Killing a King

He deserved it.

I should know. I’ve seen a lot of criminals in my life.

They don’t get handed over to me because they are boy scouts. If I told you what some of those low-life scumbags have done, you’d want to wash your ears out.

My job might not make you feel warm and cozy inside. Honestly, I don’t care! I keep you safe and comfortable. You might not like me, but you NEED me!

I’m the ultimate deterrent. I know how to make someone feel so much pain they wish they were dead but I can keep them alive, like a barely-breathing billboard. It is an advertisement that shouts to everyone who passes by, “Don’t mess with Rome…the biggest, baddest, empire on the planet!”

Supposedly, that man was the leader of an uprising. He claimed to be a king.

My fellow soldiers and I decided to show him what happens when you mess with the real king…Caesar!

We laughed as we beat him with rods and whipped him until chunks of his flesh were flying from his body.

I expected him to direct the usual string of expletives at us. Vile words fuel me. They let me know I’m doing my job well. This guy didn’t say anything to us. Nothing! We beat him harder to make sure he got the message.

After we were done with him, we came up with the hilarious idea of giving him the “royal treatment”. We draped “his majesty” in a purple robe and jammed a crown made of thorns on his head.

We laughed again until we couldn’t breathe.

Apparently, the crowd didn’t think their king was humiliated enough. They shouted for us to crucify him. My friends and I were more than happy to oblige.

Then something happened that I can’t explain. As I grabbed him to take him away, he turned his bloody face toward mine. His expression should have oozed anger and hate but I swear it looked like he felt sorry for me.

I gave him another uncomfortable laugh and shoved him away.

The next several hours were pretty normal for executions. We forced him up a hill. Dislocated his shoulders, drove some nails into his arms and lifted him into place. He still never rained down cursing on us (or any of the spectators gawking at him).

Eventually, we got to relax. We played a game to decide who got to keep his clothes.

I didn’t hear him say much (it’s tough to talk when you are hanging from an old piece of wood) but I swore he uttered the words “forgive them”.

About that time, the sky grew dark. I shifted nervously as my laughing grew more and more uncomfortable.

Even though his death only took a few hours, it felt like an eternity.

When he gasped his last breath there was a violent earthquake. It seemed like the ground beneath our feet was grieving. In horror, one of my fellow soldiers cried out, “He was a son of the gods!”

My laughing stopped.

Questions raced through my mind.

“Who was this man?” “Why did he really die?”

Even worse, “If I killed an innocent king, am I the one who deserves to die?”

I flashed back to the time he stared directly at me. If there is a king who would look at me with love after everything I’d done to him, HE is the kind of king I would give my life to follow.