by Ann Swinfen
‘He really means to sacrifice himself?’
‘That’s what I fear.’
I tried to question my brother myself, but he merely shook his head at me and smiled.
‘I am prepared to die, Mariam.’
‘We all have to die,’ I said, suddenly, furiously, angry. ‘What good will it do? I think you have gone mad. I don’t seek my death . . . why should you? Please, Yeshûa.’ I was sobbing now. ‘Don’t leave me.’
He put his arms around me and kissed my forehead, but I could feel, even in his warm living body, the strength of his resistance to me.
Chapter Seventeen
My brother’s unexpected attack on the moneychangers in the hanûyôth confronted us with a dangerous dilemma. If we were to take part in the Pesah celebrations—and that was what Yeshûa said was his intention, this was why we had come to Jerusalem—then we must go through ritual purification, Yeshûa especially, after the many sick he had touched and the mazzíkím he had cast out. This meant joining the groups of pilgrims in the Holy City for ritual baths and sprinkling by the priests. But how could we allow my brother to come anywhere near the priests, after what had happened in the Temple? Yeshûa listened quietly to the arguments, then agreed to go back to Jerusalem in a small group, without fuss, and with his head covered to avoid recognition. He was anxious for purification, for he never denied the proper observance of Temple rituals. It was their debasement that so angered him.
During the next few days, we behaved like any other pilgrims, joining in all the rites without disturbance and returning each night to Bethany. With each day, I grew less worried. Perhaps my brother had recovered from what seemed to be a temporary insanity. We would celebrate the festival, then leave Jerusalem and continue our mission in Judaea. Two days before the fifteenth Nisan (which would be the Sabbath and also the most holy day of the festival) my brother sent Yehûdâ with the common purse into Jerusalem, with instructions to book rooms for us at an inn and to purchase food for a meal. We would celebrate with a dinner that night, after sundown, at the beginning of the fourteenth Nisan. It was permitted to take the Pesah meal early if desired, any time leading up to the Festival of Unleavened Bread, though most people did so after sunset on the following day, as the fifteenth Nisan began. It was not unusual and I did not question it. I did not realise that what my brother was planning should happen the following morning could not take place on a holy day.
We made our way into the city in small numbers, to avoid attracting attention. Only the heart of our group was to attend the meal: Yeshûa, the twelve shelîhîm, and the women. Although we normally ate together, because my brother always maintained that men and women should be treated equally, for this formal meal he had arranged that the men should sit at the main table in the larger room, while the women sat a little apart in the inner room. Even now I do not know if he did this to avoid alerting the people at the inn, or for some purpose of his own. The two rooms were separated by no more than an archway, with a curtain drawn back, so we could converse with each other, and the dishes of roast lamb with herbs, the roasted vegetables, the wine and unleavened bread could pass back and forth.
I thought we were simply to have a peaceful meal together at the start of the holy festival, but while the inn servants were laying out the dishes and bringing in flasks of wine with the fine goblets of hammered pewter that Yehûdâ had ordered, I caught sight of my brother in an unguarded moment. He was looking out of the window at the street below, where a group of musicians was passing by, playing some soft, plaintive tune. I noticed the dark shadows under his eyes, as if he had not slept. He must have felt my gaze, for he turned on me a look that was momentarily defenceless. His eyes were sorrowful, and terrified, and seemed somehow to be asking my forgiveness. I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth and started forward to go to him, but at that moment Yôhânân tugged at his sleeve. My brother veiled his look and turned aside.
Yehûdâ was watching me and seemed as nervous as a mouse waiting for a cat to pounce. When he went through the door and began giving instructions to the innkeeper, I followed him out of the room and caught up with him at the head of the stairs.
‘What is it!’ I asked. ‘What is happening?’
Yehûdâ looked at me with eyes that seemed to have stared into the very pit of Hell itself.
‘Yeshûa has ordered me to report him to the priests of the Temple.’ His voice was a harsh whisper. ‘I am to bring the guards to arrest him in the garden of Gethsemane.’
He drew a long shuddering breath.
‘He has finally called in my debt.’
‘You cannot, Yehûdâ! You cannot!’
‘This is what he demands. He believes that only in this way, with his own death, can he accomplish his mission.’
The walls began to swing around me and I grabbed his arm for support.
‘You must be brave, my love, for his sake,’ he said. ‘He has never needed your courage more than he needs it now.’
Somehow we managed to eat that meal, Yeshûa, Yehûdâ and I, though none of us ate much. This is our last meal together, I thought, and the words kept on ringing in my head, so that I hardly heard what the others said, cheerfully enjoying the excellent food and wine around me. I should have been sitting with the two of them, not separated here with the women, by the conventions of our ancestors. Were we not going to make the world anew, where such divisions were cast aside? It must have been very cold in the room, it seemed to me, for I could not stop shivering. I fetched my mantle from the chest where I had laid it down, and wrapped it around my head and shoulders, but still I was chilled to the bone.
I watched the back of Yehûdâ’s head. He was bowed forward, resting his chin on his hand and poking at the roast lamb on his platter with the point of his knife. My brother was leaning his head towards Yôhânân, who was trying to dominate the conversation, but I could tell from the absent way he nodded that he was not listening to him. Instead, he was trying to talk to Shim’ôn. It looked as though he was giving him some sort of instructions.
I was so filled with grief and anger I thought I should choke. How could my brother do such a wicked thing? To demand that his dearest friend and my lover betray him to his death? In exchange for that simple promise Yehûdâ had asked of him all those years ago, to meet him near Qumrân? It was monstrous, unforgivable. To bring about one’s own death, suicide, was a sin in the eyes of the Lord. Was that not what Yeshûa was doing? As surely as if he had taken a knife to his own throat, it was suicide. But by doing it in this way, dragging his friend down with him . . . And how could he abandoned me, his sister, who loved him more than life itself . . . why, why, why?
I prayed, then. Prayed to Yahweh to put a stop to this madness.
When the rest of our companions had satisfied their hunger, Yeshûa stood up with a large round of flatbread in his hand. He blessed it before breaking it into pieces, which he handed out.
He said—I thought I heard him say—’This is my body. Take it. Eat it in remembrance of me.’
I stared at him in bewilderment. He had his back to me, so I could not read his face. The other women were whispering together.
The Magdalene murmured to me, ‘What does he mean?’
I shook my head. I was straining to hear. They seemed the words of a madman, yet he looked calm, except for a slight trembling in the hand that held the bread.
Then he took a large double-handled cup of wine, of the sort used at marriage feasts and which some call a loving-cup. This too he blessed. He drank a little and passed it on. As it went round the table, each man drinking a little, he said, ‘Take this and drink. It is my blood. Do this in remembrance of me.’
He had told me of a similar ritual with bread and wine practised at the high table for the pure in Qumrân, but without these strange instructions of his. His body? His blood?
I shivered at his words and stood up, pretending to be busy with the empty plates, carrying them through to the main room, so that I could be
nearer to them both.
‘Remembrance,’ I whispered, but no one heard me.
‘I shall not drink again of the fruit of the vine until I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom,’ my brother said, very softly, as if he was making a promise to himself.
He was still standing and moved a little away from the table, drawing Yehûdâ after him.
‘What you have to do, do it quickly.’
My brother laid his hand on Yehûdâ’s shoulder for a moment, then went back to the table. He glanced across at the friend on whom he had laid this dreadful burden, and gave a small nod. There was compassion in his eyes.
Yehûdâ turned on him a look of such anguish, I thought I should be sick.
‘Please, Yeshûa, I beg of you!’ he said.
My brother shook his head. ‘Go.’ Then he resumed his seat.
I followed Yehûdâ down the stairs to the street door and put my arms around him to hold him back. I did not care who saw us now.
‘You cannot!’ I sobbed. ‘Beloved, he has gone mad! We must stop him!’
He held me close and I could feel the terrible drumming of his heart.
‘I cannot break my vow. He has counted on that. He has trapped me in the web of my own honour.’
He was weeping openly and could barely speak.
‘I promise you this, my dearest one. I will carry out his instructions to the letter, but that will not prevent me trying to save him from his own delusions.’
He kissed me gently on the forehead and was gone.
After the Pesah meal was over, Yeshûa suggested that, as it was a beautiful night, warm and still, we might go for a walk. Along the slopes of the Mount of Olives, he said, to the orchard that was called the Garden of Gethsemane, named after the large olive press located there. I was thinking desperately: Could I somehow draw him aside? Persuade him to take me back to Bethany on some pretext? Pretend to be ill? He would see through my pretence at once, or send me back with one of the others. No, I must stay here and help Yehûdâ save him.
‘I wish to pray out in the open,’ he said, ‘under my Father’s heaven.’
‘Where is Yehûdâ?’ someone asked.
‘I have sent him,’ said my brother, ‘to do what is needful.’
We followed him obediently, and suddenly I understood his reasons for this walk. Perhaps indeed he wished to pray there, but Gethsemane was an easy spot for the guards and soldiers to find us. And being in the open, in the dark, it would also be easy for the rest of us to escape. I think, too, that he did not want to be captured indoors, like a rat in a trap, but out under the open sky, where he had passed so much of his life.
It was very peaceful in Gethsemane. No one else was about. Because it was the middle of the lunar month, the moon was full and lit our way. It reminded me of the olive orchard at home, where I had spent those happy times with Yeshûa as a child, learning to read and write. Here too there were olive trees—from the breadth of their massive trunks, hundreds of years old, standing like ancient silent warriors all around us. But whereas in the village orchard the ground between the trees was clear of other growth, being regularly trodden by the villagers tending the trees or harvesting the olives or making their way down to the river, here we walked on fragrant grasses and herbs. I could smell camomile bruised beneath our feet, and wild thyme. I brushed against a bush of rosemary and plucked a sprig. Crushed between my fingers, its resinous scent reminded me of the meal we had just eaten, and also of the lamb roasted for my betrothal feast. Shy white flowers shone ghostly amongst the roots of the trees, wood anemones, and—barely to be seen in the moonlight—the imperial purple and blues of their larger cousins, the lilies of the field, which bled into the surrounding darkness.
When we had reached a pleasant grove amongst the trees, Yeshûa urged us to rest, for he said he wished to pray alone. As he moved away to climb a little higher, I caught his arm.
‘Must this be?’ I whispered.
I could not keep back the tears, and my voice was hoarse and cracked.
‘Yehûdâ has told you, then? It is the only way, talithâ.’
‘I beg you, Yeshûa,’ I said. ‘If you have ever loved me, come away.’
I tugged at his arm.
But he shook his head. Whatever part I had played in his life, whatever role I had in the greater story, in this I could not prevail.
Then he laid his hand on my head and blessed me. Through my tears I saw his shape amongst the trees, moving softly up the hill. Most of the group were not merely resting, they were already asleep, but I sat down cross-legged, my hands in my lap and my back against a tree, determined to stay awake at whatever cost. The great old tree, with its uncompromising shape and solidity reminded me somehow of Shim’ôn, stretched out on the ground nearby, breathing heavily from all the wine and rich food. Gradually the warm scents of the place stole over me, for it was indeed a garden, wild and uncultivated as it was, and not an orchard. The darkness and evening dew, the moonlight and starlight, made the scents of leaves and bark, of crushed grasses and delicate flowers, blend in a potent perfume that would have been undetectable by daylight. It filled the air and my fearful and sorrowing soul. I was drowsy, but my hearing remained sharp, and before long I heard hurried footsteps, not of a troop of men, but of one man.
‘Where is he?’
It was Yehûdâ standing before me, pale and breathless. I pointed to the path by which my brother had gone.
‘I have done what he asked,’ he said grimly, ‘but I am still going to try to save him from himself. They will be here in a few minutes. Will you come with me?’
A sudden unforeseen hope leapt in my breast. If anyone could save my brother, it was Yehûdâ. I sprang to my feet.
Together we climbed the hill and found my brother sobbing out incoherent prayers, begging Yahweh to spare his life. He was white and trembling with fear. Yehûdâ grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.
‘We will go now,’ he said, ‘down the other side of the hill and north towards the Galilee. We can be well away from the city before daybreak.’
Suddenly, as though transformed by Yehûdâ’s words, my brother became calm. He rose to his feet, gently set aside Yehûdâ’s hands, and shook his head.
‘This is my bitter cup,’ he said, ‘and I must drink it. Now listen.’ He took the hand of each of us. ‘You must both flee at once. Leave the Land of Judah. You, Mariam, will be in peril as the sister of Yeshûa, the Galilean trouble-maker. You must go alone, for to accompany Yehûdâ will mean danger and probable death. You are strong now, and brave. You will do this for me. And you, Yehûdâ, will be reviled and pursued by those who believe in me. You will be called forever the Betrayer of the mashiha. You will have the worst of it, for your suffering will be lifelong. Mine will be over before the next sundown.’
I was suddenly, coldly, terribly afraid. I threw myself to the ground and clutched handfuls of his tunic, as though somehow I could anchor him to life, but he lifted me tenderly to my feet.
‘Let me do this with dignity, Mariam.’
Then he embraced us both, holding us tightly in his arms and kissing us.
‘It is time,’ he said, and set off briskly down to where the rest of our group were sleeping. I could see now, beyond the clearing, the wavering light of torches coming up the hill, and men’s rough voices, and the clatter of armour.
The shelîhîm and the women woke, bewildered, seeing us coming down the hill and suddenly in the midst of them a confusion of soldiers and Temple guards, and shouting, and the flash of torchlight on weapons. They jumped to their feet. The Magdalene screamed.
Suddenly, there were men everywhere. The soldiers were heavily armed, but some of the shelîhîm also carried weapons. Shim’ôn Kêphas drew his sword and flew at one of the men. Yehûdâ thrust me behind him and his sword shrieked as he pulled it from its scabbard. I fumbled for the small knife I carried at my belt for cutting my meat, but I could have done no more than scratch an assailant. In the darkness
and confusion, friend was as likely to strike friend as to hurt an enemy.
‘Stop!’ Yeshûa shouted desperately. ‘Put up your blades, my brothers! No man must spill blood on my account!’
He ran forward towards the Temple guards, holding out his spread hands in a gesture of peace.
‘Take me. Don’t harm my friends. I am the one you seek, Yeshûa of the Galilee. These others are nothing to you. I swear I will come with you without a struggle.’
Shim’ôn stood uncertainly, his weapon still raised. I looked past Yehûdâ’s sword arm as my brother called over his shoulder, ‘Go, all of you! Save yourselves!’
One of the guards struck him on the side of the head with the flat of his sword, and he fell to his knees. The others began to kick him, in the guts and the back, as a crowd of boys will kick an inflated bladder around the street. A soldier in heavy boots studded with iron nails jumped on his head. Someone was screaming. I was screaming. Then the guards produced a rope and threw a noose over my brother’s neck. They twisted his arms behind his back and bound them together. His legs were tied with just enough slack to allow him to stumble along like a hobbled horse.
He looked back once towards me. Blood was pouring from a split lip and one eye was beginning to swell. His eyes held some message for me—they seemed to be pleading for forgiveness.
Then they dragged him away, and a sudden silence descended on the grove.
I looked around in astonishment.
‘Where are the men?’ I asked.
‘Run away,’ said Salome bitterly, ‘even my brave sons, who talk so loud.’
Run away. Every one of them. None were left but the women.
‘Let us follow,’ said the Magdalene, ‘and find out where they take him.’
We began to descend the hill, keeping the distant group of men and torches in sight as they made their way back into the city. I was so shocked at the speed with which my brother had been wrenched from me that I followed as if in a trance, not fully knowing what I was doing, alone in the dark of night with the women. But I found that not all of the men had fled. My arm was caught, and Yehûdâ pulled me aside from the path, into the shadow of a huge olive tree.