The Last Temptation of Christ (17 page)

The redbeard spat and cursed. He did not like this shepherd fellow, nor did he like Zebedee, that parasite—didn’t like them at all. But he was a blacksmith, a man of need, and he approached.

“What news do you bring us from the villages along your route?” Philip asked. “What’s happening on the plain?”

The redbeard stopped his donkey by pulling its tail. “Everything’s just fine,” he answered with a dry laugh. “The Lord is exceedingly merciful, bless him! Yes, he loves his people! In Nazareth he crucifies the prophets, and here on the plain he sends a deluge and takes away his people’s bread. Can’t you hear the lamentations? The women are wailing for the wheat: you’d think it was their own sons.”

“Whatever God does is right,” Zebedee objected, vexed because all this talk was crippling the day’s work. “I have confidence in him no matter what he does. When everyone drowns and I’m the only one to escape, God is protecting me. When everyone else is saved and I’m the only one to drown, God is protecting me then too. I have confidence, I tell you. Two and two make four.”

When the redbeard heard these words he forgot that he was a day laborer who lived from hand to mouth and had to rely on every one of these people for his livelihood. Fired up by his evil disposition, he spoke and did not mince his words. “You have confidence, Zebedee, only because the Almighty lays a nice soft bed for you and your affairs. Your Worship has five fishing boats in his service; you have fifty fishermen as slaves; you feed them just exactly enough so they’ll have strength to work for you and won’t die of starvation—and all the while Your Highness stuffs his coffers and his larders, and his belly. Then you raise your hands to heaven and say, ‘God is just; I have confidence in Him! The world is beautiful; I hope it never changes!’ ... Why don’t you ask the Zealot who was crucified the other day why he struggled to free us; or the peasants whose whole year’s supply of wheat God snatched away in one night—ask them! They’re rolling in the mud right now, picking it up grain by grain, and weeping. Or ask me. I go around the villages and see and hear Israel’s suffering. How long? How, long? Didn’t you ever ask yourself that, Zebedee?”

“To tell you the truth,” answered the old man, “I have no confidence in red hairs. You’re from the stock of Cain, who murdered his brother. Go to the devil, my friend. I don’t want to talk with the likes of you!”

This said, he turned his back on him.

The redbeard gave the donkey a swat with the forked stick. The beast drew up its head, slid back into the yoke, bolted forward and began to run.

“Never fear, old parasite,” Judas murmured; “the Messiah will come to put everything in order.”

When he had got around the rocks, he turned. “We’ll have a chance to discuss all this again, Zebedee,” he shouted. “The Messiah will come one day, won’t he? He will, and then, personally, he’ll put every rascal in his place. You’re not the only one who has confidence! See you again—on the day of judgment!”

“Go to hell, red hair!” was Zebedee’s reply. The womb of the net had finally become visible, and it was filled with giltheads and red mullets.

Philip stood between the two of them, unable to take sides. What Judas had said was true, and courageous. The shepherd had often felt like smearing such words in the old man’s ugly face or beating them over his head, but he had never had the courage. This unregenerate was a potent landlord, strong on land and sea. He owned every one of the meadows in which Philip grazed his goats and sheep—so how could the shepherd attack him? One had to be either a madman or a hero, and Philip was neither. He simply talked big, and much; and he never took an unnecessary chance.

He had remained silent, therefore, while the other two quarreled, and was still standing by, bashful and irresolute. The fishermen had now pulled in the nets. He bent down with them and helped fill the hampers. Even Zebedee was plunged waist deep in the water, where he directed men and fish.

But while they all admired the overflowing hampers, completely elated, the redbeard’s hoarse voice suddenly echoed from the rock opposite. “Hey, Zebedee!”

Old Zebedee played deaf.

Once more the voice thundered. “Hey, Zebedee, take my advice and go collect your son Jacob!”

“Jacob!” the old man cried out in a ferment. As far as his younger son was concerned, the damage was done: he had lost him. He did not want to lose this one too. He had no other son, and he needed him in his work. “Jacob!” he called to Judas in a worried voice. “What do you have to say about Jacob, you confounded red hair?”

“I saw him on the road getting friendly with the cross-maker. They were having a pleasant chat!”

“What cross-maker, infidel? Speak clearly!”

“The son of the Carpenter, the one who builds crosses in Nazareth and crucifies the prophets. ... Too late! Poor old Zebedee—Jacob’s lost too. You had two sons. God snatched the one and the devil the other.”

Old Zebedee stood with gaping mouth. A flying fish bounded out of the water, winged over his head, then dived back into the lake and disappeared.

“A bad sign, a bad sign!” murmured the old man in a panic. “Is my son going to leave me like this, like the flying fish, and disappear beneath deep waters?”

He turned to Philip. “Did you see the flying fish? Nothing that happens in the world is without its meaning. Tell me, what was the meaning of this fish? You shepherds ...”

“If it had been a lamb, I’d be able to tell you, Father Zebedee, even if I’d seen only its back. But fish are not in my department.” He was angry because, unlike Judas, he lacked the courage to speak out like a man. “I’m off to see to my animals,” he said. Putting his crook over his shoulders, he jumped from rock to rock and caught up with Judas.

“Wait, brother,” he called to him. “I want to talk to you.”

“Go to your sheep, coward,” the redbeard answered him, without turning, “go to your sheep; keep your nose out of men’s affairs. And don’t call me ‘brother.’ I’m no brother of yours!”

“Wait, I tell you. I have something to say to you. Don’t get angry.”

Judas halted now and eyed him with disdain. “Why didn’t you open your mouth? Why are you afraid of him? Can you still be afraid when you know what’s happening, who is coming, where we are headed? Or maybe you haven’t got wind of it yet. Well, poor devil, the time is near, the king of the Jews is approaching in all his glory—and woe be to cowards!”

“More, Judas, more,” Philip implored. “Haul me over the coals, lift the forked stick you’re holding and beat some self-respect into me. I’m fed up with always being afraid.”

Judas approaching him slowly and grasped his arm. “Does this come from the heart, Philip, or are you just speaking hollow words?”

“I’m fed up, I tell you. I was disgusted with myself today. Go in front, Judas, go in front and show me the way. I’m ready.”

The redbeard looked around him and lowered his voice. “Philip, can you kill?”

“Men?”

“Naturally. What did you think—sheep?”

“I haven’t killed a man yet, but I’d be able to, yes, without a doubt. Last month I felled and killed a bull all by myself.”

“A man’s easier. Come with us.”

Philip shuddered. He understood. “Are you one of them—one of the Zealots?” he asked, his face bathed in terror. He had heard a great deal about this awful brotherhood, the “Saint Assassins” as it was called. They terrorized everyone, from Mount Hermon down to the Dead Sea, and even farther south, as far as the desert of Idumea. Armed with crowbars, ropes and knives, they went about proclaiming: Don’t pay tribute to the infidels. We have only one Lord, Adonai. Kill every Jew who disobeys the sacred Law, who laughs, speaks or works with the enemies of our God, the Romans. Strike, kill, clear the road so that the Messiah may pass! Cleanse the world, make ready the streets: he is coming!

They entered villages and cities in broad daylight to assassinate, without consulting anyone but themselves, a traitorous Sadducee or a bloodthirsty Roman. The landowners, priests and high priests trembled before them and called down the anathema: they were the ones who incited insurrections and brought out the Roman troops, with the result that massacres broke forth at regular intervals and rivers of Jewish blood were spilled.

“Are you one of them—one of the Zealots?” Philip repeated in a hushed voice.

“Afraid, my brave friend?” asked the redbeard, laughing with scorn. “Don’t be alarmed, we’re not murderers. We’re fighting for freedom, Philip, to emancipate our God, to emancipate our souls. Arise. The moment has come when you too can show the world that you’re a man. Join us.”

But Philip stared at the ground. He already regretted having been so effusive with Judas about such matters. Brave words are fine, he reflected. It’s delightful to sit with a friend, to eat, drink, start weighty discussions, say, “I shall do” and “I shall show ...” But on your guard, Philip; don’t go any further, or you’ll find yourself in hot water.

Judas leaned over him and spoke to him in a changed voice. His heavy paw now touched Philip’s shoulder gently and caressed it. “What is the life of man? What is it worth? Nothing, if it isn’t free. We’re fighting for freedom, I tell you. Join us.”

Philip was silent. If he could only get away! But Judas kept a firm hold on his shoulder.

“Join us! You’re a man: decide! Do you have a knife?”

“Yes.”

“Keep it on you at all times, under your shirt. You may need it at any minute. We’re passing through difficult days, my brother. Don’t you hear buoyant steps coming closer and closer? It’s the Messiah, and he must not find the road closed. The knife is more of a help in this than bread. Here, look at me!”

He opened his shirt. Naked and gleaming next to the dark skin of his breast was a short doubled-edged bedouin’s dagger.

“If it hadn’t been for Zebedee’s scatter-brained son Jacob, I would have sunk it today into a traitor’s heart. Yesterday before I left Nazareth the brotherhood condemned him to death—”

“Who?”

“... and the lot of killing him fell to me.”

“Who?” Philip asked again. He had grown afraid.

“That’s my business,” the redbeard replied abruptly. “Keep your nose out of our affairs.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

Judas swept his eyes about him, then leaned over and seized Philip by the arm.

“Listen well to what I’m going to say to you, Philip, and don’t breathe a word of it to anyone—or you’re done for! I’m on my way now to the desert, to the monastery. The monks called me to make some tools for them. In a few days—three or four—I’ll be passing your camp again. Turn over well in your mind the words we exchanged. Keep mum; don’t let out the secret to anyone. Decide all by yourself. If you’re a man and you come to the right decision, I’ll reveal to you who we plan to strike.”

“Who? Do I know him?”

“Don’t be in such a hurry. You’re not one of the brothers yet.” He held out his immense hand. “Farewell, Philip. You were a mere nothing until now; no one cared whether you were dead or alive. I was the same—a nothing—until the day I entered the brotherhood, but ever since then I’ve been a different person: I became a man. No more Judas the redbeard, the blacksmith who slaved like an ox with the sole purpose of nourishing these feet and this belly and this ugly snout. Now I’m working for a great purpose—do you hear?—for a great purpose; and whoever works for a great purpose, even if he’s the humblest of the lot, he becomes great. Understand? That’s all I’m going to say to you. Farewell!”

He poked his donkey and set off at a trot for the desert.

Philip remained all alone. Resting his chin on his crook, he watched Judas until he reached the other side of the rocks and disappeared.

Look here, this redbeard speaks well, he thought, well, and like a saint. A bit boastful, perhaps, but who cares! As long as a fellow sticks to words, everything sails along just fine; but if he goes over to action ... Watch out, Philip, poor devil. Think of your little sheep. This business will take some reflection. Best let it ride—and wait and see what happens.

He placed his crook over his shoulders—he had heard the bells of his goats and sheep—and hurried off, whistling.

Zebedee’s adopted sons had made a fire meanwhile and put on water for the fish soup. As soon as the water boiled they threw in rock fish, limpets, sea urchins, a dentex or two, and a green-haired stone to make the food smell of the sea. In a little while they would add the giltheads and red mullets, for how could they be satisfied with just rock fish and limpets. The hungry fishermen squatted in a circle around the pot and waited anxiously, talking in low voices among themselves. The oldest leaned over to his neighbor. “It was wonderful to see the blacksmith rub it in his face. Patience. The day will come when the poor will rise to the top and the rich sink to the bottom. That’s the meaning of justice.”

“Do you think that will ever happen?” replied the other, who had been consumed by hunger ever since his youth. “Do you think that will ever happen on this earth?”

“There’s a God, isn’t there?” the old man answered. “Yes, there is! And he’s just, isn’t he? He’s got to be if he’s God, hasn’t he? He’s just! So you see, it will happen. All we need, son, is patience—patience.”

“Hey, what are you mumbling about over there?” said Zebedee, who had caught some of it and grown suspicious. “You just worry about your work and forget about God. He knows better than you what he’s about. Good lord, what next!”

They all immediately fell silent. The old fisherman got up, took the wooden spoon, and stirred the soup.

THE HOUR the adopted sons lifted the nets to their shoulders and the morning fell over the lake, so virgin it seemed to have come fresh from the hands of the Creator, the son of Mary was traveling along with Jacob, Zebedee’s elder son. They had already left Magdala behind them. Now and then they stopped for a moment to comfort the women who were lamenting the lost wheat; then, conversing, they continued on. Jacob had also been caught by the squall. He had spent the night in Magdala, lodging at the house of a friend, and had risen before dawn to resume his journey.

He sloshed through the mud in the blue half-light, anxious to reach the lake of Gennesaret. The bitterness of all he had seen in Nazareth had already begun to settle down calmly within him. The crucified Zealot had become a distant memory, and Jacob’s mind was once again dominated by his father’s fishing boats and men: by everyday concerns. He strode over the pits which had been scooped out by the rain. The trees dripped, half smiling, half weeping; the skies above him laughed; birds awoke—it was a glorious day. But as the light increased, he was able to see how the torrents had laid waste the threshing floors. The wheat and barley which had been stacked up ran now with the water in the road; the first farmers and their wives had already poured out to the fields and begun the dirge. Suddenly he saw the son of Mary, bent over with two old women on a devastated threshing floor.