Two Roman soldiers approached as he was delivering his last strokes, more for the sake of finishing the accompaniment to the air he was whistling than for the need of fastening the body to the wood.

“He will never fall off, friend,—of that you may rest assured,” said one of the soldiers. The three men laughed.

He rubbed his hands with sand, and asked one of his friends to pour water over them out of an earthen jug. When he was ready, the three men walked a few steps away from the cross and turning their backs to it, seated themselves on the ground. The executioner filled three cups with a very dark wine, which he took out of a small ditch, where he had hidden it, to keep it cool.

Jesus moaned, “Water, water!” many times in Hebrew and in Latin. I wished to go away, but could not. Something riveted me to the spot.

The three men were playing dice while emptying their cups in one or two gulps. The rare passers-by turned their heads away and spat. It was an evil omen to see a crucified man.

The sun was setting directly in front of Jesus—a large red sun, like a scarlet wound in the bosom of a doomed divinity. Two butterflies, one gray, one white, chased each other in endless circles, until they struck his beard.

Frightened, they dashed suddenly out of sight.

The executioner swore loudly. He was losing steadily. He even accused his friends of using loaded dice.

Jesus moaned.

The executioner lost his last piece of silver, and cursed all the gods of Israel and in particular the man on the cross. He knew he would be unlucky by the way he missed the first stroke of the hammer against the rascal’s right palm.

“You were a stoic once. Don’t be overwrought over a trifle. Tomorrow your luck will be different. The gods are moody.”

“I sell the garments of that Jew for two pieces of silver.”

“They are not worth it,” answered one, “I have seen them. They are cheap wool.”

“I’ll take them,” said the other.

The sun vanished suddenly behind the horizon as though it had slipped out of the hand of an absent-minded god. The air grew immediately chilly, and several large clouds rolled together on the peak of the hills. A thin, mangy dog stopped a moment in his endless wanderings, lapped a few drops of the blood at the foot of the cross, sniffed the sand, and ran on.

Jesus turned slowly, painfully, his head from the right to the left shoulder, as though it had become a thing of stone. Tears trickled down his face and became entangled in his beard.

He mumbled something. “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?”

The hopelessness of his voice pierced my heart. More than ever I resented the folly and the futility of his sacrifice. Not God, but he himself had deliberately chosen the cross, a cross too heavy for his back.

One of the soldiers sang an obscene parody on a sentimental song, which made the other splurt out the mouthful of wine he had been trying to swallow while laughing. The dice became wet. The executioner wiped them, swearing. In the distance a cow mooed. Another cow answered. The echo of the shepherd’s call rolled a few times and died away. A crow, a worm in its beak, dashed by, flapping its wings noisily.

Jesus moaned, “Water, water!”

The executioner lost his last coin. He was too angry to drink a toast.

“It is all due to that Hebrew. His moaning upset me and made my hand tremble.” Running to the cross, he shouted, “What the devil are you groaning about?”

“Water. Water.”

“You shall get water, you shall!” And filling to the brim a wine cup, he placed it to the lips of Jesus, saying, “Drink, Hebrew, drink!” Jesus sipped a few drops, his body shrank, and he dropped his head upon his left shoulder.

“What did you give him to drink?” asked one of the soldiers.

“Some strong vinegar, which I was taking home, to pickle cucumbers.”

The soldier laughed. The other said, “I believe it killed him.”

“He does look as if he were dead.”

“Pierce him with your sword and we’ll see.”

One of the soldiers drew his sword and pierced Jesus below the ribs. A stream of blood and water rushed out. Jesus shivered for a few moments, then remained still.

“He is dead now,” said the soldier, while examining the garments be had won. “What rags!”

“Come along to Jerusalem,” said the other. “We haven’t won your money to hoard it. Come!”

The executioner was reluctant. The soldier whispered something in his ear. He smiled.

Remembering my appointment with Pilate’s wife I arose, shook myself violently, and walked to the palace.

PROCLA welcomed me as cordially as usual, although I noticed an absent-mindedness in her manner, the reason for which I suspected too well.

“You’re late, Cartaphilus.”

“The noise and the stench of the rabble made me sick. I rested awhile.”

She stared at me. Did she guess that I was lying?

“The Jews are very noisy, are they not, Cartaphilus?”

“Very.”

“And yet you can be deliciously silent.”

“I have but few of the characteristics of the Jews. I hardly look like one.” I hoped Procla would agree with me, for I longed to be taken for a Roman. I often looked in a silver mirror—the gift of an Egyptian courtesan—imagining myself the possessor of a Roman nose!

Procla smiled and tapped my cheek. “No, no, my dear, you are a Jew, and look like one, and that is the reason I care for you. The Jews have a strange fascination for me. What nation has such eyes…like…like…the poor fellow’s who was condemned to the cross today?”

“I hate his eyes!”

“Yes, yes, they are eyes which one may love or hate passionately…but which one never forgets.”

I did not answer.

“You were his friend, were you not?”

“I knew him as a boy. He was just like everybody else. I thought he would become a good carpenter.”

“As you were a good cobbler!” She laughed a little.

“My father was a cobbler. I merely helped him on occasions. I never learned the trade. My mind was elsewhere, and my hands were not fashioned for menial labor.”

“Of course. And what made the carpenter turn to religion?”

“Religion is a species of mania—a desire to escape from reality. He was a Jew and a carpenter; he wished to be neither.”

Procla sighed and fanned herself lazily. “Come nearer me, Cartaphilus.”

I approached her, and taking her hand, small as a girl’s, in mine, I said “I love you.”

“I know.”

I kissed her.

“I am very sad tonight. Your love will dispel my sadness.”

“Is Mary Magdalene fickle?” she asked, smiling.

“Mary?”

“Of course. Does not everyone know that– —?”

“Mary is dead!” I exclaimed.

“Is it possible?”

“Worse than dead!”

“Oh! She has left you?”

“She was a fever that seized my heart for a season. Now that I am myself again I am utterly yours.”

She smiled. “Dear boy, you should know by this time that I am faithful to Pilate.”

“You inflame me, Procla; you madden me…and then you push me away.”

“Gently, however, you must acknowledge.”

“Yes, very gently.”

“Let me see your eyes, Cartaphilus.” She took my head between her hands. “You may be right, after all. Perhaps you are not a Hebrew. There is more pride and hatred in your eyes than…in his.”

I stood up. “Please do not speak of his eyes any more!”

She burst out laughing. “You are jealous, Cartaphilus, jealous of a corpse on a cross!”

I would have dashed out of the room, but Pilate entered, jovial as ever, and a little unsteady on his feet. “Oh, my young friend, Cartaphilus!”

“What a magnificent poet Ovid is, my dear!” He addressed his wife. “And how he knows love. You must read the book, and you too, Cartaphilus. But you don’t seem to be over-cheerful tonight. Has he fallen in love with you, my dear?”