The Last Temptation of Christ (7 page)

“The cross-maker! The cross-maker!” roared the crowd. “The traitor!”

The two gypsies looked down from the top of the hill. When they saw the cross approaching they jumped with joy: the sun had been roasting them. Spitting into their palms, they took their pickaxes and began to dig a pit. The thick, flat-headed nails they placed on a near-by stone. Three had been ordered; they had forged five.

Men and women had joined hands and formed a chain in order to block the cross-maker’s passage. Magdalene broke away from the crowd and pinned her eyes on the son of Mary, who was mounting. Her heart swelled with distress as she recalled the games they used to play together when they were still small children, he three years old, she four. What deep, unrevealable joy they had experienced, what unspeakable sweetness! For the first time they had both sensed the deep dark fact that one was a man and the other a woman: two bodies which seemed once upon a time to have been one; but some merciless God separated them, and now the pieces had found each other again and were trying to join, to reunite. The older they grew, the more clearly they felt what a miracle it was that one should be a man and the other a woman, and they looked at each other in mute terror, waiting like two wild beasts for the hunger to increase and the hour to come when they would flow one into the other and rejoin that which God had sundered. But then, one evening at a festival in Cana when her beloved held out his hand to give her the rose and seal their engagement, merciless God had rushed down upon them and separated them once more. And ever since then ...

Magdalene’s eyes filled with tears. She stepped forward. The cross-bearer was passing directly before her.

She leaned over him. Her scented hair touched his naked, bloody shoulders.

“Cross-maker!” she growled in a hoarse, strangulated voice. She was trembling.

The youth turned and riveted his large afflicted eyes upon her for a split second. Convulsive spasms played about his lips. His mouth was contorted, but he lowered his head immediately, and Magdalene did not have time to distinguish whether the contortion was from pain, fear, or a smile.

Still leaning over him, she spoke, gasping for breath. “Have you no pride? Don’t you remember? How can you lower yourself to this!”

And after a moment, as though she had heard his voice give her an answer, she shouted, “No, no, poor wretch, it isn’t God; it’s the devil!”

The crowd meanwhile had darted forward to block his path. An old man lifted his stick and struck him; two cowherds who had dashed down from Mount Tabor to join the others at the miracle nailed him in place with their goads. Barabbas felt the hatchet go up and down in his fist. But as soon as the old rabbi saw the danger, he slid off the redbeard’s neck and ran to his nephew’s defense.

“Stop, my children,” he screamed. “It’s a great sin to block God’s path, do not do it. What is ordained must come to pass. Do not step in the way. Let the cross through-it is sent by God; let the gypsies make ready their nails, let Adonai’s apostle mount the cross. Do not be afraid; have faith! God’s law is such that the knife must reach clear to the bone. Otherwise no miracle will take place! Listen to your old rabbi, my children. I’m telling you the truth. Man cannot sprout wings unless he has first reached the brink of the abyss!”

The cowherds withdrew their goads, stones fell from clenched fists, the people stepped aside to clear God’s path, and the son of Mary stumbled onward, the cross upon his back. The grasshoppers could be heard sawing the air in the olive grove beyond; a hungry butcher’s dog barked happily on top of the hill. Farther on, within the mass of people, a woman wrapped in a violet kerchief cried out and fainted.

Peter now stood with gaping mouth and protruding eyes. He was watching the son of Mary. He knew him. Mary’s family home in Cana was opposite his own, and her aged parents, Joachim and Anne, were old bosom friends of Peter’s parents. They were saintly people. The angels went regularly in and out of their simple cottage, and one night the neighbors saw God Himself stride across their threshold disguised as a beggar. They knew it was God, because the house shook as though invaded by an earthquake, and nine months later the miracle happened: Anne, an old woman in her sixties, gave birth to Mary. Peter must have been less than five years old at the time, but he remembered well all the celebrations which followed, how the whole village was set in motion, how men and women ran to offer their congratulations, some carrying flour and milk, others dates and honey, others tiny infant’s clothing: presents for the confined woman and her child. Peter’s mother had been the midwife. She had heated water, thrown in salt, and bathed the wailing newborn. And now, here was Mary’s son passing in front of him loaded down with the cross, while everyone spat on him and pelted him with stones. As Peter looked and looked, he felt his heart become roused. His was an unlucky fate. The God of Israel had mercilessly chosen him, the son of Mary, to build crosses so that the prophets could be crucified. He is omnipotent, Peter reflected with a shudder; he might have picked me to do the same, but he chose the son of Mary instead and I escaped. ... Suddenly Peter’s roused heart grew calm, and all at once he felt deeply grateful to the son of Mary, who had taken the sin and lifted it to his shoulders.

Just as all this was jostling in his mind, the cross-bearer halted, out of breath.

“I’m tired, tired,” he murmured. He looked around him to find a stone or a man he could lean against, but saw nothing except lifted fists and thousands of eyes staring at him with hatred. Then he heard what seemed to him wings in the sky, and his heart leaped up. Perhaps God had taken pity on him at the very last moment and dispatched his angels. He raised his eyes. Yes, there were wings above him: crows! He grew angry. Obstinacy took possession of him and he resolutely lifted his foot in order to continue walking and mount the hill. But the stones sank away from under his sole. He tripped, began to fall forward. Peter rushed out in time to hold him up. Taking the cross from him, he lifted it to his own shoulder.

“Let me help you,” he said. “You’re tired.”

The son of Mary turned and gazed at the fisherman but did not recognize him. This entire journey seemed to him a dream. His shoulders had suddenly been unburdened and now he was flying in the air, just as one flies in one’s dreams. It couldn’t have been a cross, he thought; it must have been a pair of wings! Sponging the sweat and blood from his face, he followed behind Peter with sure steps.

The air was a fire which licked the stones. The sheep dogs which the gypsies had brought to lap up the blood stretched their well-fed bodies out at the foot of a rock, by the edge of the pit their masters had dug. They were panting, and sweat poured from their dangling tongues. You could hear the drumming of the people’s heads in this blast furnace, the bubbling of their brains. In such heat all frontiers shifted—good sense and foolishness, cross and wings, God and man: all were transposed.

Several tenderhearted women revived Mary. She opened her eyes and saw her barefooted, emaciated son. He was at last about to reach the summit, and in front of him was another man carrying the cross. Sighing, she turned around as though seeking help. When she saw her fellow villagers and the fishermen she started to go near in order to lean against them—but too late! The trumpet blared at the barracks, more cavalrymen emerged, clouds of dust flew up, the people crowded together again, and before Mary had time to step up onto a rock in order to see, the cavalrymen were on top of them, with their bronze helmets, their red cloaks, and the proud, well-nourished horses which trampled the Jewry under foot.

The rebel Zealot came forward, his arms tied in back of him at the elbows, his clothes torn and bloody, his long hair pasted to his shoulders by blood and sweat, his gray thorny beard immense, his motionless eyes staring directly in front of him.

The people were terrified at the sight. Was this a man, or hidden deep within his rags was there an angel or a devil whose compressed lips guarded a terrible and unconfessable secret? The old rabbi and the people had agreed that in order to give the Zealot courage, as soon as he appeared they would join all together in singing at the top of their voices the psalm of war: “Let my enemies be scattered.” But now the words stuck in their throats. Everyone felt that this man had no need of courage. He was above courage: unconquerable, insuppressible—and freedom was enclosed in those hands fettered behind his back. They all looked at him in terror and remained silent.

Riding in front of the rebel and pulling him along with a cord attached to the rear of his saddle was the centurion, his skin baked hard by the oriental sun. He had long ago begun to detest the Jews. For ten years he had put up crosses and crucified them, for ten years he had stuffed their mouths with stones and dirt to silence them—but in vain! As soon as one was crucified a thousand more lined up and anxiously awaited their turn, chanting the brazen psalms of one of their ancient kings. They had no fear of death. They had their own bloodthirsty God who lapped up the blood of the first-born male children, they had their own law, a man-eating beast with ten horns. Where could he catch hold of them? How could he subjugate them? They had no fear of death, and whoever has no fear of death—the centurion had often meditated on this here in the East—whoever has no fear of death is immortal.

He drew back on the reins, stopped his horse and swept his eyes over the Jewry: eroded faces, inflamed eyes, soiled beards, greasy mops of hair. He spat with disgust. If he could only leave, leave! If he could only return once more to Rome with its many baths, its theaters, amphitheaters and well-washed women! He detested the East-its smells, its filth, its Jews!

The gypsies were shaking their sweat onto the stones. They had set the cross into its hole at the top of the hill. The son of Mary sat on a rock and looked at them, looked at the cross, the people, at the centurion who dismounted in front of the crowd; looked and looked, but saw nothing except an ocean of skulls beneath a fiery sky. Peter approached and leaned over to speak to him. He spoke, but a stormy white-capped sea was beating against the youth’s ears, and he did not hear.

At a nod from the centurion the Zealot was released. He drew tranquilly to one side in order to recover from his numbness, and then began to undress. Magdalene slid between the legs of the horses and started to approach him, her arms spread wide, but he repulsed her with a wave of his hand. An old woman with a stiff, aristocratic air pushed her way through the crowd without a word and took him in her arms. He lowered his head, kissed both her hands for a long time, clasped her tightly to his breast and then turned away his face. Mute and dry-eyed, the old woman remained where she was a few moments longer and looked at him.

“You have my blessing,” she murmured finally, and she went and leaned against the rock opposite, together with the gypsy sheep dogs that were stretched out in the scanty shade, panting.

Stamping his foot on the ground, the centurion leaped back into the saddle so that everyone could see and hear him. Brandishing his whip over the multitude to command silence, he spoke. “Listen to my words, Hebrews. Rome speaks. Quiet!”

He pointed with his thumb to the Zealot, who had already removed his rags and was standing under the sun, waiting.

“This man who now stands naked before the Roman Empire lifted his hand against Rome. While still a youth he pulled down the imperial eagles; then he took to the mountains and besought all of you to join him there and to raise the banner, telling you that the day had come when the Messiah would issue from your bowels and destroy Rome! ... Quiet out there, stop your shouting! ... Rebellion, murder, betrayal: those are his crimes. And now listen, Hebrews, listen to what I ask—I want you to be the ones to pass sentence. What punishment does he deserve?”

He swept his eyes over the crowd below him and waited. The people were in an uproar. They bellowed, pushed one another, left the area assigned to them and rushed up to the centurion, right to the feet of his horse, but then immediately recoiled in terror and flowed back in the opposite direction, like a wave.

The centurion grew furious. Spurring his horse, he advanced toward the multitude.

“I ask you,” he roared, “what punishment for the rebel, the murderer, the traitor—what punishment?”

The redbeard bolted forward in a frenzy, no longer able to control his heart. He wanted to shout “Long live freedom!” and had already parted his lips, but his companion Barabbas seized him and placed his hand over his mouth.

For a long moment there was no sound except a rumble like that of the sea. No one dared speak, but everyone groaned quietly, sighing and gasping for breath. Suddenly a shrill voice was heard above this unsettled din. Everyone turned, both out of joy and fear. The old rabbi had climbed once more onto the redbeard’s shoulders. Lifting both his skeleton-like hands as though he wished to pray or bring down a curse, he boldly cried, “What punishment? The royal crown!”

Feeling sorry for him, the people bellowed in an effort to drown out his voice. The centurion did not hear.

“What did you say, Rabbi?” he called, cupping his hand over his ear and spurring his horse.

“The royal crown!” the rabbi repeated with all his might. His face gleamed, his whole body was on fire; he shook, jumped, danced upon the blacksmith’s shoulders: it seemed he wanted to take to the air and fly.

“The royal crown!” he shouted again, delighted that he had become the mouth of his people and of his God, and he stretched forth his arms to either side as though he were being crucified in the air.

The centurion went wild. Jumping off his horse and unhooking the whip from its place on the saddle horn, he advanced toward the crowd with heavy steps. Shifting the stones, he advanced silently, like some heavy beast, a buffalo or a wild boar. The crowd stood motionless, holding its breath. Once more nothing could be heard except the grasshoppers in the olive grove, and the impatient crows.

He took two steps, then one more, and stopped. The stench from the open mouths and sweaty, unwashed bodies had hit him. The Jewry! He advanced farther and arrived in front of the rabbi. The old man was looking down on him from his place atop the blacksmith’s shoulders, a smile of beatitude spread over his entire face. All his life he had longed for this moment, and now it had come: the moment when he too would be killed, just like the prophets.