A small hand takes mine.
Yoni’s hand.
His face is tortured and sad. “You are angry on the rabbi, yes?”
“He did a big foolishness.” I spit the road.
“Very deep foolishness,” Yoni says.
“He says the tax-farmer is forgiven by HaShem of all he ever did.”
“It is more foolish than yesterday, when he told forgiveness to the cripple-man,” Yoni says.
“That was …” I do not know what to think. If the rabbi had no authority to tell forgiveness to the cripple-man, how did he make the man whole?
“It is more foolish than when he told forgiveness to the zonah.”
I turn to stare on Yoni. “What zonah?”
Yoni’s hand flies up to his mouth, and his face turns the color of wine. “I … Rabbi Yeshua told me once that a zonah repented and he told forgiveness to her.”
I am more shocked than I ever was. A man should not speak with a woman, for women are full of lewdness and idle talk. Rabbi Yeshua is a tsaddik, and he sometimes speaks with the women of our family. Perhaps HaShem winks on a tsaddik who speaks with women of good family.
But even a tsaddik does not make words with a zonah. It is not done.
Yoni’s face turns dark and hard as the stones we use to build our homes. “But I have not told you the most foolish thing Rabbi Yeshua ever did.”
“You should not say it. Guard yourself from the Evil Tongue, for that is a sin—”
“You would not believe who Rabbi Yeshua once told forgiveness to.”
“I do not wish to hear it.”
“Rabbi Yeshua once told forgiveness to men who were his own friends, men who threw him off and ran like women.”
All my body is ice.
I cannot walk.
I cannot think.
A knife is in my heart.
Yoni is impudent and conceited and talks overmuch.
But even an impudent, conceited, talkative boy can tell a true word.
The others are walking ahead of us. Yoni still holds my hand. He looks on me with eyes I cannot look back on.
I hurry after the others. I do not run. A man of honor does not run. I walk speedily.
I pass Andre.
I pass Big Yaakov.
I pass Toma the boat maker and Philip and Natanel the hireling.
I pass Rabbi Yeshua’s mother, who walks with heavy steps.
I come up behind Rabbi Yeshua. He still holds hands and talks with the tax-farmer and laughs. He seems to have forgotten me, but I know in my heart he will never forget me, not if I live to be as old as our prophet Moses.
I seize his free hand in mine.
Rabbi Yeshua looks on me, and his eyes are the eyes of a friend.
He smiles on me. “Shimon, my brother.”
Far above us, beyond the range of hearing, some bird of prey screams a cry of rage.
Miryam of Nazareth
‘Your son makes another scandal.’
‘My son has his reasons.’
‘What reasons? He called a tax-farmer his brother.’
‘I … that is a hard thing.’
‘It is a thing that cannot be forgiven.’
‘He must have his reasons.’
‘What reasons? Tax-farmers are wicked and make a theft on the people. What will Little Yaakov say when he hears your son call a tax-farmer his brother?’
‘He will be very angry. I am glad Yeshua refused to let him come, for he would fight Yeshua on the matter.’
‘Yeshua would not fight back. He is weak.’
‘He is kind.’
‘Kind is the same as weak. Your son will never make a war on the Great Satan.’
‘He will.’
‘He will never make a freedom on the land.’
‘He will.’
‘He will never crush your village and make a justice on your name.’
‘He …’ I cannot say my son will crush our village.
‘You know I speak true.’
‘My son will make a justice on me. He said he will.’
‘He means to, for he loves you, but he is kind and he will not. He will never confront. He will never tell them their sin. That is his weakness. You know I speak true.’
‘He is kind. I thank HaShem every day in the year that my son is kind.’
‘That is a good thing when he is kind on you. It is a weakness when he is kind on the village, when he will not defend. And you know he will never defend. When the Evil Boy kicked Little Yaakov in the underparts, did Yeshua defend?’
‘He was only a child.’
‘When the Evil Boy threw haryo on you and squeezed your bosoms and reached for your woman parts, did your son defend?’
‘He was not yet a man.’
‘Your son will never defend.’
‘He is a man now. He will defend.’
‘When will he defend?’
‘He will defend when he wears the Ring of Justice. And Thin Shimon will find it for him. I know he will.’
‘Even if he wears the Ring of Justice, he will not defend.’
‘He will defend if he must.’
‘What would make him defend?’
‘If all the village attacks him, he will defend.’
‘You are sure on that?’
‘He must defend, or he will die.’
‘What will make the village attack him?’
‘How should I know?’
‘So you will let him go all his life grinning on the village elders and doing nothing to confront the village and never making a justice on your name because he is kind. You do not care if he never defends, do you?’
‘I care. I wish more than anything that he will smite the village.’
‘Then make the village smite him first. That will force him to defend.’
‘How?’
‘Make a scandal on the village.’
‘How?’
‘Make two scandals. Make five. Make a hundred.’
‘How?’
‘You see that tax-farmer he walks with now?’
‘How can I not see him? It makes me sick on my stomach to see him walk with a tax-farmer, holding hands with him as he is a friend.’
‘Will it make your village sick on its stomach to hear of this tax-farmer?’
‘How should they ever hear of a tax-farmer?’
‘Do you know nothing? What can a tax-farmer do that most men cannot?’
‘He can steal by permission of the king.’
‘That will not make your village hear of him. What else can a tax-farmer do?’
‘He can do sums.’
‘That gets near the boil, but it will not lance it.’
‘He can write.’
‘That is well said, that a tax-farmer can write. What would you do if you could write?’
‘I would write a letter home to my sons to tell them the news.’
‘If you make a friend on this tax-farmer, what could he do for you?’
‘I will never make a friend on a tax-farmer!’
‘Think on the matter.’
‘I only wish my son to smite the village.’
‘Think on the matter.’
‘My son will never smite the village unless they smite him first.’
‘Think on the matter.’
‘The village will never smite my son unless he makes a scandal.’
‘Make a scandal, Miryam Beautiful. Make a mighty scandal.’
‘How?’
‘Think on the matter.’
Part 4: The Precipice
Summer, AD 30
We must kill the mamzer boy
The mamzer boy
The mamzer boy.
We must kill the mamzer boy
The son of Miryam.
Chapter Sixty
Miryam of Nazareth
“But how are we to send the letter?” I ask Mattai the tax-farmer. I never sent a letter in my life.
Mattai the tax-farmer grins on me. “Come and see.�
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I have made a friend on the tax-farmer. It burns my heart to say so, but I did it. I need him. None of the other men can make fine letters in ink with a reed pen on papyrus. Even my son cannot do it, for he never had anyone to teach him fine writing. Yoni can write a little on a wax tablet, but he does not know the matter of fine writing on papyrus. But the tax-farmer can do it in his sleep, and he also has money to buy papyrus.
Mattai the tax-farmer is grateful to have one friend, even if I am only an old woman.
Last night, I asked him to write a letter to my sons. I told him all my sons can read. He was surprised to hear it and said I must be a proud mother to have five sons who can read. They cannot read well, except Thin Shimon, but my lord Yoseph learned to read from Yaakov Mega, and he made all my sons learn before he died.
When my sons get my letter, they will read it many times and then take it to the village square and tell the news. I told the tax-farmer all we did since we left Nazareth, and he wrote it down in beautiful letters, and it is a mighty tale.
We came to Magdala yesterday, which is a big town. My son went out early this morning before anyone was awake. Yoni went also, and they are both still gone. Now is a good time to send my letter.
I follow Mattai the tax-farmer through the streets. He knows the town well, for he grew up here. He told me it is the chief town of this toparchy. I do not know what is a toparchy, but I see Magdala is bigger than Nazareth and even Capernaum.
Mattai told me his father was a scribe here. He told me after his father died he was starving until he found work with a tax-farmer.
I am in a big confusion on the matter. A tax-farmer is a wicked who cheats the people. HaShem hates tax-farmers. But Mattai was starving. If my sons all died and I was starving, what would I do? I could not be a tax-farmer, for that is a man’s work.
I could be a zonah, or I could starve, and that is not a choice.
The synagogue sits in the center of the town. When we arrive there, it looks to me like a big confusion, for there are many hundred people outside, all going a different way. There are more people here in this one street than we have in all Nazareth! It makes me dizzy to see so many people.
Mattai the tax-farmer cups hands to his mouth and shouts, “Who travels to Caesarea and will carry a letter?”
That sounds like foolishness, for I want my letter to go to Nazareth. Caesarea is a big city beside the Great Sea, far from Nazareth.
Three men move toward us, grinning with big grins.
Mattai the tax-farmer smiles on them all. “I have a letter for a man in Nazareth. It is south from Tsipori by a walk of one hour on the road to Caesarea. The village is only just off the road a little.”
“How far off the road?” asks one of the men. He looks like an oxcart driver.
Mattai the tax-farmer turns to me.
I shrug. “It is not the fourth part of an hour’s walk, up a small hill.”
“That is not far,” Mattai the tax-farmer says.
“It is very far if the hill is steep,” says the oxcart driver.
The second man looks like a peddler, for he has a pack of wares on his back. “I have seen that hill. It is not more steep than the road from here to Tsipori. But the path is narrow and twists like a snake and has big ruts. It is hard for a man with a pack. Too hard for an oxcart.”
The third man looks like a beggar. His face is dirty, and he smells like three-days-old fish. “I will take the letter for two dinars.”
I do not want him to take my letter. And anyway, I do not have two dinars.
“The man who receives the letter will give hospitality one night,” Mattai the tax-farmer says.
The oxcart driver shakes his head. “I do not like the sound of that path.”
“One dinar and a half,” says the peddler.
Mattai the tax-farmer taps his nose. “If you can tell news to the village, you might get hospitality a second night. If you tell a good news, they will feast you, for Nazareth is a small village.”
The beggar shifts his weight. “One dinar.”
The oxcart driver and the peddler scowl and say nothing.
Mattai the tax-farmer looks hard on each of the men. “Is it one dinar, then?”
They all look on each other and nod.
Some filthy beggar is going to take my letter away! What if he is a liar who takes our dinar and then does not give the letter to Little Yaakov? I feel as I will faint.
Mattai the tax-farmer tilts his head toward the synagogue. “Come with me,” he says to the beggar.
I follow them into the synagogue. Mattai the tax-farmer goes to a small side room where there is a wooden writing table with an inkwell and reed pens. He unrolls my letter and writes something at the end. He blows softly on the ink to dry it, then rolls up the papyrus and seals it with a glob of wax from a small metal pot hanging over an oil lamp.
He presses his signet ring into the soft wax and hands the letter to the beggar. “Take this only to Little Yaakov the tekton, who lives in Nazareth. I have written him to pay you one dinar and feed you well and give you hospitality one night. Also, he will take you to the village square if you can tell any news.”
The beggar makes a big grin and gives a strong right hand to Mattai the tax-farmer. “I swear by The Name that Little Yaakov will read this letter tonight.”
We go outside in the bright sun. I am astonished it was so easy. I never knew how to send a letter before. It never mattered, because I cannot write. I cannot read either, but I have sons for that.
Now I know how it is done, I will send a letter every week.
Only now I am in debt to this tax-farmer. I feel unclean. I do not like pretending to be a friend on a man I scorn.
I think it is how a zonah feels, who pretends to take a pleasure with a man she hates.
I think I am not so wicked as a zonah, but still I feel unclean.
Miryam of Magdala
I am walking from my salting house to the fish market when the voice of my dead son rises up from the deep places in my heart.
‘Imma! Turn now and go another way! There is a man of scandal just ahead of you.’
‘I do not see a man of scandal.’
‘That man walking toward you with purpose in his stride. He has men with him, half a dozen lowborn men. He gives you an evil eye.’
‘Who is that man? He does not look wicked, and anyway it is a public street. What can he do in the broad daylight?’
‘He will make a scandal on you for all Magdala to see. If you love me, turn now!’
I do not want a scandal, and I trust my son to guide me. I am about to turn away, but then I see the man of scandal stop to give alms to the blind beggar who sits in front of the synagogue.
Every day I give this beggar a coin, for it is a commandment of HaShem to give alms.
The beggar calls out, “Give to HaShem!”
The man of scandal squats in the dust of the street in front of the beggar.
I am scandalized. A respectable man does not squat before a beggar.
The man of scandal puts dust from the street in his hand and spits the dust and mixes with his finger.
I am beyond scandalized. My friends Yohana and Shoshanna will demand a full report on this dreadful thing. I move closer.
The man of scandal puts the mud in the eyes of the blind beggar.
I wish I had a stick to beat this man of scandal! It is not done, to put mud of dishonor in the eyes of a helpless man.
The blind beggar cries out with a great cry.
That was ill done! I press closer to give the man of scandal hard words.
The man of scandal seizes the hand of the beggar and pulls him to his feet.
The blind beggar smiles. He shouts. He falls on his face before the man of scandal and kisses his feet.
He looks on me.
The blind beggar looks on me with eyes that see.
I am undone.
My head is hot and my hands are cold. This man of scandal must be that
Rabbi Yeshua we hear tales on. Out of Capernaum. At first, we thought they were idle tales of foolish fish-men. But now all Magdala tells these tales, and some even believe them.
I do not know what to think.
The man of scandal gives the beggar a kiss and a kiss and a kiss.
He has no honor, if he kisses some beggar in the street. I have seen enough. This tale will shock my friends beyond all they ever heard. I turn to move away.
“Woman, wait!” There is command in Rabbi Yeshua’s voice.
I wish to rush away fast, but my feet are stones, and I have no strength to walk. I look back.
Rabbi Yeshua is running toward me.
I never saw a grown man run. It is dishonor to run. A man of honor walks with dignity.
He runs to meet me. “Woman, I have a word of HaShem for you.”
‘Imma! Send him away! He has evil intent. Why else would he speak to a woman in the street? He will make a scandal on you.’
My mouth falls open, but my words crumble to dust. “I …”
“Woman, HaShem says you are invited to a big feast this evening.”
‘Imma! That is a lie. This man has no house, nor money, nor servants. How can he make a big feast? Tell him away.’
My heart drums in my chest. I am a woman of high family, even if all my family is dead. I will not allow this man to make a scandal on me.
A crowd gathers around us.
I read their faces. They envy me. Any one of them would pay a hundred dinars to dine at the feast of Rabbi Yeshua. There will be shocking tales to tell from this feast. Never and never will I go to his feast. Although if I did, Yohana and Shoshanna would be begging for every detail. They would be furious they were not invited. But of course I will refuse it.
“Woman, HaShem begs favor of you, that you come to my feast.”
The crowd murmurs, and there is scorn in their voices. A man of honor does not beg favor of a woman. It is beyond foolishness that HaShem should beg favor of a woman.
Son of Mary Page 38
