The Book of Longings(43)

A stone struck my hip in a sunburst of pain. Another fell beside my ear. I heard the stomp of sandals running toward me, then a voice glittering with indignation. “Cease your violence! Would you stone her on the word of this man?”

The mob quieted, and I dared to raise my head. Jesus stood before them, his back to me. I stared at the bones in his shoulders. The way his hands were drawn into fists. How he’d planted himself between me and the stones.

Chuza, though, was more fox than Father, more jackal than Antipas. He diverted the rabble from Jesus’s question. “She had the ivory. You saw it for yourself.”

I felt life returning to me. “I did not steal it. It was a gift!” I exclaimed, getting to my feet.

Jesus’s voice boomed. “I ask you again, who is this accuser whose word you take so easily?” When no one spoke, Jesus shouted even louder, “Answer me!”

Knowing that anyone associated with Herod Antipas would be suspect to them, I called out, “He is Chuza, the steward of Herod Antipas,” which brought an eruption of mutterings.

Someone shouted at Chuza, “Are you Herod Antipas’s sycophant?”

“Do not ask who I am,” Chuza cried. “Ask who this man is. Who is he to speak for her? He has no standing here. Only her father, husband, or brother can speak for her. Is he one of these?”

Jesus turned and looked at me, and I saw his anger in the set of his jaw. “I am Jesus ben Joseph,” he said, turning back to them. “I am neither father, brother, nor husband to her, but I will soon be her betrothed. I can testify she is no thief, or blasphemer, or fornicator.”

My heart caught. I looked at him in confusion and strained to understand if what he’d just declared was his true intention or a shrewd means to save me. I could not tell. I remembered him in the cave, how he’d shared my breakfast, how he’d come to stand beside me when I’d poured out my shame, all that we’d made known to each other.

There was a lull as the crowd deliberated whether to believe Jesus’s witness over Chuza’s. Jesus was one of them, and he’d pledged himself to be my upholder. Chuza was the minion of their despised tetrarch.

The crowd’s ferocity was draining away—I could feel it leaving—yet they went on standing there, glaring, clutching stones in their fists.

Jesus lifted out his palms to them. “Let the one who is without sin cast the next stone.”

A moment passed, a tiny lifetime. I listened to the sound of dropping stones. They were like mountains moving.





xxxiv.


Jesus remained beside me until Chuza slunk away and the mob disbanded. I was shaken by the savagery of the crowd and my bare escape from death, and he seemed reluctant to leave me to myself.

He gazed at the diminishing light. “I will walk with you as far as your house.”

“Were you injured?” he asked as we set out. Though my hip throbbed from the single stone that had struck me, I shook my head.

His declaration that I would soon be his betrothed was like a fire in my head. I wanted to ask what he’d meant, whether his admission had been sincere or was calculated to win over the crowd, but I was afraid of his answer.

Quiet fell. The city floated in a soupy twilight, his face half in shadow. The silence lasted only moments, but I thought I might choke on it. In an effort to breathe, I recounted the unexpurgated story of the mosaic, how I’d agreed to sit for it in order to save my brother, Judas. When I told him of Antipas’s lust, of his intent to make me his concubine, and described my panicked escape to the building site, I saw the anger flare again at his jaw. I confessed that the sheet of ivory, which was back again in my sleeve, had perhaps been more taken than given. I wanted him to know the truth, but I had the sense that my chatter was making matters worse, entirely worse. He listened. He asked no questions.

Upon reaching the gate of our palatial house, I stared at my feet. It was excruciating to look at him. Finally, lifting my face, I said, “I doubt I’ll see you again, but please know I will always be grateful for what you did. I would be dead if not for you.”

His forehead wrinkled and I saw disappointment in his eyes. “When I told the crowd we would soon be betrothed, I didn’t mean to assume your answer,” he said. “I overstepped in an effort to assert my authority with them. I accept your refusal. We shall part well, as friends.”

“But I didn’t think . . . I didn’t think you meant the betrothal seriously,” I said. “We walked all this way and you said nothing.”

He smiled. “We walked all this way with you talking.”

I laughed, but my face burned, and I was glad for the gathering darkness.

“I’m required to marry,” he said. “All Jewish men are. The Talmud does not sanction a man without a wife.”

“Are you saying you’re required to marry, therefore you’ll settle on me?”

“No, I’m trying to say men are required to marry, but I often see things differently than others. It may be that for some men it’s better not to marry. I thought that was true of me. Before my father died, he wanted to arrange a betrothal for me, but I couldn’t agree to it.”

I stared at him, bewildered. “Are you saying you’re not meant for marriage, but it’s a duty you must endure?”

“No, only listen.”