The day, hot and bright from early morning, was obscured about midday.
From the northeast clouds were rolling up, either dark or
copper-colored, not over large, but dense, as if pregnant with a
tempest. Between them the deep blue of the sky was still visible, but it
was easy to foresee that they would soon pack together and conceal the
whole round of the sky. Meanwhile the sun covered the edges of them with
fire and gold. Over the city itself and the adjacent hills there
extended yet a broad space of clear blue, and in the valley there was no
breath of wind.
On the lofty platform of ground called Golgotha stood here and there
small groups of people who had preceded the procession which was to move
from the city. The sun illuminated broad, stony spaces, which were
empty, gloomy, and barren; their monotonous pearl-color was interrupted
only by the black net of ravines and gullies, the blacker because the
platform itself was covered with light. In the distance were visible
more elevated eminences, equally empty, veiled by the blue haze of
distance.
Lower down, between the walls of the city and the platform of Golgotha,
lay a plain bordered in places with cliffs less naked. From crannies in
which had collected some little fertile earth, fig-trees peeped forth
with few and scant leaves. Here and there rose flat-roofed buildings
fixed to the cliff-side, like swallows' nests to stone walls, or shining
from afar in the sun-rays were sepulchres, painted white. At present,
because of the approaching holidays and the concourse of provincials in
the capital, multitudes of huts and tents had been raised near the city
walls; these formed whole encampments filled with men and camels.
The sun rose ever higher on that expanse of heaven which was still free
from clouds. The hours were approaching in which usually deep silence
reigned on those heights, for every living creature sought refuge inside
the walls or within the ravines. And even at this time, in spite of
uncommon animation, there was a certain sadness in that neighborhood in
which the dazzling light fell not on green, but on gray stone expanses.
The noise of distant voices, coming from the direction of the walls, was
changed into the sound of waves, as it were, and seemed to be swallowed
by the silence.
The single groups of people waiting on Golgotha since morning turned
their faces toward the city, whence the procession might move at any
moment. Antea's litter arrived; a few soldiers, sent by the procurator,
preceded it. These were to open a way through the multitude, and in case
of need restrain from deeds of disrespect the fanatical throng, and
those who hated foreigners. At the side of the litter walked Cinna, in
company with the centurion Rufilus.
Antea was calmer, less frightened than usual at the approach of midday,
and with it the terror of dreadful visions, which had drawn the life out
of her. What the procurator had said touching the young Nazarene, had
attracted her mind and turned attention from her own misery. For her
there was in this something wonderful which she could hardly understand.
The world of that time had seen many persons die as calmly as a funeral
pile quenches when the fuel in it is consumed. But that was a calmness
coming from bravery, or from a philosophic agreement with the implacable
necessity of exchanging light for darkness, real life for an existence
misty, vanishing, and indefinite. No one up to that time had blessed
death; no one had died with unshaken certainty that only after the
funeral pyre or the grave would real life begin,--life as mighty and
endless as only a being all-powerful and eternal can give.
And he whom they had appointed for crucifixion declared this as an
undoubted truth. This teaching not only struck Antea, but seemed to her
the only source of consolation. She knew that she must die, and immense
regret seized her. For what did death mean for her? It meant to lose
Cinna, to lose her father, to lose the world, to lose love, for a cold,
empty gloom, which was half nothing. Hence the more desirable it was for
her in life, the greater must be her sorrow. If death could be good for
anything, or if it were possible to take with her even the remembrance
of love, or the memory of happiness, she would be able to gain
resignation the more quickly.
Then, while she expected nothing from death, she heard all at once that
it could give everything. And who had made that announcement? A certain
wonderful man, a teacher, a prophet, a philosopher, who enjoined love as
the highest virtue, who blessed people when they were lashing him; and
this man they had condemned to the cross. Hence Antea thought: "Why did
he teach thus if the cross was his only reward? Others desired power; he
did not desire it. Others desired wealth; he remained poor. Others
desired palaces, feasts, excesses, purple robes, and chariots inlaid
with mother-of-pearl and ivory; he lived like a shepherd. Meanwhile he
enjoined love, compassion, poverty; therefore he could not be malicious
and deceive people purposely. If he spoke the truth, let death be
blessed as the end of earthly misery, as the change from a lower to a
loftier happiness, as light for eyes that are quenching, as wings with
which one flies away into endless bliss!"
Antea understood then what the promise of resurrection signified. The
mind and heart of the poor sick woman cleaved with all their strength to
that teaching. She recalled also the words of her father, who had
repeated more than once that some new truth might bring the tortured
soul of man out of darkness and imprisonment. And here was the new
truth! It had conquered death; hence it had brought salvation. Antea
sank with her whole being in those thoughts; so that for many and many a
day Cinna for the first time failed to find terror in her face at the
approach of midday.
The procession moved at last from the city toward Golgotha. From the
height where Antea was sitting, it could be seen perfectly. The crowd,
though considerable, seemed lost on those stony expanses. Through the
open gate of Jerusalem flowed more and more people, and on the way they
were joined by those who had been waiting outside the walls. They went
at first in a long line, which, as it moved forward, spread like a
swollen river. At both sides were running swarms of children.
The procession was made varied and many-colored by the white tunics and
the scarlet and blue kerchiefs of women. In the centre were glittering
the arms and spears of Roman soldiers, on which the sun cast fleeting
rays, as it were. The uproar of mingled voices came from afar and rose
with increasing distinctness.
At last the multitude came quite near; the first ranks began to ascend
the height. The throng of people hurried on so as to occupy the nearest
places and see the torment more clearly; because of this the division of
soldiers, conducting the condemned, fell more and more toward the rear.
Children arrived first, mainly boys, half naked, with cloths fastened
around their hips, with shaven heads, except two tufts of hair near the
temple, embrowned, with eyes almost blue, and harsh voices. In the wild
uproar they fell to pulling out of the crannies bits of stone broken
from the cliffs; these they wished to throw at those who were to be
crucified. Right after them the height swarmed with a nondescript
rabble. Their faces were for the greater part excited by the movement
and by the hope of a spectacle. On no face was there a sign of
compassion. The noise of rasping voices, the endless number of words
thrown out by each mouth, the suddenness of their movements, astonished
Antea, though accustomed in Alexandria to the word-loving liveliness of
Greeks. Before her, people spoke as if they wished to hurl themselves at
one another. They screamed as if escaping death; they resisted as if
some one were flaying them.
The centurion Rufilus, approaching the litter, gave explanations in a
calm, official voice. Meanwhile new waves flowed up from the city. The
throng increased every moment. In the crowd were seen wealthy men of
Jerusalem, dressed in girded tunics, holding themselves aloof from the
wretched rabble of the suburbs. In numbers also came villagers which the
festival had brought to the city, with their families; field-workers,
with kindly and astonished faces, came, bearing bags at their girdles;
shepherds came, dressed in goat-skins. Crowds of women came with the
men; but as wives of the more wealthy citizens did not leave their homes
willingly, these women were chiefly of the people. They were villagers,
or women of the street; these last dressed gaudily, had dyed hair,
brows, and nails; they wore immense ear-rings and coin necklaces, and
gave out from a distance the odor of nard.
The Sanhedrim arrived at last; and in the midst of it, Annas, an aged
man with the face of a vulture and eyes with red lids; then appeared the
unwieldy Caiaphas, wearing a two-horned hat, with a gilded tablet on his
breast. With these walked various Pharisees; as, for instance, those who
"drag their legs" and strike every obstacle purposely with their feet;
Pharisees with "bloody foreheads," who beat those foreheads against the
wall, also by design; and Pharisees "bent over," as if to receive the
burden of the sins of the whole city on their shoulders. Gloomy
importance and cold vindictiveness distinguished them from the noisy
rabble.
Cinna looked at this throng of people with the cool, contemptuous visage
of a man of the ruling race, Antea with astonishment and fear. Many Jews
inhabited Alexandria, but there they were half Hellenized; here for the
first time she saw Jews as the procurator had described them, and as
they were in their own native nest. Her youthful face, on which death
had imprinted its stamp, her form, resembling a shadow, attracted
general attention. They stared at her with insolence in so far as the
soldiers surrounding her litter permitted them; and so great among them
was contempt for foreigners that no compassion was evident in the eyes
of any; rather did gladness shine in them because the victim would not
escape death. Then the daughter of Timon understood for the first time,
and precisely, why those people demanded a cross for the prophet who had
proclaimed love.
And all at once that Nazarene appeared to Antea as some one so near that
he was almost dear to her. He had to die, and so had she. Nothing could
save him now, after the issuing of the sentence, and sentence had fallen
also on her; hence it seemed to Antea that the brotherhood of misfortune
and death had united them. But he approached the cross with faith in a
morrow after death. She had not that faith yet, and had come to obtain
it from the sight of him.
Meanwhile from afar was heard an uproar, a whistling, a howling, then
all was silent. Next came clatter of weapons and the heavy tread of
legionaries. The crowds swayed, opened, and the division conducting the
condemned began to push past the litter. In front, at both sides, and
behind, advanced soldiers with slow and measured tread. Next were three
arms of crosses, which seemed to move of themselves; they were borne by
persons bent under the weight of them. It was easy to divine that the
Nazarene was not among those three, for two had the insolent faces of
thieves. The third was a simple countryman, no longer young; clearly the
soldiers had impressed him to do work for another.
The Nazarene walked behind the crosses; two soldiers marched near him.
He wore a purple mantle thrown over his garments, and a crown of thorns,
from under the points of which drops of blood issued; of these some
flowed slowly along his face, others had grown stiff under the crown, in
the form of berries of the wild rose, or coral beads. He was pale, and
moved forward with slow, unsteady, and weakened step. He advanced amid
insults from the multitude, sunk, as it were, in the meditation of
another world; he was as if seized away from the earth altogether, as if
not caring for the cries of hatred, or as if forgiving beyond the
measure of human forgiveness and compassionate beyond the measure of
human compassion, for, embraced now by infinity, raised above human
estimate, he was exceedingly mild, and was sorrowful only through his
measureless sorrow for all men.
"Thou art Truth," whispered Antea, with trembling lips.
The retinue was passing just near the litter. It halted for a moment
while soldiers in front were clearing the road of the throng; Antea saw
then the Nazarene a few steps away. She saw the breeze move his hair;
she saw the ruddy reflection from his mantle on his pallid and almost
transparent face. The mob, rushing toward him, surrounded with a dense
half-circle the soldiers, who had to resist with spears, to save him
from their rage. Everywhere were visible outstretched arms with clinched
fists, eyes bursting through their lids, gleaming teeth, beards thrown
apart from mad movements, and foaming lips through which came hoarse
shouts. But he looked around, as if wishing to ask, "What have I done to
you?" then he raised his eyes to heaven and prayed--and forgave.
"Antea! Antea!" cried Cinna at that moment.
But Antea seemed not to hear his cries. Great tears were falling from
her eyes; she forgot her sickness, forgot that for many days she had not
risen from the litter; and sitting up on a sudden, trembling, half
conscious, from pity, compassion, and indignation at the mad shrieks of
the multitude, she took hyacinths with apple blossoms and cast them
before the feet of the Nazarene.
For a moment there was silence. Amazement seized the crowd at sight of
this noble Roman lady giving honor to the condemned. He turned his eyes
to her poor sick face, and his lips began to move, as if blessing her.
Antea fell again on the pillow of the litter; she felt that a sea of
light, of goodness, of grace, of consolation, of hope, of happiness, was
falling on her.
"Thou art Truth," whispered she, a second time.
Then a new wave of tears came to her eyes.
But they pushed him forward to a place a few tens of steps distant from
the litter; on that place stood already the uprights of crosses, fixed
in a cleft of the rocky platform. The crowd concealed him again; but,
since that place was elevated considerably, Antea soon saw his pale face
and the crown of thorns. The legionaries turned once more toward the
rabble, which they clubbed away, lest it might interrupt the execution.
They began then to fasten the two thieves to the side crosses. The
third cross stood in the middle; to the top of it was fastened, with a
nail, a white card which the growing wind pulled and raised. When
soldiers, approaching the Nazarene at last, began to undress him, shouts
rose in the crowds: "King! king! do not yield! King, where are thy
legions? Defend thyself!" At moments laughter burst forth,--laughter
that bore away the multitude till on a sudden the whole stony height
resounded with one roar. Then they stretched him face upward on the
ground, to nail his hands to the arms of the cross, and raise him
afterward with it to the main pillar.
Thereupon some man, in a white tunic, standing not far from the litter,
cast himself on the earth suddenly, gathered dust and bits of stone on
his head, and cried in a shrill despairing voice, "I was a leper, and
he cured me; why do ye crucify him?"
Antea's face became white as a kerchief.
"He cured that man; dost hear, Caius?" said she.
"Dost wish to return?" asked Cinna.
"No! I will remain here!"
But a wild and boundless despair seized Cinna because he had not called
the Nazarene to his house to cure Antea.
At that moment the soldiers, placing nails at his hands, began to
strike. The dull clink of iron against iron was heard; this soon changed
into a sound which went farther, for the points of the nails, having
passed through flesh, entered the wood. The crowds were silent again,
perhaps to enjoy cries which torture might bring from the mouth of the
Nazarene. But he remained silent, and on the height was heard only the
ominous and dreadful sound of the hammers.
At last they had finished the work, and the cross-piece was drawn up,
with the body. The centurion in charge pronounced, or rather sang out
monotonously, words of command, in virtue of which a soldier began to
nail the feet.
At this moment those clouds, which since morning had been extending on
the horizon, hid the sun. The distant hills and cliffs, which had been
gleaming in brightness, gleamed no longer. The light turned to darkness.
An ominous bronze-colored gloom seized the region about, and, as the
sun sank more deeply behind piles of clouds, the gloom became denser.
Men might have thought that some being from above was sifting down to
the earth lurid darkness. The air now grew sultry.
All at once even those remnants of lurid gleams became black. Clouds,
dark as night, rolled and pushed forward, like a gigantic wave, toward
the height and the city. A tempest was coming! The world was filled with
fear.
"Let us return!" said Cinna again.
"Once more, once more, I wish to see him," answered Antea.
Darkness had concealed the hanging bodies. Cinna gave command to carry
the litter nearer the place of torment. They carried it so near that
barely a few steps were between them and the cross. On the dark tree
they saw the body of the Crucified, who in that general eclipse seemed
made of silver rays of the moon. His breast rose with quick breathing.
His face and eyes were turned upward yet.
Then from the rolls of clouds was heard a deep rumbling. Thunder was
roused; it rose and rolled with tremendous report from the east to the
west, and then falling, as if into a bottomless abyss, was heard farther
and farther down, now dying away, and now increasing; at last it roared
till the earth shook in its foundations.
A gigantic blue lightning-flash rent the clouds, lighted the sky, the
earth, the crosses, the arms of the soldiers, and the mob huddled
together, like a flock of sheep, filled with distress and terror.
After the lightning came deeper darkness. Close to the litter was heard
the sobbing of women, who also drew near the cross. There was something
ominous in this sobbing amid silence. Those who were lost in the
multitude began now to cry out. Here and there were heard terrified
voices,--
"O Yah! oj lanu! [woe to us!] O Yah! Have they not crucified the Just
One?"
"Who gave true testimony! O Yah!"
"Who raised the dead!"
And another voice called,--
"Woe to thee, Jerusalem!"
Still another,--
"The earth trembles!"
A new lightning-flash disclosed the depths of the sky, and in them
gigantic figures of fire, as it were. The voices were silent, or rather
were lost in the whistling of the whirlwind, which sprang up all at once
with tremendous force; it swept off a multitude of mantles and
kerchiefs, and hurled them away over the height.
Voices cried out anew,--
"The earth trembles!"
Some began to flee. Terror nailed others to the spot; and they stood
fixed in amazement, without thought, with this dull impression
only,--that something awful was happening.
But, on a sudden, the gloom began to be less dense. Wind rolled the
clouds over, twisted and tore them like rotten rags; brightness
increased gradually. At last the dark ceiling was rent, and through the
opening rushed in all at once a torrent of sunlight; presently the
heights became visible, and with them the crosses and the terrified
faces of the people.
The head of the Nazarene had fallen low on his breast; it was as pale as
wax; his eyes were closed, his lips blue.
"He is dead," whispered Antea.
"He is dead," repeated Cinna.
At this moment a centurion thrust his spear into the side of the dead. A
wonderful thing: the return of light and the sight of that death seemed
to appease that crowd. They pushed nearer and nearer, especially since
the soldiers did not bar approach. Among the throng were heard
voices,--
"Come down from the cross! Come down from the cross!"
Antea cast her eyes once more on that low-hanging head, then she said,
as if to herself,--
"Will he rise from the dead?"
In view of death, which had put blue spots on his eyes and mouth, in
view of those arms stretched beyond measure, and in view of that
motionless body which had settled down with the weight of dead things,
her voice trembled with despairing doubt.
Not less was the disappointment rending Cinna's soul. He also believed
not that the Nazarene would rise from the dead; but he believed that had
he lived, he alone, with his power, good or evil, might have given
health to Antea. Meanwhile more numerous voices were calling,--
"Come down from the cross! Come down from the cross!"
"Come down!" repeated Cinna, with despair. "Cure her for me; take my
life!"
The air became purer and purer. The mountains were still in mist, but
above the height and the city the sky had cleared perfectly. "Turris
Antonia" glittered in sunlight as bright itself as the sun. The air had
become fresh, and was full of swallows. Cinna gave command to return.
It was an afternoon hour. Near the house Antea said,--
"Hecate has not come to-day."
Cinna also was thinking of that.