Woman of Sin

by Debra Diaz

  Alysia saw the tears rolling down Mary’s face and felt tears start to her own eyes. The young woman’s movements were so slow and full of reverence that she seemed suspended in time; the moment itself seemed to catch and hold as if hiding within itself some great and mysterious importance. It was a strange sensation that Alysia felt many times when the Nazarene was near.

  And then, uncharacteristically, some of the men began to murmur. “Why, that is pure nard,” one of them said…Alysia couldn’t see which one. “It’s worth a year’s wages.”

  The cold, unmoved voice that answered belonged to Judas Iscariot, the treasurer of the group. “Why this waste? That oil could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii, and the money given to the poor.”

  At once Jesus turned toward him. “Let her alone,” he said quietly, but with a vehemence that startled everyone. “Why do you trouble her? The poor are with you always—I am not. She has done what she could for me.”

  He looked at Mary again, whose cheeks were flushed as she kept her gaze lowered to the floor. His voice softened. “She has come beforehand to anoint my body for burial.”

  Alysia glanced at Martha, then at Lazarus, John and the others…all bore the same look of incomprehension. What did he mean?

  Jesus spoke again, very low. “Wherever this gospel is preached in the whole world, what this woman has done will also be told, in memory of her.”

  Judas apparently felt himself rebuked and glared sullenly at his leader’s back. Mary retrieved the broken flask, and without ever looking up, left the courtyard. A silence fell. Martha rose hastily and began gathering dishes. Alysia helped her, and as they went back and forth she couldn’t help but overhear the men as they began to talk in low voices.

  Peter said, “For the last time, will you consider not going to Jerusalem tomorrow?”

  “We all agree,” came another voice. “Remember the word sent by Nicodemus, and others have warned us as well.”

  “Nicodemus is a paranoid old man,” Judas answered. “No one will dare to try to harm you with the whole city full of pilgrims, and a great many of them your followers.”

  “There is no reason for him to put himself at risk,” Andrew objected. “We should go back to Ephraim and wait until—”

  Half through the entranceway Alysia couldn’t hear the rest, nor did she hear Jesus’ reply, though she could tell from the tone of his voice that he was not pleased with his disciples’ attitude. Martha and the servant continued their task while she hurried away to lay out cushions and pallets on the rooftop of her house. It had been arranged that several of the men would sleep there, while she, Rachel and Judith stayed overnight at Lazarus’ house. Others were to remain with Simon.

  As before her marriage, she shared Mary’s room. Mary was already asleep. Alysia placed cushions all around her own bed so that Rachel wouldn’t fall out during the night…but Alysia could not sleep. She lay there, troubled and burdened by something to which she could not put a name. A cool breeze wafted toward her from the window, and rising, she walked toward it.

  A figure stood alone in the courtyard. It was Jesus; she had not known he was staying here. His profile was sharply outlined against the night by the brightness of the moon. He walked aimlessly back and forth, his lips moving in silent prayer, his expression so profound that again she felt a vague sense of dread.

  She had long wanted to speak with him privately, but hadn’t found the opportunity. If she were honest with herself she would admit she lacked the courage to approach him. But thinking of Mary’s act of adoration earlier in the evening gave her boldness, and before she could change her mind she threw a shawl over her shoulders, raising it to cover her hair as well, and slipped outside.

  She hesitated for a moment. When the Nazarene turned his head and saw her she felt his silent encouragement, and went slowly toward him. “Sir, I wanted to speak with you…and it seemed important to do so, before you leave tomorrow.”

  She paused, but he waited for her to continue and she plunged on, almost whispering, “I must know that you have forgiven me.”

  He seemed to come back from a great distance, and there was almost a sense of relief about him. He looked at her intently. “Do you then believe, Alysia, that I have the authority to forgive you of your sin?”

  “Yes,” she answered, without hesitation. “No one could do the things you have done, or teach as you have taught, unless he is of God. I was not raised to believe in God, but I have seen him in you.”

  He leaned toward her, speaking gently, and very clearly. “From the day you stood accused before me, you were forgiven, because I saw repentance in your eyes. And remember this…nothing you have suffered has gone unnoticed by your Father in heaven, and he knows every tear you have shed.”

  Startled, she looked into his eyes and saw full knowledge in them. The face of Magnus Eustacius loomed in her mind, and before she could stop herself she blurted, “Lord, I have killed a man.”

  His expression did not change. She rushed on, “He meant to do me harm, but I was filled with rage and hate, and I have never been sorry that I killed him.”

  “Have you forgiven him?”

  “He would not have asked for my forgiveness. He hated me as much as I hated him.”

  “Alysia, he is gone from this world, but he steals peace from your soul. You cannot have hate in your heart, and love for God.”

  Again her thoughts turned to Magnus. To her, he represented everything that was evil about Rome; he symbolized every Roman who had anything to do with her father’s death, and her own degradation. “I want to do as you say,” she said, meeting his gaze, which had never wavered from her. “But, it is so difficult. I don’t see how I can forget what they have done to me.”

  “Nothing is impossible with God,” he said. For the first time that night, he smiled. It began in his eyes and seemed to illumine the darkest shadows of the night.

  “Can I be forgiven of murder?” she asked hesitantly. “Can anyone be forgiven of murder?”

  “You have heard me say that to hate a man is to murder him. Which deserves the greater condemnation?”

  “I—I cannot just suddenly stop hating him, hating them all.”

  He reached out and took her hand, looking keenly into her face. “When you believe that all hope is gone, remember these words. I will send a helper to you, and He is in me, and I am I am in Him. He will be your advocate, and your strength, and through Him you can do all things.”

  She stared at him, bewildered. “Who is this you speak of?”

  He looked as if he wanted to explain further, but for whatever reason, did not answer. There were so many questions she wanted to ask him she didn’t know how to begin. She had such a tenuous grasp of who, of what, he was. But yes, she would ask him one more thing.

  “You have spoken before of going away. Tonight you spoke of your burial. What did you mean?”

  His gaze at last left hers, and he was slow to answer. “There are things you cannot yet bear to know. I have told my disciples, and they have not understood. Understanding will come to them, and to you, in the fullness of time.”

  She said softly, “How lonely you must be.” She bowed her head and added, still lower, “I am unworthy even to be in your presence.”

  She felt his hand on her shoulder and another under her chin, lifting her face. “Though your sins be as scarlet, Alysia, they shall be as white as snow.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for what you have given me…peace and hope, and even more than that…something I cannot begin to explain.”

  His smile faded. He looked away and gave a faint sigh. “He sent you to me in this dark hour. Go in peace, Alysia, so that I may thank Him.”

  She turned to go into the house.

  “Pray,” he said, and when she turned back toward him, he said again, “Pray that my Father’s will be done.”

  She nodded. When she reached Mary’s room she peeked out the window and saw that he now lay on his palle
t on the courtyard, his arms folded beneath his head…looking at the stars.

  * * * *

  Paulus swiftly climbed the stairs inside the eastern tower of the fort and looked through the opening to view what his sentries had reported to him. Far below, beyond the deep-cut valley, was a splendid view of Olivet’s shoulder with its forest of olive trees, and the two main roads that bisected there before entering Jerusalem. On this clear, sunlit day he could see all the way to the sharp curve that led to Bethany. Here and there the hills were dotted with the tents of travelers.

  As usual for the Passover season, the roads swarmed with pilgrims journeying to the Holy City. The high, stone-covered road from Jericho and the winding pathway from Bethany were two of the popular routes, but what was not usual was the behavior of the multitudes that were now pouring toward Jerusalem like a flood-swollen river. They were in a tumult of excitement; they had cut branches from the nearest trees…palm and willow…they were waving them ecstatically and shouting so loudly that the hills echoed the word back to Paulus: “Hosanna! Hosanna!”

  A word that meant, “Save us! Save us, now!” The object of all this frenzy was a man riding on a donkey. People were taking off their outer cloaks and spreading them on the ground before the man, gesticulating, shouting, bowing, as though they welcomed a king into his city.

  One of Paulus’ men approached him from behind. “Sir, what are your orders?”

  “Obviously the Nazarene has decided to stop hiding in the desert, but I wonder if he anticipated a reception like this.”

  “Shall I have him arrested?”

  Paulus looked at the tribune. “Has he committed a crime?”

  “None that I know of, besides disturbing the peace.”

  “He rides a donkey instead of a horse, carries no weapon, and my spies tell me that aside from lamenting over some prophecy about Jerusalem he has not raised his voice to speak. It seems that everyone is disturbing the peace but he.”

  The officer remained silent. Paulus thought for a moment. “Make sure the entire legion is ready to take action, Tribune. But do not arrest or hinder the Nazarene. I want to see what he has in mind. If he or his followers make any sign toward arming themselves, then we will stop it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the tribune had left Paulus went down the steps of the tower and walked out on the parapet. He still had a good view of the Nazarene, who was now slowly crossing the stone bridge across the valley. The surging mass before and behind him continued to call out praises, their plucked branches a rippling wave of green. Looking out over the rest of the city, he saw people crowding into the streets and leaning out of windows.

  He knew what the people thought—that this Nazarene was their promised “Messiah.” But Paulus was still reasonably certain that this “messiah” did not intend to lead a rebellion against Rome and set himself up as their king. What he did intend remained a mystery.

  Almost directly below the parapet, two priests walked across the Temple courtyard and went to peer downward toward the valley. Had Paulus been a little closer he would have heard one of them say bitterly: “We have accomplished nothing. The whole world has gone after him.”

  * * * *

  Paulus wondered what the Sanhedrin would do next, and in the next couple of days received an answer from his informant, Phineas. It was a scene he would have enjoyed witnessing.

  The priests had made a report to Caiaphas.

  “It was spectacular!” they declared. “How he dared—”

  “What did he say?” Caiaphas demanded. “Tell me everything!”

  Upon entering the Temple grounds that morning, the Nazarene had walked purposefully among the moneychangers, men who collected the Temple tax and who often overcharged their fellow Jews and pocketed the money for themselves. Then he had been seen observing the Temple rulers and how they refused any sacrificial animals that had the slightest blemish, compelling the Jews to buy animals from themselves at exorbitant prices. The worshippers often paid ten times the price of the first animal for the second.

  Jesus made his way past the bleating lambs and cooing doves, bent, and hurled over a table stacked high with coins. The money scattered over the pavement. He grasped one of the cages and shook it until the animals ran out, then thrust it aside to crash to the ground. He splintered a crate with a sweep of his hand, sending the doves into a frenzied rise to freedom. Snatching up a rope, he lashed out at the moneychangers, who fled before his wrath.

  “It is written,” he declared, in a voice that shook with anger, “that my house shall be called a house of prayer, but you have made it into a den of thieves!”

  The shocked priests and scribes could only stare, open-mouthed, as the Nazarene strode irately from the Temple. His disciples, equally shocked, followed him.

  Caiaphas had stared at the priest reporting this debacle with narrowed eyes. “He actually called the Temple his house? Blasphemy! This was the perfect opportunity to take him!”

  “We were quite—stunned,” the priest stammered. “The Nazarene is very—dynamic. We were rather afraid.”

  “Afraid of one man!”

  “One of his disciples is quite large, and of uncertain temperament.”

  Caiaphas glowered silently at the priests. After a moment he said, his voice low and clipped, “By his action today he implied to the people that we are not fit to rule. We cannot wait any longer. Find a reason….get him to compromise himself. I don’t care how you do it. I want that man arrested!”

  The priests had approached the Nazarene…somewhat timidly…as he mingled with the people in the Temple, and asked him by what authority he said the things he had said. The Nazarene replied that he would answer their question if they would answer one of his: Did John the Baptizer preach with the authority of God, or men?

  The priests unhappily perceived that if they said John preached with the authority of God they would look like fools, for they had all rejected John’s teachings. However, if they said John did not receive his authority from God, the people would be angry, since John was popularly regarded as a martyr. They were forced to admit they didn’t know, and left the Temple grounds with undue haste.

  They were immediately replaced by a mixed group of Pharisees and Sadducees, who wanted to know if it was “right” to pay taxes to Caesar. The Nazarene requested to see a coin. When one was displayed to him, he tapped it rather impatiently with his finger and inquired whose image was stamped upon it.

  “Why, it is the emperor’s likeness, of course.”

  “Then give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what belongs to God.”

  These inquisitors quickly withdrew their injured ranks and a scribe stepped forward, desiring to know which of the commandments was the most important. The Nazarene replied, without hesitation, that the greatest commandment was, “To love the Lord your God with all your heart, and all your soul, and all your mind. The second is to love your neighbor as yourself. On these commandments hang all the Law, and the prophets.”

  The defeated priests skulked away to report to Caiaphas, and despite his loudly-vented ire, refused to ask the Nazarene any more questions. The High Priest had then decided to take his father-in-law’s advice.

  “We will arrest him quietly, and provide a reason for it later. I had not wanted it done during the Feast, but it cannot be helped. We will choose a time when there are no people around him. Find out where he goes at night. In the meantime, if anyone offers information about him…at any price…bring him directly to me.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Pontius Pilate arrived at the Antonia accompanied by his wife, Claudia. Pilate was not in an amiable mood. He disliked Jerusalem, and he disliked turmoil, and the city was obviously in a state of turmoil.

  “This is more than the usual holiday fervor,” he said morosely to Paulus, as they sat at the evening meal. “What is adding so much fuel to the fire?”

  Paulus was moody himself, without knowing why. It was a strange and oddly oppressive ni
ght.

  “The Nazarene,” he said shortly.

  “Ah, what has he done now?”

  “Nothing, except offend the Sanhedrin.”

  Normally Pilate would find that amusing and make some joke about it, but he fell silent and presently made his excuses, leaving his wife and Paulus alone in the long, private dining hall.

  Claudia was short of stature, slightly overweight, and remarkably attractive. Her cheekbones were wide, with hollows underneath, and her thick-lashed black eyes were large and almond-shaped. She had a prominent nose, spaced perfectly between her wide-set eyes. Her brows were thick and arched, her lips full, her black hair fashionably curled. She had an artless, casual manner that usually charmed both men and women.

  Now she watched Paulus over her chalice of wine as though trying to read his mind. Seeming to sense her appraisal, he looked up to meet her gaze. He smiled crookedly. “Forgive me, Claudia. I’m not very good company tonight.”

  “Don’t apologize, Paulus.” She smiled, and then gave him a serious look. “Forgive me, but we were sorry to hear of your wife’s death. I had been looking forward to meeting her.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Paulus politely refilled her cup.

  “I’m sure I saw the famous Nazarene as my husband and I were walking along the battlements this afternoon. He was speaking to the people. Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, a few times.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There was something about him. Odd as it sounds, he looked up, directly at us, in spite of all the activity around him, as if he knew we were there, and who we were. I couldn’t really see his expression…it was just a feeling.” She shook her head after a moment, dismissing her thoughts. “I think I shall retire. It has been rather an exhausting day for everyone, I think. Goodnight, Paulus.”