“You don’t have to. Wait at the tomb. I’ll send someone to get you when it’s time.”

“Can this work?” Andrew said. “Can you bring him back, Biff?”

“I’m not bringing him back from anything. He won’t be dead, he’ll just be hurt.”

“We’d better go,” said Joseph, looking out the window at the sky. “They’ll bring him out at noon.”

A crowd had gathered outside of the praetorium, but most were merely curious; only a few of the Pharisees, among them Jakan, had actually come out to see Joshua executed. I stayed back, almost a half-block away, watching. The other disciples were spread out, wearing shawls or turbans that covered their faces. Peter had sent Bartholomew to sit with Maggie and Mary at the tomb. No shawl could disguise his bulk or his stench.

Three heavy crossbeams leaned against the wall outside the palace gates, waiting for their victims. At noon Joshua was brought out along with two thieves who had also been sentenced to death, and the beams were placed upon their shoulders. Joshua was bleeding from a dozen places on his head and face, and although he still wore the purple robe that Herod had placed on him, I could see that blood from the flogging had run down and left streaks on his legs. He still looked like he was in some sort of trance, but there was no question that he was feeling the pain of his wounds. The crowd closed in on him, shouting insults and spitting on him, but I noticed that when he stumbled, someone always lifted him to his feet. His followers were still scattered among the crowd, they were just afraid to show themselves.

From time to time I looked around the periphery of the mob and caught the eye of one of the apostles. Always there was a tear there, and always a mix of anguish and anger. It took everything I had not to rush in among the soldiers, take one of their swords, and start hacking. Afraid of my own temper, I fell back from the crowd until I came alongside of Simon. “I can’t do it either,” I said. “I can’t watch them put him on the cross.”

“You have to,” the Zealot said.

“No, you be there, Simon. Let him see your face. Let him know you’re there. I’ll come up once the cross is set.” I had never been able to look at someone who was being crucified even when I didn’t know them. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stomach watching them do it to my best friend. I’d lose control, attack someone, and then we’d both be lost. Simon was a soldier, a secret soldier, but a soldier still. He could do it. The horrible scene at the temple of Kali ran through my head.

“Simon, tell him I said mindful breath. Tell him that there is no cold.”

“What cold?”

“He’ll know what it means. If he remembers he’ll be able to shut out the pain. He learned to do that in the East.”

“I’ll tell him.”

I wouldn’t be able to tell him myself, not without giving myself away.

I watched from the walls of the city as they led Joshua to the road that ran by the hill called Golgotha, a thousand yards outside the Gennath Gate. I turned away, but even from a thousand yards I could hear him screaming as they drove the nails.

Justus had assigned four soldiers to watch Joshua die. After a half hour they were alone except for perhaps a dozen onlookers and the families of the two thieves, who were praying and singing dirges at the feet of the condemned. Jakan and the other Pharisees had only stayed to see Joshua hoisted upright and the cross set, then they went off to feast with their families.

“A game,” I said, tossing a pair of dice in the air as I approached the soldiers. “Just a simple game.” I had borrowed a tunic and an expensive sash from Joseph of Arimathea. He’d also given me his purse, which I held up and jingled in front of the soldiers. “A game, Legionnaire?”

One of the Romans laughed. “And where would we get money to gamble with?”

“We’ll play for those clothes behind you. That purple robe at the foot of the cross.”

The Roman lifted the robe with a spear point, then looked up at Joshua, whose eyes went wide when he saw me. “Sure, it looks like we’ll be here a while. Let’s have a game.”

First I had to lose enough money to give the Romans something to gamble with, then I had to win it back slowly enough to keep me there long enough to accomplish my mission. (I silently thanked Joy for teaching me how to cheat at dice.) I handed the dice to the soldier nearest me, who was perhaps fifty years old, built short and powerfully, but covered with scar tissue and gnarled limbs, evidence of broken bones mishealed. He looked too old to be soldiering this far from Rome, and too beaten down to make the journey home. The other soldiers were younger, in their twenties, I guessed, all with dark olive skin and dark eyes, all lean, fit, and hungry-looking. Two of the younger soldiers carried the standard Roman infantry spear, a wooden shaft with a narrow iron spike as long as a man’s forearm, tipped with a compact three-bladed point designed to be driven through armor. The other two carried the wasp-waisted Iberian short sword that I’d seen on Justus’ belt so many times. He must have had them imported for his legion to fit his own preference. (Most Romans used a straight-bladed short sword.)

I handed the dice to the old soldier and dumped some coins out in the dirt. As the Roman threw the dice against the bottom of Joshua’s cross I scanned the hills and saw the apostles watching from behind trees and over rocks. I gave a signal and it passed from one to the other, and finally to a woman who waited back on one of the city walls.

“Oh my, the gods have turned against me today,” I said, rolling a losing combination.

“I thought you Jews only had one God.”

“I was talking about your gods, Legionnaire. I’m losing.”

The soldiers laughed and I heard a moan from above us. I cringed and felt as if my ribs would cave in on themselves from the pain in my heart. I ventured a glance at Joshua and he was looking right at me. “You don’t have to do this,” he said in Sanskrit.

“What nonsense is the Jew talking now?” asked the old soldier.

“I couldn’t say, soldier. He must be delirious.”

I saw two women approaching the foot of the cross on Joshua’s left, carrying a large bowl, a jar of water, and a long stick.

“Hey there, get away from them.”

“Just here to give a drink of water to the condemned, sir. No harm meant.” The woman took a sponge from the bowl and squeezed it out. It was Susanna, Maggie’s friend from Galilee, along with Johanna. They’d come down for the Passover to cheer Joshua into the city, now we’d conscripted them to help poison him. The soldiers watched as the women dipped the sponge, then attached it to the end of the stick and held it for the thief to drink from. I had to look away.

“Faith, Biff,” Joshua said, again in Sanskrit.

“There, you shut up and die,” barked one of the younger Romans.

I twitched and squinted at the dice in lieu of crushing the soldier’s windpipe.

“Give me a seven. Baby needs new sandals,” said another young Roman.

I couldn’t look at Joshua and I couldn’t look to see what the women were doing. The plan was that they would go to the two thieves first, so as not to raise suspicion, but now I was regretting the decision to delay.

Finally Susanna brought the bowl to where we were gambling and set it down while Johanna poured some water over the sponge.

“Got any wine there for a thirsty soldier?” said one of the young soldiers. He smacked Johanna on the bottom. “Or some other relief?”

The old soldier caught the young soldier’s arm and pushed him away. “You’ll be up on that stick with this wretch, Marcus. These Jews take touching their women seriously. Justus won’t tolerate it.”

Susanna pulled her shawl around her face. She was pretty, lean with small facial features except for her wide brown eyes. She was too old not to be married, but I suspected that she had left a husband to follow Joshua. It was the same story with Johanna, except that her husband had followed along for a while, then divorced her when she wouldn’t come home with him. She was more sturdily built, and she rolled like a wagon when she walked. She took the sponge and held it out to me.