by Ron Cooper
I heard them mount their fine horses and trot away. After a minute or two, when I was sure they were gone, I stood to continue my journey. I was dazed but could walk. Two days later, I found a physician (or at least the villagers considered him one) who washed out my eye socket and dressed it with a balm as we sat in a shed that contained his knives, saws, and hooked tools as well as chicken roosts and a goat tied to a stake.
I had removed the eye from my chest, wrapped it in a cloth, and placed it in my pouch, planning to retain it as a keepsake. I showed it to the physician, thinking he would find it interesting. Instead, he slapped it from my hand and began to pray. He was an Arab, and he probably belonged to one of the primitive groups from Arabia that believes in demons and all manner of superstition. A bony, gray dog rose from the shadows, picked up my eye in its teeth, and raced from the shed. I think that dog would have made a good companion.
Verse Two
Through the night and the next day, Mary led us with a confidence and enthusiasm I had before witnessed only in Jesus, and only on his best days. Andrew and I contributed to the plans, but she was clearly the source of everyone’s energy, bustling about, encouraging people on how valuable they were, telling them that Jesus had often told her how much he valued their dedication, and saying, “You are the strong arm of the body of the Lord” and “You are a prince in the empire of the Lord.”
She sent Philip and Thaddeus every hour or so to give carefully worded, cryptic messages to the group waiting at the edge of the city that something grand was about to be revealed. “The revelation is upon us,” she told them to say.
She sent Matthew and Simon the Zealot to find any of Jesus’ followers who might be lingering in the city and, without alarming them, to get the lingerers to join the others outside by telling them, “Come to the great return. You are needed.”
The same sweet voice that got all of them to do her bidding reassured me through that sleepless night and restless day that only I could keep the empire of the Lord alive.
By nightfall, we were ready.
Just as we left the house, I became nauseated. Someone had found me a pure white cloak that covered my tunic, and I feared I would vomit on it. Mary’s voice, like a cool cloth on my brow, restored my composure, and we eight or nine walked in silence across town without drawing any notice from police or soldiers.
The crowd had moved out of tents and from under olive trees to gather on the slope of a hill only a furlong or more from the house outside the walls of the city where the inner circle stayed. The full moon was low in the sky. Stars crowded the purple heavens.
The cloak was gathered closely about my face as Mary escorted me to the crest of the hill. The crowd hushed. I hoped for a sign—a dog baying at the fat moon or a screech owl peeling an eerie cry. But the night was soundless. I looked up at the moon and I spread out my arms, and Mary slid the cloak from my head and shoulders, swirled it over her head, and snapped it, as if to rid it of debris.
The word “Master” rolled up the hillside from the hundreds of mouths.
Verse Three
All I remember of that evening are the voices of the followers repeating, chant-like, each of my brother’s favored phrases as I uttered them; the feeling that the night was hurling along, eager to press its historical seal; and the sight of Mary and Andrew and James and John nodding like rabbis in prayer, looking to each other as if to say, “It is happening—it is happening now!” The moonlight reflected upon a lake of faces, each one an image of hope and pain and resignation and trust and despair all at once, and for a short while I thought I felt what Jesus many times must have felt.
But I knew that his appearance before the crowd was effortless and guileless, while mine was strained and contrived. I spoke about the body of the Lord and empire and depths and tried to plait these threads into a rope that could bind us together into something coherent. My attempt at artful weaving was unnecessary.
All they needed was the likeness of my brother and his words. I strung some of those words into the semblance of a song and led them on a march. They pranced behind me like randy goats as we circumambulated the hill seven times, as our ancestors had when they paraded around the ancient Jericho and toppled its walls with trumpets and song.
The symbolism was lost upon no one. Without any cue, men made trumpet noises, and the children yelled, “Walls fall down! Down!” At the completion of the final circuit, the crowd erupted into a joyous, triumphant cry to the heavens, as if Joshua had destroyed the Romans and a son of David was again sitting on the throne.
The reverie provided just the cover I needed to escape unnoticed. I said nothing to the others as I slipped into the night and out of Judea.
Chapter Thirty-One
Verse One
The next two years are difficult to sort out. I wandered from Syria to Egypt and back, in and out of the Galilee, but not to Nazareth. I could not face my mother until I’d gathered the threads and woven together the true story of my brother’s final hours. Even when I’d completed that, I would need to unravel that fabric again and reweave it into a pattern presentable to my mother.
However, all I got during those years were conflicting accounts that only molded the tellers’ dreams into their own images of Jesus. To the militants, he was a flaming-eyed revolutionary who matched swords with the Romans until the last. To the mystics, he was a mirror-eyed seer who read God’s secret code in the stars. To the reformers, he was a stone-eyed Moses who delivered a new Torah. Each of these contained a mustard seed’s measure of truth. I wondered how much I had contributed to their growth.
A year or so after I departed Jerusalem, I found Bartholomew in Alexandria. He was shouting from atop a wooden stool on the street like a crazed prophet: “Jesus the risen god will return again soon to rule the righteous! Repent the failures of your heart and be free from the bonds of man! Jesus said I will see him again! You must join me in repentance!” A small crowd listened, probably more out of morbid curiosity than genuine interest.
Bartholomew scanned the crowd, pointing to individuals for emphasis. “You, brother! Repent! You, sister! Prepare for his return!” His gaze came to me. “You!” He stopped. He fanned his face as if chasing away a gnat. He threw out his arms toward me and shook his hands as if flinging water from them. I thought he was having spasms like those of people who have fits. “People of the Lord!” he yelled. “He is among us!” I turned and fled and heard him saying, “Pursue the Lord! Catch the Lord!”
Of course, no one gave chase. I circled back but waited for him to end his sermon. He picked up his stool, and I followed him to the vagabonds’ region of the city, where I pushed him into an alley and struck his face with the flat of my hand. He fell to the ground and cried.
“Are you mad?” I asked. “What were you trying to do to me?”
He put his face to the ground and covered the back of his head with his hands. “Forgive me, Master,” he said. “I’m only trying to serve you.”
“Get up, you fool. I’m not your master. I’m Thomas, not Jesus. He’s dead. You were there that night I pretended to be him. You heard the entire plan. Have you forgotten?”
He turned as if he would crawl away like a dog. He bent to the ground again and gagged like a poisoned man. “I’m doing what you said.” He spat and wiped his hand across his mouth. “You told us all to go out and spread the good news of your—of Jesus’ resurrection, and I’ve been preaching ever since.” He rose up to sit on his heels. My red handprint was on his cheek. “I have a community of people here trying to continue Jesus’ work and who are looking for his return.”
“What do you mean, I told you?”
“That sermon you gave that night on the hill. You told everyone—then, after that, you told us to go and start new groups of followers.”
“After that? I left and haven’t seen any of you since that night on the hill.”
Bartholomew stood and brushed dirt off himself. With his wild hair and nervous eyes, he reminded me of John the Baptizer. “Someone saw you. Said they saw you. Maybe Mary. Said you gave instructions.”
“Bartholomew, I need to know what happened the night Jesus was arrested. You were there, weren’t you?”
He shook his head and looked down. “We were all fearful that the police would come for us. Jesus had made a fuss at the Temple. Yelling at the money-changers and the merchants. Throwing rocks at a group of priests.”
“He threw rocks?”
“Hit one in the eye. But Jesus wasn’t concerned at all,” said Bartholomew. “It was as if he had just finished a great meal and was taking a relaxing stroll. That evening, Jesus was talking to us—not exactly preaching, but making odd pronouncements that I think he considered important. Things like we should not pick lilies, and that many things will pass, except he will not. I saw Peter talking to Andrew in the shadows.
“Then Judas showed up and had a fight with Peter. You remember they left without us when we were in Bethany, and we hadn’t seen them since. I couldn’t tell what it was about without walking right up to them, and they were trying hard not to draw attention to themselves. You know how Peter was—he would have all but killed me if I’d disturbed them. Insubordination.”
He pulled something from a pouch at his side and rubbed it between his palms as if cleaning dirt from it. He blew on it and returned it to his pouch. It looked like a smooth, blue stone, perhaps an amulet some Egyptian charlatan had sold him.
“Then the three of them went to where Jesus and Mary were sitting. Mary jumped up and embraced Judas, but Judas pushed her away. Jesus leapt to his feet and began quarreling with Judas—calling him a liar—and soon they were all fighting and shoving. I was terrified, Thomas. Judas’ Zealot friend, Simon, pulled Judas aside and tried to calm him down. Mary spat on Peter and walked away, and Judas followed her.
“Then, out of nowhere, the police arrived. One struck Jesus, and a struggle started, but it didn’t last long. They left a few of our people hurt and took Jesus away, bound like a slave to be sold.” He shook his head again, spat, and stared at his feet.
“Continue,” I said. Bartholomew seemed in a trance. I grabbed his shoulders and jerked him. “Bartholomew! What then?”
“It’s hard for me to remember it all, Thomas. It was frightening,” he said. “Andrew was in a frenzy and went to find out where Jesus had been taken. I went with him. We figured the court building that the governor was using for his headquarters was the first place to look. We ran into Judas. He said that nothing could be done—no, nothing should be done—and that we should go back and join the others and tell them that the Lord does everything for a reason.
“I had no idea what he was talking about, but Andrew seemed to understand. He pulled Judas aside, and another quarrel started. Judas hit Andrew in the stomach. Andrew fell, and Judas stood over him, holding a dagger, and said something like, ‘Don’t ruin this.’ Then Judas was gone. We went to the court building, but guards chased us away. Peter found us as we were leaving, and he and Andrew whispered something for a few moments. I think they were arguing. Then Peter was gone, too.”
Bartholomew rubbed his ears as if he were hearing a painful sound. “That’s all I know, Thomas. We sat around not knowing what to do, and then you returned.”
“Did you hear anything Peter and Andrew said to each other?”
“No.”
“What do you think they said?”
Bartholomew rubbed his hands and looked at them as if making sure they were clean. “Please, Thomas. This pains me. I’ve even cursed myself for thinking it.”
I wanted to slap him again. Bartholomew blinked; he must have sensed my impatience. He sniffled, and a low yelp, like from a puppy needing its mother, came from deep in his throat. I still wanted to strike him; instead, I embraced him. He wept into my shoulder. He mumbled something, chant-like, like a prayer.
“What did you say?”
He pulled his face a bit from my shoulder. “I don’t want to say it, Thomas.”
I stepped away from him, and Bartholomew crossed his arms in front of his face and yelped again. In a moment, he peeked through his arms, saw that I was not braced to hit him, and wiped his face with his inner wrists. Seemingly relieved, he took a deep breath. “Thomas, I can’t be sure, but I think perhaps Jesus’ arrest was no surprise to Peter and Judas. I got the idea that they had conspired against us on their separate way to Jerusalem.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know. They just behaved oddly.”
“And Andrew?”
“No. I think Andrew suspected something and didn’t approve, but found out too late to prevent anything.”
“Wait. I thought Jesus was arrested because of his scene at the Temple,” I said. “Are you saying that Peter and Judas had him arrested?”
“I don’t know, Thomas. I just can’t figure it all out. I don’t know if I want the truth anyway.”
I feared asking the next question. “What about Mary?”
A tear swelled on the rim of Bartholomew’s eye. “Whatever was going on, I cannot believe she was part of it. I think she suspected nothing,” he said. “If Judas plotted against Jesus, he was smart enough not to tell Mary. He knew, as we all did, that no one was more loyal to Jesus than she. I mean, except for you, of course.”
Tears rose in my eyes, I suppose for the rushes of anger, frustration, and betrayal in my breast, but perhaps more for the agony Mary must have gone through when she tried to piece all of this together. “Bartholomew, someone told me that you wrote down some of the things Jesus said.”
“A few things.” He looked fearful. “I wanted to record Jesus’ life. I began jotting down notes in Bethany and, since Jerusalem, I’ve been trying to recollect everything and fill in the events. It’s nothing, really.”
“Let me see it.”
“Thomas, my writing is dreadful. I had a few lessons and tried to learn more on my own—”
“Now.”
We went to his house and Bartholomew retrieved the bundle of parchment scraps. I promised to give him back the manuscript when I returned in a couple of weeks. The next day, as I left the city, I burned it all.
Verse Two
I tried to find Peter, but got enough hearsay and claims of recent sightings that I began to suspect he knew I was seeking him and was planting false information to evade me. Usually, I was told that he was where I had just been and heading in the opposite direction. Tales of his exploits, though, grew: He restored a blind man’s sight in Tyre, gave life to a stillborn child in Palmyra, caused a horse to speak in Lystra, and walked away unmarked when a lance passed through his gut in Apollonia. Not until the debate with Paul in Jerusalem did I encounter him again, and by that time I knew all I needed to know and no longer cared to kill him.
In the meantime, while some of our group pranced about the land peddling their version of Jesus, many of his most loyal followers returned to their worlds of bare tables and dark horizons. I found the Zebedee brothers fishing in Bethsaida just as before, except that now their father was dead. They could not afford to marry and so lived with their mother and sisters. They spoke with a soft nostalgia about our travels together, as if we had done no more than transport wool to Egypt and enjoyed a few young men’s adventures. When I brought up the continuation of Jesus’ work, they smiled sweetly and turned the discussion toward the scarcity of fish in the lake.
Andrew had also returned to Bethsaida. I found him at the market selling his meager catch for hardly enough money to buy a chicken. He acted quite happy to see me, and said that other followers often visited to seek his counsel.
“I really have no insight to offer them,” Andrew said. “I just spend every day in the boat hauling in barely enough to keep my family fed. I go out alone so I can contemplate what
it all meant. Jesus touched me profoundly, Thomas, but I’m not sure how. Sometimes, I think going through this perpetual examination is itself the answer. But Jesus wanted more than that for us, didn’t he, Thomas?”
We sat by his boat as he mended a net. I told him that I struggled with those very same questions, but he continued this elliptical discussion as if in time, impatient with his endless queries, some profound truth would reveal itself. At last, I forced his attention in another direction.
“Andrew, others have told me that some of our inner circle may have been involved in a conspiracy—one that may have led to Jesus’ death,” I said. “They name Peter and Judas. What do you know?”
He stretched the net across the ground and began to roll it up. “I hear many rumors, Thomas.”
“So do I, but they tend to converge on your brother.”
“I have seen little of him. He said, maybe a year ago, that he was going to Antioch. I don’t know why.” Andrew laid the net into his boat. “He told me once that he and Judas had indeed worked out a scheme. It included Judas’ associate Barabbas and involved aggravating the hatred that the Sanhedrin and Pilate and Agrippa all had for each other. They planned somehow to have Jesus emerge as a populist leader. They thought that the Romans would see Jesus as peaceful, even cooperative, and place him in a position of power. In the meantime, Judas and the Zealots would lay low, recruiting more activists, and when the Romans let their guard down, the militia would strike. Something like that. He spoke vaguely about it—no details.”
I was about to tell Andrew how preposterous that scheme sounded and berate him for letting Peter get away with such lies when he leaned upon the sides of his boat and hung his head.
“I didn’t believe Simon, but he got furious when I told him the same thing.” Andrew cleared his throat and may have sniffed back a tear. “Another time, he told me something completely different. He said that Judas wanted to have Jesus arrested and then free him from jail. They were going to bribe as many guards as they could—the Zealots stole money for just these kinds of schemes—and then the Zealots would attack. People could then easily be convinced that God had delivered Jesus from imprisonment. Simon didn’t like the plan, but Judas went ahead with it anyway. When it fell through, Simon and Judas fought.”