The Silver Cross; Or, The Carpenter of Nazareth

And Jesus, still bound, was conducted to a short distance off, by the militia, to the court where the Roman soldiers lodged; the door, before which paced a sentinel, being open, several persons who had, like Genevieve, followed the Nazarene remained outside to see what was about to happen.

When the young man was brought to the court of the guard-house (or prætorium), the Roman soldiers were scattered in different groups: some were cleaning their arms; others were playing at different games; some were practising with the lance under the inspection of an officer; others, extended on benches in the sun, were singing or conversing amongst themselves. She recognized, from their faces bronzed by the sun, from their martial and ferocious air, and the military order of their arms and clothes, those courageous, warlike, and merciless soldiers who had conquered the world, leaving behind them, as in Gaul, massacre, spoliation and slavery. The moment the soldiers heard the name of Jesus of Nazareth, and saw him brought in by one of their officers, they all left their occupations and hastened round him. Genevieve anticipated, on remarking the coarse and brutal manner of these soldiers, that Mary's son was about to suffer fresh outrages.

The slave remembered having read in the narratives left by the ancestors of her husband, Fergan, of the horrors committed by Cæsar's soldiers, the scourge of the Gauls, she did not doubt that these by whom the young man was surrounded, were equally as cruel as those of the past times. There was, in the middle of the court of the prætorium, a stone bench, on which the soldiers made Jesus sit down, still bound; then approaching him, they commenced insulting and railing at him.

'This, then, is the famous prophet!' said one.

'This, then, is he who announced that the time will come when the sword will be exchanged for a reaping hook, and when there will be no more war! no more battles!'

'No more wars! By the valiant gold god Mars! no more war!' exclaimed other soldiers with indignation.

'Ah! these are your prophecies, thou prophet of evil!'

'No more war! That is, no more clarions, no more floating standards, no more brilliant cuirasses, no more plumed helmets, which attract the eyes of the women!'

'No more war! that is, no more conquests.'

'What! no more try our iron boots on the heads of the conquered people!'

'No longer drink their wine while courting their daughters, as here, as in Gaul, as in the whole world, in fact!'

'No more war! By Hercules! And what then will become of the strong and the valiant, cursed Nazarene? According to you, they will, from daybreak till night, labor in the field or weave cloths like base slaves, instead of dividing their time between battle, idleness, the tavern, and the passion of love!'

'You, who call yourself the son of God,' said one of these Romans, raising his fist against the young man; 'you are, then, the son of the God Fear, coward that you are!'

'You, who call yourself the King of the Jews, would be acknowledged, then, as king of all the poltroons of the universe!'

'Comrades!' exclaimed one of the soldiers, bursting into a laugh, 'since he is king of the poltroons, let us crown him!'

This proposition was received with insulting joy; several voices immediately cried out:

'Yes, since he is king, we must invest him with the imperial purple.'

'We must put a sceptre in his hand; we will then proclaim him, and honor him like our august Emperor Tiberius.'

And whilst their companions continued to surround and insult the young Nazarene, indifferent to these outrages, several of the soldiers went out. – One took the red cloak of a horse soldier; another the cane of a centurion; a third remembering a heap of fagots intended to be burnt, lying in a corner, chose a few sprigs of a thorny plant, and began weaving a crown. Several voices then exclaimed:

'We must now proceed to crown the King of the Jews.'

'Yes, let us crown the king of the cowards!'

'The son of God!'

'The son of the god Fear!'

'Companions, this coronation must be performed with pomp, as if it concerned a real Cæsar.'

'As for me, I am crown bearer.'

'And I, sceptre-bearer.'

'And I, bearer of the imperial mantle.'

And amidst shouts and obscene jests, these Romans formed a sort of mock procession. The crown-bearer advanced the first, holding the crown of thorns with a solemn air; and followed by a certain number of soldiers; next came the sceptre-bearer, then other soldiers; lastly, the one who carried the mantle; and all sang in chorus:

'Hail to the King of the Jews!

'Hail to the Messiah!

'Hail to the Son of God!

'Hail to the Cæsar of poltroons, hail!'

Jesus, seated on his bench, regarded the preparations for this insulting ceremony with unalterable placidity. The crown-bearer having approached first, raised the thorny emblem above the head of the young man, and said to him: 'I crown thee, O king!'

And the Roman placed the crown so brutally on the head of Jesus, that the thorns pierced the flesh; large drops of blood ran, like tears of blood, down the pale face of the victim; but, except the first involuntary shudder caused by the agony, the features of the meek and lowly sufferer maintained their usual placidity, and betrayed neither resentment nor rage.

'And I invest you with the imperial mantle, O king!' added another Roman, whilst one of his companions drew off the tunic that had been thrown over the shoulders of Jesus. No doubt the wool of this garment had already adhered to the living flesh, for at the moment it was violently snatched from the shoulders of Jesus, he uttered a loud exclamation of pain, but this was all: he allowed himself to be patiently invested with the red cloak.

'Now, take thy sceptre, O great king!' added another soldier, kneeling before the young man, and placing in his hand the centurion's walking-stick; then all, with loud bursts of laughter, repeated, 'Hail to the King of the Jews, hail!'

A great many of them kneeled before him out of mockery, repeating:

'Hail, O great King!'

Jesus retained in his hand this mock sceptre, but pronounced not a word; this unalterable resignation, this angelic sweetness, so struck his tormentors, that, at first they were stupified; then, their rage increasing in proportion to the patience of the young Nazarene, they emulated each other in irritation, exclaiming: 'This is not a man, it is a statue!'

'All the blood he had in his veins has left him with the rods of the executioner. The coward, he does not even complain!'

'Coward!' said a veteran in a thoughtful air, after having long contemplated Jesus, although at first he had been one of his most cruel tormentors: 'No, he is no coward! no, to endure patiently all that we have made him suffer, requires more courage than to throw oneself sword in hand on the enemy. No!' he repeated, drawing aside, 'no, this man is no coward!'

And Genevieve fancied she saw a tear drop on the grey moustache of the old soldier.

The other soldiers laughed at the compassion of their companion, and exclaimed:

'He does not see that the Nazarene feigns resignation that we may pity him.'

'It's true! within he is all rage and hatred, tho' outside he is so serene and compassionating.'

'He is a bashful tiger invested with a lamb's skin.'

At these insulting words Jesus contented himself with smiling mournfully and shaking his head; this movement made the blood fall in a spray around him, for the wounds made on his forehead by the thorns still bled.

At sight of this blood, Genevieve could not help murmuring to herself the chorus of the children of the mistletoe, mentioned in the recitals of her husband's ancestors:

'Flow, flow, blood of the captive! Fall, fall, incarnate dew! Germinate and grow, avenging harvest!'

'Oh,' said Genevieve to herself, 'the blood of this innocent, of this martyr, so basely abandoned by his friends, by this people, poor and oppressed, whom he cherished, this blood will return on them and their children. But may it also fertilize the bloody harvest of vengeance.'