2 The Judas Kiss

by Angella Graff

  “Makabi,” Yosef said. I’d shared my Hebrew name with him after I felt that I could trust him with my secret, and after he gave me his solemn vow my mother would never find out. He treated me like one of his sons now, and having never had a father who cared much for my wellbeing, I was desperate to make him proud. “Remember what I showed you yesterday?”

  I took the small, sharp-tipped tool and held it in my hand like he’d showed me. “Yes.”

  “I want you and Yeshua to start working on the table legs. Yehuda, you and I are going to start smoothing out the base.”

  Yeshua gave a small groan and followed me to the four stacked table legs that had been shaped, but were rough and unpolished. Yeshua was good with his hands, even better at the ornate designs that their tables often displayed, but he didn’t enjoy it. Yeshua was a different sort. I didn’t understand him; the inner workings of his mind were a mystery to me. I knew, though, that if men from the East were searching for someone like them, Yeshua was the one.

  I made myself comfortable in the dirt and started making tiny chips in the wood, just as Yosef had showed me the day before. “You want to come fish with us later?” I asked Yeshua after a little while. I never tried to keep Yehuda’s twin from our activities, but he preferred to be alone most of the time.

  “I don’t care for fishing,” he said, his chips quicker than mine, and the detail finer. I huffed at his natural talent, but it only drove me to work harder.

  “You always say that,” I complained. “Why?”

  “Taking the life of a fish,” Yeshua said with a shrug. “Seems such a waste.”

  “The fish exist for us to eat them,” I said, looking up at him from my work. “That’s their point.”

  “Is it?” he asked. “Have you ever asked a fish what its point is on this earth?”

  I froze, the tool in my hand poised over the wood. Of course I had never asked a fish, and what a thing to say to me! But as I went back to my work I wondered, was he right? Could he talk to fish? What, exactly, gave me the notion that fish existed for us to eat them? I had never spoken to a fish, and no one I knew had, so what made me think that I was right above him.

  “What shall we do then, Yeshua?”

  He paused, surprised by my question. Usually I would ask him to join us and when he refused, I moved on. “I want to find a spot by the water where it’s quiet. Where there aren’t any people.”

  “We’ll come with you,” I said. When he hesitated, I insisted, “If you never spend time with us, how do you know you won’t like our company. I’ll bring things with us that aren’t meat.”

  “Mother has asked me and Yehuda to stop taking food from you,” Yeshua said, but there was a glint in his eye that said he was interested.

  “I swear the food won’t break the rules,” I vowed. I could see in his silence I’d won him over.

  I stopped working early to run home and fetch my coin purse. When I got there, there was a man I didn’t recognize sitting in the front room. I stopped, staring at him, trying to figure out his purpose before he spoke.

  “You must be Markus Gracchus. Master of the house?” he asked. His voice was patronizing, which I didn’t like, but he deferred to me which meant that he was there to serve my mother somehow.

  I gave a little bow, keeping my eye on him. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Antonius Lepidus, I’ve come from your grandfather’s household to oversee your mother’s health.”

  He was fairly short for a man, his belly far wider than any other part of him, and he was old; balding and his eyes squinted telling me that his vision was failing. But his hands were steady, I noticed as he lifted his goblet to his lips, and he spoke clearly. I was worried now, my mother was ill enough to warrant someone coming in from Rome, and I had the sudden realization that she might die soon.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I demanded, forgetting all about the coin purse and the twins, and I plopped down on the sofa.

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he said, losing his patronizing tone with me. “Your mother has been fighting an illness for some time now, and I’m afraid she’s only been getting worse. I have only a few remedies I’ll try on her, but your father has paid me well to oversee her health.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t send you to ensure her death?” I questioned. It was no secret that my father only married my mother for standing, and it was no secret that he was not fond of her.

  “I assure you, your father has only the highest regard for your mother, and her wellbeing.” He looked at me different after that, though. I could tell that he knew I was a little more than just some boy running around playing Centurion with my brothers, and dreaming of the day I’d sign up for the legion. I was a scholar, and I would someday be far smarter than he was.

  I went straight upstairs to my mother’s chambers, and her lady let me in. She was sitting up in her bed, a book on her lap, and she looked drawn and pale. She smiled, though, when I walked in, and I offered her a short bow.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, my little Markus?”

  “Are you dying?” I demanded bluntly, coming to sit at the end of her bed.

  She laughed and shook her head. “Markus, we’re all dying. Everyone upon this desolate, aching world is dying.”

  “You know what I mean,” I said, and as I looked at her, I realized I didn’t want her to die. There was so much I wanted to learn and see and experience, but the truth was, I was just a little boy and I didn’t know what I’d do if my mother left me. I started to cry, but held my composure, wiping the tears off with the back of my hand.

  “What have you been doing today?” she asked, eyeing my dirty skin. Despite her lady’s protests, she rose from the bed and fetched a cloth, dipping it in her washing water. She began to scrub off my hands lightly, and I noticed that she was so much thinner than she used to be.

  “I met some friends,” I said, sniffling a little.

  “Boys?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Carpenters. They’re teaching me how to carve tables.”

  Where I expected her anger and disdain, she merely ruffled my curls and sat back down, giving a tired sigh. “You won’t stop until you know it all, will you Markus.”

  “Never,” I vowed. “Please don’t die.”

  “Oh we’ll all die someday, my son,” she said, waving my question away. “But I’m a fighter, you know that. I’ll hang on as long as the gods permit. I’m going over to the temple of Heka today, to offer a sacrifice for healing.”

  Though I never really believed the crazy women at the temple could help anyone, at this point I wanted my mother to try any and everything she could to get well. After some time, seeing as I wasn’t going to go away, she requested that I bring my lyre in and play for her, which I did.

  I forgot about Yehuda and Yeshua, about Yosef and Maryam and their family I was rapidly becoming part of. I had missed my mother, and I was scared, and I thought maybe, if I played and she gave her sacrifice, she might heal.

  She left me alone in the house to give her sacrifice and it was only after she’d gone that I remembered my friends. It was well past dark and the shops had all closed, so I wrapped a few of the sweets my mother kept in her room and ran down the dusty streets until I came to the front of their modest home.

  I could see beyond the door way, the family had eaten. Maryam was pregnant once more, and she sat near the fire, her head resting on the wall, eyes closed. Yosef was likely in the back, as I heard pounding, and it was like him to work on things all through the night, trying desperately to keep a comfortable life for his family.

  The younger children were nowhere to be seen, but the twins sat in the front room, Yeshua muttering furiously to Yehuda who was staring at the wall, deliberately ignoring him.

  “Forgive me,” I hissed, desperate not to wake their mother.

  The twins looked over at me at the same time, their movements in sync. It was something I found eerie, despite the months of being around t
hem every day. Yeshua remained seated, looking sullen, but Yehuda walked over, his face drawn.

  “What happened?”

  “My mother is ill,” I said, shoving the wrapped sweets into his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t come back, but I…” I trailed off. I didn’t want to say she was going to die, because if my saying it made it come to pass, I could never live with myself.

  Yehuda reached out and took my hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. “It’s alright. We forgive you.”

  “I have to go back. She’s probably waiting for me now. She’s gone to the temple of Heka to offer a sacrifice for her health,” I explained.

  The twins flinched and shook their heads. They didn’t quite understand the meaning of all the gods, just as the idea of one god confused me, but I didn’t have time to explain. “I’ll come when I can,” I vowed, and rushed off.

  Come when I can, however, ended up being six months later. Despite all of the sacrifice and chants, prayers and rituals; despite everything that the physician offered my mother, she did not get better. By six months she was unable to rise from her bed. The servants cleaned her soiled bedding every day, washing her as she lay there. She no longer spoke, but occasionally cried in her sleep, and her physician explained that the most we could do is keep her sedated.

  She died the following week, just as my grandfather arrived from Rome with news that my father would not be attending her bedside for mourning. He was stoic, drawn and more quiet than I’d ever seen him. As her body was prepared, he stood with me in the front room, his paper-thin, wrinkled hand closed over my wrist.

  He looked old now, older than I’d ever seen him. His eyes were cloudy with age, and his hair was falling out. When he spoke, his voice was barely a rough whisper, warbled and not at all the man I remembered from when I was small.

  “You’ll have to return to Rome,” he said quietly as we moved to the balcony. It was an impossibly warm night, the wind coming wet and heavy off of the sea. My hair clung to my forehead, and I wished desperately for a cooler breeze.

  My grandfather let my hand drop to my side and he looked up at the stars, shaking his head. “I never thought I would have to bury my child again. Not that child. Not her.”

  I stared at him and suddenly realized my absolute fear. If I went to Rome, I would become him. I would lose the library; I would lose everything that this city could give me. I would lose Yosef and his family, who despite not having seen me for half a year still sent over well wishes and carved wooden toys that I put up on the shelf in my chambers.

  It was too much and my heart began to race, my head swimming. “What shall I do in Rome?” I asked, my voice sounding small and insignificant.

  “You’ll study. You’ll have the finest tutors, so you needn’t worry, and eventually you’ll take your place on the Senate. Rome loves you, my boy, it always has.”

  But I didn’t love Rome. Rome was not for me, and I backed up a step, trying not to look as panicked as I felt. “May I have some time alone?” I asked.

  He looked at me, his brow furrowed in suspicion, but he nodded and I dashed back into the house, straight to my chambers and closed the doors. I was alone, and I took the opportunity to grab a sack and stuff it with the most important things to me. The trinkets Yosef had given me, and an impossibly tiny scroll my grandfather had sent with the Homeric Hymns written in the smallest letters I’d ever seen. With that I put in the coins I’d stashed away, and that was all I needed.

  I had one chance, and that was to beg Yosef to take me in. When my grandfather couldn’t find me, he’d eventually leave Alexandria and I would be free. I couldn’t live in the Senate and debate with those horrible old men about things I didn’t know or didn’t care about. I wanted to be free to learn everything, to take my place in my life with the people I chose, and I couldn’t have it any other way. Any other way, and I would die.

  It wasn’t long before my grandfather retired for the night; he was very old and when he slept, he didn’t hear me creep out the front door and hurry down the street. It was late, the moon was shining full overhead, and I navigated my way through the streets with ease.

  I knew the house of Yosef would be asleep, but I was counting on Yosef to be working fierce into the deep, early morning hours. I could hear the rough scraping sounds as he rubbed down wood as I turned the corner. Bypassing the front door, I crept to the side and around to the back where he was.

  He was working by moonlight, the full moon providing him with exactly what he needed, and as I stepped up to the table, he startled. “What are you doing here?” he hissed when he realized it was me. “Makabi, do you realize how late it is?”

  “My mother died,” I said miserably, and for the first time since she’d gone, I cried. I was just a small boy right in that moment, letting my sack slide down my leg and I crumpled to the ground.

  Yosef came around the table and picked me up, holding me tight as I sobbed, feeling her loss, grieving for the loss of her life, and the loss of the future that I had so desperately wanted. “Hush now,” he said, rocking me slightly.

  It only took a few moments for the sobs to subside and I wiped at my face with a dirty palm. “My grandfather wants me to go to Rome.”

  “I see,” he said slowly.

  “I don’t want to go,” I continued. “I want you to take me in. Please.”

  “I can’t,” he said, letting his hand rest on my shoulder. “You’re young and I know you are happy here, but you’re a Roman citizen, Makabi. I can’t take you in.”

  “I’m just a kid,” I cried, and then fell again into sobs so fierce that as Yosef sat there and rubbed my back, I fell asleep.

  I woke the next morning lying on the floor next to Yehuda. Although the twins were mirror images of each other, I’d learned to recognize the subtle differences between them. Yeshua also carried a light but etched scar on his right temple, the product of an accident when he was very young.

  I scrubbed at my face, yawning and blinking against the sun’s first rays pouring in through the open door. As I stirred, Yehuda did as well, and he looked as surprised to see me as I was to find myself on their floor.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “I um,” I said and looked around. My bag was lying in the corner of the room neatly, and I’d been tucked in by a rather rough covering made from material I didn’t recognize. “My mother died,” I finally said.

  Yehuda’s face fell. “I’m sorry.”

  “My grandfather wants me to go to Rome. I came to beg your father to take me in.”

  This obviously worried Yehuda, and he crossed his arms as he stood up, stretching his back just a little. “Keeping you from your grandfather could put my parents in danger,” he warned.

  “I’ll hide. They’ll never know, and if they find me, I’ll take the blame,” I begged.

  “We’ll let you stay here, but if anyone comes looking for you, I’m afraid we’re going to have to turn you over,” came the soft voice of Maryam from the doorway.

  My eyes widened as I looked at her, and fought the urge to rush and hug her. My mother was gone now, and Maryam had always been so kind. “Thank you,” I whispered, trying my best not to cry.

  “You boys need to eat,” she said, nudging the sleeping form of her younger son Yaakov. The twins’ smaller sisters were already awake, playing loudly outside as Yosef helped prepare a breakfast of dried fish and bread.

  I offered them coins to help pay for food, but Yosef and Maryam refused to take money from me, claiming that they had no need of coins from a boy when they could feed me just fine. I didn’t argue, and simply followed the routine of the home, getting straight to work as I had done before my mother fell so ill.

  The hard labor of etching and carving, polishing and hammering took my mind off of my dead mother, and my possible fate if my grandfather found me and took me to Rome. As the day passed, every footfall I assumed was that of a Roman soldier coming to take me away from this family and force me
back to a place I didn’t want to be. But every footfall turned out to be nothing, and by the time the sun set and we sat around preparing to sleep, I felt more and more at ease that maybe the old man had forgotten me.

  The truth was, until I was nearly a man, I thought my grandfather had just never bothered to look very hard. It was only when I was viewing some scrolls from Rome that I found out the old man had died that night, and no one had bothered to look for the young child that escaped the house. The servants had been reassigned, the house sold, and my name had been forgotten. My father never inquired about me, and my brothers had gone on to train and die in the service of the Caesar.

  I’d been with the family of Yosef for almost half a year when it happened. It was the middle of the night, and we were sleeping soundly until I woke at the sounds of hushed, frantic voices.

  “You think they mean to come for him?” came the fierce whisper of Maryam. She and Yosef were in another room, but through the silence of the night, their voices carried.

  “I can only suspect yes,” Yosef replied in the same hushed manner.

  Yehuda, who lay beside me, shifted, and in the dark, I could just make out one of his eyes open. “What’s going on?” he whispered almost inaudibly.

  “I don’t know,” I hissed back. “I think your parents are arguing.”

  We both rolled over onto our stomachs to listen. Our whispers had caused us to miss some of the conversation, but my stomach sank when I heard, “We have no other choice but to go.” That was Yosef, and he sounded absolute. “We need to leave now, Maryam, if we want to make it before they can reach the city and find where we’ve gone. They found him as an infant, they’ll find him again.”

  “They must be talking about the men coming for your brother,” I whispered.

  The noise of footsteps caused Yehuda and I to throw ourselves back down and we both quickly tried to even our breaths, pretending to be asleep. Sounds of shuffling items filled the room, and after a few minutes, we were shaken awake.

  “What’s going on?” Yehuda asked, attempting to sound like he’d been fast asleep.