The centurion looked up at the crucified man. Blood had flowed from many lacerations on the man’s body, from the whip, and other implements. He was naked, apart from a stained loincloth. It had all dried in the desert heat, even the thicker flows from hands and feet where the nails were driven through, giving the man the appearance of a darker complexion than he had before. He lived, still, but only barely. The chest was rising and falling slightly and slowly. His eyes were almost closed. Thin white crescents of the eyeball shone through the lids, and a hint of iris.
“I know your suffering is great, prisoner. But I saw in my dreams it will be the key to our salvation. Forgive me.” the centurion said, taking a long lance in his hand. The crucified man stirred, and managed to speak.
“Please… Mister… call an ambulance. Don’t let me die, please. I’m not who you want,” the prisoner managed to say, his eyes rolling blindly. The centurion stabbed his lance into the man’s side. He convulsed, and died. More blood flowed out of the wound. Just blood, not blood and holy water, as it should have been.
“You are not the one I wanted.” Disappointment was thick in the centurion’s voice, and he cast his eyes down. This one had felt right, so much more than the others. The look of him, his peaceful manner. A man of serenity. A lamb. But he was not right. Tears fell from the centurion’s eyes. He took off the heavy helmet and walked to his truck, heavy-hearted, to retrieve the gear to dismember and bury the corpse. His search was not over yet. But he knew he would find the savior eventually. He had seen it in his dreams.
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