This Passover season there would be only three burdened crosses on top of the desolate Hill of the Skull, but they would be enough. The ugly spectacle would provide a frightful ending to the Jews’ annual great festival.

In other times in Palestine, Centurion Cornelius had been told, Rome had moved swiftly—and with far more terrifying effectiveness—to dramatize the utter futility of any province’s attempt to contend against the mighty conqueror. In Galilee they still talked, though even now in carefully guarded conversations, of that dreadful day at Sepphoris hardly more than twenty years ago when the Roman general Varus had crushed a rebellion and crucified two thousand Jewish insurrectionists.

Perhaps Pontius Pilate, who a week ago had sent him chasing the rebels of the now leaderless Bar Abbas band, had tired of awaiting the centurion’s return with more captives for the crosses; perhaps he had already ordered to slow and agonizing deaths the revolutionaries’ leader and the two followers captured with him. It might be that even now countless pilgrims up for the Passover, drawn by a morbid fascination, were gawking at the scourged, torn, and broken, unimaginably desecrated bodies of the captured robber-Zealots. But Cornelius would provide no additional victims for those crosses on the Hill of the Skull.

“And I’m glad,” he said aloud.

“What, Centurion? Glad?” Decius, riding beside him, had heard.

“I was just thinking aloud about this business of crucifying slaves and depraved criminals. I was glad those four revolutionaries we cornered in the Ephraim hills chose to fight to their deaths rather than surrender. It’s better not having to take anybody back to Jerusalem to be nailed up on a cross.”

“It’s not one of the most pleasant assignments a soldier gets, being on a crucifixion detail,” Decius agreed. “I’ve been on three, and I’ll never forget those poor devils, the first one especially, maybe just because he was my first. He was a boy in Germania, hardly sixteen, but a sturdy, strong fellow. I can still see him, Centurion. He was fair and his hair was the color of ripened grain, and his eyes were as blue as the sky. He had killed one of our soldiers, they said.”

“Probably after our soldier had killed the boy’s parents and raped his sister.”

“I can’t say as to that; you could be right, Centurion. But our commander ordered him to the cross, and I was put on the detail. We took that boy and tied him to the low stake and scourged him until he was a bloody pulp, Centurion. I can still see those bone-tipped whips slashing that white skin and flicking off bits of flesh, and one of them got him in the eye and knocked the ball out of the socket; it was hanging down when we nailed him up.” Decius shook his head ruefully. “By the gods, Centurion, do you know that boy even then fought us and cursed us as long as he had a hand or foot loose, and when we got all four spiked down he tried to butt us with his head. He was a strong one, that fellow; I remember he didn’t die until well along in the second day, and then he was spitting at us and cursing us almost to his last breath.” Decius stared thoughtfully for a moment at the road unwinding ahead. “Many times I’ve dreamed about that boy, Centurion, and I can still see him plainly and hear his screaming and cursing. It’s not a pleasant dream. I’d rather dream about those yellow-haired women in Germania.”

Cornelius nodded his head solemnly. “Yet we Romans call ourselves modern and civilized people.” They rode on in silence for a few moments. “Maybe we did well in being away from Jerusalem most of the week of the feast,” Cornelius finally commented. “Maybe we escaped being assigned by the Procurator to a crucifixion detail.”

“I hope so; I’ve no stomach for serving on one again,” Decius agreed. “You know, Centurion, I’ve just been thinking that very likely many of Bar Abbas’ cutthroats are right up there in Jerusalem in that Passover crowd. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of them should try to rescue those three Zealots.”

Cornelius nodded. “It wouldn’t surprise me either. I suspect that most of them, in fact, doubled back that night and beat us into Jerusalem and got themselves quickly lost in the surge of Passover pilgrims. And only the gods know how many other Zealots are swarming all over the city with their daggers sharpened for our throats.”

It was almost midday when they moved through the defile between the boulders where a week before they had been waylaid by the Zealot chieftain. This time Cornelius sent a scouting party ahead to reconnoiter. But no marauder was encountered.

In the level beyond the rocks the century paused to eat and rest. But not for long. Soon Cornelius gave the order to reassemble in marching formation. The sun was straight overhead, and the air was warm and heavy; a stifling stillness presaged a violent storm. “I’d like to get into Antonia before it breaks,” the centurion observed to Decius, as they mounted their horses. “Look.” He pointed off toward the southwest where an immense angry black cloud hovered low. “By mighty Jove, it must be already dark in Jerusalem.”