Fifth Gospel (4 page)

K
ING OF THE JEWS

K
ing Herod
was dying. Beneath the cover of his vestments, the skin below his navel was black and his member was shrivelled and withered; that member, which had once enjoyed the flames of fleshly desires, had turned inwards to feed upon its master, and was now a putrid corpse that hung loose and impotent in the folds of his robes.

He was
full of rage this night, full of hatred and suspicion, and the pain in his groin having fallen victim to this mood, would have caused him to cry out if not for the special brew made from the roots of ancient herbs. This brew made his pain less big and opened his mind to visions. He waited expectantly, looking into the flames, to the light that reflected, flickered and danced. He looked upon the altar, awash with congealed child-blood and encircled by priestesses chanting to the sound of the drums, and remembered how he had trembled with anticipation at the arrival of the Magi.

They had seen the star and
had come, seeking to know more of the child who was destined to be the King of Israel. When they had left to look for him, Herod had summoned the priests of the Temple: the Sadducees, whose hunger for power made them grovel for crumbs at his feet; and the Pharisees, led by Hillel and Shamai, who looked upon him as a half-breed usurper, a puppet of Caesar and a thief of the crown of Judah.

The useless creatures had told him
of the prophecies of Balaam. They spoke of two portents: a star destined to descend into the house of Jacob; and a sceptre presaged to rise up pointing to Bethlehem of Judea, the home of David. They said these portents meant the child-Messiah would be both a king and a priest.

Herod had shouted at them, ‘Fools! How can a man be two things?’

But the priests, in their ignorance, had not known how to answer.

These portents and interpre
tations were nothing new to him - every Jew knew them. Why else had he built his Herodium between four seas if not to keep his eye upon that silent little town called Bethlehem?

But the Romans had
slaughtered every creature less than two springs and still they had not found the child! He knew this because his ailment was not healed, and without the blood of that child he would continue to be a miserable man whose breath stank, whose bowels dripped, and whose feet were enlarged and oozing with fluid. Without that blood, he would die with no friends to mourn him, a man hated by the Romans and despised by his own people.

He
let the dervish, the song, and the smell of incense enter into him and he asked the devil a question:

Wh
at now?

Immediately h
e received a vision. His eyes stared into the smoke-full air between the naked bodies that moved around the blooded altar lit by fire and candle, and in that space he saw all that was in store for him. A surge of terror clawed its way from Herod’s colon to his eyelids and he gave out a yell that was drowned by the lament of dancers, the playing of instruments and the rhythm of drums. Something gripped his throat. He struggled for breath and tried to run out of the grotto but fell. Above him, dark shapes came, some with flapping wings, others with tentacles.

‘I am afraid!’
he said to them, but they did not heed him.  They enveloped him in their delicate shadows and pulled him down into the dismal depths of his madness.

It took him long to die and
when the people heard of his agonising death these words rang out across the land:

‘
He is dead, he is dead! The Idumean who stole to the throne like a fox, who ruled like a tiger and who died like a dog!’

MARY

F
orty generations after Abraham, and some months after the birth of that first child, a young woman called Mary accompanied her husband on a journey from Nazareth. It was the era of Caesar Augustus. Herod the Great had died and his cruel, sadistic son and successor Archelaus, had been deposed, leaving Syria a Governorship of the Roman Senator Quirenius.

U
nder his rule, a census was announced for the purpose of taxation and the people of Judea were required by law to travel to the seat of their ancestors to be counted. Mary’s husband, Joseph, was of the lineage of David and so he and Mary had to make the journey to Bethlehem, the town of his forebears, even at this difficult time.

For Mary of Nazareth was long with child.

Nine months earlier the seed had been sown in her belly on a fateful night when the Essene priests had called her and her betrothed, Joseph, to the veiled place. There they had been given a cordial that made their minds fall into nothingness. So it was with surprise and anxiety that Mary herself greeted the news of her conception, for she could remember nothing of her union with Joseph. Only the warmth and protection of that radiant angel of God had calmed her worried heart. For the angel’s soft whispers had announced the birth of her child in these words:

Ave Maria! Blessed ar
e you among women! To you will be born a child and you will name him Jesus, and he will be called the Son of God.

This was the same voice
that had compelled her to travel to her older cousin’s house, to help her with the imminent birth of her own child.

Since her youth
, the world had seemed a recent thing to Mary, and she had felt like nothing more than a dust mote drawn upwards by the breezes and the winds of heaven. A dust mote that rarely falls down-to-earth. But on her journey to see her cousin Elisabeth, she had found that an awakening was taking place in her soul. She had walked through the cold southlands, among the sadness of the mountains and the misery of the desolate trees, among the mocking face of the unforgiving brown coloured sky of Judea, until she had found herself, not only at the threshold of Elisabeth’s house, but also at the threshold of her own life.

It
had been made clear to her then, that she was coming down to earth, and she had understood what she must give up.

T
hat had been six months ago and now as she cast a glance at her husband, the young carpenter with the soft brown eyes and hair like charcoal from the fires, she knew her descent was near complete and she put her trust in Joseph. He saw to all her needs and pulled the animal gently on the road, so as not to cause her unnecessary discomfort, he toiled over the frozen hills and mountains with his feet blue and blistered and his hands callused and frigid, though he made no complaint as others did, of the Romans and the census.

For
Joseph did not squander his words.

She remembered his face when he had seen,
upon her return from Elisabeth’s house, how she was grown with child. No memory lived in his heart of the union brought about by the ministering of the priests and yet, in his dream-full eyes, she had seen no recrimination; from his mouth no harsh words had come. When the township had gathered to call her to account and she feared the people would stone her, Joseph remained steadfast in his love for her, refusing to shun her, making it possible for the priests to keep to themselves their workings.

She looked out of her thoughts and realised they were nearing Bethlehem. Darkness was fast descending over the highland wilderness of Judea and only a red outline remained in the west where the road to Hebron made a thread through the valleys and hills that separated Bethlehem from Jerusalem. The last of the sun was touching the pinnacles of a mighty palace
. She looked to the east, to where a star-like moon was rising behind purpling clouds; a strange moon, a moon unlike any moon she had ever seen. At that moment, the howling of a wolf was heard and it filled her with dread. She was glad they had arrived at the outskirts of the town.

It was cold
, but the fields that continued upwards to the heights along which the city stretched, were rich with terraced vineyards and gardens well tended. Lights flickered in the houses, full with guests. The sound of merry talk and laughter reached them even here. All of it cheered her heart, which until now had been heavy with the bitter knowledge that she was homeless and may not have a warm place to bring forth her child.

She bent over to hold her belly for the pain that cam
e then, and she told her child –
not yet
!

Her husband
, having heard this, grew concerned. He hastened through the ruined gates of the city, going from house to house in search of accommodation, but no one had room. Joseph asked those on the crowded streets if they knew of any small space wherein they might spend the night, since his wife, he showed them, was great with child and her hour was at hand. They told him the little town was much burdened by visitors come from near and far to be counted. Every house was full. Perhaps they should try the Inn?

The Inn was also full to the brim
, but the innkeeper took pity on them and told Joseph of a rocky grotto outside the city walls. He warned him that it had once been a place of sinful ritual. Part of it was now being used as a stable because Bethlehem was so full that even those places usually reserved for animals had to be used as lodgings.

The young couple, having no
other choice, made their way there. And thus it was that Mary entered into that grotto where two years before Herod had performed a black ritual with the blood of the children of Bethlehem. And in that dark space surrounded by animals, fragrant with dung and straw, she sat. Above her, a cleft in the rock allowed a little of that sun-like moonlight to enter. It brought her peace. Here she could make herself comfortable. Here she could wait for the onset of the more painful contractions that would soon come. In the meantime, her young husband would go and find help.

When he returned he was accompanied by two women
– a midwife and her young attendant Salome, whose dark round face and clear eyes made a gladness in Mary’s heart. The midwife told her the girl had a withered hand from birth, but that this deformity would not prevent her from collecting the water and folding the cloths and cleaning the knife with wine.

It was m
any hours later, as Mary lay exhausted with her child suckling, that the old midwife sent Salome to fetch more water. When she returned Mary noticed that the girl’s malformed hand was now made well and Salome, following her gaze, noticed it also.

S
alome dropped the water vase and fell to the ground and gave thanks.

By and by Mary fell asleep and the midwife, seeking her own rest, made a way out of the cave and called for Salome to follow.
But the girl refused to go. She would remain with Mary until her dying day.

‡

‘But what happens to the other child, Lea, the child that was sought by Herod and escaped the Romans?’ I asked her when she paused.

‘That is what I shall speak of next
...’

M
ARIAM

L
ea told how Mariam woke with a start.

‘
The dream had come again and as always she could not remember it very well. In it, she woke to the howling of a wolf a
nd found herself not in her husband’s tent but in a house among a number of sleeping women. In her heart there was always a feeling of despair and horror for something that had not yet come to pass, and a longing to be with someone – someone she did not yet know.’

‡

Awake now she searched the darkness for her child and found him sleeping soundly on his rush mat in their tent. On their journey to Egypt three years ago, fleeing from Herod and his madness, she had taken to dreaming such a dream but upon coming to Heliopolis – that island of green calm in the middle of the barren desert – the dreams had made a pause. They had only come again upon this return journey to her homeland, and she did not know what it meant, though it seemed to her to be a portent of peril.

S
he lay in the darkness listening to her husband’s soft breathing and recalled those years in Egypt with a fond eye. She saw Yeshua walking in the ruins of the fallen temples, his skin browned by the sun; she saw him bathing in the cool waters of the oasis for the holy ablutions, or sitting in the shade of the sycamores eating dates. She longed for the peace and safety she had felt then.

The prie
sts had sequestered them for some years and at the appropriate time had begun to instruct Yeshua in the cool, dark, depths of their sacred places. He was taught many things: how to listen to what wafts on the warm breezes; what resounds in the songs of birds; what lives in the harmony of growing grass; he was taught how to see behind the shapes of twigs and branches; and what lay behind cloud, sky and storm: the thoughts of God!

She knew this because she was always with him
, and she was with him again on the day the priests took him to see an old anchorite.

The anchorite
lived on a limestone hill not far from the great city of Alexandria. He had retired to a contemplative life and now spent his days in a holy room, a sanctuary wherein he celebrated all the mysteries of the holy life. He never admitted anyone to his house and yet he had wanted to see Yeshua.

O
n the appointed day Mariam and her son sat before him. Mariam felt anxious for what the anchorite would say. But the old man said nothing for a long time. Instead, he inspected Yeshua from below his wrinkled brow, making soft noises to himself. When it seemed that he would never speak, he smiled suddenly and began to laugh with merriment, as if relieved of some great burden.

Surprised
, Mariam said nothing, but watched and waited for it to stop, knowing that old sages were known for having a peculiar wisdom. When he addressed her then, his face was as unwrinkled as a child’s might be and his eyes were as clear as a stream.

‘
Long ago,’ he told her, ‘there was a teacher whose name was Melchizedek. Old Melchizedek had a favourite pupil to whom he taught all the mysteries of the Sun. This pupil, my dear, was destined to incarnate many times, and a long line of ancestors had to be prepared to make a body suitable for him. So Melchizedek tutored another pupil, Abraham, and he taught him all the secrets of the Moon, the secrets of the blood and the creation of the perfect body. His task was to prepare the forty-two generations of your ancestors for the birth of that favourite pupil, that first pupil. And it is due to Abraham’s faithfulness that you are here today with the fruit of your loins. My favourite pupil is come again, and I am rejoicing! For my task is near done, and I must now remind him of his past and bring to him all that he has left behind, in order that he might perform a special task.’

He reached
out and passed both hands over Yeshua’s eyes and immediately her son fell asleep in her arms. The old man closed his own eyes and uttered many prayers over her boy. When it was over and her son was returned to his senses, the old man looked at her with kindness and familiarity.

‘
Soon you will give birth to another child,’ he told her.

Instinctively she moved a hand over her flat belly.
Not even Joseph knew that her bleeding was late.

‘Herod is
dead; soon you will be too big with child to travel. You must go. Take your child and husband and journey by way of the Sinai desert in the direction of your homeland, but do not go to your Temple in Jerusalem for the hope of your priests will nurture your boy towards earthly and not heavenly ends. There is a safe place to which you can go, called Nazareth. The people who live there are not so different from us, they are called Essenes and you may live among them untroubled, until the time comes.’

She wanted to ask him
when that time would be and what Yeshua was destined to do, but could not bring herself to say anything.

He told her, ‘
A mother must love her son, but you must love the Son of God, even as you love your own son…for the love of a mother can make all things taste sweet.’

Now
as she lay upon the rush mat, she wondered what he had meant and scolded herself for not asking the questions that continued to plague her. What was to be her son’s task? When would it come? And how must she love the Son of God as her own? Her vexation with herself made the child in her belly give a kick that took away her breath. The child reminded her that by the time they reached Nazareth she would be a mother twice over.

She
did not know what she would find in Nazareth among the Essenes, the
pure ones
. She only knew what she remembered of her Temple days, that these ascetics were more strict than the
Therapeutae
of Egypt, more strict than the Nazarites, for they wore only white and sequestered themselves in their Mother Houses for fear of defilement. What would become of Yeshua’s task in such a place as Nazareth? Could the heir of David be made a king of Israel in such a place, among men whose faces were turned away from Jerusalem? Nothing good had ever come out of Nazareth – that was the saying and she worried that it was true.

She turned over to hug her husband
, who seemed to be older by the day. In truth, the memory of her former life at the Temple in Jerusalem had become more and more distant to her eye and the details had lost their clarity and distinction. She remembered how she had been taken to the Temple as a child and how the miracle of the greening staff had proved the eligibility of an ageing Joseph as a choice of husband. She had not wanted to marry, but the priests had reminded her of the duty of every person of sovereign lineage to further their ancestral lineage. She had consented only as a service to her people and yet in time she had grown to love him, and if the love she felt was not a young love such as she had seen in others, it was weighty and costly and she was glad of it. She only hoped Joseph would live long enough to see his son’s task accomplished.

O
utside, the night deepened. Tomorrow would be another long day’s march and she put away her thoughts and fears and resolved to sleep.

She
closed her eyes and sleep did come, but it was not peaceful.