Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt

by Anne Rice

  At the synagogue, we found everyone very afraid. Joseph gathered us inside the courtyard only to wait while the women rushed up to the roof for our bundles. He and Alphaeus went to get the donkeys. James told us to stand still and be quiet, to hold on to the babies. I had Little Symeon by the hand. Cleopas leaned against the wall and smiled and said things no one could hear.

  The wailing over the dead still filled my ears. I couldn't stop thinking of our dead man, the dead man who had died so close to us. Did anyone come to bury him? What happened if nobody did?

  I hadn't looked at the face of the soldier who killed him. I hadn't looked at the face of any soldier. All I saw of them was their strung-up boots and their armor, dark and tarnished, and their spears. How could I ever forget their spears?

  "Leave Jerusalem," someone shouted even now in Hebrew here in the synagogue courtyard. "Leave Jerusalem and go to your homes. There is no Passover."

  And our dead man. He must have known the soldier would kill him when he threw the stone he had hidden under his robe. He'd brought his stones to the Temple so that he might throw them.

  Yet he had looked just like the rest of us. Same simple mantle, tunic, same dark curly hair, a beard like the beards of Joseph and my uncles. A Jew like us, though he shouted in Greek, why Greek, and why had he done it? Why had he almost flung himself at the soldier, when he knew the soldier had the spear?

  I saw in my mind the spear go into our dead man. I saw it over and over, and the look on his face. I saw the dead all over the court of the Temple and the wandering sheep. I put my hands over my eyes. I couldn't stop seeing these things.

  I felt cold. I huddled near to my mother, who at once opened her arms. I stood against her, against her soft robe.

  We stood beside Cleopas, letting Little Symeon twist and turn and play. I said to my uncle,

  "Why did that man throw those stones when he knew the soldier would kill him?"

  Cleopas had seen it. We had all seen it, hadn't we?

  Cleopas appeared to think, looking up into the bit of light that came in over the high walls. "It was a good moment to die," he said. "It was the finest moment perhaps that he'd ever seen."

  "Did you think it was good?" I asked.

  He laughed his soft slow laugh.

  He looked down at me. "Did you?" he asked. "Did you think it was good?"

  He didn't wait for my answer.

  He said in my ear:

  "Archelaus is a fool," Cleopas said. He spoke Greek. "Caesar should laugh him to scorn. King of Jews!" He shook his head. "We're in exile in our own land. That's the truth of it. That's why they were fighting! They want to get rid of this miserable family of Kings who build pagan temples and live like pagan tyrants!"

  Joseph took Cleopas by the arm and pulled him away.

  "Don't talk," said Joseph, staring at Cleopas. "No more of this here, you understand me? I don't care what you think, you say nothing more."

  Cleopas said nothing. He began coughing again. And he made sounds under his breath as if he was talking but he wasn't talking.

  Joseph went to the task of tying the bundles on the donkey. In a softer voice he said, "Nothing now, you understand me, brother?"

  Cleopas didn't answer. My aunt Mary came to Cleopas and wiped some of the sweat from his forehead.

  So I was wrong that Joseph never answered him.

  But Cleopas gave no sign that he had heard. He was lost in his laughing and staring away, as if Joseph hadn't told him these things. And there was sweat all over his face now, and the day wasn't hot.

  At last the clans were all together, and Joseph and Zebedee led us out of the courtyard.

  "My brother," Joseph said to Cleopas. "When we get outside the gates, I want you to ride on this animal."

  Cleopas nodded.

  We were packed tighter than a herd of sheep as we tried to move up the street.

  The sound of the women crying was loud under the archways and in the narrow high-walled places through which we had to go. I saw that windows and doors were shut tight. The wooden gates of courtyards had been closed. People stepped over the beggars and those huddled here and there. The men gave out coins. Joseph put a coin in my hand and said to give it to a beggar and I did, and the man kissed my ringers. He was an old man, thin and white haired with bright blue eyes.

  My legs ached and my feet hurt me on the rough paving, but this was no time to complain.

  As soon as we came out of the city, we saw all around us a sight that was even worse than what we'd seen in the Temple Court.

  The tents of the pilgrims were torn apart. Bodies lay everywhere. Goods were scattered and people had no thought to pick them up.

  And the soldiers rode wildly back and forth through the helpless people, crying out their orders, with no thought to the dead. We were to move on, everyone was to move on. They held up their spears. Some had drawn swords. They were all around us.

  We could not stop to help anyone here any more than we could have stopped in the city. The soldiers even pushed at people with their spears, and the people hurried so as not to be touched in this shameful way.

  But more than anything else, it was the number of the dead that caught our eyes. The dead were beyond number.

  'This was a massacre," said my uncle Alphaeus. He drew his sons, Silas and Levi, to him and Eli, and said so all of us could hear: "Look on the doings of this man. See it and never forget it."

  'I see it, Father, but shouldn't we stay! Shouldn't we fight!" Silas said. He said it in a whisper but we all heard it and at once the women cried out low and secretly to him that

  he must not say such a thing, and Joseph told him firmly there would be no talk of staying.

  I started to cry. I started to cry and I didn't know why I was crying. I felt I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't stop it.

  My mother said, "We'll be out in the hills soon, away from all this. You're with us. And we're going to a peaceful place. There is no war where we're going."

  I tried to swallow the crying, and I became afraid. I don't know that I'd ever been afraid before in my life. I started to see in my mind our dead man again.

  James was looking at me. And so was my cousin John, the son of Elizabeth. Elizabeth rode on a donkey. And when I saw these two looking at me, James and my cousin John, I stopped crying. It was very hard.

  The walk was getting hard. And that was a thing to think about, climbing the road as we went up and up until we could look down on the city. The harder we climbed, the less afraid I was. And soon Little Salome was up with me. We couldn't see the city over the big people even if we wanted to, but I didn't want to see it now, and no one stopped to say how beautiful the Temple was.

  The men had made Cleopas get onto one donkey, and Aunt Mary was told to ride on the other. Both of them held babies in their arms. Cleopas was talking under his breath.

  And on went the caravan.

  Yet it seemed a wrong thing to me to leave Jerusalem in this way. I thought of Silas, and what he'd said. It did feel wrong to be going. It felt wrong to be hurrying away from the Temple in the hour when the Temple was in need of care. But then there were hundreds of priests, priests who knew how to cleanse the Temple, and many of them lived in Jerusalem, and so they couldn't go away. And they would

  stay—they and the High Priest—and they would cleanse the Temple the way it ought to be cleansed.

  And they would know what to do with our dead man. They would see to it that he was washed and wrapped and buried as he ought to be. But I tried not to think of him because I knew I'd start crying again.

  The hills closed us up. Our voices were echoing off the sides of the mountains. People began to sing, but this time they sang mournful Psalms of pain and affliction.

  When riders came through, we pressed ourselves to the side. The women screamed. Little Salome was asleep on the donkey with Cleopas, who slept and talked and laughed to himself and they were slippery bundles.

  I started to cry. I couldn't help it. So many ri
ders passing us, and so quickly and no more Jerusalem.

  "We'll be there again next year," Joseph said to me. "And the year after. We're home now."

  "And maybe there will be no Archelaus by next year," Cleopas said under his breath without opening his eyes, but James and I heard it. "The King of the Jews!" he scoffed. "The King of the Jews."

  7

  A DREAM. Wake up. I was sobbing. The man went down, the spear through his chest. He went down again, the spear through his chest. Wake up, they said, more voices. Something wet was against my face. Sobbing. I opened my eyes. Where were we? "Wake up," said my mother. I was in the middle of the women, and the fire was the only light, except that something out there was lighting up the sky.

  "You're dreaming," said my mother. She held me.

  James ran past us. Little Salome was calling to me.

  "Jesus, wake up!" said my cousin John, who'd never spoken a word until now.

  What was this place, a cave? No. This was the home of my kinfolk here—this was the house in which John and his mother lived. Joseph had been carrying me by the time we got here.

  All the women were wiping my face. "You're dreaming." I was coughing from so much crying. I was so afraid, afraid and never never would I ever be not afraid as I was now. I clung to my mother. I pushed my face against her.

  "It's the royal palace," someone shouted. "They've set it on fire!"

  There was a loud noise, the sound of horses. A darkness fell. Then the red light flickered on the ceilings.

  My cousin Elizabeth prayed in a low voice, and one of the men said for the children to get back from the door.

  "Put out the lamps!" said Joseph.

  Again came the noise, the noise of horses rushing past, and screams outside.

  I didn't want to see what they were talking about, all the children screaming and shouting, and the prayers of Elizabeth running underneath. The fear swallowed me.

  Even with my eyes closed, I could see the red flashes of light. My mother kissed the top of my head.

  James said: "Jericho is burning. The palace of Herod is in flames. All of it's burning."

  "They'll rebuild it," Joseph said. "They've burned it before. Caesar Augustus will see to it that it's rebuilt." His voice was steady. I felt his hand against my shoulder. "Don't you worry, little one. Don't you worry at all."

  For a moment I slipped back into sleep—the Temple, the man rushing towards the spear. I gritted my teeth and cried, and my mother held me as tightly as she could.

  "We're safe, little one," said Joseph. "We're in the house here, we're all together, and we're safe."

  The women who'd been right beside me got up. They went to see the fire. Little Salome was shrieking with excitement the way she shrieked when we played. They were all rushing back and forth, and fussing to get into the doorway to see it.

  Little Symeon shouted, "The fire, the fire!"

  I looked up. I could see out of the open door past them, and the very sight of the red flashing sky made me shiver. Never had I seen a sky like that. I turned and saw my uncle Cleopas stretched out against the wall, his eyes shining. He smiled at me.

  "But why?" I asked. "Why are they burning Jericho?"

  "And why shouldn't they?" asked Cleopas. "Let Caesar Augustus see how we despise the man who sent his soldiers to mingle our blood with our sacrifices! This word will reach Rome before Archelaus does. The flames reach farther than words."

  "As if flames had the purpose of words," said my mother under her breath, but I don't think they heard her.

  My cousin Silas came running into the house, crying, "It's Simon, one of Herod's own slaves. He's crowned himself King and gathered a huge force. He's lit fire to the palace!"

  "You stay in this house, here!" said my uncle Alphaeus. "Where is your brother?"

  But Levi was there, and when I saw his face, his expression was terrible. He was afraid, and it made me more afraid.

  All the men got up and were headed out of doors to see the fire. I looked at all those black shapes against the sky, so many moving back and forth, as if everyone was dancing.

  Joseph rose to his feet.

  "Yeshua, you come and see this," he said.

  "Oh, but why?" asked my mother. "Must he go out?"

  "Come, you can look at what a band of robbers and murderers have done," said Joseph. "You can see how they run rampant to celebrate the death of Old Herod. You can see what lies beneath the surface when a King rules by cruelty and terror. Come."

  "And why should they let tyrants live in luxury?" Cleopas said. "Tyrants who murder their own people? Tyrants who build theaters and circuses in Jerusalem, the Holy City itself, places no good Jew would go. And the High Priests he appoints—men he wants to advance, as if the High Priest were not the man who enters the very Holy of Holies, as if the High Priest were nothing but a paid servant."

  "My brother," said my mother, "I'm going mad!"

  I was shaking so hard I feared to get up, but I did get up and I took Joseph's hand.

  He led me out of the house. The whole family stood on the prow of the hill, even the women except for my mother, and gathered all around were others in the night who'd spilled out of the village.

  The clouds over the plain below were boiling with fire. The air was hot and cold, and people were talking loudly as they might at Festival, and the children were running in circles and dancing and rushing to look again at the fire. I huddled close to Joseph.

  "He's very little still," said my mother. She stood behind me.

  "He should see," said Joseph.

  It was a great growing, licking blaze, and suddenly a wall of flame rose up, so fierce, and it seemed to reach for the stars of Heaven. I turned my head. I couldn't look at it. I went into wild crying. The cries came out of me like knots in a rope being pulled out one after another. Against my eyes I saw the flickering. I couldn't get away from it. The smell of the smoke filled me. My mother was trying to lift me and I didn't mean to fight her, but I was fighting her, and then Joseph had hold of me, and said my name over and over.

  "We're far away from it!" he said. "We're safe from it. Listen to me!"

  I couldn't stop until he crushed me against his chest, and I couldn't twist or turn there.

  He walked fast with me back into the house.

  I couldn't stop my cries. They hurt my chest. They hurt my heart.

  We sank down on the floor, and my cousin Elizabeth took my face and held it. I saw her eyes just in front of me.

  "Listen to what I say to you, my child," she said. "Stop crying. Do you think the angel of the Lord would have come to your father, Joseph, and told him to bring you home if you weren't safe? Who is to say what are the purposes of the Lord? Now, stop your cries and trust in the Lord. Lie against your mother's breast, here, and stop your crying. Let your mother hold you. You are in the hands of God."

  "Angel of the Lord," I whispered. "Angel of the Lord."

  "Yes," said Joseph, "and the angel of the Lord will be with us until we reach Nazareth."

  My mother took me.

  "We are passing through this," she said. Her voice was low and sweet in my ear. "We are passing through this, and we'll be home soon, in our own house. We will eat the figs of our own tree, and the grapes of our own garden. In our own oven we'll bake our daily bread," she said to me as we settled down beside Cleopas once again. I sobbed against her neck. She stroked my back.

  "That's right," said Cleopas very near to me.

  I wrapped my fingers around my mother's neck. I took deeper and deeper breaths.

  "We'll be in Nazareth," said Cleopas, "and no one, I promise you, my little one, no one will ever look for you there."

  I was drowsy, so very drowsy all at once. But what did he mean, Cleopas, that no one would look for me? Who was looking for me? I didn't want to sleep. I wanted to ask him what he meant by those words, look for me, who was looking for me? What did all the strange stories mean? What did it mean what my mother had said about the angel coming
to her? In all this misery and woe, I had forgotten about what she'd said on the rooftop in Jerusalem, the strange words

  she'd spoken. And Elizabeth had just said that an angel came to Joseph. Joseph hadn't said an angel came to him.

  It seemed for a moment as I was sliding deeper and deeper into sweet rest that it was all connected. I ought to make something of it. Yes! Angels. An angel had come before and an angel had come again, and an angel was here. I knew that, didn't I? No. But then I felt purely drowsy, and I felt so safe.

  My mother was singing to me in Hebrew, and Cleopas was singing with her. He was better now, much better, though he still coughed. But my aunt Mary did not feel well, though no one was worried about her.