He took two steps, then one more, and stopped. The stench from the open mouths and sweaty, unwashed bodies had hit him. The Jewry! He advanced farther and arrived in front of the rabbi. The old man was looking down on him from his place atop the blacksmith’s shoulders, a smile of beatitude spread over his entire face. All his life he had longed for this moment, and now it had come: the moment when he too would be killed, just like the prophets.

The centurion half closed his eyes and glanced at him. It was with a great effort that he controlled his arm, which had already risen to smash the old rebellious head with a single blow. But he checked his fury, for it was not in Rome ’s interests to kill the old man. This accursed unyielding people would rise to its feet again and start a guerrilla war, and it was not in Rome ’s interests to have to thrust its hand once more into this wasps’ nest of Jews. Governing his strength, therefore, he wrapped the whip around his arm and turned to the rabbi. His voice had grown hoarse.

“Rabbi, your face is deemed worthy of reverence only because I revere it, only because I, Rome, want to give it value-of itself it has none. That is why I’m not going to lift my whip. I heard you; you passed sentence. Now I shall do the same.”

He turned to the two gypsies, who stood on either side of the cross, waiting. “Crucify him!” he howled.

“I passed sentence,” the rabbi said in a tranquil voice, “and so did you, Centurion. But there remains one, the most important of all, who must also pass sentence.”

“The emperor?”

“No… God.”

The centurion laughed. “I am the mouth of the emperor in Nazareth; the emperor is the mouth of God in the world. God, emperor and Rufus have passed sentence.”

This said, he unwound the whip from around his arm and started toward the top of the hill, maniacally lashing the stones and thorns below him.

An old man lifted his arms to heaven. “May God heap the sin upon your head, Satan, and upon the heads of your children and your children’s children!”

The bronze cavalrymen meanwhile had formed a circle around the cross. Below, snorting with wrath, the people stretched on tiptoe in order to see. They were trembling with anguish: would the miracle happen, or not? Many searched the sky to see when the heavens would open. The women had already discerned multicolored wings in the air. The rabbi, kneeling on the blacksmith’s broad shoulders, struggled to see between the horses’ hoofs and the cavalrymen’s red cloaks. He wanted to discover what was happening above, around the cross. He looked, looked at the summit of hope, at the summit of despair-looked, and did not speak. He was waiting. The old rabbi knew him, knew him well, this God of Israel. He was merciless and had his own laws, his own decalogue. Yes, he gave his word and kept it, but he was in no hurry: he measured time with his own measure. For generations and generations his Word would remain inoperative in the air and not come down to earth. And when it did come down at last, woe and three times woe to the man to whom he decided to entrust it! How often, from one end of Holy Scripture to the other, had God’s elect been killed-but had God ever lifted a finger to save them? Why? Why? Didn’t they follow his will? Or was it perhaps his will that all the elect should be killed? The rabbi asked himself these questions but dared not push his thoughts any further. God is an abyss, he reflected, an abyss. I’d better not go near!

The son of Mary still sat off to one side on his stone. He held his trembling knees tightly with both his hands, and watched. The two gypsies had seized the Zealot; Roman guards came forward too, and they all pushed and pulled amidst cursing and laughter, struggling to raise the rebel up onto the cross. When the sheep dogs saw the struggle they understood and jumped to their feet.

The noble old mother drew away from the rock she had been leaning against, and advanced. “Courage, my son,” she cried. “Do not groan, do not make us ashamed of you!”

“It’s the Zealot’s mother,” murmured the old rabbi, “his noble mother, descended from the Maccabees!”

Two thick ropes had now been passed under the rebel’s armpits The gypsies hooked ladders over the arms of the cross and began to lift him up, slowly. He had a huge, heavy body, and suddenly the cross tilted and was about to topple over. The centurion kicked the son of Mary, who rose on unsure feet, took the pickax and went to steady the cross with stones and wedges so that it would not fall.

This was too much for Mary, his mother. Ashamed to see her beloved son one with the crucifiers, she fortified her heart and elbowed her way through the crowd. The fishermen of Gennesaret felt sorry for her and pretended they did not see her. She started to rush in among the horses in order to grasp her son and take him away, but an elderly neighbor took pity on her and seized her by the arm. “Mary,” she said, “don’t do that. Where are you going? They’ll kill you!”

“I want to bring my son out of there,” Mary replied, and she burst into tears.

“Don’t cry, Mary,” said the old woman. “Look at the other mother. She stands without moving and watches them crucify her son. Look at her and take heart.”

“I don’t weep for my son alone, neighbor; I weep also for that mother.”

The old woman, who had doubtless suffered much in her life, shook her balding head. “It’s better to be the mother of the crucifier,” she murmured, “than of the crucified.”

But Mary was in a hurry and did not hear. She started up the hill, her tear-filled eyes searching everywhere for her son. The whole world began to weep. It grew dim, and within the deep mist the mother discerned horses and bronze armor and an immense newly hewn cross which stretched from earth to sky.

A cavalryman turned and saw her. Lifting his lance, he nodded for her to go back. The mother stopped. Stooping down, she looked under the horses’ bellies and saw her son. He was on his knees, wielding the pickax and making the cross fast in the stones.

“My child,” she cried, “Jesus!”

So heart-rending was the mother’s cry, it rose above the entire tumult of men, horses and famished, barking dogs. The son turned and saw his mother. His face darkened and he resumed his strokes more furiously than before.

The gypsies, mounted on the rope ladders, had stretched the Zealot on the cross, keeping him tied with ropes so that he would not slip down. Now they took up their nails and began to nail his hands. Heavy drops of hot blood splashed Jesus’ face. Abandoning his pickax, he stepped back in terror, retreated behind the horses and found himself next to the mother of the man who was so soon to die. Trembling, he waited to hear the sound of ripping flesh. All his blood massed in the very center of each of his hands; the veins swelled and throbbed violently-they seemed about to burst. In his palms he felt a painful spot, round like the head of a nail

His mother’s voice rang out once again: “Jesus, my child!”

A deep bellow rumbled down from the cross, a wild cry from the bowels not of the man, but from the very bowels of the earth: “Adonai!”

The people heard it-it tore into their entrails. Was it themselves, the people, who had shouted? or the earth? or the man on the cross as the first nail was driven in? All were one, all were being crucified. People, earth and Zealot: all were bellowing. The blood spurted out and splashed the horses; a large drop fell on Jesus’ lips. It was hot, salty. The cross-maker staggered, but his mother rushed forward in time to catch him in her arms, and he did not fall.

“My boy,” she murmured again. “Jesus…”

But his eyes were closed. He felt unbearable pain in his hands, feet and heart.

The aristocratic old lady stood motionless and watched her son’s spasms on the two crossed boards. She bit her lips and was silent. But then behind her she heard the son of the Carpenter and his mother. The anger rose up in her and she turned. This was the apostate Jew who constructed her son’s cross, this the mother who bore him. Why should a son like this, a traitor, why should he live while her son writhed and bellowed upon the cross! Driven on by her grievance, she stretched forth both her hands toward the son of the Carpenter. She drew near and stood directly before him. He lifted his eyes and saw her. She was pale, wild, merciless. He saw her, and lowered his head. Her lips moved.