I stood alone on a little hill path that climbed towards the sun through scrub and rocks. Gradually others appeared at intervals down the path, standing in twos and threes. Eventually some of these started to pass me and hike further up the hill. The path must have turned a few hundred feet further up because eventually they would disappear. I stood where I was and looked down at what was now a growing knot of people. Their restrained excitement built on the breeze. I honestly hadn’t expected I could stay here this long.
There was a jeer from below and some clapping, some shouts in a guttural language I didn’t understand. A huge clump of men and women and children arrived at the foot of the hill and many started to clamber upwards – on and off the path – with a festive bounce. On the wind there was the chime and creak of soldiers strapped in iron and leather pushing their way jovially through the building crowd. One stood stock-still looking up at the sky, as if trying to gauge what the weather was going to be like later.
A man turned onto the path at its very base with a bearing that at once acknowledged the crowd’s presence and completely ignored it, as if he was an actor walking onstage. His face was bloodied but his expression was clear, scornful even, as the crush around him gradually jostled him forward. He wore a frayed lilac cloak.
He was wearing a crown of thorns but it was perched almost jauntily on top of a pile of brown curls
As he came near I raised a hand in greeting.
“Lord!” I cried. He looked, as you’d imagine, very Jewish. He was wearing a crown of thorns but it was perched almost jauntily on top of a pile of brown curls and he seemed very relaxed.
“Child…” he boomed, a little superciliously but I suppose that sort of thing is inevitable. “What are you doing here?” He said this with an exaggerated lean forward and a jokey smile, as if he already knew what I was doing there.
