Welcome back for Part 2 of my Easter short story series! If you missed Part 1 from last week, you can read it here.
Thirty-two days of travel, sleeping at inns and on hillsides, battling weather and the threat of bandits, had come down to this–a mere hundred cubits between Simon of Cyrene and Jerusalem.
The morning sun shone weak and grey through heavy clouds, casting the buildings climbing up Mount Zion into shadow. With every step, a strange unease settled over Simon. Something about the day seemed heavy, foreboding, like the threat of a storm being carried on a breeze.
“I can help kill the Pesach lamb this year, right?” His youngest son, Rufus, walked next to him, his gangly limbs working hard to keep up with Simon’s longer stride. “You promised me last year that when I turned twelve I could help you and Alexander.”
Simon reached out a dark-skinned hand to scrub at his son’s unruly curls. “Yes, my son. You can help me and your brother this year.” The doomed lamb being led on a rope by his wife, Rona, chose that moment to bleat, happily unaware that its life was drawing to a close.
As the Essene Gate of Jerusalem loomed before them, Simon surveyed his travel-worn family. Rona led their Passover lamb, her lovely black curls modestly covered by a shawl the color of rich clay. Fourteen year-old Alexander pulled the small cart bearing what remained of their provisions for the month-long journey; and young Rufus, strolling at Simon’s side, hummed a merry tune.
With a sigh, Simon looped an arm around Rufus’ shoulders. “Yahweh has been good to us, my son. I am thankful for another year to gather in His city for this sacred day.” But even as he said the words, that unsettled feeling returned. Something about this trip to Jerusalem felt different.
Moments later, they entered the city alongside a small group of fellow travelers. At first, everything seemed to be as it had always been for every pilgrimage he’d made. Wives and mothers rushed around in their preparations for Pesach, children played in the streets, and weary travelers settled into their rented rooms. But the further up the mountain they climbed, the tighter the streets became. And the tighter the unease clenched around Simon’s heart.
With each new block of homes, more bodies pressed in until it was almost impossible to keep walking. And this wasn’t the usual congestion one would expect from a city swollen with thousands of visitors from all across the known world. These people were shouting, pushing, shoving. Rioting.
“Crucify him!” a shrill voice screeched.
Simon flinched. He had yet to see the awful form of execution in action, but he’d heard enough descriptions of the practice to turn his stomach with dread.
An elbow jabbed hard into Simon’s side, and he stumbled into a man’s back. “My apologies,” he said, though in this din of chaos who knew if the man heard him.
“Alexander!” Simon shouted over his shoulder. “Stay close to your mother. Do not let her get lost in this crowd.” He reached back and found Rufus’ thin arm. “Hold onto my tunic, son, and do not let go.”
Simon forged his way through the throbbing mass of sweat-soaked bodies. They were only a few streets away from the inn they usually stayed in when sojourning in Jerusalem. If he could just keep moving…
“Crucify him! Crucify him!” The demand swelled louder, ringing in Simon’s ears. He shoved past another person and found himself at a crossroads between two streets. Here, the crush of people lined the path instead of filling it. Every head faced the east, focused on someone or something coming down the street.
“All hail the king of the Jews!” a sarcastic voice shouted. The crack of a whip rang out, followed by the unmistakable slap of leather bands against skin.
“Simon. What is happening?” Rona’s hand touched his shoulder.
“Stay back, my love.” A procession was coming down the road. The forms of several Roman soldiers came into focus, their golden helmets gleaming in the morning sun. One walked at the head of the procession, his sword held at the ready. Not far behind him, another followed, the whip Simon had heard held firm in his right hand.
Between the first two soldiers, a thick wooden beam bobbed up and down, and as the Romans neared, Simon realized it rested on the shoulders of a man.
Simon’s stomach clenched as he took in the man’s horrific appearance. Clearly, he had received more than just the one lashing. He’d been brutally beaten to what could only be the edge of death itself. The back of his garment was soaked through with blood from the lashes undoubtedly crisscrossing his back. A crown of what looked like thorns had been driven into his head—some sort of cruel mockery to accompany the sarcastic claim that this was “the king of the Jews”? Blood streaked the man’s face, matting his dark hair and beard, and one eye was swollen almost completely shut.
Simon sucked in a breath. What sort of crime had this man committed to be worthy of such an end?
“Blasphemy!”
“Curse this blasphemer!”
The crowd provided the answer to his question.
Simon stiffened. Such a crime was worthy of death according to the Law. But why did the claim not sit well with him? It made no sense. He knew nothing of the man before him outside of this moment. How could Simon know he wasn’t worthy of this death?
Behind the first two soldiers and the man carrying the beam that would make up part of his cross were several other soldiers and two more criminals. But something kept drawing Simon’s eye back to the first man. It was something about the way he carried the crossbeam, the quiet anguish evident in every line of his broken body… Every muscle was taut with pain, but he did not scream or even raise his voice.
Who was this man?
“Jesus!” A woman’s shriek brought Simon’s eyes up to the crowd lining the opposite edge of the street.
A middle-aged woman pushed against the arm of a young man attempting to block her from the path. “Jesus! No! My son, my son!” She covered her face with her hands and wailed. Her mournful cry raised every hair on Simon’s arms, despite the warmth of the day.
The condemned man–Jesus, apparently–looked up at his mother and stumbled, collapsing to one knee.
“Get up!” The soldier behind him slung the whip through the air. The nine tails embedded with pieces of metal and stones slapped across Jesus’ back.
His mother screamed again, pushing harder against the man holding her back. A young woman wrapped an arm around the grieving woman’s shoulders and said something close in her ear. Whatever it was seemed to calm her, because she turned her face into her companion’s shoulder and muted her sobs.
“On your feet, you dog!” Again, the whip cracked against Jesus’ torn skin. Then again, two, three, four times. At the fourth blow, Jesus fell flat on his face, the thick beam clattering on top of him. He groaned, drops of blood splattering onto the dirt. “I said, get up!”
Instinctively, Simon reached out a hand to help the man. But what good could he really do?
“You! African!” The lead soldier pointed his blade at Simon.
“Me, sir?” Simon put a hand to his chest.
“Grab him.” The soldier gestured to his companion and then pointed at Simon once more. “If he has not the strength to carry his own cross, the man will do it for him. Seeing as he looks so sorry for him.”
The second soldier came forward, reaching out to snag Simon’s arm and jerk him into the street.
“No! Simon!” Rona screamed, reaching for him.
“Father! Don’t let them take you!” Rufus cried, losing his once firm hold on Simon’s tunic.
“Stay back!” Simon raised a hand to stop his family. “All will be well. Boys, stay with your mother and the lamb. Stay together. I will find you.”
“Hurry up!” The soldier gripping Simon’s forearm slung him forward. The momentum sent Simon’s body ahead of his feet and he tumbled to his knees, catching his weight with his hands.
Mere inches from the man Jesus.
Simon lifted his head and found himself staring into Jesus’ face. The blood and gore was so much worse up close. The brightest crimson coated nearly every inch of him, it seemed. But somehow, Simon didn’t feel the need to shrink away from it.
The unease that had been squeezing tight around his heart loosened and let go. In its place was a strange, hair-raising sensation that he could neither name nor explain.
Jesus looked straight in Simon’s eyes. That gaze. Why did it feel like the man could see beyond the outward appearance and down into something far deeper?
The sheen of tears appeared in Jesus’ eyes and the side of his mouth curved up the slightest fraction. “Yahweh bless you and your family, Simon of Cyrene.”
Simon gasped and jerked upright. The man knew his name. How did he know his name?
“Get up! We have wasted enough time already.” Hard, Roman hands gripped Simon’s garment and pulled him to his feet. “Take the beam from him and carry it the rest of the way.”
Lightning seemed to course along Simon’s limbs. Impossibly, this stranger, a man convicted of blasphemy, knew his name. Yes, he could have heard Rona scream his name as he was dragged into the street. But how could he know where he was from?
This was no ordinary man.
This was… this was… He didn’t know who Jesus was. But something of Yahweh was in this moment, without a doubt.
Simon started to reach for the thick beam still pressing down on Jesus’ back, but he paused just short of touching it. By touching such an instrument of death, already spattered with the blood of the man whose hands would soon be nailed to it, Simon would be deemed temporarily unclean. Unable to touch his wife, hug his sons… Unable to participate in the feast of Pesach.
A month he had traveled to this city to keep the Law of Moses. And with one touch, that Law would be broken.
Yahweh bless you and your family, Simon of Cyrene.
Something told him that the sacrifice would be worth it.
Stooping low, Simon lifted the beam from off Jesus’ back. With a grunt, he hefted it onto his shoulders and took a staggering step forward. Behind him, the Roman soldiers forced Jesus back onto his feet and prodded him along. The crowd roared with renewed vigor, calling down all manner of curses upon the trio of men sentenced to die. But with every step down the narrow path between the screaming throngs, the chaos faded, until Simon barely noticed anything but the burden he carried.
Tears welled in his eyes, thicker and hotter with every moment. Splinters of wood dug into his palms, and the tangy scent of blood pricked his nose. The crimson streaks left behind by Jesus’s hands coated his own.
My Lord and my God. Simon felt the inexplicable urge to pray, but no other words would come. My Lord and my God.
At last, the hill of Golgotha loomed before their procession. Near its crest, Simon’s tears grew so thick he couldn’t see where to take his next step. He began to stumble, but a hand stayed him. “Here is far enough.” It was the lead soldier, the one who had selected him from the crowd. “Drop the beam. We will take over from here.”
Simon nodded and lowered the beam to the dirt. Every muscle trembled, both from exertion and the surprising emotions overwhelming him. What had he just done? It felt so significant and yet he didn’t understand why.
Simon caught one last glimpse of Jesus before he turned away and lowered himself to his knees. Completely overcome, he stared at Jesus’ blood streaking his palms and wept.
Yahweh bless you and your family, Simon of Cyrene.
Come back next week for Part 3: The Solider.
**Background image courtesy of Pixabay from Pexels
