‘Is he here now?’
‘Not since yesterday.’
‘So you’ve had to do this on your own?’
‘Not quite,’ Martha says. ‘I’ve had help.’
‘Mary came back? I’m glad.’
‘Not Mary. Jesus sent someone from the city.’
A woman backs out of the house carrying a tray with an engraved brass teapot and matching goblets. She turns, and Lydia recognises him immediately, despite his beard, his fatigue, the darkness and his surprise at seeing her in the doorway.
‘Look who’s back from the dead.’ She smiles. ‘Not too bad, considering. I heard you had a green head.’
Cassius can predict the future. He decides what Rome needs and then makes it happen.
Lazarus will be the Roman client messiah. Not Jesus. Lazarus will neutralise the threat posed by Jesus, or any other impostor, and consolidate peace in the region for decades to come. Cassius has it all mapped out. Judaeans are infected with too much hope for god, and Lazarus can be the next affliction, a messiah who is not the king of the Jews and who doesn’t act provocatively during major religious festivals.
The Church of Lazarus Christ will not change the way things are, not too much. It favours law and order, naturally, and is tolerant of gods and religions from elsewhere. Lazarus himself will reward the ambitious and punish the lazy, but no one should give up everything they own to follow him. Stay at home. Respect property and stability, relax. The world is not approaching an end and these are not the last days before a decisive battle between light and darkness.
In fact, life tomorrow will be much the same as it is today. This is one of Rome’s most important unstated objectives. Tomorrow will be the same as today, if not slightly better.
Cassius reaches the Fortress to find that the Antonia horses have been transferred to the stables at the Praetorium. He curses and changes direction. The governor is wrong to be anxious: religion has to be managed, not repressed. It can distract the people from thoughts of rebellion, keep the children out of trouble and men in bed with their wives.
Lazarus will be the son of god, and Lazarus will belong to Rome.
They eat with Absalom’s family in Absalom’s house. Lazarus is impatient to get back to Jerusalem, to continue his search for Jesus.
‘What about the Romans?’ Martha asks.
‘They’re more likely to find me here than in the city.’
‘Sit down,’ Absalom says. ‘You don’t need to run. Jesus brought you back and he knows what he’s doing.’
Lazarus is also hungry, and this is the Passover meal of roasted lamb and matzoh to celebrate the deliverance from Egypt. He’ll eat quickly, he says, and then he’ll go. He sits cross-legged on the floor between Lydia and Martha, and eats as he has eaten every day this week: each meal could be his last.
Absalom is describing the Passover meals prepared by his mother, and Lazarus sees him for what he is, a kindly old man with expressive eyebrows who talks to the dead at night.
‘I asked her if she noticed your visit. She didn’t reply. Perhaps you saw her and she didn’t see you?’
‘Yes,’ Lazarus replies. ‘That must be it. Don’t worry. Your mother is there like everyone else. They are waiting for us.’
He had said the same to Baruch. What Baruch now does with that knowledge is up to him, but on balance as he eats Lazarus decides that life after death, specifically his own, has been revealed for the greater good. Absalom, for example, wants to hear that his mother exists. He can resist asking whether she has been judged, or if the afterlife is overcrowded or up or down or dark or light. His mother still is, which is all he needed to know.
Absolom calls for wine. ‘To absent friends,’ he says, and they drink.
Lazarus is amazed by the changes since he was last in Bethany. Absalom’s serenity extends to sharing his table with Lydia, because Jesus suggested he should. Jesus, it seems, is a calming influence: Martha is resigned to the destruction of their home.
‘Life is short,’ she shrugs. ‘We worked hard. We saved money. Jesus has a different idea of what’s important.’
‘Which he hasn’t yet shared with me.’
Lydia laughs. ‘Same old Lazarus. Thinner, especially in the face, but still a little jealous.’
There is something radiant about the others that Lazarus envies. It is like the reverse of death. A light has been ignited in them, or like flowers in springtime first one then another of them blooms. They have opened up to belief, poc, to new possibilities.
Lazarus feels excluded from this unexpected optimism. They have changed in his absence, as if they know more about Jesus than he does. Even now, he wants to defend the uniqueness of his childhood friendship.
‘I came to find Jesus,’ he reminds them.
‘You should definitely talk to him,’ Lydia agrees. ‘It would help.’
‘That depends,’ Martha says. ‘Jesus doesn’t want to hear him complaining.’
‘It’s not for me. It’s for Isaiah. He thinks Jesus can heal Saloma.’
‘Oh Lazarus, you can do better than that. Start by being honest with yourself.’
‘Jesus is in danger. The assassin told me the priests have offered money to anyone who betrays him.’
‘Yes.’ Lydia says. ‘We know.’ She looks at him evenly. ‘The Romans are chasing you. The Sicarii may decide to kill you. You’re trapped in a rotten betrothal and you’re oblivious to the people who love you. We understand why you’re looking for Jesus.’
Hooves clatter in the square. A single rider dismounts, and they listen to footsteps heading away from them, in the direction of Lazarus’s house.
‘Quick. Find me somewhere to hide.’
4
On the Jesus side of the story, Thursday is also an eventful evening. While Lazarus is eating in Bethany, the disciples and Jesus are preparing themselves for what will turn out to be the last supper they share together. The meal will be eaten in the upstairs room of a Jerusalem inn. The location is secret, but archaeologists suggest a site close to the Siloam pool in the poorer Lower City.
In first-century Palestine the last supper would not have been prepared or served by men. The lamb and the bowls of bitter herbs would have been sent up from the inn below. Mary arranges them on the table. She places the bread and pours the wine.
When the meal finishes, Jesus will leave the inn. He and the disciples will walk to the Mount of Olives. No one knows exactly why. It may be, only hours before his arrest, that Jesus suddenly craves the open air, among olive trees, and a hillside where he can see and hear what the ancients saw and heard before him. He was brought up in Nazareth. He prefers outdoor spaces where simple truths remain true: fire and food, shelter and sleep, man and beast.
Or he may decide to leave Jerusalem at the suggestion of Judas Iscariot, after a discussion about the security of the upstairs room. Judas is wary of making accusations, but he suspects Mary of a loose tongue. He’d followed her to the market earlier that day, and when out buying bread she spoke with her sister Martha.
Or the reason Jesus leaves the inn is simpler stilclass="underline" no one can sleep through the noise of Passover celebrations rising from the room below.
There is another possibility. Jesus knows that Lazarus will set out from Bethany and make his way to the inn. Jesus always knows, and Lazarus must not become involved until the time is right. He is needed tomorrow, in the fading light, on the inevitable Hill of Skulls.
Cassius throws back the curtain covering the doorway.
‘I know he’s here.’
Absalom feels strong, less afraid of death. One week has changed everything. ‘He went back to Jerusalem.’