by Bodie
“A good customer and a worthy gentleman, if I may say so, sir,” my winemaker suggested. “Not at all like most Pharisees, if you’ll excuse my bluntness.”
Patrick chuckled as he sipped a mouthful of wine.
“Will he be ordering his usual allotment?” Samson continued.
“I let him sample this,” I returned, then paused.
“And?” Samson and Patrick simultaneously urged, though Samson added, “If you please, sir.”
“Double last year’s purchase!” I concluded triumphantly. “A great success.”
“Congratulations, sir,” Samson praised.
“Congratulations, indeed, but it goes to you and Patrick here. In fact, the only question remaining is how soon we will run out.”
“Very true, sir,” Samson concurred. “Especially after Lord Nicodemus lets his friends try it as well. I believe he is among the leaders in Jerusalem, isn’t he?”
“A member of the Sanhedrin,” I replied. “You are right that he is around the most wealthy and powerful men in the Holy City.” I rubbed my forehead as I reconstructed the conversation. “In fact, I just remembered something he said that I wish I knew more about.”
Samson and Patrick waited patiently for me to continue, as it would be impolite to ask the master to share his thoughts unless he volunteered them.
“Now I recall: it’s said there is a rift between the Baptizer and Jesus of Nazareth. Some other Pharisees say John is envious of Jesus’ success.”
“And do you think that’s true?” Patrick inquired.
Samson shushed him, as being out of line, but I waved my hand to show I was not offended by the inquiry. Slowly, thinking aloud, I responded, “Only if John was wrong about who he proclaimed Jesus to be.”
“Why not …,” Patrick began, then continued over Samson’s protests, “why not go hear for yourself?”
And so it was arranged. Patrick accompanied me, while Samson continued to tend the wine.
John was baptizing at Aenon, near Salim, on the east bank of the Jordan. It took us a day to journey there, with me on the white mare and Patrick riding another of Samson’s donkeys.
Aenon was a village located on a tributary of the Jordan.
Our route lay along the stream, which chuckled and laughed as it ran down from Mount Ebal. As the water reached the level of the valley floor, the rivulet slowed and spread out, forming a series of pools and ponds, perfect for John’s purposes.
“Is the Baptizer safe here?” Patrick inquired.
I considered the matter. “I think so. More importantly, he must think so.” Reining to a halt on a knobby hill, I raised my free hand to draw an imaginary half circle from west to east. “We are near the border of four provinces: Galilee and Samaria on this side of the river, Perea and the Decapolis on the other. Over there is Wadi Cherith, where the Lord sent Elijah the prophet to hide from wicked King Ahab.”
“So he would be safer over there?”
I shrugged. “But on this bank he is near Salim … ancient Salem … where Melchizedek was both ruler and priest. Even Father Abraham honored the King of Peace and Righteousness.”
Shading his eyes against the sun, Patrick said, “I think I see a group of people by that pond, there. And the man standing up to his waist in the water …”
“… is the Baptizer,” I confirmed.
His beard and hair wiry and unkempt, he seemed leaner than when I had last seen him.
At opposite ends of the pond, their backs to us, were two knots of men. A handful, dressed much as John was, appeared to be his remaining disciples.
The group at the other extreme was better clad, with colorful robes and clean turbans: Pharisees, by the look of them.
Between the two opposing forces, twenty-five onlookers jostled with each other as they listened to the exchange.
Patrick called my attention to a figure at the edge of the audience. “Isn’t that Master Porthos?”
It was the Greek, listening attentively to the dialogue.
“Where are your crowds now?” one of the Pharisees taunted. “The whole world is running after the Nazarene. What do you say to that?”
I could not imagine that rich men would come into this wilderness merely to mock someone they despised. What was their motive?
Another jibed, “He keeps company with tax collectors and drunkards and all manner of sinners. What do you say to that?”
“I say that you are a brood of vipers,” John snapped back at them. “Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? I tell you, he is already separating the wheat from the chaff.” Leveling a bony index finger, John shook it in their faces. “Soon enough the chaff will be heaped up and burned!”
The Pharisee jeered, “Where have the rest of your own disciples gone? Maybe they prefer wine and feasting to eating locusts and drinking cold water!”
I was surprised that John’s reply, though forcefully stated, was not shouted in anger. Shaking his head firmly, he responded: “He must increase, while I must decrease.”
“And what about Herod Antipas?” another man in a brocade robe shouted.
Now John threw his head back and the old fire roared to life in his response: “That snake? The tetrarch knows full well all the sins he is guilty of! Does he merely add adultery to murder, or is it the other way around? The sword of judgment hangs over his head as surely as it fell on King Ahab of old and his Jezebel!”
What happened next was sudden and violent, and the reason for the taunting became clear. In the crowd were a half dozen Herodian soldiers, their uniforms hidden beneath nondescript robes.
As John was goaded into his rash comments, they threw off their disguises. Three of them rushed at the prophet in a body. Another three drew short swords and flung themselves at the crowd.
The audience and John’s followers scattered … except for Porthos. The Grecian Jew stood his ground, even as a stocky mercenary bore down on him, stabbing blade lifted high and glinting in the sunlight.
Then Porthos did the bravest thing I had ever seen: he ran toward the soldier, ducking beneath the descending dagger so that it missed his shoulder by a whisker.
Seizing the Herodian guard with both hands, he lifted the man fully off the ground and flung him into the other pair of attackers. They tumbled together in a heap of short swords and curses.
Still Porthos did not flee. Instead, he roared at the men surrounding the Baptizer and charged them as well.
The latter trio had not even drawn their weapons, believing no one would resist them. Startled by Porthos’s sudden onslaught, one tripped on a rock in the pond and disappeared beneath the surface in unwilling submission to the Baptizer’s message.
With Patrick at my side, I darted forward. The three guardsmen overthrown by Porthos blocked our intervention with whirling blades. “Back off,” one of them snarled.
Porthos managed to land a fist on the jaw of one of the soldiers, then stopped fighting suddenly when the captain of the squad put the point of his dagger against the Baptizer’s throat. “Stop now, or he dies,” the man bellowed.
Porthos dropped his clenched fists and stood helplessly, shaking with barely suppressed rage.
That was the moment when the soldier who had been ducked in the pool emerged sputtering … and stabbed Porthos in the back. The Greek dropped face forward into the water and lay unmoving.
Two of Herod’s assassins kept us at bay while the rest quickly bound John’s arms behind his back. Dragging him bodily out of the creek, they soon disappeared in the direction of Aenon.
Even before they were out of sight, Patrick and I hauled Porthos, streaming blood from a gash in his back, out of the stream. We laid him on a mossy bank and turned him over. As the sunlight hit his face, he coughed weakly and his eyelids fluttered. He was not dead, then!
Patting his face, I said, “Porthos, brother, I’ll get you some help. Don’t worry.”
His eyes opened, and he struggled to focus on my features. “Ah, David,” he said, then was ra
cked by a cough that brought scarlet foam to his lips. “Did you think … you had to repay me? I told you … I’m not … not a brave …”
And he died.
We located Pleasant the donkey tied in a grove of trees near what had been the Baptizer’s camp. I used her to take Porthos’s body home with me and buried him in my family cemetery, near the tomb that held my wife and child.
Chapter 13
Mary had traveled back to Galilee, transformed. With many other women, including Joanna, the wife of Herod’s steward, Mary became a devoted follower and supporter of Jesus.
I was still unsure about the motives and true identity of Jesus. I wanted to know, yet I suspected him.
After Hanukkah the winter months were dark and cold and the vines dormant. This was the time of pruning. I set my workers to the task of cutting off the dead branches, gathering the dead wood, and torching the piles at the ends of the rows. Unless the dead wood was cut back, new growth would be stunted, struggling to compete with the tangle of old growth.
I was supervising in the field when Martha and the women servants came out to feed the laborers.
Martha’s cheeks were ruddy with the cold. Her breath rose in steam as she puffed up the path toward me. “Brother!” she hailed me, but when she came near, she lowered her voice. “There’s a rumor … about our sister Mary.”
I imagined that, in spite of Jesus’ admonition not to sin again, Mary had already fallen and was back to her old ways. “Well?”
“Madness,” Martha whispered. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”
The aroma of stew was in the air. I was hungry and impatient, but I knew Martha had to tell me everything. “So are you surprised?”
“I am surprised. She was such a greedy little thing. Spending money on herself and no one else. But this!”
“Get on with it, Martha!”
“She’s squandering her dead husband’s fortune! That’s what. Squandering! Spending her money on feeding the poor. Opened her villa to house women—unmarried women—and their infants. A one-woman charity house! That’s what she is!” Martha reported the news with such disgust that it took me a moment to understand exactly what she was saying.
“This can’t be … our Mary.” I accepted a bowl of steaming food.
“We’ve got to put a stop to it. She’s gone crazy. One extreme is as bad as the other. Extreme, I say! She will spend all her inheritance and then …” Martha’s mouth turned downward. “Then she will come home begging. As much a beggar as the people she cares for today. And we will have to care for her!”
Spoon poised between the bowl and my mouth, I considered Martha’s report for a moment. “Yes,” I agreed. “Without a man to advise and direct her …”
It seemed to me, Mary’s generosity to the needy had become careless and profligate. She had no kinsman but me to bring order back into her life.
Shortly thereafter, I left the care of my vineyards in the hands of Samson. Martha and I, with our friend Nicodemus, made the journey to Galilee to question Mary face-to-face about the business affairs of her estate.
Pruning had only begun in her vineyards. Observing the swarms of workmen in the fields, I noted that Mary employed too many for the task. I made a note of this as we rode to the wide-open gates of Mary’s villa. In the courtyard beyond, children squealed and played while their mothers boiled laundry in great kettles scattered about the luxurious grounds.
A lanky, red-haired teenage boy named Carta kept us from entering. “Halt here, sir. Women only permitted to pass, except by permission of the Lady.”
“I am brother to widow Mary of Magdala, mistress of this estate.”
“How can I know who you are, sir? Too many angry brutes, husbands of the unfortunates, come prowling for a way to get their women back. They want to make them servants again to wickedness and beat them upon a drunken whim.”
Martha drew herself up in protest. “My brother is none of those things. I am Martha, sister of Mary. And this is our friend, Nicodemus. We have traveled far, from Bethany, and you will tell my sister that her kinfolk have come. And that we are weary and expect at least the hospitality she shows to these … these … this … mob!”
“In that case, wait here. It’s wash day, and the mistress is somewhere about the grounds. It will take a moment.” Carta bobbed his head and sprinted away. Some minutes passed before he came again to the entry. “Names?” he demanded.
I replied, “David ben Lazarus. Martha. And Nicodemus.”
“Correct. You may enter.” Carta stepped aside and swept his hand toward clotheslines and flapping linens.
We entered. Martha’s face became more sour. Nicodemus seemed amused. I was amazed at the clutter and noise that had overcome my sister’s once elegant grounds.
We waited in the private courtyard of the house beside a fountain. Children played tag just beyond the door, but the place was clearly off limits.
Only a minute passed before Mary appeared at the doorway. Dressed for work in a coarse, pale blue dress, her thick dark hair was piled on her head. Brown eyes were shining as she stretched out her arms to welcome us.
“Brother! And Martha! Oh! And you … Nicodemus! To see you all here! It is an answer to my prayer.”
My embrace was reserved, but she held me tighter and laughed. Her welcome was as warm for Martha, though the two women had never been on good terms. If she noticed our hesitation, she did not comment on it.
Leading us into her private quarters, she summoned servants to care for us and ordered food for us.
Throughout the lavish meal, Mary talked joyfully about Jesus, whom she called Rabboni, and the women and children who had taken refuge in her home. “Carta was a servant to Marcus Longinus. Jesus healed him from a terrible injury. Now he’s helping me here.” There were 136 souls living within the walls of Mary’s villa. Some women escaped abuse from husbands. Others had been prostitutes who had repented, turned to God, and become followers of Jesus. They had no place of refuge but this. Three new babies had been born in the last two weeks. Most important in Mary’s narrative was the news that, from time to time, Jesus of Nazareth and his disciples lodged in Mary’s guest house.
She radiated joy as she spoke of all this. I thought she had never looked so beautiful.
“But why have you come?” she asked at last.
Martha blurted, “We have heard that you are wasting all your estate. Spending your wealth like water! You never could do anything with moderation.”
Mary gazed at Martha for a long moment. Her smile wavered. “Ah. I thought … I was hoping …”
Nicodemus blushed at the confrontation. He stood and escaped to the veranda.
I tried to explain gently to Mary. “You see, sister, we are concerned that perhaps you are being taken advantage of. Giving everything … everything to others.”
She studied me. “Brother, for the first time in my life I am happy. Jesus teaches …”
Martha scoffed. “Jesus! Yes. All or nothing. That’s the problem. No moderation.”
I asked, “But what about the inheritance that your husband left to you? Your estates? I see you’ve hired an army of workers to prune your vines. Half the number would do.”
“Yes. But then half the number would be unemployed. These are hard times, brother. Hunger is at the door here in the Galil. Men and women need work.”
“But what if all you have is gone and the coffer empty because you did not manage wisely? It makes no sense, Mary. If you give all to the poor, then soon you will number yourself among the poor of Israel.”
Mary answered. “I am rich. My orchards and vineyards are blessed. There is plenty to share, brother.”
I explained, “But if you are careless with giving away what you own, no matter what your rabbi teaches … a good man, yes. But impractical.”
Mary did not attempt to answer my charge but simply replied, “Come, brother. Come and meet the Lord.”
She took my arm and led me out of her villa. To
the east our view was the Sea of Galilee. It was calm and flat and reflected the enormous clouds that loomed on the horizon. To the west was Mary’s vast vineyard. Workers moved methodically through the rows, pruning wild, leafless canes down to the trunk of the vine. Mary gestured beyond them. “There he is.” I recognized him at once. Jesus and about twenty of his disciples sat beneath a large tree at the top of a hill overlooking the vineyard.
Mary led the way up the path. Nicodemus joined us. I followed, and Martha trailed behind.
At our approach, Jesus raised his eyes, then waved a welcome, looking directly at me.
“Shalom, Mary.” Jesus gestured for us to join the lesson.
“Rabboni! These are my brother, Lazarus, my sister, Martha, and Lord Nicodemus of Jerusalem. They’ve come visiting.”
“Shalom and welcome,” Jesus said. “We are enjoying the day. Will you join us?”
We came into the semicircle of rough-looking Galileans who made up the core of Jesus’ followers. I was between Mary and the disciple called Peter. We three were directly in front of Jesus, close enough to touch the hem of his cloak. An easy grin with straight white teeth. Square jaw. Hands calloused from years of manual labor.
He asked me, “What do you think of all your sister has accomplished in her vineyard?”
“My sister has hired too many laborers. She needs an adviser to help her manage her business.”
Jesus smiled. “Mary gives everything into the care of her Father. Can she trust him?” He held me in his gaze for an instant, long enough for me to know that the lesson I was about to hear concerned me, somehow.
“What do you think?” Jesus asked me. “There was a man who had two sons. He came to the first and said, ‘Son, go and work today in the vineyard.’ And the son answered, ‘I will not.’ But afterward he changed his mind and went. Then the father went to the other son and said the same thing. And the second son replied, ‘I will, sir,’ but he did not go. Which of the two did the will of the father?”1
Peter raised his hand and blurted out the answer, “The first son! That’s the one!”
