IX
Luke and Thecla left Caesarea a few days later, happy to be on the way to the beautiful Sea of Galilee. They went first to Jerusalem, since it was there that the final act of the drama of Jesus had been played out. Mark and Peter had not yet returned from Galilee, but they stayed at the house of the patriarch James while they visited the hill of Calvary upon which the cross had stood and the tomb in the gardens of Joseph of Arimathea where the body of Jesus had been placed. Once again they heard from James the story of how Mary of Magdala, Joanna, and that other Mary, the mother of another James, had come to the tomb on the third day and found it empty. Luke wished to talk to the three women, but no one knew anything about them, except that Mary Magdalene was said to have returned to her home city of Magdala.
In the evening Luke and Thecla went alone to the Garden of Gethsemane on the Mount of Olives to pray where Jesus had prayed before the soldiers had taken Him. Kneeling there, with the dying city of the Jews spread out below him, Luke felt a sense of peace and certainty possess his spirit which he seemed never to have felt before. Thecla sensed it too, for when they walked down the mountain hand in hand, she asked, “Do you remember once when I told you there was something concerning you that seemed just out of my grasp?”
“Yes. Why do you ask now, dear?”
“While we were on our knees just now, I had a strange feeling, almost as if someone had spoken to me and told me we are on the right path. I am sure now that God wants you to follow in the footsteps of Jesus and set down His story for the world.”
“I had the same feeling,” Luke admitted. “As if I were back on a road upon which I started a long time ago—perhaps when I received the scroll from Stephen—but went afield.”
“You will find the scroll again somewhere on the way,” Thecla said confidently. “I know you will.”
The next day they left Jerusalem, bearing a letter from James to the churches in Galilee and Judea, so that they would be freely accepted by the Christians wherever they went. Luke had purchased a mule in Jerusalem for Thecla to ride, for she seemed more tired now at the end of the day than in the months before they had come to Caesarea. And as she rode he walked beside the animal, telling her what he remembered from the scroll about the trip Jesus had made along this very road to Jerusalem, the trip from which He had not returned.
“Do you think he had hope even then that He might be spared, Luke?” she asked.
“He must have. For even in Gethsemane He prayed that the cup should pass if it was God’s will.”
“And yet He loved us all enough to die that we might know the truth of His Way.” She put her hand over Luke’s upon the rough coat of the mule. “I remember that you still came to me in the theater at Caesarea, Luke, although there seemed to be no chance that you could save either me or yourself from the lions.”
“Sacrifice is the privilege of love,” he said. “The love of a man for the woman he takes as his wife or the love a father bears for his children is no different from the love that Jesus bore for the world. If Jesus were nothing else but a man, I would still follow His Way, because it is based upon love for one another.”
“Do you think love can conquer everything, even death?”
“Love removes all fear from death,” he told her gently, for he knew what she was thinking. “Even if there were no such thing as eternal life in heaven, we would still live on after death because the love we give to others lives on in their souls.”
“Then we become immortal through those we love,” Thecla said softly. “It is a beautiful thought, Luke.” She leaned down to kiss him. “I shall live forever in you and your soul, my darling, for you have all my love.”
“And I in yours,” he said, putting his arm about her as he walked beside the mule.
It was about a week later that they came down from the wild mountain country that lay to the west of the deep cup in which was set the jewel of the lake. They had been traveling slowly because of a steadily increasing weakness in Thecla which disturbed Luke very much. On the fertile Plain of Gennesaret near the city of Capernaum, figs, olives, and walnut trees grew everywhere, a green carpet when seen from the trail that descended to the water level from the city of Magdala upon the heights. Along the trail and the shore flourished oleanders, papyri, blossoming shrubs, and myriad wild flowers which grew like a many-colored carpet, making this fertile oasis a veritable paradise.
At Capernaum Luke and Thecla lodged at an inn. Learning that Peter and Mark were somewhere in the vicinity, they left the mule in the stable and started out the next morning to walk along the shore of the lake, in the hope of seeing their friends or getting some word of them, for Peter was well known in this region. The sun was shining and the air was warm as they walked along the shore, stopping to talk to the fishermen and watch them draw their nets from the water, filled with the multicolored fish for which the lake was famous. Peter had been a fisherman before Jesus had called him, and from one of the boats which had just returned loaded with fish they learned that the big disciple was teaching along the shore only a short distance away.
Soon they came to a place where many springs burst from a little glen among the basalt rocks, the water being gathered into a small reservoir. People were moving about among the springs, some bathing and some drinking water from the smaller ones. Most of them were lame or sick. Some were even carried in litters or on the backs of relatives and friends, for the waters were thought to possess great healing properties. A little way to the east of the springs was a second and smaller plain, but one equally fertile with that of Gennesaret. Here a small bay, almost in the form of a semicircle, was set into the shore, with the sides shelving up the rocky elevation to form a perfect amphitheater where hundreds of people could sit and listen to words spoken from the shore or even from a boat in the bay. The slopes were green with grass, and as they rounded the shore and came to the little bay, Luke and Thecla saw a group of people gathered upon the lower edge of the slope, listening to a tall man with a white beard and majestic countenance who was speaking to them from the water’s edge.
“There is Peter!” Thecla cried. “And Mark is with him!”
It was indeed Peter who was speaking, and Luke and Thecla found a seat upon a flat rock where they could hear him. He was telling again the simple story that he told so well, of his discipleship with Jesus and the crucifixion and resurrection of the gentle carpenter from Nazareth. When he finished and the crowd began to disperse, Luke and Thecla made their way down across the rocks to the shore where Peter and Mark stood. The two welcomed them joyously.
“What brings you two here?” Mark asked. “We heard from a traveler that Paul had been taken from Jerusalem to Caesarea.”
Luke told them the story of the near tragedy in Jerusalem and Paul’s imprisonment in the palace of Herod in Caesarea. “Thecla had never seen the Sea of Galilee,” he explained then. “And since I wanted to learn more about what Jesus did and said in this region, we decided to come now. James told us you were here.”
“What of Paul?” Peter asked. “Is he well?”
“Very well. And busy writing letters to all the churches. He expects to be imprisoned a long time and perhaps to go to Rome.”
Peter nodded. “There are many Christians in Rome now. It might be well for Paul to go there.”
“Don’t you feel harsh toward Paul for what he did to you in Antioch?” Thecla asked.
Peter smiled. “No, my daughter. Paul has done a great work for Jesus. There is no reason why we should be enemies.” Then he looked at Luke keenly. “Is it only to see the lake again that you have come here, Luke?”
“No,” Luke admitted. “I have been thinking of writing down the things that Jesus did and taught so that there would be a record of them in the future.”
“You can use the stories I have been collecting,” Mark offered.
“Why not write the story of His life yourself, Ma
rk?” Luke asked.
Mark nodded. “Indeed I have already begun. But Luke has been gathering much more comprehensive material, so he should write one as well. He can use my material and add all that he has been learning. Peter has often said that Luke should do this.”
Luke looked at Peter in surprise, but the big apostle only smiled, as if at something which only he knew. “How long have you felt that I should write the story of Jesus, Peter?” Luke asked.
“Who can tell when a thought first comes into the mind?” Peter said. “It could have been in a tent one night on the road between Jerusalem and Joppa, Luke. Or when you offered to leave Paul and follow me in Antioch years ago. There is a proverb of the Jewish people,” he continued: “‘Man’s goings are of the Lord; how can a man then understand his own way?’”
“But how can I be sure that God wants me to write the life of Jesus?” Luke asked.
“Are you certain in your own heart?”
Luke remembered when he and Thecla had been praying in the Garden of Gethsemane a few nights ago now a voice seemed to speak to him from the darkness, and the strange peace and assurance which had filled his soul. “Yes,” he told Peter. “I am sure in my heart.”
“Then the Lord has revealed His purpose to you,” Peter, said briskly. “You need doubt it no longer. Now we must be on the road to Magdala.”
“Why Magdala?”
But Peter only shook his head. “I cannot tell you now, Luke. Soon you will know the reason.”
X
Guardian of the pass leading from the wild and forbidding beauty of the Valley of the Doves and the Plain of Sharon to the serene and quiet beauty of the Sea of Galilee far below, the city of Magdala sat astride one of the main arteries connecting the populous cities around the lake with Jerusalem and the cities of the coast. It was late in the afternoon and Thecla was riding the mule, for they had stopped at the inn to gather their belongings and the patient animal upon which she had ridden from Jerusalem. Luke noticed again how tired she looked and how delicately etched was the loveliness of her face, as if she had been losing weight. Seeing his eyes upon her, she smiled and squeezed his hand, but he could see the weariness in her eyes and he put his arm about her as they climbed the winding road to the fortress city, so that she could lean against his shoulder and gather strength from him.
Peter seemed to know exactly where he was going, for he led them off the main road into a street that curved along the brow of the mountain. He stopped before a low, rambling house that sat close to the street with a small garden in front where brightly-colored flowers grew and bees hummed lazily. A little girl was playing in front of the door. When she saw the big apostle, she squealed suddenly with delight and ran to throw herself into his arms.
“Uncle Peter!” she cried. “And Mark! I am so glad you came to see me.” She was a startlingly beautiful child, with a mass of lustrous red hair, a clear translucent skin, and great violet eyes.
Peter lifted the child with his great hands and put her upon his shoulder, where she screamed with delight and mock fear, setting her fingers in his hair to steady herself on that lofty perch. “This is Luke and Thecla, Mariamne,” he said. “They are friends of mine.” The child flashed them a smile and held out her hand as composedly as if she were a grown woman, greeting them graciously in turn from her lofty perch.
A woman opened the door of the house and stepped out into the yard now. When she saw Mark and Peter, a smile came over her face and she hurried out to make them welcome. There was no doubting her relationship to the child, for both had the same glorious red hair, the same translucent skin. The mother was as lovely in her maturity as the child was in her childish beauty. Luke judged her to be about forty or forty-five, although her body was still as lithe and as graceful as that of a young girl.
“Peter,” she cried happily, embracing the apostle fondly. “And Mark.”
“This is Luke, of whom you have heard me speak, Mary,” Peter said. “And Thecla, his wife.”
The red-haired woman gave Luke her hand in smiling welcome and embraced Thecla. “How lovely you are, my dear,” she said, “but you are tired. Come in and lie down before the evening meal.”
“I am weary,” Thecla admitted. “It has been a long day.”
Luke lifted her down from the mule, and they all went into the house. Luke and Thecla had a room to themselves, and he made Thecla lie down on the couch while he bathed first her face and hands and then her feet with water from a large jar in the corner.
The room opened upon a terraced garden in which a fountain tinkled and flowers grew everywhere in a riot of color. The house stood upon a precipitous hillside overlooking the lake, with the next house below it hidden beneath the brow of the hill, so that it seemed suspended upon the edge of a cliff. Far below them the slanting rays of the sun caressed the blue oval of the lake. The fishermen’s boats with their brightly colored sails seemed only toys from this elevation.
“I am a poor physician,” Luke told Thecla contritely, “not to have seen how tired you were. We could have rested a day before going in search of Peter and Mark.”
“We might have missed them, too,” she said. “Why did Peter bring us here, Luke?”
“He will tell us when he is ready,” Luke assured her.
“Who is Mariamne’s mother, Luke? She certainly isn’t just an ordinary person, but I never heard Peter call her anything but Mary. And did you ever see anyone as beautiful at her age? She is as lithe as a dancer.”
“A dancer!” The pattern fell suddenly into place in Luke’s mind. “Mary of Magdala. She was a dancer before she followed Jesus.”
“Whom are you talking about?” Thecla asked, still mystified.
“Mary Magdalene. Don’t you remember? When I asked James about the women who visited the tomb of Jesus, he said that Mary was said to be living in her old home at Magdala.”
Mark came in then to ask about Thecla and confirmed their surmise. This was indeed the home of Mary of Magdala, or Mary Magdalene as she had been called in Jesus’ company when she had ministered to Him during those last months before the end. “She can tell you much about the life of Jesus too,” Mark went on. “Peter has always said Mary loved and understood the Master better than any of those who were with Him during the last days.”
Darkness had fallen by the time they gathered for the evening meal, but the air was warm and fragrant with the perfume of the flowers that grew everywhere. They ate upon the terrace overlooking the lake, and afterward the little girl, Mariamne, insisted upon dancing for them. Watching her as she moved about the room gracefully, blown like a bit of thistledown upon the rhythm of the harp played by her mother, Luke could understand how Mary of Magdala had fired the hearts of men long ago with her dancing.
After the child was put to bed Mary told them again of those last weeks with Jesus when He had come to Jerusalem, knowing fully that a price had been set upon His head, and had faced the shame of arrest, the mockery of the trial, and the agony of the cross. Finally she told of seeing His body laid in the tomb and returning three days later to find it gone. When she finished, Peter said, “I brought Luke here today, Mary, because he is going to write the story of Jesus and the things He did and said.”
Mary looked at Peter, then back at Luke. Luke felt as if the lovely violet eyes were searching his soul, but she only nodded, as if in approval, and said, “He must be the one for whom I have been keeping it, Peter. You said the time would come when it would be needed again.”
“Yes,” Peter said. “He is the one.”
Mary got up and left the room, but she was gone only a few moments. When she returned, she carried something in her hands, handling it tenderly, as if it were a jewel or something equally precious. Luke recognized the object instantly.
It was the scroll of the sayings of Jesus.
After they had knelt beside the bed and prayed before going to sle
ep that night, Thecla took the scroll from the table where Luke had placed it, touching the stains made by the blood of Stephen which were still faintly visible, and the tears where the stones had struck it. “How did Mary get the scroll, Luke?” she asked. “She didn’t tell us.”
“I think Peter gave it to her to keep after Paul came back to Jerusalem and the persecution became severe,” he explained. “It would have been safer here, for the Sanhedrin was seeking to destroy it.”
“Then Peter must have known where it was all the time.”
“I am sure he did. He once told Mark that when the scroll was really needed it would be found.”
“Why didn’t he tell you, Luke?”
“Was I ready for it before now?” Luke asked. “Only since we made this trip together have I begun to understand what I really want to write about Jesus.”
Thecla put her hand upon his. “I am happy that you brought me, Luke. And that we have at last found the scroll.” She touched it again. “No wonder men were willing to die for it.”
Long after Thecla was asleep Luke lay awake, troubled by a fear whose reality he understood now only too well. He should have been more thoughtful of Thecla’s welfare during the past weeks, he told himself in an agony of self-accusation. Had he been less engrossed in learning about Jesus, he would have paid more attention to her loss of weight, the occasional twinges of pain which she had not entirely managed to hide from him, her weariness at the end of the day. All of it now fitted a pattern which he would have denied if he could, but whose certainty oppressed him now. As she lay close beside him, the hurried beating of her heart even in sleep, the dry warmth that fever had brought to her skin, and the quickened rhythm of her breathing warned him that the plague which had killed her father was once more at work in her body, seeking to consume it. And when he put his ear against her skin as she lay sleeping, he could hear those strange sounds which Hippocrates had identified with advanced phthisis five hundred years before.
The Road to Bithynia: A Novel of Luke, the Beloved Physician Page 44
