The Secret of the Kingdom

EIGHTH LETTER

MARCUS TO TULLIA:

My simple joy continued. I believe it rose from the relief of no longer feeling impelled to torment myself with vain thoughts, or to suffer inquisitive envy because others may possibly experience things in which I have no share.

When I had written all I had to write I went out and wandered through the alleys of Jerusalem, watching the coppersmiths at work, and the weavers and potters. I engaged a guide to show me the palace of the Hasmoneans, and climbed the towers of Herod’s palace, including one ancient tower inhabited now only by bats. I visited the temple forecourt and passed some time in the forum, and I also went out of the city to survey it from the neighboring heights. Here in Jerusalem all goes on as if nothing had happened. I believe that within a week most of the inhabitants had forgotten Jesus of Nazareth and his frightful death, and wanted to hear no more of him.

I was wearying of this Jewish city, whose customs are foreign to me. No longer could I see anything remarkable even in its temple, which has so phenomenal a renown. In truth all great cities are alike; customs alone vary. The celebrated temples resemble each other though their sacrifices and ceremonies differ. Their one common characteristic is the amassing of money in some way or other. If the Jews in their temple forecourt sell sacred texts in decorative cases for binding on arm or forehead, this seems to me little different from the Ephesians’ way of offering amulets and statuettes of Artemis for sale to travelers and foreigners.

The other evening at dusk when I was on my way home through the darkening alley, my landlord Karanthes saw me from afar and same hurrying as if he had been waiting for me. Smiling slyly and rubbing his hands he told me: “Someone has been asking for you and is awaiting your return.”

I was happily surprised, and asked, “Who can it be? I have no friends in the city. Why are you so mysterious?”

Karanthes could contain himself no longer, but burst out laughing and cried, “Ah, how glad I am that you’re well again in every way and living like a human being! I am far from curious about your ways and paths, but to avoid malicious tongues I have asked her to remain in your room. She is sitting there modestly on the floor with her mantle wrapped about her feet. You might have found a better one, of course, but everyone to his taste. At least she is well grown, and her eyes are beautiful.”

I could not think what woman could be waiting for me. I hurried up to my room but I did not recognize my visitor, though she meekly uncovered her face when I came in and looked at me as if she knew me. I had only met her in the dark before, and it was by her voice that I recognized her as she said, “I have surely done wrong in forcing myself upon you, and I would not hazard your reputation if you’re tender of it. A woman of my sort ought not to betray knowledge by day of a man she has spoken to at night, but I have something to tell you which will certainly surprise you.”

I said, “Mary of Beret. I know you, but I never knew your face was so beautiful and your eyes so bright. And I have no fear for my reputation. On the contrary, I am glad you’re here, though I cannot understand how you found me.”

“Don’t speak of my face and my eyes,” she begged, “for they are my curse. But the city is smaller than you think. There are already many who know of you and of your obstinate curiosity about things that don’t concern you. You met the man with the water jar, then, although you had less profit by him than you’d hoped.”

I fancied she had come to claim a reward for her advice, and said at once, “Yes, of course, and I must owe you something.”

She shook her head quickly and said, “No, no, you owe nothing. On the contrary it is I who am in debt to you, and that is why I have come here uninvited.”

I looked at her, unable to imagine what she could want of me. Her face seemed to show that she was younger than I had thought, and it was a round, pretty, Jewish face from which one could never have guessed her profession.

By the door Karanthes coughed discreetly behind his hand to attract my attention, for inquisitively as a magpie he had followed me in. “Supper is ready,” he said, “but of course the food can wait if you would prefer to keep company with your friend first. Say the word and I will bring water and clean towels, and no doubt you’ll know how to make sure that she has not rummaged through your belongings and hidden any-thing away in her clothes.”

Mary of Beret flushed and looked at the floor, ashamed. I said quickly, “You quite mistake me, my dear landlord, for our intentions are not what you suppose. Let your wife or your daughter bring the food, or serve it yourself, whichever you prefer, for I am hungry and shall eat with my guest.”

Mary of Beret raised her hands in horror and cried, “No, no; it is not fitting that a man should eat with a woman, or at least not with a woman like myself. But allow me to serve you at your meal. Afterwards I will gladly eat what you leave.”

Karanthes looked at her benevolently and said with approval, “I see that you’re a sensible, well-brought-up girl. This man from Rome is not yet sufficiently conversant with the customs of the country. My wife would rather die than offer you food, and I cannot allow my innocent daughter to see what she ought not to see. But it’s quite another matter if you will go down with lowered eyes to fetch the food, serve it like a servant and eat what is left.”

He explained to me, “You know I’m not a prejudiced man, but there’s a limit to everything. If she had come here in a litter, dressed in fine linen or gold-embroidered silk, with jewels about her neck and dripping with fragrant salves, I would have regarded it as an honor to serve her with my own hands; yet at the same time I would have sighed with anxiety on your account. This sensible girl knows her place and will do you no harm.”

He bade the girl go with him, and soon she returned carrying my supper. She had girded up her mantle about her waist in the manner of a serving-woman, so that her legs were bare to the knee. Eagerly she led me by the hand onto the roof, poured water over my hands and dried them with a clean towel. When I had seated myself she took the lid from an earthenware pot, set a loaf before me and said, “Eat, Roman, and the eyes of your servant shall rejoice at every mouthful you take. Ah, if I might be your servant, and serve you always!”

But her eyes were on the loaf as I broke off a piece of it, and so I drew her down to sit at my side, dipped the bread into the spiced sauce and put it into her mouth, so that she was obliged to eat with me despite her protests. Not until she had refused three times would she consent to dip her hand into the dish and help herself.

When we had finished she pressed her head against my arm, kissed my hand and said, “You are as they described you to me, and as I imagined you, after speaking to you in the dark by the old gate. You treat a woman as your equal, though with us she is valued less than a donkey or a draught animal. Here when a girl is born the father tears his clothes and won’t even look at the child or say a kind word to his wife.”

Staring before her she went on, “A woman’s life in a country village is wretched, and a pretty girl is married off to some old man who owns more fields and vineyards than most. Vanity was my downfall. I gazed at my reflection in my water jar and foolishly went into the fields with the first stranger who gave me pretty ribbons and beads and whispered false promises in my ear. So short and simple is my story that I need tell you no more, for I believe you can guess the rest. I should have been little worse off than my sisters, while young, if I had lived in another land. But even as an outcast, an accursed, I am a daughter of Israel, and my sin so preys upon me that I would give anything to be pure again. But the God of Israel is a God of wrath, and in his eyes a women defiled is worth no more than a dog or a corpse.”

I said comfortingly, “Mary of Beret, you surely can’t be more sinful than many others who are forced to live in this world in your way.”

She looked at me with dark eyes, shook her head slightly and said, “You don’t understand what I mean. What consolation is it for me to think that there are many more sinful than I, when I know myself and am aware that inwardly I am all foulness and anguish? There was one who would have helped me. He did not condemn even an adulteress, but was merciful and saved her from stoning. He blessed all children, even girls, and there was no sin in him. But I never dared approach him; I saw him only from a distance. In any case his followers would most likely have kept me away from him. With his power he healed many whose bodies were sick, and surely he would have shown me compassion too, for my heart is sick and I’m ashamed of myself and of my life.”

“I know whom you mean,” I said.

Mary of Beret nodded. “Yes, yes. But the devout and learned who are without sin crucified him. Afterwards he rose from the dead and has shown himself to his followers. I have heard that from a sure source, unbelievable though it may sound; and I’ve heard that you know of it too, although you’re a foreigner and an outcast. This is why I’ve come to you.”

Suddenly she burst out weeping, threw herself down before me, embraced my knees and cried, “I entreat you, take me with you and we will travel to Galilee together and seek him. All who were able have left the city today to walk to Galilee. Women too. He appeared to his disciples late last night and promised to be there before them. There they will meet him. Perhaps I too might meet him if you’re willing to take me with you.”

I shook her roughly by the shoulders, raised her up to sit again and said eagerly, “Stop weeping and crying out so wildly and tell me what you know, so that we may take counsel together what to do.”

When Mary found me so ready to listen to her, she wiped the tears from her eyes, calmed herself and began her story:

“You have met that rich woman, the breeder of doves, who went with him. She understands you and knows that you’re steadfastly seeking the new way. But she was strictly forbidden to meet you again because you’re not a child of Israel. It was she who advised me to find you, because she could not take me with herself, and because you, as a Roman, are as despised as I. She said that it is the teacher who best knows who shall be allowed to listen to his voice. In the evening the eleven were assembled in the upper room, and Jesus joined them there, passing through locked doors; and he stood in the midst of them just as on that first evening after he had risen from the tomb. You know about that. He assured them that he was of flesh and blood, and allowed Thomas to touch his wounds; so that now they all believe in his resurrection. They didn’t tell the women all that he had said, but at once began to make ready for their journey. He had told them earlier that he would go before them into Galilee. They left the city in twos and threes, and the guards did not molest them. The women too have gone. He has healed some, and Simon of Cyrene has set off as well. They all believe they will meet him in Galilee.”

I pondered her account, and thought it sounded credible; for why should this Mary make up such a story? And I could safely take it that Mary Magdalene still wished me well, though she dared not meet me again because of the disciples.

“But why Galilee in particular?” I asked. “And what is to happen there?”

Mary of Beret shook her head and said, “That I don’t know—and why should I? Isn’t it enough that he told the eleven to go there? They were so eager to start that the first of them set off this morning as soon as the gates were opened.”

Shyly she touched my knee and entreated, “Make ready also to leave Jerusalem, and let me be your servant and come with you, for there is no one else who will have me in his company and I can’t make the journey to Galilee alone. I have no money for the hire of attendants, and without companions I would fall into the hand of legionaries and robbers.”

I was very willing to believe what she said, and it was certainly not her intention to deceive me. Her own eagerness was the best proof of that. But she was telling me only what she had heard at second hand, and in these perplexed days many rumors that were spread from mouth to mouth might become garbled and misleading. I felt therefore that I must have this tale confirmed from some other source.

I told her to have patience, and explained, “We can’t dash away now, at night; and anyhow I have no mind to plunge headlong into an adventure of this kind. Let us be prudent and sleep on the matter. Tomorrow, if I can get information from elsewhere which bears out what you have told me, I will plan the journey, choose the road and the resting places, and so equip ourselves that we may reach Galilee as easily and speedily as possible. There we can look about us and think over what we’re to do.”

But Mary lamented, “I have waited all day as it is, and my heart is so impatient that I can scarcely close my eyes. Why can’t we set off as we are, without bag or baggage, and sleep in the dwellings of the quiet ones in the land, or out in the fields, now that the nights are no longer so cold? In this way our journey will cause you no needless expense.”

I laughed at her innocence and said, “I think I’m a more experienced traveler than you. Sometimes the cheapest way is more expensive in the end; if one falls sick, for instance, or is set upon and beaten by vagabonds. Leave me to arrange the journey, and in Galilee you in your turn can advise me where we should go.”

She said, “I know only Capernaum by the Sea of Galilee. He lived and taught there. That is where we should make for if we hear nothing more of him on the way.”

“Go in peace then,” I said, “and come again tomorrow at noon.”

But Mary of Beret must have feared that I would abandon her, for she said quickly that she had nowhere to go and asked to be allowed to sleep on the roof near my door, or in a corner of my room. It seemed to me that I might just as well accustom myself to her society at once, since I should have to travel with her and stay the night at the same places. She didn’t disturb me, but lay still on a mat in her corner all night, wrapped in her mantle.

In the morning, when the horns had sounded, she recited her prayer aloud in the Jewish manner, but apart from that she tried her best to be quiet and not disturb my morning occupations. Bidding her wait in my room I went down to my landlord, who was already setting up his stall at the door.

“Karanthes,” I said, “the time has come for me to leave Jerusalem and continue my journey. That girl is still up in my room and I shall take her with me. I’ve not forgotten what you said last night. Therefore buy her new clothes and dress her decently from head to foot; and supply her also with a suitable quantity of jewelry, so that no one may despise her or consider her too vulgar a companion for me. But don’t overdo your purchases, for I would not have her too conspicuous.”

My Syrian landlord struck his hands together in astonishment and cried, “I do not know that you’re acting wisely, but no doubt you know your own business best. You can find girls like that in any town, and that would save you her traveling expenses. Apart from that, you are behaving more sensibly now than when you were meddling in Jewish politics, of which you know nothing.”

He never asked where I was going, being far too busy considering how to comply with my request in a manner advantageous to us both. I went straight to my banker Aristainos, whom I found hard at work with abacus and letters of credit. He greeted me with a cry of pleasure, looked me up and down and said, “You seem to have taken my advice more thoroughly than I would have expected. Your beard is longer than mine already, and to judge by your mantle tassels you’re at least a gate-proselyte. Have you found out what you wanted, and are you satisfied?”

I admitted cautiously, “Yes, I’ve found out even more than I wanted to know, and I’m so well satisfied that I’ve had enough of Jerusalem. People have been praising the beauty of Galilee, and of Herod Antipas’ new city Tiberias, on the Sea of Galilee. It seems that at the hot springs there one may restore one’s health, attend theatres and circuses, and live entirely in the Greek manner without giving offense.”

Aristainos’ face took on a queer expression and he avoided my eye. So I added hastily, “I believe I overstrained both mind and body last winter in Alexandria. I long for baths and massage and a little Greek drama to steady my wits after all I’ve learned and heard.”

Aristainos smiled and remarked, “You’ve evidently fallen into the clutches of some glib tout of Herod’s. Herod has sunk a great deal of money into the building of Tiberias, from a desire to make it as modern and Greek a city as possible, and he hopes that travelers and seekers of health will be tempted to squander their money in those most free-and-easy surroundings. Will you go through Samaria, or take the pilgrim route east of Jordan?”

“I’ve come to ask you advice about all that,” I told him. “I should like a little money to take with me, and a draft on some business friend of yours in Tiberias. To tell you the truth, I’ve found an agreeable girl to accompany me on my journey. In Baiae I learned that any youngish man does well to take his own provisions to bathing resorts, or he may be unfortunate.”

Aristainos’ smile was now sardonic. “As a banker I’m just your servant,” he said, “and I’ve neither the right nor the wish to be inquisitive. But does my memory fail me, or have you already had enough of the teachings of the crucified Jesus of Nazareth?”

I felt an invincible repugnance to lying to him; so as he continued to look at me searchingly, I chose my words and said, “Yes, I have indeed heard many remarkable things about him. I may make a few inquiries in Galilee too, if I have time. I can’t deny that since his death there has been a ghostly sort of atmosphere about this sacred city of yours. I’ve been thinking about him a great deal.”

Aristainos pondered, eyed me askance and remarked, “Your sudden inclination to go to Galilee is surprising. I’ve heard that many from the city set off in that direction yesterday. Among the common people it is rumored that miracles are happening there. I know that you’re too enlightened a man to keep company with fishermen and carpenters; nevertheless it does seem a coincidence.

“We may speak frankly,” he went on. “I’ve reason to believe that our Supreme Council was wearying of the Galileans who accompanied that man, and of the rumors spread by them and their women. The common people are ready to believe any lunacy. It’s hard to suppress rumors and even harder to accuse anyone on the basis of rumor alone, because then everybody says at once that there can be no smoke without fire. A crucifixion suffices as a warning and an example to the people, and to persecute his disciples would be to make too much of the matter. Better that he should be forgotten. And so I believe that our leaders have conveyed a hint, indirectly, to the Galileans that they will be molested no further so long as they shake the dust of this city from their feet. They’re welcome to return to Galilee, which lies under the jurisdiction of Herod Antipas. He can deal with them as he thinks fit; and I fancy that at home among their own people, where everyone knows them, they’ll be harmless. No one is a prophet in his own country. I’m explaining all this to you lest you should gain any wrong impressions, including such ideas as no sensible person would trouble to clothe in words.”

As I sat in his splendid room, surrounded by strong walls, doors and bolts, his matter-of-fact remarks were to me like earth strewn over glowing embers to extinguish them.

“If these things are as insignificant as you say, you’re remarkably well informed about them,” I commented sourly. “I too can be frank. I’ve heard it said that he has risen from the dead and revealed himself to his disciples, and has promised to go before them into Galilee.”

Aristainos twitched at a seam in his mantle as if moved to rend his clothes. But quickly regaining his self-command he smiled a wry smile and said, “It was accursed folly to give those crafty disciples of his the chance to steal his body from the tomb during the earthquake. It enables them to tell any kind of wild story. Of course, they can impose a tale like that on their secret adherents and so put their flight from Jerusalem in a favorable light. I might understand you if you’d been bewitched by the scriptures, or if you were a Hebrew soured by waiting for the Messiah. But you’re a Roman and philosopher. A dead man does not rise from his grave. Such a thing has never happened and never can happen.”

“Why then are you so heated and upset, O man of sense?” I asked. “I understand, of course, that you’re attached to your house, your money and your business, and that you’re bound to do your utmost to preserve things as they are. I on the other hand am free to come and go as I will, and even to think such thoughts as you dare not. think. I am now leaving in order to bathe in the hot springs of Tiberias, and it is no concern of yours whether in secret I may be hoping at the same time to hear of—or even see—something that has never happened before.”

Surveying his little beard and his well-cared-for complexion and hands, I was filled with repugnance for him and his world. I remembered the sisters of Lazarus, and Mary Magdalene; even Mary of Beret seemed dearer to me for her hopes than this man, who was chained by his money and his gains. He had no hope. That was why he so firmly denied hope to others.

He must have guessed my thoughts, for he at once altered his demeanor, threw out his hands and said, “You must forgive me. Of course you know your own business best. I realize that in your heart you are a poet, and therefore inclined to think about things which a businessman dismisses from his mind. And you will certainly never let yourself be cheated by swindlers, or believe in stories without evidence. How will you travel? I can offer you an experienced caravan guide and camels or donkeys; also, an excellent tent with all equipment, so that you may be independent of inns and avoid their dirt, vermin and dubious company. It would be wisest to hire a couple of Syrian legionaries to attend you; then you need fear nothing either by day or night. This all costs money, of course, but you can well afford it.”

I myself had contemplated something of the kind, and that was why I had applied to Aristainos. I understood his willingness too, for a caravan of this sort would be most profitable to him. But then one of his agents would be watching my every step and would afterwards report everything that I had done. Next, for his own advantage, he would pass on to the authorities anything that they might want to know about me. Therefore I hesitated.

“I really meant to travel on my own,” I told him. “Not once have I visited the gymnasium here and I hope that a slightly more arduous journey will drive the slackness from my body. But I must also insure that the woman who is to come with me is comfortable.”

“Quite so,” he assented eagerly. “Even minor inconveniences can make a young woman irritable and capricious. Nor would you like to see her white skin covered with red bites. Allow me to make her a little present while you think it over.”

He went out, and returned with a fine Greek hand mirror adorned on the back with a skillfully drawn satyr embracing a refractory nymph. It was a beautifully polished, valuable mirror and I was unwilling to incur an obligation to him by accepting it. But he pressed it into my hand saying, “Do not fear; this is no magic mirror. It will merely help your friend to entertain thoughts pleasing to yourself, if she first looks at her own reflection and then at the ardent satyr. There are said to be mirrors that slay the person who looks into them. As a man of sense I find this hard to believe, but it is always best to be cautious. Therefore I hope with all my heart that you may meet with no such mirror on your journey, and see things that no man ought to see.”

He gave me no time to reflect on the meaning of his words, but began counting on his fingers; he told me that I should need a maid for my companion, a cook, a servant for myself, a pack-ass driver and a tent pitcher, and said at last, “I think twelve people will be enough and a retinue of that size will attract no attention, being exactly suited to one of your rank.”

I saw in my mind’s eye a train of babbling, squabbling, shouting, singing attendants whom I should be quite incapable of keeping in order. The mere thought of this set me against the plan, and I said, “Expense does not trouble me, but my most precious luxury is solitude. Make some better suggestion, and take back your mirror. The unseemly drawing is amusing, but I hardly think it would enhance my position with the Jews.”

He took the mirror without protest and said, “Now I know. There’s a certain Nathan who has taken service with me from time to time. His only fault is that he never speaks, but he is a thoroughly reliable man and he knows Judea, Decapolis, Samaria and Galilee equally well. When I fetched the mirror I saw him sitting out in the courtyard. That means he is looking for work. I have nothing else for him just now, and I do not want him hanging about there for days on end, for his silence annoys my servants. I know he has taken caravans as far as Damascus. Explain to him where you are going and how you wish to travel, and he will arrange everything in the best way. You may safely hand him your purse and he will see to payment at the inns. He doesn’t wear out his tongue in bargaining, nor does he pay what is asked; only what he himself thinks reasonable. In this way he receives no commission from the innkeepers, certainly, but he is content with his wages.”

“I would like to meet such a man,” I said, wondering whether this was some wily idea of Aristainos’. But he laughed at my misgivings and showed me to the courtyard where Nathan was sitting. He was a sunburnt man, barefooted, dressed in a dirty white mantle, and his hair was cut short. When he looked into my face his eyes seemed to me the most melancholy I had ever seen; yet for some reason I felt immediate confidence in him.

I asked Aristainos to explain my purpose to Nathan, but he threw up his hands laughing and went back to his room to tell his bookkeeper to count journey money into a purse for me and make out an order on his business friend in Tiberias. It was as if he wanted to wash his hands of the whole affair, and when I looked at Nathan again I realized that at least this was no spy I had before me.

I said, “You are’ Nathan and I am Marcus, a Roman. I am going to travel to Tiberias with a woman, and I desire to do this in as simple and inconspicuous a way as possible. I can pay you the wages you ask, and you shall have charge of my purse on the journey.”

He glanced at my face and then at my feet, as if judging whether I could walk, but replied only with a nod. Yet I seemed to detect a certain surprise in his face.

“I think three or four donkeys will be enough,” I went on. “My companion and I need sleeping mats and cooking pots. Get what you think needful, and come at noon to the house of Karanthes the trader.”

He nodded once more and let a twig from which he had peeled half the bark fall to the ground. Seeing that it fell bark-upward, he nodded a third time. He was indeed no talker. After all Aristainos’ questioning I was pleased that this man should ask me nothing. I went indoors again to take my leave of the banker, who gave me a business-like account of my money and told the bookkeeper to hand me the purse and the draft.

“May your journey be a happy one,” he said. “When you come back we shall meet again.”

I returned to the courtyard and handed the purse to Nathan. He weighed it in his hand and fastened it to his girdle, reflected for a little, glanced at the sun and then went his way without more ado. Both our agreement and his behavior were so utterly unlike all oriental bargaining that it was with great wonder that I stood looking after him. Nevertheless I had a feeling that he would not deceive me.

I now set off up to the city within the walls, where on that dark night I had followed the man with the water jar. I went ever higher among the bewildering alleyways and steps, and after searching for a while I found the gate in the old wall through which we had passed. Firmly though I had resolved never again to trouble the messengers who had turned me away, I wanted if possible to assure myself that they had left the city.

I seemed to recognize the great house that I had visited. The heavy gate stood ajar, but I saw no one stirring in the courtyard, and suddenly I felt an unaccountable fear and dared not enter. Hesitantly I walked past, then turned and went by it again. Yet I could not go in. Even had I wanted to I should not have been able.

After long indecision I turned away, annoyed and scolding myself for my lack of courage. I was surprised to note how deserted this quarter was, for I had met only two or three people. Near the wall I became aware of a monotonous knocking. A beggar was sitting there trying to attract my attention by tapping his stick on a stone, but he was too proud to ask for anything.

I had found it wisest not to distribute alms among the beggars, for they only limped after me and I could never be rid of them. But this beggar, who had lost his feet, just looked at me without a word, and stopped tapping when he saw that I had noticed him. I felt bound to pause and throw a coin on the ground before him.

He picked it up without thanks, and asked, “What do you seek, stranger? Sitting footless here in my place I see a great deal—and some things that not all would like to see.”

“Then give me a sign if you can,” I begged him.

“Preparations for a journey and hasty departure are the only signs I know of,” said the beggar. “Even men who do not willingly show their faces by day have begun to move. As far as I know they are fishermen and they were no doubt in a hurry to get back to their nets. Does that sign suit you?”

“It suits me better than you know,” I answered, and was glad, and threw him another coin. He picked it up absentmindedly and stared at me, as if to make out who I might be. Then he asked suddenly, “Did you not lead a blind man home one evening and give him your own mantle at the Fountain Gate? If so, I would advise you too to buy a net and follow the others. It may be that a great catch awaits you.”

I felt a lump in my throat and my heart quaked. “Who bade you tell me this?” I asked.

But the footless beggar shook his head and said, “No one bade me tell you. I said it from sheer bitterness, for if I still had my feet I would go to Galilee today. It is like a song and a shout of rejoicing: To Galilee, to Galilee! But I cannot follow it.”

“You do not talk like a beggar,” I remarked.

“I have not always been one,” he answered proudly. “I know the scriptures, and sitting footless in the dirt of the street I find it easy to believe and grasp things which the hale and hearty cannot comprehend. For this madness of mine I have been struck on the mouth before now, and I would do better to hold my tongue, but I couldn’t resist the temptation when I saw you straying so timidly around that house, which I too have been watching.”

“To Galilee, then,” I said. “You strengthen my hope.”

“To Galilee, then,” he repeated devoutly. “And if you meet him, ask him to bless us also, the least of his brothers, who are struck on the mouth by the wise.”

Plunged in thought I went down again to the outer city, but as I approached the house of Karanthes the Syrian my feet grew impatient; a sweet fever of expectancy warmed my mind and within me there rang out like a song and a shout of jubilation: To Galilee, to Galilee! I could think of nothing else.

I could not go straight upstairs, however; I had to sit down to wait on the front doorstep, for my landlord’s wife and daughter were up in my room helping Mary to dress. Karanthes explained, “Women are women, and they could not resist the temptation to look more closely at the beautiful clothes and cheap jewelry. Thanks to these my wife is now persuaded that Mary of Beret is no wicked woman, but rather an innocent girl whom you mean to rescue and make respectable.”

I had no time to reply, for his wife and daughter now called to me from above and with gay chatter invited me to come up and survey the bride. Amazed at their altered frame of mind I obeyed, and was yet more astonished at the sight of Mary. In her new clothes she looked even younger than she had the evening before. She wore an embroidered sash about her waist and a band across her brow, a necklace of colored stones, and large rings in her ears; yes, and an anklet. Flushed with delight she cried out her greeting and said, “Why do you dress me like a rich man’s daughter at a feast? I am washed and combed and anointed, and have a veil with which to hide my face on the journey, and a mantle to wrap around me to protect my clothes from the dust.”

She tried the veil, wrapped the mantle around her and showed herself from every side so that all her ornaments jingled. Her childish pleasure touched me, for it was as if she had stripped off her evil past with her old clothes. Karanthes too came to look at her as if she were the work of his hands, and he felt every piece of stuff and every trinket. He made me do so too, naming the price of each item as if to impress Mary with the amount I had spent on so simple a girl. Mary’s face was overshadowed as she listened, her joy faded and she began to look at me with misgiving.

I thanked Karanthes for his trouble and spoke cordially to his wife and daughter, until all three of them perceived that their presence was superfluous and went away, tittering behind their hands. When Mary and I were alone, she stared at me in fright and withdrew with her back to the wall as if seeking protection.

“What is it that you want of me?” she asked. “A thing like this has only happened to me once since I ran away from my village to the city. An old woman found me in the street and put strange clothes on me. I thought she meant it kindly until I discovered what sort of house hers was. She beat me when I could not serve her guests in the way they wanted, and it was three days before I managed to escape. I thought you were different, and I have prayed for you because you’re kind to me and didn’t touch me last night, although I was much afraid you would. But now I mistrust your purpose. I wasn’t beautiful enough for you when I was poor and unkempt.”

I couldn’t help laughing, and I comforted her: “Have no fear; I seek no earthly kingdom, for in that case I might as well stay with you here in Jerusalem. I’ve experienced enough to know that all earthly desire is but a glowing pit in which there is no breath of coolness, but which grows hotter the deeper one goes. Therefore I desire only that other kingdom, which still lingers among us on earth. That is what I am going to Galilee to seek, with you.”

But my kind words did not please her. Tears welled up in her dark eyes; she stamped on the floor, snatched off her necklace and brow-band, flung them away and cried, “Now I see why you wouldn’t even trouble to choose the jewelry yourself, but let others do it. Your indifference wounds me. I don’t want ornaments that you didn’t choose yourself—and yet I have never had such beautiful ones.”

It was so hard for her to renounce the finery that she wept all the more bitterly, stamped with both feet and sobbed, “Don’t you see that the simplest necklace of seeds and kernels, threaded by you, would have been dearer to me than these costly things?”

Now I became angry too; I stamped in my turn and commanded her, “Cease this howling at once, Mary of Beret! I cannot imagine what makes you behave so badly. What will the people below think of me—of both of us—when they hear all this thumping and bawling? A weeping woman is as ugly as a sack, and I don’t see how I can take you with me to Galilee if you misinterpret my kindness in so wounding a manner.”

This frightened Mary. She stopped crying at once, wiped her eyes and hugged me, kissed me on the corners of my mouth and begged me prettily: “Forgive my foolishness. I will try to be better if you will only take me with you.”

Her caress was like that of a naughty but repentant child, and mollified me at once. Stroking her cheek I said, “Then keep your trinkets, so that the guards along the road may respect you as my lady companion. Later I can surely find an opportunity to string you a necklace of berries and kernels if you like that better; though were no longer children.”

We were indeed no longer children, but at that moment I was filled with the longing to be a child again at heart, so that I should know no more lust or wickedness but be able to delight in every day as it came. I did not know what awaited me in Galilee; I might be making this troublesome journey for nothing. But I wanted to enjoy the journey itself, and my hope. I wanted to enjoy my mere expectancy.

Karanthes called up to me that the donkeys had arrived. I saw by the sun that it was noon. Eagerly I ran down and Mary of Beret followed. In the alley before the house I beheld four sturdy donkeys, two of them saddled with sleeping mats. The third was laden with two hampers, and on the fourth sat a poorly clad woman who dared not so much as raise her eyes from the neck of her mount. Nathan greeted me respectfully but in silence, merely glancing at the sun to point out that he had come at the hour stated.

“Who is that woman? I want no such person with me,” I said indignantly. But Nathan made no reply and looked away, as if the matter in no way concerned him. Karanthes went up and spoke to the woman, and returned, tugging uncertainly at his beard.

“Her name is Susanna,” he said. “She says that Nathan has promised to bring her as your servant, for she wishes to return to her home in Galilee and is unable to walk so far. Therefore she sits ready on her donkey, and desires no payment if she may come too. I understand that she has been ill since the feast of the Passover, and her companions left her behind when they returned home.”

The woman sat there as before, not daring to look at me. Understandably I was angered, and cried, “We need no servant; we wait upon one another. I cannot begin to carry all the sick people of Jerusalem to Galilee.”

Nathan gave me an inquiring look, and seeing that I was in earnest he shrugged his shoulders, threw out his hands, unfastened my purse from his belt, cast it on the ground before me and walked away down the alley, careless of the donkeys. The woman lamented, but remained stubbornly seated.

I realized that my departure would be further delayed if I were compelled to find another guide, who incidentally might be untrustworthy. Wrath boiled up in me, but I swallowed it down, called Nathan back, bade him fasten the purse to his belt again, and said bitterly, “I bow to the inevitable. Do as you please, so long as we may set forth before any more people gather to gape at us.”

I hastened indoors, settled my debt to Karanthes, gave him more than he asked, and said, “Keep for me the things I have left here, for I shall be returning to Jerusalem.”

Karanthes thanked me profusely and said with a nod of conviction, “Quite so, quite so. I am sure you will be back very soon.”

Inquisitive people gathered round the donkeys while Nathan skillfully loaded the baskets with what I desired to take. The men felt the animals’ legs and examined their teeth, and the women commiserated with the sick Susanna, who sat hunched upon her mount without daring to exchange a word with anyone. Even beggars collected, to stretch out their hands and wish us luck upon our journey, and Nathan distributed such alms from my purse as he thought reasonable, lest they bring harm upon us by their curses. Thus considerable clamor had broken out in the traders’ alley before Mary and I could mount our donkeys at last, and Nathan take his place at the head of the procession. So far as I was concerned he might as well have tied a sack over my head, for he uttered not one word as to the route by which he meant to lead us into Galilee, nor the inns at which we should stay.

At first, however, he took us through the outer city to the market place that stank of salt fish, by the Fish Gate, and through this gate out of the city. The guards knew him and wanted to search the baskets on the pack animal, but when I shouted to them that I was a Roman they at once abstained, and stood watching us for a long time after we had passed. To my surprise, Nathan now followed the road that ran along the wall up to the Antonia fortress, and halted the donkeys in front of the archway. When Susanna saw the legionaries on guard at the gate she began wailing again, and hid her face against her donkeys neck. In vain I urged Nathan to go on; he merely signed to me that I must enter the fortress. I now suspected that he was dumb, for never yet had I heard him utter a word. Yet, surveying his short hair I also wondered whether he might have taken a vow of silence.

Reluctantly I went through the archway, and the guards did not stop me, odd though I looked with my beard and my striped mantle. At that very moment, as if I had called him, the garrison commander came down from the tower.

I went up to him, greeted him with raised arm and said, “I’m on my way to Tiberias to take the baths. My guide considered that I ought to take my leave of you and ask advice for my journey. I am traveling simply, without other following than two women.”

He asked, “Do you go through Samaria or along the Jordan?”

I was ashamed to confess that I did not know, and so I answered, “Whichever way you think best.”

The gloomy, rheumatic man fingered his upper lip and explained, “The Samaritans are a malignant people, and cause much annoyance to simple wayfarers. But Jordan is still in flood. You might have trouble at the fords, and at night you might hear the roaring of lions in the scrub. Of course if you desire it, I will give you a couple of legionaries to attend you, if you will pay them and find occasion to mention my helpfulness to the Procurator.”

Evidently he was not enthusiastic about diminishing his garrison even temporarily by two men. So I replied, “No, no. I am traveling in a land in which Rome keeps the peace, and I have nothing to fear.”

“In that case I will give you a sword to be your companion,” he said with relief. “As a Roman citizen you’re entitled to travel with a sword, yet to be on the safe side you shall have a written permit, since you’re so oddly dressed and have let your beard grow untrimmed.”

I went in therefore, drew sword and shoulder strap from the quartermaster, and bought my permit from the secretary so that the commandant might benefit in a suitable manner by my departure. He then accompanied me cordially across the courtyard to the gate, but tried in vain to conceal his smile when I girded my sword over my Jewish mantle.

Nathan did not smile, but he nodded in satisfaction as he urged the donkeys forward once more. We were now skirting the temple area, and crossing the Kidron we joined the road which wound around the Mount of Olives, and which I already knew as far as Bethany. When the city was out of sight I dismounted and continued on foot. In Bethany I called to Nathan to stop, and made for Lazarus’ house.

After I’d been calling for some time, he came walking from his garden and returned my greeting. I asked after his sisters, and he said, “My sisters have gone to Galilee.”

I asked, “Why did you not go with them?”

He shook his head and replied, “I have no reason to go to Galilee.”

“But I’ve been told that he, your lord, has gone there before them and awaits them there.”

Lazarus said coldly, “What has that to do with me? I tend my garden and remain near my tomb.”

He spoke in a horribly blurred manner, his eyes were somber, and it was as if he had been brooding over some riddle which he could not explain to any stranger. I felt a chill in his presence and regretted having turned aside to greet him.

“Peace be with you,” I said in farewell.

“Peace!” he repeated derisively. “If you knew what peace meant you would hardly wish it for me.”

He drew his yellowish hand across his brow and continued, “I have pain in my head and my thoughts won’t hold together. I was afraid when I heard you call my name. It always frightens me now to hear anyone call me. I will give you a parable. If you and I were pin points, or even smaller, and everything around us was the size of a pin point, we should still believe we were as big as we are now, for we should have only each other to compare ourselves with. To me the world and everything around me has become as small as a pin point. Why did he consent to be born, to die and to rise again in this pin-point world? That is something I cannot understand.”

I could not help thinking that his brain must have undergone some deterioration during the days he had lain dead in his grave, and that he could no longer think in the same way as other people. I turned away in silence and returned to the road. Nathan looked at me searchingly, a certain wonder in his face such as I had seen there before. But he said nothing. We continued on our way.

The road ran down into a valley and crossed a watercourse. We walked along the hillsides and halted only once to water the donkeys at a well. Nathan’s was no sulky silence; on the contrary I felt full confidence in him as a guide. Nor did I any longer bear a grudge against the sick woman, for she rode last and was as unobtrusive as she could be. Indeed, when the shadows began to lengthen I grew concerned for her, and wondered how far her strength would sustain her. Nathan urged on the animals incessantly, walking with long, tireless strides as if he had been in as great a hurry as ourselves. I saw that he avoided Samaria and followed the route of the Galilean pilgrims, who went by way of Jericho when traveling to and from the temple at the great Jewish feasts.

Not until the first stars appeared did we stop in a little village where Nathan led the donkeys into the enclosed courtyard of a modest inn. Here we had to attend to our own wants. Quickly and deftly Nathan unloaded the animals and carried our sleeping mats into an empty, dung-smelling but clean room. Susanna hastened to kindle a fire in the yard and made a clatter with the cooking pots to show that she meant to be useful and prepare our meal.

She mixed pieces of mutton with her pottage and left it to steep; then fetched water and insisted on washing my feet. She washed Mary’s feet too, and treated her with all respect. When the food was ready she served first me and then Mary. I felt comfortable and content.

I called out a genial invitation to Nathan and Susanna: “I know not whether I’m offending against your laws, but after all we are traveling together and shall sleep in the same room. You’ll be eating the food that I am eating, so sit here and eat with us.”

They washed their hands, squatted down and ate. Nathan broke the bread, blessed it in the Jewish manner and handed me a piece, but paid no attention to the women. He ate sparingly, and did not touch the meat; while eating he stared before him, plunged in his own thoughts, and I did not try to talk to him. Having looked to the donkeys again he wrapped himself in his mantle, covered his head and lay down by the threshold to sleep, as if hinting that we would all do well to rest. But when Susanna had finished her meal she threw herself down and tried to kiss my feet, in thanks to me for taking her under my protection.

I said, “You must thank Nathan and not me. I only hope that the journey will not be too tiring for you, so that you fall sick again.”

She protested, “No, no! Galilean women are as tough as leather. My sickness was chiefly sorrow, but I shall get well again for joy at coming home again to my country on the shores of Gennesar.”

Next morning Nathan roused us before sunrise and had us on our way so quickly that I found myself sitting on my donkey, shivering sleepily in the morning chill and gnawing at a piece of bread, while the red sun was still climbing above the hills. But gradually as the sunlight brightened and grew warmer I was filled with joy. The blue heights, the vineyards and the silver-gray olive trees on the slopes were beautiful to see. I believe we were all filled with the same joy, for suddenly and to my great astonishment Nathan lifted up a harsh voice and began singing a Hebrew song.

I looked questioningly at Mary, but she just shook her head to show that she did not understand the words. There was something both jubilant and solemn in Nathan’s rising and falling chant. When he ended it I got off my donkey and waited for Susanna to come up. At my question she looked at me trustfully and explained, “That is a wayfaring song: ‘The Lord is my keeper, the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; he shall preserve thy soul. The Lord holdeth his hand over thy going out and thy coming in, now and forever more.’”

I did not properly understand her country speech, so she began crooning the same words in her own language, swaying her body; and suddenly to my surprise she burst into tears. I touched her shoulder consolingly, saying, “Don’t weep, Susanna; tell me what troubles you, and perhaps I can help you.”

She answered, “No, no; I weep for joy, because from the deepest sorrow and as it were from the very jaws of death I have come up again into the light of day.”

I could not but feel uneasy at having brought two mentally unhinged companions with me on my journey; yet I smiled, for by any reasonable standards I myself was a mad Roman, hastening without pause or rest in search of a resurrected Jewish king.

Toward noon we came down into the valley of the Jordan, and beheld wide, fertile fields and the gray walls of Jericho before us. The air grew blazing hot, but every now and then a breeze brought us the light yet pungent scent of the palm groves which are the wealth of Jericho.

Here spring was further advanced than in Jerusalem, and we saw people already harvesting wheat with sickles. Nathan did not lead us into the city, but along cattle tracks that skirted the walls, and at midday we rested in the shade of those walls near a spring, and let the donkeys graze. Nathan went a little apart from us to pray, and turned with uplifted arms toward Jerusalem, so that Mary too remembered the day prayer and Susanna murmured something piously to herself. This divided them from me, for I am accustomed to praying merely as custom requires, at sacrifices and at the festivals of places where I may be staying; and that kind of prayer, I believe, is of no effect. I simply comply with the customs and manners of different countries so as not to be conspicuous. Now I was filled with a sort of envy, and I wanted to ask them to teach me their prayers. But they were Jews, and regarded themselves as Gods chosen people; and so I suspected that Nathan and Susanna would refuse such a request. Mary’s praying seemed to me little more than a childish habit, and had nothing to offer me.

During our halt we ate bread, onions and cheese. I drank only water. When I offered Nathan wine he said nothing, but pointed to his short hair, and I realized that he was bound by some kind of vow. Yet he looked at me so cordially that I asked him, “Have you made a vow of silence too?”

He answered, “Where words are many, sin in not lacking.” But he smiled conciliatingly as he said this.

After that he had no patience to rest any longer, but urged us to hurry on. We returned to the highroad and saw, far across the plain, the flooded Jordan. Our journey was now so hot and sweaty that each of us had enough to do to endure it for himself. Besides this, both we and the donkeys were set upon by stinging flies, which I fancy came from the oxen that were drawing wheat sheaves to the threshing floors.

When evening came we had a long day’s march behind us and were all weary, thirsty and stiff. We spent the night in a village that had a spring of running water, that we might wash ourselves properly. I had already noticed that Nathan seemed to be avoiding the inns of towns, where we might have lodged more comfortably and been served with ready-cooked food. But when he bent his searching gaze on me, I felt no displeasure. Indeed, my body enjoyed this simple life after the enervating days in Jerusalem.

Mary, tiring of idleness, kilted up her mantle and helped Susanna make a fire and prepare the meal. I heard them chattering eagerly together as women will, while I watched the stars come out.

When we had eaten, Mary moved her sleeping mat close to mine and began whispering in my ear: “That Susanna is an ignorant woman, and one might almost think that she was weak in the head. But I suspect that she belongs to the quiet ones in the land and knows something of the crucified Jesus, although she’s afraid of us, and will not give herself away.”

I sat up quickly. Nathan had already covered his head and lain down to rest by the threshold, but Susanna, still on her knees, was murmuring her prayer. I could not resist the temptation and whispered to her, “Tell me how you pray, so that I may learn a good way to do it.”

Susanna raised her hand deprecatingly and protested, “I’m an ignorant woman. I don’t know the law. I can’t pray as one ought to pray. You’d only laugh if I taught you my prayer.”

I assured her, “I won’t laugh, for I want to be quiet and humble of heart.”

Mary said, “Your prayer is new. I never heard anyone pray in that way before.”

Timidly, yet mindful of the gratitude she owed me, Susanna taught us the prayer, first explaining, “I learned it because it is easy to remember and I have been told that it may replace all other prayers, for nothing remains to be added to it. I pray thus: Our father who art in heaven, thy name be hallowed, may thy kingdom come to us and thy will be done on earth as it is done in heaven. Give us every day the bread we need. And forgive us our debts as we forgive them who are in debt to us. And lead us not into temptation, but free us from evil. In truth.”

I asked her to repeat the prayer and realized that it was a simple one and easy to learn. I said it aloud to myself, thinking about each phrase, and found that indeed it required no additions, for all that a simple person can need is expressed in it. It was not the subtle prayer of a scholar, but it gave me enough to think of to spare Susanna further questions.

The next night we had to spend near some flooded scrub. Somewhere far to the north, snow was melting on the hill where the waters of Jordan rose. The inundation had driven the wild animals from their lairs, although the tributaries of the Jordan were almost dried up. As the stars came out I heard jackals yapping uneasily in the hills, and a little later we heard the echo of a roaring like distant thunder. It was a noise I recognized, although I had never heard it in the wilderness before but only in Rome, at night, within the walls of the circus. The donkeys began to tremble, and we had to bring them into the room where we were sleeping on a raised part of the floor. Mary had never heard the roar of lions before and she pressed closer to me, begging me in a quavering voice to put my arms around her, stifling though the night was.

Nathan soothed the donkeys, barred the door and sat with his back against it, listening tensely. Susanna could not sleep either; so I took the opportunity to ask her, “From whom did you learn the prayer you taught me last night?”

In the distance the lion roared again, and the frail mud walls of the house seemed to shake. Susanna clapped a hand to her mouth in a fright and said, “You mustn’t ask me such things.”

But Nathan opened his mouth and said to my astonishment, “Tell him; have no fear of him.”

Susanna looked about her uneasily in the wavering light of the earthenware lamp, and then began:

“It was Jesus of Nazareth, the man they crucified in Jerusalem, who taught his disciples that prayer, and he also taught it to us women who walked with him in Galilee. He said it was enough, and that we needed no other prayers.”

I cried in surprise, “Surely you would not lie to me! Did you really walk with him in Galilee?”

Susanna answered, “I am not at all a clever woman, and couldn’t lie even if I wanted to. Five sparrows are sold for two farthings, and yet God has not forgotten one of them. All my life I had been greedy for money and possessions and would not even allow myself proper food. When all the others went to see the new prophet I went too, thinking that there I might get something free. In the temple nothing is given free. I listened to his teaching and made nothing of it, but then he spoke to the people and looked straight at me as he said, ‘Beware of covetousness, for a man’s life doesn’t depend on the amount of his possessions.’ This was down by the lake. I thought he really knew who I was and had heard of my avarice. But then he told of a rich man who had fertile fields and pulled down his barns to build new and bigger ones, for now that he had saved so much he meant to take his ease for many years. But God said to that man, ‘You fool! Tonight your soul will be required of you, and who then will get everything that you’ve collected? So it is with the man who stores up treasures for himself, but none in the kingdom!’”

She drew a deep breath and went on. “I was angry with him and went home again, but I couldn’t forget his words, and at last they were like a boil throbbing inside me. I went to hear him again. He was speaking then about the ravens that God feeds and the meadow flowers that neither toil nor spin. He forbade his disciples to seek food and drink and ordered them to seek the kingdom, saying that then they would gain everything else as well. I pitied him very much, although he was said to have fed a great crowd of people with only a few loaves and fishes. But one can’t do that every day. I had no wish to share out my money among lazy, good-for-nothing paupers, but I sold the stuffs I had woven, left my fields to the care of a steward and went with Jesus to support him and his disciples for as long as the money lasted. For it seemed to me that the miracle worker would soon starve to death if no one fed him. There were some other women who were doing the same thing, from compassion; he was such an unpractical man.”

Susanna sighed at the recollection of her wanderings with Jesus’ followers, and continued her story. “I wouldn’t say a word against him. I’m telling of this just to show that he didn’t understand much about this world’s affairs. And so we women had to look after him; and I must say too that his disciples fished now and then to bring in something. It was said in Nazareth that he was not a particularly good carpenter, although he had learned the trade under his father. He could make yokes and ploughs, but not a good wheel. Besides, he was far too trusting; he gave Judas Iscariot the purse to look after, and I’m sure it was sometimes lighter than it should have been—you could see that in the man’s eyes. I’m not saying I understood what the Nazarene taught; not even his disciples always did that; but somehow just to be near him was good. So I didn’t leave him and return home, although I sometimes wanted to. Knowingly and purposely, though without cause, he made many pious men his enemies, and I couldn’t bear that he should allow a woman like that dove seller from Magdala to go along with him.”

Mary now broke in, exclaiming, “Mary Magdalene is a compassionate woman and wiser than you, you ugly country hag in your sackcloth.”

Susanna flared up in anger: “If you take her part I know what sort of a woman you must be, and why you are in such a hurry to jump into that Roman’s arms every night. It’s very true that I am only an ugly country hag and wear sackcloth, but I can both spin and weave, and bake and cook and clean out the corners; and I’ve followed the plough in my time too, when I didn’t want to waste money on hiring a lad. In any case, Jesus of Nazareth was altogether too good for this world, being thoughtless and credulous by nature. He worked miracles and healed the sick without so much as finding out if they were worthy of such grace. One had only to touch his mantle to be healed of all pains. He seemed to me like a careless child let out alone into a wicked world. If only he’d been willing to listen to good advice he would never have gone to Jerusalem for the Passover. But he was stubborn and thought he understood the things of this world too, better than other people. That was why everything turned out as it did.”

Susanna was now vehement, and had begun to scold Jesus of Nazareth as if he’d been a naughty boy. But then, recalling everything that had happened, she burst into tears, saying, “All that I have left of him is this sacking I wear and the prayer he taught us. When he was dead we flapped away in all directions like a flock of sparrows. I was sick with horror when I fled from the crucifixion. For days I couldn’t swallow a morsel of food. I just lay in a cave below the temple, hoping that no one would recognize me. Then at last I met this Nathan in his white clothes, who has cut his hair short for his sake. He gave me to understand that Jesus had risen from the dead and gone before us into Galilee.”

Susanna clapped her hand to her mouth and stared at Nathan, as if afraid of having said too much in her loquacity. But Nathan said, “The talking of women is like the crackling of dry twigs under the pot. I knew that the kingdom was near, but Jesus I never knew. I cut my hair when I heard that he had risen from the tomb, for if that is so he is the son of God: he for whom we have waited.”

Susanna said, “But I knew him, and well too, for it was I who washed his clothes. He was human, knowing both hunger and thirst, and at times he wearied of his disciples and of the hard hearts of the people. But he must have risen from the dead, if that is what is said, and I am not at all surprised. On the contrary, I weep for joy on his account and hope that all this evil may be turned to good. Perhaps he will really establish a kingdom in Galilee if we will only be patient, and if we have angels to fight for him. Otherwise nothing can come of it. Nevertheless, morning, noon, and night I repeat the prayer he taught us. For me it is enough, since he said so.”

Her words made a deep impression on Mary who, half doubting, asked her, “Did you indeed wash his clothes?”

Susanna boasted, “Who else would have got them white enough? Your Mary Magdalene can never have stood at the washtub in all her life. Salome had enough with her own boys’ things, and Johanna kept servants. That woman would have had herself carried in a litter after Jesus if she’d dared. But she learned to walk on her own feet.”

No longer able to master my wonder I asked, “Why was it you followed him, and sacrificed your property, since you didn’t approve of his behavior or his disciples or the others who went with him?”

Susanna looked at me in equal surprise and explained, “He was like a lamb among wolves. Who else would have fed him and tended him? Even his own mother thought he was crazed. And the Nazarenes led him once to the brink of a cliff to hurl him over it, but in the end they dared not.”

“Then you loved him?” I asked.

Susanna wriggled in irritation and said crossly, “What should a dried-up old carcass like me know of love? But the world is full of lazy good-for-nothings, greedy priests, heartless tax collectors and other treachery. A countrywoman only has to show herself in a town for the very hair to be stolen from her head. I pitied him, for he was innocent and knew nothing of evil.”

Pressing the palms of her hands together she added in a low voice, as if ashamed of what she was saying, “Besides, he had the words of eternal life.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

But Susanna made a gesture of impatience. “I don’t know. He just had. I didn’t understand the words; I just believed.”

“And do you still?” I persisted.

“I don’t know,” she replied, impatient still. “When blood and the sweat of agony poured off him on the cross, I believed no longer and fled, for I couldn’t endure to watch his sufferings. Therefore it may be I fell sick from disappointment afterwards, fancying that I had squandered my possessions to no purpose. Though not quite that, either. I was sick chiefly from his sufferings, for he had deserved no such death, even though he may have said hard things about the scribes and Pharisees. He said no worse than any countryman who knows them and who may have had to destroy his fruit crops or throw away his vegetables through ignorance of the law. But now all must surely be well again, and I believe in him if only I may meet him just once more and hear his voice.”

Reason compelled me to doubt her, in that stifling mud hut. The donkeys stirred restlessly at the manger and outside, the lion was roaring. It seemed to me that Susanna was making herself out to be more foolish than she was, and was slyly withholding from me the most important part of what she knew. If she had spent long hours in the company of Jesus of Nazareth, seen his miracles, heard him speak to the people and picked up a little here and there of what he taught his chosen disciples, she must also have found out such things as were not intended for all to hear.

“His wisdom,” I said again. “Do you really remember nothing else of his secret teaching?”

Susanna looked at me still more disapprovingly, and explained, “Wisdom cannot be taught to women and children. That was why I couldn’t endure Mary Magdalene, who was forever sitting at his feet imagining that she understood everything, while the rest of us were doing useful work. There were enough and to spare of that sort, I can tell you; for it was not twelve we had to feed and look after but sometimes as many as seventy. For me, his wisdom was himself. For me he was the bread of life, as he said. I don’t know what he meant by that, but I believed him when he said it.”

I could only shake my head at her simplicity, and I ceased to question her. Yet while the clay lamp was still flickering, Susanna felt a need to convince me; and she pondered so strenuously over this that she plucked at her fingers and rocked to and fro for a while before explaining, “His father in heaven is also mine. And he let children come to him and said that to those who are like children his kingdom is open. That saying I understood. I understood that my task as a child was not to puzzle my head over my father’s purposes but to realize that he knows best about everything. That is the only secret I have learned.”

During that restless night I had no sleep, and the muffled roarings reminded me so vividly of Rome that sometimes between sleeping and waking I fancied myself back there, and expected to wake on a purple cushion amid the fragrance of rose essence, exhausted by passion. This dream was like an oppressive nightmare; yet as soon as I awoke, with a start, I was filled with an equally oppressive sense of futility. Here I lay, bearded, unkempt and smelling of sweat, in a dirty mud hut among donkeys and Jews, fancying that hereby I should attain to something that was contrary to all reason. In Rome I should have had my hair curled and arranged the folds of my mantle in precisely the correct manner. I should have passed my time in reading, or listening to some interesting court case, or doing something else, waiting only for the hour when I might see Tullia again.

There the thoughts I entertained today would have been as much derided amid the simple luxury of the freedman as in the cultured society of the intelligentsia, where it is good form to believe in nothing. And I would have been among the loudest laughers.

Nevertheless, those same frivolous women and clever young men queued up at the door of whichever stargazer, witch master or sibyl happened to be fashionable at the moment, and paid large sums for lucky talismans. They laughed at this themselves, skeptical of their own superstition, yet at the same time hoping that there might be something in it. Everything is a gamble. Fortune is capricious and the chances of winning uncertain; but it is better to play than to abstain and be content with emptiness.

Was I still gambling, here by the Jordan, doubting in my innermost heart but thinking it better to go on and take a chance than to leave it alone? What did I expect to win, when all was said and done? It may be no more than a mirage, this kingdom which I imagine still lingers on this earth and to which I hope to find the way. Imprisoned by these painful thoughts I felt a repugnance for Mary, breathing there at my side; for stubborn Susanna and silent Nathan. What had I, a Roman, to do with them?

I repeated in my mind the prayer that Susanna had taught me. It was the first of the Nazarene’s secrets that had been disclosed to me. The magic power of some hidden wisdom might possibly be bound up with it; yet however I turned those phrases about in my mind, the prayer remained what it was: a formula for the submission of simple people, something to repeat to oneself humbly, and so cast away one’s cares and win peace of mind. I was not childlike enough to feel that it helped me.

That night we all slept badly, and in the morning were sleepy and quarrelsome. Mary of Beret took it into her head to demand that we should turn up into the hills and take the road through Samaria. She had no wish to run into some lion that had been driven from the thickets by the flooded river. Susanna went through her cooking pots and food bags again and again, insisting that she had lost something, thus delaying our departure. Even Nathan seemed uneasy and looked warily about him, and the hornet-plagued donkeys were so restive that we had to hold on to them the whole time.

Exasperated by Mary’s chatter, Nathan at last appealed to the scriptures and said, “There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the ends thereof are the ways of death.” Pointing to the sword hanging at my side he set off resolutely, as if to show that we might do as we chose, but that he at least meant to go forward as had originally been planned.

Mary lamented, “You men will come off lightly, but I’m the youngest here. The lion is a wise beast and always chooses the tenderest flesh. So I have heard.”

Susanna snapped, “If Jesus of Nazareth went this way, surely we can follow him. If you’re afraid, I can ride ahead and chase the lion off; it won’t touch me, that’s certain.”

I remarked irritably that none of us knew which way Jesus of Nazareth had taken into Galilee, if indeed there was any truth in the story at all. It might well be an ingenious tale spread by the Council in Jerusalem to induce the Galileans to leave the city. I had no desire to encounter a lion with nothing but a sword, even though at the circus I had seen a well-trained man make such an attempt and escape with his life. But Nathan knew the roads and their perils, and in my opinion it was wisest to do as he said.

So we continued on our journey in a prickly mood. At the flooded ford we had to gird up our clothes and drag the refractory donkeys after us. No sooner had we crossed than we fell right into the arms of some legionaries, who greeted us with glad shouts at the sight of Mary. Because of my sword they pulled me off my donkey at once, threw me on the ground and would most likely have slain me had I not shrieked at them in both Greek and Latin that I was a citizen. Despite my permit to bear arms they searched all our baggage, also—for the sport of it—Mary’s clothing, and they would certainly have dragged her into the bushes if I had not been a Roman.

Their lack of discipline was accounted for when I discovered that they were not a road patrol, nor were they taking part in any maneuvers: their leader had made up his mind to bring down a lion, and lay in ambush with a few archers on a knoll, toward which these legionaries were to drive the lion with clamor and clattering of shields. This was no agreeable task even though the lion, to all appearances, was no longer in the neighborhood; so they had drunk wine to stiffen their valor.

This violent episode was so unpleasant and upsetting that I could easily put myself in the Jews’ place, and understand why they so bitterly hated the Romans. My ill-humor was exacerbated to wrath, and when at last I encountered the centurion who was so desirous of a lion skin, up on the knoll, I let him and his men know what I thought of them, and threatened to report their misconduct to the Procurator.

This was an error on my part, for the scarfaced centurion eyed me malignantly and asked what sort of man I was to be wearing a Jewish mantle and traveling in Jewish company. He said accusingly, “Don’t tell me you belong to the mob that has been passing along here by the dozens on their way to the Sea of Tiberias. This is no season of pilgrimage but of harvest. Those wayfarers were up to no good.”

I had to mollify him and apologize for my impetuousness. Then I asked what people these were whom he had seen. But he had seen none at all himself, for the Jews traveled by night and tried to circumvent the usual check-points and tollhouses. He was only repeating what he had heard. He warned me in a condescending tone, “Take care you don’t fall into their hands, for all Galileans are fanatics. Theirs is a thickly populated country and troublemakers keep pouring in from the desert. Only a year or two back we had an agitator who proclaimed a Jewish kingdom and baptized men with witchcraft in the Jordan to make them invulnerable in battle. The Jewish Tetrarch of Galilee was compelled to behead him in the end to show that not even he was invincible. But some of his followers may still be about.”

Presumably he regarded me as a man of no standing, for he dismissed me abruptly, as if he had done me a favor.

When we resumed our arduous journey, Mary of Beret regarded me with a patronizing air and remarked, “You seem not to be a person of much consequence among your own countrymen, since a sweaty, scarred centurion may treat you so arrogantly.”

“Would I be greater in your eyes if I wore a helmet on my head and nailed boots on my feet?” I demanded acidly.

Mary tossed her head and replied, “Legionaries at least know what they want. Since you’re a Roman you might travel as a Roman and take advantage of what privileges you have. Then I would not need to blush for your hairy legs and bearded cheeks when you speak to another Roman.”

I stared at her, unable to believe my ears. I longed to cut a switch and give her a hiding. With an unsteady voice I asked her, “Who can that girl have been who promised to bless me all her days if I would only take her with me—yes, and sleep out in the open fields if need were? Just who do you think you are?”

But Mary tossed her head again and said in reproof, “I could never have believed that you of all people would throw back in my face anything that I happened to confide to you about my life. I have been unfortunate, but if I meet the risen Nazarene and he forgives my sins and cleanses me, you will no longer be able to reproach me with my past. Tell me what horrible sins you yourself hope to atone for by making yourself so meek in your search for a new way.”

I don’t believe she truly meant what she said, but was only giving vent to her resentment at the vexations of this day. I made no reply. She dropped back beside Susanna; I heard them both wrangling shrilly with each other, and then uniting in rage against Nathan and me.

That evening the sun set terrifyingly red behind the mountains of Samaria; for a moment the air of the valley had a ghostly glimmer, and the Jordan, roaring by in its deep furrow, darkened before our eyes. This strange sight made everything unreal and drove away my evil thoughts. I recalled how the air had darkened as the king of the Jews writhed in agony on the cross, and how at the moment of his death the earth had trembled. By his resurrection he had proved that his kingdom was real. In despising my traveling companions, in accounting myself better than they and nursing a grudge against a foolish girl, I was merely removing myself from that kingdom.

So, when we had washed ourselves at the inn, I went over to Mary and said, “I forgive you your wicked, ungrateful words, and forget them.”

But at this Mary grew angrier than ever; her eyes darkened and she answered hotly, “Do you forgive me, having hurt me so deeply and then turned your back on me the whole day? Truly in my heart I was ready to forgive you and say a kind word to you, since you’re a man and one can expect no better of you, as Susanna says too. But I will not have you pretending to forgive me before I forgive you.”

Nathan, hearing all this, raised his eyes to heaven and spread out his hands in a gesture of despair. His resignation made me yield too, so that I no longer felt any anger. “Let it be as you will, Mary of Beret,” I said. “Forgive me, and I readily acknowledge that I have nothing to forgive you, so long as we may be good friends again.”

But Mary planted her fists on her round hips and called acidly to Susanna, “Come here and look and find out whether this is really a man or just one of those Roman geldings I’ve heard about.”

Susanna tittered behind her hand as she gathered rushes and dung for the fire, and I could no longer control myself. The blood rushed to my head and I gave Mary a slap on the cheek that could be heard a long way off. Hardly had I struck her than I repented of it and would have given anything not to have done it. Mary began to sob, breathed in through her nose many times and rubbed her smarting cheek. I would have begged her forgiveness, but Nathan raised his hand in warning. Presently Mary cast her eyes down, and coming up to me on tiptoe said, “You did right to strike me. I’ve been teasing you on purpose all day. It shows that at least you like me better than the donkey that you’ve been forever patting on the neck. Kiss me now to show me that you truly forgive me my ill-nature.”

Shyly she put her arms around my neck and I kissed her once and once more, to show that all was again well between us. In fact I found it pleasant after my rage to hold her in my arms and kiss her, and so I kissed her a third time. Then Mary pushed me away, but with her hands still on my shoulders she looked at me intently and asked, “Would you kiss Susanna like that if she had hurt you and then begged your forgiveness?”

I looked at Susanna’s leathery old face and compared her dry mouth with Mary’s soft lips, and realized that Mary had led me into a trap. Therefore I ran to Susanna, took her by the elbows, raised her to her feet and said, “If I have hurt you in any way, then kiss me in token of forgiveness.”

Susanna said pityingly, “Oh you poor man, to let a giddy-headed girl play with you like that! But Mary isn’t bad at heart.”

She wiped her mouth shyly with the back of her hand and kissed me, with an amused glance at Mary. Mary looked dashed, then rebuked Susanna, saying, “How can you, a child of Israel, go and kiss an uncircumcised Roman? I may do so, for I am a sinner anyway, but you have defiled yourself.”

Susanna said defensively, “I have no great knowledge of the law, but I’ve already eaten from the same dish as he. I know that in his heart he is the child of the same father as I am, Roman though he may be.”

Her words moved me and she repelled me no longer, though she smelled powerfully of garlic, which she was in the habit of chewing by way of refreshment while sitting on her donkey. I said, “Susanna, if he himself allowed you to wash his clothes, then you have shown me a great favor in kissing me.”

But when we had eaten I drew Mary aside into a dark corner and asked her bluntly, “I suppose you are trying to seduce me into sinning with you? In no other way can I explain your conduct. Yet it was to save you from sin that I brought you with me.”

Mary breathed into my ear, “You have treated me better than other men. I cannot make myself out, but your indifference wounds me. At least then I should know that I do mean something to you.”

“A body is a body,” I said bitterly. “You wouldn’t have to coax me long to make me fall. I’m bound by no vows and have sworn no fidelity. But then we might as well return at once to Jerusalem.”

Mary sighed. “Life is strange, and I am much afraid of Jesus of Nazareth. But I believe that only he can make me clean and untouched again, and I’ve been assured that he was not stern even to the greatest sinners if they repented of their sins and believed in him. But if I were to sin with you, I don’t believe I should feel any remorse afterwards. On the contrary, it seems to me it could only do me good. That shows how steeped in sin I am, for certainly no innocent girl would feel like that. Yet no human being can avoid sin. When Mary Magdalene was comforting me about my sins she told me he’d said that a man who does no more than look at a woman with desire commits adultery with her in his heart. In this the Nazarene makes quite impossible demands which no one can fulfill.”

“Mary of Beret,” I said appealingly. “Have we not trouble enough with our bodies on this arduous journey, without tormenting ourselves with sinful thoughts? Tonight you shall not turn any lion into a pretext for lying close to me. It would only inflame us both.”

Mary sighed even more deeply, and then said, “I won’t trouble you or tempt you anymore, so long as you admit and promise that you would gladly sin with me if you dared.”

I snapped my answer: “As you will. In my heart I have already done so. Be content with that.”

Pressing my hand against her hot cheek she whispered, “How I wish that I was a virgin and without sin.” But she plagued me no more and did not lie down to sleep beside me.

I thought to myself that she could know little of the kingdom to which she sought the way, but that after all one could not expect great knowledge from her. And I began wondering what Nathan desired of Jesus of Nazareth, since he had cut his hair short to please him. Did I too perhaps wish for something which, measured by the measure of the kingdom, was as childish as Mary’s hope?

Next day we left the winding furrow of the Jordan. When we had turned from the caravan route and come up onto the slopes of the hills, we saw the Sea of Tiberias billowing before us. A fresh wind blew in our faces, the waters foamed white, and far away on the other side we could just make out a snowy mountaintop against the sky. We followed the western shore of the lake and reached the hot springs by evening. A little farther on rose the arcades of the city of Herod Antipas. The wholesome smell of sulphur came to meet us, for the waters of the springs were led into many basins and pools, and the Tetrarch had caused a bath establishment to be built around them. Along the shore were villas in the Greek style and a few fishermen’s huts. Comprised in the bath buildings were inns for both Greeks and Jews.

I had had enough of the hardships of travel, so I put up at the comfortable Greek inn with Mary; but Nathan took the donkeys and Susanna to the Jewish one. I felt it prudent not to appear in their company here in Galilee, since Jesus’ disciples mistrusted me, and it seemed to me best that Susanna should find out what was happening. I relied on her to pass on to me anything that she might learn, since I had done her the great service of bringing her to Galilee. Nathan I knew well enough to let him keep my purse and see to the donkeys. I thought too that this was the best way of attaching him to me. Their intention was to go on next day to Capernaum where Jesus of Nazareth had worked, on the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee. It was a short day’s journey from Tiberias. So far as Susanna knew, Jesus had never been in Tiberias.

Next day I woke at dawn, and limped a little in climbing to the roof. After the close valley of the Jordan the air of Galilee was fresh to breathe; the lake lay like glass, streaked with the fire of sunrise, and I smelled the aromatic fragrance of the myrtle bushes. I seemed to see everything about me more clearly and sharply than ever before and could distinguish every scent, yet as if I had been disembodied. It was an intoxication, and I reveled in it until I felt the chills of ague and noticed that one foot was swollen.

In the afternoon I was already shivering with fever, my leg was swollen to the knee, with a red streak that started from a chafed place on my heel. The Greek physician attached to the baths lanced the boil with his knife and gave me blood-cooling drinks. For a fortnight I lay sick at the inn, thinking I should die. But Mary of Beret nursed me, and I believe that the hot, sulphurous waters of the springs helped to cure me. For days I could keep no food down, and when I began to recover I felt limp and feeble. The physician warned me against over-straining my foot, and so I passed the time in recording my whole journey from Jerusalem. No word had come from either Nathan or Susanna.