Judas nodded, but she did not notice. Mary seemed lost to memory.
“You know of my labor in the stable, but what you do not know of was the fear that gripped my heart.”
Judas nodded. “I was forced to help my sister with her last child. There is no shame in dreading such pain.”
Mary shook her head absently. “The searing agony I expected, but the first time Jesus squalled such a perfect cry that the wail echoed the angel’s song, I knew that I did not deserve to be his mother. When the men from the East arrived with their riches and knowledge, I begged them to take Jesus from my unworthy arms and raise him to be the savior that he was destined to be.”
Judas stayed silent. Mary had never seemed anything but praiseworthy as a mother. The woman had raised a brood of the finest men and women he had ever had the honor of knowing. Judas could not imagine how remote Jesus would have become if left in the hands of scholars, no matter how rich they might be.
“But they refused. They told me that my love for him was both my blessing and my curse. My blessing because I would know a love that eclipsed all else. My curse because I could never leave his side. He would grow to suffer greatly, and I could never abandon him to such agony. They told me frankly that his pain would become my own.”
Judas could see the path where Mary was headed, and he wished to outflank her. “As I feel of Ameil. He is my—”
Mary interrupted him. “This night Jesus instructed me to take the money I had been saving to buy the cloth for the thick, embroidered robes he would need when the day came for him teach in the Temple at Jerusalem and add it to the moneys Magdalene had donated.”
“I do not understand.”
“You heard what he told James. There was no need to account past Passover. He intends to provoke the Romans. He intends to be arrested within the year, and you know of what doom that speaks.”
Judas stood up, uncaring of the complaint of his leg at such sudden movement. “I am sorry, Mary, for I did not wish to speak harshly, but you speculate wildly.”
Her face was nothing but sadness given human form. “Do I? I overheard some of what he and John spoke about. They agreed neither would see Jesus’ birthday. Both would be in God’s kingdom by the onset of winter.”
Judas blinked several times, trying to wipe the truth from his vision. He had felt Jesus’ hurry, his rush to complete his work. Judas had thought it nothing more than years of waiting finally being released into action, but he had been wrong.
“Why gather a formal twelve, Judas? He knows he will need devoted followers to carry on his work once he is gone.”
The words carried a weight that made him sit down again.
Mary’s voice was hurt, but kind. “So long ago, that day you two met and Jesus asked me if he might go out to play with his new friend named Judas, I knew that I might be his mother, but you were to be his true companion on this journey.”
“You overstate my role, Mary.”
“Do I?” she asked as she pulled out the leather purse. “Tonight he came to me with tears in his eyes, Judas. He said he could not ask you again, but he feared the dark days ahead without you.” She laid the purse in his hands. It felt far heavier, which had nothing to do with the coin she had added. “I saw you the first time you met him, Judas. You were working in the field and Jesus was sitting upon the side of the furrow looking sad and lonely. We had just come from Egypt. He knew no one beyond our family, and all the men were out raising a roof that I refused to let him attend for fear of his small frame. You came and showed him how to set the plow’s blade deep into the earth, then shoulder the yoke to make a straight row.”
Judas remembered the day well. He had felt so very grown-up. To be able to be the one to show a craft rather than constantly be the pupil.
Mary continued, “When you two had completed the tiny garden patch, he smiled at you. I noted it, for in truth I was a bit jealous, for his graces were few and far between. Then I saw the look in your eyes. In that moment, his love became both your blessing and your curse, Judas.” Her voice hardened into a sharp point. “You must see him through this.”
“But—”
“He rushes headlong to his fate, gleeful that he might fulfill his Lord’s wishes. You, Judas, you are the only one that might step in front of him and demand he think his course through. Only you might appeal to him that we of this world need him for a time longer. You can convince him that God can await his son’s company until we are all old and wrinkled.”
Judas let his breath hiss out. He thought of the tears Ameil would cry if he told him they would be parted.
Touching his arm, Mary wrapped his fingers around the purse. “The boy will ache for you Judas, make no doubt, but if Jesus has his way we will be without him by Yom Kippur. Ameil will be safe with his family here, but will Jesus be so protected without you?” Her words quickened. “He might not feel able to ask you again to join him, but I beg it of you.”
How could he explain to her that a large part of his reluctance was not so much that he needed to prove himself to Ameil, but that he would fail Jesus?
“I again fear you overestimate my worth, Mary. John was clear—”
“Dam—” The mother of Jesus stopped short of uttering the curse, but her anger was not at all contained. “That man adds dry timber to a wildfire. He is so full of zeal, Judas. The Baptist welcomes sacrifice. If he had his way Jesus would be at his heels to the butcher’s knife.”
“Perhaps, but the others revere your son and would let no harm come to him if they could help it.”
Quite unladylike, Mary snorted loudly. “That woman who funds this suicidal quest? She longs to hold the ax her very self.”
Judas knew this to be false, but did not argue. The tension between the two women was not his concern. Ameil was.
Gingerly rising, Judas went to move off, but Mary seemed startled.
“Please…”
“I go to explain to my nephew that we will be parted for a time, but reunited when it is God’s will.”
Visibly relieved, Mary looked like she might hug him, but they had not gained that much this night. “Thank you. I fear if you had disagreed I would have been condemned to hell for never forgiving you.”
It was a strange thing to say, but somewhere in the harsh words was a warm sentiment. One did not feel so passionately without caring deeply. In the end, he felt the same of Jesus. Ameil could grow a season without him, but Judas could never allow Jesus to die without him.
Silently, Mary went back into the house as Judas renewed his climb.
How sure Jesus, James, Magdalene, and even Mary seemed to be of his fortitude. They all felt him a key piece in this complex puzzle that God had laid out before them.
Why then, did Judas still believe John had it the most right of all?
CHAPTER 19
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Skies over Bulgaria
Brandt could feel the strain of the jet’s engines all the way through the thickly padded leather cushions. He had let his eyes rest until he heard both Svengurd and Davidson begin to snore lightly. Cracking open his eyes, the sergeant confirmed his men asleep, and Lopez intent in the pilot’s seat.
Without preamble, Brandt walked over to the two doctors, who were still deep in conversation. “If I could have your presence in the rear cabin?” He pointed a thumb to the small conference room located at the back of the plane.
“My dear sir, we are quite busy trying to—”
“I’m not asking,” he said bluntly.
Lochum tried to argue, but Rebecca was on her feet, tugging the professor to join Brandt. “Let’s just hear him out, Archibald.”
He was not sure why it bugged him so much when Rebecca used the professor’s first name, but it didn’t help his mood. Without checking to see if they followed, Brandt opened the conference door, and once they were through closed it.
“Look, I am sick of being chased. I’m even sicker of being shot at
, and I’m completely done with feeling behind the curve. You two are going to tell me everything you know about the bones and this fucking group who’s got a hard-on for them.”
Lochum sputtered, “I have never heard such a—”
“Your arrogance almost got us all killed, so I think I’ve kind of been granted immunity from your bullshit, professor. Take a seat and start explaining what the fuck is going on.”
“And if I do not?”
Brandt let every ounce of frustration and resentment he felt toward the older man flavor his words. “Then I will instruct Lopez to set us down somewhere in the middle of Romania, kick your ass out the plane, then continue to Istanbul with Rebecca.” He turned to the doctor. “You got any problem with that plan?”
She might not be able to meet his gaze, but he had read her mood correctly, because Rebecca just shrugged at Lochum. “He’s saved our butts. He deserves to be in the loop, completely.”
The older man looked at Rebecca, then at Brandt, as if he could not understand a word either of them said. It was going to take Lochum a couple of minutes to catch up, so he sat across the conference table from the doctor.
“Let’s start with why Lochum is so sure Jesus survived the cross.”
* * *
Perhaps if Brandt wanted to talk about feelings or the kiss that almost felt like a myth, Rebecca might have been ill at ease, but his straightforward manner made her feel right at home. Lecturing about ancient biblical history was in her wheelhouse.
“Lochum has pored over all proto-Christian accounts of the crucifixion and is certain that Jesus planned and manipulated events in such a way to assure his survival of the cross.”
Brandt leaned forward. “Like what?”
Rebecca did not make the same mistake again of underestimating the sergeant’s intelligence and familiarity with the subject. She spoke to him as if he were a fellow doctor. “The timing of Jesus’ arrest is critical. No matter if you believe Judas was asked to betray him or he did so of his own accord, Jesus certainly prompted the action at the Last Supper.”
“When he said whoever dipped his bread last should go and get the betrayal over with?”
Even though Rebecca should have not been surprised at his understanding, she still was. Grad students sometimes took weeks to make the connection.
“Yes. If we can rely on the basic timeline described in the Bible that put the arrest on a Thursday night. Late enough that no official would be called for a tribunal.”
Brandt nodded. “If it had been done earlier in the day he might have been condemned and would have spent the night on the cross?”
“Exactly. This way he would not face any inquisition until at least six the next morning, when the Jewish day traditionally started.”
“But what you have both missed is that that the betrayal was made to the chief priests, not to the governor, nor to the Romans,” Lochum added. It seemed the professor had decided to join the class. “Jesus was of such consequence that giving himself over to the local authorities assured him hours of reprieve while they tried to figure out what to do with him.”
Rebecca watched Brandt as he listened to the professor. The sergeant soaked the words in. His face looked as if he were back in that time calculating the plan himself. His eyes weighed the pros and cons of every maneuver they discussed.
“So you think he anticipated the priests deferring to Herod and then the governor giving authority back to Pontius?” the sergeant asked.
“Anticipated? My dear soldier, he counted on it. All the delays pushed the final decision to crucify him to late afternoon.”
Brandt shook his head. “The Bible gives no exact timeline.”
“The canonical Bible? No. The Gospels and Gnostic writings that are not included in the abridged version? Absolutely,” Lochum answered.
Rebecca felt her head bob back and forth as if she were watching a tennis match.
“Even so, how could Jesus have been so sure that they would allow his family to take him down from the cross? The Romans would leave the bodies up for days upon days.”
“That is where—”
Lochum was interrupted as the plane shook violently. Rebecca held her breath. How could the Knot have found them again? Brandt was out of his seat, jerking the door open.
Davidson and Svengurd were on the floor, trying to gather themselves, when the intercom sparked to life.
“Just a little turbulence, people. Nothing to worry about, but I would pay attention to the seat belt sign in the future.”
Shaking his head, Brandt rejoined them. “I’m sorry, professor, go on.”
Obviously far more shaken than he wanted to admit, Lochum did not immediately answer, so Rebecca stepped in. “That is where the day of the week comes in. The Romans were brutal oppressors, but they also walked a fine line to keep the populace complacent so they always allowed the bodies to be removed at sunset on the Sabbath.”
“Friday,” Brandt said, seeming to understand. “So if we believe these other documents, Jesus was put up on the cross in the late afternoon and expected to be brought down by sunset? That would be just a few hours.”
“Well, glad to see those in uniform can follow a simple logic tree,” Lochum retorted, clearly recovered from the minor shock.
Brandt glanced at Rebecca, and she almost laughed. She had never seen a look that so clearly said, “Is he an ass, or what?” But the sergeant did not verbalize this sentiment as he turned back to Lochum.
“All right, let’s take the timeline for granted. The Romans crucified lots of people on Friday, and no one else lived to tell about it. Why would Jesus think he could survive?”
“I am not here to spoon-feed you, sergeant. The events are taught at every Sunday school class. Can you not expand your mind enough to conceive of the fruition of the plan?”
* * *
Okay, now the prick was just pissing him off, but Brandt stopped shy of saying that. Instead he looked at Rebecca, but she shrugged.
“I hate to say it, but Lochum is right. The rest is pretty straightforward.”
Now when she suggested it, it did not sound that demeaning. Easily he called up the story of the crucifixion, turning the events over in his own mind to find that, sure enough, if Rebecca hadn’t been right.
“If anyone was alive before they were brought down, the Romans would break their legs,” Brandt said, answering his own question.
The doctor nodded solemnly. “By sledgehammering the femurs—causing enough pain, blood loss, or more likely fatal fat embolisms. The point of the crucifixion was actually to torture with a slow, agonizing death, but if push came to shove, they could execute a man efficiently.”
Still, this information only led to more questions. “Okay. He was crucified with two others. The Romans broke their legs, but not Jesus’.”
“Because?” Lochum asked.
Brandt shot a scathing look to the professor, but the older man had risen and was pacing behind Rebecca. And she was strangely grinning at Brandt.
“What happened just before they broke the other two’s legs?”
Mind racing, he spoke as he recited the story in his head. “Jesus asked for water but was given vinegar instead.” Finally the proposed scheme gelled in his mind. “After a sip, Jesus fell dead.” He looked at Rebecca. “You are suggesting he was purposefully drugged to mimic death?”
“Either that, or I’m sorry to be blasphemous, but Jesus was a wimp. The other two, being crucified, were in pain but hale and hearty to the point they had to be killed before they were taken down.”
“But Jesus was scourged before he was taken to the cross,” Brandt retorted hotly. Somehow this had gone from a detached academic discussion to a defense of his faith. Jesus had given up his spirit to God, not startled to death like a scared rabbit.
“Like you said yourself, Brandt, men survived days on the cross. Sometimes they were still alive when scavengers began eating their extremities, and yet Jesus dies after only a few hours?” Sh
e hurried along. “Even if you don’t believe our timeline, he was up there for a maximum of ten hours. Still not very long in terms of the times.”
“He gave his spirit up,” Brandt said through clenched teeth.
Rebecca’s face softened, and she placed a hand over his. “But the whole purpose of being crucified was to suffer for his people. Why would he just give up? That version of the story just doesn’t track with the rest of the crucifixion saga.”
As much as he wanted to argue, Brandt found the words sticking in his throat. He had never thought of the crucifixion in such a way. Who would? It was Jesus’ final sacrifice that mattered to the faithful, not esoteric concerns like timelines and tonics.
“Do not forget the wound to the ribs,” Lochum pointed out. Almost sounding gleeful that Brandt’s beliefs were being unwoven.
Rebecca shrugged sympathetically. “If he were truly dead when the centurion stabbed his ribs, he would not have bled freely. As a soldier, you know that.”
Something deep in Brandt’s chest hurt. Why had he never considered that aspect of the suffering? If truly dead, Jesus’ blood would have coagulated almost immediately and come out thick and clotted.
“So there you have it. Jesus was a fraud,” Lochum said, quite satisfied with himself.
Brandt was on his feet, his fist rising on its own. The bastard had gone too far, when Rebecca touched his arm.
“Not even he believes that,” she said as she gently lowered his fist. “We’re not saying Jesus did not suffer, or that he survived the cross for his own benefit, but he did all this so that he could be certain to fulfill the prophecies that he would resurrect.”
The professor shrugged. “Yeah, or what she said.”
* * *
Rebecca almost punched Lochum herself. The old man was just being cruel now. Obviously Brandt was struggling to digest all that he had been told, which kind of freaked her out. The sergeant hadn’t been shaken when he charged through the native-infested jungle, or when they were drowning in the caves—not even when they were almost shot out of the sky.
The Betrayed Series: Ultimate Omnibus Collection Page 26
