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"I don't want to do it!" I said, digging in my heels, shoved alongby the crowd, yet resisting. "I don't think I can do it! I can't look,Memnoch, no, this is not required of me. No ... I don't want to goany farther. Memnoch, let me go!""Quiet," he said dourly. "We are almost to the place where Hewill pass."With his left arm around me, clutching me protectively, he dividedthe crowd in front of us, effortlessly it seemed, until weemerged in the front line of those who waited at a broaderthoroughfare as the procession advanced. The shouts were deafening. Romansoldiers moved past us, the garments soiled with grit, faces tired,bored even, dreary. Across the way, on the other side of theprocession, a beautiful woman, her hair covered by a long white veil, threwup her hands and screamed.
She was looking at the Son of God. He had come into view. I sawthe big crossbar of the crucifix first, on his shoulders sticking out oneither side of Him, and then His hands, bound to the beam, danglingfrom the ropes, already dripping with blood. His head was bowed;the brown hair was matted and dirty and covered over with the crudeblack crown of spiking thorns; spectators were pressed to walls oneither side of Him, some taunting Him, others silent.
There was barely room for Him to walk with his burden, Hisrobes torn, His knees bruised and bleeding, but walk He did. Thestench of urine was overpowering from the nearby walls.
He trudged towards us, face hidden, then fell, one knee goingdown into the stones of the street. Behind Him I saw others carryingthe long post of the cross which would be planted in the ground.
At once the soldiers beside Him pulled Him up. They steadied thecrossbar on his shoulders. His face was visible, not three feet fromwhere we stood, and He looked at us both. Sunburnt, cheeks hollow,mouth open and shuddering, dark eyes wide and fixed on us, Helooked, without expression, without appeal. The blood poured downfrom the black thorns sticking into His forehead; it ran in tinystreams into His eyelids and down His cheeks. His chest was nakedunder the open rag of robe which He wore, and it was covered withthe ripe, red stripes of the lash!
"My God!" Again I had lost all volition; Memnoch held meupright as we both stared into God's face. And the crowd, the crowdwent on screaming and cursing, and shouting and pushing; littlechildren peeped through; women wailed. Others laughed; a great horridstinking multitude beneath the relentless sun that sent its raysamongst the close urine-stained walls!
Closer He came! Did He know us? He shuddered in His agony,the blood ran down his face into his shivering lips. He gave a gasp asif He would strangle, and I saw that the robe over His shoulders,beneath the rough wood of the beam, was soaked with blood from thescourging. He could not endure another instant, and yet they pushedHim, and He stood directly before us, eyes down, face wet with sweatand the blood swimming in it, and then slowly He turned and lookedat me.
I was weeping uncontrollably. What did I witness? A brutalityunspeakable in any time and place, but the legends and prayers of mychildhood fired with grotesque vitality; I could smell the blood. Icould smell it. The vampire in me smelled it. I could hear my sobs, Ithrew out my arms. "My God!"Silence fell over the whole world. People shouted and pushed, butnot in the realm in which we stood. He stood there staring at me andat Memnoch, stepped out of time and holding the moment in itsfullness, in its agony, as He looked at us both.
"Lestat," He said, His voice so feeble and torn I could scarce hearit. "You want to taste it, don't you?""Lord, what are you saying?" I cried, my words so full of tears Icould scarce control them.
"The blood. Taste it. Taste the Blood of Christ." And a terriblesmile of resignation came over him, almost a grimace, his bodyconvulsing beneath the immense beam, and the blood trickling freshly asif with each breath He took the thorns tore deeper into his face andthe stripes on His chest began to swell into seams through which theblood leaked.
"No, my God!" I cried out, and I reached for Him and felt Hisfragile arms, bound to the huge crossbar, His aching, thin armsbeneath the torn sleeves, and the blood blazed in front of me.
"The Blood of God, Lestat," He whispered. "Think of all thehuman blood that has flowed into your lips. Is my blood not worthy?
Are you afraid?"Sobbing, I cupped His neck with both hands, my knuckles againstthe crossbar, and I kissed His throat, and then my mouth openedwithout will or struggle and my teeth pierced the flesh. I heard Himmoan, a long echoing moan that seemed to rise up and fill the worldwith its sound, and the blood flooded into my mouth.
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