Storm was a Roman soldier once again, back in the garrison of old Jerusalem.
"Got to chuck a brace, breast to breastplate, shoulder blades touching or you galls your windpipe on the cuirass. Got to watch your step and mind your dressing so as not to make a holy show of our legion in front of them natives. Got to keep your mouth from yelling, yes, and leave your dirk sheathed when ye can't see nothin' but blood—blood, blood, and the ten-man a-prompting in yer ear—'left, left, left, right, left, right incline, come up on the left there! Mark time, by the left—forward, march straight through the swineherd! Shoulder through them! Damn them! Frontform. Halt. Stand at ease—stand easy.' Blood! Blood! By the crucified Mithras, I'll have his blood for insulting me.
"The natives was having their usual riot. It was something about one of them street-preachers they wanted hanged; and, after a shindy, the Governor let 'em have Him, provided of course He was turned off decently by the troops, not torn to pieces by the mob.
"Of course the Governor's guard escorted the prisoner to the Prætorium Courtyard for the usual flogging, and then, as He seemed to be something special—claimed to be King of the Jews—the boys on guard called the battalion out of barracks for a bit of fun with Him. They sent out for a dead branch from one of them acacias, with ivory-white thorns a couple of inches long. They plaited that into a crown. They got an old short crimson cloak—general officers' batmen gets such things given them. And a long cane did for scepter, though it broke. They stripped the preacher, and rigged Him out, had a great game with the King of the Jews, bashing the crown of thorns on His head with that scepter. His face was running with blood.
"Of course our execution squad, of an N.C.O. and three privates, just stood easy until the day's prisoners was handed over to us for our job of hanging. If the boys behaved like kids, they was off duty, and it weren't no business of mine. Besides, the prisoner was only a Jew, and Jews is offal.
"Yet He was sort of getting hold of me, like drink takes hold of a man before he knows. That's why I acted rough when we took over, cause us Roman soldiers can't afford to be sloppy, especially with natives. His eyes—crucified Mithras, His eyes! I couldn't look Him in the face while I was going to murder Vivianus. That's the first man I ever forgave.
"The quartermaster used to issue crosses which we had to turn into store after the day's executions. They was heavy, and this preacher, after the way the boys had handled Him—well, He was none too strong. The other two was just the usual thieves and they come fresh from the cells, but He broke down under the load. We caught a friend of His'n, an old fellow from Cyrene, in North Africa, who had a couple of sons, Alexander and Rufus, in the horse trade. Them Cyreneans is horse copers to a man. Well, this old Simon what we caught, we made to carry the preacher's cross all the way to the West Gate, with the natives mobbing Him, cursing and throwing muck. When they're roused, them Jews is beastly. So we come to the Skull Hill just due west of the city, in full view from every roof. There's holes hewn in the rock there, a row of 'em for crosses. Them two thieves was lashed to their crosses, which is the usual way, but He was a sort of special case, so I had the job of driving the spikes with a sledge through His hands and feet. He lay there on the cross, watching me, and when I went sick all of a sudden He tells me to do my duty. He was smiling at me. My God! We lifted them three crosses, dropped the butts into the mortise holes, and hammered in the wedges—same as quoins, to keep 'em steady.
"We'd took off all their clothes, which was our perquisite, and our ten-man makes fair division. Except His tunic, no use if it was cut, being woven, same as a jersey in one piece. We used knucklebones, which is much the same as throwing dice. I won, and in the evening I give it——"
He glanced at Rain.
"To her."