by Tracy Groot
He scanned the road. Where could they be? They should have been here by now, with or without James.
An arm came about him, settling on his hips, and his own arm responded to circle about his wife.
“You should have seen Hepsi dance,” Abigail murmured, eyes on the road, where Joses’ were. “She’s the sweetest thing alive.”
“Are they to bed yet?”
“No. They are with Jesus and your mother at Mary and Martha’s.”
The two looked long down the road.
Simon and Judas did not know, unless by some wild chance they had heard of it on the road. They did not know of this, the latest act of Jesus. Well that it was for Joses to see it, and not the other brothers. Especially not James, God have mercy. The near-belief in Jesus that Joses had long nurtured, like a tender seedling in the desert, came to its greatest test the day before yesterday. Joses himself did not know if the seedling lived or died.
Joses had followed Jesus about since his arrival in Jerusalem. The arrival alone brought back memories of the short-lived time of acceptance in Nazareth. Jesus was feted like a king—given palm branches to walk upon! People impulsively tore off their coats and settled them just in front of the advancing donkey. And Joses had cheered with them all, cheered himself hoarse. He had tried to catch Jesus’ eye, to let him know he was there. Jesus did not see. And, strangely, Joses thought he saw tears on Jesus’ face. Thought his face looked—anguished. It was only a glimpse, and the crowd did not seem to notice; they continued to cry out and rejoice. Many of them spoke loudly of wonderful things Jesus had done, things they had seen or experienced. That was a moment Joses wished with all his heart for his brothers to see and hear.
But everything changed, as it did with Jesus, sweet milk going sour. His heart large with hope, Joses had followed him through the thousands of people packing the ways of Jerusalem to the Temple compound. They supposed him to do as any rabbi would, to sit with his disciples assembled about him and teach. Once again, Jesus did what they did not expect.
He strode with determination, mouth compressed, face unreadable, to the tables of the money changers and those selling animals for sacrifice. Joses stood on his toes to see, but first he heard. Crashes and yells. Then a voice thick with rage crying out, “It is written!”
It is written . . .
Shock waves rippled the crowd to near silence, and his brother’s voice carried across the compound.
“It is written! ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer!’ But you have made it a robbers’ den!”
The words echoed through the crowd, repeated over shoulders to the fringes of the throng who did not hear.
Who is that?
It’s Jesus, the Galilean from Nazareth.
Who does he think he is?
On whose authority does he . . . ?
Where is someone from the Sanhedrin when you need him?
“Do you regret it, Abigail?” Joses presently said. “Do you regret marrying into this family?”
“Yes, of course I regret it.”
For the first time in a long time, he smiled. His gaze at the road slid down to his wife. “You do, do you?”
“Every single day. I say, ‘Abigail, you fool. What were you thinking?’”
Joses tightened his arm around her, and she wrapped her other arm around to encircle his waist. She settled her head against his chest and sighed as she looked down the road. Then she glanced at movement on their left. It was Keturah, looking with them down the road.
Abigail whispered to Joses, “One day, I hope, this sweet little thing will regret marrying your family too.”
Joses looked to catch Keturah’s eye and smiled at her. She smiled shyly back, whisking her hair nervously behind her ear. The shy smile disappeared as she returned her gaze to the road.
Though Keturah and Therin stayed within Jerusalem’s gates, at the home of Therin’s sister, daily she came out to Bethany to wait with Joses and Abigail. She visited with Devorah and Mother and Devorah’s new baby, and went to the home of Mary and Martha to hear Jesus speak with his followers, always wandering back to Bethany’s foregate. Joses had already told her—offhandedly, trying hard not to imply anything—that likely James would stay behind with Nathanael. While she did not deny that it was James for whom she looked, like him she didn’t seem to believe he would stay home.
Joses frowned. How could he tell the brothers? It would only seal Simon’s belief that Jesus was nearing insanity. True it was that the act at the Temple did not make sense, none that Joses or Tobias or the other elders could see. The money changers offered a service to the festival attendees, because nothing but the half-shekel of the sanctuary could be received at the Temple treasury. Was it usury Jesus railed against? Jesus himself knew the Law fixed the rate the money changers were allowed to charge. And the others, who sold the animals for sacrifice? A service too, for the pilgrims who traveled far and were burdened enough with provisions for a long time away from home. Why was Jesus so angry?
And why, when he had begun to court their trust, did he do confounding things like this? It was no different from the day he came back to Nazareth, raising hopes only to squash them himself.
Believing in Jesus was like . . . tapping your chin to invite a blow.
18
JAMES WOKE TO THE sound of soft weeping. It was a low and crooning sound, broken by snuffled gasps. When he finally realized it was Jorah who wept, he jerked his head up.
“Jorah?” he whispered thickly, fumbling out of his extra tunic. He looked to find Jorah crouched at Nathanael’s side near the fire pit where the brothers had laid the apprentice last night. He reached past Jorah to feel Nathanael’s forehead. Too warm to the touch.
The lad moved his head side to side, murmuring weakly. James yanked aside Nathanael’s covering to look at the wounds. But it was not quite dawn and too gray to see. James reached to shake Judas awake, where he lay curled in a ball not far away.
“What is it?” Jude said, instantly alert. He shook out of his own extra tunic and came to Nathanael’s side. He felt his forehead, then peered at Nathanael’s chest, running his fingertips over the bandages. “James, bring a candle.”
“Jorah?” Nathanael said hoarsely. He looked at the faces over him, bewildered. “What? No, Jorah. Don’t cry . . . it’s still there. Annika would say . . .” His words drifted away.
It took too long to coax a flame out of the sleeping embers, too long no matter how he hurried. Cupping his hand around the flame, James went to his knees beside Nathanael. He held the candle over Nathanael’s chest while Jude gingerly pulled back the bandages. The first three wounds did not receive more than a glance. Jude stopped at the second lowest. Even James could see the fluid seeping between neat black stitches. Jude placed his fingertips very lightly around the wound, then winced. “It’s warm.”
“But that doesn’t look like infection.” Jorah’s voice wavered. “It’s too watery.” She lifted her face to Jude. “Isn’t it? Too watery?” When he did not answer, the crooning came back, and she sat back on her heels to weep into fistfuls of her head covering.
Jude rubbed his forehead, then pinched between his eyes. He dropped his hand and whispered, “I don’t know what to do. I am not a physician. A poultice? What would we put in it? Would it even draw it out?”
“There’s a settlement ahead, and Shechem is only a little farther,” Simon’s voice came from behind. Joab was awake too, and though he hung back, his eyes were wide with anxiousness. “Should one of us go find a physician?” Simon asked.
“I will go,” Joab quickly said.
“Annika . . .” Nathanael muttered.
“No.” James spoke as he stared at the restless form of Nathanael. “There is no time. We pack up and make straight for Jesus. We can make Bethany by nightfall if we leave now and do not stop.”
A moment of silence followed; then as one they moved to break camp.
He came in and out, rousing to fire a question at James, only to
fade before he heard the answer. The quickened pace made the cart jostle more. It was something they had to risk, though they all winced at the hard jolts, as if wincing would ease it for Nathanael.
They left Samaritan territory and came into the province of Judea.
Before leaving Samaria . . . Mount Gerizim, Nathanael. The holy mountain of the Samaritans, the place of their temple; remember what I told you?
As they came into Judea . . . Look off to the East, Nathanael, see there? Shiloh. It is where Samuel was called to be a prophet of God.
Halfway on the Judean road to Jerusalem . . . East again; it is Bethel. There Jacob had his dream, a ladder full of angels. Think of it, Nathanael . . . angels.
His one good eye drifted and watched and drifted again, as if he tried hard not to sleep. He listened to what James said, though James hated the way he listened . . . too placidly, too peacefully. He listened as if trying hard to commit what he heard to memory. It made James unaccountably angry, made him ache to see it. What made him ache, perhaps, was the freshly cut tefillin Nathanael now wore.
Before they set out, as a slice of sun just topped a rocky ridge, Simon had gone to Nathanael with a wrapped bundle. They had just settled him in, tucked the cushions at his side. He was weakly joking that he was being pampered like an Egyptian princess and wouldn’t it be fine for his friends to see, when Simon pushed a bundle into his hands.
Nathanael glanced at the bundle, then at Simon. His one good eye on Simon, he slowly pulled aside the wrapping, then looked to see. The wrapping fell from a small leather packet threaded onto a long, freshly cut strap of leather. Nathanael fingered the strap, then closed his hand on the packet. Slowly his gaze came away from the tefillin to Simon.
Simon’s awkwardness was evident. He kept his own eyes fastened on the tefillin. “Do you know how? Here, let me help you.” He pulled himself up on the cart and helped Nathanael put them on. “You wind the strap seven times around the arm, three times around the hand. Always on the left arm.”
But Nathanael’s one eye was not for the tefillin. It stayed on Simon until he slid off the cart and went to take the donkey’s reins. Simon clicked his tongue and the cart started forward, with everyone in the usual places. Nathanael rocked slightly side to side with the cart, gazing at the tefillin wrapped around his arm. James kept close and reached in to pat Nathanael’s shoulder.
“What are the words again, James?” Nathanael whispered.
“‘You shall love the Lord your God—’”
“‘With all your heart,’” Nathanael whispered with him, “‘with all your soul, with all your strength.’”
Exertion asked its price, and Nathanael’s good eye began to close. Before he drifted to sleep, he chuckled, his fingers curled around the leather packet, and murmured, “Only makes sense.”
They stood in line in the clogged Temple courtyard, if there was order enough in the press of people for it to be called a line. It was early afternoon, and at sundown it would be another Passover without Jesus. The first without the rest of his brothers.
Joses stood with his father-in-law, Tobias, who kept the lamb on a short rope next to him. They had come later to the courtyard, hoping at the last to see Judas and Simon and Jorah arrive, maybe with James. They never showed, and Tobias urged Joses to join him.
“What of my father’s household?” Joses had wondered on the way from Bethany to Jerusalem. “Who will offer the lamb for them? I have not seen Jesus since yesterday, and Simon and Judas are not here.”
“We will offer another on their behalf,” gray-haired Tobias had assured him. “We will purchase a second at the courtyard. If we cannot . . .” The old man spread his hands. “I think God will allow for this lamb to cover us all. Eh, Joses?”
“Yes, Tobias,” Joses had murmured, with a reluctant glance over his shoulder to the city gate.
Roman soldiers were stationed at strategic spots in the maze of streets in Jerusalem, eyes ever on the press of people about them. They usually stood taller than those around, as one of the requirements for serving in the Roman army was to be at least six feet in height. Pontius Pilate was in town and had brought with him extra soldiers from Caesarea to display strength against any notions of uprising. Herod Antipas, for all his Gentile ways, was in town for the festival too, staying in the Palace of Herod. Everyone was in town. Everyone except his brothers.
Jerusalem normally kept Joses bright with interest; the Antonia Fortress Herod the Great had built, though it had none of the beauty of the Temple, was a sight to see, if a disquieting sight. Part of it loomed over the Temple, as if to remind the Jews that Rome ever saw, Rome ever knew. Still, the architecture was impressive. Many faces from the smother of bodies in the courtyard (bodies in need of a bath from days of travel) would bide the time gazing up at the soldiers stationed on the Praetorium walls, who gazed in turn upon the Temple courtyards, ever on the alert for the merest hint of insurrection.
Any part of the Temple itself could be studied for hours, marveled at and admired for its beauty and design. Even the colors of the Temple stones were beautiful. One arch in particular had always captured Joses, since he was a child; it was the stone above the center arch from the Court of Gentiles, on the north side near the Antonia Fortress. The stone was a solid piece of marble with foamy colors like a wave of the sea. Joses could look on it for an hour without losing interest.
So much Jerusalem had to offer, especially at Passover, so much to engage and to mesmerize . . . but Joses only wanted to be somewhere else.
He gazed unseeingly at the Temple sanctuary, where soon Tobias would slay the lamb, and a priest would collect the blood. Where else could he possibly want to be on such a holy day? He was in Jerusalem, God’s Holy City, the heart of every Jew. If it belonged—temporarily, he reminded himself—to foreign hands, it was still Jerusalem; it belonged to the Jews. He was here, with his beloved wife and his children. He was—
“Isn’t that . . . ?” Tobias asked, pointing.
“What?” Joses said. “Who?”
“The fellow over there, talking with those priests. Isn’t he one of the disciples of your brother?”
Joses looked where Tobias gestured and felt a rustle in his gut. It was the one from Kerioth. He spoke with a few priests, with some from the Temple guard looking on. While he spoke, the fellow occasionally cast a glance about; he was a man who either did not want to be recognized or did not want to be overheard.
“What’s he doing with them?” Joses frowned. Why wasn’t he with Jesus? The disciples never went far from their beloved Teacher, save for things like provisional errands. What was this man doing?
After a week in Bethany, talking with different people, Joses had learned something the other brothers did not know. It was a fellow named Simon who was rumored to be the Zealot among the disciples of Jesus. There wasn’t much to learn about this Judas Ish-Kerioth, save that he took care of money matters for the group. Joses’ relief at finding that the man did not seem to be connected to Raziel had left him nearly weak. It was one of the reasons he waited daily for the party from Nazareth. He waited with this good news . . . and with news like the Temple incident.
Joses sighed deeply and turned away from the little gathering. Was it his business to understand the doings of the disciples? He had a hard enough time understanding Jesus.
He could not cry out. He would not. The latest cut was a streak of fire, but he would not let her see him cry. To release the wickedness, she said. To let the evil out. It was his only hope.
“I will run away!”
“The madman in the tombs will get you. He likes to have little boys for lunch.”
Mustn’t let her see him cry . . . never that. The streak of fire, it ached so. She always cried later, cried and cried, and bandaged the wound with salves. Why not this time? Why did she let it keep hurting?
Mother . . .
“Nathanael?”
He opened his eye to a canopy of canvas and to James peering anxiously insid
e. The streak of fire was not one but several, the pain making them one. He held back a groan as he shifted to see James better.
The cart was not moving. “Where are we?” Nathanael croaked. He touched a thick tongue to dry lips.
The cart creaked as James hoisted himself in. He took the waterskin, loosened the fitting, and dribbled some water onto Nathanael’s lips. Then he helped him up to take a real drink and eased him back onto the bedrolls.
James took a drink himself and replaced the fitting. “We are somewhere near Ramah.” He gave a grim half smile. “The going is about to get rough. We will leave the Roman road to take the shortest route to Bethany. Through Givat Shaul, then Nob. We should arrive in Bethany in a few hours if the road is not too bad.” He reached to touch the back of his fingers to Nathanael’s forehead. “How do you feel?”
“Better than this morning.” It was an easy lie. He could talk, if not walk. Sitting up to drink was enough to make the cart spin, and thoughts of going to the brush could set him to whimpering. He figured if he did not drink, he would not have to go. But he was so thirsty.
He hated to see the worry on James’ face. If he only knew, he would not worry . . . but Nathanael could not tell him. He would think he was out of his mind, in delusion from the wounds on his chest. But as long as Seek James was there, settled in his gut like a second soul . . .
“Where are the others?” Nathanael asked.
“Resting. Eating. How about some of Annika’s cake?”
He hadn’t eaten anything since—that morning. Fear of the unholy pain of vomiting had taken care of his appetite. And now he was too warm to eat, uncomfortably so. The sun must have mistaken this spring day for summer. He was about to refuse; then he noticed James’ face. “Sounds good. A few bites.”
James turned to rummage in the supplies, which had been shoved and stacked to the other side of the cart in a jumbled mess not like these people at all. It looked like his sleeping room back home in Caesarea. His sleeping room at Annika’s was as neat as the rest of her house.