THE CROWN

It had been dark and gloomy all morning and, as the day progressed, it looked as though a mighty storm was brewing.

By very early in the afternoon, the sky had darkened more and thunder rumbled all around. Strange lights flashed and crackled in brilliant blue through to dark purple, illuminating the clouds with mystery and terror.

On the hill stood three rough wooden crosses, each with a man nailed to it, arms outstretched.

Low moans emanated from the lips of all three but the attention of the onlookers seemed to be focused on the man in the middle. A notice was fixed to the timber of his cross, it read

“Jesus Christ, King of the Jews”.

A soldier approached the three shattered men and taking an iron rod, he broke the legs of the men on the outside crosses. They both let out a dying gasp as their bodies slumped forward as far as the cruel nails would allow and their internal organs finally gave up the struggle to survive.

A voice called out from the central figure,

“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do”

The soldier then drew his sword and drove it into the side of this man.

Water and blood gushed from the wound as he withdrew his weapon.

“It is finished”, cried the hapless victim as his last life-signs ebbed away.

Lightning slashed through the sky, the thunder roared in the clouds and the ground heaved as an earth tremor struck the region.

It was over.

There had been weeks of debate, accusation and counter-accusation and now, finally, the matter had been resolved. The rebel leader had been put to death and that would be the end of it.

Slowly, the crowd melted away leaving just a few faithful followers to stand, kneel or sit in mourning as they looked up at the anguished face of this young man who had held such promise.

At the foot of his cross, Roman soldiers gambled for the clothes so cruelly torn from his body. So, where were his fine words now? Where were his promises of everlasting life? If he really was who he claimed to be, why had he not called on his supernatural powers to escape from the cross? Doubts ran wild amongst the few left there at the foot of the cross on that fateful afternoon.

A young Roman soldier watched as the scene unfolded. His name was Lucius and he was due a spell of leave soon to go home to Rome and see his parents, take some time off, relax and enjoy the good things of life for a while. He had not liked what he had witnessed and wondered why a man would make such ludicrous claims, especially when the price was execution.

’King of the Jews? Son of God? How many more delusions could this man suffer from? Surely, he was just a man – a prophet, perhaps – but just a man. A man who had made extravagant claims, performed what appeared to be miracles – probably conjuring tricks, in reality – and was now paying the price for being too bold and too impertinent in the face of the ruling powers.’

Such were the thoughts that ran through the mind of Lucius.

‘This man was just a humble carpenter, son of an equally humble carpenter, who had set himself up as a leader, had rebelled against all authority and had now paid the ultimate price for what amounted to treason. He had been executed, crucified as a common criminal and that was that! End of story!’

As darkness fell, a couple of men who had supported the newly-crucified rebel came quietly and lowered the cross to the ground. Joseph, who was from Aramathea, had obtained permission from the Roman rulers to remove the corpse and lay it to rest in a tomb. The man with him was Simon from Cyrene – he had been picked out of the crowd earlier by the Romans and forced to carry the cross of Jesus. They gently removed the nails from his hands and feet, wrapped his body in a clean linen cloth and lifted him on to a litter to take him to a burial chamber.

Standing close by was Claudius, the Roman captain in charge of the small guard placed over the site of the crucifixions. Near to him cowered Lucius who had never seen an execution before and was completely awe-struck by the whole procedure.

As Joseph and Simon completed their preparations to carry the body away, Claudius stepped forward.

“What will you do with him now?” he asked quietly.

Joseph peered at him in the gloom and smiled.

“We will lay him to rest in a new tomb we have prepared and then wait for three days until he rises from the dead.”

Claudius looked shocked.

“Rise from the dead?” his tone was incredulous. “That’s impossible; how can anyone rise from the dead?”

“This man, so cruelly executed here today, is the Son of God”, replied Joseph calmly, “and during his time with us he told us he would be killed and that three days later he would rise again, walk amongst us then ascend into heaven to be with his holy father, our Lord God.”

Claudius’s jaw dropped.

“I heard him mutter something about ‘forgive them father’, or something like that just as my officer pierced him with a sword. Why would he have said that? Why would he ask anyone to forgive us – we were killing him?”

Joseph smiled patiently.

“My son”, he said and stepped forward to place his hand on the Roman’s shoulder. “My son there is so much you have missed by staying here with your garrison. This man has died, even though his judge, Pilate, found him guilty of absolutely no wrong-doing. It was the fear within the crowd and their chanting and shouting and calling for blood that finally brought this man to this end. However, we see this as a beginning. This man, so humble and quiet yet so powerful and good was the son of man and also the son of God. He brought many new teachings to us all but perhaps the most important was a new covenant with God that we should love all men as our neighbours, whatever they do to us. So, you see, as he was being finally put to death, he called on God to forgive those involved. If we are to love all men at all times, then what greater test could there be than to love and forgive someone who kills us?”

Claudius buckled and ended up kneeling before Joseph.

“I had no idea that this was such a great man”, he said quietly. “In spite of all I have been taught about our own Gods I can see now that you have the right belief. How can I find that belief for myself?”

Joseph reached down and raised Claudius to his feet. Holding his arm gently but firmly he turned him to face the covered body on the litter.

“The only way to God, heaven and everlasting life is through this man lying dead upon the ground. The road will be rough and narrow and there will be many times you are tempted to step off it but all you need to do is honestly, simply and devoutly open your heart to the love of Jesus Christ. Acknowledge that his holy father is the only one God and ask for forgiveness for all your sins. It really is that simple. This poor dead man, lying here before you is Jesus of Nazareth, son of God and saviour of all mankind. He has just died a very human death so that all humans may receive absolution from their sins and gain everlasting life – just believe in him.”

Claudius embraced Joseph then fell to his knees once more.

“I believe in the one God”, he proclaimed, “I believe in Jesus Christ as the son of God and I believe in the holy spirit of God. I ask now for this spirit to enter my mind, body and soul, cleanse me of sin and guilt and carry me forward into a new hope and trust in the future, through the love of this Jesus and God Almighty, Amen.”

“Welcome”, said Joseph, helping Claudius to his feet once more. “Now go out among your colleagues and do not be afraid to tell them of your new-found faith and how it has come to you. I will trust in you to be a good Christian and know that you will trust in the word and truth of Almighty God, Amen.”

Claudius turned away and began the long walk back to his garrison. Joseph and Simon returned to the job in hand and as they lifted the body of Jesus, the grotesque crown of vicious thorns fell from his head and rolled to one side as they slowly walked from the dreadful scene. As they faded into the darkness the figure of Lucius crept forward and gently and carefully lifted the crown of thorns and folded it into a piece of rough sacking. He looked around furtively then he too glided away into the darkness, following in the footsteps of the two men who bore the body of the rebel to his final resting place.

Lucius did not share his captain’s belief but had at least realised that this crown represented a potent symbol of some power. He would keep it until it brought him the good fortune he craved.

A few weeks after these events, Lucius was on board a ship preparing to leave the port of Joppa and return many of the soldiers to their homes in Rome. There was much excitement in the vessel as it had been many months since the men had last seen their homes, wives and children. They all had large sacks with them containing the possessions they wanted to take back and Lucius was no exception. Apart from his sack of personal items was a second bag into which he had carefully re-packed the crown of thorns, making quite sure that none of the points protruded.

He didn’t know why he wanted to keep this ugly relic of a day he found hard to forget. He still had nightmares about the thunder and lightning, the earth tremors and the crucifixion itself. He had found it all distasteful, violent and harrowing and had been appalled at the casual cold-bloodedness of some of his colleagues. He had also been amazed and greatly disturbed by the actions of Claudius, his superior officer. To see a captain break down and cry then almost instantly adopt an alien and forbidden religion was way outside of Lucius’s experience. He had been wise and not mentioned anything about that day to anyone else. It was his secret and the crown lying in his second sack was his trophy, proof he had been there, evidence of the whole sorry affair. He had no idea what he intended to do with this wreath of woven thorny twigs but just had an instinct that it might be valuable in some way, at some future date. It was certainly a lethal thing to handle and Lucius had stuck himself on the thorns two or three times when he was trying to pack it up to travel. He had looked at it closely as he handled it and noticed blood stains on every point of the thorns – it had certainly been rammed tight on to the head of that rebel. Now, it had even more blood stains – his own – to accompany those of the man crucified that dark day.

The sea voyage across the Mediterranean was unseasonably rough. The weather in June had deteriorated and the sea was now whipped up by strong winds, the waves crashing over the bow of the boat. The small amount of sail deployed was slammed to and fro and progress across the water was negligible.

Lucius was feeling sick and, to make matters worse, his fingers had swollen where the thorns of the crown had pricked his skin. He realised, too late, that he had not washed the thing before handling it so any kind of disease could be lurking on those vicious points. Now, his hands were almost useless as the infected fingers throbbed and swelled to almost twice their normal size. His first temptation had been to throw it overboard but he still harboured the view that it could carry some value – not necessarily monetary – owing to its origins and the fact that it had last been placed on the head of this man who had claimed to be the son of God.

At the thought of this, Lucius snorted to himself.

“Son of God – huh! Those people back in the east were so gullible. He was just a man, like any other, who had a good way with words and could convince some people that black was white, night was day and that he would rise from the dead and live again. Hah! Son of God, indeed.”

Yet a tiny niggle chewed away at the back of his mind. What if he was wrong?

As night fell, the wind increased and the small boat lurched its way over ever-higher waves. Suddenly, there was a crash as the mast splintered and fell across the deck. The sailors scrambled to cut the sail free as it was dragging in the water and acting as a drogue anchor, slowing the boat and making control of it almost impossible. Eventually, the men cut all the debris free and heaved the upper part of the mast overboard. The ship was now entirely at the mercy of the elements, all human control gone as she pitched and tossed her way through the night; nobody on board had any idea where they were or where they were headed.

Lucius stayed below through the night; he was no sailor and just hoped and prayed that he would soon be home for his one month’s leave. He prayed aloud to Neptune, Roman god of the seas but Neptune, it seemed, was having a night off duty. The storm seemed to get more and more severe and though unable to sleep, Lucius eventually fell into a stupor, probably much to do with the amount of wine he had consumed.

Still in darkness, there came another crash followed by grinding and groaning noises as the ship ran on to rocks. Splits appeared in the sides of the vessel and water poured in at all levels. Lucius was only vaguely aware of all this, the alcohol dulling his brain, but he managed to grasp that something was terribly wrong. He tied his two bags to his belt and staggered from the cabin he shared with several other men, many of whom were already making their way to the ladders that led up to the deck. Just as he reached the bottom of the first ladder a mighty wall of water deluged down and swept the men above him on to the floor beside him. The boat was filling up and Lucius could see that most of his companions were unconscious, lying face down in two or three feet of water. Realising they must be dead or almost finished, he made a jump for the ladder and pulled himself up and out on to the deck. A huge wave rolled along the length of the vessel, tearing it apart like matchwood and carrying Lucius over the rail and into the seething maelstrom. He fought for his life not knowing which was up or down as he was tumbled about in the water for what felt like hours. Suddenly, he felt hard ground under his feet and pushed down in order to get himself upright. Another wave swept him on to his side and rolled him over the cruel and jagged rocks, cutting his limbs and body to ribbons.

Exhausted, he gave himself up to his fate, sinking into unconsciousness as yet another wall of water lifted him up, carried him forward and crashed him down on to the bed of the sea. This time, however, it was on to sand; a beach being scoured by the angry storm. Somehow, through his drunken, exhausted and battered mind came the realisation that he was out of the water. Slowly, he dragged his broken body a few feet up the sand, away from the reach of the surging sea then collapsed, retching bile and seawater until he passed out, almost praying for death, he felt so ill.

By the time Lucius came round, the storm had abated and the sun was warm on his back. Slowly, he opened his eyes and carefully moved his body to ascertain for sure that he really was still alive. He rubbed his hand over his face and winced as the infected wounds from the thorns set up throbbing again. He rolled on to his back and sat up. He looked out to sea and could hardly believe it was the same ocean that had smashed their ship to pieces and nearly killed him the night before; it was all so calm, dark blue and almost inviting.

He looked down at his body and his blood-stained clothes, looked at the state of his hands and feet and checked that he still had his two bags tied firmly to his belt.

‘I wonder if anyone else has been washed up here?’ he thought. ‘Alive or dead, I wonder?’

He was then stricken with a vomiting attack that racked his body and made him shake and shiver. The combination of infection in his fingers and a belly full of sea water was making his body rebel. He leaned forward and threw up one more time. When he felt a little better, he stood and staggered to the water’s edge, bent and scooped up a handful of the sea and smashed it over his face. He repeated this process a couple more times then turned away from the sea and started to walk, unsteadily, up the beach to find a dwelling, a village or at least some signs of human life. He crested the ridge at the back of the sand and saw, in the distance, a tiny settlement huddled at the foot of a sharply conical hill.

‘Thank the gods in the heavens’ he muttered to himself, ‘the chance of food, clean water and, maybe, some clean clothes’.

He checked around him in case there was anyone close by then, satisfied that he was completely alone, he set off on the long walk to the settlement.

The track on which he walked was narrow and stony, obviously trodden by donkeys and men over many years. By this time, the sun was hot and Lucius was spurred on by the thoughts of clean, cool water; his throat was parched and dry and still had the sting of salt in it after the previous day and night’s experiences. Slowly, the settlement became clearer to him as he approached then warning bells rang in his head – what if the inhabitants were unfriendly? What if they attacked him for the sacks he carried? He suddenly realised he was a complete stranger in a potentially hostile environment. It had been easier in Palestine as the locals recognised Roman military personnel; they did not especially like them but at least they treated them with respect and a healthy amount of fear. What lay ahead? Had they ever seen a Roman before? Did they have weapons? All these thoughts bounded around inside his head yet he set them aside as the hope of water and food drove him forward.

Soon, he found himself just a few feet from the first of a dozen or so houses. A dog barked and a man stepped out of the door to see what had disturbed the animal. He stood dead still for a moment, weighing Lucius up. Lucius also halted his shambling walk and looked intently at the man.

“Who are you?” asked the man but Lucius did not understand the language.

“Do you have water and a little food?” asked Lucius but the man did not understand him either.

“Eh?” said the man, frowning.

Lucius sank to his knees and mimed drinking and eating then held out his arms in supplication. The man grasped his meaning at once and hurried forward to help him to his feet. Gently he shepherded him into his rustic dwelling where a young woman shrank back against the wall, looking at Lucius in fear.

“Do not be afraid, wife”, said the Greek. “This man is sick, hungry and thirsty. Let us feed him first then, perhaps, we can find out who he is and where he has come from so mysteriously. He did speak but I could not understand him and, when I spoke to him, he could not understand me. Perhaps he is from another land.

They sat Lucius down and plied him with water and wine, bread, olives and rough cheese. He ate and drank as though it was the first food and drink he had seen for months. The man moved to set Lucius’s sacks to one side but he made it clear they should stay beside him. The Greek held up his hands in mock surrender and the moment passed.

The villager decided to try and communicate so he sat in front of Lucius and pointed to himself.

“Dimitris,” he said, tapping himself on the chest. “Dimitris”.

He pointed to his wife and nodded.

“Aphrodite”, he said, smiling. “Aphrodite.”

Lucius looked from one to the other. He had heard the name Aphrodite, of course. Wasn’t she the Greek goddess of love? The name Dimitris also sounded familiar from stories of the gladiators back in Rome. He realised they must be Greek. He smiled at them both and tapped his own chest.

“Lucius”, he said proudly. “Lucius.”

Dimitris pointed at Lucius and said, clearly, “Lucius!”

The Roman nodded and pointed to the islanders in turn.

“Dimitris, Aphrodite”.

They all relaxed and laughed, a little nervously.

Lucius pointed to the floor and shrugged. No response. He swept his arm round to embrace the house and its surroundings, shrugging again. Still no response. He decided to try and ask where he was.

Pointing to the floor again he asked,

“Kriti?” (Crete).

Dimitris smiled and shook his head.

“Paros”, he said and pointed to the floor then swept his arm round to indicate the whole environment.

“Paros”.

The three of them smiled and nodded then an awkward silence fell.

Dimitris pointed at Lucius, a questioning look in his eyes.

“Where from?” he said simply but Lucius could not answer. Dimitris shook his head as he pointed again at Lucius. “Greek?” he said and Lucius caught on at once.

“No Greek”, he said, shaking his head. “Roman; Roman.”

Dimitris frowned; he did not know this name ‘Roman’ and yet a tiny bell rang in the back of his mind. Suddenly he remembered. An island merchant had had lots of the local people in absolute thrall with stories of sea voyages to far-off lands and Dimitris was sure the name Rome or Roman had occurred within these tales. He indicated to Lucius to stay seated then turned and spoke rapidly to his wife. She looked a little nervous as he was asking her to stay with Lucius whilst he went to find this merchant, Hector by name. He made reassuring noises then quickly left the house. Lucius meanwhile was feeling sleepy so Aphrodite showed him a rough bench with some blankets and Lucius gladly lay down and was asleep in seconds.

About two hours later, Dimitris returned with a gnarled, weather-beaten man whose large frame seemed to fill the entire room. The three of them looked at Lucius sleeping so peacefully then decided to take a drink of wine until he woke up. They did not have long to wait; it seemed as though Lucius was aware of their presence almost immediately and he sat up, looking a little alarmed at first until he gathered his wits and realised he was amongst people who appeared friendly.

Dimitris pointed to the newcomer.

“Hector”, he said clearly. “Hector.”

Lucius nodded to Hector then pointed at himself.

“Lucius”, he said. “Lucius.”

“Where are you from?” asked Dimitris.

Hector translated into Latin and Lucius looked at him in amazement.

“I am from a village near Rome”, replied Lucius; Hector translated for Dimitris. “I was on a ship bound for home when a storm wrecked us on the rocks and I found myself on the beach just down the track there. I am with the Roman garrison in Judea.”

Dimitris and Aphrodite looked at Lucius with renewed interest though they had no idea where Judea was.

Slowly, with Hector translating both ways, the Greek couple learned about Lucius and his army life, his homesickness and then about the terrible execution he had witnessed. Lucius was so wrapped up in telling his tale that he included the account of how he had picked up the crown of thorns and, in fact, had it with him in one of his sacks. The Greeks found it difficult to envisage a man as the son of God and also the suggestion that there was only one God – after all, like the Romans, they had several gods to keep happy. Nonetheless, they were fascinated by the story but did not seem

to give any special significance to the crown. It was a souvenir, something Lucius had just picked up on the spur of the moment, a memento.

When all were satisfied they knew enough about each other, Hector suggested Lucius might care to go with him to the main port town and, maybe, find a ship heading nearer to his homeland. Lucius agreed and, after thanking his hosts, decided to leave them the crown of thorns just in case they should hear of this man Jesus in which case they would already have a connection. Being honest with himself, Lucius was relieved to be rid of it as the infection in his fingers still caused him pain and discomfort and he didn’t feel like getting another bout from any more stabbings from the thorns.

For their part, the Greek couple expressed their thanks though, secretly, they couldn’t see any value or benefit in the gift.

After Lucius had left them, they opened the sack and looked at the simple but barbarous item of torture on the floor before them. They decided they would keep it for a while just in case anyone turned up with more stories about this Jesus then, in the absence of any further interest, they would burn it.

Weeks passed and nobody arrived with any more Jesus stories and just as they decided to burn the crown, Dimitris was struck with the idea of lodging it with a soothsayer, a bit of a mystic, who lived in a small cave almost on the summit of the conical hill beside the village. Surely this old man could find some use for the crown; after all, it was another mysterious object to which he could attach some supposedly magical powers.

Next day, Dimitris rolled the crown up in its sack and trudged off up the hill to find the old man who spent almost all his time making magic potions and calling on the spirits of the departed to make life better for the living.

When he arrived at the cave, Dimitris called out and the old man emerged.

Dimitris explained what he had brought and recounted the entire story he had been told by Lucius. The old hermit unwrapped the sack and inspected the crown thoroughly, mumbling and cackling as he did so.

“There!” he shouted in triumph. “There – see! Blood on the points of the thorns! This proves that what you tell me is the truth. I will keep this relic safe and wait for the appointed one to come and claim it. Whether this man Jesus really was the son of God we will never know – after all, there are many gods so of which one is he the son? One day we will find out or one day we will not, who is to say? Go now in peace Dimitris. May your land be fertile and your wife be faithful and may you both live a long and happy life. Go!”

Dimitris left the hermit and made his way down the hill to his home. He told Aphrodite what the old man had said and over the following months and years his crops improved, he lost fewer goats and Aphrodite presented him with two beautiful sons.

The old hermit kept the crown close to him for a while but he, too, pricked his hands on the thorns and was soon disabled through swelling and infection. Eventually, he moved it to the back of another small cave almost at the summit of the hill, closed the entrance off with some rocks and soon forgot all about it.

Over the years and decades that followed, the entrance became covered with earth and plant growth until it was impossible to discern that there had ever been a cave there at all.