The Tongues of Men or Angels

One Day before the Crucifixion

The master told them to follow the man they would find collecting water, which seemed strange, because collecting water is women’s work. But there he was, an ambiguous sister-brother, gathering and chattering with the women. They say that all things exist in Jerusalem, that if a thing is, it is there. And so, here was this thing. Here was this. Here was the man who collects water like a woman and the master says they must lodge with him. Perhaps other pilgrims did not like to lodge with this man-woman. Perhaps that was why he would have space when no one else did. Perhaps the master knew this. Or perhaps this was just one of the things that in Jerusalem are.

So they followed the cow-sway steps of the water-carrying woman-man. He had a head too big for his slight shoulders, like an ant, but must have been strong, like the ant is, too, because the clay urn of water he carried was large, larger than a full woman could carry. Its pottery painted with simple bands, a design timeless as the Torah.

Maybe he sensed that they followed him because he started to jerk quickly down alleys, only in the moment of passing, as if he tried to lose them. Perhaps he had been beaten before, by drunks or Temple Guard thugs, who didn’t care for one who wore a headscarf like a woman, but had a boy child’s wisps of beard, visible but faint, like smoke in the daylight.

The man moved erratically, as a polecat will, unsure if it is pursued, but anxious in any case to be less exposed. But he also carried an urn and even though they didn’t know the wool-tangle of streets, Cephas and Jochanan easily stayed with him.

The woman-man had eyes like a gazelle, wide and painted with kohl at the edges. Cephas stared into them and saw the fear as the sister-brother tried to close his gap-slatted door on them.

‘We won’t hurt you,’ Cephas said. ‘It’s just that our master says you have a room here. A big room we can rent.’

And it was so.

Yeshua pronounced the Kiddush — the blessing — over the cup of wine. As was done at every significant meal by all the Jews of the world. It might seem magical, that blessing, to one who didn’t know the rituals of the Israelites. Though perhaps it is no less magical in the knowing. Magic either exists or it does not. Then — also according to Pharisaic custom — to signal the beginning of the meal, Yeshua removed the cloth that covered the bread and he broke the bread and handed a piece to each of those present. It was a large room, but even large as it was, it could not nearly have contained all of the people who would one day say they had been in it that night.

All who really were there would attest that the blessing of the bread and the wine were no different from those they had all seen Yeshua perform before, and their fathers perform and their uncles perform and themselves perform in their turn. But it is true that Yeshua then spoke words uncommon, though not unknown, a Nazirite Vow: ‘After this wine, I will not now drink again of the fruit of the vine until I drink it anew in the Kingdom of God.’

Because Yeshua knew what was to happen that night, if all came good. And he had to believe that it would. Because either everything would be won or all would be lost. He was in expectation and excitation of the imminence of the Kingdom. Which was why his hand shook when he held the cup of wine, so much so that tiny tremulous waves flowed across the red of its top. And why his long fingers clutched too tightly into the lumps of soft, blessed bread he passed, leaving imprints in the dough, like footprints in a desert.

They ate on mats on the floor, as always, and Yeshua held the disciple he loved close to him. Both men seemed to take strength from the other’s presence. The disciple Yeshua loved reclined against him. At times lay back in Yeshua’s lap, or alongside him, cupped in one another’s curves. Two men accustomed to the consolation brought by the other in times of difficulty.

The room was full of unease and tension. For all of them knew some of what might come to pass that night and even the best would be a terrifying ordeal and the worst would be unthinkable.

Yeshua and his beloved shared not only this fearful future but also their past. And they whispered together a lot during the meal. Of revelation, perhaps, or of love. No one but them knew. And why should they? Even a king must have secrets. Especially a king. And the one he loves should be the one to share them.

Among the Greeks, it was considered quite commonplace and natural for a man to love another man. For them to lounge together and feed each other. For them to take solace and comfort from the other’s touch. It was not so normal in Judaea. But, then, Yeshua was hardly a normal man and, anyway, he was from Galilee. But even enquiries into inclination are perhaps irrelevant for those who are celibate. And both Yeshua and the disciple he loved were. The other apostles all knew that Yeshua, who loved many, still loved one particularly. And that this man, quite naturally, loved Yeshua back. Quite naturally not only because everyone loved Yeshua — Yeshua was a prince — but because they were brothers: raised and grown together; born and bonded. Yeshua and James the Lesser loved each other as demonstrably and affectionately as any chaste men could. Just as King David loved Jonathan, so King Yeshua loved James. They loved each other only beneath their love for their land and their God.

When the meal was over. When all that needed to be said had been said. When Yeshua had washed his disciples’ feet, the king as their servant. When all had embraced and looked their friends in the eyes for the last time in the world as it was. Then Yeshua told the Twelve to arm themselves. And they picked up their swords and followed him out into the night.