The Rebirth of Pan | Page 2

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 stroll about, some talk, some eat and drink. That is authentic. Not everyone would care. That's something we did wrong, too, everyone was focused, everyone cared. The little knot of women stand at the foot of the cross. They are actors, they don't convince me at all. I try