Old Salome placed her hand on Magdalene’s burning head. “Why are you crying, my child?” she asked with compassion.
“I don’t want to die,” Magdalene replied. “Life is good. I don’t want to die!”
Mary the wife of Joseph extended her hand now too. She did not fear her any longer, nor did she detest her. “Do not be afraid, Mary,” she said, touching her. “God protects you; you won’t die.”
“How do you know, Mary?” asked Magdalene, her eyes gleaming.
“God gives us time, Magdalene, time to repent,” Jesus’ mother replied with certainty.
But as the three women talked and were about to be united by pain, cries of “They’re coming! They’re coming! Here they are!” flowed forth from the vineyards, and before old Zebedee could slide down again from his platform, huge incensed men appeared at the street door, and Barabbas, flushed and drenched with sweat, strode over the threshold, bellowing.
“Hey, Zebedee,” he shouted, “we’re coming in, with or without your permission—in the name of the God of Israel!”
This said, and before the old proprietor could open his mouth, Barabbas ripped the house door off its hinges with one shove and seized Magdalene by her braids.
“Outside, whore! Outside!” he roared, hauling her into the yard. The citizens of Magdala entered at this point. They grabbed her, lifted her up, brought her amidst boos and fits of laughter to a pit near the lake, and threw her in. Then both men and women scattered all around and loaded their aprons and tunics with stones.
Old Salome meanwhile had jumped off her couch despite the pains which tortured her and had dragged herself into the yard in order to berate her husband.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she shouted at him. “You let those rowdies set foot in your house and grab a woman right out of your hands, a woman who was seeking mercy of you.”
She turned also to her son Jacob, who stood irresolutely in the middle of the yard.
“And you—you follow in your father’s footsteps. Shame on you! Aren’t you going to turn out any better? Are you going to let profits be your God too? Go ahead, run! Run to protect a woman that an entire village wants to kill. An entire village! They should be ashamed of themselves!”
“Calm down, Mother, I’m going,” answered her son, who feared no one in the whole world except his mother. Every time she turned upon him with anger he was overcome with fright because he felt that this wild, severe voice was not hers; it was the ancient, desert-roughened voice of the obstinate race of Israel.
Turning, Jacob nodded to Philip and Nathanael, his two companions. “Let’s go!” he said. He searched all around the barrels in order to find Judas, but the blacksmith had gone.
“I’m coming too,” said Zebedee, who felt irritated because he was afraid to stay alone with his wife. He bent over, picked up his club and followed his son.
Magdalene was screeching. Covered with wounds, she had collapsed into one corner of the pit and put up her arms to protect her head. The men and women stood around the rim and looked at her, laughing. Carriers and vintagers from all the vineyards of the vicinity had left their work and were approaching, the young men panting to see the famous body in its bloody, half-naked state; the girls because they hated and envied this woman who enjoyed all men while they had none.
Barabbas lifted his hand as a signal for the shouting to cease. He wanted to pronounce the decree and set the stoning in motion. At that moment Jacob appeared. He started to advance toward the bandit-chief Zealot, but Philip held him tightly by the arm.
“Where are you going?” he said. “Where are any of us going? We’re a mere handful, and they’re the whole village. We haven’t a chance!”
But Jacob continued to hear his mother’s savage voice within him. “Hey, Barabbas, hey, cut-throat,” he shouted, “you’ve come to our village to kill people, have you? Well, leave the woman alone; we’ll judge her. The elders of Magdala and Capernaum will come to judge her; and her father the rabbi of Nazareth will come too. That’s the Law!”
“My son is right,” interrupted old Zebedee, who had arrived with his heavy club. “He’s right, that’s the Law!”
Barabbas swung his whole body around and stood directly in front of them. “The village elders have greased palms,” he shouted, “and so has Zebedee. I don’t trust them. I’m the Law, and if any one of you brave lads dares, let him come forward and match his strength with me!”
Men and women from Magdala and Capernaum swarmed around Barabbas, murder glittering in the pupils of their eyes. A troop of boys arrived from the village, armed with slings.
Philip grabbed Nathanael by the arm and stepped back. He turned to Jacob. “Go, son of Zebedee, go on by yourself if you want—but as for us, we’re staying put. Do you think we’re crazy?”
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves, cowards?”
“No, we’re not. Go on, go on by yourself.”
Jacob turned to his father, but Zebedee coughed.
“I’m an old man,” he said.
“Well?” shouted Barabbas, guffawing.
Old Salome arrived, leaning on her younger son’s arm. Behind them came Mary the wife of Joseph, her eyes filled with tears. Jacob turned, saw his mother, and quivered. In front of him was the terrifying cut-throat with the mob of frenzied peasants; behind him, his mother, savage and mute.
“Well?” Barabbas bellowed again, rolling up his sleeves.
“I won’t make them ashamed of me!” murmured Zebedee’s son. He stepped forward, and at once Barabbas advanced directly at him.
“He’ll kill him!” said the younger brother, trying to shake himself loose in order to run to Jacob’s side. But his mother held him back.
“You keep quiet,” she said. “Don’t interfere.”
But just as the two opponents were about to come to grips a happy cry was heard from the edge of the lake: “Maran atha! Maran atha!” A sunburned youth jumped in front of them, panting and waving his hands.
“Maran atha! Maran atha!” he shouted. “The Lord is coming!”
“Who’s coming?” they all cried, circling him. “Who?”
“The Lord,” answered the youth, and he pointed behind him toward the desert. “The Lord—there he is!”
Everyone turned. The sun was going down now; the heat was abating. A man could be seen climbing up from the shore. He was dressed all in white, like a monk from the monastery. The oleanders at the lake front were in bloom, and the white-robed man put out his hand, picked a red one and placed it between his lips. Two seagulls were walking on the pebbles; they stepped aside to let him pass.
Old Salome lifted her white-haired head and sniffed the air. ‘Who’s coming?” she asked her son. “The wind has changed.”
“My heart is ready to burst, Mother,” the boy answered. “I think it’s him!”
“Who?”
“Shh, don’t talk!”
“And who are those people in back of him? Good grief, there’s a whole army running behind him.”
“They’re the poor who glean the leavings of the vintage, Mother. They’re not an army; don’t be afraid.”
And truly, the swarm of ragamuffins which began to appear in his train was like an army. They immediately scattered all through the harvested vineyards—men, women and children, with sacks and baskets—and began to search. Each year at the reaping, the vintage and the olive harvest these flocks of hunger poured out of the whole of Galilee and collected the wheat, grapes and olives which the landowners left for the poor, as ordered by the Law of Israel.
The man in white suddenly halted. The sight of the multitude had frightened him. I must leave! he said to himself, overwhelmed by the old fear. This is the world of men. I must leave; I must return to the desert, where God is. ... Once more his fate hung on a delicate thread. Which way should he go—forward or back?
Everyone about the pit stood motionless, watching him. Jacob and Barabbas still faced each other, with rolled-up sleeves. Even Magdalene
lifted her head and listened. Life? Death? What was this silence? The wind had changed. Suddenly she jumped up, lifted her arms and cried, “Help!”
The man in white heard the voice, recognized it and quivered.
“It’s Magdalene,” he murmured. “Magdalene! I must save her!” He advanced rapidly toward the crowd, his arms spread wide.
The more he approached the people and perceived their anger-filled eyes and the dark, tortured fierceness of their expressions, the more his heart stirred, the more his bowels flooded with deep sympathy and love. These are the people, he reflected. They are all brothers, every one of them, but they do not know it Magdalene and that is why they suffer. If they knew it, what celebrations there would be, what hugging and kissing, what happiness!
He arrived finally and stepped up onto a rock, stretching out his arms to the left and right. One word, one joyful and triumphant word, spurted forth from deep within his bowels: “Brothers!”
The astonished people looked at each other. No one replied.
“Brothers—” the triumphant cry resounded again—“brothers, I am delighted to see you.”
“Well we’re not delighted to see you, cross-maker!” Barabbas answered him, picking up a heavy stone from the ground.
“My boy!” someone shouted in a heart-rending voice, and Mary rushed out and embraced her son. She laughed, wept, caressed him; but he, without speaking, untwisted his mother’s arms from about him and advanced toward Barabbas.
“Barabbas, my brother,” he said, “I’m glad to see you. I am a friend; I bring a message of great joy.”
“Don’t come any closer,” roared Barabbas, and he placed himself in front of Magdalene in order to hide her from the other’s eyes. But she heard the beloved voice and jumped to her feet.
“Jesus,” she screamed, “help!”
A single stride brought Jesus to the pit’s brim. Magdalene had begun to climb up, gripping the rocks with her fingers and toes. Jesus stooped and held out his hand. She grasped it and he pulled her out. She collapsed onto the ground, puffing, and covered with blood.
Barabbas rushed over and stamped his foot down on her back. “She’s mine!” he bellowed, raising the stone which he held in his hand. “I’ll kill her—she polluted the Sabbath. Death!”
“Death! Death!” the people howled in their turn, afraid now that their sacrifice would escape.
“Death!” Zebedee cried out too as he saw the ragamuffins circle the newcomer, doubtlessly filling their heads with fancy ideas. Woe is us if paupers are allowed to do whatever they please. “Death!” he shouted again, banging his club on the ground. “Death!”
Jesus restrained Barabbas’s lifted arm. “Barabbas,” he said, his voice tranquil and sad, “have you never disobeyed one of God’s commandments? In your whole life have you never stolen, murdered, committed adultery or told a lie?”
He turned to the howling multitude and looked at each person, one by one, slowly. “Let him among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone!”
The mass stirred; one by one the people stepped back, struggling to escape this clawing look which was excavating their memories and vital organs. The men recalled all the lies they had uttered during their lifetimes, the acts of injustice they had committed, the wives of others they had bedded; the women lowered their kerchiefs, and the stones they held in their hands slid to the ground.
When old Zebedee saw the rabble about to emerge victorious, he flew into a rage. Once more Jesus turned to the people and stared at them one by one, stared into the very depths of their eyes. “Let him among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.
“Me,” snapped Zebedee. “Barabbas, give me your stone. Innocence has no fears: I’ll throw it.”
Barabbas was delighted. He gave him the stone and stepped to one side. Zebedee stood over Magdalene, holding the stone in his fist and judging its weight, in order to hit her squarely on the head. She had rolled herself up into a ball at Jesus’ feet and was tranquil, for she felt that here she had no fear of death.
The infuriated ragamuffins looked at old Zebedee, and one of them, the gauntest of the lot, jumped forward.
“Hey, Zebedee,” he shouted, “there’s a God, you know. Your hand will be paralyzed—aren’t you afraid? Think back: you never gobbled up the rights of the poor? You never in your life caused an orphan’s vineyard to be sold at auction? You never stepped into a widow’s house at night?”
As he listened, the old sinner felt the weight of the stone in his hand and restrained himself more and more. Suddenly he uttered a cry, his arm wilted abruptly and fell useless at his side. The large stone rolled out of his grasp and landed on his foot, breaking his toes.
The ragamuffins shouted for joy. “Miracle! Miracle! Magdalene is innocent!”
Barabbas went wild; his pock-marked face puffed up fiery red. Darting at the son of Mary, he lifted his hand and slapped him. But Jesus calmly turned the other cheek.
“Hit the other one too, Barabbas, my brother,” he said.
Barabbas’s hand grew numb, and his eyes popped out of his head. Who was this person? What was he—a ghost, a man or a devil? Dumfounded, he stepped back and gazed at Jesus.
“Hit the other cheek, Barabbas, my brother,” the son of Mary incited him once more.
At this point Judas emerged from the shade of the fig tree where he had been standing off to one side, watching. He had seen everything but had not spoken. Whether Magdalene was killed or not made no difference to him, but he was pleased to hear Barabbas and the ragamuffins stand up against Zebedee and declaim his sins. When he saw Jesus appear at the lake shore dressed in his new white robe, his heart had pounded. “Now it will become clear who he is, what he wants and what message he has for men,” he had murmured, cocking his huge ear. But the very start, the very first word—“Brothers”—displeased him, and his expression soured. “He still hasn’t put any sense into his head,” he grumbled. “No, we’re not all brothers. Israelites and Romans are not brothers, nor are Israelites among themselves. The Sadducees who sell themselves to Rome, the village chiefs—as many as cover up for the tyrant—they are not our brothers. No, you’ve got off to a bad start, son of the Carpenter. Look out!” But when he saw Jesus offer the other cheek, without anger and with a superb inhuman sweetness, he became frightened. What is this man? he shouted to himself. This ... this offering of the other cheek: only an angel could do that, only an angel—or a dog.
He reached Barabbas now with one bound and seized him by the arm just as he was about to rush upon the son of Mary.
“Don’t touch him,” he said in a muffled voice. “Go home!”
Barabbas looked at Judas with astonishment. They were both in the same brotherhood; side by side they had often entered villages and cities and killed Israel’s traitors. And now ...
“You, Judas,” he murmured, “you?”
“Yes, me. Go!”
Barabbas continued to hold his ground. Judas was his superior in the brotherhood and he could not oppose him; but his self-respect, on the other hand, did not let him budge.
“Go!” the redbeard commanded once more.
The bandit chief lowered his head and threw a savage glance at the son of Mary. “You won’t get away from me,” he murmured, clenching his fist. “We shall meet again!”
Turning to his followers, he commanded them halfheartedly: “Let’s go.”
THE SUN was about to touch the sky’s foundations. The fever of the day wilted, the wind died down, the lake sparkled rose and blue. Several storks, still hungry, stood on one leg upon the rocks, their eyes pinned on the water.
The ragamuffins fixed their eyes on the son of Mary and waited, not wanting to leave. What were they waiting for? They had forgotten their hunger and nakedness; they had forgotten the malice of the landowners, who had lacked the goodness of heart to leave a few grapes on the vintaged vines in order to sweeten the throat of poverty. They had been going from vineyard to vineyard since the morning, and th
eir baskets remained empty. The same had happened at the reaping: they had gone from field to field, their sacks hanging empty at their sides; and each evening their children waited for them with opened mouths! But now—they did not know why or how—their baskets seemed suddenly to have been filled. They looked at the man in white in front of them and could not bear to leave. They waited. Waited for what? They themselves did not know.
The son of Mary returned their look. He too was waiting; he felt that all these souls were suspended from his neck. What did they want of him? What were they seeking? What could he give them, he who had nothing? He looked at them, looked at them, and for an instant lost courage and wanted to flee again, but was prevented by shame. What would become of Magdalene, who was clinging to his feet? And so many eyes gazing at him with yearning: how could he leave them unconsoled? To leave? But where to go? God was on every side. His grace pushed him where it pleased—no, not his grace, his power, his all-powerful power. The son of Mary now felt that this earth was his home—he had no other home; he felt that men were his desert—he had no other desert.