Without Sin (Fiction)
When the sun was sinking in the sky the men dragged her through the street to the place of stoning, a small crowd collecting in their wake. They threw her to the ground and the men stood around her in a rough circle. She sat in the dirt supporting her weight on one arm while trying to hold her ripped tunic over her breasts with the other. Her eyes pleaded for mercy but she said nothing; she knew neither the pleas of her eyes nor any pleas of her mouth would be answered.
She swallowed, mouth dry. So now my life ends, without seeing my twentieth year. I have worshipped the Lord to the best of my lights all my life. What possessed me to throw it all away on a worthless man, who wanted only to spend his own passion in my body, then leave me to my fate? Curse you, Yehuda of Kerioth, curse you to the end of time, for your eyes and your passion, your lies and betrayals! Yet… Yet you drew out from me a passion and joy I never knew could be possessed or felt by mortal woman. Perhaps then in some small way you redeemed my life, even as you ended it.
Unknown to her, Yehuda was watching from the shadows, his eyes and mind calculating. He was armed with his sicara; if any of the men surrounding Miriam could match his weapon, he doubted they could match his skill honed by years with the caravan. But then what?
That “then what?” had been his constant companion all day, first when she was dragged to her trial, then when she was held prisoner, and now. If he could have gone up to them with his weapon and rescued Miriam from their murderous clutches, what could he achieve with the crowd in hot pursuit?
All day he had watched and waited, hoping for a chance to present itself that would do more than quicken both their deaths. He had found no answer. His talent at seeing the patterns swirling around in the chaos mocked him, seeing nothing but the certainty of the tomb.
And so shall I leave her to die, believing she is abandoned by all men; to die alone in shame and terror? When I have betrayed her, yet still she has not betrayed me?
Perhaps he would simply march up to them. Shout to them. Confess his own sin. He could declare his love for her; say how he went to her that night to plead his own case before her; how she had agreed, not knowing her betrothal had been set; how in their joy they had lost control of their minds. Perhaps then they would forgive. But looking at them, at their rage and hunger, he knew they would not. Instead of one stoning there would be two, for he was as guilty of adultery as she.
So is the price of my life to abandon her, terrified and alone and betrayed? What then is my own life worth? No. I will face the crowd. I will plead our case. Perhaps the Lord Most High will hear my words, and will soften the hearts of the crowd. But if not, my love will know she was not betrayed; is not alone; is not abandoned. It is better to die as a man than live as a cur.
He drew out his sicara, knowing it would at least win him a hearing. But then he heard a rising hubbub from the crowd and a shouting from the street beyond. The men around Miriam turned to look. So Yehuda sheathed his sword and waited to see the form of this temporary reprieve.
***
From the shouts of the crowd, Yehuda realized that some kind of prophet had entered the town. These itinerant holy men were not uncommon; the more oppressed the people felt, the more prophets arose to either berate them for their sins or comfort them with promises of deliverance.
Yehuda had little patience for them. He had met a number in his wide travels. He worshipped his God as he had been raised to do, but he would not have said that religion clung to him tightly. He was too cynical about the nature of men and priests, and the more they put on airs of superiority, like the Pharisees, the more he saw hypocrisy. He had seen few exceptions to this rule. Men were men, with the foibles and weaknesses common to the race. Some tried harder than others, but those who were the most genuine were, in Yehuda’s experience, the least likely to look down their smug noses at others.
His cynicism about holy men was equally born of experience. Many of his more gullible fellows seemed to think that the more intense the conviction or the wilder the eyes, the closer to God a prophet was. In Yehuda’s view, yet to be contradicted by reality, it meant closer to madness instead. They all attracted their fanatical adherents who could not see why the rest of the world refused to follow them. And then they all faded away. They fell, to exposure or snakebite. They became truly mad, and wandered away forever. The crowd turned on them when their miracles or prophecies failed. Or if none of that claimed them, sometimes those in power would begin to fear them and find some pretext on which to end their careers.
Then Yehuda remembered the strange man who had stood on a cliff face watching him as he went to collect clay for Lucius, some months ago now. His contempt for holy men failed to touch that memory. He could not say why, but something in his isolation and the intensity of his shrouded gaze still made Yehuda shiver, as if in the presence of something ineffable.
Who that man was, perhaps Yehuda would never know. The most famous one he had heard of was one Yohanan, the Baptizer. His hook was baptism: the ritual cleansing of sin by immersion in water. His popularity bore witness to the true nature of men: if they could find something as simple to wash away their sins as being dunked in a river then that was far preferable to doing anything about the sinning. In fairness to Yohanan he preached that the baptism was not the end of virtue but the start of a new, redeemed life; but Yehuda wondered how many of those he baptized even got as far as their own homes before they returned to their accustomed ways.
At the thought, Yehuda again looked with contempt at the crowd still surrounding Miriam, wondering what multitude of secret sins those men hid, these men who would righteously crush Miriam’s life from her for one sin of hers.
Whoever the fellow slowly getting closer was, he wasn’t Yohanan: that one did not need to seek people out, they sought him out at his river, the holy Jordan. Yehuda wondered what this one’s hook was. He could not see him: the preacher was of average height, well screened by onlookers. From what he could see in following the man’s progress among the shifting crowd, the preacher must be at the height of his popularity: he had a retainer of men, several wearing the road-worn look of those who had traveled long distances through the countryside.
The crowd were excited and the men around Miriam waited with anticipation, their hands stayed for now. The one thing more popular than a stoning was a stoning attended by a holy man, who could harangue the condemned and with luck the crowd as well. The crowd loved to be told of their sins: it made them feel holier by the act of deigning to listen.
Finally the prophet reached the circle of men and he stopped. He looked around the crowd. It seemed to Yehuda that his eyes stopped on him, though surely the man could not see him. Yet he stared in his direction for long seconds, before continuing his examination of the crowd. Or perhaps it was Yehuda’s own reality that paused.
For at the sight he had gasped. There was something in the black intensity of that gaze which rocked him to his core. He had seen it before. But what crazy holy man could it have been?
Then his mind removed the beard, reshaped the man’s face to the rounder one of a boy. A boy he had known.
“Yeshua!” he breathed. “My God! It is Yeshua!”
Yeshua finished his examination of the crowd, who were now silent, or as silent as crowds can be, eagerly awaiting his next move. If he proved to be a false prophet, there might even be another stoning, for blasphemy!
When Yehuda had known him his voice was that of a boy. His laughter that of a boy. Now his voice rang out, clear and commanding. Whether it was the natural result of puberty or he had trained it, Yehuda did not know. Nor did he care. The voice held him just as the eyes had. Just as it now held the people of the town in its strange thrall.
“What are you doing here, people of Magdala?”
Yonatan stepped forward. Any love he may have thought he felt for Miriam was dust, and he was an educated man; he looked forward to a verbal duel with a prophet. At worst, he would be taught; at best, he would win and gain much status in the town for his wisdom.
“This woman was found in adultery. She is to be stoned, as says the law.”
“Will nobody speak for her?” he said, again staring in Yehuda’s direction like an accusation. But he could not move, as if pinned by Yeshua’s eyes.
“She has no defense. She was caught in the act, and has confessed it. She claims to be deceived by demons, but if the demons have taken her, let them have her.”
“Let me see her.”
Miriam looked up at him as the circle parted to let him through and he approached. If normal men would not grant her mercy, she knew a holy man certainly would not. If anything he would excoriate her for every sin she had committed since leaving her mother’s breast. He would probably throw the first stone himself, beginning the dreadful hail which would end her life.
But when she looked into his eyes, she fell into their black pools. If Yehuda looked at her as if to possess her soul, this man looked at her as if he owned it already and could see it, weigh it, judge it and refine it. And if the slightest virtue then remained, never throw it away. Never vanish into the darkness taking her virtue and her life with him as he ran.
“What is your name, woman?”
“I am Miriam, widow of Binyamin, daughter of…” she looked at her father’s face, stony in its refusal. “Daughter of none. I have sinned, but I knew it not. Have mercy on me, Holy One.”
“They say you are possessed by demons. Is this true? Is that your excuse for breaking the laws of God and Man?”
She could not lie to those eyes; she could only say the truth. “I do not know. All I know is that something possessed me but I know not what. It was more than lust, though lust I am guilty of. It was a passion too deep for me to fathom; love for an unworthy man, who used me then betrayed me. I promised myself in marriage to another man, to escape him. But still he sought me out, and still I lay with him. But I did not know I was yet betrothed, Master! I did not know! I did not know I committed adultery!”
His eyes bored into her. “And if you had known? If this man had come to you? Would you have called out? Would you have denounced him? Or would you have lain with him still?”
Miriam gasped. This man was pulling her soul apart thread by thread; lies she did not know herself he now exposed to the world. “I… I would have. Nothing could have saved me from my doom.”
“Rise, woman!” he commanded. “Hear your judgment!”
Miriam rose, uncertain of what would come next but powerless to disobey.
He turned to address the crowd. “Behold the woman! You have heard her words! Has any man here had previous cause to question this woman’s virtue? She is a widow. Did not her marriage bed produce the proofs of virginity, as is required by law?”
The crowd muttered, but none could raise an accusation or deny his words.
“Then who among you would deny demons have corrupted her?”
Nobody answered, enthralled by his reasoning.
“Who among you could resist the power of a demon, if it chose to torment you?” he asked in ringing challenge.
Again he looked around the crowd. Each one on whom his eyes rested averted theirs, in shame and submission.
Then he said softly, so the crowd had to strain to hear, “The Son of Man can resist demons. By the power of the Holy Spirit, the Son of Man can cast them out!”
With that he put his hand on Miriam’s forehead. As he cried out “Depart this woman, who is God’s servant!” his hand moved quickly. Though its motion seemed too little to have any effect, Miriam fell to the ground with a loud cry.
Yeshua again looked around the crowd. “No demons torment her now. What then should become of her?”
Yonatan again spoke up; but uncertainly, looking around to judge the support of the crowd. “So you say, prophet. But who can say the demons will not return when you go? Or that they did not enter her because she was ready for them, her heart already full of lust and betrayal? Demons or no, she is guilty of adultery by her own words. Would you not uphold the law?”
“Surely justice must be done! So let there be justice. Let he who is without sin among you throw the first stone.”
Yeshua again raked the crowd with his gaze, and again they would not meet his eyes. They all felt something in the air; a chill, as of a judgment higher than their own; a judgment they could not face; a judgment that would return on their own heads whatever decision they rendered today. First one, then another, hung his head and left.
Finally only two were left of those who had gathered to cast stones, her betrothed and her father. Yonatan looked around nervously. He saw no support in the remaining onlookers, only a watchful curiosity about whether he would throw a stone, whether that meant he claimed to be without sin, and what they might do if he did. The prophet’s men had looks more pointed; two of them especially, brothers by the look of them, glared at him sternly with muscled arms crossed and eyes threatening. Finally Yonatan spat on the ground in Miriam’s general direction and departed. Abichail spared one last look of loathing for his daughter, spun on his heels and followed him.
His disciples and some of the crowd still looked on, wondering. Yeshua bent to pick up a stone and threw it; Miriam flinched but it bounced past her harmlessly. The onlookers looked at each other, wondering what this meant. Did this man claim to be without sin? Or was he merely expressing his contempt for the woman – or the men who would have stoned her?
Then he looked down on her and said, simply, “Go and sin no more.”
With one last look around, he gestured to his men to follow him and walked away without a further glance.
Miriam still looked up at him as he went, wide eyed. “Wait! Wait! Where shall I go?”
Yeshua turned to look at her. “Wherever you will.”
“All faces are turned against me. I would follow you, Master. Wherever you go, I shall follow you.”
“I will not be your Master,” he replied sternly, turning and striding away. Miriam bowed her head, in sorrow or shame. Then after a few more steps, he added without turning around, “That does not mean you may not follow me.”
She ran after him and prostrated herself, holding his feet and kissing them.
“You have saved me. I shall follow you to the ends of the Earth.”
He reached down his hand and lifted her up. “Then rise, Miriam of Magdala. Come. Leave all your goods behind you and follow me.”
“Wait, my lord. From my husband I received a generous ketubbah; while I live it is mine to do with as I will. It will be my gift to you, to help you in your ministry. Wealth is no use to the dead, and dead I should now be. All I have is yours.”
A large man, with clear eyes and the air of a leader of men, stepped forward from among the disciples. “We do not seek wealth, woman. The Lord God provides all our needs.”
Yeshua reached out and touched the man gently on the shoulder. “Peace, Shimon. If we wish the Lord to provide, should we close our eyes when he has done so? Let the woman make her gift.” He turned to the two who had cast their stern eyes on Yonatan. “Yaakov, Yohanan! Accompany her to her father’s house and fetch her property. Ensure she is not molested. Then meet us at the camp.”
The men nodded and departed with Miriam as guide, while Yeshua turned and strode off with his men toward the setting sun.
As they headed down an alleyway a man stepped out in front of them to bar their way. Visible at his waist was a sicara, one of unusual size and quality. Some of the disciples reached toward their own weapons, but Yeshua held up his hand to them and waited.
“Yeshua of Nazareth,” the man said, a statement not a question.
“Yehuda of Kerioth.”
“Yes.”
“It has been many years, my friend. Are you still as impudent?”
“It has been many years, my friend. Are you still as arrogant?”
The men smiled, and clasped hands. “Come Yehuda, sup with us. We were boys and now we are men. Let us learn what we have done with those years, and what they have done to us.”
Yehuda lifted Yeshua’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “I told you I would kiss your hand on the day I came to follow you. I will follow you, Yeshua. For what you have done today, I will follow you to hell and back.”
Yeshua gestured to his men to go on ahead. When the two were alone he spoke again.
“It was you, was it not?”
Yehuda stared at him. It seemed to be Yeshua’s style, to leave things unsaid and let the listener fill in the meaning themselves, from their own passions or their own guilt. But this was terse even for him. Yehuda wondered if that was a mark of respect for his mind – or contempt for his guilt. But he had been coward enough for one day, and would not ask the meaning.
“No betrayal was intended, as no adultery was intended; but betray her I did, and for it I may never be forgiven.”
“If you betrayed her, perhaps you will betray me also. Perhaps I should refuse your offer. You are a dangerous man, Yehuda, and not only for the blade you carry.”
“I would never betray you, Yeshua.”
“And yesterday: would you not have said the same to her?”
***
This is an excerpt from the novel The Passion of Judas. Click here for more excerpts or to purchase a Kindle or printed version of the complete novel.
About the Author: Robin Craig
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