Read The Galilean Secret: A Novel Online
Authors: Evan Howard
The Galilean Secret: A Novel (6 page)
The monk gave Karim the stapled pages. “Sit here and read this. Along with the letter from Jesus, there are entries written by a Judean woman named Judith of Jerusalem. I have more work to do on this diary, but even the unfinished translation may show you a destiny you have yet to discover.” The monk got up and slipped into the courtyard that lay outside the door.
As Karim read the translation, he became lost in its words. It explained the deepest meaning of love by revealing the true nature of Jesus’ relationship with Mary Magdalene. In the diary excerpts written by Judith of Jerusalem, she described meeting both of them, and how they helped her find healing for her broken heart.
Karim was struck by how the relationship between Jesus and Mary Magdalene differed from the portrayals of it that he had encountered at Birzeit University. In traditional church teaching, Jesus and Mary had only a platonic relationship. At the other extreme were theories that suggested they were married and even had a child. The revelation contained in the letter presented a very different possibility. A possibility that described love as he had never before heard it explained.
The letter said that peace would come to the world when the fullness of this love triumphed in the human heart. In this promise Karim recognized the teaching of the Qur’an: “On those who have faith and do good will the Most Gracious One bestow love” (19:96). But the letter pro- claimed Jesus, not Muhammad, as the prophet of peace, and that Karim could never accept.
Yet as he read, the words seemed to glow from within, as if bathed in celestial light. He squinted against the glow and blinked until his eyes adjusted. The light flowed through his body and created an ecstatic sensation that swept a mysterious tremor through him. The experience continued and was heightened as he read that wherever love reigns, it bears witness to the truth of God. The letter explained the full extent of love’s meaning— its power to transform hearts, create joy and abundance, and overcome evil.
When Karim finished reading, he felt a strange sensation, a peculiar new awareness of everything around him, including every nerve ending in his body. He set the pages on his lap and sat quietly, disturbed by the experience.
Soon he heard Brother Gregory return from the courtyard. Karim faced the monk with an expression of wonder. “Never have I read such a powerful letter, but as a Muslim, I could never tell the world about it. This is a Christian document.”
The monk waved a hand dismissively. “The letter’s message is meant for all people, not just Christians. Eventually we must take the scroll to the Government Antiquities Agency, but as the one who discovered it, you must decide what to do next.”
Karim felt as if he had been scorched by the desert sun. How could he, a Muslim, tell the world of these teachings of Jesus? “To share these teachings would be blasphemy to Muhammad. Nor will I convert to Christianity.”
Brother Gregory sat down next to him. “The letter says that love defines true religion. Any religion that doesn’t produce kindness, justice and compassion is false. Hating, hoarding or killing in the name of God is blasphemy. In this age of terrorists, the world needs a prophet of love. I know your great writing skills. You could be that prophet.”
Karim stiffened. To accept this challenge would disrupt his life. He wanted to use his writing skills to rally support for the cause of a Palestinian homeland. No one should have to live with the poverty and oppression he had known. The creation of a secure and prosperous Palestinian state offered a way out. But it should not be founded through military means. Senseless killing betrayed true Islam.
Perhaps the letter from Jesus could strengthen the languishing Palestinian peace movement. But he still believed he was not the one to share the letter. An invisible hand clawed his conscience. “As a Muslim, I cannot be allied with Christianity. I know the jihadists well. They would kill me if I were the one to bring this letter to light.”
Brother Gregory placed his hands on Karim’s shoulders. “Who needs the letter more than those who would kill a person for following his conscience? The letter is for people of every religion and no religion at all. It speaks of the fullness of love, and how that fullness can create a peaceful revolution in our hearts and in the world. Those who embrace love’s new advent will find true happiness and learn to live in peace.”
Karim stood and began to pace the cement floor. “You are asking me to do the impossible. Where would I even—”
A knock on the door cut him off. “I’m expecting the abbot,” Brother Gregory said, grabbing the copy of the translation from Karim. “I don’t want him to see this.” He hid the translation in his desk before opening the door.
A large man with salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard walked in, concern glinting in his intense brown eyes. Karim recognized the abbot of the monastery, the rotund Father Erasmus Zeno.
“We had a suspicious visitor,” Abbot Zeno said, laboring to catch his breath. “He was looking for Brother Gregory Andreou.”
“Who was he?” Brother Gregory offered the abbot a chair.
Abbot Zeno shook his head and continued standing. “He wouldn’t give his name, but he said that he’s an archaeologist and a professor.”
“I should leave,” Karim said.
Brother Gregory motioned for him to stay and turned to Abbot Zeno. “Why did you find this man suspicious?”
“Because he asked too many questions. He wanted to know if a Brother Gregory Andreou lived here, and if you translated ancient texts. Finally he asked whether you were currently working on one.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I asked if he knew you personally. When he said no, I invited him to leave his contact information with me to give you, but he insisted that he speak to you right away. When I said that was impossible, he became agitated.”
A shiver of fear rippled through Karim, causing his breath to shorten. Why would an archaeologist snoop around and make inquiries about Brother Gregory’s translations? “What did this man look like?”
“Average height,” Abbot Zeno said. “Fair-haired, had strong arms and shoulders. He wore wire-rimmed glasses.”
The abbot’s description matched that of the man who had attacked Karim at Qumran. His blood turned to ice. If this man were an archaeologist, he had motives for wanting the ancient scroll—money and fame. Some might even kill for such rewards.
Karim tried to calm his thoughts with reason. He told himself that the archaeologist’s visit was probably a coincidence. That the man probably wasn’t the one who had attacked him at Qumran. That this archaeologist came to the monastery only because of Brother Gregory’s reputation as a translator.
On the other hand, perhaps this visitor had tracked him here. Perhaps he suspected that Brother Gregory was translating a priceless scroll—the one found at Qumran. If the archaeologist had made these connections, he would be back. The chances of his recognizing Karim were high. As high as the chances of the archaeologist’s carrying a weapon more lethal than a trowel. In light of these possibilities, Karim could not be too careful.
Abbot Zeno took a step toward the door, jarring Karim out of his thoughts. Then the abbot came back and squeezed Brother Gregory’s arm. “This visitor made me curious about what you are working on. You seem preoccupied lately. Are you keeping some of your activities from me? If you are engaged in a secret project, I should know about it.”
Karim noticed the blood draining from Brother Gregory’s face, but the monk kept his composure as he said, “I have had the privilege of translating numerous ancient manuscripts. I work on these whenever the opportunity arises—”
“You haven’t answered my question,” the abbot interrupted. “Are you working on a project that you are keeping secret?”
Brother Gregory stared at him without blinking. “I have translated texts from Qumran in the past. I have been given the privilege of translating another one, but I don’t know how this archaeologist would know about it.”
Karim saw the abbot’s gaze flash to the laptop computer that sat on the desk and then back to Brother Gregory. The abbot studied the monk silently for a moment and then said, “If he comes back, you will have to decide how to handle him.”
“I agree that he sounds suspicious,” Brother Gregory said. “I’ve never met him, and if he’s so demanding, I would rather not.”
“I must go,” Abbot Zeno said, turning toward the door. Karim noticed the abbot’s eyes darting to the laptop again as he said, “I hope to see you soon, Brother Gregory. I sometimes think you are more hermit than monk. With all the writing you do, I fear you are trying to become as prolific as our great Saint John Chrysostom.”
After Abbot Zeno had left and closed the door, Karim stood and grabbed Brother Gregory’s shoulder. “Why did you admit that you’re translating a scroll from Qumran? You may have raised the abbot’s suspicions.”
“He knows of my previous work on Qumran texts, so he shouldn’t think anything of it.”
Karim shook his head, his lips compressing into a thin line. “The archaeologist fits the description of the man who attacked me at Qumran. He’s ruthless, and he may be searching for the scroll by tracking down possible translators. Keep your guard up.”
Brother Gregory’s eyes bore into Karim’s. “Perhaps we should go to the police or the Government Antiquities Agency.”
“You know I can’t do that. The Palestinian police answer to my father’s militia—he would find me for sure. If we went to the Israelis, they would confiscate the scroll and we would never see it again. I need more time to decide what to do.”
“And I need time to finish the translation.” Brother Gregory went to the desk, retrieved the copy he had made for Karim and held it out to him. “I suggest you keep this unfinished translation with you and read it often. I hope you’ll eventually find the courage to share its insights. In the meantime, I’ll keep working.”
Karim hesitated, his arms frozen at his sides. He agreed that the letter contained shocking revelations and powerful wisdom, but he couldn’t be sure it was authentic, and he was determined not to get involved with a hoax. He considered not accepting the translation. Perhaps he should flee Bethlehem and never return. Go to Ramallah or even Hebron. Forget the scroll. Start a new life.
But he was curious about the letter and the secret it contained. A secret so provocative that he couldn’t get it out of his thoughts. Perhaps the letter had become his destiny in a way that was impossible to shun or deny. As he considered what to do, warmth suffused his body. He felt as if the letter were calling to him without giving him the option of saying no.
He took the translation and folded and stuffed it into his pocket. “
As-Salaamu ‘alayka
,” he said to Brother Gregory. “Peace be upon you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Roman Times
JUDITH TRIED TO SWALLOW BUT FOUND HER THROAT TIGHT, AS IF HER TONGUE HAD SWOLLEN IN HER MOUTH. She stared down, not wanting any of the other sixteen women at Qumran to notice the tears stinging her eyes. She was helping them set out dinner for the thirty-eight men: the rich, wheat-scented aroma of the freshly baked barley loaves had reminded her of home.
How I long for its security and comforts
, she thought as she laid out the loaves and goat cheese.
After three weeks with the Zealots at the Dead Sea, her wedding night with Dismas seemed as far away as Reuben’s brief, magical childhood. Both times were like spring in her memory, blossoming and warmed by a golden sun. The morning after they exchanged their vows, she and Dismas had made love in the pink-orange dawn, their passion heightened by its risky and forbidden nature. Each time Dismas had come to her, he filled a bit more of her loneliness with his strength and the promise of justice and freedom. They told stories, drank wine and laughed with the carefree joy she had known only with Reuben.
She and Dismas had spent the morning in each other’s arms, eating grapes and figs as he shared his plans for the future. He promised that after they defeated the Romans, he would build her an enviable home far from Jerusalem—in Tiberias, perhaps, on the Sea of Galilee. They would have a large family, supported by the skilled stonecutting of Dismas and his sons.
As Judith listened she became certain that life with him would never be boring, not like the lives of many girls stuck in empty, arranged marriages. She had clung to him on the twelve-mile ride to Qumran, more secure and hopeful than she had ever remembered. When they finally rode into camp, the Zealots had cheered and welcomed them. She had felt so close to him, so sure that a noble destiny had brought them together, so committed to following that destiny with him.
But how quickly everything changed. The memory of making love to Dismas in the Judean Desert mocked her now. He and several other men had just returned from Jerusalem, where they had gone to find out when the next Roman convoy would leave for Herod’s palace at Masada so they could attack it. Dismas appeared exhausted when she handed him a bowl of lentil soup, unable to muster even a meager smile for her.
Exhaustion was her constant companion, along with loneliness. Amid the daily ordeal of cooking, forging swords and daggers, and bandaging wounds, passion seemed as far away as the glistening stars over the fathomless depths. She was afraid of losing Dismas but hated his growing indifference to her. In an effort to win back his affection, she had baked the barley loaves especially for him. But he appeared preoccupied and rebuffed her when she asked about the expedition.
“I just want to be left alone.” He took a barley loaf and bit into it. Then he shook his head disgustedly. “This bread is hard enough to break a man’s teeth.”
After dinner the married Zealots went to their tents with their wives, while the unmarried men slept in the caves or around the fire. When Judith and Dismas were alone in their tent, he wanted to make love. “After what you said about the bread, how can you ask this of me?” Judith changed into a nightshirt and lay down on the straw mat they used as a bed. “But if you must, you can come to me quickly.”
Dismas blew out the torch, removed his sandals and lay his muscular frame next to her. “I risk my life for your freedom every day. Showing a little interest in me is the least you can do.”
Judith spoke cautiously but with conviction. “I need you to speak tenderly to me. If only I knew you cared . . . if only I felt you cherished me, I would want you more often.”
Dismas sat up in sullen silence, put on his sandals and left. She lay still, staring into the darkness, wondering where she had gone wrong and whether he would come back. He was all she had. What would she do without him? When he finally did come back, she was nearly asleep, but she gave in to him out of guilt, dutifully returning his kisses and caresses, trying to rekindle the ashen coals of their dying love.
As she received him, she wondered how he could enjoy an act that only increased her loneliness. After he had satisfied himself and fallen asleep, she rolled away, feeling more like an abused slave than a treasured wife. The truth confronted her in the darkness: she needed more from a man than passion or courage or even strength. She needed closeness and companionship, an intimate sharing of souls. Was Dismas capable of these?
T
he next afternoon Judith helped the other women light the fire to cook dinner. That morning the men had returned to Jerusalem to attack the Roman supply convoy that they had scouted the previous day. They would be back soon—if the Romans hadn’t killed them. She stepped away from the fire and gazed at the lush blue of the Dead Sea, its scattered ripples sparkling in the late afternoon sun. Her eyes swept the towering cliffs that rose like fierce monsters above the spreading waters. The dullness of the cliffs’ colors—beiges, greens and browns—reflected her exhaustion. Even on a hot day, the terrain, like her spirits, was cold and lifeless. She would have felt estranged and abandoned anywhere, but this wilderness of jagged rock formations and dark caves intensified her anguish.
She wondered if she would ever have a home again, or read, or bathe in fresh water, or see her parents and sisters. Relentless questions arose from her fears: Did she really love this man who was always on a raid or planning one? Did he love her? Perhaps she should tell him about her homesickness and ask him to take her back to Jerusalem. But even if Dismas agreed to take her, she would have to face her family and his. How could she go back and risk being stoned? Then again, how could she stay here without losing her mind? Afraid to face the dreadful answers, she fixed her gaze on a hawk riding the upward thermals. The majestic bird abruptly swooped down on a rodent scurrying along a cliff. A final question stabbed at her: Did she believe in the Zealot way of violence?
As she put a large pot of porridge on the fire, she heard hoofbeats. The Zealots rode into camp with Barabbas, red of beard and brawny, galloping in the lead. Dismas and the stocky Gestas ben Yaakov were carrying wounded men on their horses. Gestas dismounted, sweat dripping from his bearlike features, which were swollen from sunburn. “Now the Romans know they’re in a fight.” Gestas steadied the wounded man on the horse. “Soldiers pursued us, but we fought valiantly and inflicted more casualties than we suffered.”
Along with the barrel-chested Amos ben Perez and his sturdy wife, Hanna, Judith helped get the nearly unconscious man off Gestas’ horse. They carried the man to a blanket near the fire and laid him on it. The second wounded man was in better condition. Favoring a bloody shoulder, his white teeth clenched and his handsome, well-proportioned features twisted into a grimace. He dismounted with Dismas’ help and stumbled toward the second blanket by the fire. Judith recognized the man as the firm-jawed Judas Iscariot.
Slightly taller than medium height, Judas had a thick beard and wide-set eyes the color of pine bark. Originally from Kerioth in Judea, he had been assisting the Zealots in Jerusalem, but they sent him to Qumran with a message for Barabbas. Having arrived a week earlier, he quickly became known for his fervent orations around the campfire, describing a glorious future for the Jews after they crushed the Romans.
Judas Iscariot made Judith suspicious. How could she trust an untested man who portrayed himself as such a visionary? His fast-talking had even won him Barabbas’ confidence.
It doesn’t surprise me that Judas got injured,
Judith thought
. He probably acted foolishly while trying to prove himself in battle.
She turned back to the first injured man, who was seriously hurt. Stout and round-faced, he lay on the ground trembling and moaning. “A Roman soldier sliced into his neck with a sword,” Dismas said. She winced at the deep gash and recognized Eleazar Avaran. His face was ghastly pale and swollen; blood blanketed his body. She cleaned the wound with water, and then with a mixture of oil and wine. Finally she wrapped it tightly with bandages to stop the bleeding.
It was too late. Eleazar cried to God for mercy, retched hoarsely and then became still. He could not be saved. Eleazar was the first man Judith had seen die. She stared at his motionless body, transfixed in horror, her linen dress speckled with his blood. Dismas, who was at Eleazar’s side, paid no attention to Judith. Rather than comfort her, he rose, cursed and raised a fist against the Romans. “Eleazar, I will avenge your death. As God lives, your sacrifice will not be in vain!”
Dismas and several others carried the body outside the camp and buried it. Judith steadied herself until her labored breathing calmed; then she attended to Judas Iscariot’s wound, which ran from the top of his right shoulder to the middle of his bicep. He remained expressionless, stoic, as if the injury were an everyday occurrence.
When Judith finished bandaging him, she picked up the basin of water, now red, and dumped it on the ground. She wondered if the earth itself demanded the blood of those who used violence to subdue it. When the men returned from burying Eleazar, Dismas made no attempt to console her. “Death is the price of freedom,” he said. “May shame be upon me if I fail to avenge the Romans’ treachery.”
Judith glanced at the setting sun and wondered how she could live if he turned against her. As she, Hanna, and two middle-aged women named Naomi and Leah stirred the porridge and scooped it into bowls, Barabbas commended the men’s bravery. “Dismas is right. We must avenge Eleazar’s death.” He stared hard at Judas. “But we cannot risk losing another man. Tomorrow you must stay in camp and rest.”
Judith and the other women ate with the hungry men, their conversation focused on the uprising they were planning for Passover in Jerusalem. Barabbas reported that he had been assured that weapons were flowing into the holy city from the Zealot strongholds at Mount Gamla and Mount Arbel in Galilee. Their compatriots were forging swords and daggers at those secure sites and smuggling the arms into Jerusalem by night. The Zealots hiding in the massive underground quarry called Zedekiah’s Cave, near the Temple, and in several other secret tunnels below the city received and distributed the weapons.
Judith heard the frustration in Barabbas’ voice when he spoke of the Roman army. He felt that the Zealots should have inflicted more damage by now. A frown creased Barabbas’ sharp, distinctive features as he said, “We must rally thousands of men to our cause. With hundreds of thousands of Jews in Jerusalem at Passover, we have the numbers to overwhelm the Romans. We must strike the garrison at the Antonia Fortress and drive Pilate and his forces out. Then we’ll set fire to Herod’s palace! He and his entire family of half-Jew impostors will be forced to flee— if they do not die first. Just as God delivered our ancestors from the Egyptians, so will he liberate us from the Romans!”
Judith listened intently as the men formulated their strategy. The production of weapons would continue in the east-west canyons on Mount Gamla, northeast of the Sea of Galilee, and in the Canyon of the Pigeons, located in the vertical cliffs of Mount Arbel on the sea’s western shore. In preparation for the Passover revolt, the Zealots would sabotage Roman roads and waterworks; they would steal horses and raid Roman military installations; and they would assassinate Jewish traitors, such as tax collectors and the treasonous priests called Sadducees. No Zealot would pay taxes or use Roman coins with Caesar’s image on them. This was idolatry. The Zealots would only touch the coins that they had forced Pontius Pilate to design—the coins emblazoned with palm branches instead of the emperor’s image, for these coins had come to symbolize the Zealot resistance.
Barabbas stood, eyes glinting as he raised a forefinger toward heaven and said, “This will be the most triumphant Passover since the time of Moses. At the first blast of the ram’s horn, we will lead our people to victory!”
Judith listened and grew increasingly alarmed. How could a disorganized band of freedom fighters defeat the mighty Roman army? She feared that many Zealots would die and knew that some of their deaths would be slow and agonizing, for they would be carried out by Rome’s cruelest form of revenge: crucifixion.
