The Book of Longings(80)

“But that’s gossip. Do you assume her arrest based on gossip?” Yaltha demanded, and I could see the news had stunned her, too, for she refused to believe it.

“There is more, I’m afraid,” Judas said, a glint of exasperation in his voice. “I heard of an old woman named Joanna, who was Phasaelis’s attendant.”

“I know her,” I said. “She was married to Antipas’s head steward, Chuza.” I remembered her hovering about the first time I met Phasaelis. How young I’d been. Fourteen. Betrothed to Nathaniel. You are no lamb, and I, too, am no lamb. I glanced at Jesus. Was he remembering Chuza and the day he’d incited the crowd to stone me? I’d often wondered if we would be married if not for that terrible man.

“Chuza is long dead,” Judas went on. “But Joanna lives among the servants at the palace, partially blind and too old to be of much use, but she’s counted among those who now serve Herodias. She saved herself by condemning Phasaelis and swearing an oath of loyalty to Herodias. When I found her sitting outside the palace walls, she recanted both, saying she knew of Phasaelis’s plot and would have fled with her if she had been younger and had her sight.” He turned to Yaltha. “It was Joanna who told me about the kitchen steward’s confession and of Antipas’s intention to arrest Ana. She heard it from Herodias’s own lips.”

Around us the ordinary world went on: the children at play, James and Simon hewing wood in the workshop, Mary and my sisters-in-law kneading dough near the oven. The day in its courses. My breath hovered painfully over a flame at the back of my throat. “Joanna is certain Antipas will act?”

“He will act, Ana; there’s little doubt of it. King Aretas is mobilizing for war to avenge his daughter. Her escape has set off a cataclysm and Antipas lays blame on everyone who abetted his first wife, including you. To make matters worse, Herodias learned that her new husband was once fascinated by you . . . that he commissioned the mosaic of your face. Joanna told me this as well, and I suspect it was she herself who divulged the information to Herodias as a way of gaining her favor. Herodias is pressing Antipas to arrest you as he did John. I tell you, she will see it done.”

Jesus had been unaccountably silent. He covered my hand with his and squeezed. He and Judas had been displeased when I’d sent the warning to Phasaelis. I tried now to imagine myself not sending it. I couldn’t. With that realization, the fear began to leave my body. There was an incongruous peace in my helplessness, in the knowledge that what was done was done and could not be undone, and even if I could change it, I wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Judas said to me. “I should never have agreed to deliver your message.”

“I don’t wish to question the past,” I said.

“You’re right, little sister. We must think of the future and do so quickly. Joanna believed Antipas’s soldiers would be coming for you in a matter of days. I walked here quickly, but Antipas’s soldiers will come on horseback. They may have been dispatched by now. There’s little time.”

Jesus sat forward. I expected him to say we should go and hide in the Judean hills, as he’d done when John was arrested. It would mean great difficulty, and who knew how long we would have to remain out there in that forsaken wilderness, but what choice was there?

He spoke with firm, measured words. “You must go to Alexandria with your aunt.”

The day was warm, lemon-yellow light brimming, and still a chill swept over me. “Couldn’t we hide in the wilderness as you did before?”

“You will not be safe even there,” he said.

Desperation took hold—I’d been nearly six months without him and the thought of separating again was excruciating. “We could go together to Syria, to Caesarea Philipi, to Decapolis. Antipas has no jurisdiction in those places.”

Jesus’s eyes were afloat with sadness. “My time has come, Ana. I must take up my ministry in Galilee in the wake of John’s movement. It cannot wait.”

Alexandria.

“It will be temporary,” Jesus said. “You should remain in Egypt with your uncle Haran until Antipas’s anger and vengeance has cooled. We’ll send a letter to you there when it’s safe to return.”

I stared at him, finally stammering, “But . . . but that could be . . . that could be months. A year, even.”

“I hate to think of being separated from you,” he said. “But you will be safe, and I can carry on my ministry. When you return, you can join me.”

Yaltha placed her hand on my cheek. She said, “Your husband is right. Tomorrow we’ll go to Alexandria, you and I. Jesus has his destiny. Let him fulfill it. You have your destiny, too. Is this not what Sophia wanted all along?”



* * *



? ? ?

LAVI JOINED OUR CONCLAVE beneath the olive branches and we sat for what seemed like hours, conspiring. The plan was sealed. At daybreak, Judas would walk with us to Sepphoris, deliver us to Apion, then travel on with us to Caesarea to see us safely aboard the ship to Alexandria. Jesus had wanted to escort us, but I’d been adamant. “I do not want you to miss your sister’s wedding,” I told him. It was only days away. “Nor do I wish to prolong our goodbye. Let’s say farewell here in the place where we’ve spent these eleven years together.”

I spoke the truth to my husband, but not all the truth. Convincing Apion to take me to Alexandria—and Lavi as well, for he’d begged to accompany us and I meant to bargain for his passage, too—would require another act of bribery and I didn’t wish Jesus to witness it.