The Last Temptation of Christ

Chapter Twenty-Six

MEANWHILE, Jesus marched along with the centurion, followed by Judas, the sheep dog. They entered the narrow, twisting alleyways of Jerusalem and proceeded in the direction of the Temple, toward the tower which was Pontius Pilate’s palace.

The centurion was the first to speak. “Rabbi,” he said with emotion, “my daughter is marvelously well and thinks of you always. Every time she learns you’re speaking to the people she secretly leaves our house and runs to hear you. Today I held her tightly by the hand. We were together, listening to you at the Temple, and she wanted to run to kiss your feet.”

“Why didn’t you let her?” Jesus asked. “One instant is enough to save the soul of man. Why did you let that instant go to waste?”

A Roman girl kiss the feet of a Jew! Rufus thought with shame, but he did not speak.

With a short whip which he held in his hand he forced the noisy crowd to make way for him. It was so hot you almost swooned, and there were clouds of flies. The centurion felt nauseated as he breathed in the Jewish air. He had been in Palestine so many years, yet he still was not accustomed to the Jewry… They were passing now through the bazaar ground, which was covered with straw mats. It was cooler here, and they slowed their pace.

“How can you talk to this pack of dogs?” the centurion asked. Jesus blushed. “They are not dogs,” he said, “but souls, sparks of God. God is a conflagration, centurion, and each soul a spark which should be revered by you.”

“I am a Roman,” answered Rufus, “and my God is a Roman. He opens roads, builds barracks, brings water to cities, arms himself in bronze and goes to war. He leads, we follow. The body and the soul you talk about are one and the same to us, and above them is the seal of Rome. When we die both soul and body die together-but our sons remain. That is what we mean by immortality. I’m sorry, but what you say about kingdoms of heaven seems just a fairy tale to us.”

After a pause, he continued: “We Romans are made to govern men, and men are not governed by love.”

“Love is not unarmed,” said Jesus, looking at the centurion’s cold blue eyes, his freshly shaven cheeks and fat, short-fingered hands. “Love too makes war and runs to the assault.”

“It isn’t love, then,” said the centurion.

Jesus lowered his head. I must find new wineskins, he reflected, if I’m to pour in new wine. New wineskins, new words…

At last they arrived. Towering before them, at once fortress and palace, was the tower which guarded within the haughty Roman governor, Pontius Pilate. He detested the Jewish race and held a perfumed handkerchief in front of his nostrils whenever he walked in the lanes of Jerusalem or was compelled to speak with the Hebrews. He believed neither in gods nor in men-nor in Pontius Pilate, nor in anything. Constantly suspended around his neck on a fine golden chain was a sharpened razor which he kept in order to open his veins when he became weary of eating, drinking and governing, or when the emperor exiled him. He often heard the Jews shout themselves hoarse calling the Messiah to come and liberate them-and he laughed. He would point to the sharpened razor and say to his wife, “Look, here is my Messiah, my liberator.” But his wife, without answering him, would turn away her head.

Jesus halted outside the tower’s great door. “Centurion,” he said, “you owe me a favor. Do you remember? The time has come for me to demand it of you.”

“Jesus of Nazareth, to you I owe all the joy of my life,” Rufus answered. “Speak. What I can, I’ll do.”

“If they seize me, if they put me in prison, if they kill me-do nothing to save me. Will you give me your word?”

They were now passing through the tower gates. The guards lifted their hands and saluted the centurion.

“Is what you ask of me a favor?” said Rufus, astonished. “I don’t understand you Jews.”

Two huge Negro guards stood outside Pilate’s door.

“Yes, a favor, centurion,” said Jesus. “Do you give me your word?”

Rufus nodded to the Negroes to open the door.

Pilate sat reading on a raised throne which was decorated with grossly carved eagles. Crisp, clean-shaven, with low forehead, hard gray eyes and sword-straight narrow lips, he lifted his head to look at Jesus, who was standing in front of him.

“Are you Jesus of Nazareth, king of the Jews?” he hissed teasingly, putting the perfumed handkerchief to his nostrils.

“I am not a king,” Jesus answered.

“What? Aren’t you the Messiah, and isn’t it the Messiah that your fellow countrymen the Abrahamites have been waiting for over so many generations-waiting for him to free them, to sit on the throne of Israel and to throw out us Romans? Why, then, do you say you’re not a king?”

“My kingdom is not on earth.”

“Where, then: on the water, in the air?” asked Pilate, bursting into laughter.

“In heaven,” Jesus calmly replied.

“Fine,” said Pilate. “You can take heaven as a present, but don’t touch the earth!”

He removed the thick ring he was wearing on his thumb, lifted it high into the light and looked at the red stone. Carved upon it was a skull surrounded by the words, “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you die.”

“I find the Jews disgusting,” he said. “They never wash themselves, and they have a God in their own image: long-haired, unwashed, grasping, boastful, and as vindictive as a camel.”

“Know that this God has already lifted his fist over Rome,” Jesus said, again calmly.

“ Rome is immortal,” Pilate answered, yawning.

“ Rome is the huge statue which the prophet Daniel saw in his vision.”

“Statue? What statue? Whatever you Jews yearn for while you’re awake, you see in your sleep. You live and die with visions.”

“That is the way man begins his campaign-with visions. Little by little the shade thickens and solidifies, the spirit dons flesh and descends to earth. The prophet Daniel had his vision, and because he had it: that’s that!-the spirit will take on flesh, descend to earth and destroy Rome.”

“Jesus of Nazareth, I admire your audacity-or is it idiocy? It seems that you don’t fear death, and that’s why you speak with such freedom… I like you. Well, tell me about Daniel’s vision.”

“One night the prophet Daniel saw a huge statue. Its head was of gold, its breast and arms of silver, its stomach and thighs of bronze. Its shins were of iron, but its feet, at the very bottom, were of clay. Suddenly an invisible hand slung a stone at the earthen feet and shattered them; and immediately the entire statue-gold, silver, bronze and iron-rolled to the ground… The invisible hand, Pontius Pilate, is the God of Israel, I am the stone, and the statue is Rome.”

Pilate yawned once more. “I understand your game, Jesus of Nazareth, king of the Jews,” he said wearily. “You insult Rome in order to make me angry, so that I’ll crucify you and you’ll swell the ranks of the heroes. You prepared everything very cleverly. You’ve even started, I hear, to revive the dead: yes, you’re clearing the road. Later on, in the same way, your disciples will spread the word that you didn’t die, that you were resurrected and ascended to heaven. But, my dear rascal, you’ve missed the boat. Your tricks are out of date, so you’d better find some new ones. I’m not going to kill you, I’m not going to make a hero of you. You’re not going to become God-so get the idea out of your head.”

Jesus did not speak. Through the open window he watched Jehovah’s immense Temple flash in the sun like a motionless man-eating beast with multicolored flocks of men moving and entering its black gaping jaws. Pilate played with his delicate golden chain and did not speak either. He was ashamed to ask a favor of a Jew, but he had promised his wife he would, and now had no choice.

“Is that all?” Jesus asked. He turned toward the door.

Pilate rose. “Don’t leave,” he said. “I have something to tell you-that’s why I called you here. My wife says she dreams about you every night. Because of you she hardly dares close her eyes. She says you complain to her that your compatriots Annas and Caiaphas seek your death and you beg her every night to speak to me and convince me not to let them kill you. Last night my wife screamed, woke up with a start and began to cry. It seems she pities you (I don’t know why: I keep my nose out of female nonsense). Well, she fell at my feet to make me call you and tell you to go away and save yourself. Jesus of Nazareth, the air of Jerusalem isn’t good for your health. Return to Galilee! I don’t want to use force-I’m telling you as a friend. Return to Galilee!”

“Life is war!” Jesus answered in the same resolute, always tranquil voice, “and you know it because you’re a soldier and a Roman. But what you don’t know is this: God is the commander and we his soldiers. From the moment that man is born, God shows him the earth and upon the earth a city, village, mountain, sea or desert, and says to him, ‘Here you shall wage war!’ Governor of Judea, one night God seized me by the hair, lifted me up, brought me to Jerusalem, set me down in front of the Temple and said, ‘Here you shall wage war!’ I am no deserter, Governor of Judea-it is here that I shall wage my war!”

Pilate shrugged his shoulders. He already regretted that he had asked the favor and revealed a household secret to a Jew. As was his habit, he went through the motions of rinsing his hands.

“Do as you please,” he said. “I wash my hands of the whole matter. Go!”

Jesus raised his arm and took his leave. But as he was crossing the threshold, Pilate called to him teasingly, “Hey, Messiah, what is this fearful news I hear you bring the world?”

“Fire,” Jesus replied, again tranquilly, “fire to cleanse the earth.”

“Of Romans?”

“No, of unbelievers. Of the unjust, the dishonorable, the satiated.”

“And then?”

“And then on the scorched, purified earth, the new Jerusalem shall be built.”

“And who is going to build the new Jerusalem?”

“I am.”

Pilate burst into laughter. “Well, well, I was right when I told my wife you were mad. You must visit me now and again-it will help me pass the time. All right now: go! I’m tired of you.”

He clapped his hands. The two colossal Negroes entered and showed Jesus to the door.

Judas was waiting anxiously outside the tower. Some hidden worm had been eating the master lately. Each day his face grew more wrinkled and fierce, his words sadder and more threatening. He often went and stayed all alone for hours on Golgotha, a hill outside of Jerusalem where the Romans crucified insurgents; and to the degree he saw the priests and high priests around him grow frantic and dig his grave, by so much-and even more-did he assault them and call them venomous adders, liars, hypocrites who trembled at the thought of swallowing a mosquito and then went ahead and swallowed a camel! Every day he stood from dawn to dusk outside the Temple and uttered wild words as though deliberately seeking his death; and one day when Judas asked him when he would finally throw off the lambskin so that the lion could appear in all its glory, Jesus shook his head, and never in his life had Judas seen a bitterer smile on human lips. From that time on, Judas had not left his side. Even when he saw him mount Golgotha, he went secretly behind lest some hidden enemy lift his hand against him.

Judas paced up and down outside the accursed tower and glanced fiercely at the motionless Roman guards with their armor of brass and heavy boorish faces; and at the godless standard behind them which, with its eagles, waved back and forth at the top of a high pole. What did Pilate want with him, he asked himself, why had he called him? Judas knew-the Zealots of Jerusalem kept him informed-that Annas and Caiaphas went continually in and out of this tower and that they accused Jesus of wanting to start a revolution in order to chase out the Romans and make himself king. But Pilate did not agree. “He’s completely insane,” he would say, “and he doesn’t mix himself up in Rome ’s business. I once purposely sent men to ask him, ‘Does the God of Israel want us to pay taxes to the Romans-what’s your opinion?’ And he, quite truly, quite intelligently,. answered, ‘Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s!’ He’s not as crazy as a saint,” Pilate would say, laughing; “he’s crazed by saintliness. If he steps on your religion, punish him-I wash my hands of the whole affair. But he does not concern Rome.” This is what he always told them, and then he sent them away. But now… Could he have changed his mind?

Judas halted and leaned against the wall opposite the tower, nervously clenching and unclenching his fists.

Suddenly he gave a start. Trumpets blared, the crowd made way. Four Levites arrived and gently placed a gold-inlaid litter in front of the tower door. The silken curtains parted and light-skinned Caiaphas, wearing a yellow all-silk gown, slowly descended. He was so fat that globs of blubber formed cocoons around his eyes. The heavy double doors opened exactly as Jesus was coming out, and the two men met face to face on the threshold. Jesus halted. He was barefooted, his white tunic full of patches. Perfectly motionless, he stared deeply into the high priest’s eyes. The other lifted his heavy eyelids, recognized him, eyed him rapidly from head to toe. His goatish lips parted. “What do you want here, rebel?”

But Jesus, still motionless, stared down on him severely with his large, afflicted eyes.

“I’m not afraid of you, high priest of Satan,” he replied.

“Throw him out!” Caiaphas screamed at his four litter-bearers. He proceeded into the courtyard, a fat, bow-legged pygmy whose immense behind nearly scraped the ground.

The four Levites closed in on Jesus, but Judas dashed forward. “Hands off!” he bellowed. Shoving them aside, he took the teacher by the arm.

“Come,” he said, “let’s go.”

Judas pushed through camels, men and sheep, clearing a path so that Jesus could proceed. They strode under the city’s fortified gate, descended into the Cedron Valley, climbed up the opposite side and took the road to Bethany.

“What did he want with you?” Judas asked, squeezing the master’s arm in an agony.

“Judas,” Jesus answered after a deep silence, “I am now going to confide a terrible secret to you.”

Judas bowed his red-haired head and waited with gaping mouth. “You are the strongest of all the companions. Only you, I think, will be able to bear it. I have said nothing to the others, nor will I. They have no endurance.”

Judas blushed with pleasure. “Thank you for trusting me, Rabbi,” he said. “Speak. You’ll see: I won’t make you ashamed of me.

“Judas, do you know why I left my beloved Galilee and came to Jerusalem?”

“Yes,” Judas answered. “Because it is here that what is bound to happen must happen.”

“That’s right; the Lord’s flames will start from here. I can no longer sleep. I wake with a start in the middle of the night and look at the sky. Hasn’t it opened yet? Aren’t the flames flowing down? Daylight comes and I run to the Temple, speak, threaten, point to the sky, command, beseech, invoke the fire to descend. But my voice is always lost. The heavens remain closed, mute and tranquil above me. And then suddenly one day…”

His voice broke. Judas leaned on top of him in order to hear but could detect only stifled breathing and the rattling of Jesus’ teeth.

“Go on! Go on!” Judas gasped.

Jesus caught his breath and continued. “One day as I was lying all alone on the top of Golgotha, the prophet Isaiah rose up in my mind-no, no, not in my mind: I saw his entire body in front of me on the rocks of Golgotha, and he was holding a goatskin sewn up and inflated, and it looked just like the black he-goat I met in the desert. There were letters on the hide. ‘Read!’ he commanded, stretching out the goatskin in the air in front of me. But as I heard the voice, prophet and goat disappeared and only the letters remained-in the air, black with red capitals.”

Jesus lifted his eyes into the light. He had turned pale. He squeezed Judas’s arm and clung to him. “There they are!” he whispered, terrified. “They’ve filled the air!”

“Read!” said Judas, who was also trembling.

Panting, Jesus began hoarsely to spell out the words. The letters were like living beasts: he hunted them and they resisted. Continually wiping away his sweat, he read: “’He has borne our faults; he was wounded for our transgressions; our iniquities bruised him. He was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth. Despised and rejected by all, he went forward without resisting, like a lamb that is led to the slaughter.’ ”

Jesus spoke no more. He had turned deathly pale.

“I don’t understand,” said Judas, standing still and shifting the pebbles with his big toe. “Who is the lamb being led to slaughter? Who is going to die?”

“Judas,” Jesus slowly answered, “Judas, brother, I am the one who is going to die.”

“You?” said Judas, recoiling. “Then aren’t you the Messiah?”

“I am.”

“I don’t understand!” Judas repeated, and he lacerated his toe on the stones.

“Don’t shout, Judas. This is the way. For the world to be saved, I, of my own will, must die. At first I didn’t understand it myself. God sent me signs in vain: sometimes visions in the air, sometimes dreams in my sleep; or the goat’s carcass in the desert with all the sins of the people around its neck. And since the day I quit my mother’s house, a shadow has followed behind me like a dog or at times has run in front to show me the road. What road? The Cross!”

Jesus threw a lingering glance around him. Behind him was Jerusalem, a mountain of brilliantly white skulls; in front of him, rocks and a few silver-leafed olive trees and black cedars. The sun, filled with blood, had begun to set.

Judas was uprooting hairs from his beard and tossing them away. He had expected a different Messiah, a Messiah with a sword, a Messiah at whose cry all the generations of the dead would fly out of their tombs in the valley of Joshaphat and mix with the living. The horses and camels of the Jews would be resuscitated at the same time, and all-infantry and cavalry-would flow forth to slaughter the Romans. And the Messiah would sit on the throne of David with the Universe as a cushion under his feet, for him to step on. This, this was the Messiah Judas Iscariot had expected. And now…

He looked fiercely at Jesus and bit his lips to prevent an unkind word from escaping them. He began again to shift the pebbles, this time with his heels. Jesus saw him and pitied him.

“Take courage, Judas, my brother,” he said, sweetening his voice. “I have done so. There is no other way: this is the road.”

“And afterward?” asked Judas, staring at the rocks.

“I shall return in all my glory to judge the living and the dead.”

“When?”

“Many of the present generation will not die before they have seen me.

“Let’s go!” said Judas. He increased his pace. Jesus panted behind him, toiling to keep up. The sun was at last about to tumble down behind the mountains of Judea. Far away, from the Dead Sea, the first wakening jackals could be heard.

Judas rolled on ahead, bellowing. Within him was an earthquake: everything falling away. He had no faith in death-that seemed to him the worst road of all; resurrected Lazarus, who appeared to him deader and filthier than all the dead, made him nauseous; and the Messiah himself-how could he possibly manage in this fight with Charon?… No, no, Judas had no faith in death as a way.

He turned. He wanted to object, to throw out the grave words which were burning on his tongue. Perhaps they would make Jesus change his route and not go by way of death. As he turned, however, he uttered a cry of terror. An immense shadow fell from Jesus’ body. It was not the shadow of a man but of a huge cross. He grasped Jesus’ hand. “Look!” he said, pointing.

Jesus shuddered. “Quiet, Judas, my brother. Do not speak.”

And thus, silently, arm in arm, they began to mount the gentle incline to Bethany. Jesus’ knees sagged and Judas held him up. They did not speak. Once Jesus leaned over, picked up a warm stone and held it for a long time tightly in his palm. Was this a stone, or the hand of some beloved man? He looked around him. All the soil, which had died during the winter: how it sprouted grass now, how it blossomed!

“Judas, my brother,” he said, “do not be sad. Look how the wheat comes to the earth; how God sends rain and the earth swells and the ears of grain rise from the foamy soil to feed mankind. If the grain of wheat did not die, would the ears ever be resurrected? It is the same with the Son of man.”

But Judas was not consoled. Without speaking, he continued to climb. The sun fell behind the mountains; the night rose up from the soil. The first lamps were already flickering at the top of the hill.

“Remember Lazarus…” Jesus said. But Judas felt nauseated and hurried on, spitting.

Martha lighted the lamp. Lazarus put his hand in front of his eyes-the light still wounded him. Peter took Matthew by the arm and the two of them sat down under the lamp. Old Salome had found a bundle of black fleece and was spinning, thinking of her two sons. My goodness, would the day never come when she would see them in their splendor, a ribbon of gold in their hair, and when the whole lake of Gennesaret would be theirs?…

Magdalene had started down the path. The teacher was late. Her suffering was so intense, she seemed no longer able to fit into the house, and she had gone down the road in the hope of meeting her beloved. The disciples, squatting in the yard, glanced out of the corners of their eyes at the street door and did not speak. Anger was still boiling inside them. The whole house was peaceful, not a breath could be heard. It was just the moment for Peter, who had been longing for days to see what the publican wrote in his notebook each evening. Tonight, after his quarrel with the others, he could wait no longer: he had to know what Matthew said about him. These scribblers were a shameless lot and he had better take care he was not being ridiculed for future generations. If Matthew dared do such a thing, he would throw the book-pen and all-into the fire. Yes, this very evening!… He took the publican’s arm cajolingly and the two of them knelt down under the lamp.

“Read to me please, Matthew,” he requested. “If you must know, I want to learn what you write about the teacher.”

Matthew was delighted to hear this. He slowly removed the notebook from its position next to his breast. He had just wrapped it in an embroidered lady’s kerchief presented him by Lazarus’s sister Mary. Now he carefully unwrapped it as though it were something alive and wounded. He opened it. His body began to pitch forward and back; he gathered momentum and started, half reading half chanting, to recite:

“ ‘The book of the generation of Jesus Christ, son of David, son of Abraham. Abraham begot Isaac. And Isaac begot Jacob. And Jacob begot Judas and his brothers. And Judas begot Phares and Zara…’ ”

Peter closed his eyes and listened. The generations of the Hebrews passed before him: from Abraham to David, fourteen generations; from David to the Babylonian captivity, fourteen generations; from the Babylonian captivity to Christ, fourteen generations… What a multitude, what an innumerable, immortal army! And what immense joy, what pride to be one of the Jews! Peter inclined his head against the wall and listened. The generations marched by, reached the time of Jesus. Peter listened. How many miracles had taken place, and he had never even had a whiff of them! So… Jesus was born at Bethlehem, and his father was not Joseph the Carpenter but was the Holy Spirit, and three Magi had come and worshiped him; and at the Baptism, what were those words thrown down from heaven by the dove? He, Peter, had not heard them. Who told them to Matthew, who wasn’t even there? Little by little Peter no longer heard the words; he heard only a lulling music, monotonous and sad-and then, gently, he fell asleep. There, in his sleep, he heard both music and words with perfect clarity. Each word seemed to him in his sleep like a pomegranate-like those pomegranates he had eaten the year before at Jericho. They burst open in the air and from inside flew out sometimes flames, sometimes angels, wings and trumpets…

Suddenly in the deep sweetness of sleep he heard a tumult of happy cries. He awoke with a start. In front of him he saw Matthew, still reading, the notebook on his knees. He remembered, felt ashamed at having fallen asleep, flew into the publican’s arms, and kissed him on the mouth.

“Forgive me, Brother Matthew,” he said, “but while I was listening to you I entered Paradise.”

Jesus appeared at the door, followed by Magdalene. She was radiant with joy. Flames flew from her lips, eyes and bare neck. When Jesus saw Peter hugging and kissing the publican, his expression sweetened. He pointed to the two embracing men. “That,” he said, “is the kingdom of heaven.”

He approached Lazarus, who attempted to rise. But his loins creaked and he was afraid they would break. He sat down again. Extending his arm, he touched Jesus’ hand with his fingertips. Jesus shuddered. Lazarus’s hand was extremely cold, and black, and it smelled of soil.

Jesus went out again into the yard in order to breathe. This resurrected man still tottered between life and death. God had not yet been able to conquer the rottenness within him. Never had death shown its true strength as it did in this man. Jesus was overcome with fear and intense sadness.

Old Salome, her distaff under her arm, approached him and stood on tiptoe to whisper secretly in his ear. “Rabbi,” she began.

He bent over to hear her. “Speak, Salome.”

“Rabbi, when you go up to heaven, I have a favor to ask of you. You’ve seen how much we have done for you.”

“Speak, Salome…” Jesus’ heart suddenly constricted. When, he asked himself, would men realize that good deeds never condescend to accept recompense.

“Now that you are going to mount your throne, my child, place my sons John and Jacob one at your right hand and one at your left.”

Biting his lips so that he would not speak, Jesus stared at the ground.

“Did you hear, my child? John…”

Jesus took a long stride and entered the house. He saw Matthew next to the lamp, still holding the open notebook on his knees. He stopped. Matthew’s eyes were closed: he was still submerged in all that he had read.

“Matthew,” said Jesus, “bring your notebook here. What do you write?”

Matthew got up and handed Jesus his writings. He was very happy.

“Rabbi,” he said, “here I recount your life and works, for men of the future.”

Jesus knelt under the lamp and began to read. At the very first words, he gave a start. He violently turned the pages and read with great haste, his face becoming red and angry. Seeing him, Matthew huddled fearfully in a corner and waited. Jesus skimmed through the notebook and then, unable to control himself any longer, stood up straight and indignantly threw Matthew’s Gospel down on the ground.

“What is this?” he screamed. “Lies! Lies! Lies! The Messiah doesn’t need miracles. He is the miracle-no other is necessary! I was born in Nazareth, not in Bethlehem; I’ve never even set foot in Bethlehem, and I don’t remember any Magi. I never in my life went to Egypt; and what you write about the dove saying ‘This is my beloved son’ to me as I was being baptized-who revealed that to you? I myself didn’t hear clearly. How did you find out, you, who weren’t even there?”

“The angel revealed it to me,” Matthew answered, trembling.

“The angel? What angel?

“The one who comes each night I take up my pen. He leans over my ear and dictates what I write.”

“An angel?” Jesus said, disturbed. “An angel dictates, and you write?”

Matthew gathered courage. “Yes, an angel. Sometimes I even see him, and I always hear him: his lips touch my right ear. I sense his wings wrapping themselves around me. Swaddled in the angel’s wings like an infant, I write; no, I don’t write-I copy what he tells me. What did you think? Could I have written all those miracles by myself?”

“An angel?” Jesus murmured again, and he plunged into meditation. Bethlehem, Magi, Egypt, and “you are my beloved son”: if all these were the truest truth… If this was the highest level of truth, inhabited only by God… If what we called truth, God called lies…

He did not speak. Bending down, he carefully gathered together the writings he had thrown on the ground and gave them to Matthew, who rewrapped them in the embroidered kerchief and hid them under his shirt, next to the skin.

“Write whatever the angel dictates,” Jesus said. “It is too late for me to…” But he left his sentence unfinished.

Meanwhile, the disciples formed a circle around Judas in the yard and asked him to tell them what Pilate wanted with the rabbi. But Judas, without even turning to look at them, broke away and stood at the street door. He detested the sight and sound of them; he could speak only with the rabbi now. A terrible secret joined the two of them and separated them from the rest… Judas looked at the night which had devoured the world, and at the first stars above him, small icon lamps which were just beginning to glow.

“God of Israel,” he murmured within himself, “help me, or I’ll go out of my mind.”

Magdalene felt uneasy, and went and stood next to him. He started to leave, but she seized the edge off his tunic.

“Judas, you can reveal the secret to me without fear. You know me.

“What secret? Pilate wanted him in order to tell him to be careful. Caiaphas-”

“Not that, the other.”

“What other? You’re burning up again, Magdalene. Your eyes are lighted coals.” He laughed halfheartedly. “Cry, cry. Your tears will put them out.”

But Magdalene bit into her kerchief and tore it with her teeth. ‘Why should he have chosen you,” she murmured, “you, Judas Iscariot?”

The redbeard became angry now. He squeezed his hand around Magdalene’s arm. “Who, Mary of Magdala, did you wish him to choose-windmill Peter, or that idiot John… or could it be that you wanted to be chosen yourself-you, a woman? I am a piece of flint from the desert: I stand up against wear. That’s why he chose me!”

Magdalene’s eyes filled with tears. “You are right,” she murmured. “I’m a woman, a creature maimed and wounded…” She went inside and huddled into a ball next to the fire.

Martha had set the table for supper. The disciples came in from the yard and knelt. Lazarus had drunk the chicken broth. It turned to blood inside him, and he no longer stared at the floor. Little by little with the air, light and nourishment, his fissured body was becoming caulked and strengthened.

The inner door opened and the old rabbi appeared, pale and airy, like a ghost. He leaned heavily on his crosier because his knees refused to support him any more. When he saw Jesus he signaled that he wanted to speak to him. Jesus rose, took hold of the old man, seated him, and then sat down himself next to Lazarus.

“Father,” he said, “I also want to speak to you.”

“I have a complaint against you today, my child,” said the old rabbi, looking at him with stern tenderness. “I say it openly in front of everyone. Let all-men and women-hear us; and Lazarus, who rose from the grave and must know many secrets. Let everyone hear us and judge.”

“What can men know?” Jesus replied. “An angel-ask Matthew-flies inside this house and listens. Let him judge. What is your grievance, Father?”

“Why do you wish to abolish the sacred Law? Until now you respected it, just as it is right that a son should respect his old father. But today in front of the Temple, you hoisted your own banner. How far is this rebellion in your heart going to lead?”

“To love, Father; to the feet of God. There it will find support and repose.”

“Can’t you reach that far with the sacred Law? Don’t you know what our holy Scriptures say? The Law was written nine hundred and fourteen generations before God built the world. But it wasn’t written upon parchment, because at that time no animals existed to give up their hides; nor on wood, for there were no trees; nor upon stone: there still were no stones. It was written in black flames upon white fire on the left arm of the Lord. It was in accordance with this sacred Law, I want you to know, that God created the world.”

“No, no!” Jesus cried, unable to control himself any longer. “No!”

The old rabbi tenderly took his hand. “Why do you shout like that, my child?”

Jesus felt ashamed, and blushed. The reins had escaped his hands and he could no longer manage his soul. It was as though he were covered with wounds from head to toe. No matter where you touched him, no matter how lightly, he always screamed with pain.

He had screamed this time too, and then become calm. He took the old rabbi’s hand, and lowered his voice. “The holy Scriptures, Father, are the pages of my heart. I have torn up all the other pages.”

But as he spoke he changed his mind. “Not I… not I, but God, who sent me.”

The old rabbi, sitting as he was next to Jesus, so close that their knees touched, felt an unbearable fiery force spurt out of Jesus’ body; and as a strong wind suddenly blew through the opened window and extinguished the lamp, the rabbi saw in the darkness, all splendor like a column of fire, the son of Mary standing erect in the center of the room. He looked to the right and left in case Moses and Elijah should again be present but saw neither of them. Jesus was alone in his splendor, and his head reached the cane-lathed ceiling and set it aglow. Just as the old rabbi was about to scream, Jesus stretched out his arms. He had become a cross now and was being licked by the flames.

Martha got up and re-lighted the lamp. Everything immediately returned to order. Jesus was still sitting with bowed head, thinking. The rabbi glanced around: no one else had seen anything in the darkness. The others had all placed themselves around the table and were tranquilly arranging themselves for dinner. God holds me in his hands and plays, thought the rabbi. Truth has seven levels. He brings me up and down from level to level, and I grow dizzy…

Jesus was not hungry, and did not sit down to eat. Nor did the old rabbi. The two of them remained next to Lazarus, who had closed his eyes and seemed to have fallen asleep. But he was not sleeping; he was thinking. What was this dream he had had? Had he died, he wondered, had he been laid under the earth, and had he then suddenly heard a terrible voice: “Lazarus, come out!” and had he jumped up in his shroud and awakened to find himself wrapped in the very shroud he had seen in his dream? Or perhaps it was not a dream. Could he really have descended to Hades?

“Why did you bring him out of the tomb, my child?”

“I didn’t want to,” Jesus answered softly, “I didn’t want to, Father. When I saw him lift up the tombstone I became terrified. I wanted to run away but was too ashamed. I stayed there and trembled.”

“I can endure everything,” said the rabbi, “everything, except the stench of a rotting body. I’ve seen one other horrible body. It decomposed while it still lived, ate, talked and sighed. King Herod, a great soul condemned to hell. He killed beautiful Mariana, the woman he loved; killed his friends, his generals, his sons. He conquered kingdoms, built towers, palaces, cities and the holy Temple of Jerusalem, richer even than Solomon’s ancient Temple. He inscribed his name deeply on the stones in bronze and in gold: he thirsted for immortality. Then suddenly at the height of his glory God’s finger touched him on the neck, and all at once he began to rot. He was always hungry. He ate ceaselessly but was never filled. His intestines were one lingering, putrid wound; he was so hungry, the jackals heard his bellowing in the night and trembled. His belly, feet and armpits began to swell. Worms emerged from his testicles-they were the first to rot. The stench was so great that no human being could come close to him. His slaves fainted. He was carried to the warm springs at Callirhoe near the Jordan, and he became worse. They plunged him in warm oil, and he became worse. At that time I had a reputation for curing and exorcizing diseases. The king was told this, and he called for me. They had him then at Jericho, in the gardens, and his stench reached from Jerusalem to the Jordan. The first time I approached him I fainted. I made salves and anointed him. Secretly I lowered my head and vomited. Is this a king? I asked myself. Is this what man is: filth and stench? And where is the soul to put things in order?”

The rabbi spoke extremely softly. It was not right for the others to hear such words while they ate. Jesus listened, bowed over in despair. This was precisely the favor he wished to ask of the rabbi this evening: to talk to him about death, so that he could find strength. He ought at this time to have death always in front of him, in order to get used to it. But now… He wanted to put forth his hand to stop the old rabbi, to shout at him, That’s enough! but at this point, how could he hold the old man back? The rabbi could not wait to recount all the filth, to draw it out of his memory and cleanse himself.

“My salves were worthless; the worms ate them too. But a devil was still enthroned in that filth and he gave orders. He commanded all the rich and powerful of Israel to assemble, and he penned them up in his courtyard. As he was dying he called for his sister Salome. ‘As soon as I give up the ghost,’ he said, ‘kill them all, so that they won’t rejoice at my death!’ He perished. Herod the Great perished, the last king of Judah. I hid behind the trees and began to dance. The last king of Judah had perished-the blessed hour had come, the blessed hour which Moses prophesied in his Testament: ‘At the end there will come a king debauched and dissipated, his sons unworthy; and out of the west will come barbarous armies and a king to occupy the Holy Land. And then, it will be the end of the world!’ That’s what the prophet Moses predicted. It has all taken place. The end of the world has come.”

Jesus gave a start. It was the first time he had heard this prophecy. “Where is it written?” he shouted. “Who is the prophet? This is the first I hear of it!”

“Not many years ago in a cave of the Judean desert a monk found an ancient parchment in a clay jar. He unrolled it and saw at the top in red letters: ‘The Testament of Moses.’ Before he died the great patriarch had called his successor, Joshua, son of Nun, and dictated to him all that was going to happen in the future. And lo! we’ve reached the years he prophesied. The debauched king was Herod, the barbarous armies the Romans; and as for the end of the world, if you lift your head, you’ll see it coming in through the door!”

Jesus rose. The house constricted him. He went past the companions who were eating, free of cares, and emerged into the yard. There, he lifted his head. The moon, large and sorrowful, was at that moment rising from behind the mountains of Moab. It was at last about to become entirely full and to issue in the Passover.

He gazed at it, astonished, as though he saw it for the first time in his life. What is the moon, he asked himself, this moon which rises from the mountains and makes the frightened dogs thrust their tails between their legs and bark at it? It mounts, silent in the terrifying silence, and drips venom. The heart of man becomes a pit which fills with venom… Jesus felt an envenomed tongue over his cheeks and neck and arms, a tongue which licked him, which wrapped his face and body in a white light, a white shroud.

John had a presentiment of the master’s suffering. He came out into the yard and saw him, his whole body submerged in moonlight. Speaking softly so that he would not frighten him, he said, “Rabbi…” and approached on tiptoe.

Jesus turned and looked at him. The tender, beardless adolescent vanished, and an old man, a very old man, stood in the middle of the yard under the moon. He held a blank book open in one hand and in the other a quill, long, like a copper-tipped lance. And his all-white beard flowed down to his knees.

“Son of Thunder,” Jesus cried, drawn out of himself, “write: ‘I am the Alpha and the Omega, he who was, is, and shall be, the Lord of Hosts.’ Did you hear a loud voice like a trumpet?”

John was terrified. The rabbi’s mind had begun to totter! He knew that the moon inebriates-that was why he had come out into the yard: to get Jesus and bring him indoors. But alas! he had arrived too late. “Be still, Rabbi,” he said. “I am John, whom you love. Let’s go inside. This is Lazarus’s house.”

“Write!” Jesus again commanded. “’There are seven angels around God’s throne, each with a trumpet in his mouth.’ Do you see them, son of Thunder? Write: ‘The first angel fell to the earth, hail and fire, mixed with blood. One third of the earth was burned up, one third of the trees, one third of the green grass. The second angel sounded his trumpet. A mountain of fire fell into the sea, and one third of the sea became blood, one third of the fish died, one third of the sailing ships sank. The third angel sounded his trumpet. A great star fell from heaven and one third of the rivers, lakes and fountains were poisoned. The fourth sounded his trumpet. One third of the sun became dark, and one third of the moon, and of the stars. The fifth sounded his trumpet. Another star hurled forth, the Abyss opened and out poured clouds of smoke and in the smoke locusts which flowed, not over the grass or trees, but over men; and their hair was long like women’s hair, and their teeth like lions’ teeth. They wore iron armor and their wings thundered like many-horsed chariots rushing into battle. The sixth angel sounded his trumpet…”

But John could stand it no longer. He burst into tears and fell at Jesus’ feet. “My rabbi,” he cried, “be still… be still…”

Jesus heard the weeping, quivered, bent over and saw the beloved disciple at his feet. “John, beloved,” he said, “why do you cry?”

John was ashamed to reveal that for a moment, under the moon, the teacher’s mind had tottered. “Rabbi,” he said, “let’s go inside. The old man is asking what happened to you, and the disciples want to see you.”

“And is it because of that you weep, John, beloved?… Let us go in.”

He entered and sat down once more next to the old rabbi. He was extremely tired. His hands were sweating, he was burning up-yet shivering.

The old rabbi gazed at him, frightened. “My child, do not look at the moon,” he said, clasping Jesus’ dripping hand. “They say that it is the nipple of Satan’s chief love, the Night, and flows with-”

But Jesus’ mind was on death. “Father,” he said, “I believe you spoke badly about death. Death does not wear Herod’s face. No, it is a great lord, the keeper of God’s keys, and it opens the door. Try to recall other deaths, Father, and comfort me.”

The disciples had finished their meal. They cut short their chattering in order to listen. Martha cleared away; the two Marys collapsed at Jesus’ feet. From time to time the one glanced stealthily at the other’s arms, bosom, eyes, mouth and hair, anxiously calculating who was the more beautiful.

“My child, you are right,” said the old man. “I spoke badly of God’s black archangel. He always wears the face of the moribund. If Herod dies, he becomes Herod; but if a saint dies, his face shines like seven suns. A great lord, he comes with his chariot and lifts the saint from the ground and brings him up to heaven. Do you want to see the face you will have in eternity? Then look to see how death appears before you at the last hour.”

They all listened open-mouthed, and each, within his mind, anxiously weighed his own soul. For a long time silence fell over them all, as though each one was struggling to see the face of his death.

Finally Jesus opened his mouth and spoke. “Once, Father, when I was twelve years old, I went to the synagogue and listened to you relate the prophet Isaiah’s martyrdom and death to the people of Nazareth. But that was years ago, and I’ve forgotten it. Tonight I have a great desire to hear about his end once more, so that my soul may be soothed and I may become reconciled with death: for you have made my soul extremely angry with your talk of Herod, Father.”

“Why do you want us to talk only about death this evening, my child? Is this the favor you wished to ask of me?”

“Exactly. There is none greater.” He turned to the disciples. “Do not fear death, comrades. May it be blessed! If death did not exist, how could we reach God and remain with him forever? Truly I say to you, death holds the keys and opens the door.”

The old rabbi looked at him with surprise. “Jesus, how can you speak with such love and sureness about death? It’s been a long time since I’ve heard your voice so tender.”

“Tell us about the prophet Isaiah’s death, and you’ll see that I am right.”

The old rabbi shifted his position to avoid touching Lazarus.

“Iniquitous King Manasseh forgot the commands of his father, God-fearing Hezekiah; Satan entered and took possession of him. Manasseh could no longer bear to hear Isaiah, the voice of God. He therefore sent assassins all over Judea to find him and cut his throat so that he would speak no more. But Isaiah was in Bethlehem. Hidden inside a huge cedar, he prayed and fasted in order to make God take pity on Israel and save her. One day a Samaritan, a man outside the Law, passed by as the hand of the prophet, who was praying, emerged from the tree. The lawless Samaritan saw it and straightway ran to the king and informed him. The prophet was seized and led to the king. ‘Bring the saw used to cut down trees, and saw him in two!’ the accursed man ordered. They laid him down. Two men took hold of the two handles and began to saw. ‘Disown your prophecies,’ shouted the king, ‘and I’ll grant you your life!’ But Isaiah had already entered Paradise, and no longer heard the voices of this earth. ‘Deny God,’ the king shouted again, ‘and I’ll have my subjects fall at your feet and adore you.’

“ ‘You have no power,’ the prophet then answered him, ‘except to kill my body. You cannot touch my soul, nor can you smother my voice. Both are immortal. The one goes up to God; the other, my voice, shall remain evermore on the earth and preach.’ When he had spoken Death came in a chariot of fire, with a crown of gilded cedar in his hair, and took him.”

Jesus got up, his eyes shining. A chariot of fire hung over him.

“Friends,” he said, looking at the disciples one by one, “beloved fellow voyagers: if you love me, listen to the words I shall speak to you tonight. You must always be tightly girded and ready-those who have sandals, with sandals, those who have staffs, with staffs-ready for the great journey. What is the body? The tent of the soul. ‘We are taking up our tents and leaving!’ you should say at every instant. ‘We are leaving, returning to our homeland.’ What homeland? Heaven!

“Friends, here is the final word I wish to say to you tonight. When you find yourselves in front of a beloved tomb, do not begin to weep. Keep ever in your minds this great consolation: Death is the door to immortality; there is no other door. Your beloved did not die-he became immortal.”