by Ann Swinfen
I held him away from me at arm’s length.
‘Do you not think,’ I said, ‘that if their bodies are healed and their pain taken away, they may more readily listen to the words you address to their souls?’
He smiled, for the first time that evening, and took my face between his hands.
‘Little sister, my talithâ, sometimes I think you are wiser than all the sages of old.’
Then he kissed me on the forehead and got up.
‘We must retire, for tomorrow, I fear, is like to be as bad as today, or worse.’
As we parted outside our rooms, he spoke softly, so as not to wake the others.
‘Yehûdâ shall not come with me, for it is time your marriage took place.’
I shook my head.
‘Of course Yehûdâ will come with you, and he will remain celibate as long as you ask him to. But you shall not leave me behind. Wherever you go, there also I go.’ After that, he spoke no further of my marriage.
Chapter Eleven
It was as Yeshûa had predicted. For days the crowds of sick and maimed appeared outside the door, until the street was so crowded that it became necessary for them to gather in a field beyond the town. With the help of his followers, however, some order was introduced into these gatherings, and Yeshûa would first talk to them, before he began his laying on of hands. Mostly, he would tell stories, like those he used to tell us when we were children. Stories about shepherds and their care for their flocks, about husbandmen and their tillage and sowing and reaping, about stewards tending their lords’ vineyards and wine presses. Always he spoke in simple terms, about the things he knew, and they knew, from daily life, then he would explain his deeper meaning, about love and kindness and compassion—the way to come closer to Yahweh.
I began to understand what he was doing. If he had preached as most men do—as I think our cousin Yôhânân did, and as Yeshûa had tried to do in our own village—speaking of nothing but moral issues, in vague and abstract terms, the people would soon have forgotten his words or, worse, would have turned on him and driven him out. But those everyday stories—and he was such a storyteller!—would lodge in their hearts.
I would sit on the outskirts of the crowd, listening to the stories and his explanations, gradually understanding more clearly what this changed world would be like, if he could bring it about. If only he could bring it about! I was excited by what he was proposing, for he made me feel that we were on the brink of a revolution, but a revolution such as the world had never known before. I was fizzing with happiness like new-brewed shechar, and caught myself sometimes smiling foolishly to myself. I would slip away before the healing began, because I saw how it distressed him, though I am sure no one else suspected, for he was always so patient and gentle with them. Also I’m ashamed to admit that the sight of all those diseased and maimed and devil-possessed people appalled and sickened me. And I began to resent the time he spent with these strangers, so that Yehûdâ and I hardly saw him. I am not proud of these selfish feelings.
Soon after we came to Capernaum, Yeshûa, Yehûdâ and I were sitting one evening at the edge of the lake. It had been a hot day, overwhelmed with crowds of frantic people, and both men looked tired. I filled three beakers from a jug of pomegranate juice Salome had given me.
‘Ah, I’m grateful for that,’ said Yehûdâ as he took a long drink. ‘There seems no end to these hordes of the poor and the sick.’
‘Do you remember,’ said my brother, ‘many years ago? We talked then of the poor, in their despair and hunger.’
‘I remember.’
‘There are so many. More than I ever dreamed.’ Yeshûa flung out his arms, taking in the whole sweep of land and water before us. ‘How came there to be so many?’
‘Blame the Romans,’ said Yehûdâ.
My brother shook his head.
‘It’s easy to blame the Romans. We don’t have enough to eat. Blame the Romans. The flock is destroyed by disease. Blame the Romans. The harvest fails. Blame the Romans. Old men become beggars on the streets of Jerusalem. Blame the Romans. Young men are driven to outlawry. Blame the Romans. The children die. Blame the Romans.’
‘Exactly what I’m saying. An enemy occupying Judah. All these extra taxes . . .’
‘No! It’s much more complex than that. It’s easy to blame the Romans, because that gives us an excuse for ourselves. Before the Roman occupation, had we no poor? Had they any more hope and comfort then? I think not.’
‘But . . .’
‘It’s not just the Romans, Yehûdâ. The presence of the Romans merely masks the truth. The whole of mankind is cruel, selfish, warlike. Somehow it has to change.’
‘You said the same all those years ago.’
‘And you said that a village boy from the Galilee could not change the world.’
Yehûdâ smiled at him with affection.
‘Perhaps I was wrong.’
We sat quietly, sipping the sweet juice as an evening breeze began to rise from the lake.
‘But,’ said Yehûdâ, ‘there may be danger, Yeshûa.’
‘Danger?’
‘You keep telling these sick people that their sins will be forgiven.’
‘The sick can only recover fully if their sins are forgiven.’ My brother sounded impatient. ‘There can be no other road to a final cure. I’m aware of the danger.’
‘What danger?’ I asked. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Only the priestly caste can forgive sins,’ Yehûdâ explained. ‘The power belongs properly to them.’
‘And not,’ said Yeshûa wryly, ‘to a mere peasant from the Galilee. But I don’t say that I forgive their sins. Just that they will be forgiven. I am no more than a channel for the works of the Almighty. I’m not trying to usurp the role of the priests.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Yehûdâ. ‘But your nice distinctions will not be understood by many. I think you should be more careful.’
Yeshûa shook his head. ‘I cannot otherwise offer them healing.’
He could sometimes be very stubborn, my brother. When he seized hold of a notion, he would clamp his jaws on it like a terrier.
‘In any case,’ he said, ‘though they clamour for me to be their physician, my true mission is to bring them word of the new dispensation.’
‘You were saying the other day,’ I ventured, ‘that one of the reasons you left Qumrân was that they were mistaken about the coming of the new kingdom.’
‘Yes. They believe that the new kingdom will come about through a mighty battle between the Righteous and the servants of the Evil One—a terrible battle, full of weapons and bloodshed, mutilation and death. And only those who belong to the Community are Righteous. All the rest of mankind is enrolled in the ranks of the Evil One, willy-nilly. This is not true. I know it. All men are capable of goodness, worthy to be forgiven by Our Lord. The kingdom will come through love. For if we love not only our neighbours but also our enemies, how can the sons of men perish through warfare?’
Yehûdâ sighed and rubbed his tired eyes.
‘I believe in your vision, Yeshûa. A vision of a better, kinder world. And I am more than glad to help you in your mission to bring it about. It will be beautiful and wonderful if we can change the world. But you must face the difficulties with honesty and accept the obstacles that lie in your path. I fear that not everyone will listen. You may not like to face the truth, but some men enjoy warfare and rejoice in blood-letting. If you can win them over, that will indeed be a miracle.’
I remembered these words a few days later, when a friend of Zebedee’s had come to dine with us, an old man who now lived in Magdala, the village Yehûdâ and I had passed through on our way to Capernaum. Yeshûa and his followers had not yet returned from another session of healing the sick outside the town wall, and we were sitting under the arbour waiting for them. The grapes, I noticed, were nearly ready to pick, for the weeks of late summer had already flown past.
‘Yes, they are saying he will be a new le
ader come amongst us,’ said the visitor, whose name was Mihael. ‘It will be like the days of our youth, Zebedee, though this leader is a man whose arm is strengthened by the Almighty One. Our enemies will perish by the sword as never before, and Israel will rejoice in her freedom.’
I suppose he must have seen the question in my eyes. All through my childhood I had heard tales of the many times that leaders had arisen in the Galilee, to battle against our occupiers, even before the Romans. The Romans saw them as violent insurrectionists and crucified them if they could catch them. We saw them as heroes, we were famous for them in the Galilee. But I had not known that Zebedee had been a revolutionary.
Mihael rolled back his right sleeve and held out his forearm to me.
‘See that, sister of Yeshûa? That was a Roman sword thrust that nearly took my arm off!’
Diagonally across the arm, which was somewhat shrunken with age, a wide white scar ran from elbow to wrist.
‘It must have been a fearful blow,’ I said.
‘Aye, it was that. I was lucky to live, and luckier still not to lose my arm. Zebedee here bound up my arm and dragged me off the battlefield, before they could come round and dispatch those of us who were not quite dead.’
Zebedee made an embarrassed, dismissive gesture.
‘You were one of the Zealots?’ I asked.
‘Aye, both of us. Led by Yehûdâ the Galilean, as they called him, though he was born in Gamala. He was proud to be called a Galilean. And of course it was here in the Galilee that he mostly fought. And his father Ezechias before him, who was murdered by Herod. He was never a violent robber and outlaw, though the Romans and our great men—those traitors who sit at their tables—would have you think so. We too had our faith, our beliefs. But this brother of yours, he is surely come to lead us into the great and final battle, in which we shall drive the enemy into the sea.’
He gave a bitter laugh.
‘Do you know what the Romans call the Middle Sea? Mare Nostrum! Our Sea! How like the Romans. Well, under Yeshûa ben Yosef the Galilean we shall hand them over to Their Sea. Let them inhabit their empire in its depths, and roll amongst the crabs and corals on the sea bed!’
He was excited now, his eyes gleaming.
‘Old as I am, and my arm weakened for fighting, I’ll follow Yeshûa the Galilean in the fight to liberate the nation of Israel!’
Zebedee laid his hand on Mihael’s arm to quieten him, and turned the talk to other things, but I sat there wondering how many others thought as he did, and believed that my brother had ambitions to be a military leader. How little they understood him. Perhaps as his words were disseminated, things would change. But Mihael’s remarks frightened me. The sooner we spread Yeshûa’s message of peace more widely, the safer we all would be.
For Yeshûa was forming a clearer plan on how best to carry out his mission. As the days and weeks had passed, the first men to befriend him in Capernaum, the four fishermen, had somehow come to accept that they would travel with him when he left the town.
I was there when Shim’ôn gave my brother his answer.
‘You have asked that I should give up everything, Master,’ said Shim’ôn, ‘in order to follow you. I have thought about this long, and with some misgiving. I have prayed for guidance. My wife weeps at the thought of my leaving, and at the uncertainty that lies ahead, but she does not forget that you saved her mother’s life. She is grateful, and will accept my decision.’
‘And what is your decision, my Rock?’
‘I will follow, wherever you lead us.’
After Shim’ôn had made public his decision, the others soon followed.
‘And what do you plan to do?’ I asked my brother, as we sat over the remains of supper in Zebedee’s house soon afterwards.
‘We’ll travel about the Galilee, mostly to the villages. I understand my own kind best. I will teach, and heal if it’s demanded of me.’
‘And the rest of us?’
‘You will stay with me, and Yehûdâ also. But the others I’ll send out in twos and threes into the surrounding countryside, to carry the message further.’
Yôhânân leaned forward eagerly.
‘It would be better if my brother and I stayed with you, Lord. We are strong men of our arms. We can protect you from danger.’ He shot a glance from beneath lowered lids at Yehûdâ, who had dined with us that night. ‘Better than others, who are less able.’
Yehûdâ gave him an appraising look, but did not rise to the challenge. Salome snorted.
‘Sons of your father!’ she said. ‘Your heads have been turned since you were boys by your father’s stories of the Zealot uprising. Yeshûa’s mission is a mission of peace. No swords and arrows are called for.’
‘That’s yet to be seen,’ said Yôhânân sulkily.
I never knew quite what to make of this man. One minute spitting fire and brimstone, the next wandering off in a dream. A man of quarrelsome and violent nature, but weak in character. He was jealous of Shim’ôn’s pre-eminent position amongst the fishermen, and jealous of Yehûdâ’s position as Yeshûa’s dearest friend. His unpredictable nature worried me.
Yeshûa went calmly on, as if he had not heard Yôhânân’s interruption.
‘Every week or so we will gather together again and move on. In that way we can cover the whole of the Galilee between us.’
He now had about a dozen committed followers, who were prepared to travel with him, as well as the many who had responded to his message but would not be accompanying us. There were also some with riches enough to give us a little money, to help us pay our way. Mostly, we hoped to find someone with whom we could lodge in the villages, but now that we were so many, we must provide for ourselves much of the time.
‘Yehûdâ is the only one amongst with any understanding of money,’ my brother said. ‘We will hand over all funds to him, and he will be charged with purchasing supplies.’
One of our rich patrons was Yoanna, wife of Chuza, steward to the tetrarch Herod Antipas himself, who ruled in the Galilee almost like a client king to the Roman Emperor. I could not believe the news about Yoanna when Yehûdâ told me, but he swore it was true.
‘A woman from the court?’ I said. ‘But how has she heard of my brother?’
‘His fame is spreading. And that is good; yes, in many ways that is good. Though if there is too much talk of him at court, that may not be so good.’
‘Particularly any of this talk about Yeshûa being a war leader. Some think he plans to lead a revolution to drive out the Romans.’
‘You’ve heard that too? They don’t understand him, and their folly could be dangerous for him. But this woman Yoanna does not wish merely to be a patron. She is going to join us, to become one of the followers. So you will not be the only woman.’
‘Salome will come with us too,’ I said. ‘I think she feels that even a prophet and his followers will need meals cooked for them, and clothes washed and mended. Our calling also, to serve the Lord!’
And I knew that Salome would come because she wanted to keep those unruly sons of hers, Yôhânân and Ya’kob, in order.
It was about this time that I first noticed that the fishermen (not only Yôhânân), and the others like them in the group that had formed around Yeshûa, were not altogether at ease with Yehûdâ. He was different, I suppose. A rich man’s son, educated and widely travelled. His knowledge of the world was much greater than theirs, though he never boasted of it, and even tried to conceal it. Besides, his speech was less provincial. He did not speak in the rough Galilean dialect that made the aristocratic Judaeans laugh and call us peasants. The others had taken to calling him ‘Yehûdâ of Keriyoth’, as though deliberately to set him apart. I am not quite sure what they thought of me. As Yeshûa’s sister, I was honoured; as Yehûdâ’s betrothed I was kept at a distance. And of course, as a woman, I was never part of that circle that closed round my brother, excluding me.
Our departure from Capernaum was postponed more than once, beca
use of the crowds which continued to gather, and I saw that my brother was becoming exhausted as well as impatient to carry his message further. Then one morning I came downstairs at dawn to light the fire and bake flatbread for the morning meal, and he was gone.
No one knew where he might be.
‘Surely he would not leave without us?’ I said to Yehûdâ, when we had searched the town. ‘After all the plans we have made?’
He shook his head. He was as baffled as I.
Later, when Yehûdâ and Tôma, one of the new followers, had gone to send the waiting people home, saying that their master would not preach that day, I went out of the town by the Damascus Gate and walked a little distance along the shore of the lake where it began to curve eastwards. And there I found him. He was lying asleep under the shade of some bushes, but when I knelt down beside him as quietly as I could, he sat up yawning.
‘Everyone was worried,’ I said.
‘I needed to be alone,’ he said. ‘I have no opportunity to listen quietly for the voice of Yahweh, that I may know what he wants of me.’
‘And have you heard him?’
‘I came out early and watched the sun rise over the lake. We used to do that at Qumrân. It was the best part of the day. Their dawn hymns of praise to the Lord are very beautiful. I sang one alone here, as the sun rose in glory, and the waters of the lake shone like burnished gold.’
‘It was good, then?’
‘It was good. And I know what I must do. I am going to walk amongst the nearby villages for a few days quite alone, speaking to a few people, quietly helping any sick I find. That is a better way, a truer mission than these great masses of people crowding together. I feel trapped. And, I think, so do they.’
‘Will you let me come with you?’
‘No. You must go back and reassure the rest. Tell them that I’ll return in a week or a little more, then we will all go forth.’
I did as I was told. I think this did not please the ‘disciples’, as they were beginning to call themselves—a Greek notion, ‘students’. That was what they felt themselves to be, learning from the teachings of my brother. They thought I should have brought him back, or else told them where to find him, though that I could not do, as I did not know myself.