Words of The Lamb magazine

The clamor of my helmet onto the stone table rang down the hall, only briefly overpowering a peal of laughter. I wiped blood from my hands, now stained as though I had been pressing grapes. One of my companions, himself wiping blood and sweat from his face, passed me, carrying a long reed.

I stepped out into the small courtyard and looked around; we had been allotted only a short span to do our job, but this was the work of an artist. My eyes found the thing I sought. A tall vine nearly dominated one of our compound walls; upon approaching it, I tugged at it, and it stubbornly held its shape. Perfect for weaving; I smiled as I cut a length down.

The weaving was not hard; as children, we learned to weave circlets of branches together and use them as crowns. This was hardly different, although the barbs stung my hand somewhat. I recalled my childhood with a smile; what fun I used to have with the rabbits who found their way into my grasp. I had been a troubled little beast at one time; even the wild dogs came to fear me in the woods near our home. But my father’s whip and mandatory enlistment had honed my compulsions into a skill. The centurions were more than impressed by my passion for the job. I had gained quite the reputation in Gaul.

I re-entered our workspace just as I finished the final braid, acknowledging my winded comrades with a glance. Our subject’s ribs and shoulders were blue and swollen, and his blood had made a small lake on the reeking floor. Amazingly, amidst the sounds of other prisoners wailing in the distant halls of the Praetorium, he did not even whimper. A small part of us admired his fortitude, although we all knew there would be a great thrill in breaking him.

“So, dog,” I said, “you fancy yourself a king?” I held up my creation. My comrades roared with laughter. Atticus smiled and disappeared; shortly, he returned with a dirty purple sheet. As I grasped the rebel’s matted hair, amazingly, he stood on his own. He was strangely resilient for a Jew. Stubborn people. All at once, a flood of rage washed over me, and I punched him in the stomach; there he knelt and waited.

The tiara I had made found its perfect fit on his head; the thorns tore his flesh and dug into his brow and scalp. The blood poured freshly onto his marred shoulders but was soon soaked up by the purple cloth, draped like a kingly robe. The reed, which was now covered in his blood, flesh, and hair, was placed in his hand. A perfect scepter.

I swept my cape in a long bow. “Hail! King of the Jews!” It was a deliciously blasphemous utterance, and we all laughed loudly at my joke.

But in his eyes, besides the pain, was no anger, nor fear or resentment. He spoke no words but breathed the rapid, panicked breaths of a man in shock. He looked at each of us, slowly and deliberately. Our smiles vanished.

After a few moments of silence, Felix at last spoke, “Barabbas was a lot more fun.”

The centurion answered, “Pluck his beard then; it’ll be time soon.”