The Gospel According to Lazarus

by Richard Zimler

  Five days of light followed by dusk, then darkness … Over the past week, I have come to see how little time we are given to make a difference to the world, and if I must start all over again as a pauper, then so be it.

  Close your eyes, Yaphiel, and imagine a naked man with gaunt, sun-darkened cheeks and a Galilean accent summoning you through a high gate that seems strangely familiar, and, the moment you step through, he takes your hand, and his secure grip now seems what you have always waited for, and when you look into his dark eyes you see the desert and snow-capped mountains inside not him but yourself, and you smell the rare blue-petalled flowers that open only under the moonlight, and you notice, as well, that your clothing has fallen away without you being aware of it, and you wonder how you will travel so far without a pack or even any sandals, and how long it will take, until he whispers in your ear that you must not expect to arrive any time soon, for destination has no meaning where you are about to go, and though that makes you laugh – and consider, too, that you have given your trust to a madman – it also makes you tingle in your belly, in the way that children do when they first sense that they must leave their parents’ home behind if they are to find themselves.

  I see now that I wanted only a quiet life – to have access to the writings of the Greeks and fulfilling work to keep my mind and hands busy, to chant and pray in the sunlight of Zion and grow powerful wings in my dreams.

  I wanted to be free to express my affection for you and Leah and Yirmi and Nahara. And to plant a garden of tsedeq in which no one would ever go hungry.

  I wanted to feel the praise of the flagstones in each of my footsteps – for what I helped you accomplish.

  Perhaps, most of all, I wanted to awaken at shepharphar each morning and see the surrounding streets of our eruv paved with racham.

  But I understand now that I asked for too much.

  Voices from the square rise like the swell of the Great Sea, and I hear his name shouted a first time, then once again. My son and I look at each other, knowing that the time has come.

  I tell him I must go this last part of our journey alone and ask his forgiveness.

  ‘But you told me I’d protect you!’

  ‘I can’t risk what … what you might see,’ I say. ‘I’ll return for you as soon as I can.’ A purpose will lighten his burden, so I ask him to watch over Ayin for me.

  And then I am gone.

  I do not spot Yeshua amidst the multitude in the square, but near the palace doors two Roman horsemen and a burly centurion are leading a unit of eight legionaries, and they are clearing a pathway east for what appears to be a prisoner.

  I fight my way towards them and, through the push and swell of the crowd, get a quick look at the naked, skeletal prisoner. The crossbeam of a crucifix has been tied across his shoulders. I have no chance to see his face, but I know that he cannot be Yeshua, for my friend has olive-coloured skin and this man’s face and arms are the white of bone.

  When the crowd parts again, I see that a fraying purple cape has been tied around the prisoner’s neck. He wears a spindly crown of brambles and laurel leaves, which means that the Romans – who always value a chance to enact one of their ancient dramas – have dressed him as their legendary king of bandits, Laureolus, whose name means crownlet of laurel. Over the years, I have seen condemned men dressed as Attis, Prometheus and others who were made to endure unspeakable tortures.

  As I thrust my way forward, I soon get another quick look at the condemned man. His ribs stand out like the bow of a ship, and a lash of dried blood extends from his right eye across his nose and over the left corner of his lips.

  Why whip a man’s face unless he has expressed – with convincing arguments – the right of every being to mercy and benevolence? So it is that I know that this devastated soul must have found the courage to challenge his persecutors, and I know, too, that he is articulate and intelligent, and I bless him for showing us that we must struggle against tyranny even if it might cost us our lives.

  Continuing ahead, I pass a group of old women huddling together, and, when one of them catches my gaze, she seems to recognize me, and she speaks Yeshua’s name, and tears are running down her cheeks, and all of me turns to ice.

  Is it possible that my body understands before I do? Did my deepest soul forbid my eyes from recognizing the truth until that moment?

  As I gaze again at the man dressed as Laureolus, he shifts his grip on the crossbeam, and … It is then that my heart collapses, for I recognize his hands.

  And when I close my eyes, his fingertips brush against my cheek. Has his spirit reached out to console me?

  Yeshua’s eyes are circled by bleak ridges of bone. His look is distant and dull – as though he has been drugged.

  I run to him then, and I push past everyone blocking my way, and I keep thrusting ahead even when the others shriek insults at me, and, before it seems possible, I am standing next to him.

  His face has been lacerated by the strokes of a leather scourge, which the Romans tip with iron shards. The gouges on his left cheek are so deep that blood from them is dripping on to the street. His lips are swollen and also cut.

  Tears gush from my eyes. Take us from here! I tell him, for, although he is broken in body, he is still who he is, and he can ask the Lord to deliver us.

  But he remains where he is and does not turn to me.

  ‘Yeshua, it’s me … it’s Lazarus,’ I tell him.

  Do I whisper these words? That is how it sounds to me, but I must have shouted his name then or soon afterwards – or perhaps I reached out to touch him – because one of the Roman soldiers comes to me and commands me in Latin to quiet down and keep my distance from the condemned man.

  Yeshua shuffles forward, dragging his crossbeam. The muscles in his shoulders and arms strain. His hair is soaked, as if he has been dunked under water.

  Onlookers behind me start jeering and ridiculing him. Some young men to the side of me throw stones and fruit, and a citron hits him in the face.

  I notice then – why didn’t I see it earlier? – that the skin of his sides and hips has peeled away from the bone and is bright with blood. To see such a violation of the body is to know that there is no limit to the crimes that men commit. Will we – the children of Adam and Havvah – ever be worthy of the gifts we have been given?

  The world seems to tip to its side and fall as I study Yeshua’s bloody hipbone, and I find myself sprawled on the ground, and I reach out to the ankle of a man striding past me, but he jerks his leg free of my grasp.

  They flayed his body to destroy his soul, I think.

  I get to my knees as a woman near me begins to wail. She thrusts her hands over her face when I look at her.

  A large stone thrown from somewhere behind me crashes into Yeshua’s shoulder and makes him stumble.

  Others in the crowd reach out to him, but none dare come close enough to touch him. The human hand straining to give comfort but unable to do so … I have never seen so eloquent a representation of all that the Romans deny the men and women they conquer.

  The buildings of the square and the sky grow very dark as I stand back up, and I think: This life of mine has always been a dream. It’s strange that it took me so long to realize it. I shall awaken soon in another world, and the Lord will show me that all I have lived – including this moment – passed in a single one of His pauses for breath. This life seemed like decades to me because He wished my soul to learn the lessons of physical form, and it can take many years to learn how to suffer so deeply for someone else that one would give up one’s life to make that torment end.

  It seems to me now that I thought all these things in a single instant – between standing up and starting towards Yeshua – though I do not know how that is possible.

  The Roman soldiers are now some seventy paces from me, and I am at the fringe of the crowd. No one tries to stop me as I fight my way to the front; perhaps it is obvious see that I have no choice in what I do.


  Once I am in front of Yeshua, with the mounted soldiers just behind me, I raise my hand and bless him, and in the language of gestures that we have spoken since we were boys – shaking a fist with one finger pointing up – I tell him that the Lord and I am here to defend him.

  It is the movement of my hand – a movement that only we understand – that gives me a plan. After all, has he not lifted me out of myself many times before? For him, it will be as easy as chanting our morning prayers.

  This, then, is the reason why Yeshua summoned me back from death! I think, and the understanding in me is like the lifting of a frigid mist.

  My old friend shuffles past without looking at me, which confuses me until I realize that he does not wish to give the Romans any excuse to take me prisoner.

  I call his name and shout that I am ready, and he faces me, though our friendship remains hidden beneath the dull glaze of his eyes. It is now or never, so I rush forward and embrace him, and I press my cheek to his, so that he will know in his flesh who I am, and his skin is cold and damp, and I realize what ought to have been clear before – that he has lost so much blood that he may die. I know I have time for only a few words, so I say, Exchange souls with me. I give my body to you freely. I see now why you gave me life again. Do it now, before …

  A blow catches me on the side of my head – from the haft of a sword?

  My legs give way, and I drop down to the ground. Above me stands the centurion, his eyes small and black – beads of antipathy. He moves the tip of his sword into the hollow of my neck below my voice-box. If he thrusts, I will choke to death on my own blood.

  Does he truly ask why he should spare my life, or is that what I imagine he growls at me?

  ‘Your prisoner is my brother,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve every right to comfort him.’

  The soldier eases the tip of his blade away, as though to show me mercy, but I soon discover that he is playing a game that never fails to make the Romans laugh: fool the Jew. Leaning over me, he takes out his knife and makes two quick slashes in the centre of my forehead, marking me for life.

  ‘I’m going to kill you!’ I shout in Greek.

  He spits at me and strides away. As I clean his filth from my face, my fingertips discover that he has etched me with the letter lambda. I have no idea why he chose that marking. Indeed, I will never find out.

  This need for ownership of other men … Is it a disease of blindness and faulty logic – an inability to see other people as real?

  While Yeshua struggles onwards, I grip the calliper he has given me, and I chant to myself the secret names of the Holy One that he has vouchsafed to me, climbing up each rung of Yaaqov’s Ladder on the sound of my own voice. I have always belonged to you, so take me now, I whisper to him.

  But he does not come for me. Has his loss of blood diminished his powers? That must be why Caiaphas and Annas had him flayed so mercilessly.

  Or perhaps he does not believe it is right for him to change places with me. But was that not why he tested me at the River Jordan – to make sure that I would sacrifice myself at this moment?

  A thousand times since that day I have told him he ought to have summoned all his power in one final burst and sent his soul to take possession of me. I usually speak my condemnation of him for failing me in my secret prayer room, in a whisper of lost hope, but in dreams I say it with my arms and legs and chest, and I cling to him so tightly that when I wake it seems to come with the crack of stone splitting open.

  44

  I stand up and press my fingers to the cut on my brow because blood is seeping into my eyes. It seems criminal of me now to have spent my entire life in an imperial colony and not have a single friend or acquaintance amongst the Roman elite to whom I can appeal for help.

  When a man calls my name, I turn around and discover Lucius hurrying towards me. His eyes are searching for answers. Abibaal is behind him.

  ‘You’re covered in blood,’ Lucius says, grimacing.

  I look down and see that hand-prints and smudges of dried blood have stained my tunic. ‘A centurion cut me,’ I explain.

  Abibaal says that he will staunch the bleeding, but my well-being is of no import to me at that moment, and I wave him away.

  ‘How did you get here so fast?’ I ask Lucius.

  ‘A servant I sent to the square alerted me to Yeshua’s predicament. What’s your plan?’

  ‘We have to stall the Romans until help comes.’

  ‘Help from whom?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ I shout in desperation. ‘Nikodemos or … Will Pilatus grant you an audience?’

  ‘Me?’ Lucius scoffs. ‘Pilatus looks down his nose at me and calls me his big-bellied old Garum-Seller. He told me once there was no essence to me.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning I am neither Jew nor Roman.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to appeal to Annas.’

  Lucius shakes his head and tells me what I already know. ‘Even if you accomplished the impossible and convinced the priest to make peace with us, you’d still fail to save Yeshua – Annas has no control over Roman executions.’

  I sense it then for the first time – a hopelessness so massive that it will bury me alive. Does Lucius see that I need him to help me find the way forward?

  ‘We’ll catch up with Yeshua,’ he says. ‘We’ll ask him what to do.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be able to reply to us. He’s lost a great deal of blood. He’s been flayed with a whip.’

  Lucius’ eyes fill with tears. ‘If he can’t summon a voice,’ he says, ‘then he’ll speak to us any way he can. He’ll find a way.’

  We find Yirmi back at the marketplace. The smoky scent of lamb being roasted for the Passover supper is everywhere now. It packs my nostrils and leaves a sour, sickening taste in my mouth.

  An idea comes to me as my son stands. I face Lucius. ‘Your elderly friend, Paullus – the one who was interested in my mosaic …’

  ‘What about him?’ he asks, but in his eyes I can see he has already glimpsed my plan and has passed an unfavourable judgement on it.

  ‘He said that he wanted to meet Yeshua – which leads me to believe he might prove sympathetic to our cause. Do you think he might win an audience with Pilatus?’

  ‘Paullus retired two years ago and has withdrawn from public life.’

  I hold out my blood-covered hands. And I can see from his solemn nod that he has grasped their meaning: that what has befallen us gives me the right to ask a favour of even a man I do not know and who has withdrawn from the world. ‘I’ll ask you again,’ I tell him. ‘Will Pilatus grant Paullus an audience?’

  ‘He might. Paullus used to organize all the Roman festivities in Yerushalayim.’

  Lucius tells me that his friend lives outside the gates of the city, in the Roman enclave just beyond the pool of Breikhat Hashiloah. ‘His villa has a turret modelled on the Phasael Tower,’ he says. ‘You won’t have any trouble finding it.’

  With my bad leg, I shall not be able to run, and it will take half an hour or more for me to reach so distant a location, so Lucius offers me the use of his horse and cart. But that is of little help, for I would first have to go to his villa, which would mean a long, uphill climb, and Abibaal would also have to bring the cart from his stables.

  ‘I’ll go on foot,’ I tell him. ‘You take your cart, and if you arrive before me, explain to Paullus that he must plead for an audience with Pilatus without delay. Say whatever you need to convince him.’

  After Lucius agrees, I turn to my son and tell him he must look after Yeshua for me. ‘You’re my talisman,’ I remind him.

  ‘But what can I do?’ he asks.

  ‘Listen to him closely if he manages to speak. He might even speak to you within your mind. Just do whatever he tells you.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t say anything?’

  ‘The Romans will take him to Golgotha or one of the other execution places. Look for friends in the crowd – Yohanon, Yaaqov or anyone else you
recognize. Very likely, they fear for their lives and will be in disguise – or will seek to remain hidden. Tell any of them that you find that I’m on my way with an influential Roman. Tell them to stall the execution. They must be prepared to attack the soldiers – with swords and knives if they have them, if not, then with stones. Do you understand? If they permit Yeshua to be raised on a cross …’ I do not end my sentence. Instead, I take my son’s shoulders. ‘Will you do this for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But if you sense yourself in danger – if someone threatening recognizes you as my son – go straight home. Find Aunt Mia and tell what’s happened. Are we clear?’

  ‘I know what to do,’ he assures me in an adult voice that chills me, since there is so much that he does not understand yet about life and death and everything in between.

  He runs north. I head south, rushing along with my ludicrous cripple’s gait.

  My desperate knocking on the door of Paullus’ villa draws no answer, but, when I step back from the high brick wall, I spot him squinting down at me from a window in his turret as if I am but the vaguest of apparitions. I call out my name to him. ‘I’m the mosaicist you met at Lucius’ villa,’ I say.

  He leans out his window with a puzzled expression. ‘I remember who you are, but you’re covered in blood. What’s happened to you?’

  ‘There was an accident. If you come down, I’ll explain.’

  He jiggles his gnarled old-man’s hand in the air. ‘I’ll have a slave open the door. Wait there!’

  Paullus awaits me in the colonnade that fronts his dining room. ‘You look as if a chariot rode over you!’ he says, holding an awning of hand over his wary eyes.

  I stop several paces away so as not to frighten him further. ‘I’ve come to you for help,’ I begin, and I tell him that the dear friend of mine he wished to meet – the one who speaks with God – is about to be executed.

  ‘For what reason?’ he asks.

  ‘He has quarrelled with our Temple priests.’