The Last Temptation of Christ

Chapter Twelve

THERE WAS a warm, damp wind today which lifted large waves on the lake of Gennesaret. Autumn had already come, and the earth smelled of vine leaves and overripe grapes. Men and women had poured out of Capernaum at dawn. The vintage was in its glory; the bunches of grapes, filled with their must, lay waiting on the ground. The young girls, sparkling like the grapes, had eaten whole clusters and smeared their faces with juice. The young men, panting in the full rage of youth, threw furtive glances at the giggling girls who were vintaging. In every vineyard there were shouts and fits of laughter. The girls grew bold and teased the boys, who became more and more heated and drew closer. The sly devil of the vintage ran to and fro pinching the women and splitting his sides with laughter.

Old Zebedee’s spacious village house was wide open and buzzing. The wine press, on the left side of the yard, was being loaded with the contents of brimful hampers which the young men transported from the vineyards. Four giants, Philip, Jacob, Peter, and Nathanael, the village cobbler, a naïve camel of a man, were washing their hairy shins and preparing to enter the press to tread the grapes. Every pauper in Capernaum was sure to have his tiny vineyard for the year’s supply of wine, and each year he transported his crop to this press, trod the grapes and took back his share of the must. And old stuff-pocket Zebedee filled his own jars and barrels for the year with the commission he took for use of the press. He sat, therefore, on a raised platform with a long stick and a penknife in his hands and by means of notches marked the number of each person’s hampers. But the owners also kept a record in their minds: they did not want to be cheated the day after next at the division of the must. Old Zebedee was predacious-nobody trusted him; everyone had to have eyes in the back of his head.

The window of the inner house which gave onto the yard was open, and stretched on the divan was old Salome, the mistress of the house. She gazed outside and listened to all that went on in the yard; in this way she forgot the pains which tortured her knees and other joints. She must have been exceedingly beautiful in her youth-slim-boned, tall, with olive skin and large eyes: of a good stock. Three villages- Capernaum, Magdala and Bethsaida -had vied for her. Three suitors had set out at the same time and found her old father, the wealthy ship-owner. Each came with a rich train of friends, camels and overflowing hampers. The shrewd old man carefully weighed in his mind the body, soul and fortune of each, and chose Zebedee, who wed her. She had pleased him, but now the exquisite girl had grown old, her beauty, eaten by time, had fallen away, and now and then, during the important festivals, her vigorous, still-juicy husband made the rounds at night and played with the widows.

Today, however, old Salome’s face was aglow. John, her favorite son, had arrived the day before from the holy monastery. He was truly pale and skinny. Prayer and fasting had broken him, but she would keep him near her now and never let him go away again. She would nourish him with food and drink, and he would grow strong; his cheeks would sparkle once more. God is good, she said to herself, and we worship his grace. Yes, he is good-but he must not want to drink the blood of our children. Fasting in moderation, prayer in moderation: that would be fine for both man and God, and they should arrange things in this way-sensibly. She looked anxiously at the door, waiting for John, her baby, to return from the vineyards where he too was helping to bring in the vintage.

In the middle of the yard, beneath the large almond tree, which was heavy with fruit, Judas the redbeard was bent over, silent, swinging his hammer and fitting iron bands around the wine barrels. If you looked at him from the right, his face was sullen and full of malice; if you looked at him from the left, it was uneasy and sad. Many days had passed since he fled like a thief from the monastery. During this time he had gone around the villages fitting up barrels for the new must. He would enter the houses, work, listen to the talk and register in his mind the words and deeds of each man, in order to inform the brotherhood of everything. But where was the old redbeard-the rowdy, the wrangler! Ever since the day he left the monastery, he had been unrecognizable.

“Damn it, Judas Iscariot, open your mouth, devil-hair,” Zebedee yelled at him. “What are you thinking about? Two and two make four-haven’t you realized that yet? Open your mouth, you blessed ruffian, and say something. This is the vintage-no small matter. On a day like this everyone laughs, even the sullen black sheep.”

“Don’t lead him into temptation, Zebedee,” Philip interrupted. “He went to the monastery; it seems he wants to don the robe. Haven’t you heard? When the devil gets old, he becomes a monk!”

Judas turned and threw a venomous glance at Philip but did not speak. He detested him. He wasn’t a man; no, he was all words and no action, a prattler. At the last minute he’d become paralyzed with fear and had refused to enter the brotherhood. “I have sheep,” was his excuse. “I have sheep; how can I leave them?”

Old Zebedee burst out laughing and turned to the redbeard. “Take care, wretch,” he shouted at him. “Monasticism is a contagious disease. Look out you don’t catch it! My own son escaped by a hair’s breadth. My old lady got sick, bless her, and her pet learned about it. He had already finished his schooling in herbs with the Abbot, so he came home to doctor her. He won’t leave here again, mark my words. Where to go? He’s not insane, is he? There, in the desert, there’s hunger, thirst, prostrations-and God. Here there’s food, wine, women-and God. Everywhere God. So, why go look for him in the desert? What’s your opinion, Judas Iscariot?”

But the redbeard swung his hammer and did not answer. What could he say to him? Everything came to this filthy dog just as he wanted it. How could he understand the next man’s troubles? Even God, who wiped others off the face of the earth for the jump of a flea, flattered and coddled this swine, this parasite, this lickpenny; kept him from suffering the slightest harm, fell over him like a woolen cloak in the winter, like cool linen in the summer. Why? What did he see in him? Was the old bastard devoured with concern for Israel? Why, he wouldn’t lift his little finger to help Israel -he loved the Roman criminals because they guarded his wealth. May God protect them, he said, for they maintain order. If not for them, the mob of ruffians and barefooted riffraff would fall all over us, and that would be the last we’d see of our property… But, never fear, you old bastard, the hour will come. What God forgets and leaves undone the Zealots, bless them, will remember and do. Patience, Judas; do not breathe a word. Patience. Jehovah Sabaoth’s day will come!

Raising his turquoise eyes, he looked at Zebedee and saw him in the wine press, floating on his back in his own blood. His whole face smiled.

By this time the four giants had carefully scrubbed their legs and jumped into the press. Sunk up to the knees, they stamped and trampled the grapes, stooping to pick up whole fistfuls, which they ate, filling their beards with the stems. Sometimes they danced hand in hand, sometimes each screamed and jumped by himself. The smell of the must had made them drunk-and the must was not all: as they looked through the opened front door toward the vineyards they saw the girls bend over to pick the grapes, and their beauty was visible even above the knees, and their breasts, like clusters of grapes, swung back and forth over the vine leaves.

The treaders saw them, and their minds grew turbid. This was not a wine press, that was not land and vineyard, but Paradise, with old Jehovah Sabaoth sitting on the platform holding a long stick and a penknife and marking his exact obligation to each: how many hampers of grapes each had brought and how many jugs of wine, day after tomorrow when they died, he would offer them-how many jugs of wine, how many cauldrons of food, how many women!

“On my honor,” snapped Peter, “if God came this very moment and said to me, ‘Hey, Peter, my little Peter, I’m in the best of moods today, ask me a favor, any favor, and I’ll do it for you. What do you want?’-if he asked me that I should answer him, ‘To tread grapes, Lord, to tread grapes for all eternity!’ ”

“And not to drink the wine, blockhead?” Zebedee rudely asked him.

“No, from the bottom of my heart: to tread the grapes!” He did not laugh; his face was serious and absorbed. He stopped treading for a moment and stretched in the sun. His upper body was bare, and tattooed over his heart was a large black fish. An artisan, formerly a prisoner, had tapped it on years before with a needle, so skillfully that you thought it moved its tail and swam happily, all tangled up in the curly hairs of Peter’s chest. Above the fish was a small anchor with four crossed arms, each with a barb.

But Philip remembered his sheep. He did not like to plow the land, care for vineyards or tread grapes.

“Good God, Peter,” he scoffed, “some job you found yourself-treading grapes for all eternity! I should have asked the Lord to make heaven and earth a green meadow full of goats and sheep. I should then milk them and send the milk flowing down the mountainside. It would run like a river and form lakes on the plain so that the poor could drink. And every night all of us should gather-all the shepherds, together with God the chief shepherd; we should light a fire, roast a lamb and tell stories. That is the meaning of Paradise!”

“A plague on you, moron!” grumbled Judas, and he threw another fierce glance at Philip.

The adolescents went in and out of the yard, naked, hairy, with a colored rag around their loins. They listened to these disconnected discussions and laughed. They too had a Paradise inside them, but they did not confess what it was. They shoveled the hampers into the press and then with one bound were over the threshold and off to rejoin the pretty vintagers.

Zebedee parted his lips to add a clever remark but remained standing with gaping mouth. A strange visitor had appeared at the door and was listening to them. He wore a black goatskin which hung from his neck; his feet were bare, his hair disheveled and his face yellow, like sulphur. His eyes were large, black, and fiery.

The feet ceased treading, Zebedee swallowed his witticism, and everyone turned toward the door. Who was this living corpse who stood on the threshold? The laughter came to a standstill. Old Salome appeared at the window, looked, and suddenly cried, “It’s Andrew!”

“Good God, Andrew,” shouted Zebedee, “just look at you! Are you returning to us from the underworld? Or maybe you’re on your way down there!”

Peter jumped out of the wine press, clasped his brother’s hand without uttering a word, and looked at him with love and fright. Oh, God, was this Andrew, Andrew the chubby young hero, the celebrated athlete, first in work and play? Was this the Andrew who had been engaged to flaxen-haired Ruth, the prettiest girl in the village? She had been drowned on the lake together with her father, one night when God raised a terrible wind, and Andrew had left in despair in order to surrender himself, bound hand and foot, to God. Who could tell, he thought. If I join God perhaps I shall find her with him. Obviously, he was seeking his fiancée, not God.

Peter stared at him in terror. He remembered how he had been when they surrendered him to God; and now, look how God had returned him to them!

“Hey,” Zebedee shouted at Peter, “are you going to stare at him and finger him all day long? Let him come in; out there a wind might blow and knock him down! Come in, Andrew my boy, bend over, take some grapes and eat. We have bread too, glory be to God. Eat and put some color in your cheeks, because if your poor old father sees you in the state you’re in, he’ll be so scared he’ll burrow right back into his shark!”

But Andrew raised his bony arm: “Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves!” he shouted to them all. “Don’t you fear God? The world is perishing, and you tread grapes here and laugh!”

“The saints preserve us, here’s another one come to give us a hard time!” grumbled Zebedee, and now he turned to Andrew in a rage. “You won’t leave us alone either, eh? We’re stuffed to the gills, if you want to know. Is this what your prophet the Baptist proclaims? Well, you’d better tell him to change his tune. He says the end of the world has come, that the tombs will open and the dead fly out; he says God will descend-Second Coming!-to open the ledger, and then woe is us! Lies! Lies! Lies! Don’t listen to him, lads. On with our work! Tread the grapes!”

“Repent! Repent!” bellowed the son of Jonah. He shook himself out of his brother’s embrace and stood in the middle of the yard, directly in front of old Zebedee, with his finger lifted toward the sky.

“For your own good, Andrew,” said Zebedee, “sit down, eat, drink a bit of wine and come to your senses. Poor thing, hunger has driven you mad!”

“Easy living has driven you mad, Zebedee,” replied the son of Jonah. “But the ground is opening under your feet, the Lord is an earthquake, he’ll swallow your wine press and your boats and you too, you and your confounded belly!”

He had caught fire. Shifting his eyes from side to side, he pinned them now on one, now on another, and shouted, “Before this must turns to wine, the end of the world will come! Put on hair shirts, spread ashes over your heads, beat your breasts and shout ‘I have sinned! I have sinned!’ The earth is a tree, it has grown rotten, and the Messiah is coming with the ax!”

Judas stopped his hammering. His upper lip had rolled back and his sharp teeth gleamed in the sunlight. But Zebedee could control himself no longer.

“For the love of God, Peter,” he shouted, “take him and get out of here. We’ve work to do. ‘He’s coming! He’s coming!’ Sometimes be holds fire, sometimes a ledger and now-what next! An ax. Why can’t you leave us alone, you impostors, you deceivers of the people? This world is holding up fine, just fine-that’s what I say!… Tread the grapes, men, and rest assured!”

Peter patted his brother tenderly on the back to calm him. “Be still,” he said to him softly, “be still, Brother; don’t shout. You’re tired from your trip. Let’s go home so that you can get some rest and so Father can see you and quiet his heart.”

He took him by the hand and slowly, carefully, guided his way as though he were blind. They went up the narrow street and disappeared.

Old Zebedee burst into laughter. “Eh, miserable Jonah, my poor old fish-prophet, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes for all the world!”

But now it was old Salome’s turn to open her mouth. She still felt Andrew’s large eyes hanging over her and burning her. “Zebedee,” she said, shaking her white-haired head, “mind what you say, old sinner. Do not laugh. An angel stands above us and writes. You will be paid in kind for your scoffing.”

“Mother is right,” said Jacob, who until now had kept his mouth locked. “You were within a hair’s breadth of suffering the same thing with John, your pet; and as far as I can see, you’re still not out of danger. He isn’t helping with the vintage, so I’m told by the carriers; he’s sitting with the women and slobbering about God and fasting and immortal souls. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes either, Father!”

He laughed dryly. He could not stomach his lazy, pampered brother, and started furiously to stamp the grapes.

The blood rose to Zebedee’s large head. He, in his turn, could not stomach his eldest son-they resembled each other too much. A quarrel would have broken out if at that moment Mary, the wife of Joseph of Nazareth, had not appeared at the door, leaning on John’s arm. Her thin feet were bloody and covered with dust from her long journey. For days now she had abandoned her house and gone from village to village, weeping, in search of her unfortunate son. God had robbed him of his senses; he had departed from the ways of men. Sighing, the mother sang her son’s dirge while he was still alive. She asked, asked everywhere, if anyone had seen him: “He’s tall, thin, barefooted; he was wearing a blue tunic and a black leather belt. Have you noticed him, perhaps?”… No one had seen him, and it was only now, thanks to Zebedee’s younger son, that she had got on his trail. He was at the monastery in the desert. He had donned the white robe and was prostrate, face down on the earth, praying… John, feeling sorry for her, had revealed everything. Now, leaning on his arm, she entered Zebedee’s yard for a bit of rest before she set out for the desert.

Old Salome rose majestically. “Welcome, Mary dear,” she said. “Come inside.”

Mary lowered her kerchief to her brows, bowed her head and passed through the yard with her eyes on the ground. Grasping her elderly friend’s hand, she began to cry.

“It’s a great sin for you to cry, my child,” said old Salome. She placed her on the divan and sat down by her side. “Your son is in safety now; he’s under God’s roof.”

“A mother’s pain is heavy, Salome,” Mary answered with a sigh. “God sent me but one boy, and he a blemished one.”

Old Zebedee heard her complaint (he was not a bad man if one did not interfere with his profits) and came down from his platform in order to comfort her. “It’s his youth, Mary,” he said, “his youth. Don’t worry about it-it will pass. Youth, bless it, is like wine, but we sober up soon enough and slide under the yoke without any more kicking. Your son will sober up too, Mary. Take my own son, the one you see before you: he’s beginning now to get sober, glory be to God.”

John blushed but did not say a word. He went inside to fetch a cup of cold water and some ripe figs to offer the visitor. The two women, sitting side by side, their heads touching, talked about the boy who had been swept away by God. They conversed in whispers so that the men would not hear them and by interfering spoil the deep feminine joy given them by pain.

“He prays and prays, your son tells me, Salome; he prostrates himself so much, his hands and knees have become all calloused. John says also that he doesn’t eat, that he’s melting away. He’s begun to see wings in the air, too. It seems he even refuses to drink water, in order to see the angels. Where can this affliction lead, Salome? Not even his uncle the rabbi can heal him, and think how many other people possessed with devils he has cured. Why has God cursed me, Salome; what have I done to him?”

She leaned her head against her elderly friend’s knees and began to weep.

John appeared with a brass cup filled with water and five or six figs on a fig leaf. “Don’t cry,” he said to her, placing the figs in her lap. “A holy glimmer runs around your son’s entire face. Not everyone sees it, but one night I did: I saw it licking his face and devouring it, and I was frightened. And after the Abbot died, Father Habakkuk dreamed of him every night. He says he held your son by the hand and took him from cell to cell, pointing to him with his outstretched finger, not speaking, just smiling and pointing to him. Finally Father Habakkuk jumped out of bed in terror and roused the other monks. They struggled all together to disentangle the dream. What did the Abbot wish to tell them? Why did he point to their new guest and smile? Suddenly, the day before yesterday, the day I left, the monks were illumined by God and they untangled the dream. The dead man was instructing them to make your son Abbot. Without losing a moment, the whole monastery-full of monks went and found your son. They fell at his feet and shouted that it was God’s will he should become Abbot of the monastery. But your son refused. ‘No, no, this is not my road,’ he said. ‘I am unworthy; I shall leave!’ I heard his cries of refusal at noon, just as I left the monastery. The monks were threatening to lock him into a cell and place sentries in front of the door to prevent his escape.”

“Congratulations, Mary,” said old Salome, her aged face gleaming. “Fortunate mother! God blew into your womb and you don’t even realize it!”

The woman loved by God heard and shook her head, unconsoled. “I don’t want my son to be a saint,” she murmured. “I want him to be a man like all the rest. I want him to marry and give me grandchildren. That is God’s way.”

“That is man’s way,” said John softly, as though ashamed to offer an objection. “The other is God’s way, the one your son is following.”

They heard voices and laughter from the direction of the vineyards. Two young, flushed carriers entered the yard.

“Bad news, bosses,” they shouted, splitting with laughter. “It looks like Magdala’s risen up. The people have taken stones and are hunting their mermaid in order to kill her!”

“What mermaid, lads?” yelled the treaders, stopping their dance. “Magdalene?”

“Yes, Magdalene, bless her! Two mule drivers brought us the news as they went by. They said the bandit chief Barabbas-phew! all fear and trembling he is!-they said he left Nazareth and invaded Magdala yesterday, Saturday.”

“There’s another one for you!” growled Zebedee in a rage. “A plague on him! He says he’s a Zealot and will save Israel, him and his beastly snout. May he rot in hell, the filthy bastard!… Well?”

“Well, he went by Magdalene’s house in the evening and found her yard full-up. The excommunicate was working on the holy Sabbath! This impiety was too much for him. In he rushes, yanks his knife out from under his shirt, the merchants draw their swords, the neighbors crowd in too, they all rush at each other, and before you know it the yard turns into a tangled mass of arms and legs. Two of our men fell wounded; the merchants mounted their camels and ran for their lives. Barabbas broke down the door to find the lady in question and slaughter her. But where was Magdalene? She’d flown the coop, gone out through the back door, unseen! The whole village took up the hunt, but soon it got dark, and there was no chance of finding her. In the morning they scattered in every direction, searched, and got on her trail. It seems they found her tracks in the sand-and she’s headed for Capernaum!”

“What luck if she comes, lads!” said Philip, licking his protruding, goat-like lips. “She was the one thing missing from our Paradise. Yes, we forgot Eve, and now we’ll certainly be delighted to see her!”

“Her water mill is open on the Sabbath too, bless her!” said simple Nathanael, smirking craftily in his beard. He remembered how once, on the eve of the Sabbath, he had bathed, put on clean clothes and shaved. Then the temptation of the bath came and took him by the hand. They went together to Magdala and made a beeline for Magdalene’s house-bless her! It was winter, business was bad, and Nathanael remained at her mill the whole of the Sabbath, all by himself-and ground. He smiled with satisfaction. A great sin, one might say. Yes, indeed, a great sin; but we place all our trust in God, and God forgives… Calm, poor, harassed, unmarried, Nathanael spent his whole life sitting in front of a small bench in one corner of the village street making clogs for the villagers and thick sandals for the shepherds. What kind of a life was that! Once, therefore, one precious time in his whole life, he had thrown everything overboard and enjoyed himself like a man-even if it was on the Sabbath. As we said, God understands this sort of thing-and forgives…

But old Zebedee scowled. “Troubles! Troubles!” he grumbled. “Do they always have to settle their rows in my yard? First prophets, then whores or weeping fishermen, and now Barabbases-this is too much!” He turned to the treaders. “You, my fine lads, attend to your work. Tread the grapes!”

Inside the house, old Salome and Mary the wife of Joseph heard the news, looked at each other and, without saying a word, immediately bowed their heads. Judas abandoned his hammer and went to the street door, where he leaned against the jamb. He had heard everything and had engraved it all in his mind. On his way to the door he threw a savage glance at old Zebedee.

He stood in the doorway and listened. He heard voices and saw a cloud of dust rise up. Men were running; women were screaming, “Catch her! Catch her!” and before the three men had time to jump out of the wine press or old stuff-pockets to slide down from his platform, Magdalene, her clothes in rags and her tongue hanging out of her mouth, entered the yard and fell at old Salome’s feet.

“Help!” she cried. “Help! They’re coming!”

Old Salome took pity on the sinner. She got up, closed the window and told her son to bolt the door.

“Squat down on the ground,” she said to Magdalene. “Hide yourself.”

Mary the wife of Joseph leaned over and looked at this woman who had gone astray, looked at her with both sympathy and horror. None but honest women know how bitter and slippery honor is, and she pitied her. But at the same time this sinful body seemed to her a wild beast, shaggy, dark and dangerous. This beast had almost snatched away her son when he was twenty years old, but he had escaped by a hair’s breadth. Yes, he escaped the woman, Mary thought, with a sigh, but what about God…

Old Salome placed her hand on Magdalene’s burning head. “Why are you crying, my child?” she asked with compassion.

“I don’t want to die,” Magdalene replied. “Life is good. I don’t want to die!”

Mary the wife of Joseph extended her hand now too. She did not fear her any longer, nor did she detest her. “Do not be afraid, Mary,” she said, touching her. “God protects you; you won’t die.”

“How do you know, Mary?” asked Magdalene, her eyes gleaming.

“God gives us time, Magdalene, time to repent,” Jesus’ mother replied with certainty.

But as the three women talked and were about to be united by pain, cries of “They’re coming! They’re coming! Here they are!” flowed forth from the vineyards, and before old Zebedee could slide down again from his platform, huge incensed men appeared at the street door, and Barabbas, flushed and drenched with sweat, strode over the threshold, bellowing.

“Hey, Zebedee,” he shouted, “we’re coming in, with or without your permission-in the name of the God of Israel!”

This said, and before the old proprietor could open his mouth, Barabbas ripped the house door off its hinges with one shove and seized Magdalene by her braids.

“Outside, whore! Outside!” he roared, hauling her into the yard. The citizens of Magdala entered at this point. They grabbed her, lifted her up, brought her amidst boos and fits of laughter to a pit near the lake, and threw her in. Then both men and women scattered all around and loaded their aprons and tunics with stones.

Old Salome meanwhile had jumped off her couch despite the pains which tortured her and had dragged herself into the yard in order to berate her husband.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she shouted at him. “You let those rowdies set foot in your house and grab a woman right out of your hands, a woman who was seeking mercy of you.”

She turned also to her son Jacob, who stood irresolutely in the middle of the yard.

“And you-you follow in your father’s footsteps. Shame on you! Aren’t you going to turn out any better? Are you going to let profits be your God too? Go ahead, run! Run to protect a woman that an entire village wants to kill. An entire village! They should be ashamed of themselves!”

“Calm down, Mother, I’m going,” answered her son, who feared no one in the whole world except his mother. Every time she turned upon him with anger he was overcome with fright because he felt that this wild, severe voice was not hers; it was the ancient, desert-roughened voice of the obstinate race of Israel.

Turning, Jacob nodded to Philip and Nathanael, his two companions. “Let’s go!” he said. He searched all around the barrels in order to find Judas, but the blacksmith had gone.

“I’m coming too,” said Zebedee, who felt irritated because he was afraid to stay alone with his wife. He bent over, picked up his club and followed his son.

Magdalene was screeching. Covered with wounds, she had collapsed into one corner of the pit and put up her arms to protect her head. The men and women stood around the rim and looked at her, laughing. Carriers and vintagers from all the vineyards of the vicinity had left their work and were approaching, the young men panting to see the famous body in its bloody, half-naked state; the girls because they hated and envied this woman who enjoyed all men while they had none.

Barabbas lifted his hand as a signal for the shouting to cease. He wanted to pronounce the decree and set the stoning in motion. At that moment Jacob appeared. He started to advance toward the bandit-chief Zealot, but Philip held him tightly by the arm.

“Where are you going?” he said. “Where are any of us going? We’re a mere handful, and they’re the whole village. We haven’t a chance!”

But Jacob continued to hear his mother’s savage voice within him. “Hey, Barabbas, hey, cut-throat,” he shouted, “you’ve come to our village to kill people, have you? Well, leave the woman alone; we’ll judge her. The elders of Magdala and Capernaum will come to judge her; and her father the rabbi of Nazareth will come too. That’s the Law!”

“My son is right,” interrupted old Zebedee, who had arrived with his heavy club. “He’s right, that’s the Law!”

Barabbas swung his whole body around and stood directly in front of them. “The village elders have greased palms,” he shouted, “and so has Zebedee. I don’t trust them. I’m the Law, and if any one of you brave lads dares, let him come forward and match his strength with me!”

Men and women from Magdala and Capernaum swarmed around Barabbas, murder glittering in the pupils of their eyes. A troop of boys arrived from the village, armed with slings.

Philip grabbed Nathanael by the arm and stepped back. He turned to Jacob. “Go, son of Zebedee, go on by yourself if you want-but as for us, we’re staying put. Do you think we’re crazy?”

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves, cowards?”

“No, we’re not. Go on, go on by yourself.”

Jacob turned to his father, but Zebedee coughed.

“I’m an old man,” he said.

“Well?” shouted Barabbas, guffawing.

Old Salome arrived, leaning on her younger son’s arm. Behind them came Mary the wife of Joseph, her eyes filled with tears. Jacob turned, saw his mother, and quivered. In front of him was the terrifying cut-throat with the mob of frenzied peasants; behind him, his mother, savage and mute.

“Well?” Barabbas bellowed again, rolling up his sleeves.

“I won’t make them ashamed of me!” murmured Zebedee’s son. He stepped forward, and at once Barabbas advanced directly at him.

“He’ll kill him!” said the younger brother, trying to shake himself loose in order to run to Jacob’s side. But his mother held him back.

“You keep quiet,” she said. “Don’t interfere.”

But just as the two opponents were about to come to grips a happy cry was heard from the edge of the lake: “Maran atha! Maran atha!” A sunburned youth jumped in front of them, panting and waving his hands.

“Maran atha! Maran atha!” he shouted. “The Lord is coming!”

“Who’s coming?” they all cried, circling him. “Who?”

“The Lord,” answered the youth, and he pointed behind him toward the desert. “The Lord-there he is!”

Everyone turned. The sun was going down now; the heat was abating. A man could be seen climbing up from the shore. He was dressed all in white, like a monk from the monastery. The oleanders at the lake front were in bloom, and the white-robed man put out his hand, picked a red one and placed it between his lips. Two seagulls were walking on the pebbles; they stepped aside to let him pass.

Old Salome lifted her white-haired head and sniffed the air. ‘Who’s coming?” she asked her son. “The wind has changed.”

“My heart is ready to burst, Mother,” the boy answered. “I think it’s him!”

“Who?”

“Shh, don’t talk!”

“And who are those people in back of him? Good grief, there’s a whole army running behind him.”

“They’re the poor who glean the leavings of the vintage, Mother. They’re not an army; don’t be afraid.”

And truly, the swarm of ragamuffins which began to appear in his train was like an army. They immediately scattered all through the harvested vineyards-men, women and children, with sacks and baskets-and began to search. Each year at the reaping, the vintage and the olive harvest these flocks of hunger poured out of the whole of Galilee and collected the wheat, grapes and olives which the landowners left for the poor, as ordered by the Law of Israel.

The man in white suddenly halted. The sight of the multitude had frightened him. I must leave! he said to himself, overwhelmed by the old fear. This is the world of men. I must leave; I must return to the desert, where God is… Once more his fate hung on a delicate thread. Which way should he go-forward or back?

Everyone about the pit stood motionless, watching him. Jacob and Barabbas still faced each other, with rolled-up sleeves. Even Magdalene lifted her head and listened. Life? Death? What was this silence? The wind had changed. Suddenly she jumped up, lifted her arms and cried, “Help!”

The man in white heard the voice, recognized it and quivered.

“It’s Magdalene,” he murmured. “Magdalene! I must save her!” He advanced rapidly toward the crowd, his arms spread wide.

The more he approached the people and perceived their anger-filled eyes and the dark, tortured fierceness of their expressions, the more his heart stirred, the more his bowels flooded with deep sympathy and love. These are the people, he reflected. They are all brothers, every one of them, but they do not know it Magdalene and that is why they suffer. If they knew it, what celebrations there would be, what hugging and kissing, what happiness!

He arrived finally and stepped up onto a rock, stretching out his arms to the left and right. One word, one joyful and triumphant word, spurted forth from deep within his bowels: “Brothers!”

The astonished people looked at each other. No one replied.

“Brothers-” the triumphant cry resounded again-“brothers, I am delighted to see you.”

“Well we’re not delighted to see you, cross-maker!” Barabbas answered him, picking up a heavy stone from the ground.

“My boy!” someone shouted in a heart-rending voice, and Mary rushed out and embraced her son. She laughed, wept, caressed him; but he, without speaking, untwisted his mother’s arms from about him and advanced toward Barabbas.

“Barabbas, my brother,” he said, “I’m glad to see you. I am a friend; I bring a message of great joy.”

“Don’t come any closer,” roared Barabbas, and he placed himself in front of Magdalene in order to hide her from the other’s eyes. But she heard the beloved voice and jumped to her feet.

“Jesus,” she screamed, “help!”

A single stride brought Jesus to the pit’s brim. Magdalene had begun to climb up, gripping the rocks with her fingers and toes. Jesus stooped and held out his hand. She grasped it and he pulled her out. She collapsed onto the ground, puffing, and covered with blood.

Barabbas rushed over and stamped his foot down on her back. “She’s mine!” he bellowed, raising the stone which he held in his hand. “I’ll kill her-she polluted the Sabbath. Death!”

“Death! Death!” the people howled in their turn, afraid now that their sacrifice would escape.

“Death!” Zebedee cried out too as he saw the ragamuffins circle the newcomer, doubtlessly filling their heads with fancy ideas. Woe is us if paupers are allowed to do whatever they please. “Death!” he shouted again, banging his club on the ground. “Death!”

Jesus restrained Barabbas’s lifted arm. “Barabbas,” he said, his voice tranquil and sad, “have you never disobeyed one of God’s commandments? In your whole life have you never stolen, murdered, committed adultery or told a lie?”

He turned to the howling multitude and looked at each person, one by one, slowly. “Let him among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone!”

The mass stirred; one by one the people stepped back, struggling to escape this clawing look which was excavating their memories and vital organs. The men recalled all the lies they had uttered during their lifetimes, the acts of injustice they had committed, the wives of others they had bedded; the women lowered their kerchiefs, and the stones they held in their hands slid to the ground.

When old Zebedee saw the rabble about to emerge victorious, he flew into a rage. Once more Jesus turned to the people and stared at them one by one, stared into the very depths of their eyes. “Let him among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.

“Me,” snapped Zebedee. “Barabbas, give me your stone. Innocence has no fears: I’ll throw it.”

Barabbas was delighted. He gave him the stone and stepped to one side. Zebedee stood over Magdalene, holding the stone in his fist and judging its weight, in order to hit her squarely on the head. She had rolled herself up into a ball at Jesus’ feet and was tranquil, for she felt that here she had no fear of death.

The infuriated ragamuffins looked at old Zebedee, and one of them, the gauntest of the lot, jumped forward.

“Hey, Zebedee,” he shouted, “there’s a God, you know. Your hand will be paralyzed-aren’t you afraid? Think back: you never gobbled up the rights of the poor? You never in your life caused an orphan’s vineyard to be sold at auction? You never stepped into a widow’s house at night?”

As he listened, the old sinner felt the weight of the stone in his hand and restrained himself more and more. Suddenly he uttered a cry, his arm wilted abruptly and fell useless at his side. The large stone rolled out of his grasp and landed on his foot, breaking his toes.

The ragamuffins shouted for joy. “Miracle! Miracle! Magdalene is innocent!”

Barabbas went wild; his pock-marked face puffed up fiery red. Darting at the son of Mary, he lifted his hand and slapped him. But Jesus calmly turned the other cheek.

“Hit the other one too, Barabbas, my brother,” he said.

Barabbas’s hand grew numb, and his eyes popped out of his head. Who was this person? What was he-a ghost, a man or a devil? Dumfounded, he stepped back and gazed at Jesus.

“Hit the other cheek, Barabbas, my brother,” the son of Mary incited him once more.

At this point Judas emerged from the shade of the fig tree where he had been standing off to one side, watching. He had seen everything but had not spoken. Whether Magdalene was killed or not made no difference to him, but he was pleased to hear Barabbas and the ragamuffins stand up against Zebedee and declaim his sins. When he saw Jesus appear at the lake shore dressed in his new white robe, his heart had pounded. “Now it will become clear who he is, what he wants and what message he has for men,” he had murmured, cocking his huge ear. But the very start, the very first word-“Brothers”-displeased him, and his expression soured. “He still hasn’t put any sense into his head,” he grumbled. “No, we’re not all brothers. Israelites and Romans are not brothers, nor are Israelites among themselves. The Sadducees who sell themselves to Rome, the village chiefs-as many as cover up for the tyrant-they are not our brothers. No, you’ve got off to a bad start, son of the Carpenter. Look out!” But when he saw Jesus offer the other cheek, without anger and with a superb inhuman sweetness, he became frightened. What is this man? he shouted to himself. This… this offering of the other cheek: only an angel could do that, only an angel-or a dog.

He reached Barabbas now with one bound and seized him by the arm just as he was about to rush upon the son of Mary.

“Don’t touch him,” he said in a muffled voice. “Go home!”

Barabbas looked at Judas with astonishment. They were both in the same brotherhood; side by side they had often entered villages and cities and killed Israel ’s traitors. And now…

“You, Judas,” he murmured, “you?”

“Yes, me. Go!”

Barabbas continued to hold his ground. Judas was his superior in the brotherhood and he could not oppose him; but his self-respect, on the other hand, did not let him budge.

“Go!” the redbeard commanded once more.

The bandit chief lowered his head and threw a savage glance at the son of Mary. “You won’t get away from me,” he murmured, clenching his fist. “We shall meet again!”

Turning to his followers, he commanded them halfheartedly: “Let’s go.”