Secret Magdalene (54 page)

At the last moment, something has moved Pilate to be merciful to Yehoshua the Nazorean. A man he is told is a rebel, a pretender to the throne of David, a seditionist, and a nuisance who has caused him to be rousted from his bed early on the morning of a feast, is granted what mercy is left a man who would condemn others to their deaths. Pilate has decreed this latest messiah be crucified with nails—as Yeshu knew might happen. My friend has all along steeled himself for nails instead of ropes knowing his death will be hastened by them, that the pain will be that much more, the trial that much harder, and the risk that much greater. For me, it means I must not take my eyes from him or my hands from Tata’s leather purse at my waist. When the signal comes, I must be ready.

We come to the crest above the quarry; we come now to stand under the Tau crosses of the crucified men. I have no heart to count them. And here, to my increasing horror, I see that one of these is Saul of Ephraim. Saul is also pinned like sacrifice on a cruel altar of rough worked wood. Above his head is nailed a
titulus
that says
BRIG
-
AND
. Above the head of Timaeus is nailed also
BRIGAND
. Timaeus seems almost gone from this place, but Saul is yet fully with us. The flies have found all these. They feed from their blooded mouths and their salted eyes, and from the waste they cannot help passing. They creep along the stiffened, stretched, and broken limbs. I look away. So they might not be shamed, I look away.

From among the many upright
stipes,
no more than poles, one is chosen. Bluntly, Simeon is ordered back into the crowd where he comes to stand by me, and the crossbeam he has carried full half the way is laid on the ground. Quickly now, so that it might be over and done with, the soldiers rip the blooded tunic from Yeshu’s body; they require him to lay himself on the ground and to stretch out his arms against the length of the crossbeam. He must hold his arms firm so that first one wrist is fastened to the wood by a nail, cruel in its thickness and length, and then the other. The man who would hold the nail against Yeshu’s flesh chooses that place between the two bones of his arm above the wrist, and even here Yeshu does not cry out as the nail is driven home, though he closes his eyes and turns his pale face from the crowd to seek what small privacy is left him. Yeshu has known pain; there is always more pain.

Mariamne, who has seldom known pain of the body, knows now searing pain of the heart and dizzying pain of the mind. She would drop to the earth with it, lie on her belly and howl with it. She would grind dirt into her hair and into her face. But John the Less must not move—he must watch and he must remember. And Mariamne must comfort Mary. Yet there is more mettle in the mother of Yeshu and of Jude than ever there has seemed. Mary, the second wife of Joseph, is quiet by my side. It is her hand that steadies my shoulder.

It takes all six soldiers to pull up and place Yeshu’s crossbeam in the notch at the top of the
stipes,
to fasten it so that it does not tip or tilt or fall, and to nail upon it the sign Yeshu has worn since leaving the hall in which Pilate gave out his decree:
KING OF THE JEWS
. It takes two to drive the tremendous nail through his heels. Even Yehoshua cannot bear this without sound. His shriek of agony fills my mind with terror. It takes all that I have not to scream. And to scream.

It is just gone the third hour of the day.

There comes the slightest touch against my back. Who would take my attention from Yeshu? I turn my head only far enough and no farther, for I cannot cease my witnessing. It is Jude! Jude has come up behind me. His head and half his face are covered so that none see the telltale red hair and beard. Jude Thomas stands at my back, his eyes fixed on Yeshu. I should have known Jude could no more wait alone all these hours in my mother’s tomb than I could. I allow myself one look round. All eyes are on Yeshu. None concern themselves with this stranger among us. I allow myself one small movement against him so that he might know I know.

The hours pass. And I, who the whole of my life have thought this and thought that, questioned all I might hear and then questioned my questions, think nothing.

And now that Yehoshua dies before them as all their messiahs die, some others drift away, first one and then another; then a small group, and then another. I remain without movement. Jude remains without movement. The soldiers who have done this thing sit nearby playing at dice, but I do not sit. Neither sits his mother Mary nor his sweet sister Miryam, who stand closest to me and to Yeshu. Nor does the sister, Maacah, or Megas of Ephesus or the unnamed woman of Ephraim. And though she is with child, Veronica stands as we all stand; even Martha and the widow Salome stand. We are a small group of women who witness that Yeshu dies so that others might know Life.

Aside from the soldiers, only two men stand with us: Simeon the Zealot and Jude. It is not impossible that Simeon knows the man who keeps the whole of his head covered, but if he does, he says nothing, does nothing. Jude is as still as the death all around him.

I stand and I listen to the horrid song of the flies and I wait.

Is it now? Does Yeshu call me? I start from my place, gripping Salome’s vial, the one given her by the ancient Sabaz who once tended to the children of Mark Antony and of the seventh Cleopatra, only to find that Yeshu is not speaking to me. He has turned his head to Saul who is crucified on his left hand.

None who hang can easily breathe; it is this loss of breath that slowly kills them, and as for speaking, it is almost impossible, yet Yeshu would speak to Saul. I reach out to know what he would say and find I know this: It was not meant for any but Yeshu to feel the fatal grip of Rome. No other was to be crucified. Yeshu grieves for Saul and would atone, but Saul stops him before his words can come. By gesture only, for Saul has hung so much longer and is so much closer to death, he forgives Yeshu who I know cannot forgive himself. The price he pays for what he does is more costly than even the King of Lydia could summon, but to know that others pay as well, by Isis, what a thing is done this day. With great effort, Yeshu says, “This very day you shall know the Kingdom.”

Shadows stretch across the stony ground, each shaped as a thin black cross and on each cross: black flesh, black blood, black pity. The sun is lowering itself into the west; by this we know the Sabbath nears. Yeshu must die by the Sabbath. If he does not die, then the soldiers will kill him as they will kill all the others. There will be no bodies on crosses to defile the Passover Sabbath; it is certain that Pilate will not cross the Jews in this. Even now the soldiers make ready to break the legs of those who have hung here much longer than Yeshu. If their legs are broken, they cannot push themselves up against the small block of wood placed at their feet and thereby suck air into their agonized lungs. Without this moment of blessed breath, they must now die quickly.

I move closer to the foot of Yeshu’s cross. I cannot call out. I can do nothing but stare up at him and, by the strength of my need, somehow touch him. Yeshu! Yeshu! The time comes! Call out. Tell me I must do what I must do. My own breath comes quickly; my own heart beats without rhythm. I have feared this, always. Beforehand, Yeshu could not know what it would be truly like; he could not account for everything. Months ago, Salome warned me on the mountain of the Carmelites that anything might happen to a man who was hung on a cross. All die if they are not taken down, and few are ever taken down once they are condemned. But some die quickly, as little as two days. And some die slowly, as long as the whole of a week. And some, before dying, go mad. What if Yeshu has lost himself? More terrible than all else on this terrible day, is this thought: what if he has forgotten what he intends?

Before I see it, I feel Yeshu gather himself, and then he opens his eyes.

I am closest. As I stand at his very feet, he sees me first before all else he sees. And then he sees the sun, and he too knows his time is come and he must act. Therefore, my time is come.

At the ninth hour, my beloved cries out, “I thirst!”

He has not forgotten, nor has he become lost in his mind. This is what I wait for. But now it is come, I tremble that I will fail my friend. The blood of my body, hot as the blood of the lambs spilled on the altar this day, seems suddenly to drain away and, with it, my very purpose. I am afraid. I am afraid. What do we do here? Yeshu is as good as dead; would I die too? If any should suspect me, could I withstand the scourge and the sword? I am nothing but a woman. I cannot do this thing! I was not made to do this thing! And I would turn and I would run. And I do, I turn. And there before me stands Jude who has given the whole of himself to Yeshu. And there before me stands Simeon who does not understand what is done here but who has not run and will not run. And there is Veronica and Mary and Megas and all the others who do not fade nor faint nor fail, though they see Yeshu die before their eyes. And I am ashamed. Long ago, John of the River said I was as a man. By all that I have ever said and all that I have ever done, I will do this thing. I am not a man, but a woman—yet I will not fail.

This is what I know to do. Before dawn, before ever any were in this place save the already crucified men, there was sent here Miryam who has ever had a steady hand and a steady heart. The youngest sister of Yeshu placed within sight a slender pole, and near it one of the sponges of Ananias, and near to that a small jug of vinegar. I slip the vial of Sabaz out from my purse and the stopper from the vial. Inside is a tincture made from the skin and the liver of a tiny puffed-up ball of a fish. None but the most informed poisoner would know of this fish, and of this small number, only the richest could afford it. Quickly, I shake out a few drops onto the sponge. Salome has been careful to show me how much to use: too much and I might kill Yeshu myself; too little and he might rave, but just enough and he will appear so convincingly dead no one shall doubt it. To this I add vinegar in case any would stop me, for the crucified are often offered gall, which is
rosh
and vinegar, to ease their suffering. And when I have done these things, I affix the sponge to the pole.

Once again I am under the cross of Yeshu. I lift the pole so that the sponge reaches his lips. He knows what is on the sponge; he knows that he must trust that I have made the potion well. He knows if I have not, this will be the end of it. Knowing all this, he sucks at the sponge, takes within himself as much as he can swallow. Salome swore it would work quickly. She had seen such things in classes with Sabaz, and she did not lie. It is but a single moment since I offered up the gall and already his head slumps on his chest; already his skin grows pale and there comes a lifelessness throughout his limbs. Could he be truly dead? Have I misjudged the potion?

No time for my incessant questions. I must play my part. I must cry out that he dies so that the soldiers will see this for themselves. I must cry out loudly so that Father, who has stood for the last hour some way down on the road to Emmaus, will hear me and will run now to Pilate. I must cry out so that all the women will believe he dies, and the air will be shrill with it. By this, the soldiers will be sure it is so. And though they cannot believe it—What man dies within only six hours? No man dies before even a day; who has ever heard such a thing?—and though they mutter among themselves, they will decide that this one was beaten too hard, or they will decide that this one was too weak. Whatever they decide, they will believe he is dead. They
have
to believe it. I will them to believe it. If I can receive a thing, I can send a thing, and this I send into them with all that is within me: Yehoshua the Nazorean is dead. There is no need to hasten his end, no need to break his legs, first one, and then the other so that he cannot lift himself to breathe. There is no need. No need.

It works. It works! They too see that the sun soon passes into the Sabbath. And taking up their swords, they walk among those who still live—all but Yeshu still live, though all have hung now for the whole of one day and one night—and one by one, they break their legs. Pilate would have all these dead before Passover, and they will do as Pilate has ordered. It is a gruesome and fearful thing. I weep for Timaeus, for Saul, for a man I have heard is named Yehoshua Barabbas. I weep for them all, but as I have seen so many gruesome and fearful things, I stand steady. And when they come to Yeshu, they put away their swords. At this, I stand steadier still. I hear what they do not say: why make the effort when no effort is needed? They put away their swords, they put them away—all but one. And my heart thinks to leap from my breast. This one is old; he has seen many deaths done in many ways, but he has never seen a man die so soon. He cannot believe what he sees here. He cannot believe a man of Yeshu’s age and Yeshu’s condition could be so weak; not even a woman would die this soon. I hear him mutter: “Something is wrong, here. Something is not right.” And so muttering, he comes to stand under Yeshu’s cross and to peer up at him.

Yeshu is dead! I shout it in my mind. Yeshu is dead! But this one lifts his sword to poke the point of it into Yeshu’s foot. There is no movement. And still this is not enough for the man. He stabs Yeshu’s thigh. I gag where I stand. Behind me, Mary looks on appalled. Her son is dead. Rome has killed him. Must it also dishonor him? And still this is not enough. Drawing back his arm, the seasoned soldier makes a short powerful thrust into Yeshu’s side, and from this wound flows Yeshu’s blood. My breath is lost to me. I cannot breathe. By this, the man must know the condemned man lives, for no dead body bleeds. Yet, for some reason, he is now satisfied. Perhaps because if Yeshu did not die before, he will certainly die now.

The old one struts away. By his going, all the soldiers have gone. There is nothing here but dead and dying men and weeping women and crows cawing at the waning sun.

And I would faint but for Jude. Jude, who has stood all along, silent, as Yeshu is now silent, comes up behind me to keep me from falling. But when I have recovered myself, and I turn to him he is gone from this place.