Daughter of Jerusalem (39 page)

“Well, no one else even made it to Caiaphas’ house,” I snapped and looked around again.

Every man looked miserable. “It’s true,” Thomas said. “We failed him.”

I looked at their grieving, humiliated faces, and my anger died as suddenly as if a bucket of water had been thrown on it. For the first time I understood why Jesus had chosen these ill-educated, hardworking men to be his disciples. They loved him with all their hearts. Unlike Daniel, they were open to what he expected of them—not what they expected of him. They were human, and they had their
flaws, but arrogance was not one of them. They had let fear drive them, and they grieved for their failure to stand by their beloved Master. They knew they were wrong and that Jesus was right. Even now, faced with his death, a death they never expected, they believed in him.

Judas had been like Daniel. He wanted the Messiah to fit into the mold he had envisioned. John said, “Have you seen or heard from Judas? He knows about this house. We may not be safe here.”

Matthew rubbed his eyes. “We have nowhere else to go.”

I said, “I don’t think Judas will give us away.”

Heads turned my way.

I had thought about why Judas had done this heinous thing. “I don’t think he ever meant this to happen. He wanted the Master to be a warrior messiah, and he thought that being arrested would make him more radical. I don’t think he ever thought Jesus would be executed.”

“I don’t care what he thought,” Peter growled. “I’d like to get my hands around his throat!”

Rumbles of agreement came from every male in the room.

The door opened, and Nicodemus came back in. “I spoke to the owner, and he has offered a downstairs room to the women.”

I helped Mary to her feet, and we followed Nicodemus downstairs, into a room that, miraculously, had two Roman beds with cushions. Mary and I washed in the water that was waiting on a marble-topped table and crawled under the wool blankets. Within minutes I was asleep.

The next day was the Sabbath, so I couldn’t go to the tomb to wash and anoint Jesus. Mary and I sat in the upper room with the disciples, and I counted the minutes until sundown. I told myself that the weather was cool, and it would be even colder inside the stone tomb.

I couldn’t bear the thought of finding him with decay.

I wouldn’t think about it. I would think of something else.

I sat on the couch against the wall and tried to understand what had happened and what it could mean. How could the Son of God die? Why should he die? And in such a horrible way?

Was it possible he wasn’t who he said he was?

But then I thought of that transcendent moment in my garden. I had looked into his eyes, and I had known.

He was the Son of God. He was the Messiah we had been praying for. He had raised my brother from the dead. And now he was dead himself.

It had to mean something. It must mean something.

It hurt to look at Mary, who sat beside me. She had aged twenty years overnight.

At one point John came over to us. He squatted in front of her and
said, “The Master gave you into my care. I will do anything in the world that you ask of me.”

She had just looked at him helplessly.

I took her hand into mine and said, “I’m sure your son James will want you to come home.”

“James. Yes.” She closed her eyes. The skin under them was deeply shadowed. “I will have to tell him about Yeshua.”

I said, “I’ll go to the tomb tomorrow morning and anoint him. Then I’ll come back here, and we’ll decide what to do.”

“You can’t anoint him alone.”

It would be difficult, but there was no other woman to help me, and she was too fragile. She had spent all her resources yesterday.

“Of course I can. I’m used to being on my own, remember?”

“You will do it properly, Mary. I have every confidence in you.” John’s voice was deferential, a note I had never heard from him before.

“Thank you, John. And thank you for being there for him. And for us.”

He just shook his head, unable to answer, and moved away.

Mary and I went to bed as soon as it was dark and I lay awake all night, willing the sun to show itself. As soon as I saw the first faint light in the high window, I was up and moving.

The streets were still dark and empty as I approached the Dung Gate. In an hour’s time the farm carts would be rolling into the city with produce to sell, but for now I was alone.

The gate was not yet open, and I called to the guardroom above. A guard stuck his head out and told me it was too early.

I debated what I should do to convince him to change his mind.
Latin? No, not with these fellows. I slipped my veil from my head to my shoulders and shook out my loose hair. I produced my most dazzling smile and said, “Please? My brother is ill, and I must go to him.”

He looked at me. I kept on smiling. “Oh, all right, I suppose I can open a little early.”

I passed through the heavy doors, giving him another smile and saying, “Thank you. I’ll remember your kindness.”

The sky grew brighter as I walked. Jesus’ tomb was near the intersection of the roads to Joppa and Caesarea. As I walked along, I tried not to think. I looked at the Grecian magnificence of Herod’s palace rising above the city walls to my right. I stopped to pick a stone out of my sandal. I thought of Lazarus, who I prayed was safe in Capernaum. I worried about Martha, who must be frantic with fear for all of us.

Then I saw the hill of Calvary, with three empty crosses stark against the morning sky.

I turned away from the sight and proceeded to Joseph’s garden.

The sun was fully up by the time I arrived. I found my way through the almond trees to the tomb, half expecting to find a guard posted outside. No one was there.

I narrowed my eyes against the sun, abruptly realizing there was no stone at the cave entrance. My heart began to pound. The Roman guard had put one there. I had seen him do it.

I heard the Roman’s words again: “Don’t give your friend’s enemies a reason to take the body someplace you can’t get to.”

I ran, tripping and almost falling over a branch in my way.

The mouth of the cave yawned wide and empty. Slowly, fearfully,
almost on tiptoe, I went inside. After my eyes adjusted to the dark, I looked toward the rock shelf where we had left him. Folded neatly upon it was the cloak I had covered him with. The oils and burial garments were untouched where we had left them.

Jesus was gone.

Blind rage possessed me.
They’ve taken him! The Sanhedrin has taken him so we cannot give him a proper burial!

I backed out of the cave, my fists clenched, my body vibrating with fury.

I have to tell the others. I have to tell them what has happened.

I ran all the way to the city, through the Dung Gate, where the guards yelled after me, and back to the upper room where they were all waiting for me. By the time I arrived, I was so out of breath I could barely speak.

The disciples listened to my story, a mixture of horror and confusion on their faces.

“I’ll go and see for myself,” Peter said.

“I’ll go with you and show you the way,” John said.

“I’m coming too,” I said.

We went quietly down the stairs, not wishing to disturb Mary, who was still asleep. Then the three of us retraced the journey I had already made twice. The guards at the Dung Gate made jocular comments as we went through.

We were almost at the garden when John ran on ahead of us. By the time Peter and I reached the tomb he was coming out of it. “Mary’s right. He’s not there.”

Peter went in and I followed. I saw once again the empty shelf. Peter buried his face in his hands. “What can have happened?”

“The Sanhedrin has taken him.” I wasn’t angry anymore. All I felt was a bleak chill emptiness.

We were silent, staring at the shelf and the robe. Peter’s shoulders shook, and I knew he was crying.

John said slowly, “Surely it’s in the Sanhedrin’s interest to keep the Master’s body visible?”

I didn’t know what to say.

Peter turned his tearstained face to me. “We must tell the others.”

“You and John go. I’m too tired; I’ll come after I have rested.”

They left, and I sat for a while on the stone that had held his body. I lay down on it, pressing myself into it, hoping to feel something of him in the cold hardness. Finally I stood up and went outside.

The daylight was so bright after the darkness of the cave that it dazzled my eyes. It was a moment before I saw the outline of a white-robed figure standing a few feet away from me. I blinked, thinking the man must be a gardener. Perhaps he had been here earlier and had seen what happened.

“Sir,” I said, approaching him and squinting in the sunlight, “I beg you, if you know where they have taken him, tell me. I promise I won’t tell anyone who gave me the information.”

The man replied with one word, spoken in a familiar, beloved voice.

“Mary.”

I blinked again, my vision cleared, and I saw him.

“Master!” I dropped to my knees at his feet and bent to embrace them.

“Do not touch me, Mary,” he said quietly. “I have been with my Father, and my body is not as yours.”

I pulled away and jumped to my feet. Tears began to pour down my face. “I thought the Sanhedrin had stolen you away,” I sobbed.

Through my tears I could see that he was unmarked—he didn’t even have the scar above his eyebrow.

He said, “Did you not understand? Did I not raise your brother from the dead? I thought that you, of all of them, would know I would rise. How else was I to show the world that I have conquered death? That all who follow me will conquer death?”

I tried to wipe away my tears. “I’m sorry, Master,” I said. “I didn’t understand.”

He smiled at me, the rare smile that went straight to my heart. “You must go to my brothers and tell them. I shall appear to them soon, but they must know what has happened. They must know so they can preach the word to all the world.”

I didn’t want to let him out of my sight. “Will I see you again?”

“Yes. You are the first to see me, and you will see me again. Go now, and bring the news to your fellow disciples. Go back to Bethany, you and my mother, and I will see you there.”

“I will, Master. I will.”

I returned to Jerusalem, as free and light as a bird gliding through the air.