Fifth Gospel: A Novel (Rosicrucian Quartet) Paperback

by Adriana Koulias

  Judas turned his mind to these words and considered his situation in a different light. He had done a terrible thing, but his intentions had not been evil ones – he had only desired to prepare the way for the Messiah! If he were cleansed of his sins he could start again, as this man professed was possible. A clean slate! But there was the risk, he reasoned, that such a man would recognise his crime just by looking at him. Would he not then pronounce him to be a viper and denounce him before the world?

  Uncertain, he stood on the river’s lip. The others, taken by the Baptist’s words, had already taken off their cloaks and were entering the water. Judas considered that it might be his destiny to die here and now, and to have it over with. For how could he live with the terrible weight of his crime on his shoulders? A burden, he knew, that would grow more weighty by the day. Then again, in the depths of his heart, in his sinews, his muscles, his bones, a voice spoke to him of his grand place in God’s design. If this were so, well, the baptiser would cleanse him of his sins and mention not a word of his misdeeds. He would take this as a sign that God yet favoured him.

  When at last he stood before the man, he felt himself stripped naked and observed. He waited long, while those eyes probed him with a fierce intensity. It seemed like hours, but it was only a moment.

  John the Baptist said nothing.

  A great enthusiasm replaced his woes. God had not forsaken him! His ideal had not been misguided. Misguided had been his means, but not his ends!

  The baptiser put a hand behind Judas’ back and soon he was entering into the nullity of the water. Fear gripped him and he struggled but then came a sense of peace and abandon, a loosening of the burden. He had never felt so light! When he came out of the water the world looked different, as if he were looking through another man’s eyes.

  Afterwards it was possible for Judas to join the others as one of John’s disciples, without guilt or concern. Day after day he was among them. He ate his meals with them, and listened to the words of the teacher. In the night he slept with them in huts made of rushes and felt that finally he had found a home and a family, for he sensed he belonged among these men, who were so unlike him in their experience and education – the simple fishermen from Galilee. It was as if he were rediscovering something long lost to him, as if in their midst he were reliving the miracle of the age of the Maccabees who had fought and died side by side.

  In the reflection of their eyes he did not see himself Judas Iscariot, the unwanted child; he did not see Judas Scorpizein, the betrayer of his village; or Judas the Sicarri traitor to his nation. He saw a newborn Judas Maccabeus, that great warrior who had once fought to restore the Kingdom of Abraham.

  23

  EAGLE

  On the day of his birth the sun rose in the constellation of the Eagle, signifying that destiny had chosen the boy’s kinship with all that exists above in the rarefied airs of the world.

  Lazarus had two sisters, Martha and Mary, and theirs was a family of wealth and position for their father had rendered a lifetime of service to the Roman Caesar in Syria and in return he had earned riches and property, both in Magdala and in Bethany. In Magdala, stood the family’s principle home, a house, steadfast and stout, set among a lush oasis of walled gardens and waterfalls. This was by far the grandest house in the region. Bethany, on the other hand, was a modest castle but well situated near Jerusalem.

  Lazarus loved Magdala, for its tower, and Bethany for its serenity and silence. For as well as a love of heights and wide spaces, he also possessed a deep sensitivity and inwardness of soul, which had fashioned for him ears more sensitive than other ears and a heart more perceptive than other hearts. And they remained so, even after his intellect was stimulated by learning.

  His mother, a Jewess from the lineage of Pharisees, had made certain that Lazarus was given a good Hebrew education. His father, an Egyptian noble who had been broadly educated himself, ensured that his schooling was supplemented with tutoring from the best Roman and Greek teachers.

  His Greek tutor, Photismos was a wiry old man with clear blue eyes and a quick mind. He had developed in Lazarus such a love for the Greek language that some thought the boy resembled a Greek, even in his manners and outward appearance. They also shared a love for high places, and Lazarus rejoiced whenever his teacher took him to the Migdal tower as he had this day, to observe the plains and mountains.

  The tower had been built to observe and to defend the ancient trade routes connecting Nazareth to Damascus, its walls were mighty and steep and from them Lazarus could follow the caravans carving their way through the fertile plains of Gennesaret. Standing upon its ramparts Lazarus demonstrated his oratory skills by calling out his own name, which echoed in the distance. He told Photismos that he liked to hear this call and that sometimes imagined that it came from another boy answering him from another tower.

  Photismos nodded, thinking on it. ‘Does the sound of this word express your inner self?’

  Lazarus was taken by this thought. ‘It must, since it is my name.’

  ‘Ah…’ The old man smiled. ‘But Lazarus is not so strange a name, is it? There are many boys called Lazarus, but tell me, what is the name that only you can use?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘You have just said ‘I’ do not know. Can you give this name “I” to any other being?’

  Lazarus paused. He alone could say “I” to himself.

  ‘But are we not also given a name, according to the quality in our souls?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes…this is true,’ his teacher said, ‘names are not given without rhyme or reason. Your name means helped by the Lord, but I do not believe that you alone in the world are helped by the Lord. The word “I” however, you alone can say. It is yours even if you do not have a name.’

  ‘But who has named me, I?’

  ‘God has named you, of course...who else? You see, you are a word that was once spoken forth by God! Just as you have spoken your name forth, a moment ago, and it has created a sound that manifests your inner soul. This means that by uttering your name, you have also created something!’

  ‘And so I am a God?’

  ‘Do the Hebrews not say that all men were made in His image and likeness, child?’

  ‘Yes…but I have never understood how that can be.’

  ‘Let us see if we can explain it. Do you know the meaning of the word, Logos?’

  Lazarus shook his head.

  ‘It is the word of God, my son. In the beginning, the warm word of God was spoken out into the world and it created life.’

  ‘But the sun creates life.’

  ‘Yes, but what quality does the Sun possess that enables it to create life?’

  ‘Light?’

  ‘Bravo!’ Photismos clapped him on the back. ‘Yes…in this world nothing can grow in the dark, except for evil things, and no man can see on a moonless night, except for sorcerers…am I right?’

  Lazarus agreed, for this was well known.

  ‘In the same way that the sun shines over the world, a spirit light shines over your soul, did you know that? This divine light is the word of God, and it has made you divine. This is why you can say “I”, because this word shines into you! A plant cannot say I am, nor can a camel. The I am, the divine light-word of the universe, has entered only into man.’

  ‘But why do my teachers at the synagogue not teach this marvellous truth?’ Lazarus asked.

  Photismos looked out to the valleys and hills and mountains. ‘A long time ago, the great prophets and teachers could still see the light-word, but as time passed they grew blind and saw only the physical light of the sun, and it damaged their eyes to look upon it.’

  ‘Do you say that men have grown blind to the word of God?’ Lazarus asked.

  ‘Yes…and it is for this reason that a god descended to the moon in order that from it he might reflect the wisdom and the love of the sun; for this reflected light caused men no harm.’

  ‘Who is this god?’

&
nbsp; ‘He reflects the light-word, and so he is called…Jehova! I am that I am.’

  Lazarus grew fearful; this was the forbidden name, which was never to be spoken out loud. Men were stoned to death for saying it.

  ‘Do not be afraid, child…soon a man will come who will see the fullness of the word and he will speak of it without fear. This man will look at the God of the Sun directly in the day, because His light will not harm his eyes.’

  ‘Who is this man who will see this God, and why will His light not harm his eyes?’

  ‘He will be the forerunner, child,’ he said to Lazarus, ‘and he will see this Sun God, the true light of the I am, because He will enter into a body of flesh, to dwell among men.’

  ‘Will I ever see Him, the bearer of this light?’

  Photismos looked at the boy with a serious face. ‘You? You most of all, child! Why do you think I spend so much time on you?’

  ‘But how will I find him?’

  ‘Many years from now, you will hear the voice of His forerunner, crying out in the wilderness. He will direct you to the Man who will be the bearer of the light-word. You must listen to that call.’

  ‡

  ‘As the years passed, pairé, Lazarus waited for the call of the one whom Isaiah prophesied; the one who would bear witness to the incarnation of the Word of words. But it was not until he was a man, some months after he and his sisters had moved from their Galilean home to Bethany, that Lazarus had a waking dream. He dreamt that he was standing on the parapets of that great tower of Magdala again, but now it was not his own voice calling out his name, but another voice from afar, in the distant wilderness of Judea, that was calling it. The sound of it entered into his ears, and moved his heart to make it skip beats, it made him flush with warmth and it directed him to the wilderness, to a man called John.’

  24

  ISIS

  She finished her words and I realised that it was morning again and another night had passed. That is how it was during those nights with Lea, sitting in the upper room by the fire. The hours went by in a dream, but a dream more awake than life itself, for it was a life that took me to the heights of knowledge. When day came then, and life in the fortress resumed its dismal rhythm, I was forced to fall back to earth, forced to face the siege with its moments of frenzied fighting, followed by long hours of inactivity.

  In the daily hours I received those who wished to see me, I bandaged wounds and applied compresses and saw to men and women who were dying from injury or from disease. It was an endless round of waiting and prayer, of hope and despair for the injured and the dying.

  The night was my solace.

  But when some nights had passed without a visit from Lea it made me full of concern and I resolved to go in search of her. Perhaps she was not an apparition but a woman after all? If so, she may have fallen sick, like so many, from lack of food and clean water, from the cold and the crowded conditions. I imagined her in some corner of the fortress, coughing, with a fever on that brow as pale as a pearl, and felt my heart quickening with devotion. I could not tell if this devotion was not an illusion sent by the devil to try me and so I put it out of my mind and searched, looking for her in the pentagonal courts and where people gathered for the sermons.

  Sometimes I thought I did see her, or at least something of her. But what I saw was the warm smile of a mother, the peculiar turn of the head of a lover, the wisdom in the eyes of a grandmother – evidence of the soul that is shared by all women, but which a man can only aspire to love from afar. I was thinking this, as I looked for Saissa de Congost, that wonderful woman whose castle at Puivert had once been the home of music and troubadours before the French seized it.

  Saissa had taken it upon herself to keep the young girls of the fortress busy, and I reasoned that she might know something of Lea if she were, indeed, a real woman. But along the way I was diverted from my task by a tearful boy wandering among the crowds of people without aim. A beautiful child with delicate features and far reaching eyes. I asked him his name but he did not answer and those around me did not know who he was. I took him by the hand to Saissa who was teaching embroidery to a group of young girls.

  She recognised the boy as the charge of the Marquésia de Lantar. The boy, she said, was a special child and needed care. He could not yet speak despite being near seven years of age. She asked one of the girls to take him back to the Marquésia and as he was being led away, he turned to look at me. What hovered in the space between us at this point was a glimpse of something rare, as old as eternity, and as new as a moment. When I blinked the child was gone and the revelation faded from my heart.

  I became aware of Saissa regarding me with a curious eye, and I was struck by the realisation that my nightly dreams were turning into daydreams! Surely, if I did not soon harness my thoughts I might never again wake up!

  There was one way to clarify the mystery that was occupying my every waking hour and driving me from sanity. I asked Saissa if she knew a woman called Lea. I told her that she might be a credente or believer or perhaps the child of a perfect. I said I was worried that she was unwell, for I had not seen her for some time. Saissa shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. She did not recognise the name, but she would ask among the other women and would let me know.

  More nights passed in silence, and I felt deserted and abandoned by my dream vision, that is, until the seventh night.

  I had fallen asleep at my parchments and woke with a start. The wind had picked up and was fanning the flames in the hearth to a bright glow. When I adjusted my eyes I saw her, sitting on the bench, as was her custom. And oh, how it pierced my heart’s deep chambers to see her! Tears veiled my eyes and I had to speak to forestall them.

  ‘You were gone long…’ I said. ‘I went looking for you. No one seems to know you. I am thinking that perhaps you are just a dream.’

  She found this amusing, ‘What is a dream? When men are awake, that is when they are truly dreaming. Besides, have you never been with people who do not know you though you are always with them? They do not know you because they are asleep. To be awake to what others cannot see – this is love.’

  I do not say that I always understood her. She was a strange creature, full of wisdoms and secrets and riddles, and I did not press her lest she melt away and leave me with an unfinished dream. I decided to ask no more. From now on, I would think of her as an angel…as the evening star!

  ‘Of what will you speak this night?’ I said, holding my quill tightly, lest she see my hand tremble.

  ‘I will show you Mary Magdalene, pairé...’

  ‘That makes sense...since you last spoke of her brother, Lazarus. It is said that she came to France with him on a boat, that she married Jesus and bore him children.’

  Her nod was faint, her azure eyes narrowed a little, and I felt deeply scrutinised. ‘That would mean that Jesus did not die on the cross…is that what you believe?’

  I told her the truth. I told her that I did not know, but that the tale came from the troubadours, who sang of such things.

  ‘There are hidden truths buried deep in these tales, pairé, but one must know how to decipher them. Did you know that the name Magdalene is connected to the word Magda? Magda is a high tower that unites the soul with God. In Egypt too there were such women, but they were called brides of Osiris, or Priestesses of Isis.’

  I was aghast. ‘Are you implying that Mary Magdalene was a bride of Osiris, the Egyptian God?’

  Lea’s smile was wide now, and her teeth were like a flock of sheep, each one whiter than the next.

  ‘Why is this so strange to you, pairé? In another life, Mary Magdalene had been a priestess, yes, but she came again to be the first bride of Christ. Not in a physical sense – in a spiritual one. You see how misunderstandings arise?’

  ‘That may be…but what of her travelling to France on a boat? What do you make of that?’

  ‘Once again, pairé, you must look for the hidden truth; the soul is the woman in every m
an. In this tale, the soul is not just a woman, however, it is also a vessel, a boat, and it travels upon an ocean of time. In this boat there is a child, the spirit, waiting to be born. These understandings came to France and inspired your troubadours, who sing of a love for a lady, though she is not a woman at all. She is their soul, seeking the spirit.’

  I was confused. ‘Oh, Lea…I am a feeble-minded man, all this talk of souls and boats and children and spirits – all of it confounds me!’

  ‘Do not be too impatient, pairé, soon you will understand, just listen to me again…’

  She began to tell how Mary Magdalene had to suffer many things before she could find her way to Christ.

  And I wrote it down, as best I could.

  ‡

  From the day she was born, all could see the child was blessed. For not only was she quick of mind and full of mischief, she was also possessed of physical attributes rarely seen wholly together in one parcel.

  ‘One day,’ they said, ‘her beauty will be her undoing!’

  In time, her hair grew to a deep shade that trapped the sun’s light and fell long over her shoulders. Her face, unblemished and lucid was made more pale by the redness of her lips and the darkness of her almond shaped eyes. To her parents the child was a jewel in their crown and they turned a deaf ear to all who suggested that they not dote on the girl; that they not dress her in resplendent clothes, and sit her upon fine cushions and expensive carpets, to display her to all who came by.

  But her parents died, one after the other, and she became the responsibility of her sister Martha, who was five years older. Martha was pale and sickly, and prone to a nervous temper, the result of an issue of blood, a disease that defiled her and prevented her from ordinary social intercourse, from attending the synagogue, and even from marriage. This meant that Martha lavished all her love on Mary, and appeased her mothering urges by nurturing her as if she were the centre of her world. Martha dressed her in only the finest garments under embroidered silk girdles studded with precious stones and dusted her hair with gold and adorned it with the sheerest Arabian veils. Her arms she garlanded with the finest bracelets and wherever Mary walked all heads turned, not only for her unparalleled beauty and the fineries of her toilette, but also because around her ankles Martha had wrapped numerous lengths of silver chain, specially wrought to make little sounds!