Thirst

-

I always knew I would be sentenced to death. The advantage of such knowledge is that I can focus my attention where it is warranted: on the details.

I thought my trial would be a parody of justice. And indeed, it was, but not in the way I expected. I had imagined a hastily expedited formality, but I was given the works. The prosecutor left nothing to chance.

The witnesses for the prosecution paraded past, one after the other. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the newlyweds from Cana, the first beneficiaries of my miracle working.

“This man has the power to change water into wine,” declared the husband, deadly serious. “And yet, he waited until the end of the wedding to exercise his talent. He enjoyed seeing how anxious and humiliated we were, when he could so easily have prevented it. Because of him, we served the good wine after the inferior one. We were the laughingstock of the village.”

I calmly looked my accuser in the eye. He held my gaze, confident in his reasoning.

The royal official stepped up to describe the ill will with which I had cured his son.

“And how is the child doing now?” my lawyer, the most inefficient office clerk you could possibly imagine, could not help but ask.

“He is fine. To his credit! With magic like his, a single word suffices.”

All thirty-seven miracle recipients took a turn airing their dirty laundry. I found the once-possessed man of Capernaum to be the most entertaining:

“Since the exorcism, my life has been incredibly boring!”

The erstwhile blind man complained of how ugly the world was, the former leper declared that no one gave him alms anymore, the fishermen’s union from Tiberias accused me of having favored one crew over all the others, and Lazarus described how horrible it was to live with the smell of a corpse clinging to his skin.

From the looks of it, it had not been necessary to bribe them or even encourage them. They all came to testify against me of their own free will. Several of them said what a relief it was to be able to vent their frustration in the presence of the culprit at last.

In the presence of the culprit.

I only appear calm to people. It took a supreme effort on my part to listen to all these litanies without reacting. Every time, I looked the witness in the eye with no other expression than gentle astonishment. Every time, they held my gaze with disdain, defying me, looking at me with scorn.

The mother of a child I’d healed went so far as to accuse me of having ruined her life.

“When my little boy was unwell, he was quiet. Now he wiggles and screams and cries, I don’t get a moment’s peace, and not a wink of sleep at night.”

“But did you not ask my client to cure your son?” the office clerk asked.

“To cure him, yes, not to make him as maddening as he was before he got ill.”

“Perhaps you should have made that clear.”

“Is he omniscient, or isn’t he?”

A good question. I always know Τι, and never Πώs. I know the direct object but never the adverbial phrase. Therefore, no, I am not omniscient: I discover the adverbs as I go along, and they throw me for a loop. People are right to say the devil is in the details.

In truth, not only did they need no encouragement from the prosecution to testify, they also ardently desired to. Their readiness to speak against me was staggering. All the more in that it was strictly unnecessary. They all knew I would be sentenced to death.

There is nothing mysterious about prophecy. They knew my powers and could see for themselves that I had not used them to save myself. They were in no doubt, therefore, as to the outcome of the matter.

Why were they so eager to inflict such pointless censure upon me? The enigma of evil is nothing in comparison to that of mediocrity. As they were testifying, I could tell how much they were enjoying it. They delighted in behaving wretchedly in front of me. They were simply disappointed that my suffering wasn’t more visible. Not that I wanted to deny them that supreme pleasure, but my astonishment far outweighed my indignation.

I am a man, and nothing human is foreign to me. And yet, I cannot understand what came over them as they were ranting and raving such abominations. I consider my incomprehension to be a failure, a sign of neglect.

Pontius Pilate had received his instructions about me, and I could see how put out he was—not that he liked me in any way, but because the witnesses irritated the rational man in him. My stupefaction deceived him; he sought to give me an opportunity to protest against the unending stream of nonsense:

“Defendant, do you have anything to say?” he asked, his expression that of an intelligent being addressing his peer.

“No,” I replied.

He nodded, as if to imply it was pointless to throw a line to someone who was that unconcerned by his own fate.

In truth, I said nothing because I had too much to say. Had I spoken, I would not have been able to hide my scorn. Feeling scorn is a torment to me. I have been a man for long enough to know that some feelings cannot be repressed. What matters is letting them go by without trying to counter them: that way they leave no trace.

Scorn is a sleeping devil. A devil that fails to act will soon begin to fade. In the courtroom, words are as good as actions. Keeping my scorn silent was as good as preventing it from acting.

Pilate turned to his counselors:

“The proof that these testimonies are false is that our man has not resorted to magic to set himself free.”

“And it is not on those grounds that we call for his conviction.”

“I know. I want nothing more than to convict him. The only thing is that I would have preferred not to feel as if I am doing so for fraudulent reasons!”

“In Rome, people require bread and circuses. Here they require bread and miracles.”

“So be it. If it’s political, then it doesn’t bother me anymore.”

Pilate stood up and declared, “Defendant, you shall be crucified.”

I appreciated his frugal language. The genius of Latin is that it never uses more words than are necessary. I would have hated it if he had said, “You shall be crucified to death.” When it comes to crucifixion there is no other outcome.

The fact remains that, coming from his lips, it had the desired effect. I looked at the witnesses, and I could sense how embarrassed they felt, albeit too late. And yet, they had all known I would be convicted, and they had gone so far as to actively contribute to my sentence. Now they were pretending to find that sentence excessive and to be shocked by the barbarity of the procedure. Some of them even tried to catch my gaze in order to dissociate themselves from what would ensue. I looked away.

I did not know that I would die like this. It was not an easy thing to accept. I thought about the pain, for a start. My mind shied away: it is impossible to comprehend such suffering.

Crucifixion is reserved for the most heinous crimes. I did not expect such humiliation. But that is what they had asked of Pilate. It was pointless wasting my time in conjectures: Pilate had not objected. He had to condemn me to death, but he could have opted for beheading, for example. At what point did I rub him the wrong way? Probably when I would not disown my miracle working.

I could not lie: those miracles truly were my handiwork. And contrary to what the witnesses had attested, those miracles required an unbelievable effort on my part. No one had ever taught me the art of accomplishing them.

And then I had a strange thought: at least this torture that awaited me would not require any miracles on my part. All I had to do was let myself go.

“Will he be crucified today?” someone asked.

Pilate considered the question and looked at me. He must have seen that something was missing, because he replied:

“No. Tomorrow.”

When I was once again alone in my cell, I knew what he wanted me to feel: fear.