The Scribe

30 AD.

Thunder and lightning lashed the city of Jerusalem. The storm broke with a fury unparalleled in the lifetimes of all those present, and people grew afraid. Even the Roman soldiers, hardened as they were by army life and accustomed to a life of battle and bloodshed, threw nervous glances at the sky.

The sky was a cauldron of angry colours - dark orange, purples, raw siennas, ochre yellows, black and greys, and pierced by giant streaks of jagged white lightning. There was a roar in the air, as though a giant breath of anger had been unleashed. Dark grey cloud scudded across the sky, and the land itself grew dark. The sun was gone, replaced not with a wonderful night sky of moon and stars, but by a malevolent scowl of the harshest weather anyone present had ever seen. There was a biting coldness in the air, and the people accustomed as they were to a warm Mediterranean climate, shivered uncontrollably.

Rain had begun to fall, sheets of angry little pellets that stung the faces of the people. Many turned towards home, but more than a few threw a backwards glance to the limp figure hanging on the cross whom they had earlier mocked. They weren't laughing now. Instead their faces were contorted with a baffled puzzlement and no little fear.

One citizen, normally a quiet reserved man screamed at those members of the Sanhedrin still left: "You brought this," he screamed at them. "You brought this...this wrath. This wrath of God."

They stared at him in silence. Sullen.

Escobar scowled and turned away. In his early thirties, he had been persuaded by the arguments of the High Priest Ciaiphas to condemn the young man who hung limply on the cross, and until this moment had felt no compunction or guilt at his decision. What had moved him was the dignity of the man as he died on the cross. The man's demeanour had been different than the two thieves who hung either side of him. The voice had contained an air of reverence that Escobar had been intrigued by, and for the first time he had looked inward and recognised his own weaknesses. A gnawing doubt engulfed his very being, and his thin face convulsed with the realisation that he might have been wrong. Had he been too quick to judge, to condemn, to nurture favour with Ciaiphas and other senior members of the Sanhedrin?

Escobar didn't know.

What he did know was that in the last hour his beliefs had been shaken to his very core, and he knew in an instant that everything had changed. Everything had changed, and yet nothing had changed. He was confused by his sudden change of heart. He'd seen other crucifixions and couldn't understand why this one had moved him so deeply.

He gazed up at the man on the cross, his brown eyes suddenly moist, as though the dead Galilean could provide an answer. But the lips of the man were now silent, a thin trickle of blood coursing the sides of a still countenance strangely at peace. A crown of thorns still clung to the matted hair and a sign above the man's head bore evidence of his supposed crime. It read simply: INRI.

King of the Jews. Roman parlance. Roman humour.

Escobar suddenly realised that the rain had merged with the dead man's blood and had washed around his sandaled feet. He moved back, still mesmerised by the face of the man on the cross, unheeding of the rain which lashed his face. He could hear sobbing nearby, and turning he recognised the dead man's mother. She had been pointed out to him earlier in the day. Pity engulfed him, and for a brief moment he wanted to go to her and embrace her.

A man was with her - another Galilean. He held her in the embrace that Escobar had wanted to give. For a brief moment the two men locked eyes. Escobar saw the grief in the man's eyes, and turned away. A friend, obviously. Other women were nearby, also sobbing.

Unnerved, Escobar began moving away. He had never been comfortable in the grief shown by women. He moved slowly, his steps hesitant. Looking around, he saw that most people had now left. The soldiers had left.

The sky was still accentuated with the sounds of fierce lightning and wind shear. It was beginning to ease somewhat, as the executioners took down the bodies of the three men on the crosses. Escobar walked back through the narrow empty alleyways of the Holy City towards the temple. He became aware of a commotion there.

Entering he stopped dead.

The temple looked like it had been hit with an earthquake. The words of the man who had died came back and haunted him: "Destroy this temple, and in three days I'll raise it again."

Escobar shivered. He could see Ciaiphas shaking his head in disbelief and the whispered mutterings of others.

"An earthquake?" one man suggested.

"Nonsense," replied his companion.

"Then what?"

"Him."

Escobar followed their gaze. The bodies had been removed, but the three crosses were still visible on the summit of Mount Calvary. He shivered again. His eyes fell on the broken alabaster littering the stone floor, and moved to the heavy curtain that had split in two, its heavy lace dangling like a man on a cross. Stonework had cracked and broke. He coughed as dust hit his lungs.

He wondered what Rachel would have made of it. She had been his constant companion since his early teen years but she had died when she was expecting their first child. The baby hadn't survived either.

"Complications," they had said.

Though gone two years, Escobar still missed Rachel as though she had died only yesterday. The love of his life had been snatched cruelly from his life, leaving only bitterness in its wake. He had struggled with life since.

Every day was an effort.

He'd thrown himself into his work.

An ardent follower of the Sanhedrin, his work had allowed his mind to escape the mind-numbing pain of Rachel's loss, but he still found it a difficult uphill struggle. Up to now he had never questioned his convictions, but now he found himself wondering if others had taken advantage of his circumstances. He sensed Rachel wouldn't have approved of some of his Sanhedrin duties and the people he now associated with. She had been a simple, good woman.

She would have instantly spotted the goodness in the man - Jesus. She had been that kind of woman. Sensing the good in people.

She had abhorred violence. She would have been appalled by the way a convicted murderer like Barabbas had been freed in order to condemn the young Galilean preacher.

Escobar could sense the truth of that. He turned to go.

He needed time alone.

Time to reflect.

Time to pause.

Time to take a long hard look at his life and what he had become. He left the temple and the grim forebodings of the men gathered there, and walked slowly home. His mind was busy, thoughtful.

* * *

Sleep didn't come easy that Friday night.

Escobar turned and tossed, the sheets slick and wet against his body. Nightmares dogged his every breath. His breathing was laboured and shallow. He cried out in fear...naked, dogged fear.

Sheer terror.

A heavy weight was on his chest. He felt like an Egyptian slave forced to quarry heavy rock, pyramid rock, under the malevolent and baleful gaze of a Pharaoh's lifelong vision. He couldn't move.

He felt paralysed.

The heavy rocks became like giant boulders of durable granite, weighing him down, pinning him, crushing the life out of him. The fear woke him out of a deep slumber. He stumbled blindly from his bed, his throat dry and acrid, his bony fingers reaching for a lantern. He lit the lantern with a tiny flicker of flame that still burned in the hearth. The room lit up slowly.

He brushed his fingers through his lank black hair. His breathing was somewhat easier and he filled a cup with water from a pail that rested near the doorway. He munched slowly on a piece of flat bread as he went through the doorway and breathed in the night air. The stars shone in abundance, and a half-crescent moon hung low in the sky. He stared at the sky for a long time.

His mood was pensive. Sombre.

Sighing he returned to his quarters.

Everything had changed. nder and lightning lashed the city of Jerusalem. The storm broke with a fury unparalleled in the lifetimes of all those present, and people grew afraid. Even the Roman soldiers, hardened as they were by army life and accustomed to a life of battle and bloodshed, threw nervous glances at the sky.

The sky was a cauldron of angry colours - dark orange, purples, raw siennas, ochre yellows, black and greys, and pierced by giant streaks of jagged white lightning. There was a roar in the air, as though a giant breath of anger had been unleashed. Dark grey cloud scudded across the sky, and the land itself grew dark. The sun was gone, replaced not with a wonderful night sky of moon and stars, but by a malevolent scowl of the harshest weather anyone present had ever seen. There was a biting coldness in the air, and the people accustomed as they were to a warm Mediterranean climate, shivered uncontrollably.

Rain had begun to fall, sheets of angry little pellets that stung the faces of the people. Many turned towards home, but more than a few threw a backwards glance to the limp figure hanging on the cross whom they had earlier mocked. They weren't laughing now. Instead their faces were contorted with a baffled puzzlement and no little fear.

One citizen, normally a quiet reserved man screamed at those members of the Sanhedrin still left: "You brought this," he screamed at them. "You brought this...this wrath. This wrath of God."

They stared at him in silence. Sullen.

Escobar scowled and turned away. In his early thirties, he had been persuaded by the arguments of the High Priest Ciaiphas to condemn the young man who hung limply on the cross, and until this moment had felt no compunction or guilt at his decision. What had moved him was the dignity of the man as he died on the cross. The man's demeanour had been different than the two thieves who hung either side of him. The voice had contained an air of reverence that Escobar had been intrigued by, and for the first time he had looked inward and recognised his own weaknesses. A gnawing doubt engulfed his very being, and his thin face convulsed with the realisation that he might have been wrong. Had he been too quick to judge, to condemn, to nurture favour with Ciaiphas and other senior members of the Sanhedrin?

Escobar didn't know.

What he did know was that in the last hour his beliefs had been shaken to his very core, and he knew in an instant that everything had changed. Everything had changed, and yet nothing had changed. He was confused by his sudden change of heart. He'd seen other crucifixions and couldn't understand why this one had moved him so deeply.

He gazed up at the man on the cross, his brown eyes suddenly moist, as though the dead Galilean could provide an answer. But the lips of the man were now silent, a thin trickle of blood coursing the sides of a still countenance strangely at peace. A crown of thorns still clung to the matted hair and a sign above the man's head bore evidence of his supposed crime. It read simply: INRI.

King of the Jews. Roman parlance. Roman humour.

Escobar suddenly realised that the rain had merged with the dead man's blood and had washed around his sandaled feet. He moved back, still mesmerised by the face of the man on the cross, unheeding of the rain which lashed his face. He could hear sobbing nearby, and turning he recognised the dead man's mother. She had been pointed out to him earlier in the day. Pity engulfed him, and for a brief moment he wanted to go to her and embrace her.

A man was with her - another Galilean. He held her in the embrace that Escobar had wanted to give. For a brief moment the two men locked eyes. Escobar saw the grief in the man's eyes, and turned away. A friend, obviously. Other women were nearby, also sobbing.

Unnerved, Escobar began moving away. He had never been comfortable in the grief shown by women. He moved slowly, his steps hesitant. Looking around, he saw that most people had now left. The soldiers had left.

The sky was still accentuated with the sounds of fierce lightning and wind shear. It was beginning to ease somewhat, as the executioners took down the bodies of the three men on the crosses. Escobar walked back through the narrow empty alleyways of the Holy City towards the temple. He became aware of a commotion there.

Entering he stopped dead.

The temple looked like it had been hit with an earthquake. The words of the man who had died came back and haunted him: "Destroy this temple, and in three days I'll raise it again."

Escobar shivered. He could see Ciaiphas shaking his head in disbelief and the whispered mutterings of others.

"An earthquake?" one man suggested.

"Nonsense," replied his companion.

"Then what?"

"Him."

Escobar followed their gaze. The bodies had been removed, but the three crosses were still visible on the summit of Mount Calvary. He shivered again. His eyes fell on the broken alabaster littering the stone floor, and moved to the heavy curtain that had split in two, its heavy lace dangling like a man on a cross. Stonework had cracked and broke. He coughed as dust hit his lungs.

He wondered what Rachel would have made of it. She had been his constant companion since his early teen years but she had died when she was expecting their first child. The baby hadn't survived either.

"Complications," they had said.

Though gone two years, Escobar still missed Rachel as though she had died only yesterday. The love of his life had been snatched cruelly from his life, leaving only bitterness in its wake. He had struggled with life since.

Every day was an effort.

He'd thrown himself into his work.

An ardent follower of the Sanhedrin, his work had allowed his mind to escape the mind-numbing pain of Rachel's loss, but he still found it a difficult uphill struggle. Up to now he had never questioned his convictions, but now he found himself wondering if others had taken advantage of his circumstances. He sensed Rachel wouldn't have approved of some of his Sanhedrin duties and the people he now associated with. She had been a simple, good woman.

She would have instantly spotted the goodness in the man - Jesus. She had been that kind of woman. Sensing the good in people.

She had abhorred violence. She would have been appalled by the way a convicted murderer like Barabbas had been freed in order to condemn the young Galilean preacher.

Escobar could sense the truth of that. He turned to go.

He needed time alone.

Time to reflect.

Time to pause.

Time to take a long hard look at his life and what he had become. He left the temple and the grim forebodings of the men gathered there, and walked slowly home. His mind was busy, thoughtful.

* * *

Sleep didn't come easy that Friday night.

Escobar turned and tossed, the sheets slick and wet against his body. Nightmares dogged his every breath. His breathing was laboured and shallow. He cried out in fear...naked, dogged fear.

Sheer terror.

A heavy weight was on his chest. He felt like an Egyptian slave forced to quarry heavy rock, pyramid rock, under the malevolent and baleful gaze of a Pharaoh's lifelong vision. He couldn't move.

He felt paralysed.

The heavy rocks became like giant boulders of durable granite, weighing him down, pinning him, crushing the life out of him. The fear woke him out of a deep slumber. He stumbled blindly from his bed, his throat dry and acrid, his bony fingers reaching for a lantern. He lit the lantern with a tiny flicker of flame that still burned in the hearth. The room lit up slowly.

He brushed his fingers through his lank black hair. His breathing was somewhat easier and he filled a cup with water from a pail that rested near the doorway. He munched slowly on a piece of flat bread as he went through the doorway and breathed in the night air. The stars shone in abundance, and a half-crescent moon hung low in the sky. He stared at the sky for a long time.

His mood was pensive. Sombre.

Sighing he returned to his quarters.

Everything had changed.…