An Easter story
©
2013 Jeannie St. John Taylor
The details about Roman society as well as
the story and facts about Jesus are accurate. Quintus is fictional.
Nobody
was stronger or braver than Qunitus’ dad. One hundred Roman soldiers obeyed his
every command. If he told them to build a siege tower twenty houses tall, they
did it. If he instructed them to crush a wall with an iron battering ram, it
happened. He wore red under his heavy armor and never left the house without a
dagger and a sword.
Quintus
wanted to be just like him. That’s why Quintus followed him everywhere. And
that’s how the boy met Jesus.
Quintus squatted on a boulder beside
the road that drifted down the Mount of
Olives. Whispered rumors had tipped
off his father that a man who claimed to be the Jewish Messiah planed to cause
a riot during Passover. So Dad led soldiers carrying heavy shields and javelins
to this spot to wait. And Quintus followed. Now he watched his father standing,
feet wide apart and hands gripping a sword in front of him. Dad’s eyes scanned
the area for problems. He’ll quash any troublemakers,
Quintus thought. His heart swelled with pride.
For a while, everything seemed peaceful.
Birds twittered in the trees overhead, a
cisium,
an open carriage with two wheels, rumbled past.
Then Quintus heard the distant roar
of a crowd. The sound grew louder and Jews waving palm branches spilled around a
bend in the road. They spread coats of all colors on the pavement as they
shouted, “Bless the King who comes in the name of the Lord!”
The soldiers lining the road raised
their weapons, but Dad held up his hand, warning his men against acting in
haste.
More men, women and children
rounded the corner and excitedly spread along
the sides of the road. Soon, a man
riding a donkey colt appeared. Robes thrown over the donkey’s back acted as a
saddle and, because the donkey was not yet full grown, the man’s feet nearly
touched the ground as he rode. The Jews – it seemed like millions of them – danced
around singing “Hosannah!” as the ass with the young man on its back left hoof
marks on their best clothes.
The whole thing looked so
ridiculous that Quintus’s lips curled upward and he opened his mouth to laugh.
Then he saw the man’s face and the laughter froze in his throat.
In that instant, Quintus knew he
was looking in the face of a king. He wasn’t sure
how he knew, but he knew. What was
it? The man’s eyes? The way he held himself?
“The sons of Israel’s kings have
always ridden donkeys!” someone shouted, and the crowd cheered in agreement. Obviously,
these Jews believed the man was a king.
Yet strangely, the man didn’t seem
to care that people celebrated him on every side. He looked past the crowd at
the city of Jerusalem
and tears poured down his cheeks. As he passed Quintus, the boy heard him say,
“But now it is too late . . .”
“Who is he?” Quintus asked his father before dinner that
night.
“Jesus of Nazareth.”
“I know. But who is he really? Some of the Jews said their prophets
foretold that the Messiah would ride in from the east on a donkey colt. Jesus
did that today. Right?”
“Right.” Dad unbuckled his dagger
and set it on the table. “He started from
Jericho and that’s east of here.”
“Their Messiah is a god.” Quintus
lowered his voice. “Is Jesus a god?”
Dad shot Quintus a sharp look. “We
Romans have lots of gods, but Jesus of
Nazareth isn’t one of them. I expect you to
stay away from him in the future. He’s a trouble maker.”
For the first time in his life,
Quintus disagreed with Father.
The next time Quintus saw Jesus, night
had fallen. With a man named Judas
leading the way, Dad and a
battalion of soldiers marched across the Kidron
Valley and climbed the Mount of Olives road. A silent mob that included temple
guards and servants of the religious leaders strode along with them carrying
torches and weapons. The flickering torchlight revealed faces grim with hatred.
Only the sounds of labored breathing and the tromping of hundreds of feet broke
the stillness.
Quintus hid in the middle of the throng
where Dad wouldn’t see him. The boy knew these people intended to kill Jesus
and he knew doing so would be wrong. Was there anything he could do to stop
them?
Judas led the throng off the road
and into a grove of olive trees where Jesus knelt
in prayer. Quintus slipped around
the edge of the crowd to where he could see and hear without Father spotting
him. Jesus stood and stepped forward to meet the mob. He looked tired. Upset. “Who
are you looking for?” he asked. Yet Quintus felt certain Jesus knew exactly
what was happening.
“Jesus of Nazareth,” someone said.
“I AM he,” Jesus answered.
An unseen force slammed Quintus
like a fist and he fell backward. Flat on his back, he glanced around. Not a
single person was left standing. The power of Jesus’ words had knocked everyone
to the ground. Even Dad.
Grinning, Quintus scrambled to his
feet and ran for home and bed. Jesus of Nazareth didn’t need Quintus. The man could
take care of himself.
Sometime in the middle of the
night, Quintus realized Father hadn’t returned
home after his watch. Quintus crept
from bed and made his way to Castle Antonia. Inside, in the soldiers’
headquarters where Father worked, a shocking sight greeted him.
The entire battalion had gathered
for a night of fun. Several soldiers crouched around a circle etched into the
floor playing the game of Basilius,
or King – using Jesus as the skittle. They had dressed a badly beaten Jesus in
a purple robe and punctured his scalp with a crown of thorns. At every dice
roll, men grabbed the stick “scepter” from Jesus’ hand and beat him on the
head. They spit on him. They dropped to their knees, laughing in mock worship.
Quintus watched in horror as Jesus
stood silently, refusing to defend himself.
Across the room, Dad looked on with
crossed arms, observing everything. Except
Quintus. He didn’t notice his son
standing near the large pillar.
But Jesus did. He turned to gaze
directly at Quintus with eyes full of love. Quintus covered his face in shame
ducked behind the pillar. During the long night, he imagined himself fighting
the soldiers and saving Jesus.
In the morning, when soldiers
dragged Jesus outside and thrust the heavy cross on his shoulders, Quintus followed.
He fought tears when Jesus stumbled and an African man helped carry the cross. With
leaden feet, Quintus trailed behind Jesus all the way to the Skull Hill. A cold
lump formed in his gut when Jesus refused the drugged wine intended to ease pain.
Quintus looked away as his own father pounded long spikes through Jesus’ hands.
For three long hours, Quintus stood
near the cross grieving for Jesus . . . and
studying his father. When passing
mockers stopped to laugh at the sign on Jesus’ cross which proclaimed Jesus “King
of the Jews,” Quintus saw Dad stare at Jesus with a strange look. When Jesus promised paradise to the thief on
the cross beside his, Dad looked astonished. Church leaders shot cruel words at
Jesus and Quintus recognized respect for Jesus on Dad’s face.
Finally, gasping for breath Jesus
looked around the crowd, then at Quintus, then at Dad. “Father forgive them,”
he said, “For they know not what they do.”
Shock rippled through Quintus.
Dad’s eyes grew wide and the dagger fell from his fingers. Suddenly Quintus
understood.
Jesus was not just a king, not just
a god, he was the Messiah, the Son of the Only
True God. And Jesus loved everyone
– even the people who were murdering him. Even Dad. But, as Jesus had said when
he rode past Quintus on the donkey, it was too late. Jesus would be dead soon
and Quintus was helpless to stop it.
A short while later – precisely at
noon – thick blackness fell over the land and silence shrouded the hillside. Terror
slithered around Quintus. For three long hours nothing could be heard but
sounds of suffering from the three crosses and the anguished weeping of women.
Then Jesus cried out, “Father, I
entrust my Spirit into your hands!” His head slumped in death. That very
instant, with a loud roar the earth began to quake. Quintus tore his eyes from
Jesus long enough to look in Dad’s face. It was filled with regret. And horror.
Rocks split open. The ground rose
and fell like waves in a turbulent sea. Jesus’
cross swayed. Quintus screamed,
struggling to stay on his feet. In a terrified voice Dad shouted, “Truly, this
was the Son of God!” Boulders crashed down the hillside. It was the end of the
world. The shaking would never stop. But it did stop. Silence smothered them
like grave clothes.
Silently, Dad’s soldiers lifted
Jesus’ body from the cross and gave it to a rich man who wrapped it in a long
linen cloth and laid it in a tomb. If it wasn’t the end of the world, why did
Quintus feel like it was? Why could he barely breathe?
The next day, Dad told his men to
seal Jesus’ tomb and stand watch over it.
Dad’s eyes looked empty. Dead. Quintus
decided to keep watch over his father.
That’s how Quintus happened to be shivering
in the grass by the tomb when the earthquake struck on Sunday morning. And
that’s why he saw the shining angel roll aside the boulder plugging the tomb’s
entrance.
And then Quintus saw Jesus with his
very own eyes. For the third time, Jesus looked directly at Quintus with love
in his eyes. Then he disappeared.
Quintus wanted to jump around
shouting for joy. So he did. The noise awakened his father who, along with all
the other soldiers, had fainted at the sight of the angel. After Quintus explained
everything he had seen, Father grabbed Quintus and bear-hugged him.
“We’re going to find the disciples
and learn all about Jesus,” Dad said. His eyes shone with hope. “We won’t
worship our Roman gods any more. All we need is Jesus. He proved he is the only
True God when he rose from the dead!”
Quintus agreed.
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