The Secret of the Kingdom

FOURTH LETTER

MARCUS TO TULLIA:

I continue my account and will mention everything in the order in which it happened.

Antonia is a cramped and gloomy fortress, and I had no wish to stay on there under constant guard. Moreover, the Proconsul was preparing to return to Caesarea, where his residence is. I gave him a lucky Egyptian scarab, and to Claudia Procula an Alexandrian looking glass, and I promised to pass through Caesarea on my return journey. This was at Pontius Pilate’s request, for he did not want to let me leave Judea without questioning me. Claudia Procula too adjured me to tell her anything I might have heard about the risen man.

To the garrison commander I gave a handsome sum of money, so as to remain on good terms with him and to make sure of a refuge in the fortress, should I ever need it. But I have already noticed that no danger threatens me in Jerusalem as long as I respect the customs of the Jews and refrain from provoking them with my own.

For the centurion Adenabar I feel real friendship. On his advice I did not lodge at a large inn, but with an acquaintance of his, a Syrian trader near the Hasmonsan palace. I have been familiar with the customs and gods of the Syrians since my youth, and know that people of this race enjoy good food, keep their rooms clean and are honest in everything but money changing.

The merchant himself lives on the ground floor with his family, and carries his counter out into the street in front of his house every day. An outside staircase leads directly up onto the roof, so that I can come and go as I please and receive visitors unobserved. The advantage of this was stressed by both Adenabar and my landlord. His wife and daughter serve meals in my room and see that a jar of fresh water always hangs there. The sons vie with one another in running errands for me, buying wine and fruit and anything else I may need. This family, who are not well off, are glad to have me as a paying guest now that the feast is over and most visitors have left the city.

When I had settled into my new lodging I waited until the stars came out and then went down the outer stair to the street. Nicodemus’ pottery is well enough known for me to find it easily. The gate was left ajar, and when I entered the courtyard I met a servant there in the darkness who asked softly, “Are you the man my master is waiting for?”

He led me up some stairs to the roof, and the starry sky above Judea was so brilliant that he did not need to light the way. On the roof an elderly man was seated upon cushions. He greeted me cordially, and asked, “Are you the God-seeker of whom Aristainos has told me?”

He invited me to sit beside him and at once started to tell me in a monotonous tone about the God of Israel. He began with the story of the creation of heaven and earth, and had got as far as saying that God had created man in his own image, from the dust of the earth, when I interrupted him impatiently.

“Master of Israel, I’ve heard all these things and read of them in Greek in your holy scriptures. I have come to you so that you might tell me of Jesus of Nazareth, the king of the Jews. This you must be aware of, since you receive me on your rooftop in the dark.”

Nicodemus said in an unsteady voice, “His blood was upon my head and upon my people. I am full of pain and deadly fear on his account. That he became a teacher was God’s doing, for no man could have performed the things he did unless he had been sent by God.”

I said, “He was more than a teacher. I too tremble inwardly on his account, stranger though I am. You must surely know that he rose from his tomb, although you helped to swathe him and close the sepulcher before the Sabbath began.”

Nicodemus raised his face to the starlight and cried in a voice of lamentation, “I know not what to believe.”

Pointing to the sky I asked, “Was he the son of the stars of whom the prophets spoke?”

Nicodemus said, “I do not know, I understand nothing and I am no longer fit to be a Master of Israel. I was misled in the Council because they assured me that no prophet can come out of Galilee. That is true. Nothing is said of Galilee in the scriptures. But his mother, whom I have only just met, assures me that he was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the time of the wicked Herod. The scriptures show that a savior is to come from Bethlehem Ephratah. I have searched the scriptures without rest. Everything that was foretold of him has come about, even this: that no bone in his body shall be broken.”

He began to recite the prophecies in a chanting voice, and translated them for me. When he had been doing this for some time, I grew impatient again and said, “It means nothing to me that the words of your prophets should have been fulfilled. For me the only question is whether or not he is risen. If he has come out of his tomb, then he is more than a king and his like has never lived in the world before. I ask you this without guile or treachery, for no one can harm him now. Answer me. My heart trembles within me with longing to know the truth.”

Nicodemus confessed hesitantly, “I have heard that it is so, but I know not what to believe. Last night his disciples were assembled behind locked doors, for they fear persecution. At least, most of them came together, and all were much afraid. Then the crucified Jesus appeared among them and showed them the wounds in his hands and feet and in his side. He also breathed upon everyone in the room. Then he vanished as he had come. So I have been told, but it is very difficult to believe.”

I trembled where I stood. “Tell me of his kingdom,” I begged. “What did he teach about his kingdom?”

Nicodemus told me: “I went to see him secretly the first time he came to Jerusalem for the Passover, and cleansed the temple. I cannot forget what he said to me then, although I did not understand it, and still do not. He said that no one may behold the kingdom unless he has been born again.”

At once I remembered the teachings of the Orphics and Pythagoreans and philosophers who affirm that men are continually reborn, and may even become animals or plants according to the nature of their actions. I was filled with disappointment, for this is no new doctrine. But Nicodemus went on ingenuously, “I contradicted him and asked, ‘How can a man be born again when he is old? He cannot return to his mother’s womb and let himself be reborn.’ Then Jesus gave me a key to his words and repeated it several times. ‘He who is not born again of water and of the Spirit cannot enter the kingdom.’ The part about the water I understand, for there are many who go out to the brothers in the desert to wait there in prayer, and who, after a time of testing, are baptized in their pool. John too came from the desert and baptized people with water, until Herod Antipas had him murdered.”

I interrupted him, saying, “Those who become initiated into the mysteries of Isis, in Egypt, step without fear into deep water in a dark cave, but strong arms lift them to safety so that they do not drown. It is a symbolic initiation rite, and by no means new.”

Nicodemus acknowledged this. “No, that is true; baptism with water is nothing new. But I asked him what he meant by being born of the Spirit. Jesus answered thus—these are his very words, and I impressed them on my memory—‘That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit. The wind blows where it will; you hear the sound of it, but you cannot tell whence it comes and whither it goes: so is everyone that is born of the Spirit.’”

He was silent for a long time and I pondered his words. The stars of Judea sparkled in the sky, and through the darkness came a strong smell of damp clay and kilns. In a mysterious way this instruction forced its way into my heart, although I know only too well that my reason could not grasp it. At last I asked softly, “Is that all you know of his kingdom?”

Nicodemus reflected and said, “I heard from his disciples that before he began to teach he went out into the desert. There he watched and fasted for forty days and experienced all the false visions and revelations with which earthbound powers tempt a fasting man. The tempter took him up on a high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the earth and their glory, and promised him that he should rule over them if he would bow down before the tempter and thus renounce the task which he came into the world to fulfill. That temptation he overcame. Then angels came and served him in the wilderness. He returned to the world of men, began to teach and to perform miracles, and gathered disciples about him. That is what I know of his kingdom. It’s not a human kingdom; therefore it was unjust and a crime to condemn him.”

I was distressed by this talk of revelations and angels, since any highly strung person who had watched and fasted long enough can have hallucinations, but they vanish as soon as he eats and drinks and goes among people again. I asked Nicodemus impatiently, “Well, what sort of kingdom is it?”

Nicodemus lamented aloud, raised his hands and exclaimed, “How should I know? I have heard the sound of the wind. When I met him I thought the kingdom had come on earth in his shape. He told me many other things. He even said that God had not sent his son into the world to condemn it, but that the world, through him, might be saved. But that is not what happened. He was simply nailed to a cross and died a dishonorable death. That is what I cannot fathom. Now that he is gone, the kingdom too is gone.”

My heart said otherwise, but my reason forced me to remark ironically, “That is not much to give me, Master of Israel. The sound of a wind—and you yourself don’t honestly believe that he is risen.”

“I am no longer a Master of Israel,” Nicodemus confessed humbly. “I am the least of the children of Israel, stricken down and wounded to the heart. But something I can give you. When the sower has sown his seed he tends it no longer. The seed sprouts, wind and rain drive forth the shoot, and the grain grows—though the sower sleep—until it is ripe for harvest. So it is with me; so it may be with you, if you are sincere. A seed has been sown in me, and it is sprouting. A seed may have been sown also in you, one day to be harvested. I can only wait in submission and confess how little I understand and how feeble is my faith.”

“I’m far from being content to wait,” I protested impatiently. “Do not you see that everything is still fresh in my memory? Each day carries something away with it into oblivion. Bring me to his disciples. He must have revealed the secret of his kingdom to them in a more intelligible way. I have a fire in my heart. I am eager to believe, so long as everything may be proved to me.”

Nicodemus gave a deep sigh and said dissuasively, “His disciples—the eleven that are left—are frightened and bewildered and filled with disappointment. They are simple men, still young and foolish. When he was alive they argued among themselves about his teachings; they allotted amongst themselves high positions in the kingdom, and quarreled over them. No matter what he said to them, they believed to the end in a kingdom on earth. Even that last evening, before he was arrested, he partook of the paschal lamb with them in the manner of the desert brothers, and told them that he would not drink wine again until he could do so with them in the new kingdom. I believe that it was because of that promise that he would not accept the pain-deadening wine which the women offered him before the crucifixion. But the promise encouraged the more childish of the disciples to believe that he would summon a legion of angels from heaven to help him, and would found a kingdom in which each of the disciples would rule over one of the tribes of Israel. From this you can see that his teachings have not yet ripened within them. They are ignorant men and know not what to think, although they were present at all his greatest works. They fear for their own lives and keep themselves in hiding. If you were to meet them now you would certainly be more bewildered by what they told you than they are themselves.”

I couldn’t understand this. “Then why did he choose only simple men to be his disciples?” I demanded. “If he was so great a miracle worker as they say, he could surely have chosen companions from among scholars as well.”

“There you touch me at a tender spot,” Nicodemus confessed. “You touch the core of my grief. It was not the wise men and scholars whom he called, but the poor, the simple, the oppressed. He is said to have spoken once to a great crowd of people, and said in so many words that it was the simple who were blessed, for theirs was the kingdom. For the learned and the rich he made everything too difficult. I might well have become one of his disciples, but then I should have had to resign from the Council—yes, and from my family too; sell my pottery works, and distribute the proceeds among the poor. Such were the stern conditions he imposed, making it impossible for men like us to follow him. Yet he had friends among rich and influential people, who helped him secretly. In fact he had information and connections which not even his disciples knew about, because he considered it unnecessary to tell them.”

“Nevertheless, I should like to meet some of his real disciples,” I said obstinately.

But Nicodemus said with firm dissuasion, “You’re no Roman spy, that I can feel; but they would never believe you, being so frightened. Nor would you believe them when you saw what simple men they are. On the contrary, if they told you that they had beheld the risen son of God in a room where the door was locked, you would doubt them more than ever, and fancy that they had made up the whole story out of disappointment, and to save the rags of their self-esteem.”

Nicodemus laughed sadly and said, “At first they wouldn’t even believe the women who came back from the tomb saying that it was empty. One of them, who happened not to be present last night in their locked hiding place, refuses to believe what his own friends have told him. How then could you believe them?”

I did my best to persuade him to divulge the place where the king’s disciples lay in hiding, or to bring me into touch with them in some other way, but it was clear that even now he did not quite trust me, for he flatly refused. When I saw that he began to regret having received me, I hastened to plead with him: “Advise me at least as to what I am to do, for I cannot endure to wait in idleness for something to happen.”

He warned me, saying, “The sower has sown his seed. Should a grain have fallen in you, you would do wisely to wait in humility. But if you will, set forth into Galilee, where he himself so often walked, seek out the quiet ones and ask each of them what they have cherished of his teaching. Or speak to those whom he healed of sickness, and so convince yourself that none but the son of God could have wrought such miracles as those he performed during his lifetime.”

I was not overjoyed at these proposals.

“How am I to recognize the quiet ones?” I asked. “Galilee is far from here, and I am a stranger.”

Nicodemus hesitated, then gave me the password, saying, “Ask the Way as you go, but if anyone shakes his head and answers, ‘There are many ways, and many false guides, and I don’t want to lead you astray,’ reply in your turn, ‘There is but one Way; show it me, for I am quiet and humble of heart.’ At that they will know you and trust you. And even were you to inform against them you could never harm them, for they keep the commandments and pay their tax and offend no one.”

I said, “I thank you for your advice, and I will remember it. Yet he secretly performed some miracles in Jerusalem too. I would not like to leave the city yet, lest something should happen here.”

Nicodemus was tiring of me now. He said, “Here you may meet the woman of ill-repute from whom he drove out the evil spirits. There is also a village called Bethany only a short distance from the city. Two sisters and a brother live there, with whom he used to stay. One of them he permitted to sit at his feet and listen to his teaching, though she was only a woman. The brother he raised from the dead, after he had lain in his tomb for four days and his body was said to be stinking. Go there and meet Lazarus. That’s miracle enough for you. They will receive you if you bring them a greeting from me.”

“Was he really dead?” I asked incredulously.

“Of course, of course,” cried Nicodemus in irritation. “I know as well as you that there are trances resembling death. There are those who, amid wailing and playing of pipes, sit up on the bier, to the horror of their kinsfolk, and looking about them blinking. People are said to have come to their senses in the tomb, clawed their nails away, and shrieked until they suffocated because they couldn’t roll aside the stone from the opening. Our law requires the corpse to be interred on the day of death, and that is how mistakes occur. I possess all the earthly knowledge I require, and can do without your advice.”

He wrangled on: “What profit have you of anything if you start from preconceived doubt? What do you expect to gain from that? I can read your thoughts as you recall that he was a friend of the family. Easy enough for them to hit on something to convince the waverers, and lay the swooning Lazarus in the tomb, knowing that the teacher was on his way. But what could they hope to gain by that? Go and talk to them—to Lazarus and his two sisters—and decide for yourself whether or not they’re telling the truth.”

Of course Nicodemus was right. As I could get no more from him I thanked him and asked what I owed for his instruction. He flatly refused payment, saying contemptuously, “I’m no runaway circus artist who lives by teaching children to read, as is said to be customary in Rome. The masters of Israel do not teach for payment. He who desires to become a teacher must learn a trade, so that he may live by the work of his hands. Therefore I am a potter, like my father before me. But if you wish, give the money to the poor, and it may bring a blessing upon you.”

He came down the stairs with me, and from the courtyard he led me into his reception room, so that by the light of the lamp in there I might see that—potter thought he might belie was a man of consequence. He had at least that much vanity. I could see too that the room was the room of a rich man, full of costly things. Even his mantle was of the best material. But above all, I looked at his face, now that I could see it in the light. His eyes were near-sighted from reading, and his face—for all his gray beard—was childishly rounded. But his hands showed that he had not touched clay for many years, though he may have known his craft.

He too looked at me searchingly, so as to impress my appearance on his memory, and said, “I see no evil in your face. You have restless eyes, but they are not the eyes of a doubter or an evildoer. But you should let your beard grow, so that others too may see that you are a pious man.”

I had come to that conclusion myself and had ceased to shave, but in two days my chin had not had time to produce more than black stubble.

Nicodemus came with me to the gate and barred it behind me himself. He no longer wished me to be seen by his servants. I stumbled over the worn paving stones until my eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Only at the corners of the big streets were any lights still burning, but I had carefully memorized my way and thought it would be easy to get back to my new lodging, although it was some distance from this lower part of the city. I reached the wall between the suburbs and the upper city without meeting anyone but a couple of Jewish watchmen. But at the archway itself a woman’s voice greeted me shyly and asked, “What belongs to your peace, stranger?”

I started at the unexpected voice, but replied politely, “What belongs to your own peace, woman?”

The woman fell upon her knees before me in the street and said meekly, “I am your servant. Only command me and I will do what you wish.”

I guessed her trade and said deprecatingly, “Go in peace. I want nothing of you.”

But she was persistent; she seized the hem of my mantle and pleaded, “I am poor, and have no room to which I may take you, but there is a niche in the wall where no one will see us.”

As is the fashion among Jewish women, she was so veiled and swathed in her garments that I could form no idea of her appearance or even of her age. But her poverty moved me. I remembered Nicodemus’ injunction and gave her as many silver coins as I thought I owed for his teaching and advice.

At first she would not believe me when I repeated that I wanted nothing of her. But when she found that it was true she insisted upon kissing my feet, and exclaimed, “Never yet has anyone given me a present without requiring something in return. May the God of Israel bless you, though I am not fit to invoke a blessing upon anyone, and not even my money is acceptable to the temple coffers. But tell me your name that I may pray for you.”

I did not want to give my name to a woman of her profession, and yet I was unwilling to wound her. So I said, “I am called Marcus, in the Roman manner. I’m a stranger in Jerusalem.”

She said, “Your servant’s name is Mary. But there are more Marys than seeds in a pomegranate, so I will tell you that I am Mary of Beret, the village of wells, that you may distinguish me from the other Marys who will certainly come the way of so liberal a man as yourself.”

“I’m not at all liberal,” I said, to be rid of her. “I have merely paid a debt and you owe me no thanks. Go in peace, and then I too may go in peace, and we need no longer think about each other.”

She tried to make out my face in the darkness and said pleadingly, “You should not despise the prayers of the poor. It may be that one day I may do you a service when you least expect it.”

“You owe me nothing,” I repeated. “I ask no service of you. A way is all I seek, and that you can hardly show me.”

She answered quickly, “Do you ask a way, stranger? But there are many ways and they lead men astray. I should only misguide you if I tried to set you on the path.”

Her reply could have been no mere coincidence. Yet I was dashed by the thought that the quiet ones in the land plainly belonged to the most despised and rejected of people. Nevertheless, I tried to think of the mouse that gnawed the rope in which the lion was imprisoned, and said, “I have heard that there is only one way. And I too would gladly be quiet and humble of heart if I could.”

She put out her hand and felt my face and the rough bristles on my chin. However humble I desired to be, her touch was distasteful to me. I must have started, for she recoiled at once and said sadly, “It’s not the whole who require healing, but the sick. You took pity on me not for my own sake, but to pay a debt that oppressed you. You can hardly be so sick as to choose that way sincerely in your heart. But I’ve been sent to try you. If you had come with me to the hollow in the wall we should have parted from each other with evil thoughts. I give you hope, if you are inquiring about the Way in all sincerity.”

“I am sincere and wish no one ill,” I assured her. “All I want is to learn the truth about a number of things which you can hardly know of.”

“Do not despise a woman’s knowledge,” she warned me. “In the kingdom a woman’s intuition may carry more weight than a man’s reason, even were I the most despised among the women of Israel. And my intuition tells me that these days are the days of waiting. In these days sister meets sister without despising her; brother meets brother without rebuking him. Therefore my heart is lighter than before, fallen woman though I am.”

There was such happy expectation in her voice that I was compelled to believe that she did indeed possess some knowledge. “This evening I listened to one of the teachers of Israel,” I said, “but he was an uncertain man of little faith, and his teaching left me cold. Could you, Mary of Beret, give me better instruction?”

As I said this I was assailed by a suspicion that this Mary might not be so bad a woman as she made out. She may really have been sent on my path to test me, for to reach my new lodging I was bound to pass through this gate. “What hope is it that you offer me?” I asked.

She asked, “Do you know where the Fountain Gate is?”

“No,” I answered, “but I can easily find it.”

“It leads to the Vale of Kidron and the road to Jericho,” she explained. “That may be the way you seek. But if not, go to the Fountain Gate one day when your beard has grown, and look about you. You may see a man carrying a water jar from the spring. Follow him. If you speak to him, he may answer. If he does not, there is nothing I can do.”

“Water carrying is no work for a man,” I said incredulously. “It is the women who fetch water in Jerusalem, as everywhere else in the world.”

“For that reason you will easily recognize him,” said Mary of Beret. “But if he does not answer you, do not importune him, but return another day and try again. I can give you no other counsel.”

“If your counsel is good and brings me the help I hope for,” I said, “I shall once more be in your debt, Mary.”

“On the contrary,” she answered eagerly. “It is I who will be paying a debt if I can show anyone else the Way. But should the debt oppress you, give the money to the poor and forget me. In any event you need not seek me here by the hollow in the wall, for never again shall I return to this place.”

We parted, and I had no idea of what she looked like, and I could never have recognized her in the light of day. But I thought I would know her cheerful voice if I heard it again.

I went back to my lodging, up the stairs to the roof and into my room. When I thought of all that had happened, the mysteriousness of the Jews annoyed me. Nicodemus must have known more than he had told me. I had the feeling that people had been watching me, and required something of me.

It may be that either the disciples of the risen king or Claudia Procula’s friends suspect me of knowledge which they do not possess, but they dare not make themselves known to me, because I am a stranger. They have every reason to be cautious, since their teacher has been condemned, cast out and crucified.

The gardener whom I saw near the tomb haunts my mind as well. He said that he knew me, and I ought to have known him. Yet I do not intend to return and seek him in the garden, so sure am I that I should no longer find him there.