward Marcellus.

If you don’t want to carry it for him, get someone from the crowd to do it. We’ve got to keep moving.

Yes, sir. Cornelius looked over the crowd just around him. You there, today is your lucky day. And Cornelius reached at random into the crowd and grabbed the cloak of one of the onlookers. You get to carry the crossbar of the king of the Jews. The man stumbled forward, pulled by his clothes into the procession.

Boys, said the man in a voice that sounded familiar to me. The two of you, go to your uncle’s house.

But, father … said the one.

Come on, pick it up, or it’ll be all the worse for you, shouted Cornelius, throwing the man toward Jesus’s crossbar.

Yes, yes, sir, he said in halting Latin, and then yelled to the two boys in an accent I had not heard in years. Go on to your uncle. You know the way. Our God will protect me. And with that, he picked up the crossbar as the two young men dashed off into the crowd.

My mind was swirling for a moment. The voice sounded familiar Almost like my father, I thought to myself. I stood still for a moment and was startled by Marcellus: Remus, what’s the matter with you? Get moving! I nodded to him and continued on, carrying the heavy basket.

I tried to advance forward into the procession so as to take a closer look at the man carrying Jesus’s crossbar to see if it could possibly be my father, but Marcellus liked everything in order. If I got too far out of line, he might get angry, and that was never pleasant for anyone. And I didn’t want that someone to be me. I tried to make sense of it. Could those two young men be my two brothers, who I had not seen in almost a decade since I left home in Cyrene? And this man randomly pulled from the crowd by Cornelius, could this man be my father? How was that possible? We marched on toward the hill. My mind was whirling in confusion: my father did have a brother in Jerusalem, who would be the uncle whom I had never met or given even a thought to. And in the past, my father had come to Jerusalem for the high holy days on several occasions. But this seemed all too impossible. And yet, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that this was meant to be, somehow.

We continued on our way to Golgotha, forcing our way through the crowded streets, stopping occasionally as Gaius would have to disperse some of the people to open up a path. These death processions through these streets were always difficult, because Jerusalem is a busy city most of the time, except on the Sabbaths, when the Jews stayed home. But at this particular holiday time, the crowds were worse than usual.

Whenever there was an execution, there were a few people who looked on, some even throwing rocks at the prisoners. I suspected that sometimes the rocks were intended for the soldiers, but a prisoner who was about to die anyway was a better target. On occasion a stone would strike a soldier, and the scene that ensued was awful. If the person who threw it was caught, he would be beaten. If he got away, anyone in the crowd would do as an example of what would happen for someone attacking the Romans. Today, however, it seemed that a lot of people were thronging about just to see this Jesus.

At one turn in the street, there stood several women, greatly distressed and weeping. Jesus, oh my Jesus, cried one of them. Another woman yelled out toward Cornelius: What have you done to my Lord? but Cornelius didn’t know much of the Jewish language and just walked on, ignoring the question he didn’t really understand.

Jesus turned to the women and said, Daughters of Jerusalem, don’t weep for me but for yourselves. The day is coming when women who have not had children will be glad of it and will cry out for the mountains to fall on them.

Cornelius suddenly realized that his charge had fallen behind and grabbed Jesus. C’mon, keep moving! and he shoved Jesus forward into the man carrying the crossbar, who stumbled at the collision. And you, pick that up. Let’s keep moving. The man looked at Jesus as he picked up the crossbar, and I was able to see his face.

Yes, I thought to myself, that could be my father, but it has been so many years. I sighed as I continued to carry the basket of tools. The crowding was even worse than usual, and I couldn’t possibly get any nearer to look at him further. I decided that I had to get a closer look as soon as we got to Golgotha. The rest of the procession went without incident. Jesus seemed weak but managed to keep pace with the rest of us.

When we got to the crucifixion site, we proceeded as normal. Cornelius shoved the innocent man carrying Jesus’s crossbar. Over there, he shouted, pointing toward the central hole, and the man took the crossbar there and threw it to the ground. Cornelius growled at him: Now go! and pointed back toward the city. The man seemed relieved to go, having been unharmed in much of the process, and ran to leave the hill. In his haste, he nearly collided with me, and for a moment our eyes met.

Excuse me, he mumbled in a voice I was sure I recognized. He was older than I remembered, skin more wrinkled, hair grayer, but almost certainly him. I realized there was no way he would recognize me. In the years since I had run away, my muscles had developed more, I was taller, and I now had a beard and longer hair. And, of course, I was dressed as a Roman slave. I gasped at the near collision, and then he was gone off into the crowd. I had to attend to my duties or be in trouble. After locating the basket centrally to the three cross holes we were going to use, I helped move the crossbars about.

During it all, I thought to myself: He looked so much older! Then it occurred to me that having one’s son disappear and not knowing why or how or whether he was alive or not, could age one. Of course, just the passage of that many years would also make a difference at his age, as it had with me. But even so …

4

Remus! Marcellus interrupted my thoughts. Let’s get on with it. As always, he was eager to proceed as quickly as possible.

And then it happened: the prisoners were set up and the spikes driven. The last was going to be Jesus. As always, there was yelling and screaming, and blood everywhere. After fastening Jesus to the crossbar, Marcellus handed me the bloodied mallet to wipe off, not for hygienic reasons, but so that the handle wouldn’t be slippery the next time it was needed. I took it in my hands and then almost dropped it! It felt as if it was on fire. I glanced at it and then at Marcellus, but he didn’t seem to notice anything. It was as if this last prisoner’s blood was burning hot. I looked at my hands and felt the warmth spreading up my arms and through my whole body. I was not able to move, and the heat traveled rapidly everywhere within me, a tingling sensation especially rushing into my face and head. I felt for a moment that I might explode or collapse or just burst into flame perhaps. I stood transfixed holding the bloody mallet and looking about.

I glanced up at the one named Jesus on the cross, and in spite of his agony, I thought for a moment that he glanced at me with a tender passing smile. It happened so rapidly that I couldn’t make sense of it all at first, and then it seemed like light burst upon me from all around, or perhaps from within somehow. I felt as if someone had flung open a door in a darkened room, and there was the sudden flooding of full sunlight everywhere. I stood shaking a bit, staring around, looking finally at the mallet and the blood covering my hands, and slowly started to mechanically wipe it all clean, but I felt as if everything was moving too slowly, and yet too fast all at the same time. After what seemed like a long time, I dropped the cleaned mallet and the bloodied rag into the basket with the rest of the tools, but continued to stare at my hands. They were still bloody and dirty but somehow felt cleaner than I could ever remember. I just stood there staring at them. Finally, after the flurry of activity that accompanied the beginning of every crucifixion, Marcellus walked over to me.

I must have had a strange look on my face, because he stared at me with an odd look and asked: Hey, Remus, you all right? I couldn’t respond at first, but that was not unusual. He was used to having to repeat questions and allow time for a response to come from me, usually in some sort of signed language. He repeated himself, a little louder, but I suddenly realized that it wasn’t necessary, somehow.

I looked at him, my eyes wide, almost fearful, and spoke clearly and understandably for the first time in my entire life: I am perfectly all right, sir. We both froze and stared at each other, he looking at me with great puzzlement and perhaps wonder; I was trying to decide if the voice that had just spoken so clearly was actually mine.

Remus, he said, bringing his face close to mine, what did you just say?

I took a deep breath, and then spoke, I am perfectly fine, sir, better than I have ever been in my entire life. He gave me a baffled look, as if he wasn’t sure he had heard right. I continued: It’s that prisoner’s blood, sir, as I nodded my head toward the central cross, His blood—it has somehow changed me.

What the hell are you talking about, Remus?

His blood—it felt like fire in my hands and up my arm and into my head. It has somehow changed me, and I feel like I’ll never be the same again.

Marcellus looked at me and shook his head: Remus, that doesn’t really make any damn sense, does it? I nodded, because it didn’t make sense, but there I was, speaking normally, able to communicate and make myself understood completely. What, I wondered, had just happened?

As we stared at each other, there was an enormous clap of thunder, and Jesus cried out. It seemed as if the earth shook, and the few onlookers were mumbling. Marcellus looked at me and asked, So how the hell could this change have happened? Who is this guy, anyway?

"I heard some of the people in the crowd say things about him. Many of them thought he was the Messiah, the Son of God.

Really? scoffed Marcellus. Look at this guy. What the hell kind of God lets this happen to his son?

Well, I overheard some of them saying he performed some miracles. Some were wondering why he wasn’t saving himself. Some of what I heard seemed to indicate that he performed signs many expect from the Messiah. As I was explaining this to my keeper, there was a flash of lightning followed by terrible darkness. Marcellus looked at me and frowned. He had heard my clear speech in an understandable voice he had never heard from me before. He just shook his head slowly and then looked up at Jesus’s cross and said, almost mockingly, So, really, this was the son of God?

Time often drags on at crucifixions; the process can be a long and slow one, but for the first time in the many years I had helped with these executions, I was becoming impatient. Usually the tedious boredom of waiting for the prisoners to die didn’t bother me; I really had nothing else to occupy my time, and I thought of it as part of the price I had to pay for my keep. Now, however, I felt a need to be elsewhere, to leave, to do something else, something more positive and more worthwhile. I glanced up at the central cross and remembered my father carrying that crossbar. I instantly knew I had to find him as soon as possible.

Sir, I said to Marcellus, that man that carried the cross for this Jesus, that was my father.

Who?! exclaimed Marcellus. I thought you were an orphan, Remus.

I lied to keep myself safe, and there’s never been a reason to tell the truth, if I could have made myself understood, that is. I was only too glad to get away from my father and brothers, but now … now … with this change … this … this healing … I know I need to find him and my family. Sir, I’m asking permission to leave, to find my father, whom I haven’t seen in almost ten years now. This is important to me. I need to do this. I could feel my heart beating rapidly inside of me. I couldn’t believe I was being so bold or brash toward Marcellus. I had seen others act similarly and receive violent rebuffs or worse. I held my breath, waiting for the worst, a beating or something; I wasn’t sure what might happen. The silent stare from Marcellus frightened me, as it felt like time was standing still.

5

Marcellus looked about at the hill as the wind was picking up, and a storm seemed to be rising. He stared at me with a sternness I had seen him save for dealing with unruly prisoners. Listen, he said, Remus, or whoever the hell you are, if you leave, don’t bother returning. Leaving now, in the middle of this execution, can only be seen as desertion, and you could be pursued and punished for it.

I had never had him speak to me so distantly, so coldly, before. As the storm seemed to worsen, and wind whipped about us, I could only stare at him. If you think I’ve been deliberately deceiving you all these years, I haven’t. What would be the reason? How could I maintain a charade like that for all these years? I don’t understand what has happened, but I only know that I’ve experienced an unexplainable change. I could not speak; I could not connect my thoughts or even think clearly, but that has all changed, suddenly, and it seems to have something to do with the blood of this man. I nodded toward Jesus’s cross.

And? I could tell Marcellus was becoming impatient.

I need to go and find my father and brothers, whom I have not seen for almost ten years, sir.

Marcellus looked at me. There was a brief look of puzzlement in his face, very unlike his usual sternness and certainty. The he shrugged and seemed to sigh. Well, I don’t understand. Go if you must, but you cannot and may not ever return. Do you understand? He set his face close to mine. I repeat, he said with a hiss in his voice, do you understand?

I nodded. Yes, but what about being a deserter? I know you’ve often pursued and killed soldiers who have gone away. I just want to—

Marcellus interrupted me. Damn it, mister, whoever you are, listen, I can only promise that your disappearance will go uninvestigated. You are neither a Roman nor a soldier. You’re a worthless slave, a piece of dirt, and a Jew, so we cannot take time to worry about you if you leave. Only know this: once you’ve gone, you are not to return. Ever. That would be totally unacceptable.

There was a long pause, and finally I said, Thank you, sir.

Very well, he snorted.

Sir, I said as I was turning to leave, just so you know. My real name is Andronicus.

Marcellus almost seemed to smile. Quite a mouthful, that name. Hell, no wonder I could never figure it out. Whatever! To me, you shall always be Remus.

I nodded, as did he. Suddenly, he turned and pointed at one of the younger soldiers and shouted, You there, grab that basket of supplies and move it over behind the center cross, and find the dice for me. This one man’s cloak is worth a little gambling, I think.

It was as if I wasn’t there, and he walked away. The man who had been a second father to me seemed not to notice as I stood there staring at the cross for a moment, and then Jesus cried out in his own language, with which I had grown up. Marcellus glanced at the cross and then spun about to look at me. He pointed at me and shouted, You there, did you understand what he said? I didn’t quite get it all.

Yes, sir, he said, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’

Ahh, not a very favored son of God, eh? He paused, and looked at me with almost mockery, Something you would understand, I suspect, Andronicus, and as he said my name, he looked at me as if he had never seen me before. Just then, Jesus cried out again, and Marcellus looked at me. And now what did he say? I was startled to be asked, for Marcellus knew some of our language, some of the more usual phrases one might hear in this situation.

He said he was thirsty, sir.

Ah, yes, he said, and turned to one of the young soldiers. You, there, get me some of that damned vinegar and a sponge on a stick for this prisoner, and move it, and he glanced up at the central cross for a moment. Then he looked at me and said, You, there! Unless you’re a relative of this man, we normally don’t allow common people to stand around this close. Move on. I could see a mixture of emotions in his face, but it passed as he turned away and moved over to some of the other soldiers who were laughing and tossing dice.

He never looked back at me, but just walked away. I thought I could detect a little hesitation in his stride and a bit of a slump in his posture. But he had turned away from me as if he had gone to another land. Emotions welled up in me, and I felt like rejoicing and shouting for joy, while also feeling a sense of loss, for I felt as if Marcellus had just totally disappeared from my life. I could feel tears in my eyes as the wind picked up, and I wasn’t sure if I was mourning the loss of Marcellus or having tears of joy flooding through me at my newfound wholeness. I stood frozen to the spot for a while, but nothing except the wind seemed to touch me. The soldiers were going about their business as usual. Cornelius was laughing and making fun of the prisoners as he often did. And I was suddenly just a part of the clump of people observing the execution.

Give me the dice, Cornelius shouted. I’m feeling lucky for a change.

Not damn likely, laughed Marcellus. The two of them knelt down and began casting lots, oblivious to the ongoing execution.

Ah-ha, laughed Cornelius. Beat that if you can.

Damn it, Cornelius, would you dare to cheat with me?

Oh, are you a sore loser, sir? mocked Cornelius.

Forget it. Marcellus stomped off. Cornelius was laughing, too loudly, I thought. He shouted after Marcellus, Want to make it two out of three? Or too cowardly to try? After what seemed like a long time, with great almost palpable tension in the air, but was probably only seconds, Marcellus turned and came back.

You’re a damn fool, Cornelius, he said grabbing the dice from Cornelius, who only laughed more. I couldn’t tolerate any more of their childishness and turned to head for the city with a mixture of emotions still swirling within me. The wind and the darkness continued to get worse as I walked away.

6

As I entered the city gate, I quickly determined that my first priority should be to locate my uncle’s home. As a tanner, it seemed that I should be able to locate it without too much trouble, but there was no one in the streets except a few Romans and other unbelievers, as the Jews were all inside their homes in observation of the Sabbath, which had already begun. The few people I did find were not from Jerusalem and couldn’t help me. The darkness and storminess continued to get worse. The rain had made puddles in some areas. I wondered if I washed my hands if the healing effects would go away. Would I lose this newfound ability to talk clearly? In frustration, I sat down on the ground and wept. The cold winds and shaking earth continued on as a sat there not knowing what to do. Slowly I reached down into a puddle and looked at my reflection in the water. Will it go away? Will this feeling end? I sighed in misery. I have to clean off sometime, I thought to myself. If this feeling of being healed and whole goes away, I might as well do it now and get it over with.

I plunged my hands into the puddle and rubbed them, almost too vigorously. I waited, but nothing seemed to change. Can I still talk like a normal person? I said out loud to no one. My voice was still clear and understandable. It was not my usual garbled mumble. I sighed, and wept with joy and frustration. I reached into the puddle and rinsed my face. The cold water seemed almost icy, but thrilling at the same time. I waited a moment and stood up in the rain, looking up into the cloudy sky and cried out, Is this it? Lord God, have you really healed me for good? There was no answer, but a breeze was blowing down the street. It seemed as if I was changed permanently. But to what end? I thought.

I sat down on the ground and sighed. I had no idea what to do or how to proceed. God, if you are really doing this to help me, I’m lost here. What am I to do? What …? What …? I was elated and angry and hopeful and frustrated all at the same time. I sat in the cold and rain, not knowing where to turn.

Suddenly I saw the feet of several people shuffling through the street; they were talking quietly to each other, and one of the women was weeping steadily. They stopped in front of me, and I looked up. I recognized them from the crucifixion earlier, and the man said to me, Young man, are you lost? Do you have someplace to go to get away from this storm?

I looked up. I’m looking for my family. My father and two brothers are staying here in Jerusalem with my uncle, a tanner in the city. I … I have been, um, separated from them, and now I’m lost and don’t have any idea where my uncle lives.

One man reached down and took my hand. My name is John. He almost kneeled in front of me to look in my eyes.

My name is Andronicus.

Young man, he said, you shouldn’t remain out in this weather. Come with us to dry off and get warm. Perhaps we can make connections later to find your family.

I looked at him closely. He apparently did not recognize me from the hill, or didn’t care, or hoped to seek some sort of revenge on me. My garb was more Roman than Jewish. I wondered if they knew the role I had played or of my connection with the Roman soldiers. I was actually too tired and confused with my new feelings to care. I was miserable and alone and frustrated at not knowing where to find my father.

Please, I mean you no harm. I guessed he sensed my fear, but John seemed like a kind man who could be trusted. He gently pulled on my hand with his, and I didn’t even think about it, but just gave in.

Something inside of me, or perhaps outside of me, seemed to tell me I would be okay with these people. Could this be God answering my prayer? I thought. Without further thinking, I yielded to his hand and went with them.

Thoughts rushed through my head: What if they knew who I was and would take revenge for this Jesus’s death on me? What if, what if, just rushed through my mind, but at that point, cold and miserable, lost and alone, I didn’t resist. My mind rushed back to more than a decade before when I stood on a boat deck hoping I wouldn’t be killed. At that time, I had trusted all would turn out all right, that the God my father trusted in so much would help me out of that difficult situation.

I suddenly realized that somehow the God of our fathers had protected me back then and had now brought me through to this moment. Certainly, I thought, God wouldn’t have brought me this far, and healed me in some miraculous way, only to have me be killed when I’m just starting to feel that I have finally begun to live. I walked with them a short distance and then up into a room on the second floor where others were gathered. They all seemed sad but welcomed me with some understandable reservation.

I spent the evening with several of these men, who called themselves disciples. There was much talk of what to do, much sorrow over the death of their leader, and confusion about the future. It was a sad and confusing time for all of them. Being a stranger among them, of course, they didn’t talk to me, but I could overhear their discussions. I was afraid that they wouldn’t know what to do with me if they knew that I’d helped crucify their Jesus, or what they’d think about me being healed by His blood there on Golgotha.

Eventually I felt that I had to sleep, exhausted as I was from the busy day, from the changes in my mind, and from unfamiliar feelings and thoughts. At first I fought the need to sleep, for fear that when I woke up, I’d discover that this was some sort of crazy dream and that I was just sleeping in the courtyard waiting for the crucifixion walk to the hill to begin.

But, I reasoned, I’ll have to sleep sometime. If this has been a dream, or if I wake up among these strangers unable to talk again, it will all happen sometime anyway. I found a corner of the room and curled up on the floor, too tired to think about it any further.

The morning, of course, would be the Sabbath. Not that it mattered to me. In all my years with the Romans, I had never really observed a Sabbath or any Jewish holiday. Every day was the same in an endless progression. I had long lost any sense of what day of the week it was, because it didn’t really matter to me. Observant Jews would find that the restrictions on traveling on the Sabbath were important, but I really didn’t care. I just wanted desperately to find my family. My mind was reeling with passions and thoughts about my family. The storm that had been raging outside seemed to be whirling about in my mind and body. Finally, collapsed in a corner of the room, I tried to shut out all the discussion, as these men continued to talk quietly—some mourning, some angry, all confused. Everything would have to wait until the morning, I decided. Trying to find my uncle in the dark of the night on a Sabbath morning would be impossible, and I resigned myself to sleep. As the darkness of my exhaustion seemed to close in over me, I let go to some much-needed rest. I decided I would try and make sense of all this when I woke up and would be more rested.

7

The morning of the Sabbath dawned. To me it was just another day, but hopefully the day I would be reunited with my family after a decade or so. Several men were gathered together, apparently still trying to make sense of their sorrow. They seemed distracted and unsure of what to do, but none of that really mattered to me. I walked over to one of the men, a tall burly man. Excuse me, sir, I said. But I was wondering if someone could help me.

Possibly, but I don’t know, for sure. What can I do for you? I’m Peter. And you are …?

I’m Andronicus.

I believe John brought you here last evening, right?

Yes, I was lost here in the city. I’m originally from Cyrene.

Ah, far away.

Yes, but I learned yesterday that my family is here in the city for the holy days. I’ve been separated from them for many years and would like to find them.

I don’t think I understand.

It’s a rather long story, and I thought that another lie in my history wouldn’t matter. "I was brought here by the Romans, kidnapped several years ago, and my family doesn’t even know I’m alive and here, and until yesterday I had no idea they were here. I really need