The Book of Longings(120)

“Jesus,” I said quietly, speaking to myself, to Lavi, to no one.

Lavi tugged my arm. “Do not be a witness to this, Ana. Spare yourself.”

I wrenched free, unable to tear my eyes from Jesus. He wore a cap plaited out of the thorn twigs used to kindle fires. He’d been flogged. His arms and legs were a mass of torn skin and dried blood. A howl formed in my belly and pushed into my mouth. It came without sound, just a violent spasm of pain.

Jesus stumbled, and though he was at least twenty arm lengths away from me, I reached out to catch him. He fell hard onto one knee and wavered there as a puddle of blood oozed around it. Then he collapsed, the crossbeam thudding onto his back. I screamed, and this time it split the stones.

As I started toward him, Lavi’s hand clamped my wrist. “You cannot go to him. If you impede these men, they will not hesitate to kill you as well.” I jerked my arm, twisting to free myself.

The soldiers were shouting at Jesus to get up, prodding him with the shafts of their spears. “Get up, Jew! Get to your feet.” He tried, pushing onto his elbow, then dropped back onto his chest.

My wrist burned from Lavi’s grip. He would not relent. The centurion climbed down from the black horse and kicked the crossbeam off Jesus’s back. “Leave him be,” he ordered his men. “He can carry it no farther.”

I hardened my eyes. “Release me now or I shall never forgive you.” Lavi dropped his hand, and I charged into the street, past the soldiers, keeping my eye on the centurion, who paced the edge of the crowd with his back to me.

I knelt beside Jesus, possessed now by an eerie calm, by a self barely known to me. Everything receded into the distance—the street, the soldiers, the noise, the city walls, the people craning to watch—the whole pageant of horrors abating until there was nothing there but Jesus and me. His eyes were closed. He didn’t move or seem to breathe, and I wondered if he was already dead. He would never know I was here, but I was relieved for him. Crucifixion was barbarous. I rolled him gently onto his side and a breath floated up.

“Beloved,” I said, bending close.

He blinked and his gaze found me. “Ana?”

“I’m here . . . I’ve come back. I’m here.” A drop of blood trickled over his brow, pooling in the corner of his eye. I took the sleeve of my cloak, his cloak, and dabbed it. His eyes lingered on the red thread on my arm, the one that was there at the beginning and would be there at the end.

“I will not leave you,” I said.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.

Far away I heard the centurion command a bystander to step forward and carry the crossbeam. Jesus and I didn’t have long. In these last minutes, what did he most want to hear—that he’d been seen and heard in this world? That he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do? That he’d loved and been loved?

“Your goodness will not be forgotten,” I told him. “Not a single act of your love will be squandered. You’ve brought God’s kingdom as you hoped—you’ve planted it in our hearts.”

He smiled, and I saw my face in the dark gold suns of his eyes. “Little Thunder,” he said.

I cupped my hands about his face. I said, “How I love you.”

We lingered only a second longer before the centurion returned and jerked me upward. He flung me to the side of the street, where I stumbled into a man who put out his hand to keep me from falling, but I fell nonetheless. As Lavi appeared and helped me up, I looked back at Jesus, who was being roughly hefted to his feet. His eyes lighted on mine before he trudged forward behind the large man chosen to carry the crossbeam.

As the procession began again, I noticed that the strap on one of my sandals had broken when I fell. I stooped and removed both shoes. I would go to my husband’s execution as he did. Barefoot.





iv.


I called out in Aramaic, “I’m here, Beloved. I’m walking behind you.” The centurion twisted in his saddle and looked at me, but said nothing.

Most of the spectators had hastened ahead of us toward the Gennath Gate that led to Golgotha, too impatient to wait on the man who was taking one slow, agonizing step after another. Glancing behind me, I saw that the few who’d remained to walk with him were women. Where were these disciples of his? The fishermen? The men? Were we women the only ones with hearts large enough to hold such anguish?

All at once a cluster of women joined me, two on my right, two on my left. One took my hand, squeezing it. I was startled to see she was my mother-in-law. Her face was wet and shattered. She said, “Ana, oh, Ana.” Next to her, Mary, the sister of Lazarus, tilted her head at me and sent me a steadying look.

At my other side, a woman slid her arm about my waist and gave me a wordless embrace. Salome. I grasped her hand and pulled it to my chest. Beside her was a woman I’d never seen before, with copper hair and flashing eyes, whom I guessed to be the age of my mother when I last saw her.

We walked pressed together, shoulder to shoulder. As we left the city gate and the hill of Golgotha came into view, Jesus halted, staring up at the little summit. “Beloved, I’m still here,” I said.

He lurched forward, moving against the swell of wind.

“My son, I am here also,” cried Mary, her voice shaking, the words shredding apart as they left her lips.

“And your sister walks with you as well,” Salome said.