“Well, it’s of his own volition. He deliberately courted disaster!”

“They are taking him,” he whimpered. I placed my hands upon his shoulders, and looked into his eyes. Their blue was clouded; they seemed almost black. He stared at me uncomprehendingly. “John, wake up, don’t you know who I am?”

“They will crucify him!”

“Others have died before him, even gods. But still the world goes on. What is he to you?”

John looked at me, bewildered.

“Have you forgotten our ancient friendship, John?”

“They are taking him to the Place of Skulls!”

“John, answer me,” I almost shouted, “is Cartaphilus nothing to you any more?”

“They will crucify him!” He buried his face in his hands. His curls overflowed both. Their trembling betrayed his intense agitation.

“What is Jesus to you? Why have you given your heart to him?” I asked bitterly. “You have forgotten Cartaphilus.”

He did not answer.

“John, we have been together since childhood. Hardly a day passed without our seeing each other. We discovered sex together. We discovered love together. We discovered Woman together. Arm in arm we walked, discussing philosophy, declaiming poetry, laughing at the foibles and stupidities of mankind. Our lives mingled like two rivers, each giving magnitude to the other. Our thoughts intertwined like the roots of two trees. How can you leave me so utterly?”

He did not answer.

“And for what reason? For whom?”

“Jesus is the Son of God.”

“The Son of God? He is a carpenter, and a carpenter’s son. You know that, John.”

He looked at me. In his eyes was the meekness of Jesus. I was furious. “You are even imitating his slavish look. We prided ourselves in being freemen. We despised the humility of our people. Have you forgotten that also?”

He looked at me again, and without uttering a word, walked back to the city.

AT the turning of the road which marks the limits of Jerusalem, a woman heavily veiled knelt before Jesus, kissing his feet and hands, and sobbing bitterly. The soldier and the executioner, believing her to be his mother, waited a while in patience, but noticing that she seemed reluctant to release their prisoner, they ordered: “Come on, Jew! We have no time to lose.”

They dragged the woman away, and continued their walk. The woman remained with her face in the dust. Curious to know who it was, I approached her, and placed my hand gently upon her head. “Come, come, you must not despair so. And, after all, is it not of his own free will that he carries the cross?”

She did not budge, but her sobbing subsided.

She raised her head. Her hair splashed over her shoulders like a fountain of gold.

Before she uncovered her face I knew it was Mary.

I lifted her. I tried to embrace her, but she repelled me. “You, too? You, too! Mary, be reasonable! John has left me. Now you! Half of my life has vanished with John…and now, you! How shall I survive this? How shall a man live, whose heart has been crushed like iron upon an anvil?”

“Believe in Him.”

“Believe in him? Who is he?”

“The Son of God.”

“You love him, Mary! He has taken you and John from me!”

“Believe in Him, Cartaphilus, and in Heaven we shall be together.”

I laughed bitterly. “How he has perverted your minds with his diabolical nonsense!”

“It is the truth.”

“Love me now, and never mind what will happen in Heaven.”

“I love you, Isaac.”

Ordinarily my Jewish name irritated me; but now it sounded sweet and familiar. I opened my arms gently, as if to embrace her.

“No, no! You do not understand. I love you, but never again that way– —” She looked at me as John and Jesus looked.

“Oh!” I shouted. “He has poisoned you all. He has made slaves of you!”

“Believe in him, Cartaphilus, and you will be so happy!”

“Mary, have you forgotten how happy we were? Have you forgotten the days? Have you forgotten the nights?”

She did not answer, gazing blankly into the distance.

“Mary—my love!”

She remained silent.

“My first, my incomparable love! Mary! What can existence mean to me now? You were dearer and more precious to me than the very breath of my nostrils. My life was ecstasy. I had found the perfect friendship of John, and—you! I was happy beyond all mortals! I dreamed of a love untouched by jealousy, cruelty, selfishness. I dreamed of a Paradise infinitely more beautiful than Eden. And now—both of you are bewitched by this pseudo-prophet!”

“Cartaphilus!” she admonished. “He is the Son of God!”

I disregarded her remark.

“If at least you loved a man, I could either smother my jealousy or slay my rival! It is not Jesus you love, but the dream of a madman—a ghost!”

“Cartaphilus!”

I remained silent for a while.

“Mary, believe in him, if you will—but remain with me!”

“He who believes in Him, must leave all things behind him and follow.”

“He is a demon, Mary! Such selfishness is not human!”

“ ‘Everyone that is of the truth, heareth my voice!’ ”

“You are possessed!”

She looked at me meekly. It was a meekness that stung me to the quick, the meekness of John, the meekness of Jesus.

I could not bear her eyes. I rushed away. Her golden head disappeared in the distance. I hurried to catch up with the sorry procession.

Jesus dragged his feet slowly. The cross, toppling to one side, beat lightly against his side. Suddenly he fell. I bent to lift him. He looked at me, but beckoned to one of the soldiers, saying in faulty Latin: “Help me, Roman!”

I was white with anger. Jesus staggered to his feet. Tauntingly I muttered: “Where are your followers? Where is your father in Heaven, you fool? All have forsaken you. Go on! Go faster! Go to your self-chosen doom!”

Jesus turned around and looked at me. All meekness had vanished from his face, now ablaze with anger. “I will go, but thou shalt tarry until I return.”

His voice struck my ears like a hammer. His eyes were two long spears tipped with fire, hurled against my head. The earth quaked underneath me. My face burned as if enveloped by flames.

“I will go, but thou shalt tarry until I return!” Did he repeat the words, or was it an echo that mocked me? I walked on, breathing heavily as if I had been climbing a mountain.

“What did you say?” I touched his arm. He would not answer.

“What did he say?” I inquired of one of the men.

“I don’t know, Captain.”

“He merely grumbled,” another added.

But I had heard distinctly what he said.

“He is raving!” I shouted. “He is raving!”

The soldiers laughed.

We reached the Place of Skulls. The soldier that accompanied the executioner left, and the executioner set to work immediately. I seated myself on a rock, and watched, unobserved.

The stroke of the hammer against the nail which was to pierce the right palm was light. Nevertheless, the pain must have been intense, for Jesus pulled his hand from which a long thread of blood was streaming to the ground, out of the large, bony hand of the executioner. The latter, annoyed, struck his fingers a sharp blow, and crushed them.

Jesus shivered.

The right hand firmly fixed, the Roman turned to the left side of the cross. He placed the nail against the palm and struck one powerful blow, which united the hand to the wood.

Jesus swooned.

I was on the point of swooning myself, but bit my lip until it bled.

The executioner did his work quietly and deftly. Only from time to time his breath lengthened into a low whistle of a Greek love song which had been in vogue at Rome some years previously. Pilate used to whistle it after several glasses of wine. The long nails for the feet were crooked. He straightened them out on a stone, beating lightly with his hammer against their humped backs. A few drops of the trickling blood touched his sandals, and he rubbed his feet in the dust.