by Ann Swinfen
‘Not usually,’ said Yeshûa. He seemed to have difficulty in getting the words out, as if he could not breathe.
‘But why?’ I said. ‘Why now, after so long? Surely, if he had intended to execute our cousin, he would have done it long ago.’
‘The Baptiser has always been hated bitterly by the tetrarch’s mistress, Herodias,’ said Benyamin, ‘because of his preaching against her.’
‘That was most likely why he was arrested in the first place,’ said Yehûdâ. ‘Preaching about metanoia—that was something Antipas could probably have tolerated, but condemning him publicly as an adulterer went too far.’
‘Yôhânân also gave some people to believe that he would lead a military uprising against the authorities,’ my brother said in a tight voice.
‘Well, that was not what led to his death in the end,’ said Benyamin. ‘You have not heard it all.’
He glanced at Yitzak, who sat trembling in a corner. I realised that the boy had not spoken a word yet.
‘Herodias was determined on Yôhânân’s death,’ said Benyamin, ‘and used her daughter Salome as a means to accomplish it. The girl is very beautiful, like some creature from another world, and Antipas lusts after the daughter even more than the mother. But her beauty masks a heart given over entirely to the Evil One.’
Benyamin passed his hand over his face, as if to wipe away some image before his eyes. I saw that his beaker was empty and quietly refilled it, though he was staring past me and did not notice.
‘The girl danced before Antipas and his guests at a banquet. Danced like a common harlot, shedding her garments one by one, till every man in the room was hot with desire. And burning up with his lust, Antipas promised her whatever she wished. She got it.’
He drew a deep breath.
‘Yôhânân’s head served up on a platter, in the midst of the banquet.’
‘What!’ Yehûdâ leapt to his feet. ‘Dear Lord God, surely nothing so filthy!’
‘That is despicable,’ I cried, for I could not contain myself, though I should have held my tongue in the presence of these strangers.
My brother said nothing, but he had gone even paler and his hands were pressed to his cheeks.
Benyamin lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘The boy saw it all. It has turned his mind. I am taking him home to his parents.’
Suddenly the reality of what he was telling us rushed over me. It was no longer mere words. I saw before me the man’s head, pooled in blood, lolling on a gold platter, the leering tetrarch holding it high in the air, the wanton girl feverish with triumph and with a lustful delight in death.
I rushed outside and vomited into the bushes.
Chapter Thirteen
The murder of our cousin meant more than the tragedy of his death alone. We had no time to grieve, for it presaged danger for all of us. At first Yeshûa seemed so stunned by what had happened that he could not tell us what we should do. It was like those times in the past, at home in the village, when he could not find his way, did not know how to direct his path. I had thought those days were gone. Ever since we had come to Capernaum, he had been so confident, so decided. Now the old uncertainty was back, and it would be a long time before my brother saw his way clearly again.
Finally that night Yeshûa announced a change of plan. Instead of going out into the Galilee, we would go by boat to Bethsaida, on the northern shore of Lake Gennesaret but on the far side, the eastern bank of the Jordan, thus lying outside the tetrarchy and within Gaulantis, that part of the realm governed by Herod Antipas’s brother Philip, who had no great love for him. Here Yeshûa would preach the message as before.
We made the short journey the next day, Yeshûa, Yehûdâ, Salome, the Magdalene and I, in the large fishing boat belonging to Shim’ôn and his brother Andreas. The rest of the disciples followed in other boats. Despite the fear brought on by the message from Machaerus, I was excited at my first journey by boat and by the prospect of seeing a new region. I sat in the bows, on a pile of fishing nets, and tried to ignore their smell. The brothers had hoisted a sail, for the wind was favourable, and I found the dip and sway of the boat thrilling. As the sail filled, the ropes supporting the mast tautened and creaked, the boat quivered and came to life, like a breathing animal. It leapt forward across the lake, towards the distant outline of houses that was Bethsaida. The water surged under the bows, curling back with foam like flowing hair, and the music of waves on wood seemed to be the very voice of the boat. The Magdalene was clinging to the gunwale, her eyes wide with fright, but I felt exultant. I have never lost that wonderful lift of the heart when a ship comes alive.
People in Bethsaida welcomed us kindly enough. Philippos, one of the shelîhîm, was a native of Bethsaida and quickly found lodgings for us in the town. I thought we would set off shortly to travel through Gaulantis, but Yeshûa was in a strange mood and would come to no decision. His followers too were restless. Some of the newcomers had joined us in the hope that Yeshûa was about to lead an armed rising against the occupiers and establish this new kingdom he was promising them. I suspected that some of the shelîhîm themselves were instigating the unrest and the demands for my brother to make a political stand. The brothers Ya’kob and Yôhânân were always violent and troublesome. I watched them with distrust.
On the third evening, as I sat beside a garden window in the house where Yeshûa and I lodged, trying to take advantage of the last of the daylight for my mending, I caught the sound of stealthy footsteps on the dry earth outside, then a voice I knew to be Yôhânân’s.
‘Are we all here?’
There was a murmur of assent from several voices.
His brother Ya’kob said, ‘Yes, we have weapons enough. I have left them in the care of the blacksmith. Some of the swords need sharpening.’
There was a laugh, then a voice I did not know. ‘Sharper the better, for slicing off Roman heads.’
‘We need to go carefully.’ Another stranger’s voice. ‘You sons of Zebedee are over-eager. You will spoil our plans by rushing the Master. He must be persuaded, and it won’t be easy. From what he says, he’s set against violence.’
‘It’s that mealy-mouthed friend of his, Yehûdâ of Keriyoth,’ Ya’kob sneered. ‘All he will let the Master do is lead a gentlemanly preaching campaign, when what we need is to raise up all Judah and throw off the yoke of occupation. We can do it, he can do it, if we can only turn his mind our way.’
‘The girl is part of the problem,’ said Yôhânân. ‘He won’t do anything to endanger her. What sort of revolution is this, with women in the party? Trailing behind, dragging us down. Maybe we should put her permanently out of the way.’
In my alarm, I let my needle slip and stabbed my finger. I thought at first that I had given a cry, but then I realised that someone outside, someone perhaps on watch, had called out a warning, and the men in the garden slipped away.
I told Yehûdâ what I had heard.
‘We must warn Yeshûa,’ he said grimly. ‘I have seen this coming, especially since we heard the news of your cousin’s death.’
My brother did not seem surprised at the news, though I had persuaded Yehûdâ not to tell him of the threat against me. Yeshûa had enough to worry him.
‘Some of the followers have already been urging this,’ Yeshûa said.
He paced about the room, running his fingers through his hair.
‘I have warned them,’ he said angrily. ‘I will have nothing to do with violence. Shim’ôn is steadfast, and Tôma, and Andreas, and Mattaniah, and many of the others. These lovers of the sword—surely they will lose the appetite for it in time?’
Yehûdâ shrugged, and I said nothing.
After some days, during which the demands grew more strident, so that my brother and my betrothed would not allow me to go outside unaccompanied, Yeshûa took Yehûdâ and me aside early one evening.
‘I am afraid they will try to take me by force,’ he said, ‘to make me king, a king to lead a military campaign ag
ainst the Romans, or even against the Israelite Sanhedrin. They are blinded by folly. Such violence is contrary to the will of Yahweh. I must escape. Hot heads will cool if I am not here. I need to spend time alone out on the hillside, praying and communing with Our Father.’
‘What would you have us do?’ Yehûdâ asked.
‘You must all go back to Capernaum and await me there.’
Then he called a small group of the faithful shelîhîm into the inner room, not including Yôhânân and his brother, and told them what he planned. We were to tell no one, and we must make it appear as if Yeshûa was travelling back to Capernaum with us.
‘Some of us should stay,’ Yehûdâ urged, ‘to protect you, in case of any danger from an assassin sent by Antipas.’
‘I am willing,’ said Shim’ôn, ‘to go into the wilderness with the Master.’
I smiled at this, though I hid my smile, for it was a generous offer. To the fishermen, anywhere more than a thousand cubits away from the lake was a ‘wilderness’. Others offered themselves as well.
Yeshûa refused them all, politely at first, then with growing irritation.
He went off at once, out through the darkened garden at the back of the house, abstracted and not even saying farewell to us. Yehûdâ and I exchanged glances. We could both tell that he was deeply troubled, by fear of Antipas, or by annoyance that his planned journey through the Galilee had been prevented, or by alarm at the way the mood of his followers was turning towards an armed uprising. It was decided, since it was well into the evening, that we would wait until tomorrow and return to Capernaum in the morning.
There was no great hurry to prepare the boats next day, especially as no breath of air was stirring. The men would have to row the whole way. A milky haze lay over the lake, so that we could see only a few cubits offshore, and could not possibly make out Capernaum until we were quite near. We set off at last, not crossing directly from one town to the other, as we had done before, but following the shore round.
‘It may not be a great sea,’ Shim’ôn explained, ‘such as I have heard of beyond the western hills, but it is just as possible to lose yourself in the fog on Gennesaret.’
Many other boats followed us, and disappointed crowds who had hoped to hear and be healed by Yeshûa in Bethsaida also began to walk round the head of the lake. We had gone some way, perhaps nearly to Capernaum—how far, it was difficult to judge in the fog—when we made out a shadowy figure keeping pace with us along the shore to the right.
‘There is my brother,’ I said, pointing. ‘He must have changed his mind and decided to return to Capernaum at once.’
The fishermen began to row closer to the shore. In the swirling mist, the land was altogether hidden, but as it shifted, parting and closing again, we could all see Yeshûa. Shim’ôn suddenly threw down his oar and stood up, making the boat rock.
‘It is a miracle!’ he cried. ‘He is walking upon the water!’
‘Your eyes deceive you!’ I said. ‘The fog is confusing. He is walking along the sandy strip, just in the water’s edge.’
But the man was simple and credulous, and paid me no attention. He leapt suddenly off the boat, making it plunge dangerously first to one side and then the other, calling out as he did so, ‘I too will walk across the water to my lord!’
Of course, he sank like a stone.
‘Help me, Master!’ he began to cry out. ‘I will drown!’
‘I thought he was a skilled swimmer,’ I said to Yehûdâ. ‘I have seen him dive to the bottom of the lake, to tie off the net.’
‘Aye, naked. Now he is clad in tunic and mantle, with a workman’s heavy boots. They are dragging him under.’
The other fishermen jeered at first, but when they saw that Shim’ôn was struggling and in real danger, they began to row as fast as they could, closer in to shore. Before they could reach him, my brother had waded up to his waist into the lake, then swum into deeper water and grabbed him by both arms.
‘Well, Shim’ôn, my Rock,’ he laughed, ‘today you have lived up to your name.’
We rowed the rest of the way to Capernaum with two wet and shivering men filling the boat with water and soaking the rest of us. Yet afterwards the story went around that Yeshûa had indeed walked on the water and that Shim’ôn could not do so because his faith was not great enough.
Yeshûa had not told us of his plans after we returned to Capernaum. Dressed in dry clothes he once again preached in the field outside the town and healed the sick. But the crowds were much smaller than they had been. People had come from Bethsaida, but there were not so many from Capernaum. Yeshûa was a familiar sight now. He had either cured or failed to cure their sick. They had heard his message and were waiting, perhaps a little impatiently, for the coming of his new kingdom. Even the close followers, the disciples, continued to be restive. There was no more talk, for the moment, of an armed uprising, but when would the new kingdom of bliss on earth and reward for the righteous come about? Yeshûa was tense and quiet himself, for he could not make them understand that the kingdom he spoke about would only be achieved through their own love and compassion, and through their converting the rest of the people to the same way of life. It was a metanoia, such as our cousin had urged, though very different in kind. There was, to tell the truth, some lack of brotherliness even amongst the shelîhîm, who vied with each other to stand highest in my brother’s favour.
We had been perhaps two weeks in Capernaum and Yeshûa had not told us what was to happen next. He still seemed unsure of himself. The sudden flight to Bethsaida, the demands made on him there to lead an armed revolt, the sudden unpredictable decision to return to Capernaum, and his lukewarm reception in the town had left us all in confusion. Everything was suddenly disintegrating.
I was in the market one day, purchasing vegetables for Salome. As I turned away from the stall with my basket of onions, new beans and chard, my sleeve was caught by haggard-looking man who was quite unknown to me. He bore the marks of a long and rough journey, his clothes stained and worn, his hair unkempt. He was clearly fearful, for he kept glancing over his shoulder and he spoke to me in a whisper.
‘They tell me . . . Are you Mariam, sister to Yeshûa ben Yosef?’
‘I am.’
‘I come from Machaerus. I was a follower of your cousin.’
I drew him away from the stall.
‘Come with me. I will take you where you can bathe and rest and eat.’
He shook his head violently.
‘No. I must not stay. I am pursued. I have a message for your brother.’
When I reached the house of Zebedee, I left my basket inside the door and went out again in search of Yeshûa. I found him on the beach, playing with a group of the fishermen’s children. For the first time since we had heard the news of Yôhânân’s death, he looked carefree. As he caught sight of me, he tossed the ball he had been holding into the group of children and walked towards me. When he saw the expression on my face, all the light went out of his eyes. We walked further along the shore, till we reached the rock where I had sat eating a peach so many months before.
‘I have a message for you,’ I said. ‘From Machaerus. Herod Antipas—perhaps he is a little crazed by guilt?—has been hearing of your preaching and your cures.’
I hesitated, biting my lip. Who wants to be the bearer of bad news? And this was more than bad.
‘What is it, Mariam?’
‘Ever since he murdered our cousin, it seems Antipas has been acting more and more strangely. He has persuaded himself that Yôhânân did not really die. That you are our cousin reincarnated and will bring vengeance and destruction down on him.’
I gulped. The man’s news was terrifying.
‘Antipas is haunted, possessed by this crazy notion. And rumours of an armed uprising have also reached him. One was here not half an hour ago, a follower of our cousin. He bade me warn you that Antipas has sent out bands of soldiers to search for you and kill you.’
‘That
jackal!’ said my brother.
He clenched his fists and looked wildly around, as if he expected to see the soldiers coming towards us.
I pressed my hand against my mouth. ‘What shall we do?’ I whispered. I was aghast. My brother looked confused, uncertain, then he shook himself.
‘We must leave, at once.’
‘Yes, but where can we go? To Bethsaida again?’
‘No. If it was from there that word of an uprising was spread, his men will look there. Although it lies within Philip’s domain, there’s nothing to stop a small band of assassins slipping into Bethsaida.’
He sat down suddenly on the rock and put his head in his hands.
‘I wish no harm to any man, Mariam. My mission is one of love.’
‘People have heard you preach against the rich and powerful.’
‘Even the rich and powerful can become part of the brotherhood, if they give their wealth to the poor and take up the simple life.’
‘Like Mattaniah?’
‘Like Mattaniah. I must think, Mariam.’ He pounded his fist against his forehead. ‘We will have to travel far outside Antipas’s jurisdiction. The time is not yet right to go down into Judaea. We must go either to Samaria or to Phoenicia.’
I looked at him, startled. Phoenicia was a land of Gentiles, of gôyîm. Samaria was a strange place, where some were descendants of Assyrians and others were Israelites, many of whom had intermarried with the Assyrians. They claimed to practise Judaism, but they chose to live isolated from the rest of us and had their own religious rites, abjuring the Temple rituals, which made them almost worse than gôyîm in the eyes of the rest of Israel.
‘Tyre, I think,’ he said, getting to his feet, suddenly decisive. ‘We will go to Tyre in Phoenicia. A city large enough to lose ourselves in. If we move quickly, we should be able to keep ahead of Antipas’s soldiers. When did the messenger leave Machaerus?’
‘He did not say, but he looked as if he had travelled hard and fast. He thinks he too is pursued.’