by Ann Swinfen
I was following close behind him when he rounded a great out-thrust cliff and stopped. Carelessly, I trod on scree and slithered a short way, till he grabbed my arm to stop me from falling. With his free arm he pointed ahead.
‘Look!’ he said. ‘There it is. The Middle Sea.’
At first, strange as it sounds, I could not see it. I suppose it was so vast that my mind could not comprehend it, or else some trick of vision made it appear like an inverted mirage of the sky. Then my brain or my eyes came into focus. What I saw was something so beautiful, I caught my breath.
A few times, during my childhood lessons, and if I had been especially dutiful, my brother would recite to me scraps from a Greek poet. I do not know where he had learned these, and always wished afterwards that I had asked him. Perhaps he had bought a scroll from a passing trader, or found it with the miscellaneous scrolls kept in the beth ha-sefer for the brighter scholars, who advanced from learning Hebrew to learning Greek. They were supposed to study the Pentateuch in its Greek translation, not secular texts, but perhaps this one had somehow found its way amongst them. I realised later that it was strange he had read those poems, written by one of the gôyîm, but I know he would have loved them for their stories. I remember the stories still, though few of the precise words, except for one phrase ‘the wine-dark sea’.
‘I cannot understand how the sea can be “wine-dark”,’ I said once.
Yeshûa shook his head. ‘Nor can I. Perhaps a poet sees things differently from the rest of us.’
My brother came up beside us now, and I slipped my arm through his.
‘Look, Yeshûa,’ I said, pointing to the sea, which lay like the purple mantle of a king at the foot of the mountains, stretching out beyond sight. ‘The wine-dark sea.’
Chapter Fourteen
In the farm above Massilia, the heat of late summer has become scorching. A boon to the harvest and to the ripening grapes, the hot, still, humid air fills the house with an atmosphere like the steam room in a bathhouse. Julia runs barefoot, however much her mother scolds, and hitches her tunic as high as she dares, showing her flashing legs as she runs about the house. She is the only one who runs. Her brothers, avoiding their lessons with excuses about the need for their presence in the fields, slip away to bathe, and lie as somnolent as the farm dogs under the shade of trees on the margin of the farm, swimming and dozing away the daylight hours. The Israelite farm workers endure it better than most, from long experience of blistering heat in their homeland.
Mariam, in one of her lucid periods, begs to be carried outside. Her room is like a bread oven, she complains, and she is slowly being baked alive. Manilius objects. Fulvia exclaims that the heat outside will kill her. Sergius supports his mother’s request.
‘Under the grape arbour,’ Miriam whispers. ‘There will be shade and a breeze. I cannot breathe in here.’
In the end, they give in to her demands. She has so little time left, they can all see that. Let her have her wish, however absurd. Manilius lifts her tenderly into a chair and two of the Israelite men carry it out to the terrace and place it according to her precise directions. It is exactly as she has predicted. This one spot catches what little cool air breathes up from the sea. The thick leaves of the vine cast a glorious shade and stir in a breeze which can be found nowhere else on the farm. Mariam settles back in her chair with a sigh of satisfaction. She has known every corner of this farm for thirty-five years. They think her grown into childish folly with age and illness, but she has not.
At last they go away, leaving her there with Sergius, who has told Rachel to bring out a tray. He pours from a cool earthenware jug, dewed with moisture, and carries a glass to Mariam.
‘Fresh, unfermented juice pressed from the first grapes,’ he says. He steadies the glass so she can drink.
‘Good,’ she says.
‘Mmm.’
He sets their glasses down on the low table and sits on the ground at her feet, his arms around his knees.
‘You said you were a family of many sons. How many?’
‘Six, and another that died at birth. Three girls.’
‘Ya’aqôb and Yeshûa, you said.’
‘And Yehûdes, Yoses, Shim’ôn and Daniel. The girls were Melkha, Eskha and me.’
‘And they all stayed behind in Palestine?’
‘The Land of Judah. Yes.’
‘But not you?’
‘No.’
He turns his face and looks up at her. He does not want to tire her, but he is intrigued to discover all this large family he never knew he had, and the short time left to them makes it urgent. Julia told him recently that she knew something of these people.
‘And why,’ he asks delicately, ‘did you leave?’
For a long time, she does not answer. Then she closes her eyes and says faintly:
‘Because I was in danger. I was bidden to leave. That is enough now, Sergius. I need to rest.’
We stayed in Tyre nearly half a year, lodging with the small Jewish community settled there, mostly minor merchants and traders, many of whom were known to Yehûdâ. The rest of our party was at first grateful to Yehûdâ for guiding us safely over the mountains and finding homes for us, but as the weeks passed, they began to look sideways again at him, and to call him ‘Yehûdâ of Keriyoth’ in that way which implied that he was not one of the true company.
Four of us lodged with a friend of Yehûdâ’s father—my brother and I, the Magdalene and Yehûdâ. Our escape from the soldiers in Capernaum had brought us closer together, though I think, looking back, that this confirmation of Yehûdâ’s special place in my brother’s affection did him harm amongst the others. Shim’ôn and his brother Andreas lodged across the street and sometimes dined with us. I had come to have a great respect for Shim’ôn. I liked his quiet sturdiness, his honesty and reliability. I could see that in time he might become a leader of men. But even he was a little reserved with Yehûdâ. From several of the others there was jealousy, even at times open hostility.
Zebedee’s two sons stayed at a house several streets away, where they could not be kept under a watchful eye by Yehûdâ and my brother. I wished more than once that their mother had been able to come with us, for she might have been able to check their bursts of unruliness and wild talk. I was sure they were again plotting to force Yeshûa into a position where he would have to lead an armed revolt. If he could not be persuaded to it, they might trigger an uprising themselves, and then proclaim him as their leader.
‘The Sons of Thunder,’ Yeshûa called them one day, teasing, and the name stuck, but I did not think he could tease them out of their eagerness for a violent confrontation with the men of power.
Much of the time he ignored their talk of an armed uprising, though I suspected that it troubled him. During our months in the city, he kept to himself, staying mostly withindoors. Partly, this was because he was anxious that word of his whereabouts should not reach Antipas or the Romans. But also he had told us that he did not want to preach to the Phoenicians, that his mission was to the Israelites. So when the brothers Yôhânân and Ya’kob arrived one afternoon at our house, leading a group of twenty or so Phoenician men, I was shocked. Ya’kob marched in at the door without knocking and confronted the four of us where we sat, talking quietly to our host.
‘Behold, Master,’ said Yôhânân gleefully. ‘We have brought these good people to see you. They are eager to hear your message.’
The faces were eager, certainly. But to me they seemed like the faces of a crowd come to gape at a showman’s prodigies—a dwarf or a two-headed sheep. They whispered and snickered behind their hands, and one man strode up to my brother and tugged at his hair, as if he thought he was an apparition or a freak.
We all jumped to our feet and Yehûdâ stood in front of Yeshûa to shield him from the crowd.
‘Get them out of here!’ Yehûdâ said grimly to Yôhânân. ‘You know what he has said.’
Yôhânân smiled at him and folded his arms acro
ss his chest. He would do nothing to help, I could see. At that moment Shim’ôn and Andreas hurried in. From across the street they had seen the crowd arrive and had come to protect Yeshûa. Between them the brothers and Yehûdâ ushered the Phoenicians politely out of the door, then closed and bolted it.
Yeshûa stood up and confronted Yôhânân and Ya’kob. He was white and shaking, so I thought at first he was afraid, but then I saw that he was furiously angry.
‘You devil’s spawn!’ he shouted, and for a moment he sounded like my brother Ya’aqôb. ‘You dare to defy me! I will not pursue my mission amongst the gôyîm. These are my instructions. Why do you disobey me?’
He hardly seemed like my gentle, loving brother, but I realised that his worry and his uncertainty had been seething inside him like a boiling pot on the fire that suddenly bursts its lid.
Yôhânân was shaking now, shaking with fear, but he assumed that fawning, unctuous tone of voice that I so mistrusted.
‘But, Master,’ he said, ‘you must act. You hide away in this house and do nothing, when we are here, ready to follow you, to rise up against the occupiers. Even Phoenicians can bear arms. All that is needed is a leader. And you, lord, are that leader. Take up your sword, and we will follow. We will crown you king of the Jews.’
‘No!’ Yeshûa shouted. His face was flushed red now. ‘I will not take part in any violence.’ Then he turned on his heel and left the room.
That was the last time Yôhânân tried any tricks in Tyre, but it would not be the last time my brother became angry during the confused and restless months of that year.
Living in the same house as Yehûdâ all that time was both a joy and a torment. He did not ask me again if I would like to be married in Tyre, but I saw it in his eyes every morning when we sat down to break our fast together and every evening when we bade each other goodnight, and went our separate ways. Alone of us, Yehûdâ was not idle in Tyre. He went out amongst the merchant community and transacted business on behalf of his father. In this way he was able also to earn a little money, to help us pay our way for food and lodging. Of this, too, many of the shelîhîm were resentful. Shim’ôn was able to find a little work at first on the fishing boats, but this was not popular with the local Phoenician fishermen, so he soon desisted.
Despite living in the same house, Yehûdâ and I were rarely alone together. For a few precious moments, on a dark turn of the stair, we might put our arms around each other and cling together, but afterwards I always felt guilty and prayed for forgiveness. I wanted to confide in my brother, but I knew he would urge us to marry and leave his following. We could not do it. His need and his danger were too great. Sometimes my whole body ached, as though I was being ripped apart, and I became sharp-tongued with everyone. I think the Magdalene guessed my trouble. Although she never spoke of it, she was especially kind to me, and it was due to her that Yehûdâ and I had one of our few times alone.
She had begun to deal with a woman who reared poultry on a small farm outside the city, a little way along the coast, buying eggs from her once a week, and sometimes a chicken.
‘Could you go in my place, Mariam?’ she asked one day. ‘I am not quite well. My head . . .’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘You should lie down in our room, with the shutters closed. Tell me how to find the farm and what you want me to buy.’
I enjoyed the walk, for I was glad to be out of the city. Tyre was a busy trading post and port, with ships coming and going from all parts of the Empire, and was afflicted with all the things that grow up in a city with such a port: refuse in the streets and desperate slums and brothels and mean dirty taverns and drunken sailors gathered in menacing groups. We were staying in a prosperous part of Tyre, but when that kind of infection takes hold in a city, traces of it seep into every corner. I would never have walked the streets of Tyre alone after dusk, though I always felt safe in Capernaum.
I left the farm and made my way slowly back along the coastal path with my basket of eggs. It was a fine late summer’s day, cooled by the sea breeze so that the sun was not oppressive, as it would have been inland. I had learned to love the scent of the Middle Sea, a much richer brew than that of Gennesaret. There was no need to hurry back, so I sat down on a tussock of grass, with my arms around my knees, and watched the silver flames flashing on the waves and the gulls swooping for fish, shrieking and quarrelling when one made a successful catch. A little way offshore there was a sudden rolling movement. I caught my breath. There it was again, the lovely leaping crescent of a dolphin. These beautiful creatures, beloved of Arion and all the poets, have always remained a wonder to me.
So absorbed was I in watching first one dolphin, then another which joined it, that I did not hear him until he was almost upon me.
‘It’s a good thing,’ said Yehûdâ, sitting down beside me, ‘that I am not a thief come to steal your basket of eggs.’
I turned on him a smile lit with sudden happiness. The day had become brighter, the sea more glorious, the wind carrying all the perfumes of the distant Indies!
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘The Magdalene directed me most carefully.’
I laughed. ‘What a schemer! She told me she was ill.’
‘Perhaps she could not otherwise have overcome your scruples.’
I blushed and looked down. My scruples were perhaps more easily overcome than he believed.
‘Oh, my beloved,’ he said, taking me in his arms and laying his cheek against my hair. ‘Once you said to me, Thy lips drop as the honeycomb, honey and milk are under thy tongue. I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate. How I long to drink that juice of you.’
‘And you replied, My dove, my undefiled is but one. Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm, for love is strong as death. Oh, I am sick of love.’
‘I have not forgotten. I am sick of love. When shall I be able to take you to my bed, my beloved, my wife?’
‘Turn away thine eyes from me,’ I murmured, ‘for they have overcome me.’
He groaned, and his arms tightened round me till I could hardly breathe.
‘I love you,’ I whispered, too soft for him to hear. ‘I love you. I love you.’
We did not break from our vow, though we trembled on the verge of it. As we walked slowly back to the city—so slowly—with our arms clinging to each other’s waists, he began to talk about Yeshûa and the future.
‘He wants to confer with us tonight, just the two of us. I think he means to set out his plans for the future, to see what we think of them.’
‘Do you think he is any clearer in his mind than he was when we left Capernaum?’
‘I don’t know, Mariam. I truly do not know.’
The three of us met after supper in the small back room our merchant host used as an office. My brother had about him a greater look of resolution than I had seen all this year.
‘I have been thinking hard what we should do,’ he said. ‘This interval in Tyre, away from home, hasn’t been wasted. It has given me time to consider a plan, which I could never do in the hurly-burly of the early days of our mission in the Galilee. It was all too . . . too broken. I never saw clearly what to do, from one day to the next.’
I felt suddenly hopeful. Yeshûa seemed to have thrown aside his uncertainties. He might have been the general of an army planning a campaign, though I immediately abandoned my metaphor. I glanced at Yehûdâ, where he sat next to Yeshûa on the other side of the table, and saw that he was smiling broadly with relief.
‘Exactly!’ he said. ‘We are going to change the world, that’s what you said. Well, to do that, we must know where we are going and when, what we plan to do, how we hope to achieve it.’
Yeshûa laughed aloud. I had not heard such a merry sound from him for months. Relief flooded through me, as palpable as the wine we were drinking.
‘My practical merchant!’ my brother said. ‘You make your list of items like a shopkeeper and chec
k them off, one by one. Where! When! What! How!’
‘It’s not so bad a practice,’ Yehûdâ said mildly.
‘See,’ said Yeshûa, dipping his finger in his beaker and drawing with wine on the table. ‘We are here, in Tyre. When I judge it is safe to return, we will take the road back to Capernaum. Here.’ He added more wine, to make a puddle for Capernaum.
‘While we are there, we will gather together more of our followers, but then we will move on. I think we have spent enough time in the Galilee.’
He murmured, as if to himself, ‘I do not know how long I shall have.’
Yehûdâ looked across at me and shook his head, but I had no intention of interrupting.
‘From Capernaum I think it will be best if we go into the trans-Jordanian lands, to the tetrarchy of Philip and perhaps even on to the cities of the Decapolis, beyond the eastern shore of Gennesaret.’ He drew a long, looping line, which came back to Capernaum.
‘Not just Bethsaida, then?’ Yehûdâ ventured.
‘No, no.’ Yeshûa dismissed Bethsaida with a wave of his hand. ‘Then, when we are ready, we will go south. To Judaea. To the city of Jericho. And to the Holy City itself. Jerusalem.’ He drew a long straight line along the table towards himself and punched his finger against the edge. Jerusalem.
I did not know why, but something in his tone made me shiver. I looked at him intently. I opened my mouth to speak, but Yehûdâ was before me.
‘What are your intentions in Jerusalem? There’s a Roman garrison there. And I do not think the high priest and the Sanhedrin will welcome your teaching.’
‘And Yôhânân and the others,’ I burst out. ‘They want to make trouble, and Jerusalem is the place they will try it.’
My brother looked at me steadily. ‘Perhaps I will make trouble myself. Jerusalem is where all roads end. Jerusalem is the only place for a prophet to die.’
