Woman of Sin

by Debra Diaz

  But he was not weeping for Lazarus, Alysia thought. He wept for them all.

  They continued down the winding street until they came to the bottom of the hill. The tomb had been carved out of the rocky hillside, and an enormous, smooth round stone sealed the entrance. As they walked toward the grave, Jesus’ countenance had changed. His brow was furrowed, his eyes intense. There was something about him like a barely suppressed rage; he had the look of a man about to do combat with some terrible, unseen thing.

  He stopped within a few feet of the tomb. “Take away the stone,” he said.

  Everyone looked at him with horror. Martha said hesitantly, “But he’s been dead for four days. By now—”

  “Haven’t I told you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?”

  Martha slowly nodded acquiescence. Andrew, Peter and several others quickly mounted the few stone steps and, after much heaving and grunting, rolled the stone in its prepared groove away from the opening of the grave.

  Jesus stood aloof, raised his eyes to the sky, and said something Alysia could not hear. Then he paused, his arms outstretched, as though he held at bay something of immense power. It seemed that a shudder went through his body. His gaze lowered to the dark, silent tomb and he commanded in a loud, somehow triumphant voice:

  “Lazarus, come forth!”

  Alysia, all of them, stood stricken with immobility. Something, like a soundless wind, passed over the brush that grew along the roadside. There was no other sound or movement; it seemed that no one even breathed. Then a shuffling sound came from deep within, and the rasp of pebbles against the earth. Alysia found herself backing away until she was next to John. Without thinking she clutched his arm, glimpsing his face, as thunderstruck as her own must be.

  She saw the man she had watched die, whose stiff and cold body she had helped prepare for burial, the man who had lain in his grave for four days, now walking with slow, measured steps toward the Nazarene. The bands had somehow loosened from around his legs. He was still wrapped in his shroud, faltering, but alive.

  “Unbind him,” said Jesus, “and let him go.”

  * * * *

  It was Peter who moved first, pulling a knife from his belt and slitting the strip of cloth that encircled Lazarus’ neck, tying down the head covering. Peter reached for the covering and stopped, either as if he couldn’t force himself to touch it, or didn’t want to see what lay beneath.

  At that moment Mary gave a sigh and fainted; Alysia tried to catch her and John rushed to help. They lowered Mary to the ground and Alysia knelt beside her. Then all eyes were on Lazarus again.

  His hands, whether bound or not, were still underneath the shroud, which had been wrapped over each shoulder and tied at the waist, extending down to his feet. At last Peter reached for the large square piece of linen that covered Lazarus’ head, and removed it. Something like a gasp went up from the onlookers.

  He was whole, healthy; there was no discoloration, no bloating, no sign of decomposition. It was as if he had never been ill. His dark hair blew back in the wind and he looked before him with amazement. The tableau seemed to freeze in space and time… Martha weeping silently, Alysia kneeling beside an unconscious Mary, the disciples looking at each other, speechless, the crowd awe-stricken, white rays from the sun beaming down on Lazarus before the gaping tomb.

  Alysia’s eyes sought out the man who had wrought this unspeakable, unbelievable thing. But Jesus had disappeared.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Paulus eyed his stepbrother with distaste across the table. Lucius had staggered into the praetorium the previous night in an advanced state of inebriation and his bleary-eyed presence at breakfast did little to improve Paulus’ surly mood. A servant brought his meal of hot bread, eggs and cheese, and set before him a cup and a large jug of goat’s milk. Lucius paled at the sight of the food and took a hasty gulp of wine.

  None of the other officers had as yet joined them in the vast dining hall. Paulus began to eat, thinking he’d best set about discovering the reason for Lucius’ presence.

  “You are rising early these days,” he remarked. “Especially after a night such as you’ve obviously had.”

  “Why shouldn’t I visit my noble stepbrother? I’ve been meaning to do so for some time now. Please excuse my lack of breeding in that I did not come sooner.”

  “Spare me the satire, Lucius, and I shall ask you plainly—what are you doing here?”

  “Very well…It has come to my attention that you have been making inquiries about me in Rome—as to what I’m doing in Jerusalem and who sent me.”

  “What if I have?” said Paulus. “You’ve been here for some time and haven’t accomplished anything that I can see. I would have done it sooner but things were in such an uproar last year there was no need to even try. Not that they are much better now.”

  “I was sent here by the Senate as an emissary and I have a signed letter to prove it. You have no authority to do anything about it, even if you are the senior officer in Judea. Next to Pilate, that is. You would probably like to put me in command of a fort out in the desert somewhere to be rid of me.”

  “I wouldn’t put you in command of anything as I do have some regard for the lives of others. However, if you are an emissary…what is your mission?”

  “I do not have to tell you that.”

  “Spying? On me, perhaps? This would have been before Sejanus’ downfall.”

  “You should know better than that. I haven’t the patience for being a spy.”

  “Do you know what I think, Lucius? You have no mission at all…you simply persuaded someone who owed you a favor to sign a letter and so you are here having a good time. I hear you spend most of your time at Herod’s palace, in the company of his stepdaughter.”

  “It sounds as though you’ve been spying on me.”

  “It’s my business to know who is here and why. And I do not—”

  “Your pardon, sir.” A slave had entered the room bearing a letter. “A messenger has just delivered this and said to give it to you immediately. It is from your father-in-law.”

  Paulus glanced up at the servant and reached for the letter, then took out his dagger to slit the seal. Lucius grinned crookedly. “Probably wondering when you are going to return to his precious daughter.”

  He waited as Paulus scanned the letter, noticing the barely perceptible change that came over Paulus’ face. He seemed to flush under his tan, a muscle twitched in his cheek, his mouth became hard and grim. Lucius congratulated himself upon choosing the right moment to annoy his stepbrother.

  “Well?” he inquired. “What news does the senator bring you?”

  Paulus folded the letter slowly and placed it inside his tunic. “Megara is dead.”

  “Dead?” Lucius’ wine-dulled mind was unprepared for this announcement. “What happened?”

  “She…killed herself.” He rose and strode over to stare out the window.

  “What a cold fellow you are, Paulus,” his stepbrother said haughtily. “Have you no tears for your wife?”

  Paulus said nothing.

  Lucius went on mercilessly, “What, or who, could have driven Megara to suicide? I certainly thought she prized herself too highly, for even so sublime a death.”

  Again Paulus didn’t answer, but thought—loss of ambition, loss of prestige? Loss of “the one thing she could have that others wanted”…a ridiculous statement, but like her. Suicide was usually a selfish act and she had been selfish to the end.

  Lucius continued to taunt him. “Have you been seeing another woman? That must be why Megara returned to Rome so suddenly. Yes, that would have been around the time I saw you in front of my inn with a rather poorly disguised damsel. I never could find out who she was. Why hide your affairs, Paulus? Unless of course she is married to someone important. They say Pilate’s wife is a beauty.”

  This seemed to at last penetrate Paulus’ deafness and he turned with a look of disgust.

  “Listen to me, L
ucius. I don’t like seeing your face at breakfast—or any other time for that matter. You’re too lazy and inexperienced to do anything worthwhile and your rank prohibits you from doing the tasks you might be suited for. Now get out and don’t come back—unless it is in the unlikely event that you have business here.”

  Lucius absorbed the insults with a scowl, but he knew when to retreat. As he left the room he turned and said mockingly, “Please accept my condolences, Commander. I’m sure you are overcome with grief.”

  Left alone, Paulus sank down at the table and absently ran his hands through his hair. Dismissing Lucius from his mind, his thoughts turned to Megara and he sat for a long time without moving. He took out the letter and read it more thoroughly.

  “She had slit her wrists,” the senator wrote. “The servant who found her called me immediately. She had left a letter. Be at ease; the servant cannot read and no one else has seen it. Paulus, my daughter accused you of aiding and abetting a runaway slave, the murderer of Magnus Eustacius. She said the slave is still alive, and gave the name of the village where she could be found. She stated she could not live with such knowledge.

  “Paulus, I have destroyed the letter. I knew my daughter well; I also know you. If what she said was true, I care not. Megara was never at peace; perhaps now she will be.”

  Paulus was alarmed to discover that his father-in-law knew about Alysia. Probably he would never tell anyone; he was a good man who had often been on the receiving end of Megara’s diatribes. Still, it was worrisome.

  He tried to reason again why Megara had taken her own life. Of course suicides were rampant in Rome just now, with all the political furor, but he was quite certain that had nothing to do with it. Well, whatever the reason, she had found a way to preserve the appearance of a dutiful wife scandalized by the behavior of a wayward husband, and wreak vengeance on him as well. He felt only pity for her, pity for her wasted life, her self-induced misery.

  He went to his study and composed a letter to his father-in-law, expressing his genuine regret at the death of his daughter. And as for the runaway slave, he wrote, she was believed to have been on a ship that went down in a storm. That was true enough; let the senator make of it what he would. He sighed as he scribbled his name at the bottom of the page, and only then did he allow himself to think of Alysia.

  He hadn’t seen her in over a year. Acting on Paulus’ orders, Simon made occasional trips to Bethany, where he watched for Alysia at the market in the center of town. Soon Simon knew what time of day to expect her there. Sometimes she was with another woman, a young mother with a baby. He was to see that she looked healthy, that she was well-dressed and did not seem to be impoverished. From Simon’s accounts, she was doing well.

  Paulus wondered, as he sometimes did, if he had ordered Nathan’s execution because he was jealous of him. But if the truth be known he had never felt particularly jealous of Alysia’s husband, perhaps because he was secure in Alysia’s love for him, and because he knew instinctively what kind of man Nathan was.

  Nathan should never have married in the first place, for his very soul was owned by the cause he believed in. Men like Nathan were willing to sacrifice even their families for their convictions. There was little time to cultivate a relationship with a wife, and even less energy…for it was all used elsewhere. They loved their wives and children, but they hated Rome more.

  However, he couldn’t deny that he was easier in his mind when Nathan was dead. No longer was he assailed in weak moments by the vision of Alysia in another man’s arms. But if in some small, mean part of his mind he had decided to kill Nathan because he was Alysia’s husband, he was not aware of it. He didn’t believe it. He had done what he had to do.

  But he wished, for her sake, that he had not been responsible for her husband’s death.

  * * * *

  Nicodemus, one of the older members of the Sanhedrin and one of the wealthiest men in Jerusalem, considered himself a sensible and learned man. He was a Pharisee and had always lived a decent, even exemplary life. But when Jesus of Nazareth began denouncing some of the Pharisaical traditions, he was more puzzled than offended. If their way of life was not the right one, then what was?

  Some time ago he had gone to the place where the Nazarene was staying, visiting him secretly at night so that his fellow Council members would not know of it, and expressed his need to have this question answered. The Nazarene had replied in a low but earnest voice, telling him things he’d never heard before, things his mind wanted to reject but that his heart knew were true. Paramount was the realization that all his knowledge, and all his good deeds, were not going to earn him a place in heaven. There was something more.

  Now, as he reflected on the faces around him at this hastily-assembled meeting of the Sanhedrin, he saw that the Nazarene was going to need a friend. One of the youngest Council members was frowning at the older man.

  “If we leave this Nazarene alone, all of Palestine will begin to follow him. Rome will think a rebellion is brewing and will take away both our place and our nation!”

  “Our place!” Nicodemus shouted. “We set too much store by our position and power. How long has it been since we considered the needs of the people? We are just what he called us—blind leaders of the blind!”

  The immediate silence was filled with tension. Then the High Priest spoke in a voice thick with disapproval. “Will you not admit the expediency of having one man to die, instead of letting the entire nation perish?”

  “I cannot believe what I’m hearing,” Nicodemus said, his former timidity vanquished by indignation. “You would seek to put Jesus to death simply because he has dared to criticize us. This would be nothing short of murder. Just as some of you, I happen to know, plotted to murder Lazarus of Bethany so that his raising from the dead could be called a lie. But the plan was never carried out, no doubt because there were so many witnesses to testify that it really happened.”

  “It never happened!” snapped Caiaphas, the High Priest. “The entire incident was staged. It is unfortunate for all of us that he has gained so many followers to this—this trickery. One would almost think, Nicodemus, that you are one of them.”

  “I do not believe in judging a man without a fair trial. And Jesus has done nothing to deserve death. As for this man in Bethany, it would be impossible to perpetrate a hoax on such a large scale. There were dozens of eyewitnesses, not only those who attended the funeral of the dead man but those who saw the actual miracle.”

  “Are you saying, Nicodemus, that you believe this Nazarene raised a man from the dead?”

  Nicodemus did not reply, because he didn’t know himself whether he believed it. He only knew that if Jesus were the kind of man he seemed to be, he would not have engaged in chicanery of any sort, so therefore it must be true! Again he looked around the room at the set faces, the expressions of hostility and resentment. Jesus had made some powerful enemies. Was there no one here who would speak on his behalf, other than himself? There! Joseph of Arimathea, also rich and prominent…he had never spoken against Jesus and even now looked as incredulous and indignant as Nicodemus felt.

  Joseph saw his look and nodded slowly. “If he is indeed the Messiah, as many claim, he cannot be put to death.”

  “No prophet comes from Galilee,” said one of the elders contemptuously.

  “He was born in Bethlehem,” Nicodemus replied. “The predicted birthplace of our savior.”

  “And what proof do you have of that?” Caiaphas demanded.

  “It was at the time of the census. There are records. Don’t try to tell me, Caiaphas, that you have not thoroughly investigated him, hoping to find some way to discredit him. It would be interesting to know what other prophecies he has fulfilled.”

  Caiaphas glared at him, remaining silent.

  “Yes, I know all about your efforts,” Nicodemus went on. “Including the ridiculous spectacle with that woman you had taken before him. It would be humorous if there were not such a spirit of malev
olence behind your foolishness.”

  “You would do well to leave, Nicodemus,” said the High Priest, his face red with anger. “I trust you want nothing to do with any plans we may form to deal with the Nazarene.”

  “And you can be sure he will be warned that his life is in danger,” replied Nicodemus, striding irately toward the door.

  Joseph got to his feet. “He was warned some time ago, but it seems he does not fear you, Caiaphas.”

  “A mistake,” Caiaphas replied.

  The two men left the room. The remaining Council members looked at each other.

  “Bah!” snorted old Annas abruptly, and they all started, having thought him to be asleep. “This Nazarene is no more the Messiah than I am! And my son-in-law is right; he is only one man, and our entire nation is at risk. He must be stopped. But you’ve been going about it the wrong way, Caiaphas. He is too clever for you; he always has an answer for everything. We have all heard him blaspheme, and yet he somehow escapes us when we try to take him. Therefore we must capture him first, when he is not expecting it, and then let him blaspheme all he likes. We will have him then…Pilate will do the rest.”

  “How do you propose we capture him?” Caiaphas asked, looking frustrated. “He is always surrounded by his followers. He is so popular with the people they will not stand for his arrest. I tell you we must give them cause, we must make them understand he is not who he appears to be.”

  “We will, but after he is in our custody. You must find one of his followers who is willing to betray him to us, who will tell us a time and place we can arrest him quietly. Thus far he has eluded us, but it is said he often goes out to pray in secluded places. That will be the perfect time to take him. Send out your spies, Caiaphas…find someone, even one of the twelve, who can be persuaded to see things our way. Perhaps one of them would be interested in a monetary recompense.”