Woman of Sin

by Debra Diaz

  For the third time that day something touched Paulus, touched him intimately this time…in his heart…but he shoved it away as one might shove an outstretched hand.

  “Who were these men?” he asked. “Where are they now?”

  Her gaze was direct. “They were messengers from God. We call them angels.” She added softly, and unnecessarily, he thought: “They are not here now.”

  “Where, then, was the Nazarene when you saw him?”

  “I will tell you. We ran to tell the disciples what had happened. They did not believe us, at first. But Peter and John came, and looked inside. There was nothing there, except his grave clothes, the shroud and the cloth that had covered his face. Quite neatly folded. Then Peter and John left, but I stayed behind. I was distraught…I still didn’t understand. When I looked inside again, the two angels had returned, and they asked me why I was weeping. I answered that someone had taken away the Lord’s body and we didn’t know where to find him. And then, I heard someone outside. I turned and saw a man. I supposed him to be the gardener. And he also asked me why I was weeping, and who I was looking for.”

  A hushed silence fell. Paulus noticed that it was now completely dark, except for the moonlight that gleamed off the woman’s uplifted face.

  “I said, ‘Oh, sir, if you have taken him away please tell me where he is and I will go and get him!’ I really don’t know what I meant by that—I just wanted to know where he was. And then the man said, ‘Mary’.”

  She paused again, but Paulus refrained from prompting her.

  “When he said my name, I knew who he was. I hadn’t really looked at him. But then I did look at him, and it was Jesus.”

  He didn’t believe it, but it was obvious that she did. “What did he look like? Just the same?” he asked, curious to see how far her imagination would carry her.

  “No, not as he did when he died. There were no bruises or swelling. But the wounds on his hands and feet, places where there would be scars, are still there. And his hair…is white.”

  Paulus said, surprised somehow by that detail. “You are certain it was the same man? How well did you know him?”

  “Two years ago, he healed me of something…something quite terrible. I have been a follower ever since.” She hesitated, thinking. “How can I explain it? He is different, and yet the same. Before, there was a vulnerability about him, like that of any other man. And now he looks…transformed. Indestructible.”

  “What do you mean—indestructible?”

  “You have heard of Lazarus, how Jesus raised him from the dead? Everyone has heard of it. Well, Lazarus is still mortal. He looks like any other man. But Jesus’ body is different. I cannot explain it. This is the only word I can think of. Indestructible.”

  “Did you touch him?”

  “Oh, yes. I grabbed him and wouldn’t let go! He had to ask me to let go!”

  “And so he was not a ghost.”

  “No.” She seemed to rein in her thoughts and for the first time looked at him intently. “I saw you…that day. You didn’t like it. You knew he was innocent.”

  Paulus frowned. “I need to know where his disciples are. They are in danger from the Sanhedrin perhaps, but not from me. I only want to know where the Nazarene’s—where he is. Will you take me to him?”

  “I know you think I’m insane,” she said clearly. “You can take me to jail, and torture me or whatever you Romans do to make your prisoners talk, but I will not betray my friends. Besides, I do not know where all of them are, at this moment. So, do what you must do.”

  Silently he cursed her stubbornness, thinking that she reminded him of Alysia. He looked into her eyes and knew that any further questioning was useless. Whatever she knew, she was going to keep it to herself…and maybe she knew nothing at all. Maybe she had been waiting here for him, or anyone else who might come to investigate, to fill his ears with some bizarre tale in order to give the disciples more time to dispose of the body they had stolen.

  He tried once more. “I only want to question them. Will you tell me where I might find one…the leader? If this matter can be settled quietly, perhaps the Sanhedrin will leave your people alone.”

  “The matter has already been settled, sir. I don’t think it will be kept quiet for very long.”

  There was nothing more to say. He hesitated, then nodded solemly to her and walked down the graveled path toward his horse. He had almost reached it, his footsteps seeming loud on the rocks, when she heard him say, “Sir?”

  He turned. “Yes?”

  “You asked me if I would take you to him. If I knew where he is right now, I would do it. But, perhaps, he will come to you.”

  He stood poised there in the moonlight, until she turned away and disappeared into the shadows.

  CHAPTER XXII

  Paulus went to work with a zeal that surpassed anything he had ever done. He cared nothing about the dilemma of the Sanhedrin, or even Pilate, but finding the Nazarene’s body became almost an obsession.

  Never mind that there were things about his conjecture that the body had been stolen that did not make sense. He would concentrate on finding it, then unravel the mysteries. First, there was Sirius, and what he and the other guards claimed they had seen. He had interrogated all of them, and they all told essentially the same story, in different ways and with emphasis on different aspects…but still the same story. Since it was unlikely that they were all lying, especially since they had to admit to running away, then somehow they had been tricked into believing what they thought they had seen.

  Second, there was the matter of the burial shroud. Why had it been removed and placed neatly aside? And third, Mary Magdalene’s story had been sincerely told…if only it weren’t impossible to believe! The only conclusion he could draw was that an elaborate plan had been concocted to make it seem that the Nazarene had risen from the dead, involving sophisticated trickery and well, never mind all that. He would unravel that later, as well.

  The thing that bothered him most was…why? Who had anything to gain by faking a resurrection? Not the Romans, not the Jews, and certainly not the disciples. Even if they had stolen the body, they could not imbue it with life. Their leader was still dead. If they wanted to live, they would disappear quietly into the country and never speak his name again.

  These were difficulties, but not insurmountable. The alternative was…impossible.

  And as if all this weren’t enough, he was forced to deal with Pilate and Herod. The two men had always disliked and distrusted each other, but they had formed an uneasy alliance when it came to the Nazarene. Which one approached the other first Paulus never knew, but they had hatched a plan, deciding it would be a good idea to use the body of some other crucifixion victim and claim it to be the Nazarene’s…after all, one dead and beaten Jew looked very much like another. It would prove to the people that the resurrection rumors were false; it would pacify the Sanhedrin and avert a great deal of unpleasantness.

  “Do you think the Nazarene’s followers are stupid?” Paulus all but shouted at them when he learned of it. He had called them both together and castigated them like schoolboys. Herod fumed in silence. Pilate only stared at him, concealing his sudden fear, and cursed the day he had ever heard of the Nazarene.

  An intensive search began for the original twelve disciples, but no one would admit any knowledge of where the men were hiding. That is, eleven disciples…one of them had supposedly killed himself. At last someone reported that they had been seen in Galilee. Paulus dispatched some men at once, but they returned after a few days saying the disciples had put out in a fishing boat and couldn’t be found. It was thought that perhaps their boat had sunk. Paulus promptly sent the soldiers back to Galilee with a stern admonition not to return until they had proof to support their theories.

  Mary the Magdalene was not seen again, nor did anyone else venture to the tomb, which was being secretly watched. Each day that passed brought increasing frustration, with the knowledge that the Nazarene’s b
ody was decomposing to the extent that it would soon be impossible to identify.

  But…he didn’t necessarily have to have the body, if he could get one or more of the disciples to admit they had taken it.

  * * * *

  Almost two months later Paulus heard of a disturbance at a place in Jerusalem where the Jews were celebrating still another of their festivals, this one called Pentecost. The chief instigator was said to be the disciple, Peter. It was Peter’s first public appearance since the night of the Nazarene’s arrest. A worship service had somehow turned into such pandemonium that first the Temple police, then the Romans were called in.

  Thousands of people were involved. Reports came to him of a mysterious wind and flame, and people being able to speak in languages unknown to them. When Paulus arrived, the crowd had broken up and Peter had disappeared. A dozen or so people were brought to the Antonia, among them a man named Jonas, who had been caught uttering loud praises and prayers to the Nazarene. Paulus himself interviewed the man, for his initial inquisitors had considered his story so unlikely that he was slapped around a bit before Centurion Marcus Terentias intervened, and referred him to Paulus.

  “I have said these people are not to be harmed,” Paulus said, observing the red marks on the man’s face. “Inform the men again of this order, Centurion, and punish those who do not obey it.”

  “Yes, Legate.” Marcus left the room. Two guards remained at the door, and Paulus dismissed them also.

  When they were alone, he looked closely at the man before him. He was short and heavy-set, with long, stringy hair and a wart on his chin. Not a pretty sight, to be sure…still, there was a certain radiance about him.

  “Your name is Jonas and you are from Jerusalem,” Paulus said, without preamble. “How do you know the dead Nazarene?”

  “Before he died, he gave me sight,” replied the man, with equal directness. His speech was slightly affected by a set of noticeably bad teeth.

  “You mean you were blind, and he healed you.”

  “Blind from birth. I never asked him to—never thought it was possible. He just did it.”

  Paulus was, by now, accustomed to hearing reports of miraculous goings-on, and it was easier to hide his skepticism. “And how did he do it? Simply by a word?”

  “No.” Jonas scratched his head. “They say he often healed with a word, but this time he made clay and put it on my eyes and told me to go to the Pool of Siloam and wash it off. When I did, I could see.”

  “So, what did you think of him? That he was a healer, or a god?”

  The man looked faintly amused. “The Pharisees asked me the same question. Then they went and got my parents and made them swear I’d really been born blind. I’ll tell you the same thing I told them…if this man weren’t of God, he couldn’t have done it!”

  “And what did they say to that?”

  Jonas grinned. “They said I was a miserable sinner, and how dared I try to teach them anything, and then they threw me out the door.”

  “So they didn’t believe it?”

  The man shook his head. “When Jesus heard about what had happened, he came looking for me. He asked me if I believed he was the son of God. He said he had come into the world to give sight to the blind, and to take it away from those who could see.”

  This caught Paulus’ interest. “What did he mean by that?”

  Jonas scratched his head again. “There was more to it than that, but I can’t remember all the words. Seemed to me like he was talking about those Pharisees. They think their spiritual eyes are wide open, when they’re really as blind as I was. And those that are blind of the spirit but really want to see, that are seeking the truth…those eyes he will open.”

  Paulus asked, “What did you answer when he asked if you believed he was the son of God?”

  The man looked amazed. “Said I believed it, of course. But my answer won’t do you any good! You’ve got to answer it yourself.”

  “Never mind what I believe. Where is the Nazarene now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where do you think he is? Have you seen him lately?”

  “No. I never did see him after the crucifixion. But I know people who did.”

  “Where can I find them? I would like to speak with them.”

  Jonas eyed him from under bushy brows. “Don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

  “Why do you people keep doing this?” Paulus said, exasperated. “Why do you insist on speaking his name, and preaching about him and even worshipping this dead man, when all it means is getting into trouble with the Sanhedrin? I hear they’ve already thrown several of you into jail.”

  “Well.” Jonas smiled at him again. “I suppose it’s because we’re either plain stupid, or we’re telling the truth. And if we’re telling the truth, we can’t help but worship him, can we?”

  Failing to get any further useful information from the man, Paulus released him. Two more weeks passed. Some of the disciples were seen in various places, but had a way of vanishing before they could be seized…as if they were under some sort of protection, divine or otherwise.

  As a last resort, he decided to go to the one person who might trust him enough to help him.

  * * * *

  Having drawn a lamp close to the table, Alysia yawned over the scrolls she was reading and wondered at the lateness of the hour. She was alone, with Rachel asleep in the next room. Now that Rachel was old enough to walk, Judith had moved back to Lazarus’ house.

  The scrolls belonged to Lazarus; they were copies of the Jewish history books, and some of the prophets. Her interest in the subjects had increased greatly in the last few months…ever since it had happened. The unthinkable, the unknowable…the tragic and yet wonderful thing…and though she had not witnessed the tragic part, she had seen the wonderful.

  She started when a light but urgent rapping came on the door. Putting the scrolls aside, she walked to the barred door. “Who is it?”

  “Alysia, it’s Paulus.”

  Incredulous, she pressed a hand over her heart and took a deep breath, then quickly unbolted the door and swung it open. She couldn’t speak, her eyes wide and flying to meet the vivid blue ones that gleamed from the familiar, sun-bronzed face.

  His gaze flicked swiftly about the room as he came in and closed the door behind him. “You are alone?”

  “Yes.” They stared into each other’s eyes for a long, searching moment, then as though by some unspoken and mutual understanding, each looked away, Paulus at the scrolls she’d been reading and Alysia at nothing in particular; she was trying to avoid a nervous glance toward the room where Rachel was sleeping.

  She asked, “Paulus, what’s wrong?”

  He relaxed somewhat and looked at her closely, this time avoiding her eyes. She seemed tired, and the skin was drawn tightly over the high planes of her face. Her head covering was down about her shoulders, with her rich black hair tumbling over it. Her homespun robe was dyed a dark green and fell to her ankles, and he noticed her thinness even under the loose folds of her gown. Her feet were bare.

  “Have you been well?”

  “Yes, and you?”

  He nodded, glancing at a bench. “May I sit down?”

  “Of course.”

  He pulled out the bench and she sat down across from him. The lamplight cast shadows over the contours of his face and burnished his hair to dark gold. His brown tunic clung to his broad shoulders, and his eyes glittered with a strange intensity.

  Before speaking again, Paulus glanced around the room. Simon had told him where Alysia lived, and it was the first time he had seen her house. He was surprised by its smallness, and more than a little displeased by its bareness. Alysia was meant to live in a mansion, not a hovel; she was meant to wear gowns of silk, not rough homespun! But she seemed content, and rather than risk offending her, he swallowed his indignation and said nothing about her humble state. His feelings, more compelling, more forceful than he had expected, demanded closer conta
ct than a table’s breadth apart. In fact, the taxing of his self-restraint was so severe that he wondered how he would endure this meeting. He should not have come.

  She was waiting, toying with the edge of her veil, noticing his reluctance to speak.

  “Alysia,” he said finally, in a slow, careful way, “I did not want to do this, but I need information. I thought you might help me.”

  She looked puzzled. “I will try.”

  He paused, and then went on. “This Nazarene…Jesus. I’m sure you know that he is dead?”

  She said as carefully, “I know that he was crucified, and died, and was buried. That’s been almost three months ago. Everyone has heard by now.”

  “And what else have you heard?”

  She raised her eyes to meet his. “That he rose again.”

  “The Sanhedrin is claiming that the body was stolen by his followers. Pilate has asked me to find some evidence of a hoax, before this rumor gets out of control.”

  “The—rumor—is already all over Judea, and probably Galilee,” Alysia said calmly.

  “Then why has there not been a revolt? Do the people actually believe in this…resurrection?”

  “A revolt against the Sanhedrin would accomplish nothing. And yes, many of us do believe.”

  Paulus stared at her. “You believe it?”

  “Yes. I saw him.”

  She noticed with dismay his expression of incredulity, mixed somehow with disappointment, as if she had let him down in the uttermost way.

  Paulus’ hands gripped the edge of the table. “You saw him?”

  Alysia nodded slowly. “Just a few days after the crucifixion. And then twice afterward. Scores of people saw him, Paulus.”

  Paulus scowled. “How can you be sure it was the Nazarene you saw? What did he look like? Did he speak to you?”

  “Of course I’m sure. He looked exactly the same, except—”

  Her words seemed to hang in the air as she considered how she would convey this to him, and Paulus found the suspense more than he could stand.