The Galilean Secret: A Novel (7 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

MARY MAGDALENE DIDN’T CARE IF SHE DIED BEFORE SHE GOT TO JERUSALEM. When she left Nain, she headed south, in the general direction of the city, heart racing, head throbbing. Jesus had done nothing to stop the prostitute’s intimacy with him; the memory assaulted Mary. How could he? She was the one Jesus loved!

Her rage burned hotter with each cautious step on the uneven stones. So did her regrets. She had hoped that Jesus could save Israel from the Zealots’ madness. How could she abandon the prophet of peace? Was she giving up on Israel’s future? She trudged the narrow path that led toward Samaria and then to Jerusalem, the heat of the day intensifying her confusion. She paused and held a wineskin of water to her parched lips. With each swallow, she tried to drown her fears about the Zealot resistance. Having grown up in Magdala, in the shadow of the Zealot encampments on Mount Arbel, she knew how the resistance operated, and she feared that its violence would create a catastrophe for the Jews. Jesus offered a way out. He challenged people to trust God and love one another, even their enemies. Could she really leave him? Could she turn her back on Israel’s best hope for survival?

After a last sip of water, she returned the wineskin to her bag and thought again of the conversations she had shared with Jesus. They were so personal, so sincere, so full of promise. Now the memory of those conversations tore at her heart. Hadn’t the conversations proven that he not only loved her but was also
in love
with her? Hadn’t her words shown how much she loved him? Why then did he speak publicly to a prostitute? Why did he allow this shameful woman to anoint his feet with her tears and dry them with her hair?

Torn between wanting to support Jesus’ message of peace and needing to protect her heart, she felt unable to move forward through the barren landscape. Its scattered patches of sand, granite boulders and haphazardly strewn stones appeared threatening. It was not too late to return. Perhaps she should. As the young man Gabriel ben Zebulun had told her, a woman traveling alone risked her life, especially in Samaria, with its robber-infested mountain passes.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. No, she couldn’t go back. The Zealots’ madness no longer mattered, nor did the dangers of Samaria. All that mattered was the ache in her heart
. Jesus can call me jealous or petty, but I must go. I must find a new life.
She began to run. Soon her lungs burned and sweat poured down her face. Still she did not stop.

Only when she came to a pass through a tree-studded hillside did she slow down to a brisk walk. Wary of robbers, she glanced often at the tall boulders that lined the narrow road. She no one and tried to ease her concern by envisioning the kindly faces of her uncle Elkanah and her aunt Rachel, who lived in Jerusalem. She prayed that they would take her in. Two years earlier, after her husband, Jonathan, divorced her, they had offered to do so.

Jonathan had cursed her barrenness and put her out on the street. Her aunt and uncle were all that had stood between her and prostitution, so she had traveled this route before. She forced her tired legs to keep moving and the events of that terrible time came back to her. She couldn’t stop thinking about the encounter that had changed her life.

After arriving in Jerusalem, she had gone to the Temple to offer a sacrifice and pray for strength. In the outer court a broad-shouldered rabbi with a strong voice was teaching. His features appeared peculiarly angular to Mary, his nose thin and pointed, his left eye lower than the right. He was tall and gangly, yet despite his odd appearance he was holding a large crowd spellbound with his eloquence. He ended his sermon by saying, “If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”

Captivated, Mary had waited for the crowd to leave before speaking to him about how she earnestly desired this freedom. When she revealed her barrenness and how her husband had beaten and divorced her, the rabbi said, “This man was not worthy of you.” Then the rabbi named the seven demons that were tormenting her—grief, terror, shame, rage, loneliness, desperation and despair.

She remembered how he had stepped back, gently touched her forehead and said, “If you believe in me, your faith will make you well.” His hand became so hot she feared her skin would catch fire. His voice echoed in her mind, the sound of rushing water, driving the demons out so that a deep peace came over her.

She had never made it to Uncle Elkanah and Aunt Rachel’s home. Rather, she joined the other women who were following this rabbi called Jesus—Mary, his mother; Susanna; Joanna; Martha; and two other Marys. Along with his male companions, she became one of his disciples. That first encounter seemed long ago now because she felt desperate again, her dream of finding a man to protect and care for her shattered. Again only her aunt and uncle could save her from a life of shame and destitution.

After Mary made it through the pass, she breathed a sigh of relief that no robbers had accosted her. On the right side of the road she noticed a weed-strewn olive grove, which she entered. Having walked for several hours, she was ravenous and dug into her bag for the unleavened bread, olives and slices of lamb that she had taken from Simon ben Ephraim’s feast. As she began to eat, she sat down and leaned against an old gnarled olive tree. She was struck by how much she still loved Jesus, and how perplexed she was about what to do with her feelings. Dark clouds of sadness swept over her and she began to weep. Fatigued from her arduous journey, she closed her eyes.

She was about to doze off when the sound of breaking twigs jolted her awake. She glanced up, horrified. Two average-size men were approaching, clubs in hand. Springing up, she tried to flee, but one of the intruders, a curly-haired man with close-set eyes, caught her by the arm and spun her around. “If you resist, it’ll be worse.” He tightened his grip while his potbellied partner seized her other arm. They held her fast, but her legs were free, so she kicked the second man in the stomach, evoking a grunt from him.

Screaming, she kicked again, this time aiming for the first man. When she missed, he slapped and then choked her. “You can’t get away, so why not enjoy it?”

Gasping, she fought to free her arms but couldn’t. The men were lifting up her skirt. She thought of Jesus and the gathering at Simon ben Ephraim’s house and how stupid she had been to leave, but then she had never imagined that this could happen. The first man threw her down and climbed on top, strangling her with both hands.

CHAPTER NINE

JUDITH STOOD IN THE AFTERNOON SUN AND EMBRACED DISMAS WITH MORE WARMTH THAN SHE FELT. He and four other men were leaving for Jerusalem to spy on the Antonia Fortress and offer sacrifices at the Temple. Judith hoped that Dismas wouldn’t sense her reticence, and he didn’t seem to, because he just smiled and mounted his horse along with Barabbas and the others. “I’m eager to pray at the Temple again,” he said, adjusting his reins. “I only hope Caiaphas still allows it. I hear the Temple is more like a marketplace than a house of God these days.”

Judith waved as Dismas galloped off in a plume of dust. She thought of Eleazar Avaran and wondered,
What if Dismas were the next to die?
She knew it could happen, if not on this mission, then on the next; if not in the Judean Desert, then in the battle for Jerusalem.

The dust settled and she continued to stare. Did she secretly wish that Dismas wouldn’t come back? Feeling ashamed even to acknowledge the question, she continued to hear it whisper from some dark place within her, and she realized why: Dismas might as well be dead to her. She no longer knew him. He cared about little else than overthrowing the Romans. Although she still met his needs—as wife, lover and even nurse—he met few of hers, and she doubted he could change.

No wonder she longed for home and fantasized about throwing herself on her father’s mercy and admitting what a terrible mistake she had made. The image of her mother embracing and welcoming her back played continually in her mind. If Dismas didn’t return, she would go to Jerusalem, beg her parents’ forgiveness and start a new life.

Desperate to silence these relentless yearnings, she walked back toward the campfire, her mind searching for memories of better days with Dismas. She thought of the first time he had kissed her in the Herodian gardens, how he had captivated her with his idealism, his passion for justice, his vow to avenge her brother’s murder. The memory seemed distant now, but she couldn’t deny that she had loved him. What they had shared together—and all that he had taught her—no one could take away. And yet she couldn’t recapture that time, not after his coldness, not after her days of drudgery and nights of loneliness.

The other women had cleaned up after their meal and gone off with the remaining men to make weapons. Only Judas Iscariot was still there, lying by the fire. Propped up on his good elbow, he looked rested and healthier than she expected.

As she approached, Judas nodded, acknowledging her presence. There was dried blood on the cloth bandage she had applied the night before. “That bandage needs changing.” She went to him and began to unwrap it. The blood had fused the cloth to Judas’ skin: he grimaced as she removed it. She fetched her medical supplies from the storage tent and knelt to clean the wound with a mixture of wine, oil and water.

As she worked, Judas caught her eye. “It was worth getting stabbed to have you nurse me.”

She went on cleaning the wound, ignoring the comment, but Judas reached over and laid a hand on hers. “I’ve noticed how Dismas ignores you. A fine woman like you deserves a man who truly cherishes her.”

Judith stepped back, withdrawing her hand, alarm sizzling through her. For a moment she was unable to speak, but finally she regained her composure and said, “I’m here to help you, Judas, and that is all I intend to do.”

Judas smiled and stretched out his wounded arm. “Then I’ll be your best patient ever. I’m not in a rush, so you need not be either.”

Judith tried to remain angry, but found Judas’ gesture curiously disarming and couldn’t keep a straight face. Judas noticed her smile and playfully shook a finger at her. “I can tell when a woman likes me, Judith. Why resist? Make it easier for both of us.”

Judith froze. Judas Iscariot was handsome and his orations held her spellbound, his words colorful, his tone as smooth as a Jerusalem spice seller’s. But his tendency toward self-promotion made her question his motives. She considered his attempts to curry favor with Barabbas devious. She couldn’t trust a man who needed approval so badly.

Judas pushed himself to his knees, his face inches from hers, and slipped his good arm around her neck. Pulling her toward him, he kissed her. He reeked of smoke from the fire, but the hotter fire was in his lips, trembling with risk and desire. She tried to pull away, but the more she fought to break free, the tighter he held her.

The kiss was a violation of her decency. How dare he impose himself on her! Pulling back, she shoved hard and pushed him away. “You had no right to do that.”

He lost his balance and fell on his left side, favoring the wounded shoulder and protecting it. “Not a right, an obligation. I can’t stand to see a beautiful woman suffer. The loneliness in your eyes compelled me to kiss you.”

His condescending tone enraged her: it was that of an older man patronizing a naïve girl. A girl he assumed he could seduce at will. Dismas wasn’t there to defend her; she had to defend herself.

She slapped Judas squarely across the face.

He let out a howl and fell backward. She walked away, determined to expose Judas Iscariot for the scoundrel he was. He would be sorry he had ever touched her.

CHAPTER TEN

AS GABRIEL APPROACHED THE PASS THROUGH THE HILLSIDE, HE FEARED WHAT MIGHT LURK IN THE SHADOWS. After leaving Nain, he and Nicodemus had passed through other dangerous places—narrow ridges above high cliffs, deep crevices in dry streambeds, but this pass was different: it definitely could be a hiding place for robbers. Gabriel paused to consider what to do. Should he run ahead to determine whether the road was safe? Or should he stay with Nicodemus and risk endangering them both?

He glanced at the low-lying sun, its brilliance beginning to fade from burnished yellow to muted gold. It would be dark in less than an hour, and he wanted to catch up with Mary Magdalene by nightfall. He turned to Nicodemus, who was struggling to keep up. “I think I should go on by myself,” he said. “I’m leery of this pass, and I want to make sure it’s safe before helping you through it.”

“You go ahead, my son. I will be fine.”

Gabriel broke into a run, scanning the hills on both sides of the road as he approached the pass. The craggy rocks above, studded with bushy shrubs and scrawny pines, reminded him of the slope of the Hill of Moreh outside of Nain. He and Nicodemus had edged along the slope’s challenging incline until the path flattened out and cut through hillsides and an occasional lush vineyard or field golden with grain. This was the first dangerous pass they had encountered; moving into it sent a shiver through him.

He hoped that Mary Magdalene had stopped early to avoid traveling at night. This was his best chance to find her—and find her he must. Only she and Nicodemus could help him settle who Jesus was and whether he could trust him. Nicodemus’ words about love and grace had given him consolation, but if Jesus had betrayed Mary, then Gabriel wanted to hear no more.

He picked up his pace through the pass until he was running, legs thrusting, arms pumping. When he made it to the other side, he noticed an olive grove about fifty yards ahead. His heart leapt. He wondered if Mary might have stopped there for the night. The olive trees were so large that he couldn’t tell if anyone was among them. But as he drew closer, he saw movement in the shadows. A sharp pain stabbed his heart. Could it be Mary? He ran faster still.

The scene came into focus. Now he saw that it was not one person but several, and two of them were attacking the other.
May it not be Mary Magdalene.
When Gabriel reached the thicket, he confronted his worst nightmare. Mary was on the ground, fighting off two attackers.
Oh God, no!
His stomach tightened into a fist. He dove headlong and slammed a shoulder into the man on top of her, sending the man reeling. The other man wrapped an arm around Gabriel’s neck, trying to punch him with his free hand. But Gabriel bent low and flipped the man over his shoulder.

The first man recovered and charged, fists clenched, but Gabriel pivoted, sidestepped and drew the dagger from inside his tunic, nearly blind with rage and terror. Crouching low, he brandished the dagger at the men. When they saw its length and the confidence with which he handled it, they fled toward the pass. Gabriel chased them until they disappeared over the hillside. Then he returned to Mary Magdalene. He saw her shadow behind a thick olive tree, where she had gone to fix her clothes.

His lungs were heaving. “Are you all right?” He reached up to wipe the sweat from his face; his arm felt so numb he could barely manage the gesture. His neck ached and his mouth tasted sour. The memory of the vicious men’s hard-as-stone expressions sent a shiver through him.

“Yes—I am unhurt.” Mary’s words sounded strained, as if she were swallowing after each one. He could hear her coughing and catching her breath. She stepped from behind the tree, straightening her disheveled hair and wiping dirt from her face. “You saved my life. How can I ever thank you?” She hugged him as tightly as a little girl seeking the security of her father’s arms.

Gabriel remembered that he had left Nicodemus alone. What if the same men attacked his friend? Grabbing Mary’s hand, he said, “We must go back for Nicodemus.” They ran toward the pass. Halfway through it, he saw a stooped figure shuffling toward them. Mary also saw him and broke free to run toward him.

Gabriel scanned the rocks above the pass. When he saw no sign of the attackers, he sped up and reached Nicodemus as Mary was greeting him.

Nicodemus embraced her. “I am so relieved to see you, my daughter.”

She stepped back and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “I am alive because of Gabriel. I owe him my—”

Gabriel waved off her thanks. “What matters is that we stay together now. And you, friend, should not have attempted to go through the pass alone.” He led both his charges back toward the olive grove. “We’ll camp here tonight.” He glanced at Mary. “In the morning, you can travel with us.”

“Please don’t scold me,” she said as they reached the grove. “I left Simon’s house for a good reason.” She directed them toward her belongings and pointed to some lamb, bread and cheese on a napkin beside a knotted olive tree. “Would you like some food?”

Gabriel spread out blankets for the three of them. He then took enough food for himself and Nicodemus, and shared it with the old man. But Gabriel didn’t feel hungry. Instead of eating, he sat down and rubbed his arms, trying to restore feeling to them. As he glanced at Mary, he thought of Judith, and he feared that the deepest numbness lay in his heart, too broken to heal.

M
ary Magdalene had also lost all interest in food. Leaning back against the olive tree, she stared at the road and prayed that her attackers would not return. Her former husband had never tried to rape her, but the attack brought back memories of his abuse. She put the memories out of her mind by rummaging beneath the tree for dry weeds and branches with which to start a fire.

When Gabriel saw her and began to help, she remembered his earlier warning and understood how foolish she had been to travel. Lightheaded and wobbly, she tried to stop her hands from shaking but couldn’t. Images of the men’s scowling faces and the memory of their hands on her body wouldn’t leave her. How revolting they were! And how utterly different from Jesus. During her conversations with him, she felt as if she were entering another world, a world of blessed memories and inspired dreams. By contrast, the world she had just been rescued from was one of terror and anguish. Disgusted, she took the weeds and broken branches she had gathered and threw them on the ground across from where Nicodemus was sitting.

She needed to explain why she had decided to leave Jesus and run away. She sat next to Nicodemus and caught Gabriel’s eye as he was hauling over larger branches for the fire. “If you knew how deeply Jesus and that woman humiliated me, you would understand why I ran away,” she said. “I couldn’t stay with a man who encourages such shameful behavior.”

“Nor could I,” Gabriel said, arranging the wood.

Nicodemus put down his food and spoke sternly. “If you understood who Jesus really is, you might have stayed and been spared the attack you suffered.”

Mary bristled at his reprimand but remained composed. “I know that Jesus is a powerful teacher and healer.”

“I believe that he is more—I believe that he is the Messiah, Mary.” Nicodemus’ gaze hardened as he lowered his voice. “I became convinced of this during a nighttime conversation I had with him. He claimed to be the Son of God, who has come to save us.”

Mary peered at him, her eyes large as she took in the full importance of what he had said. If Jesus was the Messiah, how could he love an ordinary woman like her? She had heard others proclaim him the anointed one of God, especially after the healings he had performed, but he always downplayed the idea and told his disciples not to repeat it. Such caution made sense to her since she didn’t think Jesus fierce enough to be the kind of messiah the Jews wanted—a warrior who would free them from the Romans. His message of peace contradicted the Zealots’ call to arms. Her parents, like many Jews in the towns around the Sea of Galilee, had quietly supported these freedom fighters, but after following Jesus, she no longer could.

She also couldn’t believe he was divine because she had seen him sweat in the sun and shiver in the cold. Nicodemus’ claims suddenly struck her as ridiculous. “Jesus is a loving man and a great teacher and healer,” she said. “But he is not God. Nor could he be the Messiah, because he couldn’t be a warrior-king as David was, and that’s what our people expect.”

“I had hoped that he would save us from war,” Gabriel said, stepping back from the fire he had started. “I thought he was popular enough to turn the people against the Zealots.” Gabriel sat next to Mary. “But the Messiah will be righteous, and Jesus isn’t. After what we saw at Simon ben Ephraim’s house, I think he only cares about himself. Besides, how can he stop the Zealots now? They’re planning for war. Even my brother has joined them.”

Mary heard the hurt in Gabriel’s voice and saw the pain etched on his face and wondered what had happened.
Why would his brother’s joining the Zealots hurt him so? Was theirs a troubled history?

Nicodemus interrupted her thoughts. “If you two knew more about Jesus, you would change your minds about him. He loved that prostitute purely. He’s a spiritual messiah. His message has nothing to do with lust, let alone war.”

With the sun going down, Mary held out her hands to warm them by the fire, its smoke as gray as the dusk, its sooty smell inescapable. “How could a messiah who preaches grace and peace be our liberator?”

Nicodemus moved closer to the fire. “Jesus is the messiah we need, not the messiah we want. He brings us the grace that heals us from within. We cannot make peace if we’re at war with ourselves. Sometimes we cause our own heartbreak because we live outside of God’s will; other times, our hearts break through no fault of our own. When we are despairing, we fear that we’ll never know happiness again. But by grace, either the circumstances change or we learn to adjust to them so that we recover our sense of hope, even joy. When we receive God’s grace, healing takes root inside us. We begin to become whole, as Jesus is. Then we use peaceful means to secure the justice we deserve.”

Mary turned away, not wanting to hear the words, but Gabriel squeezed her shoulder in understanding. “I know how deep your pain must go,” he said. “When my brother joined the Zealots, he ran away with my betrothed. My heart is still heavy, and I fear I may never completely recover.”

Mary glanced down and admired the hands that had rescued her. Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, she resisted the urge to embrace him because she feared that holding him would make her cry. And if she started she might never stop.

Nicodemus stared earnestly at Gabriel and said, “Jesus has more to say to you, my son.” Nicodemus then met Mary’s gaze. “And to you, my daughter.” He reached into his bag, withdrew the scroll and held it out to her. “This is a letter that Jesus wrote you some time ago. He wanted to give it to you himself, but you left before he could.”

Mary waved the scroll away and stared into the night. “If you care about this letter, you will keep it safe because I might throw it into the fire.”

Nicodemus frowned. “Why would you say such a thing, my daughter?”

“Because if Jesus really cared about me, he would not have humiliated me in public. Nor would he have let me leave Simon’s house. Forgive me, but I am too hurt to read this letter. I may never want to read it.”

Nicodemus unfurled the scroll slightly. “But you will miss a message of great importance. Jesus told me that he addressed the letter to you, but that he intends its message for all people.”

Mary gave another wave of a hand. “Then you read it. I don’t care if I
ever
do.” As Mary watched Nicodemus return the scroll to his bag, a gust of wind whipped through the grove and a hawk flew out of a nearby tree. The hawk’s rustling wings and plaintive cawing startled Mary, as if mocking her hurt.

Nicodemus gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “You fled Simon’s house because you thought you had lost the love of your life, but maybe that loss can be used to help you grow.” Nicodemus eyed Gabriel with understanding. “Your loss also goes deep, and what I have told Mary is just as true for you.” He took Gabriel’s hand and then reached for Mary’s. “You both have been hurt, but now when you find true love, you will appreciate it more. Spiritual wisdom helps us to understand the deeper meaning of our wounds and losses. God is working, even through the worst tragedies, in the service of love and goodness. If we believe this, then our losses won’t devastate us and we’ll eventually recover. To desire only one outcome is to set ourselves up for heartbreak. It’s better to seek God’s love in the present moment and to let the future unfold as it will.”

Mary appreciated these wise words, yet the fissure in her heart continued to lengthen, intensifying her pain. She feared that she might never heal from losing the special closeness she had shared with Jesus. Also, Nicodemus’ claims troubled her. If Jesus was the Son of God, should people worship him? Wouldn’t that break the laws against idolatry? She remembered that once, when Jesus was leaving on a journey, a man had knelt before him and asked, “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

Jesus had acted irritated, as if offended by the question, and answered, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone.” On another occasion, after he had restored the speech of a mute man, a woman exclaimed to Jesus, “Blessed is the womb that bore you and the breasts that nursed you.”