"Jo Walton - The Rebirth of Pan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Walton Jo)

are crowded, but there are not so many faithful as all that these days. Every three years for more than half
a thousand years. There is a power in that, and this will be the last time.

Joseph of Arimathea staggers up the hill under the cross. The thieves are strung up waiting. I
suppose it would have spoiled the drama if they had walked up the hill beside Him. The Romans are
ready. He takes His last steps towards them. They take His cloak, leaving him standing in a loin cloth. It
all happens very quickly. He lies down on the wood, and they bind Him as expertly as I might, knock in
the sign "INRI" and stand the cross upright. They clearly have experience at this sort of thing. It really
isn't as easy as they make it look. The press and Italian television focus on the cross as it is raised. It is
silhouetted on the top of the hill, the thieves' crosses a little below, one on either side. It looks perfect.

My only regret is that they did not use real nails. I remember holding the nail still above his palm that
first time, while Miriam pounded it through. I remember how I was afraid she'd miss the nail and hit my
finger, and how the nail shook in my hand to the hammer blows. The nails went right through his palms,
that time, between the bones. I remember the agony on his face as the nail went in. That was wrong, even
though we used the exact place shown in all the paintings and in stigmata throughout the centuries. The
palms are not strong enough to support a man's weight. They tore. He fell. The next time we knew better,
and nailed him through the wrists, being careful not to touch an artery. We lashed him on as well, after
that first time, though it took a few more times before we grew as expert at it as these Romans. I sigh,
looking at the lashings. Nails are authentic. But they're not enough. It didn't work any of the times we
tried it, even though we used Christians. Nails aren't what matters. Nor is the pain and suffering. It has to
be a willing sacrifice, and none of ours were. It took us too long to learn that. I could have been here
three years ago if we'd only realised.

He hangs from the loops of rope around His hands and feet. The thieves' crosses have little ledges
to support their feet, but the central crucifix has none. It must be sufficient agony, even without nails. I
fervently hope so. The way a man dies on the cross is by suffocation. With the arms in that position, it
isn't possible to draw enough breath into the lungs. The sun beats down. It is noon. Three hours now, the
Stations of the Cross. He won't suffocate in three hours. It often took a day and a night. In the mass
crucifixions after the Spartacus slave revolt some of the stronger slaves were observed still alive three
days later. Crucifixion was a normal way of killing criminals then, it wasn't something peculiar and godly.
It took a long time for the cross to become a divine symbol. People would no more have worn a crucifix
around their neck than anyone but a mad fool would wear a gallows or a guillotine today. But now it is a
potent symbol, perhaps the most potent of all. Now it has the mana of two millennia of worship. I'm
secure in the logic of what we have worked out.

People sit down and begin to take out food. Somehow the Italian peasant families with their strong
smelling garlic sausage and bread seem less offensive in this than the tourists.

A priest is leading a prayer. I look at His face, the suffering, the willing suffering. "Oh lamb of God
who taketh away the sins of the world..." intones the priest. The crowd implore God to have mercy upon
them, to hear their prayers, to grant them peace. That's not what's coming. I stare into His brown eyes.
It's not what we've had, either. Precious little mercy, or peace, or prayers answered in this last age. Now
it is over. Time for something new. I am confident. In control. I know I can do it.

I finger my camera, raise it, look at Him hanging there through the view finder. Too soon. We
worked it out completely rationally. I lower it again. Claude is always right about this sort of thing. The
sayings first, the Stations of the Cross. How many Good Fridays growing up, listening to the same thing
over and over? I have to stick to the timing, to the exact plan, if I want it to work. Most of the crowd are
kneeling, but some stroll about, some talk, some eat and drink. That is authentic. Not everyone would