Daughter of Jerusalem

by Joan Wolf

  Ezra bar Matthias considered himself purer than pure, and whenever I happened to pass him, he would draw his robe away as if he was afraid I might contaminate him. He told everyone I was a filthy whore, a woman who had practiced every one of the deadly sins, and that just speaking to me would make the speaker unclean.

  Then, one day at the market, as Ruth and I were standing in front of the cheese maker’s stall, I learned the Pharisee was not so pure after all. I felt someone’s eyes on me and turned my head to look. It was Ezra bar Matthias.

  If he had been glaring at with me hatred, I would have turned back to the stall. But I saw the look in his eyes clearly, and it was a look I had seen before in the eyes of other men. I knew it well. Not hatred—lust.

  I stared straight back at him, and he flushed and turned quickly away. But he knew that I had caught him, and after that he kept away from me.

  Soon the chilly winter rains set in, and I was forced to spend most of my time indoors. Sepphoris, an inland city, had mild winters, but here the wind was bitterly cold as it swept off the stormy, wave-tossed lake. Everyone moved inside.

  I had more time to think than I wanted. I read a new book that Julia had sent me, but just thinking about Julia made me miss her more. She was a faithful correspondent, and I enjoyed her lists of the new clothes she had bought at the colonnade shops, what horses had won at the races, and what new plays were being performed at the theatre.

  Part of me missed the sophisticated Roman life I had known in Sepphoris, but when I sat in my house, with the cold rain pounding against its tightly closed roof, I knew I could never live among Romans again.

  Time away from Sepphoris had helped me see clearly. The whole of Roman life was corrupt because it had no moral center. If Marcus had been raised a Jew, if he had been taught the commandments of the Lord, he would have known it was wrong to have Aaron killed. But he had flicked Aaron’s life away as if he was an annoying insect.

  That winter, for the first time in years, I started to pray. I asked the Lord to help me learn to be a good woman. I asked Him to help me know Him better. I took my first step on the path that I hoped would eventually bring me to some kind of peace.

  The loan program I had arranged with the rabbi kept me happily occupied. Winter was a hard time for hired laborers. Farm and fishing work was scarce, and many people took advantage of my offered money.

  Toward the end of winter Julia wrote to tell me that a Roman officer I knew from the gatherings at her house had been appointed commander of the garrison in Capernaum. She had told Fulvius Petrus that I was in Capernaum and that he should call on me.

  My heart sank into my stomach when I read this. Fulvius Petrus had been one of Marcus’ lieutenants, and he knew all about our affair. If he should mention it to someone in Capernaum, all the goodwill I had gained would be lost. I thought of what Ezra bar Matthias would say, and I shuddered.

  I was still standing with the unrolled letter in my hand when Elisabeth came in to say that Rebecca was at the door. I hastily rolled up the scroll, even though Rebecca would not be able to read it, and told Elisabeth to bring Rebecca in.

  I was standing in one of the small rooms that opened off the atrium that I had fitted up for winter. It had a big charcoal brazier, thick rugs, and two couches. The walls were painted the color of the lake in summer.

  Rebecca came in, loosened all her warm scarves, and sank onto a couch. She sighed. “It’s always so peaceful here, Mary.”

  I smiled. “That’s because I don’t have five children running around.”

  She smiled back and unwrapped another scarf. “Do you ever get lonely here?” she asked. There was genuine concern in her voice.

  Dear Rebecca. Perhaps this was why she reminded me of Julia, always concerned about my welfare.

  “Occasionally.” I hesitated, then I said something I had hardly even admitted to myself, it sounded so self-important. “I have a feeling that this is a time for waiting, that something enormous is going to happen to me and I must just be patient and wait for it. I don’t know what it could be, but . . .” I shrugged and laughed. “I suppose that sounds arrogant.”

  “No, I don’t think so, Mary. There is something about you—and I don’t mean your looks—that is different. You seem . . . significant in a way we other women aren’t. I can’t explain it, but I can feel it. And I’m not the only one.”

  I was so surprised that I couldn’t answer.

  She smiled. “Have you thought of marrying again? You love children. Anyone can see it from the way you are with mine. It’s not too late for you to have your own children, you know.”

  I stared at the charcoal brazier that was keeping the room so snug and warm. I’d once had thoughts of marriage, and the baby I had lost was still an open wound in my heart. But I couldn’t imagine anyone who could put the faces of Daniel and Marcus out of my mind.

  Before I could answer, we heard a knock at the door. Then Elisabeth came in again, this time announcing the arrival of Rebecca’s husband.

  I had come to know Simon Peter rather well. He was a big man, with a huge chest and shoulders and a deep, resonant voice. There wasn’t a subtle bone in his body; he was always straightforward and to the point. I liked him. He was a good man.

  “What are you doing here?” Rebecca asked. “I thought you and Andrew were going to work on the boat.”

  “The wind is whipping off the lake, and Andrew has a cough and a runny nose, so we decided to wait until tomorrow. When I heard you were over here, I decided to come along to enjoy the quiet and warmth of Mary’s salon with you.”

  He grinned at me, and I smiled back. “You’re very welcome, Simon Peter.”

  His hair and beard were wet, probably from the spray off the lake. He sat close to the brazier, and I sent for more wine. We settled down to chat.

  Fulvius Petrus arrived in Capernaum toward the end of winter, and I sent Jeremiah to the commander’s house with an invitation for him and his wife to visit me.

  They came the following afternoon. It was one of the few days the sun was shining, so we sat in the atrium. Elisabeth served wine and a bowl of our best olives. I was thankful that Fulvius Petrus was dressed in a plain white tunic and red wool robe. His wife, whose name I remembered was Portia, had also dressed simply. It would have been dreadful if the whole town had seen him marching down to my house in full uniform or—even worse—if he had come on horseback.

  Fulvius was a nice-looking man, with the dark hair and eyes of Rome. I had spoken to him many times in Sepphoris, but I had no feel for what kind of man he was. In those days all other men had paled into insignificance beside Marcus.

  He said, “I was delighted when Julia Tiberia told me you were in Capernaum. Portia and I have been looking forward to renewing our acquaintance.”

  I smiled.

  “This is a lovely house,” Portia said. “So different from what one usually sees in a Jewish city.”

  “Thank you.”

  The two of them exchanged a glance, clearly wondering why I had invited them if I wasn’t going to talk with them.

  I sighed. “I must be frank with you. After my husband died, I came to Capernaum to start a new life. I grew up on the lake, in the town of Magdala, and I have always loved it here.”

  I paused.

  Portia said, “The lake is lovely.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Fulvius said.

  I bit my lip. “You see, no one here knows anything about my life in Sepphoris. I have returned to my Jewish roots. I have made friends. I go to the synagogue.” I waved my hand in a helpless gesture.

  Fulvius nodded slowly. “And you don’t want anyone to know about Marcus Novius Claudius.”

  I looked directly into his eyes. “No, I don’t.”

  Portia said, “There’s no reason for us to mention his name. He has gone back to Rome, you know.” She gave me a reassuring smile.

  The relief I felt was immense. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “Dismiss him from your mind
,” Fulvius said briskly. “What I would really like to discuss with you is the state of things in Capernaum. This is the first time I’ve been put in command of a Jewish city. Would you share with me what you know?”

  “I’d be happy to,” I said.

  They remained with me for an hour, and when they left, I felt as if I had pushed another rock up against the door to my past.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The winter storms gave way to the warm sunshine of spring and suddenly it was time for Passover. The people of Capernaum usually traveled to Jerusalem for the holiday in a caravan, and when Ruth and Nathaniel invited me to travel with their family, I accepted. Bethany was only a few miles from Jerusalem, and it would be a good opportunity for me to visit my brother and sister.

  When I wrote to tell Lazarus that I was coming to visit, he also invited Ruth’s family to stay. I had known he would do that, and Ruth and Nathaniel were happy to accept the invitation.

  The trip brought back memories of the Passover journeys I had made from Magdala—and memories of Daniel. Was he happy in his celibate life out in the desert? Did they ever hear news of the outside world? Could he possibly know that I was a widow?

  Stop it, I told myself. That part of your life is over. I bent to pick up Ruth’s youngest child, who was lagging.

  The road from Capernaum to Jericho was thick with caravans. Ruth said she had never seen the road as congested as it was this year, and we soon found out the reason. A prophet was preaching in the region of the Jordan, and many of these people were traveling to see him.

  Nathaniel discovered this when he fell into conversation with a man from Bethsaida on the first evening we stopped to camp. He brought the news back to our group while were still sitting around the fire.

  “Prophet?” one of the men said. “I’ve heard nothing of a prophet.”

  Murmurs of agreement came from the rest of the men.

  “Did you get his name?” someone asked.

  Nathaniel said, “They call him the ‘Baptizer’ because he is baptizing people in the waters of the Jordan.”

  The man across from me grunted. “There are always prophets. It’s an easy life, if you ask me. All you have to do is talk a lot of rubbish, and people are happy to feed you and house you as if you were the Messiah himself.”

  Ruth said, “What does ‘baptizing’ mean, Nathaniel?”

  “According to the man I spoke with, the prophet pours river water over people’s heads and tells them to repent and their sins will be forgiven.”

  Silence reigned as we all thought about this. I would certainly like to have my sins forgiven, but I didn’t see how someone pouring water over me could accomplish that. I said, “I thought only the Lord could forgive sins.”

  “Mary’s right,” someone agreed. “It’s not for mere men, even if they are prophets, to forgive sins. Only the Lord can do that.”

  The man across from me grinned through his massive beard. “It sounds like a good show, though. It might be interesting to take a look.”

  Ruth’s eldest son, Eli, turned to Nathaniel. “Can we go, Papa? I’ve never seen a prophet.”

  The rest of the children added their voices to Eli’s. They had been born on the lake, and the idea of having water poured over their heads didn’t frighten them. From the looks on their faces, they thought it would be great fun.

  Nathaniel looked sternly at his own children, who were sitting between him and Ruth. “We’re not going to waste time gawking at any so-called prophet. We’ve made this journey to celebrate Passover in Jerusalem, and that is what we’re going to do.”

  The children bowed their heads in acceptance of the paternal decision, but Eli didn’t look happy.

  It was late afternoon by the time we arrived in Bethany. As soon as Martha saw us coming up the road, she ran to greet us. We hugged and I introduced her to Nathaniel, Ruth, and the children. Martha clucked over them and told them she had food and drink in the house. They flocked after her like little chicks following their mother.

  “Lazarus is in the courtyard,” she called over her shoulder to me, so I invited Ruth and Nathaniel to come and meet my brother.

  He was sitting at the long table under the fig tree, and he stood as I introduced my cousin and her husband. I looked closely at Lazarus’ fine-boned face and was relieved to see that the pain lines that so often marked it were absent. His color was good, and he looked healthy.

  He invited us to sit, pouring cups of water and offering a plate of figs. After we had been served, he asked about our journey.

  Nathaniel said, “The road was even more crowded than usual this year. I heard that there is some self-proclaimed prophet preaching in the region of the Jordan, and many of the people were going to see him.”

  “Yes, we’ve heard about him here in Bethany,” Lazarus replied.

  I said, “Supposedly he is forgiving sins by pouring water over people’s heads. I thought that only the Lord could do that.”

  “That’s true, Mary. But John—that’s his name—isn’t saying that he’s forgiving sins. He’s saying that if people repent, then the Lord will forgive them.”

  “Where did he come from?” Ruth asked. “We’ve heard nothing of him in Capernaum.”

  “One day he just walked out of the Judean desert. I’ve heard he was an Essene.”

  I put my cup down so hard that water splashed onto the table. “An Essene? I thought they could never leave their settlement.”

  “A few of them do. There is a house in Jerusalem where some of them live.”

  All three looked at me. They knew about Daniel, of course.

  Lazarus said gently, “The men who live in Jerusalem are older, Mary. I think perhaps that desert living became too harsh for them.”

  I nodded, picked up my cup, and took a long drink. Daniel and I are finished, I told myself. Too much has happened for us to be as once we were.

  Lazarus turned to Nathaniel. “He’s made quite a stir, this prophet. Some people are saying he’s the Messiah. Even some of the Pharisees and Sadducees from Jerusalem have gone to him to be baptized.”

  “Really?” Nathaniel said in amazement.

  This was truly stunning news. The Pharisees and Sadducees hated each other. The Pharisees weren’t a class; they were individuals who resided in the towns and villages of the country. They followed the Law to the letter so they would go to heaven when they died. The Sadducees were priests and aristocrats. They lived mainly in Jerusalem and thought a person’s reward came in this life. They were immensely powerful because they controlled the Sanhedrin, the highest legislative and judicial body in the country.

  I heard youngsters’ voices and turned to see Martha shepherding Ruth’s children out to the courtyard. They sat at the table with us and were quiet, as well-brought-up children always were in the presence of adult conversation. But when Lazarus said something else about the Baptizer, Eli couldn’t contain himself.

  He tugged on his father’s sleeve. “Please can’t we go to see him, Papa? I may never have the chance to see a prophet again.”

  Nathaniel frowned at the interruption.

  My brother said, “I’ve been planning to go see him myself. It’s amazing the effect this man seems to have on people. Anyone who can impress both Pharisees and Sadducees must have some unusual powers.”

  Nathaniel’s lips twitched into a small smile. “That is a true word.”

  Eli had enough sense to keep quiet.

  I said, “I would like to see him too.”

  Eli shot me a grateful look.

  “We could go tomorrow,” Lazarus proposed. “He’s preaching just south of Jericho. If we start early enough we can be there and back before dark.”

  Nathaniel looked at his eldest son’s hopeful face and sighed. “All right. Passover doesn’t begin for another day. Let’s go to see this prophet, John the Baptizer.”

  Martha remained at home with the two youngest children, and Lazarus, Nathaniel, Ruth, and I started off the next morning
with the two oldest. We went by the well-traveled merchant’s route and reached the ford south of Jericho by noon.

  There was a mass of people crowded on the riverbanks and we heard the prophet’s voice before we were able to see him. He was repeating the same words over and over: “Repent. The Kingdom of God is upon you. Repent and believe.”

  I had expected a big booming voice, like Simon Peter’s, but this voice was high-pitched, nasal, and piercing. We threaded our way through the crowd, Nathaniel and Lazarus in the lead with the rest of us right behind them. Finally we were close enough to the river to see what was happening.

  Hundreds of fully clothed people were wading in water up to their thighs to where the prophet stood. He was thin, to the point of emaciation, with wild black hair and a flowing, unkempt beard. He appeared to be dressed in some kind of animal skin, which he had cinched about his middle by a rope. His skin was deeply browned, and even from the shore, I could see the glint in his dark eyes. He looked quite mad.

  I watched him pour water out of his cupped hands over the heads of the people as they came to him. Each time, his thin, piercing voice commanded them to repent of their sins and make themselves clean for the coming of the kingdom.

  I had no desire to wade into the river, no belief that the prophet could forgive my sins. But there was something riveting about that solitary figure. The whole scene seemed unreal, yet all of us watching were enthralled.

  Eli and his brother Moses had taken their father’s hands. Nathaniel asked, “Do you want to go into the river?” Both boys shook their heads vehemently that they did not.

  Moses asked in a small voice, “Is that what a prophet is supposed to look like?”

  All of a sudden the crowd, which had been well behaved, began to push and shove. Nathaniel pulled his sons close to his side, and Lazarus put protective arms around Ruth and me.