The Secret of the Kingdom

NINTH LETTER

MARCUS TO TULLIA:

After my recovery I felt exhausted and depressed. I could not escape the idea that my unexpected and dangerous illness was a warning to me not to meddle in mysteries that did not concern me. I stayed in my room, shunning the society of other guests though the famous baths of Tiberias were visited by people of many countries. Most of them were rich persons in search of cures for the ills born of wealth and soft living, though there were also a few Roman officers among them who were suffering from the effects of camp life.

I had massage, and even summoned a barber to dress my hair in the Greek manner. I let him trim my beard, too, and pluck out my body hairs, since all these things were now a matter of indifference to me. I may have behaved like a sulky child, for I had been sincere in my search and did not think I had deserved such punishment as this. I thought of you too, Tullia, now and then, in a different way from when I had been in Jerusalem and longed for you, from defiance. With the simple-minded Mary I was merely bored, for after nursing me so faithfully and restoring me to health she became excessively self-satisfied and looked upon me as her own property.

Then one day there was a great stir in the place, and Mary hurried to bring me word that the wife of Pontius Pilate the Procurator had arrived from Caesarea to bathe in the hot springs. From the roof I beheld her litter and her suite. Herod had supplemented her escort of legionaries by his own red-mantled horsemen, who attended her all the way from the Galilean border. A summer palace by the baths had been prepared for her, with a private pool in the garden.

It’s true that I knew Claudia Procula to be delicate and nervous, as are many women who are aware of advancing age, even though they may not admit it to themselves. No doubt she was in need of these health-giving baths, and the spring climate of the Sea of Galilee is certainly the freshest and best in the whole of the east Mediterranean region. The envoys of Herod Antipas send many visitors from Damascus—even from Antioch—to Tiberias. Nevertheless, I wondered whether there might be any other reasons for Claudia Procula’s unexpected arrival.

After two days I could no longer master my curiosity but wrote a message to her on a double wax tablet, asking whether I might wait upon her. The servant soon returned, and told me that Claudia Procula had been amazed and delighted by my letter. I was to come immediately, as I was.

Because of my bad heel I had myself carried through the gardens as far as the arcade. There I stepped from my litter and limped in with my stick. The favor shown me attracted a great deal of attention and many guests came to watch my arrival. Earlier, Claudia Procula had let it be known that by reason of her ill-health she desired neither visitors nor marks of honor.

But the servants ushered me straight into a cool, sunny room where Claudia Procula was reclining on a couch with purple cushions. She was strikingly pale, and dull of eye. Beside her, in a respectful attitude, sat an expensively dressed Jewish woman of about her own age.

Claudia stretched forth both her slender hands to me, gave a cry of delight, and said, “Oh, Marcus, how glad I am to see a familiar and understanding person! What has been happening to you? What is the matter with your foot? I’m ill too, and sleepless, and when I do sleep I have nightmares, and I have pains in both stomach and liver.”

To her companion she explained, “This is the young man I told you of. A friend of my childhood, Marcus Mezentius Manilianus. His father was the most eminent astronomer that Rome has ever had. He is related to the Maecenas family too, and so can claim descent from the Etruscans who in their day vied with Aeneas himself. I last saw him in Jerusalem at the Passover, but I never expected to meet him here.”

I let her prattle on, even though she did not keep strictly to the truth but exaggerated considerably. Yet if for some reason she wished to present everything in the best light and exalt me in the eyes of her companion, why should I object? Turning then to me she indicated the other woman and said, “This good woman is Johanna, wife of Herod Antipas’ quaestor. I met her in Jerusalem and she has promised to keep me company as long as I remain here. I have complete trust in her.”

The woman smiled and looked at me searchingly. She had a fat, flabby face, but her eyes showed her to be no fool; she was experienced in life.

“Greeting, Marcus Mezentius,” she said. “But why do you, a Roman, wear a beard and dress like a child of Israel?”

“One adopts the customs of the country,” I said easily. “I’m a philosopher and like to learn the ways and traditions of different places. And truth to tell, I feel a deep reverence for the God of Israel and his law, insofar as it does not prevent me from acknowledging the genius of Caesar.”

Claudia Procula now noticed my clothes for the first time, and cried, “Why truly, you are much changed, and I hardly think my husband would approve of that dress.” She chattered on with animation, talked of Pontius Pilate’s health and cares, and offered me good wine, pastries and fruit; then at last she dismissed her servants and said, “Johanna, make sure that no one has stayed to listen to us. I will not tolerate eavesdroppers.”

Johanna performed her task in an experienced manner, for having cast a casual glance into the anteroom, she wandered apparently at random around the room feeling at the hangings, and at last leaned out of the window. Claudia Procula beckoned me nearer, lowered her voice and asked, “Do you still remember Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified in Jerusalem?”

I glanced at Johanna and hesitated; then replied, “Yes, I remember him, and he has obsessed my thoughts. I would have liked to hear more of him, but his disciples are suspicious people and disapprove of strangers.”

Claudia Procula said, “The disciples have returned to Galilee and to their former occupations. Most of them are fishermen here on this lake.”

“Yes,” I said. “When I left Jerusalem I heard a rumor that they had gone from there. Many others are said to have followed them into Galilee. But will they not be persecuted here?”

Johanna put in eagerly, “No, no. Here no one will persecute them anymore. Able advisers have persuaded the prince Herod that he would gain nothing by it. In fact, he is afraid of them and prefers to ignore them. He made a political error in beheading John the Baptist. Now he won’t even hear the word prophet.”

Claudia Procula explained, “You must remember that I did all in my power to prevent my husband from harming that holy man!”

“Why torment yourself with an old story?” I returned slyly. “Innocent men have been executed before now. The world is what it is. We cannot alter it. Forget him and nurse your health. That is why you’re here.”

Claudia Procula replied vehemently, “You don’t understand what all this is about. The world is not what it was. Jesus of Nazareth rose from his tomb, though you did not believe it then. He has revealed himself to his own. Whether or not you believe it, he is here.”

Johanna, in a fright, pressed her hand over her lady’s mouth and warned her: “You know not what you say, domina!”

I looked at her attentively, remembering that Susanna had mentioned that very name, and made a bold guess: “I know your face, noble Johanna. You were with Jesus of Nazareth while he was alive; you cannot deny it.”

Johanna stared at me in fear, and acknowledged, “I don’t deny it at all and will never deny it. For his sake I left home and husband, and followed him until forced to return because of my husband’s position. But how can you know anything of that?”

I felt tired and downcast, and unwilling to pretend any longer. “I know and I believe that he has risen from the dead,” I said. “And therefore I believe also that he is the son of God. But what this implies I don’t know. Nothing else like this has ever happened before. I wanted to seek his kingdom, but his own people did not know me and would not receive me. Bui hearing that he had gone before them into Galilee, I followed after them, hoping to find him here.

“But,” I continued bitterly, “as soon as I arrived I got blood poisoning in my foot so that I couldn’t move. That must be a sign that he will have nothing to do with me. But confess frankly, Claudia, that it is on his account that you too have come to Galilee.”

Both women looked in profound astonishment first at each other and then at me. Then together they exclaimed, and asked, “Do you, a Roman and a philosopher, really believe that he has risen from the dead and come to Galilee?”

“I believe it because I must,” I answered, still with bitterness. I was just then filled with a violent desire to unburden my heart, and I told them how I had visited Lazarus and met Mary Magdalene, and how the messengers Thomas and John had turned me away, and what had happened at the house of Simon of Cyrene, and how Matthew and Zaccheus had come to me and with menaces refused me even the right to utter the name of Jesus of Nazareth.

Johanna said, “That was wrong of them. I myself remember a time when a man who never even knew him healed a sick person in his name. The disciples forbade the man to do it; but then Jesus himself rebuked his disciples and said that at least that man would never speak ill of him. I don’t understand why you shouldn’t use his name, if you believe in him.”

I told them too how I had brought Susanna with me from Jerusalem. “Do you know the old woman?” I asked Johanna.

Johanna, concealing her contempt with difficulty, replied, “Of course I know the quarrelsome old chatterbox. She’s an ignorant rustic without knowledge of the law. Yet Jesus allowed even her to follow him.”

Claudia Procula looked at me with surprise and misgivings, and said, “You are indeed changed, Marcus, since the Rome days. You seem to have forgotten even your Tullia for the sake of the Nazarene. Don’t think I don’t know of her. Roman gossip comes as far as Caesarea. I find it hard to understand what it is you’re really seeking from Jesus of Nazareth.”

“What do you seek?” I retorted irritably.

Claudia shrugged her now somewhat bony shoulders and said, “I’m a woman and have the right to dream. I know that if I met him, he would cure my sleeplessness and all my other ills. But above all, of course, I’m curious to see a prophet who has been crucified and has risen again from his grave.”

I said, “I have lost all curiosity—all desire to dream. I seek only his kingdom, while it remains on earth. I’ve been told that he has the words of eternal life. But that’s all the same to me. Tell me now whether he has indeed come to Galilee and revealed himself here to his own.”

Johanna’s face darkened as she said, “I am not sure. He confided the secret of his kingdom to his disciples, but to others and to us women he spoke only in parables. No doubt it was that we saw, yet did not see—heard and did not hear. The disciples keep themselves to themselves and don’t tell the women anything. For this reason Mary is angry with them and has gone home to Magdala. All I know is that some days ago seven of them went out fishing in the morning, and came back with their nets full to bursting. Something had happened to make them exult and laugh for joy, but they wouldn’t say what it was.”

I said, “I’m surprised that those ignorant fishermen should now be at odds with Mary Magdalene, who has spent so much money on their account. At least one might have expected that they would have informed a lady of such high standing as yourself as to what is going on. I suspect that it is thanks to you that they’re safe from persecution here.”

“They’re ungrateful folk,” said Johanna. Then, trying to be fair, she added, “They must be guarding some secret which has been entrusted to them. But why did he choose them?”

Claudia Procula observed haughtily, “I at least, as wife of the Procurator of Judea, might expect the fellows to recognize my rank and tell their master that I wish to meet him. I have shown the greatest possible good will in requesting such a thing of such people. Besides, they might benefit secretly by my favor.”

I could not refrain from saying, “Claudia, I believe you only imperfectly understand what his kingdom is. He is no sorcerer or impostor. Try to understand: he is the son of God.”

Claudia, offended, snapped, “Don’t forget that I myself am related to Caesar and used often to dine at his table in the days when he lived in Rome.”

Johanna threw out her hands as if signing to me, and said, “I’m only a woman, and Israel denies that women have souls. Yet he allowed us to go with him, and in my heart I perceive something of his kingdom. His disciples still quarrel among themselves about whether and when he will found a kingdom in Israel. But Israel has rejected him and crucified him and invoked his blood upon its head. After that deed, Israel can no longer be God’s chosen people—that much my common sense tells me.”

I was beginning to weary of this profitless conversation, and Claudia Procula had dwindled in my estimation. Impatiently I asked, “Be that as it may, how are we to meet him?”

Johanna answered, “I don’t know. We can only wait. I’ve waited and waited, and nothing has happened. Perhaps he has forgotten us woman. It frightens me too that you should have had a bad foot from the moment you arrived, so that you can’t stir from the spot to look for him.”

“I’m almost well again now,” I said. “In a boat or a litter I could go anywhere. But my heart is heavy and I don’t want to force myself upon him. I don’t believe anyone can, for that matter. I imagine he appears only to those of his own choice. If need be, I will resign myself to the belief that I’m unworthy to behold him.”

Claudia Procula remarked with a sneer, “How can you be so feeble? I’m impatient to see him; the baths alone will hardly cure my sleeplessness. If I were a man I should do something. But I have to think of my position.”

Johanna pondered, and then, addressing me, suggested, “You could take a boat to Magdala and meet Mary. It is impossible on my husband’s account for me to visit her, for in spite of everything she is a woman of evil reputation. For the same reason we can’t invite her here to meet Claudia Procula, even in secret. Go to her, and ask her what we’re to do. Explain that of course I’m no more ashamed of her company now than I was when we were wayfaring together; but that at present I have to consider my husband’s position at court. This is a complicated matter which perhaps you can’t altogether grasp, being a man; but as a woman she will understand it perfectly well.”

Noting my hesitation she smiled wickedly and said, “You’re a gay young Roman. You may safely visit her; no one will wonder at that. In her day she was possessed by seven demons, and even now her reputation throughout Galilee remains consistent with that, although she has turned over a new leaf—I think.”

I began to feel that I had nothing to gain by joining in these feminine quarrels. I promised at all events to think over the proposal, and after that we chatted for a while about everyday things. Claudia Procula asked whether I would accompany her to the city to watch the races a little later, when her health was improved. Herod Antipas is proud of his city and of the race course and the theatre he has built, and Claudia felt bound to comply in some degree with what was expected of one in her position. She then dismissed me, and we promised to let each other know without delay if either of us heard anything of Jesus of Nazareth. Claudia also promised to invite me to dine with her soon.

On my way back to the inn I noticed a Sidonian trader who had sat himself down in the shady arcade and was unrolling fabrics from his staff. I stopped and bought a gold-embroidered silken cloth which I sent at once as a present to Claudia Procula.

Mary of Beret had been impatiently awaiting me, and had certainly seen me haggling with the curly-bearded Sidonian. She must have thought I had bought something for her, for after vainly waiting for a time she began nagging, and said, “I see you can walk perfectly well now, so long as it’s to do something you like. You keep me in here behind the curtains as if you were ashamed of my company, although no one here knows any more of me than that I’ve been nursing you and caring for you while you lay at death’s door. I would like to meet a few people too, and talk to other women in these lovely gardens, listen to music and be rowed out onto the lake beneath an awning. But you never give a thought to me—only to yourself and your own comforts.”

I was filled with deep dejection when I thought of the fervor with which we had left Jerusalem and of how today all our hopes seemed to be running out into the sand. Claudia Procula had spoken of Jesus of Nazareth in a very different way during those guilt-laden days in Jerusalem when the earth shook. Johanna her companion also was surely different now from what she had been when she walked with Jesus of Nazareth without a thought of her home or her husband’s exalted position as keeper of Herod Antipas’ moneybags. Here among marble arcades and gardens, where gentle flute music sounded from the myrtle groves amid the sulphurous smell of the hot springs, everything seemed to have reverted to the days of old, and all this luxury and comfort left no room for the supernatural.

I said, “Mary of Beret, do you not remember why we came here?”

Mary tossed her head, stared at me with round eyes and said reproachfully, “I remember better than you, and am eagerly awaiting word from Nathan or Susanna. There is nothing else I can do. In the meantime why should I not enjoy the things here that are new to me?”

“Everything here belongs only to this world,” I said. “One tires more quickly of this kind of society and surroundings than of anything else. I would gladly exchange it all for even a distant glimpse of the risen man.”

“Of course, of course,” Mary assented impatiently. “I too. But why should I not enjoy myself while I wait? I am like a poor country girl who has come into a Syrian toyshop on her first visit to the town. I don’t imagine I shall ever have all these things myself—I’m not such a fool. But why shouldn’t I look and touch?”

I did not understand her and was bored by her arguing. “You shall,” I promised her stiffly, longing to be rid of her. “Tomorrow I will hire a boat and we will go to Magdala. I have heard that the rich dove breeder has left her companions and returned to her own house. We will call upon her.”

Mary of Beret was far from pleased at my promise. “Mary Magdalene is a hot-headed woman,” she grumbled. “It is true that she was the only one who was kind to me, and spoke to me as to a human being and convinced me that Jesus of Nazareth was a king; yet I’m afraid of her.”

“Why?” I asked in surprise. “It was she who first sent you into my path by the gate in the old wall, and put those words into your mouth.”

“She might require me to do something that I don’t want to do any more, now that you have taken me under your protection,” explained Mary. “Her will is stronger than mine, so that when she gives an order I have no will at all.”

“But what order of hers are you afraid of?” I asked.

Mary complained, “She dresses in black. She might tell me to take off these beautiful clothes that you’ve given me and wear the sackcloth of a penitent. She might order me to leave you, now that you’ve brought me to Galilee. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Mary of Beret,” I exclaimed, “what is it you’re really hoping for, and imagining about me?”

“I hope for nothing and imagine nothing,” she cried with equal vehemence, and a fierce toss of her head. “Do not think it. I just want to live in your company, one day at a time. You sang another tune a few days ago when you lay burning with fever and tossing in your bed, and I moistened your cracked lips and you begged and prayed me to keep my hand on your forehead, and wanted me to hold your hand all night while you slept. But don’t fancy that I’m imagining anything on that account—oh no. These days have been good days and among the best of my whole life. I would not like them to come to an end before they must. But do what you like, of course. It’s evident that we shall not do as I like.”

I saw that it was now high time to be rid of her. The longer she stayed with me, the more firmly she bound me to her day by day, so that I became quite needlessly accustomed to her presence. The same thing happens to a man who thoughtlessly acquires a slave or a dog, and becomes attached to the dog or dependent on the slave.

Next day, therefore, I hired a fishing boat and two rowers, and we set off across the bright billows of the Sea of Galilee towards Magdala. From vanity Mary of Beret tried to shade her face from the sun, for at the inn she had done as the other women of the place and diligently anointed her face with cucumber juice to remove her sunburn. During the journey on donkeyback she had never given a thought to such a thing.

I chatted to the oarsmen so as to accustom myself to the Galilean speech. They were surly men and gave curt answers to my questions. As we rowed past Tiberias it was plain that they shunned this fair, new Greek city which Herod Antipas founded only a few years ago, and on which he has spent a great deal. To pass it the more swiftly they tried to hoist the sail, but the wind was unfavorable and changeable, and they at last had to resign themselves to rowing.

I remembered that Jesus of Nazareth was said to have walked on the waters of this lake. Here in the bright sunshine, with the hills hanging in brown and blue haze on the further side, with the wind blowing freshly and the water splashing, the story seemed incredible. I was possessed by the melancholy idea that I was chasing a mirage, a dream, or a tale invented by superstitious fishermen. Now, after my illness, an immeasurable time seemed to have elapsed since the days in Jerusalem. It was as if Jesus of Nazareth had never existed.

To bring myself back to reality I asked the men, “Did you ever see Jesus of Nazareth in the days when he taught the people on the shores of this lake?”

They glanced at one another, rested on their oars and asked suspiciously, “Why do you wish to know that, stranger?”

“I was in Jerusalem when he was crucified,” I explained. “To my mind he didn’t deserve such a disgraceful fate.”

The fishermen said, “You can understand it; he was a Galilean, and we Galileans are despised in Jerusalem. But it was his own fault for delivering himself into the hands of greedy priests and sanctimonious Pharisees.”

“Did you ever see him?” I asked again.

They hesitated and looked at each other; then their racial pride triumphed and they declared, “Certainly we did, and many times. Once there were five thousand of us listening to him. He fed us all on five barley loaves and two fishes, and we were filled. Indeed, there were twelve baskets of food left over. That was the kind of man he was.”

“What did he speak of? Do you remember what he taught?” I asked eagerly.

But they were ill-at-ease and said, “It is not fitting for simple men like us to repeat what he said. We should only draw the wrath of the authorities upon us.”

I encouraged them: “Tell me at least something of what you remember. I’m only a traveling foreigner; I will tell no tales.”

They said, “Remember then that it was he who said it, not we.” Then with one voice they continued: “Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom. Blessed are the quiet ones, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they who are persecuted and mocked. Blessed are you, for great is your reward in heaven. No one can serve two masters. Grieve not. It is harder for a rich man to enter the kingdom than for a camel to go through the eye of a needle.”

I had the impression that they had often recalled these words among themselves and adopted what they best liked of the Nazarene’s teaching. They remembered no more of it, or were unwilling to repeat it, and there was an unmistakable look of gloating pleasure in their eyes when they looked at my good clothes and my cushion.

“What more do you remember of him?” I asked.

They answered, “He was a good fisherman. He could point out a shoal of fish, though others might have cast their nets in vain all night. Once they came ashore laden to the gunwales when others returned from the lake empty-handed. He could cow the winds, and flatten great waves in a short time. They say he healed the sick, too, although we never cared about that, for we have never been ill. What surprised us most was that he came from inland, from Nazareth, and yet had such good knowledge of water and wind and the movements of fish.”

I could get no more out of them, ask as I would. They only grew suspicious. At last I remarked, “In Jerusalem it was said that he rose up from his tomb and walked back to Galilee. Have you heard anything of this?”

They pulled harder at their oars, and answered only after a pause. “Women’s gossip. No dead man leaves his grave. He was a man as we are, even though he did teach and perform miracles. You won’t get us to fall into that trap however cleverly you choose your words.”

After that they would say nothing more, except, “These are stories from the Capernaum side. We are fishermen of Tiberias.”

Magdala is a large fishing village with thousands of inhabitants. From a long way off we smelled the stench of the fish salteries coming to us across the water. When the boatmen had jumped overboard and hauled the craft up onto the beach I paid them and sent them home. Not until I had limped through the village, supported by Mary and my stick, did I let her ask where Mary Magdalene lived. She was well-known. A large group of buildings, away from the town toward the dove cleft, was pointed out to me at once. A vegetable grower on his way home from a visit to the village readily offered to let me ride his donkey when he noticed that I was limping. He smiled in a curious way when speaking of Mary Magdalene, but said humbly and appreciatively, “She is a clever and very rich woman. She has many dove catchers in her service, and in her big lofts she raises doves herself for the temple. She owns an herb garden and shares in the salteries. She travels a great deal, but is said to have recently returned home.”

Glancing at me sideways he remarked with a friendly grin, “She’s not as young as she was. They say she has altered her way of life and gives alms to the poor. But you must know your own business best.”

I had started this journey without expecting anything from it at all, but as I approached her house, sitting between two empty vegetable baskets on the donkey’s back, I was seized with an unexpected longing to behold her white face again. I remembered her as I had seen her in Lazarus’ guest room, and it seemed to me that I had never before longed to see any woman in just this way. The owner of the donkey saw my expression and said, “You seem to be like all the others. The nearer you come to her house, the more impatiently you hurry on. I don’t want to go near it, so forgive me if I leave you here at the fork.”

He continued on his way, urging on his donkey so as to increase his distance from the house as quickly as he could. Mary of Beret sighed, and said warningly, “No good will come of this. Let us turn back. The sun hurts my eyes, however much I cover my head. I am sweaty all over and can hardly breathe.”

But I limped boldly in through the gate, and in the middle of the great courtyard I saw a woman dressed in black feeding the doves. A cloud of doves flapped about her; some sat on her shoulders, others swung on her hands. When she caught sight of us she threw her grain on the ground, rubbed her hands together and came to meet us, baring her face. Surprised but pleased she greeted Mary and me, and exclaimed, “I felt that someone was on the way, but I had no idea it was you, Marcus the Roman, and you, Mary of Beret.”

“Peace be with you, Mary Magdalene,” I said, and looked at her lined, white face, and her eyes, which were filled with such joy that I could have thrown myself on the ground and embraced her knees.

She warded off the doves that still fluttered about her head, and showed us across the court into a garden and to a summerhouse that she had had built there. First of all she fetched water with her own hands and knelt before me to wash my feet, heedless of my protests. The touch of her hands felt soothing and sweet to my injured foot. Mary’s feet too she washed, though Mary of Beret tried to push her away, holding one hand to her mouth and tittering. Then, having given us fresh spring water to drink, she dismissed Mary with the words, “Go and look at the dovecotes and at my house, and trouble us no longer, foolish girl.”

Mary of Beret almost ran off, as if relieved to get away. Mary Magdalene looked after her, shaking her head, then turned to me and asked, “What have you done to that girl? Was it you who gave her those gaudy clothes? I think a demon lurks in her eyes, though she was meek and penitent enough in Jerusalem.”

I defended myself: “I believe I have done her no harm. I haven’t so much as touched her, if that’s what you mean. She nursed me faithfully in Tiberias when I lay there sick with my bad foot.”

Mary Magdalene said, “When a man does something for a woman with the best possible intentions he often harms her more than he knows. You’re no fit guardian for such a girl, Marcus. You had better part company with her.”

“She seeks Jesus of Nazareth as I do,” I replied, and unburdened my heart by telling her of our departure from Jerusalem, of how Susanna and Nathan had left me in the lurch and how, in Tiberias, I had met Johanna in Claudia Procula’s rooms. Mary Magdalene nodded as I told my story, and I saw a hard smile overspread her white face.

“I know the greedy Susanna and the haughty Johanna,” she said shortly. “There must have been scales over my eyes during the time when we walked together like sisters; I saw only Jesus. You have seen enough of his disciples to know the kind of men they are, and how tight-fistedly they guard the secret of the kingdom. Probably, like me, you’re wondering by now of what kind of material he expected to build his kingdom. I returned home to wait, having had enough of the company of stubborn men and the mutual envy of the women. I know that he walked before us into Galilee, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he never wanted to see any of us again. Perhaps he is as disappointed in us as we are in each other, in our hearts. I left the fishermen to their fishing, and his mother too has gone home to her own place in Nazareth.”

She pressed her hands together, rocked her shoulders in pain and lamented, “Why am I only human, and a woman at that, and so obstinately hard-hearted, now that he’s no longer with us? His kingdom is slipping away from me. Woe upon me, who am so feeble in faith that I no longer fully trust in him!”

She looked about her in horror, as if she had discerned the presence of lurking figures, and cried, “He is the light of the world. When he is absent, darkness steals about me though the sun shines. I’m afraid lest the evil spirits return to me. But if they come I will live no longer. I would rather hang myself. I have suffered enough already.”

Her anguish oppressed me like a stone in my breast. Yet I tried to console her, and told her of Johanna’s belief that Jesus had appeared to the disciples when they were out fishing one morning.

“I’ve heard of that,” Mary said curtly. “But those rustics were most likely just pleased at having caught a hundred and fifty big fish. The net was so full that they had to haul it right to the beach so as not to tear it. If they really had met our teacher, why should they not have told of it, to comfort others?”

It was as if she bore a grudge in her heart against the disciples and would be envious of them if Jesus really had revealed himself to them in Galilee, and not to her. In a way I could understand this, for it was she who had first hastened to the tomb at dawn, and she to whom Jesus had shown himself for the first time after his resurrection.

“Mary Magdalene,” I said, “don’t yield to despair. If he has returned to Galilee, then his kingdom is near. Perhaps I have no part in it, and perhaps he will turn me away as his disciples did. But I am sure that you will meet him again, if he is in Galilee.”

Mary gave me a proud glance from her dark eyes and said, “Do you comfort me, Roman, when his own give me no comfort?”

Yet her face began to shine as if the sun were shedding light upon it, although we were sitting in the shade of her summer house. She touched my hand, and her touch was again full of strength as she asked, “Do you really believe that? Surely I do too, though my heart is rebellious because I cannot bring myself sufficiently to revere the disciples whom he has chosen. I am a wicked, worthless woman not to accept his will. Teach me what humility is, Roman. I deserve it.”

“Tell me rather whether you think he will receive me into his kingdom, although I am a Roman,” I said dejectedly.

Mary Magdalene replied in the same contemptuous tone as Johanna: “The disciples are still expecting him to build a new kingdom in Israel. For me he is the light of the world. Why should it not concern you as closely as the children of Israel, if you believe him to be the Christ? His kingdom is eternal life, and no earthly realm.”

Her words made my heart quake with dread. “What is eternal life?” I asked.

Mary Magdalene shook her head. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I suppose he is the only one who does know. That was not the kind of knowledge he taught when he walked hereabouts; he taught people how they should live for his kingdom. I am not sufficiently humble or childlike in my heart to understand what eternal life is. I only know that it is in him and with him. And there is nothing else I need to know.”

I pondered what she had said. “How shall I live, then?” I asked. “Is it not enough to try to be quiet and humble of heart?”

“Love your neighbor as yourself,” said Mary Magdalene. “Do to others what you would like them to do to you.” Suddenly she clapped her hands to her face and burst out sobbing. “How should I teach you when I myself have betrayed his teaching? We were all like brothers and sisters when we walked with him. He has been away from us but a very short time, and already I’ve begun to hate and envy my brothers and sisters in my heart. Perhaps he has sent you to me so that I might escape from my wickedness and be humble.”

All at once she touched my bad foot, held her hand on the half-healed boil and prayed aloud, “Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me a sinner. If it be your will, let this foot be well again as if it had never felt pain.”

She looked up, fixed her eyes on me in breathless expectation and said, “If he wills this, it is a sign. Throw away your stick and walk.”

I stood up, let the stick fall and walked a few steps. I did not limp, and felt no pain in my foot. At first I wondered, then turned back to my place and explained, “May this be the sign you prayed for. I need no sign from him, for I believe already. To be honest, my foot is well again, and new skin has grown where the boil was. I suppose I was limping from sheer habit, since the Greek physician who lanced it warned me so sternly not to strain my foot.”

But Mary Magdalene smiled, picked up my stick from the ground and asked, “Shall I take back my prayer and let you limp again?”

I answered hastily, “No, don’t do that. I should be sure to limp all my life if you called upon him for that.”

My words startled Mary Magdalene, and looking around as if she had been caught doing some forbidden thing, she said hurriedly, “No, no, we can wish no evil to another with his help; we harm only ourselves then. And one cannot curse in his name—only bless.”

She smiled radiantly and stared before her and through me as if she saw something invisible to me. At the same time she bent my stick between her hands, and to my boundless astonishment I saw that it seemed as supple as a withy, although it was a perfectly stiff staff of hard oak. I could only stare, unable to believe my eyes, until she woke from her thoughts, felt my eyes upon her and looked at me.

“What are you staring at?” she asked, and she stopped bending the stick.

I raised both hands in warning, and whispered, “Bend the stick again as you were doing just now.”

She tried, putting forth all her strength, but the stick no longer gave by a hairsbreadth. I took it from her, and it was the same stiff hard stick I had leaned on when I limped. The conjuring trick hadn’t been performed deliberately, for she had been sitting plunged in thought, unseeing, and could not make out why I was so greatly excited. I went into no explanations, but preferred to think that this pliancy of hard wood was a gentle sign to me, because I had not believed that my foot was healed by the power of Jesus of Nazareth’s name. Why it happened I could not imagine, since in fact I had not wished for anything. But hope was kindled in my heart once more.

Nor was it witchcraft that made me see the stick bend, for I felt none of the rigidity one knows when a sorcerer performs his tricks. On the contrary, everything about me felt pleasant and fresh and light. Therefore I said, “Mary Magdalene, you fortunate woman! He is your Lord, and you must not be impatient. When you call upon him he is with you even though you don’t see him. How this can be I don’t understand, but so I believe. You are indeed blessed among women.”

We were both filled with new hope when we left the summerhouse. Mary Magdalene showed me her garden and her dovecotes, and told me how the birds were caught in the cleft nearby, and how as a young girl she had climbed its lofty steeps without fear of robbers and without dizziness.

We entered her house. It was full of fine rugs and costly furniture, but she said she had destroyed her Greek vases and sculptures after being delivered from the power of the demons, because the law of Israel forbids the faithful to make images and likenesses of man or beast. From this she went on to relate how Jesus, when—as so often—plunged in thought, would take a stick and draw in the sand. But he always erased with his foot what he had drawn or written before Mary or anyone else could see what it was. She told me other things about Jesus of Nazareth whenever she happened to think of them, as we wandered through her great house.

She had bidden her servants prepare a meal for us, but having asked me to recline at her table she did not keep me company there. She said, “Allow me to follow the custom of my country and serve you while you eat.” She also summoned Mary of Beret to wait upon me, told her to pour water over my hands and smilingly instructed her as to how a man was best served at table. She herself mixed wine for me to drink. It was a light Galilean white wine which went to my head like a breeze. After the salt and sweet mouthfuls that introduced the meal, she offered me fried fish and then pieces of dove in rosemary sauce; and I know not when I last tasted such well-cooked and delicious food.

Not until I was replete and could not have swallowed another morsel would she consent to sit on the mat at my feet and eat, and allow Mary to eat too. She had mellowed and brightened, and her face was lit by a lovely smile. Regarding her through the fine gauze of the wine I realized that she must indeed have been one of the most beautiful and alluring women in the land. Even Mary of Beret was encouraged by her kindness, and at last ventured to say, “When you smile as you are smiling now, Mary Magdalene, I can well believe that many men have journeyed all the way from Damascus and Alexandria on your account, and that with the help of their gifts you were able to build your great house and fine furniture. But how is it done? Teach me the way to acquire such astonishing presents in return for something for which the camel drivers of Jerusalem pay only a few farthings.”

Mary Magdalene’s face darkened at once, and she said, “Don’t ask me of such things. But be assured that no woman can learn without instruction. Only a woman possessed by an evil spirit, or by many, can achieve it. Yet at the same time that demon so torments and consumes that woman that she seems to go with a noose perpetually about her throat. She is satisfied with nothing and enjoys nothing, and at last she hates herself even more than the men, and the men more than anything else.”

Mary of Beret shot her an incredulous sideways glance, tilted her head and said doubtfully, “I expect what you say is true. Yet I would choose the demon if he could make me wonderful in the eyes of men.”

Mary Magdalene slapped her across the mouth and said, “Be silent, foolish girl! You know not what you say.”

Mary of Beret was frightened, and burst out weeping. Mary Magdalene breathed hard, sprinkled water round about herself and said, “I don’t ask your pardon for striking you; it was not from anger I did it, but for your own good. I hope that someone would do the same for me if ever I said anything as witless as you did. A demon can force you to live in tombs and eat garbage; no chains can bind you and not the strongest men can hold you when the demon rages in you. And I know not which demons are the worse: those that gnaw at the body or those that wear away the soul until only emptiness remains.

“You have saddened me,” she went on, “but I bear you no grudge on that account. No doubt it was necessary that you should remind me of my past. Beneath the surface of my body nothing remained but a skeleton gnawed clean, and with me as their instrument the demons drove many men to destruction. My sin was measureless, yet it was forgiven me. You should pray, ‘Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.’ Instead, you pray in your heart, ‘Lead me into temptation and drive me into the arms of evil.’ I can see that, in your eyes and your mouth, and your feet which you rub so impatiently on the floor. Do you no longer remember who it was in Jerusalem who promised to be content with salt fish and a piece of barley bread for the rest of her life, if only she might be rescued from her misery? For this reason I set you in the path of this Roman, but instead of casting your eyes upon the ground in thankfulness, you’re trying to set snares for his feet.”

Mary of Beret sobbed in her fright and dared not look at me. In my heart I could not help pitying her, but Mary Magdalene stared at her with somberly furrowed brow.

“Think carefully what it is you want,” she said. “Do you want temptation, sin and evil that will destroy you, or do you want a simple straightforward life?”

Mary of Beret looked up and declared fervently, “I want to have my sins forgiven like you, and I want to be cleansed so that I may be pure and untouched once more. Don’t make me tell you what I would like then. But might it not come true if I pray devoutly?”

Mary Magdalene said in a persuasive tone, “I understand you better than you think and I read your simple mind. Trust me, I have more experience than you. Take off those gaudy clothes and stay with me, for your own good. I will teach you to catch doves and to sweep evil thoughts from your mind. Perhaps Jesus of Nazareth will have compassion on you, should he ever show himself to me.”

But Mary of Beret wept even more bitterly than before, clung to my knees and cried, “This is just what I was afraid of, Marcus, and you mustn’t leave me in her hands. She will make me her day laborer or sell me as a slave. She has a terrible reputation, though you don’t know of it.”

Mary Magdalene shook her head and declared, “If you were more experienced you would understand that you must now part from Marcus, for a time. Otherwise your Roman will grow thoroughly tired of you and send you shamefully away. How do you know but that with me you may not learn something that will make you more pleasing in his eyes?”

I could only sigh with relief that Mary Magdalene should so tactfully seek to relieve me of a burden that was becoming intolerable. Mary of Beret hugged my knees and wetted my mantle with her tears, but when she had wept for a while she grew quiet and resigned herself to her fate. Mary Magdalene sent her to wash her face and put on new clothes, and said when she had gone, “I have a responsibility toward that girl. She is still so young that her heart turns as readily to good as to evil. Such a girl is too great a temptation for a man. It says well for you that you have withstood the test and not yielded. Mary of Beret in her simplicity is one of the least among us. If you were to seduce her it would be better for someone to hang a millstone around your neck and drop you into the sea.”

“I have had no intention of seducing her,” I said in an injured tone. “On the contrary it was she who in her childishness tried to seduce me. If I had not fallen sick I might have taken her from sheer boredom when Susanna and Nathan left me in the lurch. But this way is best. Look after her, and that will leave me freer to search for Jesus of Nazareth.”

Mary Magdalene remarked, “I don’t believe Susanna has deceived you. She is too simple-minded for that. She may be lingering in Capernaum in the same bewilderment as everyone else because nothing is happening. But allow me to ask what you desire of life, Marcus Mezentius.”

Her question made me feel humble of heart; I thought about my life, and began to tell her of it: “I have been fortunate. When I was young I learned foreign languages in Antioch and was educated at the school of rhetoric in Rhodes. My highest aim was an official position as secretary to some Governor in the east, or a sojourn in Rome as domestic philosopher to some uncultured rich man. In reality I was embittered by my failure to enter the cavalry when I came to Rome, although otherwise I had no inclination for soldiering. Through a certain will I acquired the right to wear a thumb ring, but by then that distinction meant nothing to me. In fact I rather despise it, and keep the ring in my purse. As soon as I was able to acquire everything I wanted, I found that scarcely any of it had any real value. After that I was blinded by desire, until I was compelled to flee from Rome for fear of being murdered. What do I desire of life? I can’t answer that question. I can only ask myself what power it was that made me leave Alexandria for Jerusalem and what power halted me before the cross of the king of the Jews when the whole world was darkened.

“By a fortunate chance, it became possible during my early manhood to attain to everything which I had so hotly and vainly longed for in youth,” I went on. “Friendship, success, worldly pleasures. I could even have won power had I desired it, but that sort of craving I have never understood. Soon I had only the taste of ashes in my mouth. After immoderate pleasures I was beyond consolation. But I do know that I have no wish to live as a bloated, burnt-out old man in Rome, thinking old thoughts and eternally telling worn-out anecdotes like an imbecile. That is the only future I can see for myself if I return to Rome. I should be beheaded anyway, for as you may know, a coup d’état is expected there soon. Then everyone will be asked on whose side he has stood. I have enough respect for Caesar’s genius not to meddle in the intrigues of a bloodthirsty, low-born man. I would rather be quiet and humble of heart.”

“What do you hope for from Jesus of Nazareth?” asked Mary Magdalene.

“I have sensed his kingdom,” I said, “and it is not just dreams and poetry, like Vergil’s kingdom of death; it’s as real as the world we live in. Yes, when I think of him, his reality blends with this one in a confusing way. Mary Magdalene, I’m happy to be living in these days, just for the sake of knowing that he is in Galilee. No, I neither ask nor wish for anything from him but what he himself chooses to give me. For his kingdom cannot be just an ordinary earthly realm, but something new which I don’t yet comprehend. Otherwise there would be no sense in anything, for kingdoms have been founded since the beginning of the world and all have gone under, even Alexander’s. Probably only Rome will endure. For that reason alone his kingdom cannot be an earthly one.”

We spoke further on other matters until Mary of Beret returned to us. She had washed her face, combed her hair smooth, and put on a white mantle, and her feet were bare. Like this she looked so touchingly young that my heart softened toward her and I could think no more ill of her. That our parting might not be too sorrowful, I decided to return to Tiberias that same day. Mary Magdalene promised to let me know at once if she heard anything of importance, and bade me greet Johanna and Claudia Procula from her.

I walked back to the village of Magdala and my foot gave me no more trouble at all, so that for a moment I considered walking all the way to Tiberias by the shore road. But down by the beach I met the two fishermen who had brought us to Magdala; they had evidently waited for me, for they were in no hurry and I had paid them well. The sky was now overcast and the wind had freshened so that the waves of the lake foamed white. They stood observing the sky and the black clouds hanging up among the hills above the dove cleft, and they said, “The Sea of Galilee is treacherous. A sudden squall can drive a boat off course and swamp it. Can you swim, lord?”

I told them that in my youth I had won a wager by swimming from Rhodes to the mainland, undaunted by currents; but they had never heard of Rhodes and so could not appreciate the feat. It’s true that a boat followed me all the way and that I was in no real danger. But I had been spurred on less by the wager than by my infatuation for a teasing girl who had promised to crown me with a garland if I won it. So I put forth my uttermost strength in that swim, though when the wager was won, I no longer felt attracted to the girl.

I stretched myself out now on the cushions in the stern of the boat and watched the clouds race over the sky, while the fishermen girded up their mantles, shoved off and grasped their oars. I realized that they knew I had visited Mary Magdalene. How could such a thing remain a secret in a fishing village where everyone must have known everyone else and a stranger would be observed with curiosity? Nor were they surprised that I had left Mary of Beret, but laughingly exchanged a few jests with one another.

“What do you mean by those words?” I demanded.

“Nothing bad. Nothing bad at all,” they assured me. “Just that the lady dove catcher seems to have gone back to her old ways. How much did she pay you for the girl?”

I owed them no explanations, but being hurt on Mary Magdalene’s account I said, “She allowed the girl to stay with her out of pure kindness, to learn her trade.”

Both men roared with laughter, saying, “Of course, of course; the girl will certainly learn a trade. Mary has taught many girls to play upon heathen instruments, dance lewd dances and catch doves—but what kind of doves we won’t, for decency’s sake, mention.”

Before I could reply to them I heard the howl of a squall, the boat heeled over, the waves rose steeply and a foaming sea hurled water into the boat, soaking my cushions. I had time to say, “That’s a warning to you for your wicked words,” but then we were all three kept busy trimming the boat, which scudded like a chip before the stiff wind toward the opposite shore. If we had continued on our true course we should have been swamped in an instant.

Both these blockheads wanted to step the mast and hoist sail, but I forbade them sternly, for we carried no ballast. Lightning flashed among the thunderclouds that rolled out from behind the hills, and the day darkened. We bailed for our lives but could not prevent the boat from filling, and soon we were rolling and pitching and drifting nearer the eastern shore, with water to the gunwales. Drenched and frightened the fishermen gave me menacing looks and said, “We took a curse aboard when we took you, you Roman heathen, We have made ourselves guilty of a godless action in helping you to carry an Israelite girl to a house of joy. But we did not know your purpose.”

I clung fast to the boat’s edge where I sat up to the neck in water, and flung back my answer: “It is you who have brought a curse upon yourselves by speaking ill of Mary Magdalene.”

The water was not very cold, yet we were chilled through by the time the wind dropped enough for us to bail out the boat and bring her ashore at the mouth of a dried-up stream. The level strip of beach was narrower and bleaker than that of the western side, and the mountains rose steeply in front of us. The wind was still blowing strongly and the waves rushed so violently in upon the shore that the fishermen were loath to put out again in that headwind, even though they believed it would drop toward evening.

Dusk began to fall and we were cold, though we wrung out our clothes as well as we could. A little way off, where the low beach ended at the foot of the hills, we spied a modest shed with a glimmering fire in front of it. I proposed that we should go there and dry our clothes, but the men hesitated and said, “Were on the wrong shore. Luckily we have no nets with us, or we should be fined for unlawful fishing. Robbers and criminals flee here too, from Galilee. And lepers live in the caves.”

They had flint and iron with them, but the storm had soaked all the dry rushes on the beach so that we had no kindling. I started toward the shed and after further hesitation both men unwillingly followed me. When I came closer I saw a man sitting before the fire. He threw an armful of twigs on it so that it blazed up. I smelled grilled fish and freshly baked bread. Beside the hut a throwing net was hung out to dry.

“Peace be with you,” I said in greeting to the solitary fisherman. “We were caught in the storm. Will you allow us to dry our clothes by your fire?”

He willingly made room, and I took off my clothes and spread them out to dry over a stick. I saw that he had heated some flat stones and baked bread upon them, while on embers at the bottom of a pit he was grilling two big fish. The sixth hour had already passed and the shore was swiftly darkening in the shadows of the hills, although we could still see light glowing over the houses and arcades of Tiberias on the western side.

I looked more closely at the fisherman and found him to be a man with clear-cut features and a gentle, simple appearance; a man of whom one need have no fear. He greeted my two rowers kindly too, and showed them a place by the fire. They felt his net and asked what sort of catch he had made. He answered shyly that he hoped the storm would drive a shoal into the bay where the stream ran out, and that he meant to try his luck there next morning.

Without explicit invitation to us, he took up a loaf, blessed it, broke off a piece for each of us and took one himself. He had sour wine, too, some of which he poured into a wooden bowl carved from the root of a vine, blessed that also and passed it around so that all four of us drank from it in turn. He had cooked the fish well, but having no salt, had seasoned it with chives and bitter herbs. We sat in silence and ate. I noticed that now and then my companions cast a suspicious look at the man who sat looking at the ground and smiling to himself as if enjoying every mouthful. When he had eaten he picked up a little stick, apparently to mask his shyness, and began abstractedly drawing in the sand with it.

While we ate, our clothes began steaming in the heat of the fire and were soon dry. The stiffness left my limbs, warmth returned to my body and I felt comfortable and well content. I was overcome by drowsiness as I sat there, and could hardly keep my eyes open. I looked with gratitude at the friendly man who without a word had so hospitably shared his meal with us. I noted his scarred hands and feet and seemed to detect something feverish and haggard in his face, as if he had been suffering from some illness and had withdrawn into solitude to recover. But I did not want to seem inquisitive, since the fishermen asked him no further questions. Without even noticing it I fell asleep, naked as I was by the fire, and just as I dropped off I felt him covering me with my dry clothes.

I dreamed then, and awoke and sat up with tears pouring from my eyes. The two fishermen were sound asleep beside me, snoring gently. The tears ran hot and smarting down my cheeks, and an unspeakable sense of desolation filled me after my dream. The fire had gone out. From the stars and moon I saw that it was already the third watch of the night. The lake shone before me, level and smooth as a mirror. But there were only three of us; the fourth man had gone. Seeing this I felt a great dread. I threw on my clothes and sprang up, and it was with relief I saw that he had only gone down to the water’s edge and was looking out over the lake. I wrapped my mantle around me, went quickly over to him and stood beside him.

“What are you looking at?” I asked.

He didn’t turn, but answered, “I saw the heavens opening and the glory of my father, and I longed to go home to my father.”

I noticed that I had addressed him in Greek and that he answered in Greek. From this and from his words the thought struck me that he might be one of John the Baptist’s disciples, and had fled from Herod’s persecution to this side of the lake to live in solitude by fishing.

I said, “I too seek the kingdom. I was awakened by tears of longing. Show me where the Way lies.”

He said, “There is only one Way. Whatever you do to the least of these, you do to me.”

He said further, “I do not give as the world gives. But be not sad or afraid. The spirit of truth shall come after me, but the world cannot receive him for it cannot see him and does not know him. But if you know him, he will stay with you and be in you. I forsake no one.”

My heart turned to water within me, tears blurred my sight and I raised my hands awkwardly but dared not touch him. “You don’t speak as men speak,” I whispered. “You speak as one having power.”

He said, “To me is given all power in heaven and on earth.”

Only now did he turn to me. In the light of the stars and moon I saw his sweet, grave smile as he looked at me. His gaze undressed me, just as if one garment after another were falling from my body and I was becoming more and more naked. There was nothing disagreeable about this feeling; it was a deliverance.

When he had looked at me he pointed across the lake and said, “Over there in the Tetrarch’s city, in the Greek theatre, a girl is weeping because she has lost her brother and has no one to turn to. What was it you dreamed?”

“I saw a white horse,” I remembered.

“Be it so,” he returned. “Soon you will see a chariot race. Wager a sum of money on the white team. Then find the girl and give her your winnings.”

“How, in so big a city, shall I find a girl who has lost her brother?” I asked. “And how much shall I wager?”

He smiled again, but now his smile was so sorrowful that it cut me to the heart. “Ah, Marcus, you ask so much so needlessly,” he said in reproof.

But I didn’t understand his warning. I merely asked in astonishment, “How do you know my name? Do I know you? It does seems to me that I have seen you somewhere.”

He shook his head and said, “Is it not enough that I know you?”

I saw that he wanted to conceal his own identity, and became more convinced that he was one of the quiet ones in the land whose mind had been clouded by brooding on his faith, and by solitude. Why else should he have boasted that he possessed all power in heaven and on earth? Yet he might have the gift of prophecy. Therefore I resolved to remember his hint. But he said further, “Oh, you man! You see and yet see not. You hear and hear not. But one day, Marcus, you will remember. Then you will die for my name’s sake, that my name may be glorified, through you, as my father’s name has been glorified through me.”

“What evil is this that you foretell?” I said in horror, not at all grasping what he meant. I thought perhaps he couldn’t speak Greek properly and that I had misunderstood him.

He sighed heavily and let his mantle suddenly drop from his shoulders so that he was naked to the waist. He was so poor that he had not even a body garment. Turning away from me he said, “Touch my back.”

I stretched out my hand, passed it over his back and felt the weals of the scourge. He sighed again and put his hand to his side. Following it with my own I felt a deep scar. He seemed indeed to have been persecuted and ill-treated, so it was not surprising that he should be a little queer in the head. Silently I cursed these Jews who tortured each other like this for the sake of their faith; for there was no evil in this man, whatever he said. Filled with a strong compassion, I said to him, “Tell me your name at least. Perhaps I might help you, so that you may no longer be persecuted.”

He said, “If you acknowledge me before men when the time comes, I will acknowledge you before my father.”

“But your name,” I said again, “and who is your father, you strange man, since you so brag of him?”

He made no answer, but wrapped his mantle about him again and began to walk along the shore as if he had no more to say to me. He made so singular an impression, flesh and blood though I had proved him to be, that I dared not follow him and trouble him with further questions. After hesitating for a time I returned to the shed and lay down again to rest. I fell asleep at once, and had no dreams.

I woke up to sunshine and the flash of water. The hill on the other side shimmered gold beyond the dreamlike arcades of Tiberias, and all was as fresh and lovely to my eyes as if I had awakened renewed, in a new world. Both fishermen were already on their feet; they stood with hands clasped and prayed: “Hear me, Israel.”

But the solitary fisherman was gone, and his net too. He had set out the remains of the supper as if for us. We ate avidly but did not talk. When we had finished we returned to the mouth of the stream, shoved out the boat and climbed aboard. I looked about for the fisherman but he was nowhere to be seen, although in the evening he had told us that he meant to cast his net just here in the morning. I could not even see any footprints.

The men began rowing with powerful strokes. The boat shot forward as if through a disk of glass, which reflected the hills and streaks of fire from the rising sun. I still felt the same lightness and freedom as if I had taken off many layers of superfluous clothes. But the more I thought about the night’s happenings, the more I doubted, and wondered whether after all I had just had an unusually vivid dream. How could a hermit on the Sea of Galilee know Greek?

The men pulled rhythmically and strongly, keeping their eyes fixed ahead without once glancing behind them, as if wishful to get away from the strange shore as soon as possible. But I did look back to see if I could spy a solitary figure somewhere on the beach. In vain. At last I asked, “Who was that man we spent the night with? Did you know him?”

The fishermen answered, “You’re too inquisitive, Roman. We were on the wrong shore.”

But one of them added after a while, “He may have been someone we’ve seen before—perhaps someone who has spoken to the people. He must have been scourged and driven from Galilee; it doesn’t take much for that to happen. John lost his head for daring to forbid the Tetrarch to marry his brother’s wife.”

The other joined in: “There was something in his face that put one in mind of Jesus of Nazareth. Had it not been impossible I would have taken him for the Master. But as I remember Jesus he was taller and graver and not so gentle in his manner as this man. It may have been one of his relatives or companions who has gone into hiding.”

The fantastic thought struck down in me like a thunderbolt and shook me to my very core. “Put about at once!” I cried, and leaped to my feet. They would not take me seriously until I threatened to throw myself into the water and swim ashore. Reluctantly they turned the boat and rowed back. The prow had not touched bottom before I jumped into the water and ran to the shed. There were the ashes of the fire and the hole in the ground, just as when we had left the place, but no one was to be seen. I ran like a madman along the beach in both directions, looking in vain for footprints, until the fishermen seized me and forced me back to the boat.

There I covered my head and rebuked myself for my foolishness in not recognizing Jesus of Nazareth, if it had indeed been he. Then again I doubted, reflecting that this man had been a living man like myself. I had felt him with my own hands, and had perceived nothing divine in him whatever, as I understood divinity. Perhaps it is something as simple as the bread he gave us and the wine that we had drunk. Who am I to prescribe in what manner and in what form the son of God shall reveal himself to men?

I was filled with torturing uncertainty, and knew not what to believe. Therefore I went word for word through what he had said to me, and what I had asked him. At last I thrust these thoughts aside, reflecting that I should know soon enough whether or not I would be watching a chariot race in Tiberias.

Yet I could not help rebuking the two fishermen bitterly, and I said to them, “I told you myself that the Nazarene rose from the tomb on the third day. If you really thought you recognized him, why did you not speak to him and ask him whether he was the man?”

They looked at each other in mutual understanding and asked in their turn, “Why should we have spoken to him? If he had required something of us, he would have spoken to us. And we feared him.”

They said further, “We shall not mention this meeting to anyone, and nor must you. If he really was Jesus of Nazareth, which is hard to believe, he has good reason to seek solitude and hide from the Romans.”

This I could not deny, but I protested, “If it is he, what has he to fear in all the world? In Jerusalem he showed himself to his disciples when they were gathered together behind locked doors.”

Both men laughed sourly and said, “Stranger, you mustn’t believe every word the Galileans tell you. We’re emotional people with a lively imagination.”

When I was back in my familiar room in the comfortable Greek inn I was deeply relieved to be alone again, able to think in peace and spend my days as I chose. Mary of Beret had dogged me everywhere. Not until I was rid of her, thanks to Mary Magdalene, did I perceive how greatly she had distracted me.

In the peace of my room I relapsed again into thoughts of what had befallen me by the lake; yet as I sat thus the peace of the room became desolate and I began to feel restless and irritable. In these comfortable surroundings, where the most important thing for those who dwelt here was to make time pass and compare diseases and diets, I no longer felt it possible that I had met Jesus of Nazareth. The excitements and terrors of the storm must have given me some sort of nightmare mingled with reality. Even the fishermen had amused themselves by teasing me. If he had been Jesus of Nazareth and had wanted to reveal himself to me, surely he would have spoken openly, and made himself known.

My unease became so oppressive that I couldn’t sit still, but had to pace up and down my room with tears in my eyes, unable to enjoy my solitude any longer. At last I sent word to Claudia Procula that I had returned, only to have her reply that she had no time to receive me. The servant told me that she was entertaining distinguished guests from the court of Herod Antipas.

Not until the next day did Claudia Procula send a servant to me with an invitation to dine with her. I was not the only guest; Herod Antipas’ Roman adviser was also there, Johanna’s husband Kusas and Herod’s own physician, whom Herod had sent to examine Claudia Procula. This free-thinking Jew had studied medicine on the island of Kos, and was so completely Hellenized that he seemed more Grecian than any Greek. Before the meal and Claudia Procula’s arrival we were offered diluted wine with sweet and sour dainties to nibble at, in the hall of the palace. The members of the Tetrarch’s court tried to ensnare me with all kinds of questions. But I confined myself to praising the medicinal baths, and in evidence showed my foot which had healed so quickly from the blood poisoning.

Claudia Procula allowed Johanna to attend the meal too, although her husband obviously disapproved. Yet Johanna was very silent. Claudia Procula was pale, and complained that she was still sleepless, although wearied by her baths. Whenever she did sleep she had nothing but nightmares, and a servant had to rouse her because she wailed in her sleep.

“And Marcus,” she said, turning to me. “You could never guess in what a dilemma I find myself, poor, weak, sick woman that I am. My husband warned me of it when I wanted to come here, but I would never have dreamt my position would be so difficult, for I have always been retiring and have refrained from taking part in politics. Tetrarch Herod is far too kind. He wants to organize some big races in my honor, to show his friendship for Pontius Pilate. But I am loth to attract needless attention. It seemed to me more than enough that he should have sent his red-cloaked horsemen to meet me at the border.”

She threw a markedly malevolent glance at the courtiers and said, “You see, the plan is that his beautiful wife Herodias and myself should sit side by side in the Tetrarch’s box and receive the people’s acclaim together. But I don’t even know Herodias. I’ve also heard that according to Jewish law his marriage is illegal.”

The members of the court threw up their hands as if to ward off this insult, but I noticed that at least the big-bearded Kusas looked worried. Having nothing to lose, and being independent of the Tetrarch’s favor, I answered candidly, as I saw it was what Claudia Procula wanted: “We’re all friends here. The fox is a clever animal, and I have heard that Herod Antipas is flattered by being called the fox. His purpose is that you, the most eminent Roman lady in these countries and a kinswoman of Caesar’s, should show your approval of this marriage, which has made such bad blood that even a prophet has been executed because of it. I can imagine the thunderous applause that will be aroused among the emotional Galileans by your public appearance at the circus, where they will have the opportunity of demonstrating their love both for the Romans and for the Tetrarch’s lady. I suppose a couple of cohorts will be needed to maintain some sort of order, and all spectators will have to be searched at the gates to make sure they have nothing they might throw at you.”

Claudia Procula said quickly, “Of course I have nothing personal against the Lady Herodias, but if I patronize the races and sit next to her, and this provokes demonstrations, my husband in Caesarea will hardly be able to determine whether these demonstrations are aimed at the Romans or merely at the princess. I have heard that people refuse even to salute her, but withdraw from the streets and turn their backs when she appears.”

The Roman adviser explained, “Should the people demonstrate one can always stress that the uproar is aimed at Rome. Then the Tetrarch will have the opportunity of castigating his people soundly. The princess would greatly approve of that.”

“But my husband would not,” Claudia Procula objected. “Pontius Pilate is a moderate man and does his best to avoid unnecessary disturbance. This is certainly a matter which concerns the Tetrarch, and not him, but we cannot know which version of it will be relayed to Rome. It was as well you took my part, Marcus, for I have already decided that the most I can do is to accept the invitation as a private person. In that case I will have a box to myself, although naturally after the contests I am prepared to salute the princess and be friends with her. I am not bigoted, and such an attitude would indeed not become my position as wife to the Procurator of Judea.”

“I never knew the Galileans were interested in racing,” I remarked, to give the conversation a less dangerous turn.

“The fishermen and peasants know nothing of horses,” the physician explained scornfully. “But the circus and the theatre are the best means of spreading culture and vanquishing prejudice. We no longer live in the days when the people fled into Egypt and wandered in the desert. Teams travel about and compete in different countries. One is coming here now from Idumea, and another from the cavalry in Caesarea. A fine team is expected from Damascus, and the Arab tribal chiefs are quite mad about racing. No personal grudge would deter them from taking part.”

Kusas remarked, “Racing is well calculated to allay hatred. The Arabs are indignant because the Tetrarch’s former wife was an Arab, and had to flee back to her father’s tent.”

“A strange country,” I observed dryly, “if racing can reconcile different nations. In Rome they fight for their colors with stones and cudgels, both before and after the contests.”

The Roman adviser explained, “It is a sign of education when people crack each other’s skulls and beat each other black and blue, over horses and drivers. Religious disturbances are a different matter. But we may hope to enjoy some years of peace again, now that were rid of that king whom your husband, Claudia, was so prompt to crucify in Jerusalem.”

“You mean Jesus of Nazareth,” I said. “Don’t you know that he has risen again and has returned to Galilee?”

I said this in the same tone in which I had previously been speaking, so that they might think I was joking. But everyone started and scowled, until Kusas said, “The Galileans are superstitious folk. Bless me, even the Tetrarch believed, when he heard of Jesus, that it was that camel’s-hair prophet he’d executed who had risen from the dead. But let us speak openly. I didn’t think that this unpleasant rumor could have reached the ears of a chance traveler.”

The Hellenized physician began speaking, with lively gesticulation: “Since hearing of this I have thought about it a great deal, and also questioned some of those who saw him die. His bones were not broken, although they were in a hurry to get him down from the cross. Blood is said to have run from his side, too, when a soldier drove a spear into him to see if he was dead. The art of medicine holds that a dead body cannot bleed. Suppose he had been given a sleeping draught, or was in a coma, or heavily drugged. Why else should his disciples have stolen his body from the tomb? They may have managed to revive him, and he may be really hiding somewhere in the caves. He was after all an accomplished magician.”

The Roman adviser said sharply, “A man whom Rome crucifies does not revive. That is a serious accusation you’re making against Pontius Pilate. Be careful what you say.”

“I happened by chance to arrive at Jerusalem just as he was dying, and saw it,” I said. “Therefore this thing interests me particularly. I can testify that he really died on the cross. And even if he had been only unconscious, he could never have survived the spear-thrust in his heart. I saw it myself.”

But the physician was fond of his theory, and objected, “It is hard for a layman to be sure that death has occurred. For that an experienced doctor is needed.” He began describing some cases he had known, until Claudia Procula put her hands to her ears and exclaimed, “Cease talking of such horrible things, or I shall be dreaming of ghosts again tonight.”

The physician was abashed; he turned to me and by way of changing the subject he asked, “Is it true that Mary Magdalene has abandoned her former profession, as they say?”

A glacial silence followed. He looked around in surprise and asked, “Have I said something indiscreet? Is this something we may not speak of? But why? There are indeed at least a million people in Galilee, but it’s still a small country. By this lake, at any rate, everyone knows the comings and goings of everyone else. In her day Mary Magdalene was the most celebrated attraction in these parts, and at night strings of litters were carried to her house from Tiberias, by torchlight. I heard that you had been to see her, to give her charge of the girl you brought with you from Jerusalem. What is the matter with that?”

When I did not answer he went on unconcernedly, “But many people believe her to be a dangerous woman. In her youth they say some Samaritan magician roamed the country with her and conjured up spirits with her help. But to a sensible physician there is nothing very strange in such things.”

Kusas said reluctantly, “My wife knows her, though naturally she never sees her now. Jesus of Nazareth cured her and she no longer practices witchcraft, but distributes alms and lives a simple life. In general I’m of the opinion that Jesus of Nazareth did more good than harm. He was neither an agitator nor a blasphemer, though he was convicted of blasphemy. My wife Johanna accompanied him for a time, in fulfillment of a vow, for he had cured a relative of ours of the ague; and she had nothing bad to tell of him.”

Raising his voice he struck the palm of his hand with his fist and said vehemently, “And no harm would have come to him if he had not had the notion of going to Jerusalem. Time after time Pharisees came here to question him, so as to concoct some charge against him, but they never succeeded. It is anyway a wicked waste of the people’s wealth to send tithes from the country to the temple. So far as I can understand, Jesus of Nazareth said that God could be worshiped only in spirit and in truth. The Supreme Council naturally suspected that the revenues would diminish because of that saying. But it is madness for a smallholder to have to pay one tithe to the temple and another to the Tetrarch, land tax and toll to the Romans, and on top of that road tax, salt tax and market tax. It’s only a question of time before the peasants lose their fields and orchards from inability to pay their dues. The result will be crowds of vagrants, general unrest and discontent and hatred of all by all, as has already happened in Judea, where the rich are merging small properties into large farming estates. I assured the Tetrarch many times that he had nothing to fear from Jesus.”

The Roman adviser was on the point of making some remark, but Claudia Procula was before him and said with emphasis, “I agree with you, Kusas. Jesus of Nazareth was a good and devout man, and Pontius Pilate would never have condemned him if the Jews had not forced his hand.”

After dinner Claudia Procula complained of a headache and withdrew to her own rooms. The physician followed her considerately to mix a soothing drink for her. Kusas rose too to confer with his wife about household matters, as he said. But the Roman adviser and I remained lying alone at the table, and emptied a cup of wine together. He drank robustly, and tried to pump me about news from Rome. He would have liked to know more of the influence of Sejanus, but I was careful not to say too much. I explained that it was a whole year since I had been in Rome, and after that he lost interest in me. I asked him in my turn about the court and the Tetrarch. He burst out laughing and said, “I would at any rate advise you not to call him ‘fox’ in public. All descendants of Herod the Great are revengeful and tender of their dignity. It’s true they’re all unusually gifted and dissolute, but at least they’re loyal to Rome, since they have Rome to thank for their position. It’s only that their kinship is so involved that it is safest not to inquire into it too closely. Herod the Great was grandfather to this Herodias and father to Herod Antipas. The Jews have therefore every reason to deplore that marriage. Fortunately a Tetrarch may obey his own laws, or an attorney would have a hard time of it at his court. In questions of crimes against life I have the right of veto, but naturally I’m not such a fool as to use it. All I am trying to do is to amass a little capital by means of my good position. And Tiberias is not such a bad town for people like us. What do you say to getting drunk and going out to have a look round the city? I can show you how pleasantly one can arrange one’s life even among Jews, as long as one has the sense not to meddle in things that don’t concern one.”

When I excused myself on the grounds of my foot he changed his tone and said defensively, “Of course I have informants in different towns, and the legion maintains small garrisons here and there. I see to it that no arms are smuggled into the country, and that the Tetrarch does not lay up too large a stock of them. I also keep an eye on his foreign affairs. Fortunately he has annoyed the Arabs, and Persia is too far away for a petty prince like him. I am well thought of in Rome.”

I asked how he had managed to avoid the infection of Jewish religion in a country swarming with prophets and holy men. He waved both his hands and said with conviction, “I stick no fingers in that wasp’s nest. We have set up Caesar’s image, of course, and sacrifice to it in spite of Tiberius’ modest deprecation, but naturally we don’t force the people to do so. These folk are still so uncivilized that even men about the court slink out of the theatre if we arrange a performance. We cannot dream of letting any condemned man be really slain on the stage, as in Alexandria; in the tragedies we have recourse to the usual bladders filled with blood. The Jews won’t even watch amusing scurrilities. Oscan farces are not to be thought of.”

I remembered something, and asked whether any troupe of actors was visiting Tiberias at the moment. He shook his head and answered, “Not so far as I know. Unless the Tetrarch himself pays for a performance it is difficult to persuade any of the inhabitants here to do so. Interest in the theatre does not enhance one’s popular reputation as it does among the people of cultured countries.”

He now decided to go and Kusas went with him. I took respectful leave of them outside in the courtyard as they stepped into their litters, for I lost nothing by being polite to these two influential men. Herod’s physician availed himself of the opportunity to make a tour of the baths to snatch a fat patient or two from his colleagues, to swell his purse. As soon as they had gone, Claudia Procula summoned me, and holding her head with both hands asked me in a faint voice, “Did Mary Magdalene know anything fresh? What message did she give you?”

“She is waiting,” I answered. “No one seems to know any more than we do.”

Johanna said, “I have had word that in the interior of the country, in the Nain region, a man believed to be Jesus has been going about. But he disappeared again before the quiet ones were able to find him.”

Claudia Procula complained, “Willingly and devoutly I made a troublesome journey to give him the chance to cure me and so gain renown after his resurrection. Why does he not appear to me? There is nothing to prevent him, since he can pass through locked doors if he likes. I shouldn’t even be frightened, I have such ghastly nightmares every night. I’m getting tired of waiting; these sulphur-smelling baths weary me, and I don’t know what to wear for the races. For all his good qualities Pontius Pilate is closefisted, having grown up in modest circumstances. His mother was originally a barbarian woman from the northernmost part of Britain, where they eat peat.”

“I gave Kusas a hint of your worries,” Johanna said. “He realizes that the Tetrarch owes you a silken gown at least, if you really will honor his contests with your presence.”

“If he tries to palm off any of Herodias’ rags on me, I shall take it as an insult,” said Claudia Procula fiercely. “I hope you made that clear. I don’t care to accept any gift from a Jewish harlot. Whatever I have must come from the Tetrarch’s foreign treasury.”

She turned to me and explained, “You know better than anyone, Marcus, that I’m not vain—just a saddened woman who prefers retirement to public life. But if I consent to appear publicly, for Rome’s sake alone I must dress as befits my husband’s position. However, these are matters that no man can really understand, whatever he may say.”

“No, indeed, I do not properly understand,” I admitted. “It is as if these races were more important to you than Jesus of Nazareth, for whose sake you came here. At this very moment the risen son of God is building up an invisible kingdom about us: yet you’re more concerned about what to wear, to amuse Arab chiefs and rich horse breeders.”

“I have enough of invisible things every night in my dreams,” said Claudia Procula crossly. “I experience then all the marvels of the underworld; I can’t move a limb or even call for help, although I feel I’m breathing my last. As the moon waxes my evil increases, so that I fear for my reason.”

Depressed, and heated with wine, I returned to the Greek inn. In the road against a garden wall sat an old woman dressed in sackcloth, her head covered so that I did not know who she was. But she had been waiting for me. She greeted me by name and said softly, “I’ll go on ahead, down to the beach. Follow me, but don’t let anyone see you.”

She started ahead and I followed a little way behind. She led me to a lonely part of the shore where no one could see us or hear what we said to each other. Only then did she uncover her face and I saw that it was Susanna. But she did not smile or greet me joyfully. On the contrary she breathed heavily and sighed and wrung her hands as if suffering bitter pangs of conscience, and did not know how to begin. I rebuked her sternly for her desertion and asked where Nathan was, and my donkeys, and my purse too. She groaned more bitterly than ever and said, “I have certainly not deserted you, nor has Nathan, and nothing has been lost. On the contrary, Nathan is using the donkeys to carry sand and clay to the new customs house in Capernaum, so as not to waste the time for which you’re paying him. He will give strict account of everything. While you rest here the donkeys are working for you and adding good money to your riches. But indeed I know not whether I do right or wrong in revealing secrets to you, and I should certainly never have sought you out if you hadn’t kissed me on the mouth in spite of my being such an old bag of bones and having not many teeth left, though many Galilean women of my age have perfectly sound teeth. I can’t make out why that should be.”

“Don’t stand there prattling of your teeth,” I scolded her, “but tell me at once if you have heard anything of Jesus of Nazareth.”

Susanna said, “Yes, yes indeed. By all means. Anyone can scold. I may tell you that Jesus of Nazareth appeared long ago to some of the disciples by the lake, and ate with them and made Simon Peter their leader. I understand he has appointed Peter to be the shepherd who is henceforth to feed his lambs. But may a demon fly away with me if Peter will ever consent to feed you like a lamb or keep watch over you, who are no child of Israel, and not even circumcised. I can’t understand why he chose Peter, of all men, as leader—Peter who denied him before even the cock crew. Certainly Peter is the biggest and strongest of them, but he is too quick-tempered to counsel others.”

“Did they themselves confide this to you?” I asked dubiously.

Susanna, with her hands between her knees, signed and mourned: “Oh, how tender my feet are. I could never have walked all the way from Capernaum, but I was allowed to ride in the boat of the tax gatherers to the heathen in Tiberias. I am only a simple old woman, and no one tells me anything. But there is nothing wrong with my hearing, and someone has to clean the fish and salt it down in jars, and wash the men’s clothes and cook for them. In that way one picks up one thing and another—perhaps more than one is meant to at times, for they all believe me to be too feeble-witted to understand anything. I am so weak and tired and I long so for Jesus that I can’t sleep. Sometimes I go down at night to the shore, to pray. If I happen to hear something then that is not meant for my ears, that is not my fault but rather God’s will, for it could hardly happen against his will, if these disciples are really such holy men as they believe—for they positively swell with pride because Jesus has shown himself to them many times already, always to a group, now here, now there, and has taught them a little. But Peter and James and John stand first in his favor; they have something like fire in their faces, so that one can see them in the dark without a lantern.

“Nathan’s an honest man,” Susanna went on. “He has even made a vow, and a man is always a man, so I believe more in him than in my own woman’s wits. He says I owe you a message since you so generously brought me with you from Jerusalem to Galilee, although the holy ones had forsaken you; so for me you were the good Samaritan whom Jesus used to take as an example when he taught; and a Roman seems to me no worse than a Samaritan, for the Samaritans scorn the temple and serve God on their own mountain and celebrate the Passover according: to their own ideas. But the Romans know nothing at all about anything and so are innocent—except you, of course,”

Thus she poured out her fear and anguish in a flood of speech until at last I had to interrupt her and ask, “So Jesus of Nazareth, then, is the Messiah, and the son of God, and is risen?”

“Indeed he is risen, and walks in Galilee and has appeared to many people,” said Susanna, and burst into tears. “May he forgive me if I have done wrong and wickedly now, and betrayed him to you. But surely you mean him no harm?”

“But why has he not shown himself to Mary Magdalene or Johanna or you?” I asked in surprise.

“My lord, we are only women,” said Susanna, genuinely astonished. “Why should he reveal himself to us?” She put her hand to her mouth, unable to repress a titter at such a silly idea. But she was soon grave again, and continued, “The sons of Zebedee must have said something to their mother Salome, for Salome is such a selfish and ambitious woman that the boys would not dare to keep it from her. But at least Salome has told no other women anything yet. I know one thing for certain: word has gone out throughout Galilee to them who believed in him and whom the disciples trust. Among them are the seventy whom he once sent out to proclaim his name, but there are many other quiet ones as well. The message has gone from mouth to mouth and village to village: The Lord is risen, keep yourselves in readiness. The time is accomplished: he remains only forty days on earth. But before he leaves it he will call all his own to his mountain to say farewell to them. Or at least I know not whether it is he himself who has summoned them, or his disciples.”

“His mountain?” I said. “What mountain is that?”

But Susanna shook her head and declared, “I don’t know, but I believe his faithful and the quiet ones know. There are many hills to which he used to withdraw to pray, both near Capernaum and on the other side of the lake, but I think this one must be in the middle of Galilee and near roads, so that those who have received the message can assemble there quickly, without attracting attention, when word comes. There is also talk of a medicine of immortality, but I don’t know whether he has given anything of this kind to his disciples, or whether he means to give it to all his people on the mountain.”

“Susanna,” I said, “I know not how to thank you for your loyalty. May he bless you for your goodness in not leaving me in the dark. I will go with them to the mountain when the time comes, though they should slay me. Ask Nathan to hold the donkeys in readiness, and to keep one for you too, if the others won’t take you.”

Susanna said gaily, “Yes, indeed; I had thought the same, and I bless you, Roman, who are more merciful than his own people. My heart has been gnawed by the fear that they will all suddenly spring up and go, leaving me behind on lame feet so that never again should I see my Lord. But now you promise not to leave me behind even if the others do.”

We further discussed whether I should journey to Capernaum so as to be near the disciples, but Susanna feared lest they should recognize me too soon and mistrust me. The main road into Galilee runs through Tiberias, however, and she thought it best that I should stay quietly where I am and wait for Nathan or her. She also believed that so many people will be gathering together on the mountain, and from so many directions, that they won’t all know each other. When the time comes it may be possible to ask one’s way to the place in the manner of the quiet ones, even if the disciples should vanish from Capernaum by night, and make their way across the hills.

We parted from each other with these promises and hopes. Susanna went back along the shore without having eaten or drunk, although I would gladly have treated her to whatever she wanted. She was afraid that someone might see us together and report it to Jesus’ disciples.

So hope entered my heart and stilled it, and my unease left me. Inwardly I prayed the prayer that Susanna had taught me, and I believe there is no earthly honor or mark of favor, no success or wisdom that I would not gladly exchange for Jesus of Nazareth’s kingdom, if he would open it to me. I examined my mind to its depths, and I believe it is not immortality or eternal life that I desire. I wish only that he would look at me and acknowledge me as one of his own.

For some days since meeting Susanna I have occupied myself solely in recording what has happened.