After the prayers were offered, people began to point out where the colonnades had been burned, and where there was rebuilding. There was much pointing and trying to determine things.
"And you can be sure the carpenters and the stonemasons are happy," said my uncle Cleopas bitterly. "They burn it, we rebuild it." We laughed at the truth of that, but James gave Cleopas a sharp look as though he didn't want him to say this. My uncle Alphaeus spoke up, "Well, the carpenters and the stonemasons of Jerusalem are always happy. They've been working on the Temple since they were born, most of them!"
"They'll never finish," said Cleopas. "And why should they? We have kings with blood on their hands and in their guilt they build the great Temple as if this will make them righteous in the eyes of the Lord. Well, let them do it. Let them offer their sacrifices, the Prophets have spoken on their sacrifices—."
"That's enough talk against them," said Alphaeus. "We're going down into the city."
"And the Prophets have said it," Joseph added quietly with a smile.
Cleopas said under his breath the words of the Prophet, " 'Yea, I am the Lord and I do not change.' "
And more and more they talked of how this was the biggest Temple in all the world. But these things I heard through the fear I felt, remembering the bodies everywhere, and more than that a great terrible misery, a misery that said, you will know nothing but misery. This will never go away.
Again, I was lifted, this time by my uncle Alphaeus.
I looked at the Temple, fighting the fear, looking at its great size, and how the city appeared to grow up around it and hold on to it. The city was part of it. The city was nothing without it. There were no other temples in Jerusalem but the Temple. And the great glory of the Temple did seem beautiful—white and shining and full of gold—unspoilt—at least at this distance.
There were other big buildings, yes. Uncle Cleopas pointed out to me the great palace of Herod, and the fortress, the Antonio, which was right beside the Temple, and always full of soldiers. But these were nothing. The Temple was Jerusalem. I saw it. And the sunlight was shining, and the fear, the memories, the darkness, went away.
Now my mother wanted to go down into Bethany which was only a short distance from where we were, so that she could see to her cousin Elizabeth. But the kindred wanted to go down first into Jerusalem and find the place where we would stay. And so we went.
People were packed together, moving more and more tightly, and coming to stops when no one could move at all, and we all sang to keep up our spirits.
When at last we reached the city, it was very hard for us to get through the gates, the crowds were so thick, and all of us little ones were tired by that time. Some of the children were crying. Some had fallen asleep in their mothers' arms. I was far too old now, I thought, to ask anyone to carry me. And so I could not see where we were going or what we were doing.
Before we were very far inside the city, word reached us that all the synagogues were full, and that the houses had taken in all of the pilgrims that they could take, and Joseph decided we would go back out to Bethany where we had kindred near whom we could camp.
We had thought to come before so many people. We had hoped to have the rites of purification in the Temple, the same rite which we'd had in the village, yes, with the ashes and the living water, and the two sprinklings, but we had wanted it again in the Temple.
Now it was clear to us that too many other people had come for the same reasons, and the Feast had drawn all the world to it.
In such a crowd it was to be expected that people broke into arguments, and some even shouted at others, and when this happened, my teeth chattered. But as far as I could see, there was no fighting. High on the walls, the soldiers walked, and I tried not to look at them. My legs ached and I was hungry. But I knew it was the same for everyone else.
After the long struggle uphill away from the city and to the village, I was so tired I wanted to save all my joy and thanks for being near Jerusalem for tomorrow.
It was still daylight, but getting on towards dark. People were camped everywhere. And my mother and father took me by the hand and we went to see to Elizabeth right away.
It was a big house, a rich house, with fine pavers and painted walls, and rich curtains over the doors, and a young man received us who had a fine manner about him that marked him at once as rich. He was dressed completely in white linen and he wore fine tooled sandals. His black hair and his beard were shining with perfumed oil. He had a bright face, and he welcomed us with his arms out.
"This is your cousin Joseph," my mother said immediately. "Your cousin Joseph is a priest, and his father Caiaphas is a priest, and his father before him was a priest. Here is our son, Jesus." She laid her hand on my shoulder. "We come to find our cousin Elizabeth of Zechariah. We've been told she's not well, and is being kept here by your goodness and we're grateful for that."
"Elizabeth is my cousin, just as you are," said the young man in a soft voice. He had quick dark eyes, and he smiled at me in an open way that made me feel at ease. "You come into the house, please. I'd offer you a place to sleep here, but you see, we have people everywhere. The house is overflowing. . . ."
"Oh, no, we're not looking for that," Joseph said quickly to him, "only to see Elizabeth. And if we can camp outside. There, you see, there's quite a tribe of us from Nazareth and Capernaum and Cana."
"You're most welcome," he said. He beckoned for us to follow him. "You'll find Elizabeth peaceful but silent. I don't know whether or not she will know you. Don't hope for that."
I knew we were tracking the dust of the road through this house, but there was nothing to be done about it. There were pilgrims everywhere, on their blankets in every room, and people running here and there with jugs, and plenty of dust already. So all we could do was go on.
We came into a room that was as crowded as the others, but it had big latticed windows and the late sunlight was pouring in, and the air was nice and warm. Our cousin took us to a corner, where on a raised bed, propped on clean pillows, there lay Elizabeth, very wrapped up in white wool, with her eyes towards the window, and I think she was looking at the movement of the green leaves.
Out of respect, it seemed, people grew quiet, and our cousin bent down to her, and held her arm.
"Wife of Zechariah," he said gently, "there are kindred here to see you."
It was no good.
My mother bent low and kissed her and spoke to her, but there was no answer.
She lay still looking out the window. She looked far older than she had been last year. Her hands were tight and twisted at the wrists, so that they pointed sharply downward. She looked as old as our beloved Sarah. Like a withered flower ready to drop from the vine.
My mother turned to Joseph and cried against him, and our cousin Joseph shook his head, and said that everything was being done that could be done.
"She doesn't suffer, you see," he said. "She's dreaming."
My mother couldn't stop crying, so I went out with her while Joseph talked with our cousin who went over the ancestors and how they were connected, the familiar talk of the families and marriages, and my mother and I went out into the last of the afternoon light.
We found the uncles and Old Sarah gathered on the blankets, in a good campsite near the edge of the crowd of pilgrims, and not far from the well.
Several of the kindred from the house came out to us and offered us food and drink, and our cousin Joseph was with diem. They were all in linen, all well spoken, and treated us kindly, more kindly maybe than they would have treated people like themselves.
The eldest of them, the father of Joseph, named Caiaphas, spoke to us and told us that we were near enough to Jerusalem that we could eat the Passover here. We must not worry that we weren't within the walls. What were the walls? We had come to Jerusalem and we were at Jerusalem and we would see the lights of the city as soon as it was dark.
The women came out and they offered us blankets, but we had our own.
Then Old Sarah and the uncles went in to see Elizabeth before it was too late. James went with them and came back.
When we were all gathered, and the rich cousins had gone down to Jerusalem for their duties in the Temple in the morning, Old Sarah said that she liked young Joseph bar Caiaphas, that he was a fine man.
"They're descendants of Zadok, and that's what matters," said Cleopas. "Not much else."
"Why are they rich?" I asked.
Everyone laughed.
"They're rich from the hides of the sacrifices which are theirs by right," said Joseph. He wasn't laughing. "And they come from rich families."
"Yes, and what else?" asked Cleopas.
"People never say good things of the rich," said Old Sarah.
"Do you have good things to say of them, old woman?" Cleopas asked.
"Ah, so I can speak in the assembly of the wise!" she answered. There was more laughter. "Yes, I have more to say. Who do you think would listen to them if they weren't rich?"
"There are plenty of poor priests," Cleopas said. "You know that as well as I do. The priests of our village are poor. Zechariah was poor."
"No, he was not poor," said Old Sarah. "He wasn't rich, no. But he was never poor. And yes, there are many who work with their hands, and they have to. And they go before the Lord, yes. But at the very top, those who protect the Temple? Who can do it but men whom other men fear?"
"Does it matter who they are?" asked Alphaeus, "as long as they perform their duties, as long as they don't defile the Sanctuary, as long as they take the sacrifices from our hands?"
"No, it doesn't matter," said Cleopas. "Old Herod chose Joazer as High Priest because that's who he wanted. And now Archelaus wants a different man. How long has it been since
Israel chose the High Priest? How long has it been since the Lord chose the High Priest?"
I raised my hand just as I would at school, and my uncle Cleopas turned to me.
"How do the people know," I asked, "that the priests do what the priests must do?"
"Everyone watches," said Joseph. "The other priests watch, the Levites watch, the scribes watch, the Pharisees watch."
"Oh, yes, the Pharisees watch!" said Cleopas.
And we did have a laugh at that. We loved our Pharisee Rabbi Jacimus. But he did watch all the rules.
"And you, James?" Cleopas asked. "You have no question?"
For the first time I saw that James was deep in his thoughts. He looked up and his face was dark.
"Old Herod murdered the High Priest once," he said in a low voice. He sounded like one of the men. "He murdered Aristobulos because he was beautiful when he went before the people, isn't that so?"
The men nodded, and Cleopas said, "That is so." He repeated the words. "He had him drowned on account of it, and everyone knew it. All because Aristobulos had gone before the people in his vestments and people had loved him."
James looked away.
"What kind of talk is this!" said Joseph. "We've come to the House of the Lord to offer sacrifice. We've come to be purified. We've come to eat the Passover. Let's put this talk out of our minds."
"Yes, let's put it away," said Old Sarah. "I say Joseph Caiaphas is a fine young man. And when he marries the daughter of Annas, he'll be closer to those in power."
My aunts, and Alexandra, agreed with this.
Cleopas was amazed.
"We haven't been here two hours and you women know who Joseph Caiaphas is going to marry! How do you find out these things!"
"Everyone knows this," said Salome. "If you weren't so busy quoting the Prophets, you'd know it too."
"Who knows?" asked Old Sarah. "Perhaps Joseph Caiaphas may be High Priest someday?"
I knew why she said it even though he was very young. He had a way about him, a way of moving and talking, an ease with everyone, a gentleness, and when he had greeted us he had cared about us, even though we were not rich, and behind his black eyes going on, there was a strong soul.
But now all my uncles and aunts were disputing on this, particularly the men, telling the women to be quiet, and they knew nothing about it, and some were insisting it hadn't happened yet, but all knew that Archelaus could change the High Priest any time he chose.
"Have you become a prophet, Sarah," asked Cleopas, "that you know this man will be High Priest?"
"Perhaps," she answered. "I know he'd be good as High Priest. He's clever and he's pious. He's our kindred. He ... he touches my heart."
"Ah, well, give him time," said Cleopas. "And may our cousins who've received us here be blessed for their generosity."
Cleopas turned to Joseph, who was saying nothing.
"What do you think?" Cleopas asked Joseph. Joseph looked up, smiled, and rolled his eyes to make a playful show of thinking when he wasn't thinking, and then he said, "Joseph Caiaphas is a tall man. A very tall man. And he stands up tall, and he had long hands that move like birds flying slowly. And he's married to the daughter of Annas, our
cousin, who is cousin to the House of Boethus. Yes, he'll be High Priest."
We all laughed. Even Old Sarah laughed.
I started to get up.
The fear was gone from me but I didn't know it then.
The full supper was ready and it was a good meal.
The House of Caiaphas brought us a thick porridge of lentils with lots of spice in it. And there was a paste of delicious salty olives in oil, and then sweet dates, which we seldom had at home, and lots of them. And as always there were cakes of dried figs but these were very rich and good. The bread was light and warm from the oven.
The wife of Caiaphas, the mother of Joseph Caiaphas, stood in the doorway of her house to see to the serving of the wine herself, her veils very proper, concealing all her hair, with only a little of her face peeping out. We could see her in the torchlight. She waved a greeting to everyone, and then went inside.
We talked of the Temple, our purification, and the Feast itself—the bitter herbs, die unleavened bread and the roast lamb, and all the prayers we would say. The men went over this so that we boys would understand, but the Rabbis in school had done the same, and we did know what to expect and what to do.
And we were eager for it because last year in the middle of the fighting and fear we'd not kept the Feast at all and we wanted to appear before the Lord this time as the Law required of us.
Now I must say that James was almost finished with school. He was thirteen years old now, and a man before the Lord. And Silas and Levi who were older than that didn't go to school anymore. They had both been very slow. The Rabbi didn't want them to leave but they begged off on account of work, which they wanted to do. So as we went over the rules of the Feast, I think they were glad of it.
As we were finishing our supper, some of the boys of the camps came up to meet with us. They were friendly enough. But I thought of my cousin John bar Zechariah who'd gone off with the Essenes. I wondered if he was content.
He was far away in the desert, they'd said, and how often I thought did he see his mother? Maybe she would have known her own son? But why think such things? Those old puzzling words came back, that he had been foretold. My mother had gone to them when she'd known I was to be born. I wanted so badly to see John. And when would I ever be able to do that?
Everybody knew the Essenes didn't come for the Feast. Essenes kept themselves apart in a life more strict even than Pharisees. Essenes dreamed of a renewed Temple. I'd seen a group of Essenes once in Sepphoris, all of them in their white garments. They were a people apart. They believed themselves to be the true Israel.
Finally I left the boys, even though I wanted to play, and I found Joseph. It was getting dark, and the city below was full of light. The lights of the Temple were great and beautiful. But I couldn't search the whole town and all the camps, and I couldn't even find my uncle Cleopas.
Joseph was looking at the city, and maybe he was listening to the music because there was music, and the beating of cymbals from somewhere
close. He was sipping a bit of wine from a cup, and no one was near him for the moment.
I asked him right away,
"Will we ever see our cousin John again?"
"Who knows?" he asked. "The Essenes are beyond the Dead Sea, at the foot of the mountains."
"Do you believe they are good people?"
"They're Children of Abraham like the rest of us," he said. "A man could do worse than be an Essene." He waited a moment, then went on. "This is a way it is with Jews. You know that in our own village we have men who don't believe in the Resurrection on the Last Day. And we have Pharisees. And the Essenes, they believe in many things with their whole hearts, and they try very hard to please the Lord."
I nodded.
Now I knew that everyone in our village wanted to go to the Temple, and the keeping of every Feast in the right way was important to them. But I didn't say this. I didn't say it because there seemed truth in what he said, and I didn't have any more questions.