“What happened to Eliezer? And what was the teaching of our Lord that he had listened to?”
Barnabas peeled off some of the fish skin and ate it. Zarathan couldn’t take his gaze from the old monk’s wrinkled face. He appeared totally unconcerned, as though he’d known and thought about these facts for most of his life, and therefore found nothing heretical about them. They were just facts.
He’s lost his mind! It’s the stress … or the lack of food! Zarathan had to make a conscious effort to close his gaping mouth.
Barnabas continued. “Eliezer was pardoned and released, but the issue for which he was arrested apparently regarded a question about whether one who cuts tattoos on his body during the Sabbath is guilty of violating the law prohibiting work on the holy day. Rabbi Eliezer declared him guilty.”
Zarathan wrinkled his nose. “Our Lord cut tattoos on his body on the holy day?”
“Well, we don’t know for certain, but the story of Rabbi Eliezer goes on to say that our Lord ‘brought magic marks from Egypt in the scratches on his body,’ so he apparently carried such marks on his flesh.” He lifted a finger to emphasize his point. “And let us not forget that the book of Galatians says Saint Paul bore ‘the marks of Iesous,’ probably the same spells our Lord carried.”
Angrily, Zarathan said, “That’s the only reference? A Jewish source about cutting marks on the body? This is absurd!”
“No, no, there are others. One dates to around the year 100. It’s about Rabbi Elazar ben Dama, who was bitten by a snake. A man named Yakob, from Galilaian, came to cure him in the name of Yeshua ben Pantera. Then, a century later, a similar incident occurred in Galilaian where the son of a well-known rabbi was healed by a magician who cured him in the name of Yeshua ben Pandera. Those are the only three references I know from rabbinic literature, but there are other sources—”
Cyrus said, “I would appreciate it if we could return to the subject of our Lord’s father. Who was he?”
“His father was God!” Zarathan’s heart had risen into his throat where it was beating hard enough to half-choke him. He fought to swallow the lump.
Barnabas blinked, took another bite of his fish, and seemed to be shifting his thoughts back to the original topic. As the dawn light changed, his gray hair picked up a tinge of pink. “My best guess is that he was a Sidonian archer named Tiberius Julius Abdes Pantera.”
“He was a Roman archer?” Cyrus asked, as though that small detail had bridged the centuries, allowing him to connect with the long-dead Tiberius Pantera, and Zarathan remembered the stories told around the monastery that Cyrus, too, had been a Roman archer.58
Zarathan tugged at his collar, trying to get more air.
“Yes,” Barnabas replied. “We know from Roman records that he was serving in Palestine at the time of our Lord’s birth. He was transferred out of Palestine in the year six, when our Lord would have been twelve.”
“Twelve?” Cyrus whispered. “You mean … the Missing Years? Did our Lord travel with his father to his new post?”
Barnabas tilted his head and his gray beard flashed in the gleam. “To my knowledge, there are no records to either support or reject that notion. But, I suppose it’s possible.” In a soft, sympathetic voice, he continued. “It would have been a blessing for Yeshua, given the torment he must have suffered as a child because he was a mamzer.”
This isn’t happening. Cold sweat had broken out on Zarathan’s skin. He shifted uncomfortably and noticed that Kalay was watching him with an amused look on her face.
She moved to curl her legs around her hips and propped a hand on the sand. Her thin tan dress conformed to the curves of her body like a second skin. The sensual position barely seeped through Zarathan’s general horror.
Kalay asked, “Why? What happened to bastard children?”
Zarathan flinched at the term.
But Barnabas seemed unaffected. “Terrible things. Being called a mamzer was the worst insult. Such children were considered the ‘excrement of the community.’ Both the mother and the child would have been social outcasts. In fact, the Wisdom of Solomon, in chapter three, verses sixteen through nineteen, and chapter four, verses three through six, says that such children should be held ‘of no account,’ and even in their old age should be without honor. They were denied entry to the Kingdom of God after their deaths. Deuteronomy, in chapter twenty-three, verse three makes it clear that ‘No mamzer will enter the assembly of God even to the tenth generation.’”
“I don’t care about after death.” Red wisps of hair blew around Kalay’s face. “What about during his life? Would he have been punished?”
Zarathan wiped his sweating palms on his robe and licked his lips. His throat had gone dust dry.
“Iesous would have been punished in every way possible. Mamzerim couldn’t hold public office, and if they took part in court cases, the decision was invalidated. They could not legally marry any other legitimate Israelites. If they did have children, there was a good chance those children would be killed. The Wisdom of Solomon says that ‘The offspring of such an unlawful union will perish … by the violence of the winds they will be uprooted.’”
“Is that why our Lord never married?” Cyrus asked. “He couldn’t?”
“Possibly, though it is also possible he chose to be celibate, which is what I believe. There were many religious groups who taught that the Kingdom was coming very soon, and so there was no point to marriage. That is, for example, what the Essenes taught in Palestine, and the Theraputae in Egypt. If our Lord was a member of either of those ascetic groups, his inability to marry and have children would have been irrelevant.”
“Do you think he was a member of one of those groups?” Cyrus asked.
My Lord a bastard child? I don’t believe it. This is heresy!
The sublime, mystical stories of the virgin birth were some of Zarathan’s favorites. The most powerful moments in his nighttime prayer vigils came when he was contemplating the virgin birth.
Barnabas said, “I think it likely that our Lord studied healing and magic with the Theraputae in Egypt and then returned to pursue his education with the Essenes in Palestine. And the Platonist philosopher Celsus wrote in his book True Doctrine that Iesous went to Egypt to study magic. Both groups were reputed to have great medical knowledge, the best of their day.”
Nonchalantly, Kalay the pagan said, “That’s probably how he did his ‘miracles.’ He could heal because he was a master of the medical arts.”
Zarathan gaped. “His miracles came through the power of God! How do you explain that he could raise the dead?”
Kalay opened her mouth to say something unpleasant, but Brother Barnabas softly interrupted, “I’ve always believed it was the Iesous ointment.”
Kalay frowned at him. “He invented an ointment that raised the dead?”
Zarathan cried, “That’s ridiculous!”
Barnabas propped the stick on which his fish was skewered across his lap and pulled off a flaky piece of meat. As he chewed, he said, “The Marham-i-Isa, the ointment of Iesous, is referred to in many ancient medical treatises. Apparently it could heal wounds with stunning rapidity, and even raise the dead, or at least those who appeared to be dead.”59
While Zarathan was staring at Barnabas in shock, Cyrus said, “Brother, who is ‘the headless demon whom the winds obey’?”
Zarathan’s gaze jerked back to Cyrus. In the holy name of God, why didn’t Cyrus reach over and slap some sense into the old man?
Barnabas replied, “Anyone who has read Psalms knows whom the winds and seas obey. God. But the Egyptian Magical Papyri specifically state that the headless demon is ‘the Lord of the world, this is he whom the winds fear.’60 He’s a powerful figure in ancient magic. Why do you ask?”
As though terrified someone might be listening, Cyrus cast a glance over his shoulder, then scanned the river and desert, before saying, “When Brother Zarathan and I were in the library crypt we found Papias’ book The Expositio
n of the Lord’s Logia. There was a reference—”
“Ah, yes, in division four.” Barnabas’ thick gray brows lowered. He gave Cyrus a serious appraisal. “Could you read it, brother?”
Embarrassed, Cyrus said, “Well, no, not all of it. The passage was clearly written in cipher, but I understood the part about Pantera, and the headless demon, and the reference to the Pearl.”
Barnabas nodded approvingly. “That is a great deal more than most monks would have gleaned from that passage—even after years of study. Have you had experience with ciphers?”
Cyrus hesitated a long time before saying, “When I was in the army, I was required to decipher coded messages for the generals. I’m not very good at it, but that particular passage was clearly a substitution cipher using Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek letters.”
“Only a man who knew all three languages would realize that, Cyrus. I didn’t know you read Hebrew?”
“I read it poorly, brother. Hebrew is close enough to Aramaic that I can get a general idea of what is being written, but I’m not skilled at translating Hebrew.”
Kalay drew up her knees and propped her forearms on them, revealing her bare legs. “I can translate it. My grandmother was Jewish. She started reading me the Hebrew Scriptures when I was four. I don’t read Hebrew, but I understand it, which means I can also get along understanding Aramaic—though I wouldn’t have Cyrus’ talent.”
Zarathan madly bit into his second fish. He was feeling a little dizzy. Chewing and swallowing seemed to help his constricted breathing.
Barnabas still had his gaze fixed on Cyrus, and the expression on his face suggested he was seeing Cyrus in a different light. “Cyrus, perhaps Zarathan and Kalay could row us to the next village while you sit beside me in the boat. There are some things I would like to show you. You may understand them better than me.”
“Of course, brother.”
Zarathan tossed the fish bones into the fire and loudly challenged, “You said there were many records that document that our Lord was a mamzer. The ones you’ve named are Jewish. They’re all lies meant to hurt our Lord. You can’t believe—”
Barnabas gently interrupted, “There are other records, Zarathan. Some of them you know very well.”
Zarathan blinked, trying to clear his reeling head. “I do?”
“Do you recall these words: ‘He who knows the father and the mother will be called the son of a whore’?”
“Of course. Our Lord says that in verse one-oh-five of the Gospel of Thomas, but he meant—”
“I think he meant what he said, brother. We even have clues in the approved gospels, though not the versions written after the year 200. By that time, the gospels had been edited by so many writers with points to prove that you can’t believe them. They—”
“You’re possessed by demons! No wonder the Church sent people to burn our monastery! Maybe I should have helped them!”
Cyrus, who had closed his eyes at the term “whore,” ignored Zarathan, asking, “Barnabas, where in the approved gospels does it speak of these things?”
“Oh, Cyrus,” the old man said gently, “think about Markos’ story. In the temple in Nazaret the people call our Lord the ‘son of Miriam.’ The Jewish people didn’t trace descent through the female until after the destruction of the Temple in the year 70. At the time our Lord was in Nazaret, descent was traced through the male. To refer to a man as being the son of his mother was gravely offensive. It meant that his paternity was uncertain. Gospels written twenty or thirty years after Markos’ gospel, like the gospels of Maththaios, Loukas, and Ioannes, go to great efforts to eliminate this reference. So, for example, Maththaios, chapter twelve, verse fifty-five, replaces Miriam with Ioses, as does Ioannes in chapter six, verse forty-two. Later editors changed Markos’ words to read things like ‘the son of the carpenter.’ The Gospel of Markos was often ‘corrected’ by later writers to echo the glosses of Maththaios and Ioannes. Such things are a disgrace. The original documents should be allowed to speak for themselves.” He shook his head. “Then there is the fact that the Gospel of Ioannes never mentions the name of Yeshua’s mother. Nor do the epistles of Paul. She was an outcast whose name was to be forgotten.”
Zarathan simply could not speak.
Barnabas looked out at the dawn. As the sun rose in a huge orange orb, a golden flood of light swept across the desert. The horizon became a vast, shimmering plain, as though earth was melting into sky.
Barnabas added, “And there are many other documents from the second century that relate the story, like the works of Celsus, who was writing sometime between the years of 150 and 178. He also knew and reported the story of Yeshua ben Pantera.”
Zarathan glanced at Cyrus. He looked as though he’d been hit in the head with a rock. Stunned, his mouth was hanging open.
Cyrus said, “But, brother, where does the story about Iesous’ father, Ioses, come from?”
“By the year 85, the Temple had been destroyed, Judaism and Christianity had split, and Iesous’ followers were desperate to make sure he fulfilled every Hebrew prophecy about the coming messiah. For example, think of Micah, chapter five, verse two, and Isaiah, chapter seven, verse fourteen. As well, the crucifixion story is strikingly similar to Psalms, twenty-two. With regard to his father, the passages were Zechariah, chapter six, verses eleven through thirteen.”
Cyrus seemed to be running verses through his head. “You mean the Hebrew verse that says, ‘Take the silver and gold and make crowns and set them upon the head of Yehoshua, the son of Yosadaq.’”
Zarathan shouted, “That’s about the prophet Ioshua, not our Lord, Iesous Christos!”
Cyrus clasped his hands around one knee and softly replied, “Yehoshua is our Lord’s name, Zarathan. Iesous is the Greek form of the Hebrew name, Yeshua, and Yeshua in formal Hebrew is Yehoshua. So, Yosadaq?”
Barnabas nodded. “The shortened form in Greek is Iose or Ioses, and in Hebrew—”
Kalay finished for him, “Yosef.”61
Cyrus placed hands on either side of his head and squeezed. “Forgive me, but this is too much to hear all at once.”
“That’s because it’s blasphemy!” Zarathan insisted. “Ioses was our Lord’s adopted father. That’s a fact! You’re all going to be struck by lightning and then cast into flames that burn forever!”
Kalay said drily, “Well, that will certainly make me think twice.”
Barnabas ignored them, reached out, and placed a hand on Cyrus’ curly black hair. “You are not the first to be troubled by these things, Cyrus. My own teacher, Pappas Eusebios, at the library in Caesarea, had difficulty with these ideas. That’s why he believed in religious tolerance and pluralism, and opposed all persecution of pagans or heretics in the Roman Empire. He maintained that through discussion ultimately the purity of the gospel truth would be revealed.”
Kalay smoothed windblown hair away from her blue eyes. “I heard he’s had some problems with his library assistants,” she said offhandedly, and gazed out at the palm trees swaying over the distant oasis.
Barnabas took a big bite out of his fish and chewed. Around the lump, he asked, “What problems?”
“They keep disappearing.”
Barnabas swallowed his mouthful of fish. “What do you mean, ‘disappearing’?”
“You monks never get into the city. It was big news a year ago. Then just six months ago another of his assistants up and disappeared. They found his body shortly thereafter. He had his heart in his hand and his balls and cock in his mouth.”
Zarathan gasped. “He’d been tortured?”
Barnabas’ elderly face slackened as though with terrible knowledge. His fish fell from his numb fingers and rolled across the sand.
Cyrus leaped to his side. “Brother? Are you well?”
Barnabas was staring wide-eyed at nothing. In a deathly quiet voice, he said, “Dear God. They’re hunting us down.”
“Us?” Zarathan cried. Terror fired his veins. He stumbled to his feet
, careened off into the reeds, and while bitter tears leaked from his eyes, his stomach pumped.
THIRTEEN
Mahray
Yosef dozed on the back of the horse as the animal plodded down the trail that led toward the city of Gophna. Last night they’d made it to an Essene community where his wound had been properly cleaned and bandaged; his pain had diminished somewhat, though he could still smell the odors of pus and torn flesh.
Three youths rode horses in front of him, all Dawn Bathers who had eschewed their traditional white robes for something less distinctive: brown sackcloth. Yosef himself had traded for a modest red Roman toga. If necessary, since he spoke both Greek and Latin, he could pass as a Roman citizen traveling with his three slaves.
Truly exhausted, he was trying to sleep, but the horse kept breaking into a trot, which ripped open his wound and the pain woke him long enough to see the passing vineyards and farmers who waved at them. Cedar, acacia, and box trees fringed the fields. Often blackberry brambles filled the spaces between the trees, creating a very effective, thorny fence. The bleating of goats and braying of camels carried on the fragrant wind.
Yosef let his head fall forward, and closed his eyes. Behind his lids images flitted, faces of people now dead interspersed with strange flashes of ephod cloth. Made from a mixture of fine linen and gold leaf, with blue, purple, and scarlet threads, ephod cloth was the apparel of the high priest.
As he drifted deeper into sleep, he wondered why the flashes of ephod cloth kept appearing? Was his soul trying to reveal some secret?
A voice, deep and melodic, twined through the flashes, growing louder, more distinct … .
“I knew you’d come, Yosef.”
I walk up behind him and prop my hands on my hips. Twilight has settled over the Kidron valley in a smoky veil. All around me, limestone cliffs, filled with tombs, thrust up, and the massive stone wall constructed by Herod to encircle the City of David has turned the color of charcoal. Oil lamps from nearby homes cast a fluttering halo over the hills, and their sweet fragrance rides the breeze.
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