by Tracy Groot
Did any of the other brothers get a switching from a Hebrew teacher for informing the other students of Jesus’ . . . interesting . . . birth? Did any of the other brothers have his mouth scrubbed out with a cake of ash soap for speaking blasphemy?
“What of Nathanael?”
Simon made fists. To hear the lad put the name of the apprentice on his lips . . . “What of him?”
“Where is he from?”
“Caesarea Maritima.”
“Who is his family?”
“He has none. Save a whore for a mother.”
“What is . . . her name?”
Simon spun to face him. “What do you care?”
Joab shrank from the disdain in Simon’s voice, clutching flat loaves of bread to his chest. The shivering little coward. Hateful worm.
Simon snarled, “Get out of my sight.” He watched Joab slink away toward camp. He wished he would creep all the way to—Rome, for all Simon cared. He could never be far enough away.
He picked up another handful of rocks and began to whip them at the boulder in the moonlight.
20
PASSOVER
“Arrested?” Joses demanded, rising from the breakfast table. “On what charge?”
Devorah stood in the doorway, twisting her hands, face full of worry, near tears. “I don’t know! It’s so confusing; nobody knows what is happening. He was arrested last night. They say he is being detained at the home of the high priest.”
“Joses,” Tobias breathed, rising next to him.
Joses tossed his napkin onto the table. “Where is Mother?”
“Matthias took her to Jerusalem to see what they can find out. She and some of the other women.”
“They choose now to arrest him, on Passover?” Joses came away from the table, walking the room, hardly knowing where he went. “What charge, Devorah? What charge? Is it what happened in the Temple the other day? Is it—blasphemy?”
Abigail was at his side, her hand on his arm. “She does not know. Go with her, Joses.”
Joses stopped. “He was arrested last night? They waited until night to do it?” Bewilderment made him stare; fury made him glower. “But he was in the Temple daily with them! He hid nothing!”
“Go with your sister, Joses. We will watch for your brothers.” Tobias hurried him to the door. He snatched Joses’ outer robe from a peg and pushed it into his hands. “We will send them on when they come.”
Joses pulled the robe over his tunic, then stopped in the doorway to look over his shoulder at the table. There sat his mother-in-law, Sarah, and Tobias’ brother and sister-in-law, faces anxious and grim. Hepsibah and Benjamin, faces solemn and eyes wide. A brown ring circled Hepsi’s lips, honey syrup from the unleavened cakes.
“Pray for your uncle, children,” Joses urged quietly.
“We will, Abba,” Ben said.
“We will, Abba,” Hepsi echoed. She turned to her brother. “How come Uncle Jesus was ’rested?”
Joses and Devorah hurried from the home, but Devorah’s steps soon lagged. She had given birth to her first child only a week ago. “Joses,” she gasped, “I cannot. I will only slow you down. Hurry and find Mother; she needs you. Send word when you can.”
“Tell Keturah and Therin,” Joses called over his shoulder. “And pray, Devorah.” He turned from her and broke into a trot. The early morning sunlight left her impression on his mind, hair wisped and wayward, face tight in worry, so alone in the empty village street.
Arrested at night? Detained at the home of the high priest? He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not. Rome did not arrest him, thank God. Apparently, they saw no threat in Jesus, and they would not think twice to detain a man during Passover to keep the peace. His stomach clenched with fear. What did the high priest see? What conclusions had he come to? Was this the thing Joses and the others had dreaded all along? Perhaps Jesus would have been safer in a Roman jail.
It took nearly an hour to walk to Jerusalem from Bethany. Leaving the city gate, Joses settled into a run.
What offense was blasphemy in Roman law? By the gods, Pilate hated these people. Hated their pinched intellects, hated their rigid ways. He gripped his forehead and groaned a long inward groan. It was too early in the day for this. Too early at the break of dawn, and hours later it was still too early.
He cracked his eyes open, but the people had not gone away. He squeezed his eyes shut and cursed every deity he knew, with two extra curses for their own. It made him chuckle; would they name him a blasphemer? And how would they deal with Pilate? Ah, but he was an ignorant pagan. He did not count. There it was, then. All this man had to do was join up with the pagans. Then he could get himself out of this fix. It didn’t seem likely.
Pilate had congratulated his own shrewdness in shooing the man to Herod once he discovered the man to be from Galilee. But Herod had sent him back, worse for the wear, even though he wore purple. It seemed Herod was as annoyed by the intrusion as Pilate. Perhaps he was not as uptight as Pilate thought; at least he was nothing like these other Jews. He should send him a small cask of his personal reserve from Gaulanitis. Sighing deeply, he rubbed his eyes and opened them.
Pilate studied the weary man in front of him. He tilted his head, trying to appraise him from another angle. The Jews themselves did not want this man; moments ago, they chose Barabbas. And earlier, when Pilate tried to display Roman justice, they only wanted him to give over this man without a formal trial.
Well, and what choice did he have? He had made the Jews furious too many times, what with the Temple treasury incident and the matter of the standards. Blood had spilled then, Jewish blood—and Rome would brook no more tension between the procurator and the Jewish leaders. Especially during one of their holy festivals. Jews were notoriously stubborn, as unmoving as their god. If he admired them for their fortitude, he could throttle them for their obstinacy.
The man swayed on his feet. Come to think of it, he really didn’t like this man. He had tried to defend him and got no thanks in return. Not a crumb of gratitude. Pilate tilted his head to the other side; he decided he hated him simply for making him do this. Well, then. Let it be the death of a Jew to appease the Jews.
“Crucify him.”
“Where have they taken him? Does anybody know?”
They dragged him here; they dragged him there. Whose report could Joses believe? “He is at the home of the high priest!” “No, he is at Herod’s palace!” “The Antonia Fortress, I heard it from a soldier!” Near frantic with fear, he pushed through the streets thick with bodies. Back to the Antonia Fortress. It seemed he was always one step behind.
How could he find Mother in this mess? The Temple compound sprawled on his right, the Fortress lay ahead, and a milling mass of people were in between. And what could Joses do when he got there? How could he speak for his brother?
What events were on the move?
Jesus, arrested? Jesus, dragged before the likes of Pontius Pilate and Herod himself? Long the brothers had feared something like this, but when it came down to it, incarceration was—preposterous! Jesus was only a carpenter! Just a talkative carpenter from Nazareth!
Jesus had slipped through the crowd at the precipice that day; surely he would do so now. Surely, if God had indeed called upon Jesus to do a great work for him, then God would again protect him, allow him again to slip through grasping hands. Surely, he would.
Joses took up his shout once more. “Where have they taken him? Jesus, from Galilee? Jesus, of Nazareth? Does anybody know? Does anybody know?”
I want to believe. But how?
Did one believe from feeling or did one believe from choice? What came first? James fit the lid onto the box and rested it in his lap. Most importantly, was this belief right? If he allowed the thoughts to go their course, he ventured toward a precipice.
Is my brother one who is—
Take the thought its course.
Is my brother . . . chosen by God to—
Take the thought it
s course, you coward.
Is my brother the Christ? James closed his eyes.
Honest. But there’s more.
Is my brother the Son of God? His eyes flew open. His actual Son?
The thoughts took him to the edge and by thinking them, pitched him over.
“Jesus . . . did it have to be this way?”
How came others to believe in his brother? How did that belief feel? Was it easy for them? Did it change them? James regarded the cart at the bottom of the slope below. Jorah was fixing a posy of wildflowers to the rail where Nathanael could see them.
Nathanael had been changed by secondhand words. James could tell it without being told. The very air around Nathanael was different. He had long wanted to tell that story to Nathanael but just hadn’t dared. James, repeating the words of Jesus? Passing along a story such as that?
He noticed the box in his lap and smoothed his hand over the bumpy ridge of inlaid lapis stones. Jesus brought change, that was sure. Were they ready for it? Was James?
“So you are a prophet. A reformer. But Jesus . . . ‘Love your neighbor.’ You’re serious about that? Love . . . ? And ‘Love your enemy’?” Everything would be all right if it were not for the fact that Jesus meant what he said.
Do for others what you would have them do for you. Do not judge, so that you will not be judged. Words as exhilarating as they were hopeless. Who could turn the other cheek? Who could love their enemy? Why? And then came Do not think I have come to do away with the Law or the Prophets; I came not to abolish, but to fulfill.
“What was not fulfilled that you came to fulfill it?”
He wanted to believe, but he was terribly, terribly afraid. Oh, God, he was afraid. He rubbed his lower lip as he watched the others break camp. He could feel his heart beat faster with what he was going to pray.
“God of Israel . . . hear me,” he mumbled against his balled fist. Fear rose, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “God of my fathers, do not be angry with me, but I have a question. A very terrible question: Is it right to believe in him? Do you want me to believe? Do not be angry with me, but, please . . . I need to know.”
Acknowledge the Lord in all your ways, and he will direct your steps. If he doesn’t first consume you with fire for asking a question drenched in blasphemy.
You are miserable because you have not decided. He did not need the voice of a Zealot to tell him what he already knew. He dropped his head and scrubbed the back of his neck. He had not seen Jesus since that day nearly two years ago. He had last looked upon him from the dust of the ground, at Jesus borne away by an angry crowd.
He had to decide; he knew it at his core. But it was a decision too great for him. Perhaps some could decide in one gallant stroke, for the nay or for the yea. He could envy it, but it was not James. He had to creep toward belief, toward the yea or nay; get hard ground beneath him as he crept. And suddenly, he knew how he would do it. His head came up slowly.
He would start as Father had told him long ago. James, how does one pave a long pathway? One cobblestone at a time.
There it was, the safety he needed. The first cobblestone of this pathway to Jesus was to look into his eyes. Two years since he had last looked into those eyes. Yes . . . yes! Let James look now and see what he might. Let the look be the beginning. Let the look decide whether he took the next cobblestone.
He found he could take a deep breath and, with it, found that his misery had lessened for the first time in years. It lessened by one cobblestone. Clutching the box to his chest, he rose from the side of the road and made for the breaking camp.
“I saw where they took him, young fella. Outside the city, north wall.”
“Outside the city? Why?”
The man shrugged. “Because they will not crucify him inside. They grabbed some poor rustic to carry his—say, young fella, are you all right?”
The sun approached its noon mark. They would soon be upon Bethany, and their journey would come to an end. If Jesus was not at the home of Devorah, or of his friends Mary and Martha, then he was in Jerusalem, teaching at the Temple. Despite the crowds, they should not have a problem finding him if they asked around. Nathanael would make it to see him; he had to. James glanced at the wilted posy tied to the rail. And soon James would look into a pair of eyes very like his own.
If the others had noticed the new hope James felt, to his relief they did not mention it. It was too new, too fragile.
“Bethany!” Simon called over his shoulder.
“Bethany,” James heard Judas breathe.
Jorah, ever in front of the cart, spun to reveal her sunburned, joyful face. “Can you believe it?” She hurried to the cart and lifted the flap. No matter that Nathanael was sleeping. “Nathanael! It is Bethany!”
He roused enough to blink in the sudden shaft of sunlight, and he cracked a smile at Jorah, but he drifted off a moment later. His face was flushed, and white ringed his lips.
Jorah smiled tenderly upon him, as if things were the way they should be, and let the flap fall back into place. A joyous lift in her step, she hurried to walk with Simon.
“I think you should be a doctor,” James said to Jude. “Trade your tools for herbs. I cannot believe he has made it this far.” But Jude did not answer.
They came closer to the city gate, and when it was still a distance away, Simon peered under his hand against the burn of the sun. “James, look. There, by the gate. That’s not . . . is that . . . ?”
James followed his gaze. It could not be . . . “Keturah?”
Keturah, waiting for them? Waiting, perhaps, for him? Who else was with her? The closer they came, the more they saw. Was it . . . Tobias? But why was Tobias sitting in the dust? And why did Keturah wail? And why did the sky grow dark?
“What is happening?” Jorah turned about, gazing with fear at the sky. The sun shone brilliantly; at least it had at his last breath . . . and now the sky grew dark, for the sun stopped shining. Without a cloud in the sky, it simply stopped.
Fearful cries came from all around, from within the city, from the traveling party. The sun was a gray disc. Darkness pervaded, bringing with it a chill. The world was cloaked in shadow.
Simon had halted, and with Jorah, Judas, and Joab, he whirled about, gazing at the sky. James alone, sick with dread, kept his measured trudge to Keturah.
In the dimness he could see that her lovely lavender tunic bore the marks of one who had fallen on the ground. Her face was drawn in despair, and the wail she could not stop did not lessen or increase at the sight of James. Strangely, she did not seem to notice the sky. Her eyes were on him alone.
Tobias, Joses’ gentle father-in-law, a man of propriety and fastidiousness, sat in a disheveled heap on the ground, covered in dust, his clothing rent down the middle. His wail was a sound more aching than Keturah’s.
James stopped a few paces from her. Her face was striped in dirt and tears, and she pressed her hands over her mouth, covering the wail but not stopping it. She gazed into his eyes, large brown eyes tormented for him and for another.
He could barely speak for the press on his heart. “Jesus . . .” And she nodded.
A fearful ache splintered wide a crevasse, dropping James to his knees. He wrapped his arms about himself and pressed his forehead to the ground.
Joses sat alone in the darkened world. Apart from him sat some from Galilee. Most of the crowd had gone now; some had left beating their breasts. For nearly an hour, Joses had screamed himself into the dust. He tasted it now. His mouth was cracked and dry; his ravaged throat was filled with it.
Upon the neighboring hill, upon one of three crosses, was a simple carpenter from Nazareth. He had not slipped away this time.
Mother huddled in a group not far from the foot of the cross, though Joses could not go to her. He could not, he could not be where his brother hung in pain. Neither could he be away. Upon this God-cursed hill, at a God-cursed distance, he sat.
How could he tell his brothers? Oh God, oh God, oh God .
. . how could he tell them? How could he tell Jorah? How could he tell his little Hepsi?
Dry weeping came again, and he pressed his face to the ground to swallow more dust with his lament.
21
SABBATH
Is it how you want to remember him? Tobias had called out. The words had halted James’ steps to Jerusalem.
From a back room, he heard the small cry of Devorah’s new baby and the rustle of Devorah’s tending. It was still night. Unless the others lay awake on their beds, only James and Devorah and the baby were awake.
There would be no more cobblestones.
He rolled to face the wall. At his feet he could see Judas. Simon was on the other side of the workroom. Nathanael had been taken to the home of the physician in Bethany, and Jorah would not leave him. Joab had disappeared. He could not remember the last time he saw the lad. He had taken the lamb with him. Such a small thing to notice.
He noticed other things. The way Joses would not let his children go when he came in from Jerusalem. The way Devorah held her baby close, the way Matthias tended Devorah.
Mother was not among those returning from Jerusalem. Joses told of the last heart-tearing thing Jesus had said regarding the family. From the very cross on which he died, he commended their own mother to the hands of a disciple. Joses had to watch, broken and helpless, as Mother was led away by strangers. He had followed behind until he knew where they took her, to the home of one called John Mark.
A fearful quiet had descended upon the village, as surreal as the three-hour darkness from the sun. Animals were still; the wind had stopped. For hours, everyone in the village stayed by the city gates, silently awaiting word from Jerusalem. Travelers dragging their steps began to straggle in. Nobody went to their homes until Sabbath duty demanded they leave to light the candles and cruses.
The quiet followed the family into the home of Devorah and Matthias, a quiet broken only by whispering or when one was suddenly seized with weeping, an act as capricious as the wind. It seized James last night when he helped Matthias fill the Sabbath cruses with oil, and it seized him once when Devorah had unexpectedly placed her babe in his arms. He could only hold the little boy a moment before he had to hand him back and stumble out of the home into the evening.