Simon Peter is all contrition. “Master!” he cries. “I am ready to go with you, both into prison and into death.”
Yeshu shakes his head slowly, saying, “I tell you, Peter, before the cock crows this day, you will have denied me thrice.” Wounded, Peter points to his own breast, mouthing, “Me, Master?” But my beloved friend lifts now his head and looks out at all of us, and this time his voice is strong and firm and does not brook contradiction. “I tell you this also, that which is written will be accomplished in me. Therefore, it is time we began this night’s business. Jude, go and do what it is you must do.”
I do not know if any see but me, yet see I so clearly I know the sight will burn in my brain for all the rest of my life. I see a tear fall from the eye of Jude.
Jude’s tear is as a pearl I wear in my heart.
THE EIGHTEENTH SCROLL
His Will Be Done
All those Yeshu would have wait for us are even now in the shadows of the great supports of the Bridge of the Red Heifer in the Valley of the Kidron. They too have feasted in the homes of friends, or by campfires. Some have supped this night at the table of Josephus, and of these, we find first Veronica with her delight, the prattling Norea. And here are all the rest of the women who have not been to the House of Megas, or of Josephus, and as ever among them is the nameless woman of Ephraim. And there are the men: Saul the Bandit and Menahem the son of Simon bar Judas and James the son of Jacob bar Judas and more and more, and more even than followed us from Galilee, for word of Yehoshua the Nazorean has spread like fire through straw.
Though Father is not here—for it is not planned that Josephus of Arimathaea be in this place at this time—my cousin Eleazar keeps near me. And I am near to Mary the mother of Yeshu and of Jude, and I hold her, though she does not know why. Eloi! Eloi! How soon this timid one will be put to a test not even Job could bear. Not one son, but two, to die this night, each in his own way.
Our torches hiss and spit, as did the torches of the Feast of Osiris once spit, as all these wend their way from bottom to near top of the Mount of Olives, and Yeshu’s robe is as unearthly white as the robes of the Therapeutae. At our head, he leads all these up to the very gate of Gethsemane, my mother’s garden and tomb. But when I think we will all pass through the gate in the stone wall, he turns and holds up his hand, saying, “Wait for me here, for I go now to speak with the Father. But you, Simon Peter, will come with me, and I would have also the Sons of Thunder.” He says nothing to me, but it is understood that I do not leave his side.
And so it is that we five would make our way up into Hokhmah’s garden of the olive press, but Mary reaches out and takes hold of Yeshu’s mantle, and by this, she slows his going. She says not a word, but all of scripture is in her eyes, and all of living and of dying, and Yeshu knows that in some way, she understands. He cannot help but smile upon her. “Let not your heart be troubled, Mother.”
And here he lifts his face to all who listen. “Little children, yet a short while, I am with you. You will seek me, but where I go, you cannot come. So now I say to you that I bring a new Law, that you love one another as I love you. By this, shall all men know you. For all who believe in the Father believe also in me, and understand that in my Father’s house are many mansions. If it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I do this, I will come again, and where I am, there too you will be. For no child is shut out from the house of the Father and the Mother.”
But his cousin Simeon, whose great smile is washed from his face by what it is he hears, cries out, “Cousin! Show us the Father, so that we know where it is you go.”
Yeshu loves this man, whose strength of body far exceeds his strength of mind. “Have I been so long with you and still you do not know me? He that sees me sees the Father. I am in the Father and the Father is in me. The words that I speak and the acts that I do, these are the Father’s words and the Father’s acts. Any who believes this of me, should he also believe it of himself, for the works I do, you shall do, and greater than I have done, shall you do.”
It is Veronica, Jude’s wife, who speaks now, and I see that she grapples with what is being said to her with the whole of her mind. “But you say you will come again?”
“You have heard me say this. I go away and come again to you. For greater love has no man than this, that he should lay down his life for his friends.”
And there are those who begin to hear him, and those who begin to understand. In the face of Veronica a knowing comes forth. Yeshu smiles on her, raises his hand to her face. “Because I tell you these things, I see sorrow has filled your heart, but here is a truth. If I do not go out to what has been prophesied, how then can I return to comfort you? You sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your heart will rejoice, for in that time I will speak no longer in proverbs and symbols, but plainly, for in that time you will hear me.”
Veronica is awash with tears, as is Simeon and many others. Do they know now what is to come?
“Where, Yeshu’a?” Simeon is hewn at the knees by his understanding. “Where and when will we see you again?”
“You shall see me in Galilee, after my three days are past.” At this, he turns to me, saying, “John, take us to where we might wait for what comes.”
And so we enter again into the garden of Gethsemane.
We walk up the path I know well, not for having followed it at my mother’s heel, but for following Father when my mother had left this world. Now I am at the heel of Yeshu, at mine are Jacob and Simon bar Judas, and at theirs Peter. And we go on in this way, silent and purposeful, moving under the black branches lit white by moonlight until we come to the stone bench where stands Hokhmah’s apple tree. Here, where he and I tarried the whole of a day, each opening unto each, Yeshu stops, saying in a voice as grievous as my heart, “Sit you here, and watch with me. I would go farther for there is a sorrow in me, even unto death.”
Hearing these words, John the Less would sit with Simon Peter and with the Sons of Thunder, but Yeshu makes a small gesture that calls only me on with him. For this, I am gifted with a look of baleful hatred from Peter. But as he, in his way, suffers so, I cannot begrudge him his jealousy. Simon Peter shall ever be as Simon Peter is.
So we leave them to sit and to keep watch, each with his hand under his cloak, for all three, being seasoned Sicarii, know that something tremendous is afoot, though none knows what. But Yeshu and I go on, climbing a narrow path through carven rocks, some tall as a tower, some wide as a house, that leads to the door of my mother’s tomb. And here it is that Yeshu places his palms on the wheel of stone that covers the whole of the entrance. It would take but a strong shoulder against the stone to roll it away, but Yeshu does not push. He stands and he presses his hands flat to the surface, a surface I know is as cool as death. He presses his forehead against the stone. “Will I do this, beloved? Will the Father have me do this?”
Only now, as I move to his side, do I notice the sweat that flows down his face, mingled with tears. I have never seen such agony. Not on the face of the Samaritan father whose son was lost. Not on the brow of the madman who contained Legions. If ever I had words of comfort, or something of wisdom to teach, it must be now—but I am wordless. If ever Mariamne the prophet should speak ringing words of meaning and challenge, it must be now—but the Loud Voice is silent, as it has been since the Chamber of the Carmelites.
“Father!” my friend cries out to the stone, as silent as I am silent. “Take this cup from my lips!”
Oh Isis and all the gods, would that I could take it from him! Would that I could find the words or the way to turn him from what he has set his face to do, but I would sooner find a way to stop a great wave in the sea, or the sun in its path. And all around it is as quiet as death, and the Father neither speaks nor howls nor lights up the world with the crushing Glory of his Kingdom. That trick of the eye, that way of looking at what is always there, but rarely seen, is not mine this night nor is it Yeshu’s. Not since
he walked out from the wilderness with Glory in his red hair and in his red beard, with Glory coiling like shining mist about his person, has he been like this. The Light has fallen from him. He stands unrevealed in the darkness. And he is afraid.
I sink down beside him, and clasp his knees in my arms. And I think I will die of weeping. Or that I will weep forever. But he has lifted me up again so that once more I stand beside him. My face is not wet with tears but awash with them, as the delta with the Nile, and he traces my flooded cheek with a fingertip, touches my wet and salty mouth. And then he smiles. Can it be? Could his Glory come again, and come greater than ever? Does Yehoshua the Nazorean have this one bleak moment of unutterable darkness, but banishes the Dark in knowing the Light? I feel a tremendous stirring uncoil through my spine and throughout my limbs and behind my forehead, and it seems I am thrilled by joy. I am made rapt by Yeshu and by the snake that unwinds within me. Will I walk once more, as I have not walked since a dying child, in the Light of Perfect Peace and Perfect Knowing?
I am afraid and I am not afraid. I walk in Glory again—but this time I go with Yeshu. And being truly alive, Yeshu and I who am once more enraptured, meet in the Bliss of Being as it was meant in the Beginning of the End and the End of the Beginning. We are not selves at all; we are not two but one. For have we not been husband and wife, always?
It is still dark, the stars still shine, but the moon rolls along the edge of the sky, so that I know the sun is no more than an hour from the east. I feel Yeshu stir beside me; his voice a whisper. “Rise, beloved, my time is come.” And immediately I rise up in full knowing and I no longer tremble and I no longer rage, for I am no longer afraid. All is as it should be. We walk down the path between rocks that we walked up, and it is the same path, changed in no way that the eye can see, yet it is a different path, so changed it seems of another world. And there at the end of it are the Sons of Thunder, and there is Simon Peter, and they sleep tumbled each against each. For a moment, Yeshu stands before them, looking down on the innocence of his disciples with great fondness.
From below us, farther than the gate to my mother’s garden where all the others wait, far enough to be yet near the waters of the Kidron, I hear a faint clamor, and I look out into the dark. Torches flare, a great number of torches, all weaving their way over the Bridge of the Red Heifer from out the Temple Mount, all coming toward us. There is no need to tell Yeshu this, for he knows as surely as I.
He shakes Simon Peter, whose head is on the shoulder of Jacob. “Cephas, why do you sleep? Could you not watch one hour with me? Rise for those who will come, have come.”
Our Sicarii are on their feet in a trice, sheepish with guilt. And immediately we take the path that leads down to my mother’s gate.
The people are rising from where they have slept, some already on their feet, some already aware of the torches and the growing tumult that comes at us from out of the dark. Children cry out; women enfold them in their robes. Everywhere men slip sicae from their belts, and like sly smiles, the waning moon gleams on the blades. If it should be asked of these, some of those who climb the Mount of Olives with torches and with staves will meet an unhappy fate.
The men who follow Yehoshua look to see if it is asked of them.
But Yeshu, circled whether he will or no by Simon Peter and Simon and Jacob bar Judas, and now by Simeon and Saul and others, does not ask it of them. Even, he goes so far as to say, “Put up your knives, for they that live by them, shall die by them.” And some put up their knives, but not all.
I know what is coming, and I know why, so that I stand in my white linen tunic and I am wrapped round with my white linen mantle against the cold of this new day, and I face what Yeshu has willed. He that has fulfilled prophecy three times, fulfills it now a fourth. He is betrayed by a friend.
Jude Thomas the Sicarii is the first to reach us, his well-loved face stiff with what he will do. Jude, who has done so much for his brother, in this moment will now do the last of it, for so soon as it is done, and it is seen to be done by Simon Peter, by Simeon, by us all, he will be allowed no further thing. If he does not die by his own hand, he will die by another. And if he does not die, but lives, his life will be as the life of a lost lamb. And though I am enraptured and am enchanted, still I know the sorrow and the pity, but so too do I know the great triumph of it. Greater love has no man for a brother than he that will lay down his good name.
Behind him I see the face of Nicodemus. I see the face of the steward of Gamaliel, who is named Ellem, and next to this man is Malchus, who is servant to Josephus Caiaphas. They have both supped in Father’s house. There are a handful more such as these, Jews out of the city, Sanhedrin and priest, enough to begin to fulfill what is needed by the fifth prophesy, that Yeshu be arrested by Jews. These carry torches, a handful carry staves, but following on seems an entire cohort of Pilate’s men. Hundreds! Syrians by the looks of them, and these many hundreds carry swords. Pilate sends hundreds! The man must be convinced of armed rebellion. As is planned.
Jude makes no turn or pause, but walks to his twin as he has done all the days of their lives, to stand before him and to look his last into the face of Yeshu. “It is done, brother,” I hear him whisper. “It is paid. I know my own name. Pray for me.”
I hear Yeshu whisper, “As you will pray for me. No matter what occurs, no matter if I fail or I do not fail, you and I will meet in the Kingdom, for we have much yet to do with the other.”
There follows a moment like unto no other moment, as if all other clamor and tumult fade away, as if the showering sparks of the pitch torches do not land on their red hair, and burn, and in this silent, sweetly scented place, Jude steps forward and kisses Yeshu full on the mouth. It is his good-bye, his greeting, his love, and his trust, and he has sealed it with this kiss. But I hear a hiss behind me, and it is Simon Peter who makes this noise, and I know what it is he thinks, but it is of no matter.
For Yeshu knows. And Jude knows.
And I know.
Yehoshua, turning away from his brother, faces those who have followed on after Jude. He looks into the eyes of Nicodemus, of Malchus, into the eyes of Ellem. In body, he makes himself as large as Simeon. He says, “Whom do you seek?”
And though I know him hideous inside with fear, Ellem answers, “Yehoshua the Nazorean. Him we seek.”
“You have found him, for I am he.”
And here should be the end of it, for Yeshu has no plan to lose any of his, or to have them harmed in any way. There is no plan for any to strike back, and this plan would hold—save for Simon Peter. In his howling fury, Simon Peter of Capharnaum would slay Jude, but instead he collides with the first to hand, which is Malchus. In a trice, this man’s ear is gone from his head and his hand is clapped to the bloody hole, and he himself is howling and down on his knees.
And Yeshu, appalled and turning, gifts Simon Peter with a gaze like to burn, saying, “The cup the Father gives me to drink, shall I not drink it?”
So by Peter’s foolish act of foolish violence, the many soldiers of Pilate that come with the few Jews of the Temple, rush forward, some to take Yehoshua the Nazorean, but most to cut down those who follow Yehoshua. By the flaring light of the torches, by the heart-rending sounds of fear and pain, I watch Saul of Ephraim put himself between Yehoshua and Pilate’s men, only to be knocked to the ground and there set upon by a dozen Syrians. I watch as the Sons of Thunder would urge Yeshu away, and when he will not go, they would pull at him. I watch as those who are not Sicarii, Ananias and Eleazar and all the women and children, gather themselves up, and flee.
Is Norea safe? Is Mary? Am I?
Suddenly, there are two huge men of the north, their eyes made pale and dreadful by torchlight, who would run me through as I stand, and I seem as stone for all that I move. But Simeon the Zealot places himself between me and these, and though one has reached me, and grips my mantle with his fist, by the love of Simeon, I have time to wrest away, leaving only the long white cloth as a g
host in the dawn, before I too, as all the others, even Simon Peter, even Simeon himself, have fled.
Where is Jude? It is planned that we meet under my mother’s apple tree. It is planned that together we will then do all that must still be done. I have come, breathless and numbed. He is not here. Must I act alone?
Below me, the torches move away. Like a snake of fire, they descend back down to the Valley of the Kidron. With them goes my heart, but not my sense. This is as it was meant to be. This is what Yeshu wills. I will wait for Jude…but I cannot wait long. The sun comes; even now the eastern sky opens so that Ra may pass through, and with it comes Yeshu’s “death.” In two hours, perhaps three, Yeshu will have caused Tiberius’s prefect to condemn him. No matter that the Roman does or does not believe him guilty, Yehoshua will have forced his hand. This I do not doubt, not for a moment. Pilate is a proud man, he is hasty to act and regrets at leisure. As prefect, he has made many mistakes with the Jews. He is afraid he will make his last mistake. All say he is terrified of Tiberius—though who is not terrified of this cryptic and unpredictable emperor? Ananias has told me that a certain man once visited Tiberius; before his eyes this man broke a glass cup, but a moment later, passing his hands over it, made the cup seem whole again. It is an easy trick, one Addai taught me early on, but Tiberius was appalled—not even an emperor could control this!—and before another moment passed, he put the man to death. My beloved is like that man who visited Tiberius Caesar. Pilate will fear he cannot control him.
But when it is done, I must be ready. Where is Jude?