Daughter of Jerusalem (27 page)

I introduced Fulvius to my brother and invited him to join us. “Is something wrong?” I asked, when I saw the expression on his face.

He sat on one of the benches around the table. “I received a message an hour ago from Jerusalem.” He regarded me somberly. “Herod Antipas has executed John the Baptizer.”

I stared back at him, stunned.

Lazarus was the first to speak. “Why? Why would he do such a thing now? The Baptizer has been a prisoner for months. There have been no uprisings, no public demands for his release. Why would Antipas do something that might cause the population to riot?”

Fulvius said, “The written notification I received simply announced his death, but the courier gave me the details. Apparently there was a court feast, and the daughter of Herodias—I believe she is named Salome—danced for Herod. He was so enamored with her dancing that he promised to give her anything she asked for.” There was a disgusted look on Fulvius’ face. “He was drunk, needless to say.”

Lazarus and I stared at him, waiting for him to say the unbelievable. He said it.

“She asked for the head of John the Baptizer.”

I couldn’t speak.

Lazarus’ voice was incredulous. “He beheaded a man because a girl pleased him with her dance?”

“Yes,” Fulvius said.

I thought of that wild, memorable head, pictured it separated from its body, and felt sick to my stomach.

Lazarus said, “This was Herodias’ doing. She hated John because of what he said about her leaving Philip for Antipas.”

Fulvius agreed. “I’m sure she had something to do with it.”

We sat in silence for a while. Then Fulvius said, “If Jesus of Nazareth isn’t careful, he could find himself in danger too.”

“From Herod?” I said.

“Herod won’t like being pushed into the shade by a wandering miracle worker.”

I shivered. “Have you met Jesus, Fulvius Petrus?”

“I heard him preach once. He doesn’t only preach in the synagogues, Mary. He preaches on the hillsides—even from a boat on the lake. People follow him wherever he goes.”

Lazarus asked, “What did you think of him?”

The Roman said, “I think he’s a messenger from your God.”

He couldn’t have said anything that surprised me more.

He stood up. “I must go. One of my servants is ill, and I’ve called for the physician. I want to be there when he comes.”

“Thank you for bringing us this news,” I said.

Fulvius said farewell to me and nodded to Lazarus. Then Jeremiah, who had been hovering near the door, showed him out.

Lazarus said, “This is ill news, Mary.”

“I know.”

His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. “The Roman seems like a good man—to be concerned about a servant is unusual.”

“It must be his old tutor who is ill. He taught Fulvius all through his boyhood. I hope he’s all right. Fulvius is very fond of him.”

Lazarus massaged the back of his neck.

“You have a headache coming on, don’t you?” He made a face and nodded. “Come along to your room and get into bed. Martha will have cold cloths for you before you know it.”

“I’m sorry to be such a trouble.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re no trouble to us. You’re the one who does the suffering.” I put my hand under his arm and led him back to the house under the relentless sun.

Martha and I sat silent over supper, too aware of Lazarus’ empty place to do more than nibble at the meal. Fortunately, he seemed better the next morning. He didn’t want to go outside, but at least he came into the dining room and let Martha bring him some food. We hoped the worst had passed.

I was in my garden when Abram came rushing through the gate. His young face was red with excitement.

“Mama sent me to get you, Mary. Jesus has been sighted on the road into town! She says for you to come with us. Father must be with him.”

“I’ll be right over.” I raced into the house to get my brother and sister. Lazarus didn’t feel well enough to go out under the sun, but he persuaded Martha he was well enough for her to leave him. Rebecca and Abram were waiting outside my front door when we came out, and the four of us joined the throng of people who were pouring out of Capernaum to greet the miracle worker.

The Roman soldiers who kept guard along the road to Chorazin were on the alert. I wondered if they had ever seen such an exodus of people before. A crowd of us surged along the road until we
came upon another crowd coming toward Capernaum. Jesus was at the head of the mass of people, and Peter, Andrew, James, and John walked on either side of him.

The great miracle maker looked so ordinary as he walked along that hot, dusty road. He wore an ordinary brown cloak over an ordinary brown tunic. On his feet he wore rope sandals, the same kind worn by the poorest of the poor.

And yet there was something about that slender figure that drew the eye, that demanded attention. Even if we had known nothing of his miracles, still we would be looking at him.

Abram pushed his way through the crowd, telling everyone he had to get to his father. Rebecca, Martha, and I followed close behind. The crowd from Capernaum had halted on the road, waiting for Jesus to reach them, when Abram finally shoved his way into the front line.

Behind us voices began to shout, “The rabbi is here! Move aside and let the rabbi through!”

Rebecca put her arm around Abram’s shoulders to move him out of the way, and we made a path to allow the rabbi through. He went up to Jesus with great dignity, gave him the kiss of peace, and said, “Teacher, I have come to you at the request of the Roman commander in Capernaum. His servant is ill unto death, and he asks that you go to him. I have come because he is a good man who has been kind to our people and contributed money to our synagogue.”

Simon Peter scowled and said something to Jesus in a low voice that I couldn’t hear. Jesus shook his head and said to the rabbi, “Show me the way.”

As Jesus and the rabbi moved toward us, the crowd parted to let them through. Jesus passed close to us but didn’t glance our way.
Simon Peter saw us, however, and Abram ran to greet his father. Peter gestured for Rebecca, Martha, and me to join him.

When Jesus and the rabbi reached the gate into Capernaum, the Roman guards stepped in front of us to lead the way. I said in Rebecca’s ear, “Fulvius Petrus must have given orders.”

The Roman commander’s house was in the center of the town, a fine stone building with a small barracks built behind it. Most of the soldiers in Capernaum were quartered in a garrison just outside the city itself.

The house had barely come into view when I saw Fulvius Petrus himself open the door to stand on the front steps. When he saw Jesus and the rabbi coming, he came to meet them.

I was next to Peter, right behind Jesus and the rabbi, so I saw and heard everything that happened. Fulvius walked up to Jesus and bowed his close-cropped Roman head.

Jesus said, “I am here.”

“Lord.” Fulvius used the Latin word as an address, although he spoke in Greek. “I am not worthy that you should enter into my house. You have only to say the word, and I will know my servant is healed.”

Jesus answered him in Greek. “And how do you know that?”

Fulvius straightened to his full height. “I am a man with authority myself. I have many soldiers under me, and when I say to one, ‘Go,’ he goes; and to another, ‘Come,’ and he comes. You don’t need to come into my house, Lord. You have only to speak the word, and it will be done according to your command.”

Jesus was silent. Then he turned to face the crowd, which by now must have encompassed every living creature in the city. He raised his remarkable voice so he could be heard by all. “I tell you, I have not seen faith like this among my own people, Israel.”

The crowd was perfectly silent. Jesus turned back to the Roman. “Return to your home. Your servant is healed.”

Slowly, deliberately, Fulvius went down on one knee. “I am not a Jew, Lord, but I would like to be your follower.”

At this the crowd roared into life. Protests filled the air. I heard words like uncircumcised and swine all around me.

Once more Jesus turned to face us, and this time he was angry. In a voice like the lash of a whip, he said, “Listen to what I say, and then answer me. There was a man going from Jericho to Jerusalem when he fell victim to robbers. They stripped him and beat him and left him lying in the road, half dead. A priest passed by soon after, and when he saw the beaten man lying there, he crossed to the other side of the road. A Levite did the same. But a Samaritan traveler who came upon the injured victim was moved by compassion and offered him help.”

At the hated word
Samaritan
there was a rustle from the otherwise silenced crowd.

Jesus continued, “This Samaritan poured oil and wine on the injured man’s wounds and bandaged them up. He lifted the man onto his own beast, took him to an inn, and cared for him. The following day he paid the innkeeper and instructed him to take care of the unfortunate man, assuring the innkeeper he would pay more if necessary on his return home.

“Now for the question.” The anger was still there, sharp and stinging in his voice. “Which of these three men acted in a way that pleased God?”

The answer came back, grudging but clear: “The Samaritan.”

Jesus turned to Fulvius and said, “Anyone who does likewise is my follower.”

I found myself shivering. Who was this man? All thoughts of comparisons
between him and Daniel or Marcus were futile. He wasn’t like them. He wasn’t like anyone I had ever known.

Fulvius’ front door opened again, and a man came running down the stairs, shouting to Fulvius that his servant was better.

Jesus beckoned to Peter and spoke into his ear. Peter nodded and said to Rebecca, “Come, the Master and disciples will go to our house. We can all use some food and rest.”

I went with Rebecca to help her, and Martha went to my house to see how Lazarus was faring. Eventually the disciples managed to get Jesus away from the crowd and back to Peter’s.

The men sat thankfully in the shade, and I helped Rebecca and her serving girl carry out wine, water, and some hastily prepared food.

Jesus was quiet. He ate quickly and neatly, as hungry as his followers. As they ate, I looked around at the others.

“Who are these men?” I asked Peter’s brother Andrew. I liked him. He was a quiet man, always second to Peter in the family and the business, but he had a kind heart.

He smiled at me, his face radiant with pride. “There are twelve of us, Mary. Twelve of us picked by the Master to go with him everywhere and be his disciples.”

I tried not to show my surprise. They were men who worked with their hands. They weren’t peasants, but they were far from being what I would consider educated. They knew only what had been taught to them when they were boys—that is to say they had memorized parts of the Jewish scripture and learned to say the
shema
twice a day.

I asked Andrew to tell me who they were, and he went around the circle. Peter, James, and John I knew. The others were called Philip,
Bartholomew, Matthew, Thomas, another James, Thaddaeus, Simon, and Judas.

Judas was the one who stood out. He was younger than the others, with a finely drawn face and intense, dark eyes. Something about him reminded me of Daniel.

“Judas is the only one of us who isn’t from Galilee,” Andrew said. “He’s from Judea, and he studied for a while at the Temple. Since he’s the most educated, we elected him to hold the common purse.”

As we were speaking, Martha slipped through the fence gate and came over to me. She bent and said, “He’s worse, Mary. I found him in bed again.” Her eyes flicked toward Jesus. “Do you think . . . ?”

Jesus had finished his food and was listening to Judas. I said, “We can only ask,” and stood up. I crossed the courtyard, and then I dropped to my knees, bowed my head, and said, using the Greek word by which his disciples called him, “Master, my brother lies next door suffering from a painful sickness in his head. He is a good man, Master, and my sister and I ask that you heal him.”

I looked up and was caught in his eyes. For a moment it seemed as if time stopped, and there was no one in the world but the two of us. I felt strangely peaceful. I felt . . . loved.