The Rebirth of Pan | Page 2

years for more than half a thousand
years. There is a power in that, and this will be the last time.
Joseph of Arimathea staggers up the hill under the cross. The thieves
are strung up waiting. I suppose it would have spoiled the drama if they
had walked up the hill beside Him. The Romans are ready. He takes
His last steps towards them. They take His cloak, leaving him standing
in a loin cloth. It all happens very quickly. He lies down on the wood,
and they bind Him as expertly as I might, knock in the sign "INRI" and
stand the cross upright. They clearly have experience at this sort of
thing. It really isn't as easy as they make it look. The press and Italian
television focus on the cross as it is raised. It is silhouetted on the top of

the hill, the thieves' crosses a little below, one on either side. It looks
perfect.
My only regret is that they did not use real nails. I remember holding
the nail still above his palm that first time, while Miriam pounded it
through. I remember how I was afraid she'd miss the nail and hit my
finger, and how the nail shook in my hand to the hammer blows. The
nails went right through his palms, that time, between the bones. I
remember the agony on his face as the nail went in. That was wrong,
even though we used the exact place shown in all the paintings and in
stigmata throughout the centuries. The palms are not strong enough to
support a man's weight. They tore. He fell. The next time we knew
better, and nailed him through the wrists, being careful not to touch an
artery. We lashed him on as well, after that first time, though it took a
few more times before we grew as expert at it as these Romans. I sigh,
looking at the lashings. Nails are authentic. But they're not enough. It
didn't work any of the times we tried it, even though we used Christians.
Nails aren't what matters. Nor is the pain and suffering. It has to be a
willing sacrifice, and none of ours were. It took us too long to learn that.
I could have been here three years ago if we'd only realised.
He hangs from the loops of rope around His hands and feet. The
thieves' crosses have little ledges to support their feet, but the central
crucifix has none. It must be sufficient agony, even without nails. I
fervently hope so. The way a man dies on the cross is by suffocation.
With the arms in that position, it isn't possible to draw enough breath
into the lungs. The sun beats down. It is noon. Three hours now, the
Stations of the Cross. He won't suffocate in three hours. It often took a
day and a night. In the mass crucifixions after the Spartacus slave revolt
some of the stronger slaves were observed still alive three days later.
Crucifixion was a normal way of killing criminals then, it wasn't
something peculiar and godly. It took a long time for the cross to
become a divine symbol. People would no more have worn a crucifix
around their neck than anyone but a mad fool would wear a gallows or
a guillotine today. But now it is a potent symbol, perhaps the most
potent of all. Now it has the mana of two millennia of worship. I'm
secure in the logic of what we have worked out.

People sit down and begin to take out food. Somehow the Italian
peasant families with their strong smelling garlic sausage and bread
seem less offensive in this than the tourists.
A priest is leading a prayer. I look at His face, the suffering, the willing
suffering. "Oh lamb of God who taketh away the sins of the world..."
intones the priest. The crowd implore God to have mercy upon them, to
hear their prayers, to grant them peace. That's not what's coming. I stare
into His brown eyes. It's not what we've had, either. Precious little
mercy, or peace, or prayers answered in this last age. Now it is over.
Time for something new. I am confident. In control. I know I can do it.
I finger my camera, raise it, look at Him hanging there through the
view finder. Too soon. We worked it out completely rationally. I lower
it again. Claude is always right about this sort of thing. The sayings
first, the Stations of the Cross. How many Good Fridays growing up,
listening to the same thing over and over? I have to stick to the timing,
to the exact plan, if I want it to work. Most of the crowd are kneeling,
but some