14

  He stood dumbstruck at his door, rooted, unmoving, eyes fixed upon the cross on the back of the bloodied convict, as the man struggled up the trail, a multitude of soldiers, priests, onlookers and mourners about him and the other two, a crown of thorns upon his head, and knew, from the moment the words had been spoken, that he had erred badly indeed.

  “Wait.” Wait until I return. It had sent a shock, such as he had never felt, indeed never imagined, through his frame, nay, through his soul.

  In all fairness, it must be recorded that Ahasverus repented immediately. The convict had merely attempted to rest, and even that, at only his doorstep, and no man should assume the right to deny an obviously exhausted being, on his last terrible journey, an opportunity to get his breath back. Air is for free, anyway. Yet he, Ahasverus, had denied, had shooed the man away.

  They were not harsh words; no, not harsh at all, almost mild, actually. ‘I go, but thou shalt wait till I return’ – but the power of command!

  The throng passed out of view, and still Ahasverus stood stricken. He found his legs after a while, though, and fell back into his abode, to lie among unfinished shoes. The pair ready and bundled up, was due for delivery that very morning. But Tiberius would have to wait. The shoemaker resolved to first ask the condemned man for forgiveness.

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  He darted out, staff in hand; staffs were much in fashion then, and Ahasverus was doomed to carry the fashion forever, and hurried up the incline, to the place of the skull. Two crosses were already standing, one with a ranting raving criminal, the other with a silent one. He was in time to see them lay the man with the crown of thorns upon the third cross. Ahasverus marvelled that he had not bothered to remove the bothersome thorn crown, which he could have at any time done with consummate ease.

  Ahasverus began moving forward to ask forgiveness for his rudeness, when he spotted Tiberius, the Roman centurion, who seemed to be in charge of the crucifixion detail. Tiberius was a notorious bully, and a mad beater of Jews. He should have delivered Tiberius’ shoes that morning. Indeed, he had already been preparing to set out to the centurion’s barracks, a short walk beyond the pool of Bethesda, but the incident that had just occurred had thrown his schedule out of gear. For sure, Tiberius would break his legs, here and now.

  Ahasverus hung back, trying to be invisible, while the Romans went about the crucifixion. Spurius the drunkard was handling the nails. He struck cleanly through one hand and hammered away, stumbled over to the other and struck cleanly too, and then went to the foot of the cross. It was absolutely quiet, except for the occasional raucous ranting of the criminal on the cross to the right.

  Spurius had placed the nail onto the feet, which were bound one atop the other, when he suddenly vented a loud exclamation of disgust and long-suffering, dropped the apparently useless nail alongside the cross, and stumbled over to his bag, a couple of yards away.

  He selected a new nail, checking it very carefully.