‘Well, the egg-heads here think it’s a copy of a letter from a second century church father – Clement of Alexandria. Apparently its warning someone to be suspicious of the authenticity of an unknown version of the gospel of Mark. It quotes a passage that our friends here can’t find in the canonical version – about the raising of Lazarus.’
‘But that’s only in John, not the other gospels.’
‘Exactly,’ Maria said.
When the excitement had died down and the library had assumed its usual sepulchral feel Paul looked at the document more closely. The relevant section began: And they came to Bethany. And a certain woman whose brother had died was there. And, coming, she prostrated herself before Jesus… ‘The story’s familiar, but not like in John,’ he said.
‘No,’ she replied, ‘but if you look at Mark chapter ten you can see where it would fit.
‘Edited out, you think?’
‘Looks that way.’
Paul looked out of the window. In the distance he could see the road following the Kidron Valley around the foot of the Mount of Olives on its way to the Judean desert, Jericho and the Dead Sea.
‘Bethany’s just round that bend, where it happened,’ Maria said.
‘Come with me, to take a look?’
‘If we’re quick, with the Sabbath starting later. So I’d better drive.’
The entrance to the tomb from which Lazarus was alleged to have risen turned out to be a low aperture in a featureless stone-built wall flanked by the mosque of al-Uzair. ‘Why do you think it’s authentic?’ Paul asked.
‘There’s been a continuous record since the fourth century, and before that an oral tradition. Unlike many of Jerusalem’s sites, this was far enough out to escape damage by the Romans. There’s no reason for it not to be genuine.’
‘I believe you,’ Paul said with a supercilious smile.
From the entrance they descended a flight of twenty or so rough steps to reach a square vestibule. They saw that further steps led down into the vaulted chamber of the tomb itself. In a hushed voice Maria said, ‘We believe this is where Jesus stood when he ordered Lazarus to come out. Then there would have been a stone covering the entrance to what at the time was little more than a cave.’
‘So who moved the stone?’
‘I think there would have been quite a gathering – and no shortage of hands. The family was well-off and Lazarus’ death had attracted many well-wishers.’
‘Did they know in advance Jesus was coming?’
‘I think they must have done, don’t you?’
Leaving Maria to get fresh air outside Paul descended into the tomb, where there were still niches to take the bodies of the dead. Becoming accustomed to the gloom he ran his fingers over the stonework, feeling the dampness there.
Maria called down to him, ‘The Sabbath begins at sunset and its already beginning to get dark – we need to be quick.’
But Paul had no intention of leaving. His mind was full of imaginings of what had taken place here, growing more powerful as the minutes passed.
‘Paul!’
‘You go on without me. I can easily walk back to the city.’
‘You be careful then. This is not a safe place to be, especially at night.’
He emerged from the tomb to see Maria’s car disappearing round the corner. Nearby was a stall selling snacks and drinks and he sat there for a while, cup in hand, on a low stone wall. When it began to get dark he looked stealthily around him and re-entered the tomb. He squeezed his body into the largest of the niches and asked himself why the apostle Mark had not thought to record what had happened here – or, if he had, why it had been suppressed.
In the end it came down to a matter of timing. He’d assembled his thoughts, re-read the scriptures and tested out his ideas – admittedly in an oblique way – in the few synagogues where he’d been invited to speak. But few had understood his message. And that included his own disciples, now blissfully sleeping in chairs or on rugs on the floor around him. He asked himself if any shared his dream. Perhaps that was too much to expect. To be in sympathy, to have a vague awareness of where it all might lead, that was about all he could ask. More than once he’d been direct: ‘Who say you that I am?’ And back had come the reply, ‘You are the Messiah,’ because that’s what people were saying about him, in the markets of Galilee and now in Jericho and other settlements in the Jordan valley. Sometimes he did not know whether he was leading their expectations or assuming a mantle that had been thrust upon him. He saw stretched out around him absolute loyalty and trust, of that there was no doubt, but aside from Mary – his beloved Mary, who feared for him – it was beyond this little band that he had to look for understanding.
They’d been in Jerusalem in the middle of winter and the unusual cold had not favoured the delivery of his message. Or if it had got across it was only the Temple police who had been excited by it. In a gathering on the portico steps he’d heard for the first time the threat of stoning and it perplexed him that his words were falling on deaf ears. The lodgings in Bethany provided comfort only for himself – in the house of Lazarus and his sisters; the twelve had to make do with unheated stables and cattle sheds. It pricked his conscience that he had insisted on frugality, as was their rule.
He spoke of it as Lazarus’ house, though the two sisters of this seventeen-year-old boy – Mary and Martha – were both several years older. With each visit to the city the bonds between them strengthened, but it saddened him that Mary – his Mary, as distinct from the sister of Martha – could not slip so easily into the relationship. Now, as he looked at the beautiful face of the sleeping figure beside him, he still felt unable to take her with him. So he wrote her a note saying where he was going and placed it with an orange blossom in her hand, gently closing her fingers over it. Then he kissed her goodbye and went out into the darkness.
He had waited for a full moon, without which the walk – perhaps climb would be a better word – would be hazardous if not impossible. He had with him his long staff to protect himself, if the need arose, as well as to help him negotiate the rough track. Bethany came into sight as dawn broke. It was too early to disturb the family, yet he had to remain unseen, so he settled on his haunches in a nearby straw barn and ate a crust of bread and some cheese. When the sun was fully up he made his way unseen to the house.
They sat together at the table, as they had done so many times before. From them he learnt that his name – in different contexts – was still mentioned in the city. Out of consideration for their sensibilities he refrained from explaining his grand and desperate plan, whose culmination would be at the coming Passover. And of his planned death he said nothing, speaking only in terms of demonstrations and rituals. Mary asked him what he hoped to achieve. He smiled and said, as if a joke, the kingdom of God of course; but knew they could see beyond his levity.
‘I’m here,’ he said at last, ‘to ask you to help me prepare the way. My works you know about by repute, but of my methods you are completely ignorant. There is something I must do, necessary for my purpose, and for that I need your complete trust. You will not fully understand what I am about to ask.’ He raised his eyebrows, inviting dissent, but Mary just said, ‘Tell us what we must do.’
They walked down the hill to the cemetery. ‘This one belongs to the family,’ Martha said, pointing at what was little more than a flat stone covering a hole in the ground. Together Lazarus and Jesus moved it away and squeezed inside. Jesus said, ‘You will need warm blankets and enough food, and a means of ticking off the days.’ ‘I’ll pass by frequently,’ Mary said from above.