Sworn

Prologue

Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Joseph fancied he heard the crowd, distant cries carried to him by the wind that tugged at his cloak and filled his eyes with sand. The sound reminded him of the baying of wolves.

The scent of ozone was strong and static tickled the hairs on his forearms. Grim clouds writhed above the city. The storm was gathering strength, biding its time, waiting for the moment to strike, and with each beat of his heart, Joseph knew that time drew nearer.

He breathed deeply to ease the sorrow in his chest, and gazed upwards at the belly of the towering, grey behemoth. Eerie shapes jostled for position in the granite sky as lightning split the horizon and thunder rumbled around the limestone hills, crimson in the sombre light. It would not be long now.

 ***

 He saw the boy in the distance, coming to tell him what he already knew, what he had known since the clouds had flowed into one, and the monstrous thunderhead had reared into the heavens, its leaden base darkening the land. There had been an eerie moment of calm, of stillness and absolute quiet when the air thickened and lay like warm molasses, and even the wind paused and held its breath.

Then came the sound, a sound that shook the ground beneath his feet and chilled him to his core, a sound he would remember for the rest of his life. A sound like the hammer of the gods beating the earth in rage and grief.

He listened to the boy, the news still striking him like a knife in the gut, and took a coin from his pocket. The boy received it with a smile and skipped away. Joseph did not smile back, for he did not relish what he had to do. Until this moment, he had kept his devotion secret, but the time had come now for him to step into the light. He raised his hand, turning it this way and that before his eyes. It trembled. His life was about to change.

 ***

 It was almost dark when they arrived, Joseph leading the way, Nicodemus following behind, struggling under the weight of his load. There was still a crowd. A man caught Joseph's sleeve as he pushed his way through.

"The king is dead," he said, grinning.

Joseph ignored him and shrugged free. All around, he recognized faces, seeing them now for what they were; gloating, small-minded hypocrites, present only to see the body humiliated and dumped in the criminal burial pits. He stepped forward and presented the centurion with the governor's order.

"I am to take possession of the body."

"Let me see!" demanded one, trying to snatch the scroll. The centurion brushed him aside and stepped backwards. Joseph watched the soldier's scarred face as he read. There was dry blood on his cheek. After a moment, the centurion looked up and nodded to Joseph.

"He is yours."

The crowd surged forward, outraged.

"He's come to take the body!" yelled one. "He must not take the body!"

Hands grasped Joseph's cloak, pulling him backwards. Nicodemus reacted, striking out to defend his friend, but he too was buried in the mob.

The centurion's voice rang out.

“To me!”

Four soldiers, casting lots at the base of the upright, leapt to their feet to form a line. Eight more, busy lowering the others, grabbed their weapons, abandoning the bodies where they hung. One, its outstretched arms still nailed to the transverse beam, slid to the ground. Broken femurs buckled and snapped and the lifeless torso crashed face down in the dirt.

 ***

 When order was restored, the crowd beaten into compliance, the soldiers cast ropes and lowered the third man. The centurion called Joseph forward and handed him the scroll.

"He is yours to do with as you see fit. We will see that no one interferes."

Joseph nodded his thanks and knelt down next to the body. He removed first the sign from around the man’s neck, throwing it to the side, then the woven crown of spiny Jujube from his head. The crowd jeered and spat, but Joseph ignored them. He understood their anger. He too had once thought like them.

Beside him, Nicodemus unshouldered his load and arranged the contents on the ground. A wooden box, a roll of fine linen, two large pots, one of aloe, the other myrrh. He opened the box and set out a bundle of white linen towels, a razor and clippers. He wrapped the bloodied crown in one of the towels and placed it in the box.

A soldier cut through the ropes holding the man's arms to the beam. He took hold of a hand, preparing to tear the wrist free of the nail. Joseph reached out to stop him.

"Please, hasn't he been humiliated enough?"

The soldier shrugged Joseph off and braced his foot on the beam. The centurion, watching, picked up a hammer and tapped the soldier's arm.

The soldier cursed under his breath. He dropped the hand and raised the heavy beam onto his knee, and beat the nail from behind until the point was flush with the wood. Then he worked it from above, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, until it came free.

When the soldier had hammered out the second nail, Joseph removed the iron spikes from the shattered wrists and folded the arms across the dead man's chest. He wiped the face, cleaning away blood, tears and dirt. He tidied his hair and beard, combing and trimming to restore an air of dignity, then wrapped the trimmings in the towel and placed them in the box.

A seeping wound below the ribcage punctured deep into the man's chest. Joseph cleaned away the blood and fluid, applying aloe and myrrh, and repeated the process with the broken wrists and feet. Then he bound the wounds with strips of cloth.

Together, Nicodemus on one side, Joseph on the other, they rolled the man to his side. Nicodemus paled as the man's shoulder peeled away from the wood leaving strips of lacerated flesh and congealed blood stuck to the rough grain. Bone, chipped vertebrae and ribs, shone through muscle and skin shredded by leather and lead. Joseph, too, looked away, waiting until the nausea passed. Then he did what he could, cleaning and rubbing in the ointments, first to one side, then the other.

While the body rested, Nicodemus prepared a long strip of linen, twice as long and wide as a man, laying it out on the ground. Together they lifted and laid the man on the cloth, feet at one end, head in the middle, then folded down the excess, covering him once and for all. Joseph returned the soiled towels to the box and placed Pilate’s order on top. He closed it and stood to address the Centurion.

“Thank you," he said. "We will take him now."

The centurion nodded, moving closer so that only Joseph could hear his speak.

“What was done here today was wrong,” he said. “I will help you carry him."

The centurion fashioned a litter from hastae and rope and, together with Nicodemus, lifted him. They headed for the path, the women trailing behind, and began to thread their way down. Joseph followed, bringing up the rear, lingering as his attention fell upon a cloaked figure squatting on a rock beside the track. Man or woman, young or old, in the darkness Joseph could not tell, its face hidden as it was within the shadows of its cloak. As he neared, he saw it toying with an object on its palm. A living creature, a locust, stripped of legs and wings. The figure looked up from its macabre diversion, fixing him with expressionless eyes of no colour he could discern, and smiled.

Though it was not cold, Joseph shivered. He nodded to the figure and hurried on down the slope. He did not look back.