CHAPTER XXII

 

Paulus went to work with a zeal that surpassed anything he had ever done. He cared nothing about the dilemma of the Sanhedrin, or even Pilate, but finding the Nazarene’s body became almost an obsession.

Never mind that there were things about his conjecture that the body had been stolen that did not make sense. He would concentrate on finding it, then unravel the mysteries. First, there was Sirius, and what he and the other guards claimed they had seen. He had interrogated all of them, and they all told essentially the same story, in different ways and with emphasis on different aspects…but still the same story. Since it was unlikely that they were all lying, especially since they had to admit to running away, then somehow they had been tricked into believing what they thought they had seen.

Second, there was the matter of the burial shroud. Why had it been removed and placed neatly aside? And third, Mary Magdalene’s story had been sincerely told…if only it weren’t impossible to believe! The only conclusion he could draw was that an elaborate plan had been concocted to make it seem that the Nazarene had risen from the dead, involving sophisticated trickery and well, never mind all that. He would unravel that later, as well.

The thing that bothered him most was…why? Who had anything to gain by faking a resurrection? Not the Romans, not the Jews, and certainly not the disciples. Even if they had stolen the body, they could not imbue it with life. Their leader was still dead. If they wanted to live, they would disappear quietly into the country and never speak his name again.

These were difficulties, but not insurmountable. The alternative was…impossible.

And as if all this weren’t enough, he was forced to deal with Pilate and Herod. The two men had always disliked and distrusted each other, but they had formed an uneasy alliance when it came to the Nazarene. Which one approached the other first Paulus never knew, but they had hatched a plan, deciding it would be a good idea to use the body of some other crucifixion victim and claim it to be the Nazarene’s…after all, one dead and beaten Jew looked very much like another. It would prove to the people that the resurrection rumors were false; it would pacify the Sanhedrin and avert a great deal of unpleasantness.

“Do you think the Nazarene’s followers are stupid?” Paulus all but shouted at them when he learned of it. He had called them both together and castigated them like schoolboys. Herod fumed in silence. Pilate only stared at him, concealing his sudden fear, and cursed the day he had ever heard of the Nazarene.

An intensive search began for the original twelve disciples, but no one would admit any knowledge of where the men were hiding. That is, eleven disciples…one of them had supposedly killed himself. At last someone reported that they had been seen in Galilee. Paulus dispatched some men at once, but they returned after a few days saying the disciples had put out in a fishing boat and couldn’t be found. It was thought that perhaps their boat had sunk. Paulus promptly sent the soldiers back to Galilee with a stern admonition not to return until they had proof to support their theories.

Mary the Magdalene was not seen again, nor did anyone else venture to the tomb, which was being secretly watched. Each day that passed brought increasing frustration, with the knowledge that the Nazarene’s body was decomposing to the extent that it would soon be impossible to identify.

But…he didn’t necessarily have to have the body, if he could get one or more of the disciples to admit they had taken it.

 

* * * *

 

Almost two months later Paulus heard of a disturbance at a place in Jerusalem where the Jews were celebrating still another of their festivals, this one called Pentecost. The chief instigator was said to be the disciple, Peter. It was Peter’s first public appearance since the night of the Nazarene’s arrest. A worship service had somehow turned into such pandemonium that first the Temple police, then the Romans were called in.

Thousands of people were involved. Reports came to him of a mysterious wind and flame, and people being able to speak in languages unknown to them. When Paulus arrived, the crowd had broken up and Peter had disappeared. A dozen or so people were brought to the Antonia, among them a man named Jonas, who had been caught uttering loud praises and prayers to the Nazarene. Paulus himself interviewed the man, for his initial inquisitors had considered his story so unlikely that he was slapped around a bit before Centurion Marcus Terentias intervened, and referred him to Paulus.

“I have said these people are not to be harmed,” Paulus said, observing the red marks on the man’s face. “Inform the men again of this order, Centurion, and punish those who do not obey it.”

“Yes, Legate.” Marcus left the room. Two guards remained at the door, and Paulus dismissed them also.

When they were alone, he looked closely at the man before him. He was short and heavy-set, with long, stringy hair and a wart on his chin. Not a pretty sight, to be sure…still, there was a certain radiance about him.

“Your name is Jonas and you are from Jerusalem,” Paulus said, without preamble. “How do you know the dead Nazarene?”

“Before he died, he gave me sight,” replied the man, with equal directness. His speech was slightly affected by a set of noticeably bad teeth.

“You mean you were blind, and he healed you.”

“Blind from birth. I never asked him to—never thought it was possible. He just did it.”

Paulus was, by now, accustomed to hearing reports of miraculous goings-on, and it was easier to hide his skepticism. “And how did he do it? Simply by a word?”

“No.” Jonas scratched his head. “They say he often healed with a word, but this time he made clay and put it on my eyes and told me to go to the Pool of Siloam and wash it off. When I did, I could see.”

“So, what did you think of him? That he was a healer, or a god?”

The man looked faintly amused. “The Pharisees asked me the same question. Then they went and got my parents and made them swear I’d really been born blind. I’ll tell you the same thing I told them…if this man weren’t of God, he couldn’t have done it!”

“And what did they say to that?”

Jonas grinned. “They said I was a miserable sinner, and how dared I try to teach them anything, and then they threw me out the door.”

“So they didn’t believe it?”

The man shook his head. “When Jesus heard about what had happened, he came looking for me. He asked me if I believed he was the son of God. He said he had come into the world to give sight to the blind, and to take it away from those who could see.”

This caught Paulus’ interest. “What did he mean by that?”

Jonas scratched his head again. “There was more to it than that, but I can’t remember all the words. Seemed to me like he was talking about those Pharisees. They think their spiritual eyes are wide open, when they’re really as blind as I was. And those that are blind of the spirit but really want to see, that are seeking the truth…those eyes he will open.”

Paulus asked, “What did you answer when he asked if you believed he was the son of God?”

The man looked amazed. “Said I believed it, of course. But my answer won’t do you any good! You’ve got to answer it yourself.”

“Never mind what I believe. Where is the Nazarene now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where do you think he is? Have you seen him lately?”

“No. I never did see him after the crucifixion. But I know people who did.”

“Where can I find them? I would like to speak with them.”

Jonas eyed him from under bushy brows. “Don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

“Why do you people keep doing this?” Paulus said, exasperated. “Why do you insist on speaking his name, and preaching about him and even worshipping this dead man, when all it means is getting into trouble with the Sanhedrin? I hear they’ve already thrown several of you into jail.”

“Well.” Jonas smiled at him again. “I suppose it’s because we’re either plain stupid, or we’re telling the truth. And if we’re telling the truth, we can’t help but worship him, can we?”

Failing to get any further useful information from the man, Paulus released him. Two more weeks passed. Some of the disciples were seen in various places, but had a way of vanishing before they could be seized…as if they were under some sort of protection, divine or otherwise.

As a last resort, he decided to go to the one person who might trust him enough to help him.

 

* * * *

 

Having drawn a lamp close to the table, Alysia yawned over the scrolls she was reading and wondered at the lateness of the hour. She was alone, with Rachel asleep in the next room. Now that Rachel was old enough to walk, Judith had moved back to Lazarus’ house.

The scrolls belonged to Lazarus; they were copies of the Jewish history books, and some of the prophets. Her interest in the subjects had increased greatly in the last few months…ever since it had happened. The unthinkable, the unknowable…the tragic and yet wonderful thing…and though she had not witnessed the tragic part, she had seen the wonderful.

She started when a light but urgent rapping came on the door. Putting the scrolls aside, she walked to the barred door. “Who is it?”

“Alysia, it’s Paulus.”

Incredulous, she pressed a hand over her heart and took a deep breath, then quickly unbolted the door and swung it open. She couldn’t speak, her eyes wide and flying to meet the vivid blue ones that gleamed from the familiar, sun-bronzed face.

His gaze flicked swiftly about the room as he came in and closed the door behind him. “You are alone?”

“Yes.” They stared into each other’s eyes for a long, searching moment, then as though by some unspoken and mutual understanding, each looked away, Paulus at the scrolls she’d been reading and Alysia at nothing in particular; she was trying to avoid a nervous glance toward the room where Rachel was sleeping.

She asked, “Paulus, what’s wrong?”

He relaxed somewhat and looked at her closely, this time avoiding her eyes. She seemed tired, and the skin was drawn tightly over the high planes of her face. Her head covering was down about her shoulders, with her rich black hair tumbling over it. Her homespun robe was dyed a dark green and fell to her ankles, and he noticed her thinness even under the loose folds of her gown. Her feet were bare.

“Have you been well?”

“Yes, and you?”

He nodded, glancing at a bench. “May I sit down?”

“Of course.”

He pulled out the bench and she sat down across from him. The lamplight cast shadows over the contours of his face and burnished his hair to dark gold. His brown tunic clung to his broad shoulders, and his eyes glittered with a strange intensity.

Before speaking again, Paulus glanced around the room. Simon had told him where Alysia lived, and it was the first time he had seen her house. He was surprised by its smallness, and more than a little displeased by its bareness. Alysia was meant to live in a mansion, not a hovel; she was meant to wear gowns of silk, not rough homespun! But she seemed content, and rather than risk offending her, he swallowed his indignation and said nothing about her humble state. His feelings, more compelling, more forceful than he had expected, demanded closer contact than a table’s breadth apart. In fact, the taxing of his self-restraint was so severe that he wondered how he would endure this meeting. He should not have come.

She was waiting, toying with the edge of her veil, noticing his reluctance to speak.

“Alysia,” he said finally, in a slow, careful way, “I did not want to do this, but I need information. I thought you might help me.”

She looked puzzled. “I will try.”

He paused, and then went on. “This Nazarene…Jesus. I’m sure you know that he is dead?”

She said as carefully, “I know that he was crucified, and died, and was buried. That’s been almost three months ago. Everyone has heard by now.”

“And what else have you heard?”

She raised her eyes to meet his. “That he rose again.”

“The Sanhedrin is claiming that the body was stolen by his followers. Pilate has asked me to find some evidence of a hoax, before this rumor gets out of control.”

“The—rumor—is already all over Judea, and probably Galilee,” Alysia said calmly.

“Then why has there not been a revolt? Do the people actually believe in this…resurrection?”

“A revolt against the Sanhedrin would accomplish nothing. And yes, many of us do believe.”

Paulus stared at her. “You believe it?”

“Yes. I saw him.”

She noticed with dismay his expression of incredulity, mixed somehow with disappointment, as if she had let him down in the uttermost way.

Paulus’ hands gripped the edge of the table. “You saw him?”

Alysia nodded slowly. “Just a few days after the crucifixion. And then twice afterward. Scores of people saw him, Paulus.”

Paulus scowled. “How can you be sure it was the Nazarene you saw? What did he look like? Did he speak to you?”

“Of course I’m sure. He looked exactly the same, except—”

Her words seemed to hang in the air as she considered how she would convey this to him, and Paulus found the suspense more than he could stand.

“Except—”

“I didn’t know what had happened until after I saw him. And so, the scars were something of a shock to me. And his hair is completely white.”

That detail alone, first revealed by Mary Magdalene, would have been enough to convince him…had it involved anything but the bringing of a dead man back to life!

Paulus got to his feet and stood with his shoulder braced against the wall, staring at her, almost looking through her. He was thoroughly disconcerted to see her certainty, her confidence. There was indeed a radiance in her eyes that had never been there before…the same radiance he’d seen in Mary and the man named Jonas, and countless others.

“If he is alive why does he not show himself in the streets of Jerusalem? Why not prove to the priests he is a God?”

“He has shown himself—to many people—hundreds of people. Why should he do so to the priests who crucified him? They will never believe in him, even if they should see him!”

“Where is he?”

She lowered her eyes. “Neither would you believe me if I told you.”

Exasperated, he asked, “Where are his disciples?”

“I am his disciple. He has thousands, all over Palestine.”

“I mean the original twelve. Eleven, that is. I hear one of them is dead.”

“Paulus, are you asking me to betray them?”

“I will not harm them. I only wish to talk to them.”

Alysia gazed at him, troubled. “Do I have your word that you won’t arrest them, or threaten them?”

“You have my word.”

She drew another deep breath. “There is to be a meeting in a fortnight at Lazarus’ house, just after sundown. I don’t know where all the disciples are, but I know that some of them will be there.”

He looked into her eyes. “Thank you, Alysia.”

“You had better come dressed as you did…that other time. They have no reason to trust a Roman.”

“I will.” He sat down again and continued to look at her until she dropped her gaze in confusion. Since that matter was settled, Paulus decided to cast discretion to the wind and asked, with a rough edge to his voice, “Alysia, are you happy here?”

She lifted her head and a smile touched her lips. “Sometimes I dwell too much on the past, but I am at peace here.” A look of joy and wonder crossed her face, and she said, “Paulus, if only you could have seen him…if only you knew!”

Again he was reminded of Mary Magdalene, for the expression on her face had been exactly what he now saw in Alysia’s. A feeling of helplessness seized him. He couldn’t call Alysia a liar, nor did he think she was mad. He didn’t know what to think.

She reached out and touched his arm. “Please listen to me, Paulus. I used to wonder why it was…so galling to me to be a slave. I actually believed it was a fate worse than death. And it was simply because I was so proud. Too proud to actually have to serve others.

“And that is what will stop you from following Jesus. Pride will hold you back, because you must surrender…everything. But it’s not slavery. It’s liberation from slavery. It’s freedom from yourself, and all the chains that have ever held you…like selfishness, and hatred, and anger and fear. Not that you would never feel those things again, but he carries them for you, and helps you to overcome…oh, it’s too difficult to explain!”

“Alysia,” he said, making an effort to speak gently. “I can respect your feelings for this—this new religion, but don’t try to convert me to it.”

“It’s not a religion. And it isn’t new. It has all been planned since before the creation of the world.”

Bemused, he met her eyes. She went on. “He waited until the time was right, and he came.”

“It sounds like a hopeless tangle of Jewish superstition to me.”

“Then watch what happens. See if it survives, and what price men and women are willing to pay for their belief. If it’s all over, Paulus, why haven’t the disciples gone back to their homes, to their families and professions? It would be so easy to do that. Especially when the Sanhedrin is threatening to kill them. Why is the fire spreading, instead of dying out?”

He shrugged. “Men have always been willing to die for some ill-conceived cause.”

“For a cause perhaps, but not for a dead man!” Alysia paused, and added reluctantly, “You are not ready to hear this. Perhaps we should speak of other things.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Let’s do.”

“I will tell Lazarus to expect you. I feel certain he will recognize you, but he won’t say anything. Is there anyone else who might have seen you…that day?”

“The young man, the youngest of his followers, was there.”

“That was John. He’s in Nazareth now, helping Jesus’ mother settle her affairs. She is moving to Jerusalem.”

“What about the Pharisee? And the other man—I think he was a member of the Sanhedrin as well.”

“Nicodemus and Joseph. Neither of them will come…this meeting is for people who want to know what happened that day.”

Paulus felt uncomfortable. “How did you know I was there?”

“Lazarus told me. But he said you didn’t seem to have anything to do with it.”

Alysia, I would have released him, if I could. The whole thing seemed…out of control, somehow.”

“I have never blamed you. They said that Pilate conducted the trial…but it was the priests who bore the blame.”

He shook his head; he had had enough talk of the Nazarene. He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. “I miss you.”

She wanted to tell him she missed him, too. She wanted to tell him that not a day went by that she did not dream of what it would be like to be his wife. She opened her mouth and never knew what she was about to say, for at that moment sounds came from the next room…a stirring, a whimper. Alysia’s face seemed to drain of color and her hands clenched. Paulus moved his own hand away and became perfectly still, staring fixedly at Alysia.

Rachel came toddling into the room. She went to her mother, held up her arms to be lifted, and twisted about to look at Paulus. Her tousled hair was the color of honey, her eyes dark blue, and she looked remarkably like his sister, Selena.

He could not speak. Her age…her looks! The truth and all its implications crowded in upon him without mercy. As through a fog he saw Alysia’s stricken face and was aware that she carried the child back to her bed. She was gone for some time. When she returned he was still sitting in exactly the same pose of stunned disbelief.

“Why,” he said, over something large and oppressive in his chest, “didn’t you tell me?”

Alysia tried to draw a deep breath. She sat down at the table and stared at her folded hands. Oddly, she felt as if she herself had just received a stunning blow.

“I was afraid,” she said quietly. “I was afraid to let anyone know who her father was, and I knew you would want her. I was afraid you would take her from me.”

He swore and got to his feet. She had never seen him so angry. He didn’t shout, but the effect was worse than if he had begun tearing down the house.

“ What kind of man do you think I am? ”

All at once she felt sick…sick in her very soul. She’d been wrong, terribly wrong. He would never have been so unfeeling as to take her child from her. In her heart, she had known that. Why, then, hadn’t she told him?

“I’m sorry,” she managed to whisper.

He made a tremendous effort to calm himself. He strode backward and forward across the room and finally sat down again, across from her. After an eternity, he said, “I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for this.”

The old spirit of defiance brought her chin up. “You must forgive me! I have forgiven you everything…and there was much to forgive! I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t really believe you would take her away, but it would have made things so much more…difficult. I was confused, and alone.” She didn’t add why she was alone. She would not throw that in his face.

After another long pause, he asked, “Is she well?”

“Yes.”

“What is her name?”

“It is Rachel.”

“I don’t want you to think that I’m not…happy to have a child.” He started to say more, and then looked as if he couldn’t bear to. He stood, not looking at her, and strode to the door. “I suppose I will see you at this meeting of the disciples?”

“Yes.” She rose quickly to stand beside him. “Paulus, don’t go. We must speak of this—”

He looked down at her, his face close to hers. “You say you believe in this Jesus, who prized the truth, and all the time you lied to me by your silence. And you believed a lie, as if I could hurt you that way, or willfully bring shame upon you, and our child.”

“I don’t know why I was afraid, Paulus. I couldn’t give her up, even for a little while. She is all I have, of this world. It was not an easy choice to make. Don’t think it wasn’t painful for me!”

He asked, in that quiet, impersonal voice, “Do you still love me, Alysia?”

Tears stung her eyes and she could barely squeeze the words past the lump in her throat. “You know I do.”

He paused and said evenly, “But you didn’t trust me with what you hold most dear.”

The door closed and he was gone.

 

* * * *

 

When Paulus returned to the Antonia, he went at once to the room Simon occupied next to his own. Not bothering to knock, he flung open the door so that the lamps in the corridor flared and dimly illumined the cubicle.

Simon started up, half falling out of bed, and seeing the legate got quickly to his feet. He couldn’t see Paulus’ face with the lights at his back, but the cold tone of his voice confirmed Simon’s suspicion that something was greatly amiss.

“Simon, did I not ask you to report on the welfare of a certain young woman in Bethany?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you knew who she was because you had seen her before, spoken with her before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why, in the name of every god that man in his stupidity ever imagined, did you not tell me she had a child?”

Simon stared into the darkness where Paulus’ face must be. He looked completely baffled, Paulus thought…but how was it possible that he didn’t know? At last Simon spread his arms out helplessly.

“There was a woman with her, who carried a child, sir. But I had no idea it was hers ! Now that I think of it, there were times I went to Bethany and she was nowhere to be seen…I suppose women do hide themselves when they are with child. But I inquired about her among some of the townsfolk, pretending to be a relative, and was always told she was doing well. I think they might have been somewhat suspicious of me and didn’t say much. The idea that she had had a baby never occurred to me. I never saw her holding one.”

“Well, Simon, it seems we’ve both been remarkably slow-witted.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sorry I disturbed you. Goodnight.”

Simon watched him leave the room, and heard the legate pacing in his own, far into the night.

 

* * * *

 

After Paulus left, Alysia made certain Rachel was asleep and then sat down again and put her head in her hands. Her feelings alternated between regret for her own actions, and anger at Paulus. After all the things she had forgiven and forgotten (or tried to forget), he had the effrontery to say what she had done was unforgivable! And Paulus’ offenses extended over the entire time she had been a slave, until he ordered the death of her own husband…even if it had been in the course of his duty!

She lifted her head and stared indignantly at the wall. Then her eyes fell on the scrolls she had been reading earlier, and suddenly she thought of him , and what he had taught about forgiveness. Her resentment began to leave her. She remembered the night she had spoken to him of her own need for forgiveness. And then she thought, as she did over and over, of the last time she had talked alone with him…

It was the first day of the week, in the days following the Passover. Many people were still in Jerusalem; Lazarus and his sisters had not returned. She’d been walking toward the well in the center of town, alone, enjoying the solitude and the early, clean beauty of the day. A man had fallen into step with her, and when she glanced at him she was struck by the familiarity of his form, and the way he walked. Men never walked next to women. Except…

Now she looked at his face, noticing the almost startling contrast between his flowing white hair, black eyebrows and dark eyes. His short beard was white, too, against skin that was smooth and tanned. When she finally looked into his eyes, she stopped abruptly and dropped her water jar. Miraculously, it did not break.

He stopped, too, and he was smiling at her, his eyes kind, the same and yet different, filled with some ineffable quality that rendered her speechless.

“Greetings, Alysia,” he said, in the same clear voice.

At last she whispered, “What has happened to you?”

“I saw you walking here, and wanted to speak with you. You haven’t heard of what happened in Jerusalem.”

“You mean, the darkness?”

“Yes,” he said, “but the darkness has turned to light.”

She stared at him, bewildered. He bent and retrieved the water jar, and handed it to her. When he did so, she noticed the rounded holes in his wrists. She would have dropped the jar again if he had not closed his own hands over hers.

“Lazarus and his sisters have not yet seen me, but they will. Tell them that they, and you, will see me again, before I go to the Father. And I tell you truly, there is a man, a man you know well, who will do a mighty work in my name. You would have believed without seeing me, but for him it will be more difficult. Pray for him.”

He released the jar into her hands, and he was gone. She stood immobilized for a long time. Had he just disappeared into thin air? She doubted her own senses; she sat down on the great stones surrounding the well and looked down the road, this way and that. It was as though he had opened an invisible door and walked through it!

She still, at that time, did not understand…had not known what happened until Lazarus and his sisters returned to Bethany the next day. She had been shocked and dismayed to hear about his crucifixion…but not surprised to hear the rest of the story. She already knew.

A man who would have trouble believing, and yet would do a great work in his name. She had known, even then, who Jesus meant. But how could that ever be? Why couldn’t Jesus have just appeared to him? It would have made things so much easier…It would take much, much prayer. It would take a miracle.