The Last Temptation of Christ

Chapter Eight

THE MONASTERY lay perched in the desert beyond the lake of Gennesaret, built of ash-red stones and wedged in and hidden between huge ash-red rocks. Midnight… Out of the sky the waters fell, not in drops, but in floods. The hyenas, wolves and jackals howled, as did a pair of lions farther away-infuriated by the repeated thunderclaps. Plunged in impenetrable darkness, the monastery was frequently striped by the lightning flashes: the God of Sinai seemed to be flogging it. The monks were fallen face downward in their cells, beseeching Adonai not to drown the earth once more. Hadn’t he given his word to the patriarch Noah? Hadn’t he stretched a rainbow from earth to heaven as a sign of friendship?

The only light was in the Abbot’s cell. Joachim, the Abbot, sat beneath the seven-branched candelabrum in his elevated stall of cypress wood and listened-skinny, short of breath, his white beard like a river, his arms crossed, eyes closed-listened to John, the young novice, who stood at the lectern and read to him from the prophet Daniel.

“’A night vision fell upon me. I saw the four winds of heaven bound over the Great Sea. And four large beasts came up out of the sea and the one did not resemble the other. The first was like a lion and had the wings of an eagle. I beheld it until its wings were uprooted and it was made to stand upright on its feet like a man; and a man’s heart was wedged into its breast. And behold, there emerged a second beast and it resembled a bear; and someone said to it, Arise, devour much flesh. I looked and lo, a third beast. It resembled a leopard and had four wings on its back, like a bird. This beast had four heads, and dominion was given to it…’ ”

The novice felt uneasy and stopped. He no longer heard the Abbot sigh or drive his nails with agitation into the stall; no longer even heard him breathe. Could he have died? For days and days now he had refused to put food into his mouth. He was angry with God and wanted to die. He wanted to die-that he made absolutely clear to the brothers-so that his soul might be unburdened of the body, might be relieved of this weight and enabled to ascend to heaven in order to find God. He had a complaint to settle with him: it was necessary for him to see him and talk to him. But the body was lead; it prevented his ascent. He decided, therefore, to send it about its business, to abandon it in the grave so that the true Joachim could ascend to heaven and tell God his grievance. This was his duty. Wasn’t he one of the Fathers of Israel? The people had mouths, but no voice. They could not stand in front of God and relate their suffering. But Joachim could; he had no choice!

The novice turned and looked. Beneath the seven flames the Abbot’s head, pitted like old, worm-eaten wood, roughened by the sun and fasting: how it resembled the primordial rain-washed skulls of beasts which caravans sometimes encountered in the desert! What visions that head had seen, how many times heaven had opened up before it, how many times the bowels of hell! His mind was a Jacob’s ladder on which all of Israel ’s anxieties and hopes climbed up and down.

Opening his eyes, the Abbot saw the novice standing before him, deathly pale. In the light of the menorah the blond fuzz on his cheeks glowed in all its virginity, and his eyes, swept away far into the distance, were full of affliction.

The Abbot’s severe expression sweetened. He loved this well-formed youth whom he had snatched from old Zebedee, his father, and brought here to be delivered up to God. He liked his submissiveness and ferocity, the silent lips and insatiable eyes, his sweetness and quick intelligence. One day, he reflected, this boy will speak with God, will do what I could not do; and the two wounds which I have on my shoulders, he will transform into wings. I did not rise to heaven during my lifetime, but he will during his.

The boy had come to the monastery once with his parents. It was to celebrate the Passover. The Abbot, a distant relation of old Zebedee’s, received them merrily and sat them at his own table. John was about sixteen years old at the time. While he ate, bent over his food, he felt the Abbot’s eye fall upon his scalp, push aside the bones, pass through the suture lines of his skull, into the brain. Terrified, he looked up, and the two glances joined in mid-air over the paschal table. From that day on, neither fishing boats nor the lake of Gennesaret had been large enough for the boy. He sighed and withered away until one morning old Zebedee grew weary and shouted, “Your mind isn’t on the fishing; it’s on God. Well, go on, go to the monastery. I had two sons. God willed that I divide them with him, so let’s divide them and be done with it-and let him have his way!”

The Abbot gazed at the boy who stood before him. He had intended to scold him, but as he looked at him, his expression sweetened. “Why did you stop, my child?” he asked. “You abandoned the vision in the middle. One mustn’t do that. He’s a prophet, and prophets must be revered.”

The boy turned fiery red, rolled the leathern scroll out on the lectern once more, and began again, chanting on one invariable note, to read: “ ‘After this I saw in my night visions a fourth beast, dreadful and sinister and terribly strong; and it had great iron teeth. It devoured and broke in pieces, and trampled the remainder with its feet. It did not resemble any of the other beasts; and it had ten horns-’ ”

“Stop!” shouted the Abbot. “That’s enough!”

The cry frightened the boy, and the sacred text rolled down onto the flagstones. He picked it up, placed his lips to it and kissed it; then went and stood in the corner, his eyes riveted on his superior. The Abbot, his fingernails now clawed into the stall, was shouting. “Daniel, all your prophecies have been fulfilled. The four beasts have passed over us. The lion with the wings of the eagle came and tore us open, the bear who feeds on Hebrew flesh came and ate us, the four-headed leopard came and bit us, east, west, north and south. The shameful beast with the iron teeth and the ten horns sits now above us: he has not come yet, has not fled. All the ignominy and fear you prophesied you would send us, Lord, you have sent-and we thank you! But you prophesied good things too. Why haven’t you sent those? Why are you so tight-fisted where they are concerned? You’ve given us a liberal supply of calamities; now give us generously of your benefits! Where is the son of man you promised us?… John, read!”

The boy moved away from the corner where he had been standing with the scroll under his shirt. Going up to the lectern, he began again to read. But his voice, like his superior’s, had now grown fierce.

“ ‘I looked in my night visions and, behold, one like a son of man came upon the clouds of heaven and approached the Ancient of days, and was brought near to him. And to him was given dominion and glory and the kingdom, and all peoples, nations and men of all tongues served him. His dominion is an everlasting dominion, that shall never end; and his kingdom is indestructible.’ ”

The Abbot, unable to restrain himself any longer, left his stall, took one step, then one more, reached the lectern, tripped and was about to fall, but managed to put his palm heavily down on the holy manuscript and steady himself.

“Where is the son of man you promised us? Did you give us your word or didn’t you? You can’t deny it-here it is in writing!” He banged his hand angrily, exultantly, on the prophecy. “Here it is in writing! John, read it again!”

But the Abbot could not wait. Before the novice had time to start, he seized the scripture, lifted it high into the light and began, without looking, to cry out in a triumphant voice: “’To him was given dominion and glory and the kingdom, and all peoples, nations and men of all tongues served him. His dominion is an everlasting dominion, that shall never end; and his kingdom is indestructible.’ ”

He left the scroll open on the lectern and looked through the window at the darkness outside.

“Well, where is the son of man?” he shouted, gazing into the blackness. “He isn’t yours any more, seeing that you promised him to us-he’s ours! Well, where is he? Why don’t you give him dominion, glory and the kingdom so that your people, the people of Israel, can govern the whole universe? Our necks are stiff from watching the sky and waiting for it to open. When, when? Yes-why do you harp on it-we know well enough that one second for you is a thousand years for men. All right, but if you’re just, Lord, you’ll measure the time with man’s measure, not with yours. That’s what justice means!”

He started toward the window, but his knees sagged and he halted and thrust out his hands as though he wanted to steady himself on the air. The boy ran to support him, but the Abbot grew angry and nodded to him not to touch him. Calling up all his strength, he reached the window, leaned against the wall, extended his head as far as he could, and looked out. Darkness… The flashes of lightning were fewer now, but the waters still thundered down upon the rocks which flanked the monastery. Every time the cacti were hit by lightning they seemed to whirl about and be transformed: they became a nation of cripples with the leprous stumps of their arms lifted toward the sky.

Tensing body and soul, the Abbot listened. From far in the distance came the howling of the wild game of the desert. The animals were not hungry; they were afraid. Close by, almost on top of them, a beast wrapped in fire and whirlwind bellowed and approached in the darkness. The Abbot listened to the voices of the desert and as he listened suddenly he shuddered and turned. Some invisible being had entered his cell! He looked. The seven flames of the candelabrum flickered turbulently and were on the point of going out; the nine strings of the harp, which was leaning unused in a corner, vibrated wildly, as though some invisible hand had seized them in a fury in order to snap them. The Abbot began to tremble.

“John,” he said softly, looking around him, “come here, close to me.”

The boy flew out of his corner and approached.

“Command me, Father,” he said, and he placed his knees on the ground, to prostrate himself.

“John, go and call the monks. I have something to tell them before I depart.”

“Before you depart, Father?”

The boy shuddered. Two large black wings, beating in back of the old man, had caught his eye.

“I’m going,” said the Abbot, and his voice suddenly seemed to come from beyond the other shore, “I’m going! Didn’t you see the seven flames lurch and draw away from their wicks? Didn’t you hear the nine strings of the harp vibrate madly, ready to snap? I’m going, John. Run and call the monks. I want to speak to them.”

The boy bowed his head and disappeared. The Abbot remained standing in the middle of the cell under the seven-branched candelabrum. Now at last he was alone with God: he could speak his mind freely, with no fear of being overheard. He lifted his head calmly; he knew that God stood before him.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said to him. “Why do you enter my cell, why do you try to put out the light, shatter the harp and capture me? I’m coming, and not only of your will, but of my own. I’m coming. I hold in my hands the tables on which the complaints of my people are written. I want to see you and speak to you. I know you don’t listen or at least pretend you don’t listen, but I shall bang on your door until you open, and if you don’t open (nobody’s here now to hear me, so I’ll speak freely), if you don’t open your door, I shall break it down! You’re fierce, you love fierce people-they alone you name your sons. Until now we have wept, prostrated ourselves and said, Your will be done! But we cannot last any longer, Lord. How long are we going to wait? You are fierce, you love fierce people-we shall become fierce. Our wills be done now-ours!”

As the Abbot spoke he kept his ear tensed so that he could hear whatever was in the air. But the rain had abated, the thunder had retreated into the distance-the claps were muffled and came from the east, far away over the desert. The seven flames burned steadily above the old man’s white head.

The Abbot waited in silence. He waited a considerable time for the flames to waver again, for the harp to quiver once more with fright… Nothing! He shook his head. “The body of man is accursed,” he murmured. “It’s the body which always intrudes and refuses to allow the soul to see and hear the Invisible. Slay me, Lord. I want to be able to stand before you free of the dividing wall of the flesh, so that when you speak to me I shall hear you!”

The door of the cell had opened noiselessly meanwhile, and the untimely awakened monks had filed in, dressed all in white. They stood against the wall like so many ghosts, and waited. They had heard the Abbot’s last words, and the breath stuck in their throats. He’s talking with God, they said to themselves, he’s upbraiding God: now the thunderbolt will fall upon us! They stood against the wall, trembling.

The Abbot looked off into the distance. His eyes were somewhere else; they did not see. The novice approached and prostrated himself.

“They have come, Father,” he said. He spoke softly, in order not to frighten him.

The Abbot heard his subordinates voice. Turning, he saw the others. He moved from the center of the cell, walking methodically, slowly, holding his moribund body as straight as he was able. He reached the stall, mounted the low stool in front, and halted. The phylactery with the holy apophthegms which was around his arm came undone. The novice darted forward in time to retie it tightly, before it could be soiled by touching the ground on which men walk. The Abbot put out his hand and grasped the ivory-hilted abbot’s crosier which was next to the stall. Feeling new strength, he tossed his head high and swept his eyes over the monks who were lined up against the wall.

“Friars,” he said, “I have a few words to say to you-my last. Open your ears, and if anyone is sleepy, let him leave! What I am about to say is difficult. All your hopes and fears must wake up and alert their ears in order to give me an answer!”

“We’re listening, Holy Abbot,” said Father Habakkuk, the oldest of the Abbot’s suite, and he placed his hand over his heart.

“These are my last words, Friars. You’re all thick-headed, so I shall speak in parables.”

“We’re listening, Holy Abbot,” Father Habakkuk repeated.

The Abbot bowed his head and lowered his voice. “First came the wings and then the angel!”

He stopped, glanced at the monks one by one, then shook his head. “Friars, why do you look at me like that, with open mouths? Father Habakkuk, you raised your hand and moved your lips. Do you have some objection?”

The monk put his hand to his heart. “You said, ‘First came the wings and then the angel.’ We never noticed those words in Scripture, Holy Abbot.”

“How could you have noticed them, Father Habakkuk? Alas! your minds are still dim. You open the prophets and your eyes are able to see nothing but the letters. But what can the letters say? They are the black bars of the prison where the spirit strangles itself with screaming. Between the letters and the lines, and all around the blank margins, the spirit circulates freely; and I circulate with it and bring you this great message: Friars, first came the wings and then the angel!”

Father Habakkuk reopened his mouth. “Our minds, Holy Abbot, are lamps which have gone out. Light them, light them so that we may enter into the parable, and see.”

“In the beginning, Father Habakkuk, was the longing for freedom. Freedom did not exist, but suddenly, at the very depths of slavery, one man moved his manacled hands quickly, violently-as though they were wings; and then another, and another, and finally the entire people.”

Questioning voices rang out joyfully: “The people of Israel?”

“Yes, Friars, the people of Israel! This is the great and terrible moment which we are now passing through. The yearning for freedom has grown ferocious; the wings are beating wildly; the liberator is coming! Yes, Friars, the liberator is coming, because… Wait-this angel of freedom: what do you think he’s made of? Of God’s condescension and charity? Of his love? His justice? No, this angel is made of the patience, obstinacy and struggle of mankind!”

“You place a great obligation, an unbearable weight, on man, Holy Abbot,” old Habakkuk ventured to object. “Do you have that much confidence in him?”

But the Abbot ignored the objection. His mind was riveted on the Messiah. “He is one of our sons,” he cried. “That is why the Scriptures call him the son of man! Why do you think thousands of Israel ’s men and women have coupled, generation after generation? To rub their backsides and titillate their groins? No! All those thousands and thousands of kisses were needed to produce the Messiah!”

The Abbot banged his crosier vigorously against the stall. “Take care, Friars! He may come in the middle of the day, he may come in the middle of the night. Keep yourselves constantly prepared: bathed, hungry, wakeful. Woe is you if he finds you filthy, satiated or asleep!”

The monks herded one against the other and dared not look up to see the Abbot. They felt a wild flame flow out of the top of his head and attack them.

Coming down from his stall, the moribund advanced with firm steps toward the frightened herd of fathers. He held out his crosier and touched them one by one. “Take care, Friars!” he cried. “If the yearning is broken off for even an instant, the wings become chains again. Stay vigilant, fight, keep the torch of your soul burning day and night. Strike! Forge the wings! I’m going-I am in a hurry to speak to God. I’m going… These are my final words: Strike! Forge the wings!”

Suddenly he stopped breathing, and the crosier slid out of his hand. Without a sound the old man fell tranquilly, gently, down on his knees and rolled silently onto the flagstones. The novice uttered a cry and ran to help his superior. The monks moved away from the wall, stooped, laid the Abbot out on the stones, and lowered the seven-branched candelabrum and placed it next to his livid, immobile face. His beard gleamed; his white gown had opened, revealing the rough cassock with the sharp iron hooks which swaddled the old man’s bloody chest and flanks.

Father Habakkuk placed his hands over the Abbot’s heart. “He’s dead.”

“His deliverance has come,” said someone else.

“The two friends have parted and returned to their homes,” a third person whispered, “the flesh to the soil and the soul to God.”

But while they talked and arranged to have water heated in order to wash him, the Abbot opened his eyes. The monks recoiled in terror and gazed at him. His face was resplendent, his thin, long-fingered hands moved, his eyes were riveted ecstatically upon the air.

Father Habakkuk knelt and again placed his hand over the Abbot’s heart. “It’s beating,” he whispered. “He’s not dead.”

He turned to the novice, who was prostrate at the old man’s feet, kissing them. “Get up, John. Mount the fastest camel and race to Nazareth to bring old Simeon, the rabbi. He’ll cure him. Quick; it’s getting light!”

Day was breaking. The clouds had scattered; the satiated, freshly bathed earth gleamed and looked up at the heavens with gratitude. Two sparrow hawks leaped into the sky and flew circles over the monastery to dry off.

Wiping away his tears, the novice went to the stable and chose the fastest camel, a young, slender one with a white star on her forehead. He made her kneel, then mounted and let out a yodeling, throaty cry. The camel wrenched herself away from her foundations, stood up and with great strides started to race toward Nazareth.

The morning gleamed over the lake of Gennesaret. The water scintillated in the early light, muddy at the banks from the soil which the rains had washed down during the night, farther on blue-green, and farther still milky white. The sails of the fishing boats were stretched out to dry. Some boats were already in open waters: the fishing had begun. Rosy-white ring plovers perched happily on the quivering water. Black cormorants stood on the rocks, their round eyes pinned on the lake in case any fish should surface to rollick gleefully in the foam. Next to the shore a Capernaum drenched to the bone was awakening: cocks shook the water from their feathers, donkeys braved, calves mooed tenderly; and, mixed in with these ill-matched sounds, the meaningful talk of human beings added security and gladness to the air.

Ten or so fishermen in an isolated cove, their large feet braced in the pebbles, were singing softly while they slowly, dexterously pulled in the nets. Over them stood old Zebedee, their loquacious and seven-times-cunning boss. He pretended that he loved every one of them like a son and pitied them, but he did not give them a moment’s rest. They were paid by the day, and voracious old gobble-jaws made sure they did not relax for even a second.

Bells chattered. A herd of goats and sheep bounded toward the shore. Dogs barked; someone whistled. The fishermen turned to look, but old Zebedee rushed forward. “It’s Philip and his philipkins,” he said with irritation. “As for us, back to work!”

He grabbed the rope himself and pretended to help.

Fishermen continually appeared from the village, loaded down with nets and followed continually appeared their wives, who carried the day’s provisions balanced on their heads. Sunburned boys lost no time in grasping the oars and rowing. They stopped every two or three strokes to bite the dry crusts they held in their hands. Philip stepped up onto a rock where he could be seen, and whistled. He wanted to chat, but old Zebedee frowned. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he shouted, “Leave us alone, Philip. We’ve got work to do. Go somewhere else!” And he turned him a cold shoulder.

“Let him go gab with Jonah; he’s over there throwing his nets,” he grumbled. “As for us, lads, we’ve got work to do!” Once more he seized a knot in the rope and began to pull.

The fishermen resumed their sad, unvarying work chant, and all had their eyes glued on the buoys of red gourds, which came continually closer.

But just as they were about to haul the womb of the net with its load of fish up onto the beach, they heard a dreary buzzing in the distance, all over the plain, accompanied by shrill cries like those of the dirge. Old Zebedee tensed his huge, hairy ear in order to hear distinctly, and his men seized the opportunity and stopped work.

“What’s happened, lads?” Zebedee asked. “That’s the dirge; the women are lamenting.”

“Some great man died,” an aged fisherman answered him. “May God grant you a long life, boss.”

But old Zebedee had already climbed up onto a rock. His rapacious eyes swept over the plain, where he could see men and women running to the fields, falling, getting up again-and raising the dirge. The whole village began to turn upside down. Women passed by pulling out their hair, but behind them the men walked in silence, bowed down to the earth.

“What’s happened?” Zebedee yelled to them. “Where are you going? Why are the women crying?”

But they hurried past him toward the threshing floors and did not answer.

“Hey, where are you going? Who died?” howled Zebedee, waving his hands. “Who died?”

A stocky man halted, puffing. “The wheat!” he replied.

“Speak sensibly. I’m Zebedee; people don’t joke with me. Who died?”

He was answered, by cries which came from every direction “The wheat, the barley, the bread!”

Old Zebedee remained standing with gaping mouth. But suddenly he slapped his behind: he understood. “It’s the flood,” he murmured; “it washed the harvest off the threshing floors. Well, let the poor complain; it’s no concern of mine.”

The cries now inundated the plain. Every soul in the village had come outdoors. The women fell on the threshing floors and rolled in the mud, hurrying to gather up the small amount of wheat and barley which had been left as sediment in the hollows and furrows. The arms of Zebedee’s men fell useless to their sides: they had no strength to pull in the nets. Seeing them all gazing toward the plain with unemployed hands, Zebedee flew into a rage.

“To work!” he shouted, coming down from the rock. “Heave!” Once more he grasped the rope and pretended to pull. “We’re fishermen, glory be to God, not farmers. Let the floods come. The fish are expert swimmers and don’t drown. Two and two make four!”

Philip abandoned his flock and jumped from stone to stone. He wanted to talk. “A new deluge, lads!” he shouted, appearing before them. “Stop, for God’s sake, and let’s talk. It’s the end of the world! Just count up the calamities! Day before yesterday they crucified our great hope, the Zealot. Yesterday God opened the floodgates of heaven-just exactly when the threshing floors were loaded-and away went our bread. And not very long ago one of my sheep had a two-headed lamb. It’s the end of the world, I tell you! For the love of God, stop working and let’s talk!”

But old Zebedee caught fire. “Won’t you get the hell out of here, Philip, and leave us alone,” he yelled, the blood rising to his head. “Can’t you see we’ve got work to do. We’re fishermen and you’re a shepherd, so let the farmers complain-what do we care?… Men, your work!”

“And have you no pity, Zebedee, for the farmers who’ll die of hunger?” objected the shepherd. “They’re Israelites too, you know, our brothers; we’re all one tree, all of us, and it’s obvious that the plowmen are the roots-if they dry out, so do we all. And one thing more, Zebedee: if the Messiah comes and we’ve all died in the meantime, whom will he find to save? Answer me that if you can!”

Old Zebedee huffed and puffed. If you’d pinched his nostrils, he surely would have exploded. “Go on, for the love of God; go back to your philipkins. I’m sick and tired of hearing about Messiahs. One comes along, he’s crucified; along comes the next, he’s crucified too. And haven’t you learned what message Andrew brought his father, Jonah: it seems that wherever you go and wherever you stop, you find a cross. The dungeons are overflowing with Messiahs. Ooo, enough’s enough! We’ve been getting along just fine without Messiahs; they’re nothing but a nuisance. Go on, bring me some cheese and I’ll give you a panful of fish. You give me and I give you: that’s the Messiah!”

He laughed and turned to his adopted sons. “Step lively, my brave lads, so that we can light the fire, put on the chowder and eat. Look, the sun’s risen a yard and we haven’t done a thing.”

But no sooner had Philip lifted his foot to go join his flock than he halted. A donkey, nearly perishing with a load which reached to its ears, appeared on the narrow path which hugged the shore of the lake, and behind the donkey was a colossus with bare feet, open shirt-and a red beard. He held a forked stick in his hand and prodded the beast: he was in a hurry.

“Look! I think it’s old devil-hair himself, Judas Iscariot,” said the shepherd, holding his ground. “He’s started his rounds to the villages again to shoe mules and make pickaxes. Come on, let’s see what he’s got to say.”

“A plague on him!” murmured old Zebedee. “I don’t like his hair. I’ve heard that his ancestor Cain had a beard like that.”

“The unfortunate follow was born in the desert of Idumea,” said Philip. “Lions still roam there, so better not pick an argument with him.” He put two fingers into his mouth and began to whistle to the donkey-driver.

“Hello, Judas,” he called, “glad to see you. Come over this way a bit so we can get a better look at you.”

The redbeard spat and cursed. He did not like this shepherd fellow, nor did he like Zebedee, that parasite-didn’t like them at all. But he was a blacksmith, a man of need, and he approached.

“What news do you bring us from the villages along your route?” Philip asked. “What’s happening on the plain?”

The redbeard stopped his donkey by pulling its tail. “Everything’s just fine,” he answered with a dry laugh. “The Lord is exceedingly merciful, bless him! Yes, he loves his people! In Nazareth he crucifies the prophets, and here on the plain he sends a deluge and takes away his people’s bread. Can’t you hear the lamentations? The women are wailing for the wheat: you’d think it was their own sons.”

“Whatever God does is right,” Zebedee objected, vexed because all this talk was crippling the day’s work. “I have confidence in him no matter what he does. When everyone drowns and I’m the only one to escape, God is protecting me. When everyone else is saved and I’m the only one to drown, God is protecting me then too. I have confidence, I tell you. Two and two make four.”

When the redbeard heard these words he forgot that he was a day laborer who lived from hand to mouth and had to rely on every one of these people for his livelihood. Fired up by his evil disposition, he spoke and did not mince his words. “You have confidence, Zebedee, only because the Almighty lays a nice soft bed for you and your affairs. Your Worship has five fishing boats in his service; you have fifty fishermen as slaves; you feed them just exactly enough so they’ll have strength to work for you and won’t die of starvation-and all the while Your Highness stuffs his coffers and his larders, and his belly. Then you raise your hands to heaven and say, ‘God is just; I have confidence in Him! The world is beautiful; I hope it never changes!’… Why don’t you ask the Zealot who was crucified the other day why he struggled to free us; or the peasants whose whole year’s supply of wheat God snatched away in one night-ask them! They’re rolling in the mud right now, picking it up grain by grain, and weeping. Or ask me. I go around the villages and see and hear Israel ’s suffering. How long? How, long? Didn’t you ever ask yourself that, Zebedee?”

“To tell you the truth,” answered the old man, “I have no confidence in red hairs. You’re from the stock of Cain, who murdered his brother. Go to the devil, my friend. I don’t want to talk with the likes of you!”

This said, he turned his back on him.

The redbeard gave the donkey a swat with the forked stick. The beast drew up its head, slid back into the yoke, bolted forward and began to run.

“Never fear, old parasite,” Judas murmured; “the Messiah will come to put everything in order.”

When he had got around the rocks, he turned. “We’ll have a chance to discuss all this again, Zebedee,” he shouted. “The Messiah will come one day, won’t he? He will, and then, personally, he’ll put every rascal in his place. You’re not the only one who has confidence! See you again-on the day of judgment!”

“Go to hell, red hair!” was Zebedee’s reply. The womb of the net had finally become visible, and it was filled with giltheads and red mullets.

Philip stood between the two of them, unable to take sides. What Judas had said was true, and courageous. The shepherd had often felt like smearing such words in the old man’s ugly face or beating them over his head, but he had never had the courage. This unregenerate was a potent landlord, strong on land and sea. He owned every one of the meadows in which Philip grazed his goats and sheep-so how could the shepherd attack him? One had to be either a madman or a hero, and Philip was neither. He simply talked big, and much; and he never took an unnecessary chance.

He had remained silent, therefore, while the other two quarreled, and was still standing by, bashful and irresolute. The fishermen had now pulled in the nets. He bent down with them and helped fill the hampers. Even Zebedee was plunged waist deep in the water, where he directed men and fish.

But while they all admired the overflowing hampers, completely elated, the redbeard’s hoarse voice suddenly echoed from the rock opposite. “Hey, Zebedee!”

Old Zebedee played deaf.

Once more the voice thundered. “Hey, Zebedee, take my advice and go collect your son Jacob!”

“Jacob!” the old man cried out in a ferment. As far as his younger son was concerned, the damage was done: he had lost him. He did not want to lose this one too. He had no other son, and he needed him in his work. “Jacob!” he called to Judas in a worried voice. “What do you have to say about Jacob, you confounded red hair?”

“I saw him on the road getting friendly with the cross-maker. They were having a pleasant chat!”

“What cross-maker, infidel? Speak clearly!”

“The son of the Carpenter, the one who builds crosses in Nazareth and crucifies the prophets… Too late! Poor old Zebedee-Jacob’s lost too. You had two sons. God snatched the one and the devil the other.”

Old Zebedee stood with gaping mouth. A flying fish bounded out of the water, winged over his head, then dived back into the lake and disappeared.

“A bad sign, a bad sign!” murmured the old man in a panic. “Is my son going to leave me like this, like the flying fish, and disappear beneath deep waters?”

He turned to Philip. “Did you see the flying fish? Nothing that happens in the world is without its meaning. Tell me, what was the meaning of this fish? You shepherds…”

“If it had been a lamb, I’d be able to tell you, Father Zebedee, even if I’d seen only its back. But fish are not in my department.” He was angry because, unlike Judas, he lacked the courage to speak out like a man. “I’m off to see to my animals,” he said. Putting his crook over his shoulders, he jumped from rock to rock and caught up with Judas.

“Wait, brother,” he called to him. “I want to talk to you.”

“Go to your sheep, coward,” the redbeard answered him, without turning, “go to your sheep; keep your nose out of men’s affairs. And don’t call me ‘brother.’ I’m no brother of yours!”

“Wait, I tell you. I have something to say to you. Don’t get angry.”

Judas halted now and eyed him with disdain. “Why didn’t you open your mouth? Why are you afraid of him? Can you still be afraid when you know what’s happening, who is coming, where we are headed? Or maybe you haven’t got wind of it yet. Well, poor devil, the time is near, the king of the Jews is approaching in all his glory-and woe be to cowards!”

“More, Judas, more,” Philip implored. “Haul me over the coals, lift the forked stick you’re holding and beat some self-respect into me. I’m fed up with always being afraid.”

Judas approaching him slowly and grasped his arm. “Does this come from the heart, Philip, or are you just speaking hollow words?”

“I’m fed up, I tell you. I was disgusted with myself today. Go in front, Judas, go in front and show me the way. I’m ready.”

The redbeard looked around him and lowered his voice. “Philip, can you kill?”

“Men?”

“Naturally. What did you think-sheep?”

“I haven’t killed a man yet, but I’d be able to, yes, without a doubt. Last month I felled and killed a bull all by myself.”

“A man’s easier. Come with us.”

Philip shuddered. He understood. “Are you one of them-one of the Zealots?” he asked, his face bathed in terror. He had heard a great deal about this awful brotherhood, the “Saint Assassins” as it was called. They terrorized everyone, from Mount Hermon down to the Dead Sea, and even farther south, as far as the desert of Idumea. Armed with crowbars, ropes and knives, they went about proclaiming: Don’t pay tribute to the infidels. We have only one Lord, Adonai. Kill every Jew who disobeys the sacred Law, who laughs, speaks or works with the enemies of our God, the Romans. Strike, kill, clear the road so that the Messiah may pass! Cleanse the world, make ready the streets: he is coming!

They entered villages and cities in broad daylight to assassinate, without consulting anyone but themselves, a traitorous Sadducee or a bloodthirsty Roman. The landowners, priests and high priests trembled before them and called down the anathema: they were the ones who incited insurrections and brought out the Roman troops, with the result that massacres broke forth at regular intervals and rivers of Jewish blood were spilled.

“Are you one of them-one of the Zealots?” Philip repeated in a hushed voice.

“Afraid, my brave friend?” asked the redbeard, laughing with scorn. “Don’t be alarmed, we’re not murderers. We’re fighting for freedom, Philip, to emancipate our God, to emancipate our souls. Arise. The moment has come when you too can show the world that you’re a man. Join us.”

But Philip stared at the ground. He already regretted having been so effusive with Judas about such matters. Brave words are fine, he reflected. It’s delightful to sit with a friend, to eat, drink, start weighty discussions, say, “I shall do” and “I shall show…” But on your guard, Philip; don’t go any further, or you’ll find yourself in hot water.

Judas leaned over him and spoke to him in a changed voice. His heavy paw now touched Philip’s shoulder gently and caressed it. “What is the life of man? What is it worth? Nothing, if it isn’t free. We’re fighting for freedom, I tell you. Join us.”

Philip was silent. If he could only get away! But Judas kept a firm hold on his shoulder.

“Join us! You’re a man: decide! Do you have a knife?”

“Yes.”

“Keep it on you at all times, under your shirt. You may need it at any minute. We’re passing through difficult days, my brother. Don’t you hear buoyant steps coming closer and closer? It’s the Messiah, and he must not find the road closed. The knife is more of a help in this than bread. Here, look at me!”

He opened his shirt. Naked and gleaming next to the dark skin of his breast was a short doubled-edged bedouin’s dagger.

“If it hadn’t been for Zebedee’s scatter-brained son Jacob, I would have sunk it today into a traitor’s heart. Yesterday before I left Nazareth the brotherhood condemned him to death-”

“Who?”

“… and the lot of killing him fell to me.”

“Who?” Philip asked again. He had grown afraid.

“That’s my business,” the redbeard replied abruptly. “Keep your nose out of our affairs.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

Judas swept his eyes about him, then leaned over and seized Philip by the arm.

“Listen well to what I’m going to say to you, Philip, and don’t breathe a word of it to anyone-or you’re done for! I’m on my way now to the desert, to the monastery. The monks called me to make some tools for them. In a few days-three or four-I’ll be passing your camp again. Turn over well in your mind the words we exchanged. Keep mum; don’t let out the secret to anyone. Decide all by yourself. If you’re a man and you come to the right decision, I’ll reveal to you who we plan to strike.”

“Who? Do I know him?”

“Don’t be in such a hurry. You’re not one of the brothers yet.” He held out his immense hand. “Farewell, Philip. You were a mere nothing until now; no one cared whether you were dead or alive. I was the same-a nothing-until the day I entered the brotherhood, but ever since then I’ve been a different person: I became a man. No more Judas the redbeard, the blacksmith who slaved like an ox with the sole purpose of nourishing these feet and this belly and this ugly snout. Now I’m working for a great purpose-do you hear?-for a great purpose; and whoever works for a great purpose, even if he’s the humblest of the lot, he becomes great. Understand? That’s all I’m going to say to you. Farewell!”

He poked his donkey and set off at a trot for the desert.

Philip remained all alone. Resting his chin on his crook, he watched Judas until he reached the other side of the rocks and disappeared.

Look here, this redbeard speaks well, he thought, well, and like a saint. A bit boastful, perhaps, but who cares! As long as a fellow sticks to words, everything sails along just fine; but if he goes over to action… Watch out, Philip, poor devil. Think of your little sheep. This business will take some reflection. Best let it ride-and wait and see what happens.

He placed his crook over his shoulders-he had heard the bells of his goats and sheep-and hurried off, whistling.

Zebedee’s adopted sons had made a fire meanwhile and put on water for the fish soup. As soon as the water boiled they threw in rock fish, limpets, sea urchins, a dentex or two, and a green-haired stone to make the food smell of the sea. In a little while they would add the giltheads and red mullets, for how could they be satisfied with just rock fish and limpets. The hungry fishermen squatted in a circle around the pot and waited anxiously, talking in low voices among themselves. The oldest leaned over to his neighbor. “It was wonderful to see the blacksmith rub it in his face. Patience. The day will come when the poor will rise to the top and the rich sink to the bottom. That’s the meaning of justice.”

“Do you think that will ever happen?” replied the other, who had been consumed by hunger ever since his youth. “Do you think that will ever happen on this earth?”

“There’s a God, isn’t there?” the old man answered. “Yes, there is! And he’s just, isn’t he? He’s got to be if he’s God, hasn’t he? He’s just! So you see, it will happen. All we need, son, is patience-patience.”

“Hey, what are you mumbling about over there?” said Zebedee, who had caught some of it and grown suspicious. “You just worry about your work and forget about God. He knows better than you what he’s about. Good lord, what next!”

They all immediately fell silent. The old fisherman got up, took the wooden spoon, and stirred the soup.