Coming out of the hiding spot, Simon walked a few steps and stopped by the cooling altar, charred and spattered in blood. From here was an open view on the whole street where Jesus was to be taken from the Sanhedrin.

At first he thought to sit on the side of the road and wait. No, his form will catch the eye from a distance. The guards can suspect something. Holding the cilice, he lay on the ground. That is better. He lay his head on his arm bent at the elbow and froze in anticipation.

He thought about the fact that he let his doubts take over in vain. Once taking the plow, one should not look back. He had to stay with the Sicarii and take revenge on Israel’s enemies.

For some time it was as if he forgot himself. Some force made him look at his hands. He saw the skin on his palms suddenly start to come apart and the tips of two black nails emerge from the palms of his hands.

Shocked, Simon turned over both wrists of his hands and saw that nails pierced them from the outside. Thin streams of blood flowed from the wounds. Sudden pain pierced his feet at the ankles. Pulling up the cilice, he saw that nails also pieced his feet! Everything around him somehow got mixed up; it was as if he fell out of time, not understanding what was going on with him now.

The muffled stomping of boots accompanying people’s voices took him out of this strange state. Simon raised his head and looked closely.

Figures appeared in the distance. It was hard to distinguish how many were there. He lay down, pretending to sleep, and whispered, “God, help me; help me kill.”