The Secret of the Kingdom

ELEVENTH LETTER

MARCUS MEZENTIUS MANILIANUS

GREETS THE FORMER MARCUS:

My last letter was interrupted, and I shall not resume it. This letter I do not address to Tullia, for there would be no sense in so doing. Even as I wrote the earlier letters I knew in my heart that they were not meant for her. Her mere name is now a torment, rendering the thought of my former life repugnant to me. For Myrina’s sake, too, I am unwilling to write this letter to Tullia.

Therefore I greet only my old self, so that someday, after many years, I may call to mind all that happened to me during this time exactly as it came about. Time and distance cause events to fade, memory dims, and with the best will in the world one recollects things wrongly. While writing these letters I am troubled by the thought that I may be mistaken; that I may be exaggerating, or adding this and that from my own imagination. If so, it is unintentional. Even reliable witnesses on their oath in a court of law may give conflicting evidence.

It is the more important for me to write, in that I have been forbidden to speak. Of his kingdom I can testify no more than that I saw him die, and later saw him risen again beyond any possibility of doubt. Yet even this I have been forbidden to say, being neither a Jew nor circumcised.

If therefore anyone else with fuller knowledge of the secret of the kingdom should give an entirely different account of all these things, I am ready to admit that he is right and that he knows more than I. My record is fit only for myself, so that in my old age—if I attain it—I may be able to call everything to mind as accurately as I can now. This is why I have written down so much that is superfluous and irrelevant, meaningless to any but myself. And I shall so continue. When many years have passed, these letters will say to me: though I have meticulously memorized uninteresting and unnecessary things, I have recalled at least as much that is important.

In writing I seek to lay bare my mind, for when I examine it I know that I am frivolous and ever curious to hear of new things, and that there is no steadfastness in me. I am vain and selfish, too, and a slave to my body, as Myrina says, and I have nothing to be proud of. For this reason too it is salutary for me to write, lest at any time I should tend to become complacent.

I have been commanded to keep silence. I submit, and freely confess the justice of that command. I lack stability; I am like water poured from vessel to vessel and assuming the shape of each. Could I but remain limpid, at the very least! But all water clouds and degenerates in time. One day, when I’m but a stagnant pool, I shall read all this again, and remember that once I was permitted to sense the presence of his kingdom.

Why was it that I, a foreigner, should witness his resurrection and experience his kingdom? I know not. I am still convinced that it did not happen without some reason. But myself I do know, and am aware that my conviction will crumble away with the years.

Yet no matter how I may degenerate through weakness, in this comfortless generation of skepticism and self-indulgence, the prophecy of that solitary fisherman on the shore has been dear and precious to me. How such a thing could ever come about I cannot tell; it is no more than the glimpse of a hope—for it is hard for man to live without hope. The others are superabundantly rich, and in comparison with them I am poor indeed. Yet I have Myrina. Perhaps she was given me to pin my hopes upon: she has the steadfastness I lack.

Myrina says that I was given to her to watch over, for lack of a better shepherd, and that this demands great patience. I write this in Jerusalem, whither she has suddenly brought me; yet for her sake I desire to return in this writing of mine to the thermae of Tiberias.

I cannot now account for our quarrel, since we were filled with such great joy. It may have been because of Claudia Procula. At any rate Myrina lost her temper, boxed my ears and dragged me from Claudia’s house.

I remember that when we were in our own room again she told me that the more grand ladies she saw, the greater her self-confidence because of being what she is without trying to be anything else. She hunted vainly everywhere for her old clothes in order to leave me without delay. I made no attempt to restrain her, because my feelings were injured, and because she used such stinging words to me that only Tullia at her worst could have vied with her.

She punctured my smugness. She even declared that I had betrayed Jesus of Nazareth in Claudia Procula’s presence by stooping to listen to her empty gossip. She refused to believe that Claudia had ever had a dream. She baffled me—she who until then had always been so reserved and quiet; I fancied that I must have been mistaken in her and that now she was appearing in her true colors.

So malignantly and acutely did she point out all my faults that I thought some demon must have taken possession of her. How else could she have spoken so perspicaciously, and described so much that she could not possibly have known? In a word, she plucked me so thoroughly that I hadn’t a feather left; and in all she said there was just enough truth to make me listen to her, although I had already resolved never to address a single word to her again.

At last she calmed herself enough to sit down with her head between her hands, and staring before her she said, “So this is what you’re like! I’d already thought of leaving you, and it would serve you right....But for the sake of Jesus of Nazareth I can’t forsake you, since it was he who hung you around my neck. Truly you’re like a sheep among wolves in this world: you can keep no one at bay. Anyone could twist you around his finger in a moment. And I can’t bear to see you lick your lips at the memory of that Tullia woman and all your old dissipations. Take that gold ring off your thumb!”

Rising, she sniffed at me and scolded, “You smell like an Alexandrian catamite. I liked your hair better when it was full of burs than now, all in curls. Truly I would leave you if I hadn’t walked with you along the paths of Galilee, and seen that you can swallow dust and wipe sweat from your forehead and not complain of sore feet.”

Thus she railed at me until she ran short of words. I would not condescend to answer; I didn’t even want to look at her, since much of what she said of me was true. I will not repeat it all, for in any case my weaknesses are manifest in what I have written, though until now I had been unaware of this.

But at last she said, “Be alone with yourself now and ponder whether what I’ve said is true, or whether I exaggerate. I will share your room no longer.”

She went, slamming the door after her so that the whole house resounded. Presently a bewildered servant came to fetch her belongings; but I felt no uneasiness on Myrina’s account, knowing that since she had been received by Claudia Procula the landlord of the inn would take care to find her another room.

When I had thought over all that Myrina had said I was crestfallen indeed; then I set myself to write down everything that had happened. Of her I wrote as disinterestedly as I could, and tried not to mingle my own bitterness with the record. I wrote for days on end in my room, behind drawn curtains, and told the servants to bring my meals to me there. Myrina came once to tell me that she was going into Tiberias to order a Greek tombstone for her brother’s grave. Another time she came to say that Nathan was there with the donkeys, and was asking for me. But I hardened my heart and would not answer her, merely signing to her that I didn’t wish to be disturbed while I was writing.

After that Myrina never came again to ask my leave to go anywhere, and only later did I learn that she had paid a visit to Mary of Magdala. She went to Capernaum, too, with Nathan.

I did not count the days while I was writing. Time meant so little to me that I wrote at night too, when I couldn’t sleep. At last the bitterness in me melted away, and as I fell asleep or woke I thought again of Myrina and of what she had said. I reflected that it had been high time for someone to tell me all this about myself. Now and then I could be quiet and humble of heart, but I soon became puffed up again, fancying myself better than others.

At last one morning I heard Myrina enter my room. I felt that she was looking at me in the belief that I was asleep, and next I felt her gently stroke my hair. Joy returned to me with her mere touch, and I was ashamed of having hardened my heart for so long. But I wanted to see how she would behave toward me; therefore I turned over and pretended to awaken gradually. When I opened my eyes she recoiled a little and addressed me curtly: “Without doubt you’ve done well to dedicate yourself to silence, Marcus, for thus you talk no foolishness and harm no one, however much ink you may squander on your scrolls. But now you must get up. The forty days are at an end and we must go to Jerusalem. Nathan is waiting below with the donkeys, so gather your things together, pay the reckoning, and come! You can sulk as easily on the road as here behind your curtains.”

“Myrina,” I said, “forgive me for being what I am. Forgive me too for all the malicious things I have thought about you in silence. But what have I to do in Jerusalem? I’m not sure that I should allow you to order my comings and goings according to your own ideas.”

“That too we can discuss upon the road,” said Myrina. “The Jewish feast of the wave offering is near, and many people are journeying to Jerusalem. Make haste!”

Her suggestion came as no surprise to me. While writing I had begun to feel a desire to learn what was to happen to the disciples of Jesus of Nazareth in Jerusalem. I was not averse to a sudden departure, for I was weary of my writing and my silence. Looking at Myrina I could control my joy no longer, but threw my arms about her, embraced her, kissed her cheeks and exclaimed, “Speak to me as surlily as you like; I still believe that you wish me well. Joy returned to me just now as you stroked my hair in the belief that I was sleeping.”

At first Myrina tried to convince me that I had been dreaming. Then relenting she kissed me and said, “I spoke evilly to you, but I had to speak my mind. I like you just as you are, if only you’ll realize that you are so, and nothing else. I wouldn’t wish you otherwise, and never would I have been so merciless if I hadn’t liked you so much. Of course you shall order your own comings and goings, so long as you decide to come now to Jerusalem, at once!”

“I’m yearning for Jerusalem,” I said hastily. “For a long time the idea has been smoldering in me that the end has not yet come. Where else should I go? I have no place that I may call home, and I have become so much a stranger on the earth that all lands are alike to me.”

Myrina touched my brow and my breast and said, “I too am a stranger on the earth. His kingdom is my only home, little though I know of it. He has entrusted you to me. Therefore I desire to be the steadfastness in your weakness, your friend, your sister—whatever you will—and your home, in both good and evil days.”

I too touched her brow and her breast, and kissed her once more. Then hastily we gathered up my belonging and I put on my traveling clothes. Not until I settled the reckoning did I realize how highly my landlord valued me as a guest. He would have taken my money and my purse as well, and still not been content, had not Myrina come to my aid and pointed out his errors to him. I rejoiced at the sight of Nathan and the familiar donkeys waiting in the courtyard, and we set off on our way without needless talk.

Of the journey I need say no more than that we took the way through Samaria to avoid the heat in the valley of the Jordan; to avoid also the Galileans who were on their way to the feast of the wave offering. On beholding once more the temple and the city and the mount of the crucifixion, I was seized by so violent a trembling that I came near to falling off my donkey. I dismounted and walked, still trembling in every limb, so that I fancied I had the ague. Blackness came before my eyes and my teeth chattered; I couldn’t speak, only stammer, and I felt as if a mighty cloud had unrolled above me, ready to break out in lightning and thunder. But the sky was clear.

The fit soon passed and when Myrina felt my forehead it was cool. But I dared not mount my donkey, preferring to walk. We entered the city through the stinking Fish Gate, and when the legionaries saw my sword and heard that I was a citizen they let us pass through unhindered. Too many people were pouring in for them to examine everyone.

Karanthes the Syrian trader greeted me joyfully, and I too was glad to see his bearded face and crafty eyes again. But at the sight of Myrina he blinked several times, stared and said, “How thin you’ve grown from the hardships of your journey, Mary of Beret. Your eyes have changed color, too, and your hair, and your nose is shorter. Galilee is indeed a land of magic, and I begin to believe the tales that are told of it.”

I think he said this just to tease me, but Myrina disliked such jesting.

We now had to part from Nathan and let him go his own way. Scratching his head he began to render account of the purse I had given him. While I’d been lying sick at the baths he had put the donkeys to work for me in Capernaum, and the money so earned he now produced, desiring for himself no more than his daily wage. To please him I accepted everything according to his calculation; but then I said, “You have served me well, good servant. I won’t insult you by pressing money on you, but keep these four donkeys at least, to remember me by.”

Nathan looked longingly at the animals, wriggled in embarrassment and said, “I may not keep any property beyond what I need for my livelihood. I’m glad to be able to give the poor their share of what I have earned with you. In this way I lay up treasure in the kingdom. But four donkeys are a fortune for a man in my position; I should only worry about them, fearing lest one or other of them might be stolen or fall sick, and so my thoughts would be distracted from important things to things less important, and I should lose myself to the extent to which I became attached to the donkeys.”

His words shook me. I said, “Take the beasts, Nathan. They have served us meekly on a good journey, and I dislike the thought of selling them to a stranger. Many have come here on foot from Galilee, among them sick people and women. Present the donkeys to the messengers of Jesus of Nazareth, as a gift from yourself. Those holy men will know how best the animals may be used to help the weak, and will certainly not quarrel over them.”

Nathan approved of my suggestion, and smiling he answered, “Yes, let us allow these gray donkeys to serve those who are closest to him. That is good.”

Yet he hesitated still, and asked, “Shall I come and tell you if I hear anything of importance?”

I shook my head and replied, “No, Nathan; no longer will I try to discover things from which I’ve been shut out. If I am meant to hear about them I shall. Don’t concern yourself about me; just see to it that you yourself amass treasure in the kingdom.”

We parted. The sunset turned the sky to purple and my heart was heavy, although Myrina was with me. I wouldn’t even raise my eyes to the magnificent temple of the Jews, and as evening darkened I was aware of the same ghostly sensation that I had known before the journey into Galilee. The great city was once more full of people, not only from Galilee and Judea, but from every land where Jews live in dispersal.

In spite of this I felt desolate. A vast power seemed to vibrate high in the heavens above the city, and I felt as if at any moment it might sweep me away in a whirlwind and extinguish me like a spark in a storm. Obsessed by this feeling I grasped Myrina’s hand. Presently she put her arm around my neck and we sat close together in the darkening room. I was alone no longer, and did not desire to be so.

Then came Karanthes the Syrian, bringing a lamp. Seeing us sitting there close together he lowered his voice and moved on tiptoe, without bursting into his usual chatter as he had no doubt intended to do. He merely asked us if we would eat, but we shook our heads, and I felt that in this mood I could not have swallowed a single morsel. Nor did he press us, but was content.

He squatted before us on his haunches and looked at us with eyes that glittered in the lamplight, and there was not the least mockery in his glance, but rather fear and awe. He asked humbly, “How is it with you, Marcus my master? What has happened? What is the matter with you both? I feel stabs in my limbs when I look at you. There’s a feeling of thunder in the air, though the sky is full of stars. When I came in here your faces seemed to shine in the darkness.”

But I could not answer him, nor did Myrina. After a while he rose and went out with bowed head.

We slept side by side that night. I awoke several times, and each time I felt Myrina close to me, and had no fear. In my sleep I felt her touch more than once and knew that she too felt safe near me, and was not afraid.

The next day was the Sabbath. We beheld great crowds on their way up to the temple, but we never stirred from the room. There was no reason why we should not have gone out and taken a stroll around the city, for we were not bound by the Jewish law concerning travel on the Sabbath. But neither of us felt so inclined. Now and then we talked, just for the sake of hearing each other’s voice. Myrina told me of her childhood, and we addressed one another by name; for my own name became dear to me in Myrina’s utterance, and Myrina enjoyed hearing hers from my lips.

Thus, during this quiet day in Jerusalem, our two lives grew gently together into a life in common. For me this is grace indeed, because alone I would find it hard to go on living; although then I had not fully appreciated how great a gift was bestowed upon me by the unknown fisherman when he bade me seek out Myrina at the theatre in Tiberias. We spoke not one harsh word to each other that day; we ate supper together that evening on which began the Jewish feast of Pentecost.

As soon as I woke the next morning I was aware of a great restlessness. I felt compelled to pace up and down the room, my limbs shook and I was cold, although the day promised to be hot. Nor was I calmed when Myrina touched my forehead and stroked my cheek; I reproached her, and said, “Why did we come to Jerusalem? What business have we here? This is not our city but theirs, and theirs is today’s festival.”

But Myrina answered, “Is your patience so short? You were called as a foreigner to witness the resurrection. Can you not wait for the fulfillment of the promise that was made them, so that you may testify to that too? They are prepared to wait twelve years, but you weary in a day.”

“I know not what they have been promised, and I have no share in it,” I said impatiently. “I am thankful for what I have had; it is enough for me to live on. Why should I desire more, having already experienced things which kings and princes might envy me?”

But Myrina persisted. “If it was in this city that he was crucified, and suffered, died and rose again, then this city contents me though I should wait here twelve years.”

But my mounting restlessness would not allow me to be still. Irresolutely I wondered whether to go up to Antonia and see Adenabar the centurion, or seek out Simon of Cyrene or the learned Nicodemus. At least I suggested, “At least let us get out of this closed room. I ought to call upon Aristainos the banker and go through my accounts with him. He must be in, for a feast like this is his best time for business.”

Myrina had no objection. We went out, but when we reached the end of the alley, where there was an open square, my state of disturbance and distress became so violent that my breast threatened to burst and the ribs loosen from my body. I had to stop and gasp for breath, holding Myrina tightly by the hand.

I looked up at the sky, but it was still veiled by a light haze which gave a reddish tinge to the sunlight. There was no sign of any storm, and the day was no hotter than is usual at this time of year. I could not account for my distress.

By main force I controlled myself, and to please Myrina I showed her the court of the heathen at the temple, and the colonnade, where trading and money changing were in full swing despite the earliness of the hour. We walked hand in hand, and on leaving I took her to the eastern side, to show her the great Corinthian bronze gate which the Jews regard as one of the wonders of the world. But by the wall we were met by the stench of garbage from the Vale of Kidron which, when I had walked there after the Passover, had been cleansed by the winter rains. So we turned, and made our way toward the house of Aristainos.

Hardly had we reached the forum when we heard something resembling a violent gust of wind. The noise was so loud that many turned to look toward the upper city. No whirlwind or cloud was to be seen. Some indeed pointed and said that they had seen lightning strike down there; yet there was no sound of thunder. This mighty rushing wind seemed so supernatural that I suddenly remembered the house in which I had visited the upper room, and began making my way toward it at a run, dragging Myrina with me. Many others seemed to be running in the same direction, for the strange noise had been heard all over the city.

So many people were on the move that there was a dense throng by the gate in the old wall. Folk were jostling each other feverishly to pass through, and inquiring in many languages as to what was going on. Some shouted that a house in the upper city had collapsed, others that the noise had been caused by an earthquake.

But the big house had not fallen. Mutely its walls stood and enclosed their secret. Hundreds of people had gathered outside it, and more were streaming up. The gate was open. I saw the disciples of Jesus of Nazareth staggering out of the house on unsteady legs, with glittering eyes and flushed faces, as if they were drunk or in some ecstasy. They mingled with the crowd and spoke excitedly to whomever they met, so that people drew aside from their path.

They could be heard speaking in many languages, addressing each in his own tongue. This aroused such amazement that those nearest shouted to the rest to be quiet. For a time the whole throng was silent, and only the ecstatic shouting of the disciples rang out in many different languages.

One of them, whose name I didn’t know, came up to Myrina and me. I saw the terrifying rapture in his distorted face, and felt the power that issued from him. To my eyes it seemed as if a thin tongue of fire were waving in the air above his head. He looked me straight in the face and addressed me in Latin, yet without looking at me, for his eyes were staring straight into the kingdom and not into this world at all. But he was speaking Latin, and so rapidly that I couldn’t distinguish separate words, or what it was he was trying to say. Then he turned to Myrina and changed to Greek, still shouting, and with the words pouring in so tumultuous a flood from his lips that they were impossible to catch. I cannot imagine how this great sunburnt, untaught countryman could speak both Latin and Greek so quickly and fluently.

He hastened on, and his power swept us out of his way as if we’d been leaves in the wind. A path cleared for him, and he paused again and spoke to some other people in a language I’d never heard. The other disciples were moving in the same way through the crowd, which billowed and whirled about them. Elamites and Medes, Arabs and Cretans and pious Jews from distant lands raised their hands in amazement and asked each other how it was that uneducated Galileans could talk to each one of them in his own language. They realized that these excited men were proclaiming the mighty works of God, but they could not grasp any single phrase amid the torrent of their speech.

The throng increased to many thousands, and the latest comers argued animatedly together and asked each other what all this might mean. There were mockers who laughed and said that these Galileans were drunk with sweet wine too early in the day; yet even the mockers left a way free for them.

While the disciples were talking in their many tongues, so that it sounded like Babel, I was overcome by a feeling of weakness; the ground shook under my feet and I had to catch hold of Myrina so as not to fall. Seeing my pallor and the cold sweat on my forehead she led me away from the open place into the courtyard of the house, and no one hindered us, although a flock of women and bewildered servants were standing there and peering out through the gate. Such had been my agitation that I swooned, and when I came to my senses again I had at first no idea where I was or how long I had lain unconscious.

But my limbs were cool and my soul was at peace, as if I had rested, and shed all my cares. With my head on Myrina’s knee I turned my eyes and saw a group of women seated on the ground near us. Among them I recognized Lazarus’ sister Mary, also Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Jesus. Their faces shone with such rapture that at first I didn’t realize that they were earthly beings, and took them for angels in women’s shape.

From the gate came the murmur of a mighty crowd; I saw that Simon Peter had gathered the other disciples about him, and heard him addressing the people in a powerful voice. And this was no ecstatic harangue in a foreign tongue; he was talking persuasively in his own Galilean speech, and quoting the prophets. He told of Jesus of Nazareth and his resurrection; of the promise made to Jesus by his Father, concerning the pouring out of the holy spirit, which the people themselves had beheld and of which they could bear witness. But in saying all this he spoke merely as an Israelite to Israelites. In my disappointment I ceased to listen, and looked with entreaty at the holy women.

Meeting my gaze, Mary Magdalene took pity on me; she came over to me and greeted me by name, as if to show everyone that she at least had not forsaken me. I asked her in a faint voice what had happened. She sat down beside me, took my hand in hers and began to tell me.

“They were all together in the upper room, where they had been meeting for some days: the eleven and Matthias, whom they chose by lot to be the twelfth in their circle. Suddenly a great rushing sound filled the whole room where they were sitting. They saw something like tongues of fire dividing and descending on each man’s head. They were filled with the holy spirit and began to speak in tongues, as you heard.”

I asked, “Was this what Jesus of Nazareth had promised them, and what they were waiting for?”

Mary Magdalene smiled at me and said, “At least you can hear that Peter, without veiling his words, now proclaims to all the people that Jesus of Nazareth is the Christ, and you see that the eleven others stand about him unafraid. Whence could they have gained this courage and strength if not through the spirit?”

“But he still speaks only to the people of Israel,” I complained, like a child from whom a toy has been taken away.

And indeed at that moment I heard Peter declare, “So now let all the house of Israel know assuredly that God has made Jesus, whom you crucified, both Lord and Christ.”

At this I forgot my own discontent and was afraid for him. Raising myself on my elbows I cried, “Now the mob will fall upon them and stone them!”

But nothing of the kind happened. On the contrary the crowd fell silent and stood motionless, as if Peter’s accusation had struck them to the heart. Then a few hesitant voices were heard asking the disciples, “Men, brothers, what shall we do?”

Simon Peter shouted in a voice which might have carried over all Jerusalem, “Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ, that your sins may be forgiven. For this promise is made to you and to your children, and to all both near and far whom the Lord our God may call.”

Thus it was that he proclaimed the secret of the kingdom, and I bowed my head, realizing that not even now did he relent toward me but was calling the Jews only, addressing the promise to those both here and in dispersal who were circumcised, who obeyed the law and served the God of Israel. So my last hope faded, insofar as I had still hoped in secret to become one of them. But of the knowledge of Jesus of Nazareth and his resurrection Peter could not deprive me.

Seeing my sorrow, Mary Magdalene consoled me, saying, “He is a slow, stubborn man, but his faith is like a rock and he will surely grow with his task. Just now he referred to the prophet Joel and proclaimed that the last days are at hand, but that I don’t believe. No, for when he parted from them on the Mount of Olives he warned them, and said that it was not for them to know the times or the seasons which the Father has put in his own power. For forty days Jesus has been appearing to them and speaking to them of the kingdom; but so little did they understand that before the cloud came and took him they were still nagging him and saying, ‘Lord, is it now that you will restore the kingdom to Israel?’ So you must not lose hope, Marcus.”

This was new to me. I listened avidly and asked, “Do they no longer conceal from women what happened and what cloud it was that carried him away?”

“They hide nothing from us,” Mary Magdalene assured me. “The secret of flesh and blood in bread and wine they revealed on the mountain. The faithful already number one hundred and twenty. On the fortieth day Jesus went with them to the Mount of Olives near Bethany, forbade them to leave Jerusalem and commanded them to await the fulfillment of the promise he had made them. John baptized with water, he said, but you shall be baptized with the holy spirit not many days hence. This baptism came about today; of that there can be no question, for now power dwells in them. Of the cloud I know only that on the Mount of Olives he rose up before them and a mist removed him from their sight, and from this they knew that he would not appear to them again. I don’t want to bandy words with them, but I think I may be allowed to smile a little, hearing them try so awkwardly and clumsily to put into words all that I felt in my heart to be true while he was yet alive.”

As she talked I looked about me at the trees of the courtyard with their silver-shining leaves, at the steps leading to the upper room and its massive wooden door, to impress the sight of these things on my memory for all time. In my exhaustion I was quiet and humble again, and felt it was enough for me to have beheld the place where the kingdom became reality.

I stood up, weak at the knees, and said, “I must go now, lest I cause argument and disturb the holy men. The power struck me to the ground, and they would no doubt regard that as a sign that I shall be turned away from the gates of the kingdom.”

Very gladly would I have blessed and thanked Mary Magdalene for her kindness, but I felt too insignificant to give anyone my blessing. Perhaps she read my intention in my face, for she touched my forehead once more and said, “Never forget that you have helped one of the lost children of Israel to come to him. Mary of Beret has happily celebrated her wedding and moved to her new home. I don’t believe that any of these men would have done as much for her. Of the women, Susanna too blesses your kindness. Know, then, that wherever you may go there will be some of us praying for you in secret, foreigner though you are.”

But I protested, “No, no; all my actions have been selfish and impure. I believe that not one of them could be accounted to me for merit. In me there is nothing good beyond my knowledge that he is Christ and the son of God. But that is no great merit, since I’ve been permitted to see and witness this.”

Myrina said, “Marcus has no other merit than his weakness. Perhaps one day it will grow to strength, when the kingdom spreads to the world’s end. Until that time comes I will be the one to comfort him, for never again in this life shall I know thirst. Within me is a fountain which will suffice also for him.”

I looked at her with new eyes. In my weariness I seemed to see her transfigured, so that just then she seemed not a human being but my guardian angel incarnate, sent to keep me from straying from the Way. This was an odd idea, as I well knew what her past had been, and had first met her on the ship bound for Joppa.

But it was with human hands that she grasped me under the arm and led me out of the courtyard into the restless, murmuring crowd. More and more of them were asking in dismay what they should do, and some had torn their garments in grief for their sins. There were so many of them that the twelve, headed by Peter, led them down through the alleys to the city and beyond, to baptize in the name of Jesus Christ those who desired to repent and to be forgiven their sins. Myrina was anxious about me, but consented to guide me in the wake of the crowd, to see what was to happen.

Thus is was that I beheld the twelve standing by a pool outside the walls, baptizing every man of Israel who desired it, and laying their hands on his head that his sins might be forgiven. Women too they baptized. And as the number of those with whom they shared their spirit increased, so also grew the joy among the throng, and the more willingly did others press forward for baptism. The men sang Israelitish songs of rejoicing, and embraced each other. This continued until evening, and I heard afterwards that their number grew that day to three thousand.

And they hindered no man of Israel, but received both rich and poor, cripples, beggars and even slaves, without distinction. And their power never waned but sufficed for all to share in it. For this reason I was greatly saddened, and returned to the city and to our lodging before dusk. I reflected ruefully how readily had been forgiven the sins even of men who had stood before Pilate shouting: Crucify him! Crucify him! For there were many of those among these frightened and remorseful Jews.

Perhaps on this day of rapture I could have stolen in among the Jews and been baptized with the rest, but I did not want to deceive the messengers; and such a baptism would have had no value for me, even if in error they had laid their hands on my head too. But perhaps the spirit in them would have detected that I was a Roman, and turned me away. I do not know, for I did not want to attempt such a deception.

Next day I still felt dazed, so that Myrina seemed radiant as an angel to my eyes as she moved about the Syrian’s guest room and tended me. But when I felt better I began to examine myself, and found that something had happened to me while I’d been lying unconscious in the courtyard below the upper room. My mind was more naked than before and I thought less about unnecessary things.

One day my landlord Karanthes came in, looked at me searchingly and said. “You’ve not yet told me anything about the Galilean. Why have you become so close-lipped? You must know that miracles are happening here in the city again, on account of that crucified Nazarene of whom you were gathering knowledge. His disciples have returned and are proclaiming that their teacher has given them the power to work magic. They’re turning people’s heads to such an extent that parents leave their children and children their parents to join them. Many even renounce all they possess, so truly it is a matter of really alarming witchcraft. The disciples stand every day in the temple arcade, blaspheming, without fear of the Council; they own everything in common and assemble in people’s houses to perform their questionable mysteries. Even highly respected Jews of whom one would never have suspected such a thing have caught the Nazarene infection and acknowledge the man as king of Israel.”

I could not answer him, for who was I to be his teacher? He was free to go and listen to the twelve himself. Receiving no reply from me, he was crestfallen; he shook his head and asked, “What has happened to you, and what do you mean to do next, lying here and staring in front of you day after day?”

I pondered this question, smiled sadly and said, “I may take your advice: build me a house and plant trees. That is as good counsel as any other for one facing a period of patient waiting.” With a sigh I added, “Let me only take care that my heart does not become too firmly attached to anything in this world; that nothing becomes so much a part of me and so dear that I’m not prepared to renounce it if necessary.”

Karanthes sighed too and answered soberly, “We must all renounce everything when the day comes, but far be that day from both of us.” He thought for a little, and said timidly, “They say those Galileans have a medicine of immortality.”

But neither to this did I dare make any answer; he could learn of it from Jesus of Nazareth’s own men. Karanthes rose, puffed a little and said, “You’ve changed, Marcus the Roman; you’re not the man who went to Galilee. I don’t know whether you’re better or worse than before, but you cause me to sigh. This I do know: Myrina whom you brought from Galilee is a quiet-minded girl, and it’s good to be near her. Since she came to the house, business has prospered and my wife no longer beats me about the ears with a slipper several times a day. If she were a little plumper she would be quite beautiful.”

I couldn’t help laughing, yet I reproved him. “Karanthes, don’t concern yourself about whether Myrina is fat or thin. In my eyes she is lovely as she is. Even when she is gray-haired and toothless I believe I shall find her beautiful—if we live so long.”

Karanthes, having coaxed laughter from me, went away content. Thinking it over I perceived that Myrina was indeed growing more beautiful every day. Now that she had abandoned her vagabond player’s life and was getting enough to eat, she had grown imperceptibly but becomingly plumper, and her cheeks were less narrow than before. The thought stirred a tenderness in me, and was strangely reviving. It showed me that she was no angel but a woman, and one of my own kind.

Myrina had gone to the temple, where every day two or three of the twelve stood in the arcade and taught the baptized and the merely curious, proclaimed the resurrection and testified that Jesus of Nazareth was the Christ. Feeling suddenly in good spirits, I dressed myself and combed my hair, and called on Aristainos my banker to prepare for my departure from Jerusalem. He received me kindly and began talking with great animation, saying, “The baths of Tiberias have evidently done you good, for you’re less of a fanatic than you were. You dress like a Roman once more. That is a good thing, for I’m going to give you a warning, should the matter not already have reached your ears. The Galileans have returned to the city and are causing a great deal of consternation. They proclaim openly that Jesus of Nazareth rose from the dead, although everyone acquainted with the circumstances knows what really happened. But they call him Messiah, and twist the words of scripture for their own ends; they go so far as to assert that he has forgiven them their sins. I am a Sadducee and venerate the scriptures, though I do not accept the oral tradition, nor the intolerable, tangled interpretations of the Pharisees. This resurrection talk is lunacy, although the Pharisees incline a little to that way of thinking. People are apt to accuse us Jews of intolerance in questions of religion, but our tolerance is best shown by the fact that we allow different sects to compete freely with one another. Most likely Jesus of Nazareth would never have been crucified if he hadn’t blasphemed against God, for that is the one thing we will not endure. But now it seems as if a fresh rift is to form among us in his name. Time will show whether we can allow it to widen or whether we shall be compelled to hunt these people down. They baptize, but that is nothing new and has never been regarded as an evil. It is said that they heal the sick, but so did their teacher, and it was not on that account that he was persecuted, although the Pharisees did consider it unseemly of him to do so on the Sabbath.

“No, the pernicious part of their doctrine is their insistence that all property shall be held in common. Hitherto level-headed people are now selling their fields and laying all the proceeds at the feet of the disciples, who distribute to each man what he requires. Such a teaching is neither more nor less than a subtle evasion of tithes and taxation. There are neither rich nor poor among them. Our leaders are nonplussed, for we had supposed that everything would settle down once we had crucified the Nazarene. We have no desire to persecute anyone but we cannot conceive how they have become so bold, unless it is that they’ve heard that Pontius Pilate will not allow any persecution of the Galileans. This he announced in veiled terms to the Supreme Council. Another instance of the intolerable Roman policy. You’ll forgive my frankness, being familiar with our customs, and being also my friend. Now indeed the Procurator may wash his hands and mock us; for as you see yourself, the last aberration is worse than the first. They have the gullible people on their side, and therefore it would be imprudent to molest them. If they did, everyone would be the readier to believe these fishermen’s tales.”

He barely gave himself time to draw breath, so eager was he to talk. I couldn’t refrain from observing. “You seem more excited about Jesus of Nazareth than I am. Calm yourself, Aristainos, and remember the scriptures. If this enterprise of the Galileans is of human origin, it will run out into the sand and need not trouble you. But if it is of God, then neither you nor the Supreme Council nor any power in the world can vanquish these men.”

Breathing hard, he pondered my words; then with a burst of laughter he raised his hands conciliatingly and cried, “Shall a Roman teach me to read the scriptures? No, the doings of ignorant fishermen cannot be of God. They cannot, for then life would no longer be worth living, and the temple would collapse. Of course it will all run out into the sand. Others before these have come forth claiming to be somebodies, and all have disappeared. Unschooled men cannot prophesy for long without entangling themselves in their own words and falling into their own pits.”

Having calmed himself in this way he asked me what I wanted, then at once ordered his bookkeeper to look up my account and calculate a rate of exchange advantageous to himself. I told him how well his business acquaintance in Tiberias had served me, and he nodded with satisfaction, waving a thin letter-scroll which he then handed to me with the words, “I nearly forgot this. It was delivered to your banker in Alexandria, and he forwarded it here. I didn’t want to send it on to Tiberias, not knowing how long you meant to stay there, and fearing it might go astray.”

Cold with apprehension I broke the seal and unrolled the short letter, for at first glance I had recognized Tullia’s nervous, hastily scrawled writing. The letter ran as follows:

“Tullia greets false Marcus Mezentius.

““Can one then rely on no man’s promise? Does fidelity no longer exist? Did you not swear to await me in Alexandria until I had ordered my affairs in Rome and become entirely yours once more? Rome was no longer Rome after you had gone, but by taking prudent steps I was able to secure my own position. And on arriving at Alexandria, ill and weak after a rough voyage, what do I hear? That you have lightly broken your word and set off for Jewish Jerusalem. Come back immediately on receiving this. I lodge at Daphne’s Inn near the harbor. It will gladden me to see you again, but I shall not wait forever. I have friends here. However, if you want to continue your researches into Jewish philosophy, which it seems is now your study, send word and I will come on to Jerusalem. I believe I can soon drive Jewish wisdom out of your head. Come, then, as quickly as you can. I am impatient. I burn with waiting.”

Each word made me shudder with dismay. When I had regained command of my tongue I read the letter through again, and asked in an unsteady voice, “How long has this letter been awaiting me?”

Aristainos counted on this fingers and said, “Possibly two weeks. You must forgive me, but I never thought you would stay so long in Tiberias.”

I rolled up the letter, and thrusting it inside the breast of my tunic I said with a wave of my hand, “Let the reckoning wait. At present I’m incapable of calculation.”

Filled with icy fear I left Aristainos’ house and fled back to my room at Karanthes’. Tullia’s letter had come like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, just as I’d begun to believe that I’d won peace and become reconciled to my destiny.

Fortunately, Myrina had not returned. For a moment I was scorched as with a flame by the temptation to leave my purse in Karanthes’ keeping for her, flee from Jerusalem and make for Alexandria by the shortest route, to hold Tullia in my arms again. I took out her letter and caressed it, recognizing her very self in every fevered, scribbled character; and at the mere thought of her my body was on fire.

Yet at the same time I could judge her coolly. It was characteristic of her to take the offensive—to reproach me in the very first line. For a whole year I had waited patiently for her in Alexandria without receiving the smallest sign of life from her. And what did she mean by the phrase: I was able to secure my own position? Surely divorce and remarriage. One could put no faith in anything she wrote. Ill or weak she may have been after her voyage; nevertheless she was able to show her claws and point out that she had friends in Alexandria. In whose arms should I find her if I went? Tullia has plenty to choose from. I’m no more than a whim among her thoughts. I could be sure that it was not for my sake alone that she had come to Alexandria; there would be many reasons.

In Tullia my former life was personified: its pleasures and its emptiness. I was free to choose. If I chose Tullia I should be renouncing forever my search for the kingdom, for I knew as well as she that she was capable of banishing all such ideas from my head at once if I returned to that heavenly death. So reflecting, I loathed myself and my weakness; never before, I believe, had I been so plunged in self-disgust. Not because I still desired her, but because I still hesitated whether to return and let her continue to torture me. This was the greatest humiliation, for if I’d had any firmness I would not have hesitated for a moment. After all I had seen and known, the choice ought to have been obvious: stay away from Tullia, away from all the past. So weak was I, so easily tempted still, that the hot wind of memory made me waver like a reed.

With my brow bathed in a cold sweat I braced myself against temptation, hating myself. I was so bitterly ashamed that I did not want Jesus of Nazareth to see my shame; nevertheless I hid my face and prayed, “Lead me not into temptation but save me from what is evil. For the sake of your kingdom.” I could do no more than that.

Just then I heard footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and Myrina hurried in with outstretched arms, as if bringing me great news. “Peter and John!” she cried. “Peter and John!” Then she saw my look. Her arms sank, her fact lost its radiance and grew ugly to me.

“Don’t talk to me of them,” I said bitterly. “I don’t want to hear.”

Hesitantly Myrina took a step forward, but dared not touch me. Nor did I wish her to; I recoiled, and stood with my back against the wall.

“They’ve just cured a man who’d been lame from birth. It was by the Corinthian gate of the temple,” Myrina tried to say; but her voice died and she stared at me anxiously.

“Well?” I returned. “I don’t doubt they have the power. But how does it concern me? I’ve seen miracles enough. They leave me cold.”

“Peter took him by the hand and raised him up from his bench,” Myrina stammered. “And his feet supported him. Everyone in the temple ran to Solomon’s colonnade; he’s there now, leaping and praising God. Disbelieving people are feeling his feet and Peter is proclaiming the forgiveness of sins.”

“A fine circus for the Jews!” I sneered.

Myrina could contain herself no longer, but seizing me by both arms she shook me and asked with tears in her eyes, “What’s the matter with you? What has happened, Marcus?”

I hardened my heart and said, “Weep, Myrina. These will not be the last tears you’ll shed for me. I know that.”

Myrina released me abruptly, wiped her eyes and tossed her head. Flushed with anger she stamped and said, “Speak plainly. What has happened?”

Coldly and sourly I surveyed her, scanned each feature which only that morning had been dear to me, and tried to discover what I thought I had seen in her. Through her face I saw Tullia’s brilliant eyes, Tullia’s proud, voluptuous mouth. I showed her the letter, saying, “Tullia has written. She is waiting for me in Alexandria.”

Myrina gazed at me for a long time. Her face shrank and narrowed. Then she sank to her knees and bowed her head; I thought she was praying, though I saw no movement of her lips. All my thoughts seemed to have been frozen. I merely looked at her golden-yellow head, and the notion came to me that a swift swordstroke would sweep off that head and set me free. The thought was so amusing that I laughed.

Presently Myrina rose and without looking at me began to gather together my belongings and lay out my clothes. At first I was surprised, then dismayed, and at last I couldn’t help asking, “What are you doing? Why are you putting my things together?”

She counted absent-mindedly on her fingers: “One tunic and one traveling mantle at the wash.” Then she replied, “You’re going away, aren’t you? You’re going to your Tullia. I’m getting your things ready: it’s what I’m here for.”

“Who says I’m going away?” I exclaimed hotly; and seizing her by the wrists I forced her to drop everything. “I said no such thing. I simply told you about the letter so that we could decide what to do.”

But Myrina shook her head. “No, no,” she declared. “In your heart you’ve decided already. If I tried to stop you, you’d only bear me a grudge. It’s true you’re weak, and perhaps, by speaking of the kingdom, I might persuade you to stay; but never for the rest of your life would you forgive me. You would always be gnawed by the suspicion that it was for my sake you renounced your precious Tullia. You had better go. You mustn’t fail her if she’s waiting for you once more.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Myrina seemed to be drifting away from me—depriving me of the only friend I had to turn to. “But—” I stammered, “but—” More I could not say.

At length Myrina took pity on me, and explained, “This is something I cannot help you with. You must decide for yourself, and be answerable for your decision.” She smiled sadly and continued, “I’ll make it easy for you. Go to your Tullia; let her scorch you and stab you with red-hot needles, and destroy you. You’ve told me enough of her to show me what she’s like. But of course one day I’ll come after you, and when the time is ripe and she has gone I’ll take care of what’s left of you. You need not fear to lose me. Jesus of Nazareth has given you to me. Go, if the temptation is too strong for you. Surely he will forgive you, as I in my heart forgive you because I know you.”

While she was speaking thus collectedly I was filled with ever-increasing reluctance, and reviewed in thought all the humiliations and torments which Tullia would inflict upon me, to spice her own pleasure. At last I cried, “Peace, Myrina, you mad creature! Are you trying to send me as a victim to a cruel, lascivious woman? I wouldn’t have believed it of you. Should you not rather stiffen my resolve? I don’t recognize you. How can you treat me so?”

Indignantly I went on, “I hadn’t decided to go to her at all, though you say I had. I hoped that you would help me. I won’t go to Alexandria. I’m just wondering how to explain everything to her. I ought to send her a word, or she might think I’d disappeared on my way hither.”

“Would that matter?” Myrina asked softly. “Or does your masculine pride demand that you humiliate her, in writing, by telling her you want no more to do with her?”

“Tullia has humiliated me a thousand times,” I said sourly.

“Would you return evil for evil?” asked Myrina. “Rather let her believe that you’ve vanished without trace; thus you will not insult the woman in her. She must have other friends, and will soon console herself.”

Her surmise was so accurate as to stab me. But the pain was no worse than when one passes one’s tongue over the place from which an aching tooth has been drawn. An ineffable sense of deliverance filled me, as if I had regained health after a long illness. “Myrina,” I said, “you’ve shown me that I can’t endure even the thought of leaving you. Myrina, you’re not just a sister to me. Myrina, I fear I love you as a man loves a woman.”

Myrina’s face began to shine for me like the face of an angel. To my eyes she was beautiful as she said, “Myrina and Marcus, we two. In your heart you know that I am whatever you would have me be. But we must decide what we’re to do with our life.”

Taking my hand she drew me gently down beside her on a bench and began to talk as if she had been thinking about the matter for a long time: “I have a deep longing for his disciples to baptize me and lay their hands on my head in the name of Jesus of Nazareth. Perhaps in that way I should gain strength from their strength, to endure this life and to be a partaker in the kingdom and in the spirit that descended upon them like tongues of fire. But I’m not a Jew, and neither are you. Yet without demur they baptize devout proselytes from other countries—men who allow themselves to be circumcised and who obey the law in its entirety. But I’ve heard also of gate-proselytes: God-fearing men who will not be circumcised, but who despise idolatry and do not mock God or shed human blood. Incest, theft and blood-food are forbidden them, and they must live a life of devotion. Perhaps they would consent to baptize us as such gate-proselytes if we earnestly begged them to do so.”

I shook my head and said, “I know about that and have often thought of it. Since meeting Jesus of Nazareth, the son of God, I have no other gods. It ought not to be so especially difficult to keep those commandments, and why should I not be content to eat the meat of animals slaughtered in the Jewish manner? Meat is meat. But I can’t see how it would make me acceptable. I cannot bind myself to living a devout life, no matter how greatly I desire good. This is one of the few things I know about myself for certain. You’re mistaken too if you think they would consent to baptize a mere gate-proselyte, however loudly I might thunder at that gate. They are less merciful than their master.”

Myrina nodded, holding my hand hard, and owned submissively, “No doubt this is a childish wish of mine. I don’t believe that I should be more his than I already am, even if they baptized me and laid their hands on my head. Let us give up that hope, and follow his way as he himself showed us. Let us pray that his will may be done and his kingdom come. He is truth and mercy. I believe it is enough for us that we have seen him.”

“His kingdom,” I said. “We can only wait. But there are two of us. It must be easier for two to follow the Way than for one alone. That is his mercy toward us.”

Nevertheless we did not leave Jerusalem at once, for first I wrote all this down for remembrance, even though it may have been no more extraordinary than what went before. But I do want to remember exactly how the spirit came like a rush of wind and descended like tongues of fire over the twelve messengers of Jesus of Nazareth, so that never more shall I doubt them or judge their actions out of my own head.

During this time the Jewish authorities imprisoned Peter and John, but because of the people they had to release them again the very next day. And the messengers did not let themselves be frightened by threats. Courageously they continued to proclaim. I believe about two thousand people have joined them since they healed the lame man at the Corinthian gate of the temple. And these also, in their own homes, have begun to break bread and bless wine, and consecrate it as a drink of immortality in the name of Jesus Christ. None of them suffer want, for the rich among them sell their farms and fields, and each receives what he needs. I believe they do so because they still see everything as in a mirror and believe that the kingdom will come any day. I have not heard, however, that Simon of Cyrene has sold his land.

When I had written all this down I received word from Antonia that Procurator Pontius Pilate desires me to leave Jerusalem at once, and Judea, his administrative area. Unless I go of my own accord I shall be arrested by legionaries and brought before him in Caesarea. Why he has come to this decision I know not, but for some reason or other he evidently thinks it undesirable from a Roman point of view that I should remain in Judea. But I do not want to meet the man again, so Myrina and I have decided to go to Damascus. We chose Damascus because of a dream that Myrina had, and I have no objection to going there. At least it’s in the opposite direction to Alexandria.

Before we left I took Myrina to the hill outside the city gate where on my first arrival at Jerusalem I had seen Jesus of Nazareth crucified between two thieves. I showed her the garden, too, and the tomb where his body had been laid and from which he rose when the earth shook. But his kingdom was no longer there.