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Despite his waning strength, Casey witnessed a short, stocky, bald man dressed in fine white robes and gladiator sandals approach Jesus. The crowd that had gathered before what could only be described as an exterior stone platform that stood maybe ten feet high so that the well-dressed man was able to look down upon the unruly crowd.
“Pontius Pilot,” Casey whispered. “I’m seeing Pontius Pilot and Jesus in the flesh.”
When Pilot began to speak in a mix of Hebrew and Aramaic to the crowd, Casey somehow understood every word being spoken. How he knew what was being said was a mystery to him. But then, by now he knew how the Metaverse programmers worked. They were able to fill your brain or your soul or your subconscious or whatever the hell that was left once you physically died, with the information you needed and that matched the life and time you were presently living in Meta world.
“Maybe this man has been condemned by his own people,” Pilot shouted above the crowd, “but other than creating a disturbance against your Roman guardians, he has not committed any crimes worthy of death.”
Pilot turned to Jesus, who was taller than Casey had imagined him and more muscular.
“Like a construction worker should be,” he said to himself while straining to hold his face up to the bars.
The Roman overseer gazed at Jesus and shook his head as though shocked by the sight of the would-be Messiah’s wounds. The scourging had not been limited to just his back, but instead, his entire body including his head, face, neck, chest, legs, and feet. Casey imagined that even the poor man’s genitals had not been spared, and he shuddered at the mere thought of the pain Jesus must have endured only moments ago. Even portions of his rib cage were visible which meant the Roman soldiers had scourged him with a cat-o-nine-tails to the bone.
As a writer who did careful research, Casey was aware that the cat-o-nine tails was the worst torture instrument when it came to scourging. It consisted of a thick wooden handle to which nine long leather straps were attached. Connected to the ends of the straps were either pieces of sharp cow bone, steel balls, or even fish hooks. Casey was also aware of this: the damage the cat-o-nine tails was engineered to inflict upon the human body was not to break the skin alone, but to cut into the underlying flesh, all the way to the bone. It was both an excruciating and disturbing method of torture and one that could easily place even the strongest of men in shock. If left unchecked, it could result in the victim being bled to death.
And yet somehow, Jesus of Nazareth was managing to stand before the violent crowd on his own two feet, while droplets of blood stained the white marble floor, and streaks of blood ran down his bearded face.
“Crucify him,” roared the crowd. “Crucify Jesus of Nazareth.”
Casey was feeling his strength abating. The hands that clenched the iron bars were aching. His shackled ankle was burning and bleeding. But still, he held on. He’d be an absolute fool to miss this historic first-century event being played out before his twenty-first-century eyes. That’s when something very strange happened. While the crowd roared and Pilot, along with his spear-armed Pretorian Guard, attempted in vain to attempt to calm the enraged Passover crowd down, Jesus managed to turn his head.
From a distance of about thirty feet, he locked eyes with Casey. Of course, Jesus might have been looking at something else entirely, but Casey felt in his heart and soul that Jesus was looking at him and him alone. That Jesus was trying to convey a message to Casey, there was no doubt. But what exactly that message was, remained a mystery.
When Jesus turned away from Casey and once more focused on the crowd, one of the soldiers whispered something into Pilot’s ear. As the soldier backed away, Pilot took a couple of steps closer to the edge of the platform.
“People of Judea,” Pilot barked, “it has come to my attention that it is a Roman custom on behalf of your Passover that a man or woman imprisoned by Rome shall be freed on this day. This is an act of gratitude we extend to you. You must make the choice between two criminals. They are Jesus of Nazareth who has done nothing to deserve execution. Or the murderer, Casey Smith.”
When Casey heard his name being uttered by Pilot along with the accusation of murder, he could no longer hold onto the window bars. He slid rapidly down the angled wall and crashed onto the stone floor. He felt his ribs bruise, and his lip fatten. Blood trickled from the wound and seeped into his mouth.
A metal door opened, its hinges squeaking and screaming.
“Smith,” a Roman soldier shouted.
He approached the cell along with a taller soldier. Both had rotten teeth and smelled like booze. Casey couldn’t be entirely sure, but he believed it was morning. They were drunk on wine. He guessed it beat drinking the foul water.
Behind them, a couple of rats scurried for cover, as if the rodents knew full well, the soldiers would kill them, roast their bloated bodies, and eat them for breakfast.
Short Soldier opened the gate on the iron-barred wall with one of the skeleton keys he stored on a brass ring that he pulled off a catch-all attached to his leather belt. He entered the cell and unlocked Casey’s ankle shackle. Tall Soldier leaned his spear against the bars, then entered and put the prisoner in chains that bound both the ankles and wrists. When the soldier was through, he spat in Casey’s face. The green and yellow filth hit the writer on the lips. He spit it back at the soldier who then punched him in the mouth. Casey felt another tooth loosen and his bell rang.
“You fuckin’ try that again, and I’ll personally crucify you to the exterior wall of the Holy of Holies, murderer,” he said. “Now let’s move.”
He yanked on the chain, and it was all Casey could do to remain on his feet. The length of chain that shackled his ankles only gave him a few inches of space to take a step. But that didn’t stop them from yanking even harder on the wrist shackles.
“Where are you taking me?” Casey asked like I didn’t already know.
He had to wonder if his words were coming out in English. But, of course, they weren’t. He was speaking Aramaic. Again, he blamed it on the Meta programmers. They were getting more inventive with every passing day.
“Where are you going?” said Short Soldier. “To see who gets crucified. You or Jesus of Nazareth.”