by Angela Hunt
Flavius won. And as Atticus watched his friend celebrate his victory, he wondered how his friend could ever wear such a robe.
He looked up as movement caught his eye. A group of the Jewish religious leaders came forward, their faces drawn into tight smiles. They called to the prophet and taunted him with mocking cries. “You saved others,” one man jeered. “Save yourself, if you can!”
Atticus’s hand went to the dagger at his belt. Yeshua had saved Quinn a lifetime of heartache; what good had these men ever done?
Flavius must have seen the ire in his eye, for he tugged at Atticus’s arm. “Forget them,” he said, tossing the prophet’s robe over his shoulder. “The Jews can’t get along with each other or Rome. Leave them to their folly.”
The morning sun dragged quietly into the afternoon and the Jewish leaders moved away. When Atticus wondered aloud why they’d gone before witnessing the Nazarene’s end, Gaius answered that the presence of death would make them unclean and unable to observe their holy festival.
As the prophet struggled to breathe, a group of women who had been keeping their distance moved closer. Two men walked with them. Most of the group were dressed in the plain garments of rural Galileans, but the older man wore a richly embroidered tunic like those favored by the religious leaders.
Yeshua spoke in a halting voice to the knot of weeping mourners, then the younger man put his arm around one of the women and led her away.
Without warning, the wind rose, skirling across the stony knoll, an unseasonable chill in its breath. Blue sky retreated in the face of the blast, leaving the heavens gray and bruised-looking. Far to the east, arteries of lightning pulsed, followed by a low throb of thunder. A slash of heaven’s fire stabbed at the Jews’ temple, then the sky went black as the rocky promontory trembled in an earthquake.
The hair at the back of Atticus’s neck rose as stones loosened and tumbled down the hill. Gaius stood from where he’d been kneeling, and Flavius shifted uncomfortably. “Atticus—” the centurion’s dark eyes pierced the distance between them—“Flavius tells me you know something of this man. Who was he?”
“He was—”Atticus’s voice, like his emotions, was in tatters—“a Jewish prophet. Some said he was their Messiah, some said he was the son of their God.”
Darkness pressed heavily on the hilltop as the man on the cross shouted, “Father, I entrust my spirit into your hands!” His chest rose and fell in a desperate exhalation. “It … is … accomplished.”
With that last utterance, the prophet’s head lolled forward in a heavy movement Atticus knew far too well.
He looked up at the dark sky, observed the stricken women, and heard the mourning howl of the wind. The heavens themselves seemed to be weeping for Yeshua of Nazareth, who had done nothing but good in his life.
Atticus had staked his future on the justice and light of Rome. On this day, however, darkness reigned and justice was not to be found.
“Surely,” Gaius murmured, “this man was a son of God.”
Atticus had to agree. Mithras and the emperors of Rome were supposed to be sons of gods, but the Jews’ God had given this prophet power unlike anything Atticus had ever seen wielded by an emperor or a Roman priest.
How could a man with such power die?
Chapter Forty-five
Standing at the foot of the cross in a day that had gone black as night, I felt the old feelings of grief tug at my heart. Like a powerful undertow that pulled me under against my will, the current of sorrow took hold and dragged me into the deep well of loss.
Why had Yeshua delivered me to face this? Why had he built up our hopes and dreams if he knew this fate awaited him? Because he had known—I could no longer deny it. He had known, and he had warned us.
But I hadn’t wanted to listen.
My cheeks burned as I remembered his words: A kernel of wheat must be planted in the soil. Unless it dies it will be alone—a single seed. But its death will produce many new kernels—a plentiful harvest of new lives.
So … what happened next? How would this shameful death produce a harvest of new lives? This was an awful death, gory and violent, and our Law declared that anyone who hung on a tree was anathema.
Yeshua had become a curse … and as I looked up at his bloody face, I couldn’t understand why he had allowed it to happen. I had dreamed of the Lion of Judah overcoming the Eagle of Rome, for, like David and Hezekiah, the Messiah was supposed to conquer our enemies. When word of Yeshua’s death spread through Galil, everyone would know we’d been mistaken.
A messiah who suffered defeat … could not be the Messiah.
I pressed my hand over my mouth as the Roman legionnaires stood and approached the three crosses. The two thieves still lived, so the merciless Romans used the steel shafts of their spears to break the malefactors’ lower leg bones. But the soldier who looked on Yeshua did not swing his spear. Instead he prodded my rabboni’s lifeless head with the tip of his weapon, then he plunged the spearhead into Yeshua’s side.
I smothered a cry as water and blood flowed from the wound. “He’s dead,” the Roman said, his voice flat.
I might have crumpled on the spot, but Yosef of Arimathea, a secret disciple and a member of the Sanhedrin, caught my shoulders. “I am here with Nicodemus,” he whispered in my ear. “We have made arrangements.”
For the first time, I looked around. The other women had gone; even Hadassah had been overwhelmed by grief. No one stood with me but two members of the council who had condemned my rabboni to death.
I lifted my gaze to Yosef’s face. “Who will care for him now?”
“We will.” His brown eyes bored into mine. “You need to be strong, Miryam, for we must act quickly. Can you help us?”
After a long pause, during which I fought for self-control, I lifted my chin and squared my shoulders. “What do you need me to do?”
Yosef glanced at the cross, then turned to Nicodemus. “I’m going to Pilate for formal permission to take his body. If we don’t get it, they’ll toss him into a common grave.”
I pressed my lips together to stifle a sob.
Nicodemus moved closer. “You and I, Miryam, must act now, even before Yosef returns. The Shabbat is approaching, so we must take his body down and care for him before sunset.”
I sniffed, then nodded to Yosef. “Go, then. Hurry.” I looked at Nicodemus as the older man hurried away. “Where are we taking him?”
Nicodemus gestured down the hill. “A tomb in yonder garden. It’s not a long walk, and I’ve already arranged for the things we’ll need. A merchant is about to deliver spices and linens … not enough for a proper burial, but enough to prepare him decently before Shabbat arrives.”
Shock ran through me as our eyes met. “The markets were closed. How did you know?”
Nicodemus closed his eyes as a muscle quivered at his jaw. “Yosef and I … we have been studying the Scriptures. We read the prophets, and we realized he would die at Pesach. We were not at the council meeting last night, because we were taking care of these matters.”
I looked down the hill, where a twisted path curved among several flowering bushes and disappeared beneath a sprawling tree canopy. A restful place, and fitting for a prophet of Isra’el. “You go and wait for your merchant,” I tell him. “I’ll stay.”
He shook his head. “You go. The tomb is a little hard to find, but you’ll see the stone rolled away—”
I winced. “I’m not waiting in a tomb. You go, you know where it is.”
“But how are you going to get his body—”
“HaShem will provide a way. After all, he provided you.” Struggling to mask my dread, I managed a trembling smile. “I’ll meet you in the garden.”
* * *
When Nicodemus had gone, I turned toward the cross. Blood still dripped from Yeshua’s body, a slow arrhythmic patting that struck the stony ground.
Tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision. I knew a group of legionnaires crouched to my right; I could
hear smothered laughs and the clink of weapons as they packed up and prepared to leave Golgotha.
Was this just another day to them? Another prophet to execute, another nation to crush? Yeshua had embodied hope for Isra’el; even hope for the world. With everything in my heart I had firmly believed that only my rabboni could overthrow Rome and its Caesars. Instead, the people who had conquered our nation and murdered my family had crucified my hope.
And Yeshua had allowed them to do it.
I stepped forward and placed my hands on my rabboni’s wounded feet. His skin felt like cold marble beneath my palms.
From down the hill came the squeak of saddles and the shudder of a horse; from somewhere quite close I heard the crunch of stones beneath sandals. I would never have asked an enemy for help, but no one remained in the area … except Romans.
“Please, sir,” I said, speaking to the unknown soldier who hovered like a hulking shadow behind me, “will you help me take him down?”
The man did not answer, but the stones scrunched again and a pair of big hands covered mine. Almost tenderly, the soldier lifted my arms, then he stepped between me and Yeshua. I closed my eyes as the wood groaned and surrendered the spike. I covered my face as another man stood to help the first; together they brought Yeshua down and laid him at my feet.
When I could control myself, I blinked my tears away and looked at my teacher’s lifeless body.
“What are you going to do with him?”
I had expected the Roman’s voice to brim with contempt; instead, an almost kindly concern lined his words. I dashed wetness from my cheeks and pointed down the hill. “There’s a path … and a garden. One of the council members has made preparations.”
“Lead the way. I’ll carry him for you.”
Shock caused words to wedge in my throat. I looked up at the Roman, wanting to be sure he wasn’t toying with me, but my eyes were too bleary to see anything but the seriousness of his expression.
I reached out, touched his hand. “You are … a gift from HaShem.”
Heedless of the other soldiers who called out questions and jeers, the big man knelt and pulled Yeshua into his arms as if he were carrying a beloved son. I saw the metal of his helmet flash in the brightening sky as he nodded, then I turned and led the way down the hill.
And as I walked in a slow and stately pace, I couldn’t help but remember the thousands who had lined the road and cheered him only a few days before: “Please, deliver us, Son of David.”
Where had they gone? They were hiding. Weeping. Grieving.
They had abandoned their Messiah, leaving Yeshua to be buried by a former outcast, two council members, and a nameless Roman dog.
* * *
I did not sleep in the hours following Yeshua’s death. Every time I closed my eyes I saw his face gazing at me from the cross; every time I covered my ears I heard his rattling breaths. Throughout the long night I paced in the courtyard of the inn on Crooked Street and chewed my fingernails to nubs.
One thought filled my mind: I had failed my rabboni. I had walked and talked and lived with a prophet, but I had not listened to all he said. He had spoken of being pure of heart, but my heart had been filled with anger and resentment toward the Romans. When Yeshua realized that we were not strong enough to be the followers he needed, he had predicted his death. I had been too thick-headed to hear his warning … because I didn’t want to hear. I had even felt ashamed of his weakness … because I was too focused on my goals to see his strength.
I could scarcely imagine how hard it must have been for him to submit to the indignity and pain of the cross. Yet he had done it. Because we failed him.
We didn’t deserve rescue from the Romans.
The festival of Pesach, usually a time of rejoicing, filled our lives with despair. The sorrow of Golgotha clung to me like the smoke that had permeated my clothing as I watched my home go up in flames. The grief that had engulfed me at the cross remained with me when I washed my rabboni’s body and wrapped him in linen. I would have remained through the night to tuck spices in among the grave wrappings, but Nicodemus, mindful of the setting sun, urged me to hurry.
Jerusalem marked that day of rest with gloom. The people who had loved and supported Yeshua barely stirred from their houses, burdened not by the rules of the Shabbat, but by an overwhelming sense of loss.
“Oh, Jerusalem,” Yeshua had said, weeping, “the city that kills the prophets and stones God’s messengers! How often I have wanted to gather your children together as a hen protects her chicks beneath her wings, but you wouldn’t let me.”
My rabboni’s words came back to me, proving that he had known what his fate would be. Still he had ventured into the city, still he had eaten with his spineless disciples and listened to them brag about being prepared to drink of his bitter cup.
On that dark Shabbat we learned other news—Judas had been the instrument of Yeshua’s betrayal. Apparently he had come late to that final supper because he had been arranging to betray our rabboni for thirty pieces of silver. Peter told me, with tears, that Judas had led an armed mob to the Garden of Gethsemane and signaled our master’s identity … with a kiss.
After Yeshua’s trial, Judas had been so overcome with remorse that he had killed himself.
On the first day of the week, before the sun pushed its way over the horizon, the other women and I gathered the additional spices we’d prepared and began the long walk to the tomb. On the way, Joanna worried aloud that we wouldn’t be able to find a man to remove the stone blocking the entrance.
As we neared the garden in the half-light of dawn, an earthquake shuddered the ground beneath us. We clung to each other until the earth stopped shaking, then we drew deep breaths and steeled ourselves to our miserable task.
When we reached the sepulcher, we discovered that the stone had been rolled away. We bent and stepped into the crypt, then I cried out—the stone slab was bare, the grave clothes tossed on the ground, the other niches empty.
Had I come to the wrong garden? No—I distinctly remembered the vibrant yellow of the flowering shrubs beside the gate. Was this the wrong tomb? No … the linen grave clothes were the fabrics I had folded over my rabboni.
“Miryam—” Joanna’s voice quavered. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
Frantic, I left the other women and hurried back to the inn. John Mark pointed me toward the chamber where Peter and John were sleeping. When they opened the door, my words spilled out in a tumble: “They have taken the Lord’s body and I don’t know where they have put him!”
To their credit, neither man hesitated. They ran toward the tomb as well, leaving me to follow on legs that felt as insubstantial as air.
By the time I arrived back at the garden, the two disciples had come and gone. I saw their footsteps in the soft sand beside the entrance to the tomb; I could almost feel remnants of their alarm and confusion in the air.
I stood outside the sepulcher with my hands over my face and tears stinging my eyes. Once again, operating purely in vain hope, I peered inside the tomb. I had expected to see an empty stone slab, but my heart went into sudden shock when I saw two men in white—men who glowed.
The closest man’s eyes warmed slightly, and with the hint of a smile he acknowledged the startling effect of his unexpected appearance. “Why are you crying?”
Somehow, I caught a breath. “Because they have taken my Lord away and I don’t know where they have put him.”
Another smile tugged at the stranger’s mouth, but he did not speak again. Instead, he tilted his head and looked behind me, so I turned to see who might be approaching. A man stood next to one of the shrubs; I supposed him to be the gardener. Perhaps he thought we had made a mistake by placing Yeshua in a rich man’s tomb …
“Sir,” my voice broke, “if you have taken him away, tell me where you have put him and I’ll go get him.”
The man stepped out of the shadows. “Miryam.”
Yeshua’s voi
ce leapt into my heart like a living thing. Grateful beyond words, I fell at his feet and clutched his ankles—warm, living flesh—as if I might never let him go. “Rabboni!”
“Don’t cling to me,” Yeshua said, his voice as gentle as a breeze, “for I haven’t yet ascended to the Father. But go find my brothers and tell them I am ascending to my Father and your Father, my God and your God.”
Has any woman ever been charged with a more delightful task? I rose, weeping afresh, and back-stepped to the garden gate, not wanting to tear my gaze from my teacher. Yeshua smiled at me, waiting, and though everything in me wanted to stay, I was determined not to fail him.
I ran back into the city and found the disciples at John Mark’s inn. Peter and John had not yet returned, but the other disciples were red-eyed and weary from grief.
I laughed aloud, delighted to share my news: “Yeshua is alive! He called my name!”
I thought they would rejoice, but they didn’t believe me. Neither did they believe Joanna, Salome, or Cleophas’s Miryam, who had returned earlier with the same news.
What man, after all, trusts the word of mere women?
Chapter Forty-six
As three-year-old Quinn chased a ball across the empty chamber, Atticus looked at Cyrilla. The marks of grief were clear, etched into the lines beside her mouth and eyes. She had not smiled in three days, not since he’d seen her approach Pilate when the governor sat in judgment on the Galilean.
“What was it—” he squeezed her hand—“that sent you to him?”
She gave him a bleak, tight-lipped smile. “My mistress sent me to the governor with an urgent message. She had awakened late that morning because she’d been troubled by dreams about Yeshua of Nazareth. She bade me tell her husband he should have nothing to do with that innocent man.” She squeezed Atticus’s hand in return. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s really dead. How could such a thing happen?”
Atticus couldn’t answer. He watched as Quintus stooped to catch the wooden ball, then turned, crowing with delight. The little boy had caught up with other children his age; he spoke and sang and laughed like any other three-year-old. But if he’d never met the Nazarene prophet, he would be a far different child.