Woman of Sin

by Debra Diaz

  These men were Jews—Zealots—at least twice as many of them as there were Romans, and they fought with skill and fury.

  His horse reared again, this time catching him off balance and throwing him to the ground. His head struck hard, knocking off his helmet. He sprang up; his sword clashed and rang with one blade after another, yet with every man he felled, another leaped forward to take his place. He was not aware that he was covered with blood, and most of it was his own; he didn’t know that his head had been slashed, or that a great gash in his thigh spilled blood in a steady stream. He felt the blow from a club crack against his left arm, but had no time to realize that it now hung broken and useless. The Zealots wielded swords and axes and stabbed with short daggers. From the ledge above some were shooting arrows and heaving down large rocks.

  He sensed that his bodyguards were trying to surround him, and also knew—without having to look—when they perished. The noise gradually began to diminish . Dead and groaning bodies were strewn over the rocky ground. Seeing movement within the caves, Paulus realized that there were more Zealots waiting to replace these when they tired.

  His right arm began to grow numb. His wildly shifting gaze fixed on a man with blood-matted auburn hair who was heavily engaged with one of his men, and raised his sword to split the man’s skull. As he did so, one of the Jews called a warning: “Nathan bar Samuel, behind you!”

  Paulus’ sword paused in mid-air. His eyes met those of his foe. Although he had heard it only once, he recognized the name. The moment’s hesitation confused the other man, and before he could strike, Paulus lifted his foot and sent the man sprawling in the dust. At once he was made cruelly aware of his wounded leg, as a searing pain shot the length of it. Paulus staggered and caught himself, deflecting a sword thrust aimed at his neck. He killed another man, and another. Then he felt something, perhaps a helmet, crash against his head and he fell to the ground, stunned. A Zealot pounced on him viciously, lifting his dagger to pierce the throat above the armored chest. Paulus caught his arm and they fought a silent battle, the Zealot straining, his eyes full of hate. Paulus grimaced with the effort, feeling his strength wane, knowing that in a moment the knife would rip open his throat.

  Another man had climbed on to the ledge and doubled over, gasping for breath. “He’s done for—let him suffer. Let’s go.”

  The other Zealot wrenched his arm away from Paulus’ vise-like grip. The man on the ledge held out his hand; the other took it and raised himself up. With a final sound of clanking metal the entire army of rebels raced for the boulders where they had hidden their horses, and rode furiously away from the scene of their victory.

  Except for the groans and feeble coughs of the dying, there was utter silence. Paulus stirred, feeling the pulsating pain on the side of his head, where blood ran in rivulets. One arm felt completely numb, the other throbbed mercilessly, and only by a Herculean effort did he manage to rise and stand with his weight on one leg, favoring the wounded one.

  No stranger to gore and blood, he couldn’t believe the sight that met his eyes. Bodies lined the road in macabre positions, a disembodied head stared at him from a gulley, an arm pointed gruesomely to the body from which it had been detached. Hemmed in as they were by the rocks, the narrow road behind them and the precipice beside them, they hadn’t stood a chance to adequately defend themselves. And yet, another glance proved his men had taken a large number of Zealots in their own butchery.

  A weak moan caught his attention, and stumbling over the bodies Paulus knelt beside a young legionary. He raised the man’s head with as much gentleness as he could muster.

  “Sir, there were too many. Too many—” He jerked spasmodically and then was completely still, his eyes glazing.

  Paulus eased him upon the ground and stood, trying to brace his unsteady feet. He made his way painfully among the bodies. They were all dead. A horse lying on the ground quivered and rolled its eyes; one of its legs had been shattered with a club. Paulus knelt and gently cut the arteries of its neck.

  As he stood he felt the warmth of his own blood soaking into his boot and looked down to examine the long, jagged wound on his outer thigh. The flesh parted almost to the bone. He managed to tear a strip of cloth from someone’s mantle and tied it around his leg. He would have to find help…or bleed to death. He found a broken javelin and, using it as a crutch, began to walk. It would be dark in an hour, and there would be little chance of anyone finding him. The horses surviving the massacre had all fled, and Paulus seemed to be the only living creature in the vast Judean wilderness.

  Bitterly he reproached himself for not obeying his instincts. The attack had been well-planned, requiring a knowledge of the Romans’ movements; it had been, in its ferocity, like an act of vengeance. The involvement of the man to whom Alysia was betrothed (if indeed, that was the man) was surely not a coincidence.

  But he couldn’t think of all this now. He didn’t know how long he walked doggedly on, until weakness overcame him. He stumbled and fell in a slow, graceful movement, like the lowering of a puppet on a string. For the second time his head struck against the hard earth, and the last thing he saw before consciousness left him was a huge black vulture, circling in the serene sky above.

  * * * *

  Alysia sat before the morning fire, absorbing into her soul the beauty and grandeur of this land. A mystic, almost supernatural light in soft, glorious shades of red, purple and pink surrounded the hills and mountains. The cedars and fir trees were shrouded in black, and as the sun appeared they became tinged with a shimmering haze of gold, emerging from the darkness as if at that moment called into creation.

  Below them the Sea of Galilee shone like a harp-shaped jewel, enclosed by gently undulating mountains. A layer of translucent clouds hung over the water, and slanting rays of light fell upon a single spot in the middle of the lake. Already there were dozens of fishing boats plying the waters. Down the shoreline, the city of Tiberias’ massive sea towers were a jarring reminder of reality…and Rome. Martha and Mary were putting away the dishes from breakfast; she ought to join them but it was so pleasant to sit here and watch the sun rise, and to ponder the things she’d seen and heard since their arrival two days ago.

  The first morning had been spent cooking and cleaning up the camp. The Nazarene had disappeared and his disciples had said it was his custom to spend long hours in prayer. Then after the mid-day meal the Nazarene had begun to speak, and as the woman had said on their arrival, he spoke as no one ever had. Not only was it in the wisdom and even wit of his words, but his very manner of speaking made one want to believe in what he said. He did know people, and he wanted to share himself with them. The crowd grew; people seemed to come from everywhere.

  The entire multitude sat still and listened as if hanging on his every word … all but the six, black-garbed Pharisees who stood along the edge of the crowd and shook their heads and muttered among themselves. The four disciples watched them; Peter and John looked angry and James offered to go and tell them to leave, at which point the more diplomatic Andrew said he would ask if they would like to speak personally with the Rabboni, an Aramaic word meaning “great teacher”. But the Pharisees had left before anyone approached them. She saw that the Nazarene noticed their departure; a thoughtful, somehow regretful expression crossed his face for a moment.

  He spoke, that day, of many things.

  He stated the way to happiness: recognize one’s need for God and for forgiveness; seek after righteousness; place one’s strength, one’s self, under control; be merciful to others; overcome evil with good; be straightforward and honest. And for these things, be willing to suffer persecution. He said that he had not come to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. Yes, he said, murder is wrong, but so is that hatred of one’s fellow man that leads to it. Yes, adultery is wrong, but so is that lustful glance. Avoid judging the motives of others; be fair and use only a standard you would want to be judged by. Have faith that God will provide. Treat others as you would
like to be treated.

  There was more, more than Alysia could take in all at once. Yet he spoke simply, illustrating his words by pointing out the rock-covered landscape, the birds flying overhead, the flowers in the fields, the thorns and thistles buried in the brush.

  The next day…had been the strangest day of her life! The rattle of a wagon had interrupted the stillness of the morning; there was a shuffling about the camp, voices raised in what sounded like an argument. Alysia and Mary stood together, watching, and all around other people were emerging from their tents. The Nazarene came out from among the trees and called to Peter. That disciple came into view, closely followed by someone else. “I tried to tell them you weren’t to be disturbed,” he said testily. “I told them to come back la—”

  “Come here,” said Jesus. A man and woman pushed past Peter, shielding someone between them.

  “Please, sir,” said the woman piteously. “Have mercy on the boy! Nobody can help him. We heard of you in Magdala and followed you here.”

  “Can you help my son?” begged the man.

  They were poorly dressed, pale and desperate-looking. The Nazarene lowered his eyes to the boy, as did everyone else. Someone gasped in horror.

  He was about twelve years old. His eyes were unseeing with a fixed, vacuous expression. Fat black flies swarmed over them. He didn’t say anything, or even seem to hear, but as the Nazarene stepped close to him he became very still, almost rigid. His face grew fearful.

  “He wasn’t born this way,” the man said. “It happened gradually, over many months. First, he lost interest in everything, then he refused to speak, and then—his eyes…” The man’s voice broke.

  The Nazarene knelt on one knee. He bowed his head for a moment, raised it, and said something Alysia could not hear.

  At once the flies scattered in every direction. The boy gave a piercing wail and fell down as if dead. As his mother screamed, Jesus caught the boy in his arms; the boy opened his eyes and looked into his mother’s face.

  Gently, the Nazarene helped the boy stand up. For a moment he only stared at his mother, then he began to cry and threw his arms around her.

  “He sees me!” the woman cried. “He hasn’t seen anything for a year, nothing real, only horrible things no one else could see. Look at him, Zechariah! Look at him—he is healed!” Her husband fell to his knees and sobbed.

  The Nazarene got to his feet, turning so that Alysia caught a look of anger, struggling with compassion, on his face.

  “What did he say?” she asked Lazarus, who stood nearby.

  Lazarus swallowed, and there were tears on his own face. He answered quietly, “He rebuked Satan for afflicting a child.”

  It was strange how hard it was to believe one’s own eyes, strange how much she wanted to find a rational explanation for what had happened. But there was no denying it; no one could have staged such a thing. And today, gazing down at the lake below, she knew that the Nazarene was not like other men. She knew she had crossed a great barrier in her thoughts…she had all but accepted a belief she’d never even dreamed of. The gods of Greece and Rome were easily dismissed; until now the God of the Jews had been half-real, dimly glimpsed, possibly the Creator, possibly an all-powerful figure existing in some other place, some other realm. But now, after what she had seen and heard…there must be a God, because he said so. God must care about his creation, because he told them so. And God must be very powerful, because he could work miracles.

  Mary came and sat down next to her, smiling. “Isn’t it peaceful?” she said, nodding at the water below; the sun glittered on it, as if diamonds danced on its surface. The shore was coming alive with fishermen wading out with their nets; more boats were starting out from the many small harbors. “And yet I’ve seen storms come upon it in the blink of an eye, storms so fierce as to terrify the most stout-hearted men. The winds gather around these surrounding hills and sweep off onto the lake and turn it into a cauldron.”

  “It must be an awesome sight,” Alysia answered.

  Mary was quiet for a moment. “There is something majestic about it…although I viewed it safely from a house in Capernaum! We used to visit there often, before traveling became so tiring for my sister. Alysia, tell me…what do you think about what happened yesterday?”

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “What do you think, Mary?”

  Her friend’s voice was very low. “I think he is more than just a man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mary shook her head. “Now it’s my turn to say I don’t know. But I think we should pray…pray that God will reveal to us who, and what, he is.”

  “But Lazarus has known Jesus all his life. How could he be anything but—a man? Are you saying he is a god?”

  “Not a god. Somehow, the same as God.”

  Shocked, Alysia said, “Mary, the priests would consider that blasphemy!”

  Mary went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Yes, Lazarus has always known him. And Lazarus says he is different. Did you know Jesus was born in Bethlehem?”

  “What does that have to do with his being a man or a god?”

  “Perhaps nothing,” Mary said, with a cryptic smile. “Perhaps everything.”

  * * * *

  Paulus had often thought he would exit this world in the heat of battle, but not like this, lodged in a crevasse on a Jewish road in the middle of nowhere. He pushed himself out with the last bit of strength in him and fell full length in the dirt.

  Somehow he had survived the night, spending most of it in a stupor of pain and fatigue…the rest was surely delirium. After rousing from unconsciousness, he had realized dark had fallen and that as soon as they caught his scent the carnivores would come. He concealed himself in a gap between two boulders, the tight fit holding him upright. The moon lit the night like a small sun. The utter stillness was broken now and then by the howling of jackals and the strange chuckling calls of hyenas.

  At some moment of lucidity he opened his eyes to see four or five large, ungainly shapes with bristly manes. The beasts seemed to space themselves before him, showing strong, pointed teeth, sensing his weakness. He took hold of his dagger; he hadn’t much hope of killing one, much less all of them, but he intended to die fighting. In fact, he’d end his own life before giving it up to a cowardly hyena.

  Growing bolder, they began to edge closer until he could smell them, a pungent death smell…they’d already been feeding on something. He cut the chest of one with his dagger. It slunk back, yelping, and then growled and showed its teeth, its feral eyes gleaming. The pack moved in slowly. All at once, for no reason that he could see, they began to yelp and snap at each other, and then all skittered away in one direction.

  Paulus stared, not believing what he saw. A huge male lion crouched in the road, staring at him with an unblinking yellow gaze. It made no move to attack, showing no interest in him at all other than perhaps as an object of curiosity. The hyenas had withdrawn beyond the lion and finally slunk away in search of easier prey. The lion lay down in the road, almost as if to guard him from their return.

  Now he dismissed it as a dream—a vision caused by fever and pain. He lay on the ground, feeling the sun’s warmth on his skin. He had shivered all through the night; it was pleasant to lie here in the sun. Why bother to try to get up? It hurt too much…

  He felt a gentle touch upon his fevered brow, and then grimaced with pain as the hand touched the deep laceration on the side of his head. He felt something cool and wet against his parched lips; he swallowed the water as if he could never have enough. He forced open his eyes. The sun stabbed into them mercilessly; he closed them, then opened them to slits and squinted upward. His vision gradually cleared to reveal a man garbed in the Jewish fashion, with a hood partially concealing his face.

  “Who are you?” he managed to croak. As consciousness returned so did the throbbing aches and burning pains in his body.

  “A friend,” the stranger replied.

  Paulus couldn’t
summon the strength to question him further. He thought of the lion, but it was nowhere to be seen. The man placed him on the back of a horse, his face half-buried in its mane. The stranger mounted another horse and guided both animals forward. Paulus had no time to even ponder the identity of his silent benefactor before he slipped again into the world of restless dark.

  The stranger left the wounded legate at the Antonia. He’d brought the half-dead man through the city streets, and no one had dared to stop him. The officers of the fortress could only stare in amazement as he carried the long body of their commander inside the praetorium and placed him carefully on a bench. He left, silent, only half-seen because of the hood covering his face. Why he wasn’t detained and questioned would always be part of the mystery surrounding him.

  For days Paulus hovered between life and death. When he was told how he was brought back, he could only vaguely remember the hooded man. The strangest part of all was that he had been returned on his own horse…how had the stranger found his horse, or was that only coincidence? He remembered the lion and thought perhaps that hadn’t been a dream after all. Perhaps the lion had already eaten its fill somewhere else but regarded Paulus as a future meal…and then was drawn by the smell of death further down the road. A lion happened to be the symbol of his own legion—another coincidence?

  He had many questions. Why had he been spared, when all the rest had died? Why had he been rescued by a Jew, or at least a man dressed as a Jew? And this thought, above all: if he had died that night, would he have simply ceased to exist, or would a part of him survive, to live forever in some unknown realm beyond time and space…

  He’d never been afraid to die, but until now he’d not done much thinking about it. There were too many philosophies and myths concerning death and the afterlife. The Romans had borrowed from the Greeks, the Greeks from the Egyptians, the Egyptians from the Babylonians (or was that the other way around?) But all the stories, with their corruptions of names and fanciful additions, derived from a single source—the writings and oral traditions of the Jews.