Mary of Nazareth (18 page)

Barabbas and Rekab stood there, stunned. At last, Rekab asked, “What shall we do? Go back to Magdala?”

“No,” Miriam murmured, her eyes closed. “We must go to Beth Zabdai, to Joseph's house. To the Essenes. They can cure the sick, and bring them back to life.”

Rekab thought he had misheard her. Or else Miriam was a little mad with the exhaustion. He threw a glance at Barabbas, ready to ask him a question. But tears were streaming down the cheeks of this brigand admired by everyone in Galilee.

Rekab lowered his eyes and took his seat on the bench. He waited a moment for Barabbas to join him.

As Barabbas did not move, Rakab cracked the reins on the mules' rumps and set off.

         

T
HEY
entered Damascus just before nightfall. Several times, Rekab had stopped to let the mules rest, taking advantage of these brief halts to check on Miriam's condition.

She seemed to be asleep, although her eyes were open. Her arms were still wrapped around Obadiah's body. Rekab had filled a cup with water from one of the jars.

“You must drink, or you'll get ill.”

Miriam had looked at him as if she barely saw him. Because she did not take the cup, he had dared to put his hand behind her neck and force her to drink, as she had done to Obadiah during the previous night and the days before that. She had not protested. On the contrary, she had let him do it with surprising docility, closing her eyes and thanking him with a vague smile. Rekab had been surprised by the way she looked. For the first time, Miriam's face was that of a girl, not an austere, intimidating young woman.

At the entrance to the opulent gardens that surrounded Damascus and enclosed it in a splendid casket of greenery filled with bustling crowds from the poorer parts of the city, Rekab stopped again. This time, he carefully closed the curtains.

“There's no point in them seeing you,” he said by way of explanation.

But he was mainly thinking of Obadiah's corpse. If one of the peasants noticed it, a crowd might gather, and it would not have been easy to explain away.

But Miriam seemed not to hear him. Some time later, he inquired after the village of Beth Zabdai. Directions were soon forthcoming: The village was two leagues from the outskirts of Damascus, and was known to everyone as the village where people were healed. And, fortunately, the path that led to it was wide enough for Rekab to drive the wagon along it without too much difficulty. Situated to the west of Damascus, and surrounded by fields and orchards, the village consisted merely of a few whitewashed buildings. The flat roofs were covered in creepers. The walls had no windows on the outside, but enclosed inner courtyards. The house before which they stopped had only one large wooden door, painted blue. A smaller door set in it, just big enough for a child, made it possible to enter without it being necessary to open the main door. There was a bronze knocker.

Rekab brought the team to a halt, got down, and went and knocked at the door. He waited and, because no one came, knocked again, more loudly. Still no response. He did not think they would open. As the sky was already red and night quite close, this was not very surprising.

He turned back to the wagon, anxious to announce the news to Miriam, when the smaller door half opened. A shaven-headed young Essene in a white tunic put his head through and looked at Rekab suspiciously. This was the hour for prayers, he said, not for visitors. They would have to wait for the next day if they wanted medical care.

Rekab ran to the door and held it before the Essene could close it. The young man started to protest. Rekab grabbed him roughly by the tunic and pulled him to the wagon. He lifted the curtain. The young Essene, who was crying insults and struggling furiously, breathed in the smell of death. He froze, opened his eyes wide, and saw Miriam in the darkness of the wagon's interior.

“Open the door,” Rekab growled, letting go of him at last.

The boy straightened his tunic. Uncomfortable at the sight of Miriam, he lowered his eyes. “It's not the rule,” he said stubbornly. “At this hour, the masters forbid us to open.”

Before Rekab could react, Miriam spoke.

“Give my name to Joseph of Arimathea. Tell him I'm here and can't go any farther. I am Miriam of Nazareth.”

She had sat up a little. Her voice was gentle, which embarrassed the young Essene even more than what he saw. He did not reply, but ran back inside the house—without even closing the small door behind him, Rekab noticed.

They did not have long to wait. Joseph of Arimathea came running, accompanied by a few of the brothers.

He did not bother to greet Rekab, but jumped into the wagon. Before he could question Miriam, she uncovered Obadiah's face. He immediately recognized the young
am ha'aretz
and let out a moan. Miriam murmured a few barely comprehensible words. Rekab realized that she was asking Joseph to bring the boy back to life.

“You can do it, I know you can,” she muttered, as if she had lost her reason.

Joseph did not waste time in replying to her. He seized her under the arms and called to his companions to help him get her down from the wagon. She protested, but she was too weak to struggle. She held out her hands to Joseph, imploring him in a voice that gave him gooseflesh, “I beg you, Joseph, perform this miracle…Obadiah didn't deserve to die. He has to live again.”

With a tense, grave face, Joseph stroked her cheek without a word. Then he made a sign for her to be taken inside the house.

         

L
ATER,
when Rekab had parked the wagon in the courtyard, and Obadiah's body had been taken out of it, Joseph joined him. Gently, he placed a hand on the coachman's shoulder.

“We're going to take good care of her,” he said, pointing to the women's quarters, where Miriam had been taken. “Thank you for what you did. The journey must have been rough. You must eat and get some rest.”

Rekab pointed to the mules, which he had just freed from the yoke. “They have to be looked after and fed, too. I'm leaving again tomorrow. The wagon belongs to Rachel of Magdala. I have to get it back to her as soon as possible.”

“My companions will look after the animals,” Joseph said. “You've done enough for today. Don't worry about your mistress. She can wait a few more days for her wagon. Then you'll be able to give her good news about Miriam.”

Rekab hesitated, torn between protesting and accepting. Joseph impressed him. His benevolence, his calm, his bald skull, his gentle blue eyes, the great respect shown him by the young Essenes bustling around the house—everything about this man intimidated him. At the same time, his heart was bleeding. He could not stop thinking about what he had just lived through, so far beyond anything he could ever have imagined.

Joseph squeezed his shoulder affectionately, then led him to the main room of the house.

“I didn't know this young man Obadiah very well,” he said. “But Miriam's father, Joachim, said a lot of good things about him. This death is a sad one. But then all deaths are sad and unjust.”

They entered a long, white, vaulted room, furnished only with a huge table and benches.

“You mustn't worry about Miriam,” Joseph said. “She's strong. She'll feel better tomorrow.”

Again Rekab was impressed by the attentiveness shown him by the master of the Essenes. Even in Rachel's house, he wasn't treated with such consideration. He looked into Joseph's blue eyes and said, “Barabbas the brigand was with us last night. He was the one who brought the boy to Magdala….”

Joseph nodded. He invited Rekab to sit and sat down next to him. A young brother put a platter of semolina and a cup of water in front of them on the table.

His hand trembling a little, Rekab raised a first spoonful to his mouth. Then he put the spoon down, turned to Joseph, and started to tell him all about the horrors he had seen on the journey.

CHAPTER 12

M
IRIAM
took longer to recover than Joseph had foreseen.

She had been put in one of the small rooms in the woman's quarters, in the north of the house. At first, she had protested. She wanted to be near Obadiah. She refused to rest, to calm down, to be reasonable as she was asked. Every time one of the handmaids told her she had to take care of her own health, not Obadiah's, since he was dead, Miriam would insult her without restraint.

Nevertheless, after a difficult day during which she struggled and screamed constantly, the handmaids managed to get her to take a bath, eat three spoonfuls of semolina in milk, and drink some herb tea that put her to sleep without her even being aware of it.

This went on for three days. As soon as she opened her eyes, she would be fed and given a narcotic herb tea to drink. When she woke again, she would find Joseph beside her.

In fact, he came to visit her as often as he could. While she slept, he would watch her, anxiously. But when she opened her eyes, he would smile and utter calming words.

She barely listened to him. Tirelessly, she would ask him the same questions. Couldn't he treat Obadiah? Wasn't it possible to bring him back from the land of the dead? Why couldn't Joseph perform this miracle? Wasn't he the most learned of doctors?

Joseph would merely shake his head. Avoiding giving cut-and-dried answers, he would try to divert Miriam from her anxieties and her obsession. He never mentioned the name Obadiah. His main concern was to get her to eat and, as soon as possible, to drink the potion that would put her to sleep.

Joseph never came alone to see Miriam. Within the community, the rules did not allow a brother to remain alone in the company of a woman. So he was always accompanied by the most brilliant of his disciples, a man named Geouel, from Gadra, in Perea. He was barely twenty, with a thin, rather bony face, and eyes that were constantly judging everything and everyone he saw.

Geouel admired Joseph greatly. But his uncompromising attitude often concealed his real qualities and irritated his companions. Joseph tolerated this prickly character, although he sometimes mocked him affectionately. Most often, he used him to keep his mind alert, like a man putting cold water on the back of his neck early in the morning to wake himself up.

When Miriam, stubbornly ignoring Joseph's replies, repeated her questions for the fourth time, Geouel declared, “She's losing her mind.”

Joseph did not agree. “She's refusing to accept something that makes her suffer. That doesn't mean she's losing her mind. We all do it.”

“Which is why we can no longer tell the difference between God and Evil, Darkness and Light….”

“We Essenes,” Joseph remarked with a smile, “believe that he who has died may live again.”

“Yes, but only by the will of God Almighty. Not through our own powers. And only if the man who will live again has lived a life of perfect goodness…which is certainly not the case with this
am ha'aretz
!”

Joseph nodded mechanically. He often had this debate with his brothers. Everyone in this house knew his point of view: Life deserved to be sustained, even in darkness and death, for it was a light given by God to man. It was a precious gift, the very sign of Yahweh's power. Everything had to be done to sustain it. That certainly did not rule out the possibility that if one day man attained supreme purity, he might be able to rekindle life even when it seemed to have gone. The fact that Joseph had professed this opinion many times did not prevent Geouel from arguing.

“None of us has yet seen the miracle of resurrection with his own eyes,” he said now. “Those we care for and bring back to life haven't died. We are only healers. We dispense love and compassion, within the narrow limits of the human heart and mind. Only Yahweh can perform miracles. This girl is mistaken. In her grief, she thinks you're as powerful as the Lord. That's blasphemy.”

This time, Joseph nodded with more conviction. Looking at Miriam's face as she slept, he let a few moments pass, then said, “Yes, only God can perform miracles. But consider this, Brother Geouel. Why are we living in Beth Zabdai and not in the world, among other men? Why do we sustain life here, inside, and not outside, if not to make it stronger and richer? Deep in our hearts, we hope that we can become pure enough, loved enough by Yahweh, for the covenant he made with the descendants of Abraham to be completely fulfilled. Isn't that why we observe Moses' laws so strictly?”

“Yes, Master Joseph, but—”

“Which means, Geouel, that we hope, with all our souls, that one day Yahweh will use us to realize his miracles. Otherwise, we will have failed at being his choice and his joy. We will be a race that has disappointed him.”

Geouel tried to reply, but Joseph raised his hand commandingly. “You're right about one thing, Geouel,” he went on. “It would be wrong to encourage Miriam's illusions. She mustn't believe that we can perform such miracles. But as a doctor, you're wrong: She isn't losing her mind. She's suffering from an invisible wound that has left a gash as deep as a sword thrust. You shouldn't think of the words she utters, the hopes she entertains, as insane, but wise; they soothe her wound as surely as any plaster and make it possible for her to expel the corruption from her body.”

         

W
HEN
Miriam awoke, she again started begging Joseph to bring Obadiah back to life.

This time, his answer was different.

“After you arrived, we said farewell to Obadiah's body, according to custom. We wrapped it in the cloth of the dead and commended it to the light of Yahweh. His flesh is in the earth, where it will return to dust as the Lord intended when he made us mortal by the grace of his breath. He will still be among us in spirit. That is as it should be. Now you must think about your own health.”

Joseph's voice was cold, with none of its usual gentleness. His face was inscrutable, and even his mouth appeared hard. Miriam stiffened. Geouel was watching her closely. Their eyes met and she sustained his gaze, before again looking to Joseph for help.

“In Magdala,” she said, her voice throbbing with anger, “you taught us that justice is the supreme good, the way to the light of goodness that Yahweh holds out to us. But where is justice when Obadiah dies and Barabbas doesn't? He could easily have died, determined as he is to challenge Herod through bloodshed.”

Geouel emitted a groan. Joseph wondered, a little embarrassed, if his young companion was reacting to Miriam's condemnation of Barabbas or to the mention of his own “teaching” among the women of Magdala.

With an authority that did not exclude the wish to provoke Geouel, he took Miriam's hand.

“God decides,” he declared, regaining his customary gentleness. “No one else but God decides our destinies. Neither you, nor I, nor any other human. God decides miracles, punishments, and rewards. He decides on the life of Barabbas, and it is he who recalls Obadiah. Such is his will. We can treat the sick, relieve pain, cure illness. We can make life strong, beautiful, and powerful. We can make justice the rule that unites men. We can avoid using evil as our weapon. But death and the origin of life belong only to the Almighty. If you haven't understood that from what you call my teaching, then my words must be clumsy and of little weight.”

These last words were spoken with an irony that was lost on Miriam. She had closed her eyes again while Joseph spoke. When he stopped, she took her hand from his and, without a word, turned in her bed and faced the wall.

Joseph looked at her, reached out his arm and stroked her shoulder. Then, with a fatherly gesture, he pulled the thick woolen blanket up over her. Geouel watched him as he did so.

He forced himself to be silent and still. He did not think that Miriam would speak to him again, but he wanted to make sure that she was breathing more easily.

When he was satisfied, he stood up and gestured to Geouel to follow him out of the room.

In the vestibule, as they were going back to the courtyard, they were suddenly surrounded by a group of handmaids on their way back from the washroom, laden with baskets of linen. Joseph stepped back into a recess, but Geouel kept straight on, forcing the handmaids to move aside with their heavy burdens. Despite the effort they had to make to give way to him, they made not the slightest protest, but instead avoided his eyes and bowed their heads respectfully.

Reaching the courtyard, Geouel turned to wait for Joseph, eyebrows raised in surprise. He pointed to the handmaids. “Couldn't they have let you pass? They're getting more and more insolent.”

Joseph concealed his irritation behind a smile. “The fact is, there are fewer and fewer of them, which means they're overworked. And if they weren't there, would you be prepared to wash our dirty linen at the time when you should be studying and praying?”

Geouel dismissed this thought with a grimace. When they had almost crossed the courtyard, he remarked, in a tone that was meant to be conciliatory, “Sometimes, listening to you, anyone would think you wouldn't mind if women became rabbis!” He paused to give an amused little chuckle. “Such is God's will. It'll never be possible, and it's mere pride to think otherwise and to expect of women that they will ever be able to rid themselves of what makes them women.”

Joseph hesitated before replying. He was worried about Miriam, and was not in the mood to smile at Geouel's obstinacy.

“It is God's will that we are born from both a man and woman. We emerge from a woman's belly, don't we? Why would the Lord want us to emerge from a cesspool?”

“That's not what concerns me. Women are what they are: driven by the flesh, the absence of reason, and the weakness of pleasure. All of which makes them unsuited to attain the light of Yahweh. Isn't that what is written in the Book?”

“I know, Geouel, that you and many of our brothers condemn my opinion. But neither you nor the others have yet answered my questions. Why should evil inhabit the container and not the seed? Why should we be more inclined to purity than those who give us life? When have you ever seen a source purer than the cave from which it springs?”

“We have answered you, with the words of the Book. They constantly divide woman from man and judge her unsuited for knowledge.”

They had gone over these arguments a thousand times. This kind of conversation led nowhere. Joseph made an irritable gesture, as if swatting a fly, and abstained from replying.

“I had the
am ha'aretz
's body taken out of our graveyard,” Geouel said, through pursed lips. “They must have misunderstood your instructions. You know his grave can't be with ours. The
am ha'aretz
aren't entitled to be buried in consecrated ground.”

Joseph stopped dead and a shudder of revulsion went through his body. “You took him out of the ground?” he asked in a toneless voice. “You want to deny him a burial?”

Geouel shook his head. “Oh no!” he said, with an unpleasantly victorious smile. “Without a burial, he'd be damned. I don't suppose he deserved that, did he? Even though the fact that he died while not much more than a child must mean that God had no great plans for him. No, don't worry. We put him back in the ground beside the road to Damascus. Where foreigners and thieves have their graves.”

Joseph could not say a word in reply. He was thinking of Miriam. It seemed suddenly as though everything he had said to her was a lie.

Geouel was perceptive enough to guess what he was thinking. “It might be better if you didn't see that girl again,” he said. “Her health is not in danger, only her mind. She doesn't need you anymore, and our brothers wouldn't look too kindly on any further visits to the women's quarters.”