The Artifact (55 page)

Which appeared to be a logical solution at that moment. We had not reckoned, however, on our brother’s obsession with what he named his ‘mission.’ That evening we invited Jesus to partake of a family meal with us apart from his disciples and lingering followers, to which he brought our sister Mary, to our dismay. We spoke at first of past familial and filial pleasantries during our meal of figs, grapes and bread cakes Mary cooked on a rock slab I had placed over the fire. James led the conversation adroitly to question the rationale that inspired Jesus to become an itinerant rabbi. I noticed Mary’s quick smile as she glanced at Jesus, wondering why we had thought that our equally astute siblings would not anticipate our intentions.

“I encountered a great deal of human suffering while apprenticed to Louis in Nicosia,” Jesus answered. “Healing, minimizing pain, uplifting the spirit seems a worthwhile endeavor. Do you not agree, James?”

“Then it was not your Baptism by John?” I asked him.

“Not in itself. I could not embrace his exhortation of harsh penitence for past transgressions. Our people shoulder enough hardship. But his execution and disgrace by Antipas angered me. It started me thinking about a message that would instruct men on their future behavior.”

“In order to enter The Kingdom,” I said.

Jesus contemplated me with a frown. “Is not religion out of your ken, Little Brother?”

“Because I abjure the concept of a benevolent God that orders every aspect of human existence, yet apparently cares not for their plight? It should be the most easily defeated tenet known to man.”

James placed a hand on my arm, asking Jesus, “Why not study to be a priest?”

“That would require literacy, which I do not have time for. Nor could I in good conscience teach every law of the Torah. The rejection of gentiles, purity restrictions, its prohibition of healing on the Sabbath, to name a few.”

I offered my wineskin to the others, but they declined. “The end of the world,” I repeated. “This cataclysmic event is interpreted by some people to mean the overthrow of Roman rule.”

James placed his hand on my arm again but I shook it off, standing, moving unsteadily to place a log on the fire. “Have you lost your sense, Jesus? We grew together, slept side by side, shared our thoughts, endured exile, anguish and disappointment at the hands of Rome and this professed merciful God with whom you claim to commune! Poor ignorant, downtrodden peasants work their fingers to bloody stumps for forty, fifty years, only to be wrapped in a shroud and put in the ground. That is the plan of your omnipotent, merciful God?”

James said, “Stop, Shimon!”

Jesus held up a hand. “No, let him continue.”

“I do not mean to offend, but I worry that the duality of your message, allowing the miracle rumors to spread, your conspiracy with Judah--all these will carry to Herod and Pilate and your head will end up on Salome’s dancing pike just like our cousin John’s.”

“I do not conspire with the Zealots,” Jesus said. “Judah is concerned for my safety because of killing those soldiers who murdered Rebekah.” He drew a deep breath before continuing. “His Daggermen murdering Roman citizens and sympathizers in crowds is deplorable.”

Darkness had come, but I could tell by the firelight that Jesus was beginning to get impatient with me. “You are concerned for my safety, Little Brother, but not my ministry. You insult our God, accuse me of rebellion and wish to curtail my purpose on earth. Can you not support me instead?”

“I see you casting your fate to the winds for an unproven concept,” I injected. “A futile tweak of the nose of the mighty Empire of Rome.”

Jesus seemed to relax believing me treading loose sand. “Unproven? The words of our holy ancestors, ardently embraced by the faith of millions?”

“Just because an unthinking herd goes to graze in the desert,” I said, “does not mean I must follow, blinded by their dust.”

“So you are right in questioning God and our religion and the rest of us are wrong.”

I reached to the pile of gathered branches and laid them on the fire, sending sparks and smoke up toward the brilliant stars in the night sky above us. “Find me the smallest shred of proof in any of those incredible stories and I will relent: Moses’ destroying sacred God-given tablets of stone, the parting of the Red Sea for the Exodus, a vast ark large enough to hold every pair of species on earth and subsequent deluge that drowns all other life?”

“
Nescio, nescis, nescimus
,” James said.

My retort was meant to be placating. “I would rather think that than believe in a malicious God who allows or causes such adversity for his creations.”

“Your misfortunes have made you bitter,” James said.

“And your leg,” Jesus added.

“Yes, my leg!” I shouted, finally goaded to exasperation by their irrational placation. “Why not? Why me? What horrible transgression did I commit before birth? What have I done in life to deserve such a hard, lonely existence?”

“Perhaps the answer to that lies in an almighty God who has not deigned to reveal His grand plan to you.”

“Of course! I should have thought of that! Pray to the source of my problems for relief from them.”

Jesus arose, looking down at me, his demeanor reflecting sadness in the leaping flames of the fire. “What manner of rabbi cannot persuade his own brother from blasphemy and eternal damnation?”

“I am my own damnation,” I whispered.

Mary followed him with a lamp as he walked away into the darkness.

I relate the following shameful incident with trepidation, but this account of my unfortunate life would be neither complete nor candid without it.

Upon my return to my home in Sepphoris, I began the practice of filling my wineskin when I awoke in the morning, sipping from it throughout the day and far into the night. With no need to earn a wage, I fell into the habit of touring some of the more unsavory taverns, gaming places and back street rooms in which prostitutes of all ages and gender catered to every whim and perversion imagined by either sex. On several occasions during my initial visits to those establishments, gentile brigands, troublemakers or bullies would mistake me for the crippled Jew they perceived. Although I had experienced enough confrontation for a lifetime and did not seek it, I quickly assumed my trained defensive rage when attacked, my pugio drawing the blood and respect of several assailants early on, until even city police skirted my presence.

One night after a daylong carouse, it occurred to me to pay a visit to Yentl, who had spurned my advances since my return from Bethany some months before. She answered my loud yells and pounding on her door in her sleep shift, and realizing my inebriation, tried immediately to convince me to depart, which I resisted with sonorous disputation, as I attempted to press the wineskin upon her. When her neighbor opened her door to complain of the noise, Yentl pulled me into the house, still attempting to quiet me down as she struggled to curtail my amorous advances. The volume of my efforts at seduction soon awakened Hezibia in the next room, who began a frightful wail when she saw her mother’s defenses against me, repulsing my groping. In a final exertion to arrest my overtures, Yentl slapped my face to which my unthinking reaction was a short hard blow with my fist to her jaw that jolted her body several steps backward before falling unconscious, flat on her back at the feet of her now hysterical daughter.

Shocked and partially sobered by my behavior, I picked Yentl up and carried her in to her pallet as the next-door neighbor, incited by Hezibia, burst in through the front door yelling, armed with an iron skillet. I raised my hands in surrender, backing out of the room around the agitated woman, soothing her with incoherent assurances and sidled out the entrance into the street.

My return to apologize the following afternoon was unwelcome. Yentl’s eye had discolored and she spoke tersely behind the half-opened door as Hezibia hid behind the skirt of her robe scowling at me with combined fear and anger. Even my vow to never drink unwatered wine again, accompanied by a slash of my pugio to my wineskin that spilled its contents on the street, did not impress her. When I offered her daughter a little wooden doll I had carved, Hezibia threw it on the ground as her mother shut the door with the firmness of finality.

During the weeks of abstinence that followed, I fought off a sickness that caused me sleepless nights of sweat and remorse, my body and mind crying out for medicinal wine. Whether Yentl forgave me or not, I was determined to hold to my pledge against drink. I had never before struck a woman, which was my primary shame of conscience, worsened by the sober realization that my dissolute existence of previous months had been an escape from loneliness, frustration at Jesus bent on a course I was certain would end badly, my indecision regarding Judah’s attempts to recruit me to his rebellious organization, and my own melancholic life that seemed to be leading nowhere.

The wracking discomfort of those dark nights impelled me to call out for succor, for pity if not relief, from some external power, coming to the realization that my universe was empty, that even in despair, I could not call out for help from a being whose benevolence, even existence, I doubted. In my recovery from that illness I could smile at the temptation to lay my burdens on some compassionate power, acknowledging the sagacity of those holy ancients in fabricating a God to whom man could retreat. Without Him, the entire world would feel as hopeless as I.

Restless from weeks of tortured nights and lack of sleep, I began rising early of mornings to feed and water Nubia before taking her out to the countryside for an exercise run, then walked and rubbed her down on our return, usually spending the rest of the morning stripped to my loincloth carving my figures of wood in the courtyard. Before the sun reached its height, I usually donned a clean tunic for a stroll through the heart of the city, moved by the flow of the crowds, through noisy markets packed with women and men bargaining under colorful awnings, horses bearing wealthy merchants and Pharisees, strutting soldiers in light battle gear, carts drawn by asses, curtained litters, pedestrians forging happily through the good-natured mob shouting at friends and acquaintances in the warm sunshine. I would take my midday meal at some eating establishment at which I could sit outside under their canopy with a cup of water watching the passing scene, bored and restless. The habits of a lifetime, I learned, are not easily shucked.

Seated at an outside table one day that momentous spring, I spied Judas of Iscariot walking past. As much as I disliked that dark-skinned skew-eyed man, I hailed him, inviting him to eat with me.

His robe was dyed a pale blue trimmed in red, cinched with a gold chain. I admired his attire and asked where I could purchase a similar garment, adding a smile to my observation that his dress in the city was quite different from that which he wore when attending my brother’s preaching. Judas frowned at my insinuation, gazing out to the street as though considering some serious issue. Then he turned to look at me with his straight eye. “I understand that you and James are in open disagreement with him.”

I did not wish to discuss that with Judas, for I believed the man was urging Jesus on to do exactly what I opposed. “A family matter.”

A servant interrupted his reply by coming to our table to ask what we would eat and drink. We ordered the same food, Judas requested a carafe of wine, with which the server returned bearing two cups, pouring the nectar in both to my silent observation.

“Your concern regarding your brother’s safety seems to extend beyond sibling anxiety,” Judas said.

“While you and his disciples encourage his...mission.”

Judas had sipped at his cup as I spoke and replaced it on the table, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “His closest followers are simple men who ingest his preaching with little reflection.”

“Like sheep.” I stared at the cup of wine before me, not fully concentrating on Judas’ words. “Did you not pose the question about the irreconcilable Syrian to help him make a point of opposition to Rome?”

“Circumstances are different now.”