Jesus must have been speaking out of turn, because one of the guards suddenly delivered a heavy blow to his face, and then, as he fell against the other guard, he received another one, leaving him staggering between the two guards, his hands still helplessly clutching at his pants.
“These guards, these sons of the people, sturdy, plain folks, know you’re out of line; so how come you, a putative god, cannot sense that? But I’ll give you another chance. I’ll let you speak to me in private and explain what you’re all about. Guards!”
The guards exchanged uneasy glances and then looked at the clerk for confirmation before making for the door, shrugging their shoulders. But the colonel shooed them all out with one impatient wave of his arm.
“Stay right outside, this’ll take only a minute.”
Jesus was still reeling from the latest blows, and the floor looked very inviting, but he remained on his feet.
“Would you step back a little toward the door?” The colonel resumed the interview as the door closed on the others.
“Is the brave arm of the law really afraid of a convict on the brink of death?”
“Oh no, no…” the colonel found the notion entertaining. “It’s the smell. You messiahs all smell. What’s the matter with you? Did they beat the piss and shit out of you?”
It was a purely rhetorical question, and Jesus left it hanging in the air.
“No doubt, you deserved it. And it goes to show you’re made of the safe stuff like the rest of us mortals. Except we don’t let it get beaten out of us. We behave. We’re civilized. We can dispose of that stuff at the proper place and proper time.”
Jesus could not laugh with the colonel, he was struggling to stay on his feet without the bloodhounds on either side propping him up. But he was ready to let the colonel have a good shot at his other cheek, to let the big boss work him over at his leisure, probably with a pistol butt.
“But let’s get to the point,” the colonel was taking his time with this private interview, he did not rise from his seat. “If there’s a god in this room, it’s me, and not you. It’s simple: I am the one with the power. I am the one beating you. Better yet, I am the one who has his servants beat the shit out of you. In short, I am your god. The difference between man and god is power. I’ve got it and you haven’t. And let me tell you it feels good to be a god, to have power over others. That’s why I can understand your delusions about being a god. But that’s as close as you can get to being a god. A delusion, just that.”
“I am the son of god, but now on earth only a man, here to do my father’s work.”
“By the time we get through with you you’ll be cursing your father for having sent you to earth. Believe me, I’ve seen smarter gods than you cry for mercy, men used to having power over more people than I ever had, men who had enjoyed using their power ever more than I do… And yes, torturing them, making them squirm and scream was a lot more than fun, it was a sacred ritual, the ritual of my deification. But squashing you is like swatting a fly, anyone can do it, no fun at all. You’re nothing. But we can change that. If you were a real god, someone with real power over others, that could change the whole thing. So I have proposition for you. Before crucifying you, I give you a chance to be a real god for a moment or two. I’ll let you punch me in the face as hard as you want and feel what it’s like to be a real god, not just a delusion but the real thing. After that, you can go to your death redeemed, knowing you were a god for a moment, for an eternal moment, if you can keep it alive in your feverish brain. And, as for me, I’ll be listening to your screams as those of a fallen god, and they will sound like music to me ears.”
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