Daughter of Jerusalem (34 page)

A man had come up behind Daniel while I was talking, and from his clothing I guessed he was also an Essene. The newcomer curled his lip in scorn. “Jesus of Nazareth is unclean. I’ve heard he doesn’t even wash his hands before he eats.” He put a hand on Daniel’s shoulder and directed his next remarks to him. “He also consorts with women, my
brother. Like this one.” Another scornful look came my way. “She has no husband, and she follows an unmarried man around the countryside like a . . . a wanton. Look at her, here today with no man as her escort!”

Daniel flushed. “Watch your tongue, Ezra. Mary is a good woman.”

I glared at this Ezra. “I am a good woman, and Jesus of Nazareth is the only man I’ve ever met who believes that women are just as capable of being holy as men. All other Jewish men think we are unclean and stupid.”

“I never thought you were unclean or stupid!” Daniel said.

I continued to glare at Ezra. “Jesus doesn’t think people are unclean because they’re ill or lame or because of what they eat. They’re unclean because of the filth of greed and hypocrisy and bigotry that’s inside them.”

Ezra glared back, but Daniel held up his hand to stop his friend from answering. In a milder voice he said, “I agree that much of what he says is true. We Essenes do not believe in animal sacrifice, and we believe that what’s on the inside of a man is more important than what’s on the outside. In many ways Jesus is in the tradition of our prophets, who came to remind us of our duty to the Lord. But he’s not content to say he’s a prophet, Mary. He says he’s the Messiah. Even worse, he says he’s the Son of God. That is blasphemy. A blasphemer cannot be the Messiah.”

A man walking in front of us tripped over his own sandal and fell into me. Daniel put his arm around me, holding me upright, and said angrily, “Watch where you’re going!”

It felt strange to be so close to him, to feel his body against mine. It felt even stranger that I had no urge to turn toward him and hold him tight. When he released me, I stepped away without a second thought.

We looked at each other, and the distance between us seemed much wider than the few inches that actually separated us. He said, “This man is not the Messiah, Mary. The Messiah will be a man like Judas Maccabeus, a man who is a leader, a soldier, a prince. This man may have some true things to say about where we have gone wrong in our duty to the Lord, but he will never lead armies. He is no David come to save us. He is a prophet, that is all.”

I felt a rush of sorrow. “Oh Daniel, how I wish you could see as I do.”

Ezra said, “Perhaps he’s the Messiah for women.”

“Be quiet,” Daniel snapped. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I reached up to touch Daniel’s cheek. “I love you. I will always love you. But it seems as if our lives must part again.”

“Yes.” His red-brown eyes reflected back my sadness. “My life has taken a path I hadn’t planned, but I think it’s the right path for me.”

I looked over his shoulder and saw Lazarus and Nicodemus coming through the Nicanor Gate. “I must go. My brother is here.” I rose up on my toes and kissed his cheek. “God bless you, Daniel.”

He nodded, turned to his friend, and said, “Let’s go back to Qumran. There’s nothing for us here.”

He walked away, and I turned to greet my brother and his friend.

On the way home Lazarus told me about his conversation with Nicodemus. “The Master escaped yesterday because the Temple guards refused to go after him. Nicodemus says the priests are beginning to regard Jesus as a genuine threat. His talk yesterday was provocative, to say the least. He told the people he was the Messiah and the Son of God. The priests of the Sanhedrin were livid.”

“He cannot go back to Jerusalem,” I said. “It’s not safe.”

“I agree. He would be better off in Galilee than here.”

“I don’t think Galilee is safe either,” I said.

The truth of my statement was made clear as soon as we reached Bethany. An elegant looking litter, with uniformed litter carriers, stood in front of Lazarus’ house. As we watched, a woman came out of the house and approached us. It took me a moment to recognize Joanna, the wife of Herod’s steward who had been one of the women on our tour of Galilee. She was dressed in a draped Grecian-style tunic, and jewelry glinted at her throat, arms and fingers.

“Joanna!” I stared at her thin, high-nosed face. “What are you doing here?”

“I have come to warn the Master. Galilee is dangerous, Mary. Herod Antipas wants to kill him the way he killed John the Baptizer.”

Sharp as an arrow, fear stabbed through my heart. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. I heard it from a reliable source in the palace.” She stepped closer. “No one must know I’ve been here. My maid is telling everyone in Tiberias that I am ill and must keep to my room. I have to get back as quickly as I can.”

“It’s dangerous for him in Judea too, Joanna. Where can he go?”

“North,” she said, “to Philip’s territory. Once Philip hears that Antipas wants the Master, he’ll do everything in his power to protect him. There is no love lost between those brothers.”

The bearers had moved to the four corners of the litter, ready to pick it up. “I must go,” Joanna said.

“Thank you for coming,” Lazarus said.

She looked from his face to mine. “Convince him to get away.”

“We will try,” Lazarus said and I agreed.

Jesus and the disciples left Bethany the following day. It was a difficult parting. With Jesus in the north, my house in Capernaum was going to feel painfully empty. But I was relieved to see him go. I hoped the Master’s absence from Jerusalem would allow heads to cool and the tide of danger to recede. Nothing in my life was more important than Jesus’ safety.

I returned to Capernaum after the worst of the winter rains had passed and took up my old life. A letter arrived from Julia telling me there was a great deal of unease in Sepphoris over Jesus and asking if I thought he posed a threat to Roman rule. I wrote back that Jesus had less political ambition than the rest of the Jewish hierarchy, and it would be safer for Rome to protect him than to persecute him.

The flax harvest had just begun when a paid messenger arrived with a message from Martha that Lazarus was ill in his lungs. She was worried about him and begged me to come.

I called on Fulvius and asked if he would send a soldier on horseback to my sister with a letter. He agreed, and my letter to Martha went off at a gallop only two hours after I had received hers.

Lazarus had to be very ill for Martha to ask me to come. I packed
and was away the following day, escorted by Fulvius Petrus. We went by horseback with an escort of a dozen mounted Roman soldiers. I had never ridden a horse in my life, but I managed somehow. It was a scary, painful experience, but it kept my mind off my brother for a while.

We were in Bethany by the end of the day. Fulvius left his men in the village and walked me out to Martha’s himself. He practically had to hold me up, my legs were so unsteady from the horse. But the look on Martha’s face when she saw me was worth all the pain. She threw herself into my arms and burst into tears.

Fulvius refused to come in, saying he needed to get back to his men. I thanked him profusely for his help and followed Martha into the house.

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked as soon as the door closed behind us.

“Oh, Mary, I don’t know! He’s burning with fever, and when he breathes, he makes the most terrible noise, as if every breath is a struggle.

“Take me to him.”

Lazarus was lying on his mat clad only in a thin cotton tunic. It was cold in the room, and as she went to cover him, Martha said, “I’m trying to keep him warm, but he keeps kicking off his blankets.”

I went to kneel beside him and spoke his name. After a moment his eyes opened.

“Mary,” he said. His voice was weak and hoarse. He looked dreadful.

I bent to kiss his forehead. His skin was on fire.

Martha tried to get him to drink some water, but after two sips he closed his eyes. “Tired,” he muttered and fell silent.

Martha and I stayed for a little, listening to his labored breathing. Then we went out into the front room and sat together on a bench. Her voice trembling, she said, “He’s worse today. Nothing I do seems to help. Mary . . . I think we should send for the Master.”

Her eyes were filled with tears.

I shivered. I was so afraid—afraid for Jesus if he came back to Judea, and afraid for my brother who might be dying. I said, “Fulvius must still be in the village. I’ll ask him to get a letter to Jesus. If it goes by horse, it will get there quickly.”

“Thank you,” Martha said.

Fulvius agreed to get the letter to the Master, and Martha and I settled in to do everything we could to keep Lazarus alive. If Jesus and the disciples moved as quickly as possible, without stopping to preach, he could be with us in four days.

We succeeded in keeping Lazarus alive for those four days, but on the fifth day he died.

Losing my baby had been terrible. Losing my brother was just as bad. Martha and I were sitting with him when he drew his last breath. We sat for another hour, on either side of the bed, holding his hands until they began to cool.

Then there was all the business of anointing and burying the body. I had done it once for Aaron, but this was so much worse. This was Lazarus.

In the midst of all the weeping, wailing, and moaning, my little sister was amazingly strong. She had been closer to Lazarus than anyone else. They had lived together for her entire lifetime. She had given
up marriage for him. He had been everything to her. What was she going to do without him?

The entire village followed as we bore him to the cave that was to be his final resting place. Everyone had loved Lazarus. But all the wailing and crying and screaming didn’t help Martha or me. Neither of us rent our garments or lifted our arms to heaven. We followed behind the bier, holding hands, keeping silent.

All during that painful walk, my mind kept repeating,
Lazarus. This is Lazarus we’re entombing. My brother, Lazarus. How can this have happened? Where is Jesus? Why didn’t he come?

When the men rolled the stone over the entrance to the cave, I felt Martha flinch, as if she had been physically assaulted.

I tightened my hand on hers and put my arm around her shoulders.
This is a mistake. Jesus cured him. He shouldn’t die like this. Where was he? Where was the Master?

I had a hard time convincing Martha to turn away from the cave, but finally she did. There was nothing else to be done for Lazarus except return home for the mourning period.

The house was already filled with women when we got there. They had brought food and planned to sit with us day and night, weeping and wailing in their genuine sorrow for our brother’s death.

It was exhausting. Perhaps it was supposed to be exhausting so the bereaved wouldn’t feel their loss so acutely. It worked for me in that I found the women so irritating that they distracted me from other thoughts. It didn’t work for Martha, however. She had been strong during the anointing and the funeral, but now she couldn’t seem to stop weeping.

On the fourth day of mourning I pulled Martha aside. She needed to get away. “Why don’t you go out to the road and keep watch for
the Master? He must be close by now, and one of us should be there to greet him when he arrives.”