by Tracy Groot
James did not like it that Nathanael took his time. It did not do much for his status with Simon. It seemed an unspoken thing between Judas and James and Jorah that Simon be made to like Nathanael, that he see in Nathanael what they all did. But the apprentice did not help things when he provoked Simon with dawdling and—
Seek Nathanael.
“James?”
Fear rushed through him in a torrent, drenching him with dread.
James yelled, “Simon! Stop the cart!”
The foreboding spun him about. The walking stick dropped from his fingers, and James began to run for the pass.
Jude matched him pace for pace. “What is it?”
“Something is wrong,” James breathed.
They approached the trough in the hills and saw nothing at first, but the inner cry rose to a shout. James’ body was giving out; his skin was slicked in clammy sweat. Jude ran on ahead and disappeared around the rocky outcrop.
Nausea rose from the exertion. James stopped and braced his hands on his knees, panting and dripping sweat, then vomited on the side of the road. Trembling, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and staggered forward. He came around the corner and stopped short.
First, he saw a young man he vaguely recognized, but his face was contorted in soundless anguish, arms wrapped over his head where he sat on the ground rocking back and forth. An eerie wail rose from his throat. James followed his eyes to the still form of one he was sure he recognized.
Avi, the young Zealot who had visited that day, lay in the road, face slack, eyes dull. James’ gaze stopped at the knife stuck handle-deep in his chest. The blade tucked fabric into the center of a red stain. Beyond Avi . . .
Jude was crouched over a form. James could see the legs of the apprentice.
“No.”
James felt his chest begin to heave. Weak with dread, he came around Judas, then fell to his knees beside Nathanael. The inner cry came out in a whimper.
Nathanael’s chest was sodden red. The fabric of his tunic was sliced in several places, gaping in some spots, wetly closed in others. One, two, five places on his chest. Jude’s hands were moving over him, unsure, trembling. “James . . . we’ve got—we must stop this bleeding. We have to stop it! Get some cloth, quickly.” Whispering under his breath, Judas gingerly tugged at the bloodied fabric. He put his fingers into a fabric hole and began to carefully tear the tunic apart.
James rose and stumbled to the body of Avi. Numb in what he did, he worked the knife from the chest, then plunged the blade into the lower half of Avi’s tunic, ripping the cloth as he sawed. The knife fell from his fingers. He wadded the cloth and hurried back to Jude, where he dropped beside him, shoving the cloth at him.
The apprentice had fought, and fought hard. Three deep scratches curved from the bottom of his neck into his jaw. His lower lip was split and growing thick; one eye looked like a ball of swelling dough. The other eye was fixed on James. His lips, faintly blue, were moving. James scrambled around Jude and dropped close to hear.
Nathanael weakly patted James, whispering.
“What, Nathanael?” James whispered back, close to his ear. He took Nathanael’s hand and bent to listen.
His chest rose and fell in irregular rhythm. He labored for breath, speaking only on the exhale. “How about—that. Still there.”
“I’m still here, Nathanael.”
Nathanael dragged his hand from James and placed it on his own stomach, beneath the fearsome wounds. He grimaced in pain at the inhale, nostrils flaring for air, and on the exhale he patted his stomach and rasped, “Still there.”
Jorah’s scream tore the air, carrying with it a bit of her soul. From around the rocky outcrop, she ran toward them, Simon running behind her, yelling and lunging for her.
“Get her out of here!” James screamed and swung his body to block her view.
“Nathan . . . Nathan . . . ,” she gasped. Simon seized her and dragged her back.
Judas had finally worked the fabric free from Nathanael’s chest, and James wanted to howl at what he saw: methodical cuts! God of Israel! He slammed one fist on the ground, for nothing to punch, and growled every curse he could think of as he glared at Nathanael’s mottled chest.
“That makes me—feel better,” Nathanael pressed out. “Try it in—Greek.”
Jude took the wadded cloth and pressed it to the wounds, pulled it back, pressed again. He waited a moment, then removed the cloth and bent closely to examine the wounds. “Not deep here . . . not here . . . not deep.” He hissed, then said grimly, “Deep here. Deep here.” Jude raised his white face to James. “We need Jorah’s sewing kit.” Jude was the one to sew up their small cuts. He had sewn James’ thumb when he cut it on a grape scythe. James stared at the wounds, fighting a wash of nausea; these were not nicks from a grape scythe.
Nathanael fought for his breath, nostrils flaring. Every pore of him sucked for air, the skin about his neck pulling inward at his gasps. And as he strained with every inhale, a horrible sucking noise came from the lowest wound, just below his ribs.
“Couldn’t even—cut it out.” His hoarse voice was full of wonder. Then he grimaced in pain and tried to touch his chest. James held his hand back, but Nathanael groaned and began to shift; then he rolled to his side and vomited. Jude frantically followed his movement, keeping the cloth pressed to the wounds. James held the lad as his body convulsed. When it was done, he eased him to his back again. Whispered prayers replaced the curses, and James gently wiped blood and bile from the corner of Nathanael’s mouth with his sleeve. Jude peeked under the cloth and groaned.
“What do you need?” The other young man stood over them, fingers fiddling, face desperate. “What—needle and thread? Avi has—I will get it!” Gravel skittered from his sandals as he ran to a pile of camping things near the roadside.
“Do you need me, Judas?” James said, his voice hollow in his ears. “If you do not, I need to go and pray.”
“Pray here!” Jude snapped. “Don’t you leave me! God have mercy, I have not done this before.”
“That really—makes me—feel better.”
The young man skidded next to Jude and thrust a small packet at him. Jude’s fingers fumbled to open it; then he cursed at what he saw. “This is a tent needle! For canvas!” He threw it aside and sat back, pressing a bloodied hand to his forehead. “Go, James. Pray.”
“He has to—pray?” Nathanael managed a chuckle, producing a bit of bloody spittle at the corner of his mouth. “This gets better—all the time.”
“There is a caravan not far behind us.” The young man was already running. “I will hurry!”
James rose, turned from the horror, unsure where to go. He looked to where Simon held Jorah, who beat against her brother, wailing, “I want Nathanael. I want Nathanael!”
He walked a few paces, then dropped to his knees. He began to rock back and forth in the rhythm of prayer. Something on the ground caught his eye.
Annika’s spiced honeycake lay broken on the ground, half of it crushed underfoot. The Shema already on his lips, James closed his eyes and fell into himself to pray.
Despite her large size, the woman arrived on the run with her sewing kit, the young man on her heels. Eyes small and sharp, set in a red puffy face, she glanced at the body of Avi as she pushed up her sleeves and knelt beside Nathanael.
“Let’s see what we have, lad,” she panted. “Old Beca will set you straight.” She pulled aside the cloth. Her breath caught, and she pressed her lips tight at the sight of the wounds. She lifted a dark face to Jude. “This was torture,” she said angrily, breathing heavily. She gestured at the cuts. “Five of them? All horizontal? All on the right side? What demon work is this?” She leaned to Nathanael’s face, and her tone instantly became crooning. “Trust old Beca, lad, I will have you—” She broke off, eyes on Nathanael’s lips. She seized his hand to examine his fingernails, then dropped it to probe the wounds. She clicked her tongue at the lowest one.
“
This we must plug.” She looked at Avi’s friend. “A burning candle, boy. Quickly.” He sped off, and she rummaged through her sewing kit, glancing at Jude. “Can you sew?” Pale-faced, Jude nodded. “Good.” She bit off a length of thread and handed it to him with a needle. “Go to work on the upper wounds. I will take care of these two.”
She looked to where Simon sat with Jorah. “You there! No, not you. The girl.” Jorah sat straight up. Her face was swollen and red, and miserably eager. “Come, girl. Speak to him while we work.” Relief broke in a fresh sob as Jorah scrambled to her feet. She gave her face a fierce swipe with her sleeve, then ran and sank to her knees at Nathanael’s side. She sent only a glance to his chest, then ran her hands along either side of his face. She smoothed his damp curls and smiled down at him, eyes filled with tears, though none fell. His one eye was now purple and swollen shut, but the other returned her gaze. Dusky lips curved in a smile.
“You are not wearing your silly grimlet,” Jorah softly said.
“We should have—let them talk.”
“Enough with your talking.”
Beca threw Simon a sharp glance, then snorted as she licked the tip of the thread and squinted at the needle. “We are tougher than you think.”
17
SIMON SAT AT THE roadside up on the hill, rubbing his hand over his fist and watching the activity in the camp below. It would be just like the weasel of an apprentice to die now. Just when Jorah’s heart was beginning to mend from all those who left her. Just when Simon was beginning to—heaven help him—like him.
They had to get him to Jesus. Before, it was James. Now Nathanael.
He shifted his jaw. What would the others say if he voiced this sentiment? It had to come from James or Jude—anyone but him. Though the woman and Jude had done the best they could, the lad was plainly not going to make it.
He had watched as they worked with tense swiftness to sew the wounds but had to look away when the woman dribbled the wax. Presently Nathanael’s color began to pink up. His lips lost their bluish hue, and his breath came easier. But blood continued to seep from some of the wounds, making crimson stains on the white linen bandages wrapped tightly about his chest. Once during the middle of their work, Nathanael had to roll to the side to vomit, causing a fresh, hard flow of blood.
“Don’t you dare die, apprentice,” Simon growled under his breath.
The woman’s kin had arrived in a caravan close behind her, two large families traveling from Beth She’arim. On the periphery of the horror, Simon noticed their concern. The men, at least a dozen, had joined James to offer prayers on behalf of Nathanael. Simon and Joab had seen to the body of the young Zealot.
What a waste, Simon had thought bitterly when they added the last stone to the unnatural mound on the landscape. Had Avi ever dreamed his end would come to this? No funeral, no one to say prayers at his burial? God help him, Simon could not say the death prayers. What sort of a man would do to Nathanael what he did? And what sort of man was this Joab, who first was party to the unthinkable, and then took the knife himself and plunged it into the chest of his friend?
Though Joab had spoken in halting snatches, what had happened was still not completely clear. He stuttered something about it being for the cause, that Jesus was supposed to hear, that his powers belonged to the land. The babble of words from the distraught lad put a thorn of fear in Simon’s gut.
He gripped his fist. What if it were true? What if this were part of a widespread plot against Jesus, to—to blackmail him into using his powers to take back the land of Israel? Would the Zealots go so far? Thoughts tumbled forth, each blacker than the last. Was Judas Ish-Kerioth a spy? Were there more people on roadsides, dying like Nathanael, victims of an unthinkable plot? A plot at Passover . . . of course. What better time for attention, with thousands upon thousands stuffing the streets of Jerusalem. Joses . . . maybe you were right. Find him, Joses, and God grant that he will listen to you.
After removing Avi’s body, Simon helped the others move Nathanael to the roadside to allow travelers to pass. A line of scars on Nathanael’s thigh showed silvery white when his tunic slipped aside. Simon stared in sick horror at the scars, then saw James glower at them in a way that said he already knew about them. When he caught James’ eye and tried to ask, James cut him off with, “It’s his to tell.”
From where Simon sat, it appeared that the lad had either fallen asleep or lost consciousness. His face was waxen white save for the thick purple gash at his eye. What of this young man—not many years younger than Simon, really—born of a Jewish whore and raised as a Gentile? How came he to them, to capture the heart of his sister and speak things to make Simon want to—rattle him senseless, or . . .
He rubbed his fist and looked away. Jude or James should bring it up soon. They had to get him to Jesus. To Jesus, the blasphemer. They had to . . .
He squeezed his eyes shut. He tried hard to keep it a buried memory, undisturbed, and he did not know why it would choose to come now, but it came. Brutal and swift and relentless.
Gadarene, Decapolis. Simon and Joses found his home not in Kursi but south of it, near Hippos, and Simon had been the one to knock. For once, he knew what it was to knock.
“We seek a man called Kardus,” Joses had said.
“I am he. Come inside,” the man had said. “Be you welcomed.” From habit they went to kiss the mezuzah; there was no mezuzah.
“You must get many visitors,” Simon had mumbled. “We are sorry.”
“I never tire to share my story.”
He brought water to wash the dirt from the journey, and wine and olives and bread. Simon could not take his eyes from him. “Do not worry—they are all gone,” Kardus had said with a merry sparkle in his eyes. “The demons. In case you were wondering.”
They sat in the home of a pagan and broke bread with him. Simon would not believe this Kardus was the one, save the directions of the villagers. He was kind, and gracious, and droll—and sane.
Kardus told a tale of a man’s descent into madness. He told of inner torment to make Simon wince and Joses go white. He told of a man driven to the far corner of his being, trapped there by a lashing horde who tortured him without measure.
The demons were agitated, Kardus said. They made him pace the shoreline, muttering gibberish. In the distance, a boat came. The demons began to thrash and wail, and one was dispatched for help. Help came: A storm rose, crashing and violent, a malevolent masterpiece. The demons cheered, and Kardus capered about with their glee. Then, as suddenly as it had risen, the storm died. When the curtain of raging water dropped, when the spray diminished, when calm came, they saw what he did. Still the boat came, more relentless than the storm.
“Then he stood on the shore and inside me I wept. He came for me. He crossed the lake for me.” Joyous tears streamed. “I wanted to shout and wave and show him I was in there, but he knew. He saw them, and past them, he saw me.”
Simon could listen no longer. He rose and stumbled for the door, ran from the house as fast as he could. And when he could run no longer, he found a solitary place to weep as he never had.
“How did you know?” Simon whispered, gripping his fist to pain. “You had no reason to cross the Galilee. How did you know?”
Did he actually hear Kardus’ pain? Did he raise his head, fall silent in the middle of a teaching, look over his shoulder across the sea? For some reason, that was the picture Simon had in his mind. Jesus raising his head, looking over his shoulder, the wind blowing his hair across his face. He brushes it out of his eyes to gaze at that distant shore. What was he thinking at that moment? What was he hearing?
Did the torment of the one pull him from the many? That thought alone could keep Simon from sleep, long into the night.
How could the still form of the apprentice make him think of it now? Those old silver scars on his legs, sickeningly precise, and the fresh wounds on his chest . . .
“Jesus . . . ,” Simon whispered against his fist. “Hear the
torment of this one.”
Judas climbed the short distance to Simon and sat beside him, drawing up his knees. The sun slipped behind the hills, still sending up its luminous spray. The moon was on the rise, nearly full. In a few days, it would be Passover. First full moon of spring.
The caravan had moved on a few hours ago. Simon had watched as, in the midst of their stashing and stowing, a constant trickle of their number came to pay respect to Nathanael. A white-haired one had brushed what was surely a mixture of oil and water and wine over Nathanael’s forehead. Simon had heard his resonant prayer from here.
He had watched the woman, Beca, give instructions to Jude. Watched as she drew Jorah aside with an arm about her shoulders. Beca spoke briskly to Jorah, arranging the girl’s hair as she did so, and ended her talk with a broad smile. She waited until she got a smile in return; then she patted Jorah’s cheeks and embraced her tightly. What Jorah did not see was how quickly the woman’s smile faded as she watched Jorah return to Nathanael.
“We cannot move him,” Judas said. His voice was hard and weary like his face.
“How is he?”
“I don’t think he will live.”
“Jude . . . if he has a chance, it is because of you. You and the woman. I could not have done what you did.”
When Jude did not respond, Simon looked to the aura of sunset over the hills. A noise brought him back to Judas. His face was now drawn tight. He dropped his head and squeezed his eyes shut. A gasping snort came. Simon looked away.
“Simon, I am so . . . angry.”
Simon stared unblinking at the ground between his feet. Had he not time to think on it these past several hours, not moving from this spot? “What do we do with Joab?”