|
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
Move December 3, 2007 By Jessica L. Simpson
One square of light against the east wall eclipsed briefly and the legionaries’ footsteps echoed against the lofty ceiling. The sound of men talking and laughing was soon accompanied by the sound of galloping horses, armor clacking, and shouting. The man’s eyes shifted, darting right and left, following the most suspicious sounds. Having been dipped in a tub of vermilion paste, his cemented skin did not allow him to move his head or arms. The fetters on his ankles were taut, threatening movement with the prospect of losing his balance and falling from the pedestal to the marble floor. Three men on horseback rode into the room. The man in the middle dismounted, throwing his red cape over his shoulder. The two centurions at the base of the pedestal bowed a knee. “Hail Caesar!” “Up, up, up! Has he moved?” “He’s still there, Sir, still breathing. He hasn’t moved.” “Has he spoken? Has he cried out for mercy?” “Sir--I don’t think he can.” “Ah, yes, but has he made any sounds? Groans?” “No, sir.” The Emperor quickly walked the parameter of the room; his eyes stayed on the man fixed above, looming over the soldiers and horses in a bodice of crimson. The man’s breathing was shallow, his lungs concealed tightly beneath the cement cast on his chest. Approaching the fifteenth day of his sentence, with his knees locked in place, the man was barely beginning to sway, but he remained upright: arms slightly bent with one hand frozen in mid-gesture. The Emperor marveled at his stamina. Such men were hardly to be found in Rome these days, particularly among the Jews. “Get him down!” the Emperor shouted. The centurion guards propped two ladders against the pedestal and, using a pulley, they lowered the living statue to the ground. The Emperor stood in front of the man. “You are aware of your crimes.” The man blinked. “You speak blasphemous things against the gods, intrude on sacred religious festivals claiming ‘corruption’ and then, when asked to answer for these crimes, you further rebel against the courts and commit treason against the Empire! What can you say to this?” The man blinked. “Did you not refuse to hand over these ‘sacred’ writings that bring disunity to Rome, question moral institutions, encourage men and women to fall out of society, discourage commerce and social engagement, further promoting disloyalty to Caesar and to the Roman government?” The man blinked. “Break this man’s head casing now! I want him to answer!” The Emperor motioned for the guard. The centurion raised a blunt hammer and cracked the brilliant red clay at the base of the man’s neck. He carefully broke and removed enough pieces to reveal the man’s face and head. The pink skin of his cheeks and the pale thread of his lips did not move, but his naked head rolled lazily toward the ground. “You have audience with the Emperor. You should speak now.” In a broken, air-starved whisper, the man—without moving his head—answered, “Hail Caesar.” “You mock me!” The Emperor pushed the man against the base of the pedestal, cracking the cement down his back. Three pottery shards fell to the ground. He held the man’s face in his hand. “You are no friend of Rome! You should’ve been torched with the others! I appeal to the court to grant you a merciful sentence and you mock me!” The fury of the ruler sounded against the marble walls. “Out! Get out!” he cried at the centurions and soldiers standing by. “Leave me alone with this criminal until I have decided his punishment!” The legionnaires marched out of the room in formation, the two horsemen in tail. The room became audibly silent. “I would rent my clothes to understand why you say nothing.” With short, spirited steps, he paced back and forth in front of his prisoner. “I provided bread and wine for you at my home. I listened to your fastidious pleas to the Senate and defended your motives when you were helpless against your Jewish brethren. I let your meetings continue in Antioch, Corinth, and in the very city of Rome herself despite the many petitions to forbid them. I cannot understand why you commit such heinous acts, not just against the gods and Rome, as if those were despicable enough, but you commit these atrocities against me. Refrain from mockery, dear bishop, and as it were, your bleeding tongue should have already been cut out of your mouth. Were my favors, my kindness—were they in vain? Now why do you deny me an answer?” The man took great pains to hold his head up. “You have made me a statue, Caesar. Statues do not speak. If you will break this bodice, I could find the air to move my words.” The Emperor did so, grasping the clay by the man’s neck and cracking it down the center. It crumbled easily under the Emperor’s grip and was ground to powder at the seams of the crack. Released, the man fell to the floor. After a few moments, with one hand on his heaving chest, the man spoke. “I hail you as my Caesar but not as my god. You have been kind to me, greatly. But there is one greater than you I cannot deny. The writings you speak of do not belong to Rome or her government.” “Blasphemy! How can I hold you up to the Senate with that response?” “Emperor, please,” the man’s voice rose, thick with passion and grief. “Your soldiers, even under your Commander Maxentius, tied my wife to a stake and set her on fire and my son—oh, my boy!—condemned to this same fate before he even toddled on Roman soil. I begged these soldiers, but my pleas could not pierce their deaf anger. No, your kindness to me was not in vain, but you are just a man. Forgive me, sir, your name is not hallowed. You could not save my family and you cannot save me. You can condemn me to death, but what end is that? It is only the beginning of a journey where you, Emperor, are powerless.” “You should be thankful the guards did not hear that, bishop. Would the great Octavian Augustus take ear to those words? Would you be so brave as to offer such an insult to Tiberius? To offend one Caesar is to offend many—to offend one god is to offend them all.” “There is only one God, Caesar, and that is the man Christ Jesus.” The robed man laughed. “You forget I have heard this lunacy before. Though I must say that your stringent adherence to this belief is astounding.” The Emperor thoughtfully tapped his fingers together. “What you call lunacy others call salvation.” The Emperor laughed. He brought his face down to the fallen statue. The man’s blistered shoulders were bare. Caesar grabbed the man’s frame with both hands. “I cannot save you from the afterlife, but I can save you from the judgment of Rome. In that matter, I am your salvation, lest you forget,” he rasped into the man’s face. He then discarded him, wheeled around and left. The man was left to himself for a brief moment of silence after the echo of the Emperor’s footsteps faded into daylight. The square of light against the wall crept downward, inching toward the floor as the sun slowly hid itself behind the horizon. The man put his head in his hands. A guard appeared in the doorway. “You’re free to go.” The man looked up, waiting for laughter but none came. “Where is the Emperor?” There was no answer. The guards mounted their horses and galloped toward the city. He waited a few moments, listening to the silence. With trepidation, he made his way to the entrance and peered outside. The guards left only footprints; no definite indication of their departure or return, but they were gone. The man stepped carefully, painfully dragging his left leg in a stiff motion to keep up with his right leg. He paused at the center of the matted earth where the soldiers and horses congregated just moments before. Even at this late hour, the sun was still shining, casting long, terrible shadows. He pulled the papyrus out of his inner robe and read a few short lines. When the sun sets, then I’ll rest, he thought. Girding himself, he set out toward the west, toward the clouds that spilled out over the setting sun like lava bursting from a volcano, toward the shadows of a jagged earth, and toward the vision of a bleached-white tomorrow.
ninetyandnine.com
© 2007, Jessica Leopold Simpson
------- Jessica Leopold Simpson, a UGST graduate, lives in North Carolina with her husband and son. She spends her days working with hospital volunteers in Pinehurst; her evenings are spent in a whirlwind of cooking, cleaning, and decorating her new home.
|
|
|
