Category Archives: fiction

Wednesday: Holy Week

31 Wednesday Mar 2021

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Today was a relatively quiet day in Jerusalem all those years ago – the major event we still recognize was that Judas Iscariot met with the Jewish leaders and received his 30 pieces of silver. But why? We’ll look at that tomorrow.

Today on Neo, there is a new post by Jessica, one of her series of historical fiction speculating about the life of Mary Magdalene. She wrote it last fall ane I saved it for Holy Week. It is, I think, one of the best posts she ever wrote, so I’m going to cheat a bit and post it here as well. Do reflect carefully on what she says ere, an excellent guide for us all. Here, from my dearest friend.

A Harlot’s Way: 5 The Cross

I have tried three times to write this.I can’t. I told Luke what he wanted to know. I am told Matthew and Mark have written an account of that awful day. If John would write it then maybe, in his hands, it could lift you up – of us all, he is the true mystic. But John is long gone, I heard of him last in Ephesus, and the Romans have killed so many of us. Here, where I am, on the very outskirts of Empire, we may be safe, but one never knows – and if it be His will that we should die for him, we shall. None of which helps me with what happened after I anointed the feet of Jesus.

If this is ever read it will be by people who know the story: the entry into Jerusalem; that last supper; the agony in Gethsemane; the farce of a trial; the cruel death; the blackest despair. All made bearable by what happened next. Indeed, only what happened next makes sense of it, but in that making sense, we risk losing something – that is the sacrifice Jesus made. It isn’t as though he did not have a choice. He need not have gone to Jerusalem for the Passover. He need not have done what he did in the Temple. At that last supper, he could have slipped out as Judas did. There were those at Gethsemane who would have fought to keep him safe. It is the fact that there were those options – and that he did not take them – which bear witness to his definition of love. It is easy (which is why men do it so often) to talk of love when what is really meant is a longing for something or someone to please us; but the love that took him to that awful place on Golgotha – that is something else.

It was John Mark running back to the upper room which alerted us to what had happened. Nearly naked, we could see from that, and from the horror in his voice that something awful had occurred. I gave him some wine and calmed him down. He told us what had happened in the garden. Mary of Bethany said, bless her, that they would realise there had been a mistake and he would be released; mother Mary looked as though her heart was breaking, and shook her head. She knew, I knew, we all knew in our hearts that this was that sacrifice of which he had spoken. I knew, mother Mary and others knew, that he had rebuked Peter for saying it should not be so. But not all the knowing it was his will and destiny could stop our tears and fears. We put a look-out at the window, and we were ready to decamp at a moment’s notice. We need not have worried, it was him they wanted; they had him.

It was the worst attempt at a night’s sleep any of us ever made. Every step on the street outside caused alarm, and in the end, I made us a very early breakfast. It must have been towards dawn that the men began to return. John was in tears, Philip and Andrew in shock. But it was Peter whose appearance shocked me most. He looked as though he had aged ten years in as many hours. His hair seemed whiter, his eyes tired and tearful. When Andrew asked him what had happened he shook off his comforting hand, swore, and went into a corner where he muttered angrily at himself. It was dear John who brought him round. Then Matthew came and said that a crowd was gathering near the Governor’s palace. I offered to go with Mary, the wife of Clopas, and Salome the doula.

When we got there we found a huge mob. From the balcony, Pilate was talking – offering to release Jesus or Bar-Abbas, the robber. The crowd, stirred on by the Pharisees demanded the latter. Mary and I gripped each other tight as Jesus appeared on the balcony. He looked tired and drawn. When Pilate announced he would release the robber, he asked what he should do with Jesus? The cry went up: “Crucify him!” Mary clung to me and wept. A man next to us turned on us:

“Are you one of his supporters?”

I looked him in the eye with the stare I had always used on men of his sort:

“Yes, what of it? Were you not there the other say hailing him as king of the Jews?”

The man blenched and turned away. I had guessed right. How many of those blowhards who now cried for his death had celebrated him only days before?

We returned to the house.

Mother Mary asked us for news, so we gave it straight. We knew what we had to do. He would be crucified on Golgotha, we needed to get there so we could be with him at the last. Peter looked at me as though I was crazy:

“They will take you and Mary, what are you thinking, woman!”

“I am thinking, Peter, that if you want to stay here and hide, do so, I am not ashamed or afraid. They are not going to strip me naked and hang me on a tree!”

John said he would come with us.

So it was we watched that sad last walk as, battered and bruised almost beyond recognition, he tried to drag that cross up the hill. But his strength failed, and Alexander and Rufus’ father carried it for him. We got close enough for mother Mary to mop his brow. I told the soldiers who we were and the centurion, who seemed to admire my courage, allowed us to stand at the foot of the cross.

We watched as they mocked him. We heard his words. He commended mother Mary of John’s tender care – and how marvelously he fulfilled that charge. Then he gave up his spirit and we cried as though tears had no end. The sky grew black. When those soldiers came to check whether the three men on the crosses were dead, there was no doubt about him. We asked for his body; they gave it to us.

Oh, oh, oh of that I cannot write. To see that life whose entry into the world I had seen thirty-three years earlier now broken, battered and lifeless is more that I can bear. I kissed that bloody brow and washed him with the water brought by Joseph’s men. Joseph’s men told us we could use his tomb and showed us where.

As we got there, it was almost time for the Passover. We finished washing him. We anointed him with herbs. I took the winding cloth which I had brought back with me from Babylon and we wrapped him in it, with a cloth to cover that battered face. Then, we each kissed him and headed for the exit. The soldiers rolled a great stone across the entrance and stood guard. We went back home in silence. What could be said? He had gone. He had said he would return. Deep, deep inside me that small flame burned bright.

Crossposted from: Nebraska Energy Observer

A death in the desert: a fiction

29 Thursday Oct 2020

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“How will it be when none more saith ‘I saw’? (Browning)

In spite of our efforts he would not eat. I kept telling the men that he could not eat, but as usual they acted as though he were something more than human and was, thereby, immune from the frailties of the flesh. I reminded Xanthus and Valens that while it was true that he was the last of them, he must have been nearly a century old; but they were adamant, he would not pass before the ending of this age. That explained the presence of all the “righteous”; they were waiting for the end times and the coming in glory of the Saviour.

Never had I cared for one so old. It was miraculous enough that he was still with us, and as his nurse I too felt the awe which attached to the one who had stood at the foot of the Cross and watched the Christ die. I had been brought into his house by Mary, the mother of the Christ and I had watched with him and the others as she passed into the hands of her Son. But that was when I was barely sweet and twenty and knew so much. At thrice that, I knew only that I wished I knew as much as I had thought I had known then; perhaps I could have found a way of helping. As it was, I wetted his lips and I sang to him and held his hand. How translucent it was; it was like the finest linen.

Valens broke open a bottle of perfume and the sleeper turned and seemed almost to wake. But it was only when the boy brought the tablet and read “I am the resurrection and the life” that he stirred and the light came into his eyes once more. That smile! Like the last flaring of a fire when poked, for a moment I saw the man I had first known. He spoke as one inspired, though one had to lean in close; that voice, once so deep, was now like unto the reedy cry of the desert bird.

Of all he spoke a record was kept, and it will find its place alongside his other writings I do not doubt. What I recall now is the sadness of his countenance as he spoke of how, as the Christ did not come again as people expected, even some of those who said they believed began to doubt. They spread their discontent, with some even questioning whether he had been at the foot of the Cross; could he be who he said he was? His eyes flickered with his wonted humour as he quipped: “Nay, said I to them, they were written by another John, perhaps?” But half-wits failed to capture the quickness of his wit.

Sitting upright, not without effort or help from me, he looked at us all. “Knowest thou not, little children, how simple it is – love one another! And yet, instead, mankind questions and waits.” Some had the grace to look shamefaced. They knew themselves in the words. “The search for proof that ye seek is not directed aright. I am but a witness and ye may doubt my words, though I saw him and touched him. That testimony is true. But that is not enough. Ye seek signs. Signs were given, are given; that too is not enough. What survives is love, and love begets faith, and faith begets hope and hope begets love. Love is not that we love him, but that though we are sinners, he loves us and always did. What more do ye want?”.

He stopped, his voice failing, and asked for wine; I put the cup to his lips. He smiled one last time and saying “little children, love one another’, he passed from this world to a better one. “But where,” said Cerinthus, “is the Saviour? If he comes not within the dozen years that mark the Apostles, then you must follow me.” And some did. I stayed with Valens and we buried John. They wait still; we have our reward.

Dogs: a fiction

17 Monday Aug 2020

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[This is a little experiment, so be tactful if you think it should be a one-off.]

She was sick. I was sick with fear for her. ‘Demons,’ said the so-called wise man. They say that when they have no idea what is wrong; they say that when they should say they can’t do anything for the patient; and they say that instead of saying ‘she’s going to die.’ Wise men, indeed; who heard of such a thing? There I go. It’s why my husbands left, say the wise men. It’s because younger women have firmer bodies, say the wise women. Since neither wise men nor wise women compliment me with their opinions, I feel free to prefer my own; men are led by their lust.

She was sick. I prayed to the gods for help. ‘Gods,’ said the wise man, ‘help you if you offer them a reward’. They say that when they want you to pay them; they say that when they should say that they like the power it gives them; and they say that instead of saying ‘gods are our way of controlling you.’ There I go. It’s why the gods don’t help me, say the wise men. It’s because there are no gods, say the wise women. Since neither wise men nor wise women offer me any hope, I feel free to prefer my own; there is only one God.

I got that from the people we live among – the Jews. They say there is only one God. Why should there not be? All these ‘gods’ may merely be aspects of the one God whose name they will not say. Then he came.

I heard it from one of the women. He they said was a great healer. He they said had done wonders in Galilee. He they said was different. Desperate I did what I knew I ought not to do as a Gentile and a woman, I approached him and begged him to help my poor, sick daughter. I saw him shake his head. I saw him look at me with grief. I heard his silence. His men tried to shake me off, telling him to send me away. But I knew.

Instead of doing as they asked, he told me that his mission was for the children of Israel.  I knelt and begged him. He sounded sad when he told me that the food of the children could not be given to the dogs. I understood. We were dogs to the Jews. But the words came that made me say that even dogs could feed from the scraps from the table. Why did I say that? I am not proud. I love my daughter, and if this man could spare even a crumb, I knew it would suffice.

That look will be with me until I die – and beyond. He told me my faith had saved her and she would be well when I got home. I knew it to be so and thanked him. He smiled and nodded. He knew that I knew. I had called him ‘Lord’ and ‘Son of David.’ He was the one long-prophesied.

When I got home, she was well and I rejoiced. The wise men said it was their conjurations. The wise women said it was their herbs. They say that when they want credit but lack knowledge. It was the gods, the wise men said. It was an accident, the wise women said, but thank the gods all the same. But since neither the wise men nor the wise women knew what they were talking about, I feel free to prefer my own knowledge. Jesus is the Lord the Jews expect.

 

The sound of his voice

27 Sunday Mar 2016

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Mary-Magdalene-giving-news-of-the-Resurrection-to-the-Disciples.-Painting-by-Philip-Hermogenes-Calderon-640x400

I don’t mind the darkness anyway – I have been there too often, and it holds no fears for me; there is nothing a man can do to me in it that has not been done. Our one worry was that stone. I had no idea how we were going to move it. But we wanted to finish what we had started just before the Sabbath. We were the closest women to him, and we would do what the Law specified. A broken heart was no excuse – nor was the thought that the soldiers might not welcome our presence; if necessary, I could pay them good money to let us in.

We had left the men back at the house. It would have been good to have had Peter’s strong right arm, but he’d not been the same since the night they had taken the Lord – but then nor had any of us. Mary came with me directly, and we picked up Salome on the way. By the time we reached the tomb, the light was breaking in shards across the horizon; the sun would soon be up. Now for the Romans and that stone.

The dawn’s early light revealed chaos – there were no guards, although there were cloaks and swords scattered about – I glanced quickly, but none of them were bloodied. As we were wondering what on earth had happened we looked in amazement – the stone had been rolled away. Mary and myself dashed forward, leaving Salome to follow, but I was faster than she was and when I got inside there was, I thought for a moment, no one there; until my eyes adjusted to the light – that wasn’t a torch, it was someone bathed in light; Salome and Mary had stopped at the entrance to the cave – the light had grown brighter.

The man sitting on the ledge where they had lain the Lord turned his gaze on me, and I could hardly bear the light. ‘Do not be afraid’, he told me, his very voice assuaging my fears, ‘I know you seek Jesus, but he is not here; he has risen. Do you not remember that He told you He would rise again on the third day? Go, tell the brethren that He is not here, He has risen!’

We went back to the house, and all these years later I recall the anxiety on the face of the disciple who opened the door – perhaps he imagined the beating on the door was the Romans come for them. I told Peter, John and the others what I had seen, and the other women confirmed it. But they would not believe us, thinking we were hysterical with our grief. How often had they failed to understand him – and yet they clung, still, for the last time, to their way of seeing him. Peter ran off to see for himself, with John following – and I followed them both. When I got there I saw John had outdistanced Peter, but he waited for the older man to go in first. They saw me, and they confirmed what I had told them; such is the way of men, bless them. Excited, exhilarated, they ran off to tell the others.

But I was tired now, I had not the fitness or vigour of the men, and I was exhausted, grappling with conflicting emotions. I could not attach meaning to the words I had heard earlier, perhaps the men were right, perhaps I was hysterical with grief? Goodness knows I had cause. The tears came suddenly. All I could think of was that his body was gone and that we could not do for him what we had come to do. The tears poured from my eyes. As I looked up through my tears, I saw the light again. ‘Woman, why are you weeping?’ ‘Because they have taken my Lord away, and I do not know where they have laid him.’ I turned round to go, in my great distress, only to find the way blocked by a man – whom I took to be the custodian of the tombs or the gardener. He, too, asked me why I was weeping, and asked me whom it was I sought. I asked him where Jesus was, where he had been taken so I could go to do what needed to be done. There was a moment’s silence – and I knew of a sudden that life was not ended – just changed.

‘Mary’, he said. The clouds cleared, the light shone bright as noon, and all my tears of sadness turned to ones of joy. It was Jesus – He was alive: ‘Rabboni’, I said, falling to my knees and reaching out to touch his feet. ‘Do not hold on to me Mary, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go and tell the brethren, tell them I am ascending to my Father and to your Father, to my God and to your God.’ Marvelling at this, I lay prostrate before Him. I went back and did as I had been told; and now they believed, all bar Thomas who was not there.

Mother Mary loves me to share my story with her, not least every Resurrection Sunday, and I see in her eyes, his eyes, and his special smile, and that makes me happy too. As we come to the end of another anniversary of that day, Mary smiles again at me as I settle her for sleep. She grows weak now, and the long sleep will soon, I sense, come to her, but something tells me she will not taste death as I shall. These many years I have loved and tended to her, I have been a daughter to her, and she has been my mother. It was my place to bear the first witness to the Risen Lord – and when I said, as I did this morning in response to the greeting from John ‘He is Risen!’, that ‘He is Risen indeed!’, it all came back to me as though it were yesterday. But now I must make sure that Mother Mary is comfortable.

 

Calvary: a meditation

25 Friday Mar 2016

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A life of sin leads you to some funny places, dark and dangerous ones sometimes, but then women who do as I used to, take that on as part of the job – if you know how to manipulate men, you can usually sweet talk your way out of such places – even if it sometimes demands a price; it’s part of what you sign up to when you become a fallen women – yes, that was what they called me back then – some still remember it against me – they always will. Ironic then, really, that it was not my sin but my rejection of it which took me to the darkest and most dangerous place I have ever been: at the foot of that Cross on that blackest of Fridays – it felt my heart would break. Had he saved me from my sins to lead me here – and abandon us all? How could we bear it? His poor mother, stoical in a way beyond my understanding – just standing there, tearful, yes, but strong too – giving us all strength.

Men speak to me of hell – they used to speak to me of it a deal more – but I do not respond; I know hell – intimately. It is when you do, again and again, what wearies your spirit, and you do not even want to do it, you actually want not to do it, but you cannot exercise your will – your will is dead. Day after day – or rather night after night. Riches came, fame of a sort, and in that world I was valued – or at least highly-priced, which seemed the same thing then. But the weariness, I swore it would kill me – being dead would have been better I often thought. Then he came to town. He saw me, I saw him – I felt drawn to him, though whatever possessed my will did not want that to happen – but his pull was magnetic. He touched my forehead – that, I recall thinking, wasn’t where men usually started by touching me – and then, well I don’t know. The world went pitch black, there was a rushing sound, like the noise of a wind driving the rubbish left in the street – and then there was just me and him – and I was whole. Whatever had possessed my will did so no longer – he looked at me and told me my sins were forgiven; a moment ago I would have reached for mocking words – now only tears came. I followed him thereafter. There were other women with us, as I told that Luke fellow when he came asking me, and others, for our memories because those beyond the sea who never met him want to know more; more, as I told John once, not all the books in the great library at Alexandria could tell you all about Jesus of Nazareth.

So, when some of the disciples came back that night to say Jesus had been seized in the garden of the olive press, we were startled and alarmed. It had been a possibility, we knew, but who had led them there. John Mark said it had been Judas; that made sense, horrible self-righteous prig of a man – didn’t like me being there, but liked my money.

The men stayed in hiding, which was probably sensible. But me, Mary his mother and her sisters, we ventured out. The crowds lined the way to the place of the skull. I cannot speak of the horror. The thud of the nails still haunts my dreams – and the blood, the blood, streaking onto the rough wood of the cross and staining it. It began to rain. We saw his life ebb with the blood. We saw such things – and even now, as I told that Luke fellow, I cannot speak of that day easily.

He died quickly – by the standards of those crucified with him. I heard some conversation, and told Luke and John Mark what I heard; I know young John heard other words, but I was too lost in tears and cannot bear witness to them. We stood, as in a great storm, his pale face illuminated by the flashes of lightning – and at the ninth hour he gave up his spirit. It felt like the end of the world – certainly the end of our world.

But women have things to do for the dead, and once he was laid in a tomb, we went there, and we anointed his body with sweet perfumes. There was more we would like to have done, but with the Sabbath upon us, we went – in silence and sorrowing. I remember thinking as we left that of all the dark places sin had taken me, none was dark as this place where love had brought me.

Bethany: a meditation

24 Thursday Mar 2016

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There was an unusual tenseness in the air as Martha lit the candles. There were rumours coming from Jerusalem that the Pharisees wanted to act against him; those rumours disturbed us all. He was stopping in Bethany on his way to Jerusalem, and Simon the leper, whose house was big enough to accommodate us all, was putting on a feast – with Martha’s help. As ever, she was bossing us all about, making sure everything would be perfect for Jesus – her love for him had, like mine, grown to immense proportions since he saved Lazarus, our brother. But I could see that her hustle and bustle masked the tension she felt – what if the authorities did seize him?

I lit the candles (always in the light, Martha commented tartly). They flickered and cast shadows on the walls – and when he and the others came in, it was as though the walls were inhabited by a cast of characters – black shadows, distorted – and the candles flickered – one went out, and I relit it. They ate – they were hungry. But there was something else which drove that hunger – the same anxiety I had felt coming into the house. The men were fearful of what the next few days would bring, but they made light of it, as men will when there are women present; but I knew, I sensed it.

I went to where I like to sit when Jesus is with us, at his feet. My sister thinks this is scandalous; I don’t know if that’s because it means I get out of taking the dishes away, or because she thinks a single woman should not sit in that position with a man. I saw his poor feet. No one had bothered to wash them, and they were dirty, and I could see that the heels looked sore. On an impulse, I took the alabaster jar of spikenard which I had received as a gift, and I broke it open and rubbed it into his feet, cleaning and smoothing them. The air was filled with the sweet perfume, which attracted the attention of others to what I was doing. Martha shot me such a look, which turn to anger when I let my hair down and used it to dry his feet – was that because she thought I ought to have had a towel with me – or because women did not let their hair down in public – maybe, as usual, I’d failed on both the practical and the moral fronts. I didn’t care. Jesus looked so careworn and almost sad, and he relaxed so much as I began my ministrations: love comes in many forms. In this place, at this time, this seemed the thing to do – so much so that I poured the rest of it onto his hair and massaged his shoulders. I do believe if looks could kill, the one Martha shot me at that point would have been the last thing I would have seen in this world.

It wasn’t only Martha who looked and acted as though I’d done something awful. Our host, Simon made a nasty comment to the effect that if Jesus really were a prophet, he’d know what sort of woman I was – a dreadful sinner. Jesus was unworried – he knew me well enough, and he told one of his wonderful stories, asking whether a man who owed a lot of money and was forgiven his debt would be more or less grateful than a man who owed a little and was forgiven it? That brought tears to my eyes – they fell onto Jesus’ feet, and I dried them with my hair, and kissed them. There was a noise from Martha that sounded like an explosion. I didn’t care, I was lost in the moment. I suddenly knew this was the last time I would do this for him – alive.

I like most of his followers, but Judas is an exception. He’s a nasty, grasping fellow – as my backside attests, it isn’t just money he grabs; he says all the right things – most of the time, but I’m not the only one who finds him creepy; Martha can’t stand him either. So it would have been him who opened up his big mouth to complain about my extravagance in using all that ointment on one man – it could, he complained loudly, have fed a family for a year if we’d sold it. I didn’t like to mention it was my ointment – but then I didn’t want to say how it had come to me, either – no one would ever give Martha such a gift.

But Jesus responded with words burnt into my memory. He tasked them quietly but firmly with not understanding – and then with what he said, showed me the full understanding of what I had just done. I had, he said, done it out of love for him, and to prepare his body for burial – and wherever the story was told, I would be remembered in it. That last I only understood when I saw what brother Luke and brother John Mark wrote in their books – I am told that Levi-Matthew also wrote about me, but I have not seen it, and unlike Luke, he never asked me for my version of what happened that night.I wonder if young John will mention it – I should like to see him again, but I am told he is in the far north somewhere with mother Mary; he was a sweet young man, so kind and gentle; I miss him.

What happened, what really happened, I can tell no one, because I do not have the words to describe how my heart was opened when he said that my sins were forgiven. I had not dared to ask – how could I? Simon the leper was right, I was a bad girl who did bad things. But Jesus, Jesus had known, and he had seen into my heart. My last memory will be of how he turned to me and said “Your sins are forgiven.” That caused a bit of a fuss, and I heard Simon, I think, ask who Jesus thought he was that he could forgive sins. But I recall those words now, all these years later: “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.” It had, I did.

 

Pilate’s wife: a reflection

14 Monday Apr 2014

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Pontius_Pilate's_wifeThe dream had disturbed my sleep, and on waking and finding Pilate already gone, I called for the slave to bring me writing materials; the man was innocent, he must not die, was the burden of my words; but it would have been better had my husband been there; but he was about his duty – as usual.

My father had approved the match. Since much of the family wealth had been lost by grandfather’s decision to back Mark Antony, we had, he told me, to make the best of things in Augustus’ world, and Pilate was the protegé of a Senator who was ‘in’ with those who had supported the Emperor from the start; it could do us no harm, and besides, he had the reputation of being a decent man. It had not turned out quite as papa would have wanted, but Pilate’s many weaknesses did not include cruelty to his wife. Like many promising young men, his promise lay in the past, and the governorship of Judea had been by way of a compensation prize from his patron; some prize; what compensation?

I suppose it was better than Gaul – at least the weather was good; my sister, whose husband was posted there told me it rained all the time. But at least the Gauls knew they were barbarians and were pathetically grateful to be civilized by us; but the Jews! The Jews were forever going on about Solomon and his Temple, and their one God, as though that made them something special. I didn’t like their leaders; they were as self-satisfied and smug as the supporters of Augustus back home. But Pilate, having finally made it to this version of ‘the top’ had no intention of failing; it was typical of his optimism that he couldn’t see this was the end of the line, as good as it was going to get. His method was to give the Jewish authorities what they wanted – within pretty broad limits – in return for them keeping their stiff-necked fellow Jews in line. He was for ever saying that if he did well here, it might not be too late for something better elsewhere; there would be no elsewhere, the smell of failure was on him even when he came here. He wanted his name to live in history; as if.

It had been Mariam, my hairdresser, who had told me about Jesus, and the centurion had confirmed her stories; this man was a healer. Our son, our only child, Pio, had been lame from birth, and nothing the medicine men and women at home had been able to do had helped; but Miriam had asked Jesus, and Pio’s foot had been cured. I had followed his career thereafter with interest I had even seen him from afar and been struck by something about him. That might have been why I had that dream; it as certainly why I wrote to Pilate. I did not expect to be able to help, even though he had helped us; but I had to try.

Pilate explained that it had been ‘tricky – which was his way of saying that he might have had to show something he had never possessed – moral courage. The Jews, he told me, were ready to riot. I had been scornful, saying if that had been the case, why had that dreadful man Caiaphas wanted Jesus arrested by night and the trial to be carried out at once? But Pilate told me I did not understand; of course I did- he was a dreadful coward and had taken the easy way out; he always would.

That afternoon the sky had grown dark at the ninth hour, and there had been a heavy thunderstorm; it was said that the dead had been raised from their tombs and many had seen them; there was always many who had seen that sort of thing among the Jews; it was some sort of compensation for having only one God, I suspected. But I had felt uneasy; this was not right. When that Jew came and asked Pilate for the body, I interceded and he gave his permission; it was the least he could so, so he did it.

That was all long ago. He was recalled, half in disgrace, although the revolt last year and the destruction of the Temple showed that my husband had not been as useless as his enemies had alleged. After his death, Pio and I retired to our estate on the south of Gaul, not far from the sea. It was quite the coincidence that he should have run into some Jews there a couple of years back. They were followers of Jesus. I had heard the stories of his rising from the dead, and I had believed them. I had done my best to persuade Pilate not to allow Caiaphas and his ilk to persecute the followers of Jesus, but it had not worked. It was typical of Pilate that he never asked why I had intervened.

If he had asked, he might have found the answer to something which did puzzle him, which was why I became less discontent with our lot. Miriam’s cousin, Cephas, told her all about Jesus rising, and I sought him out, and saw and believed; he laid his hands on my head and I received the Spirit; since then I have followed The Way. That was why Pio and I made Mary and the others welcome, and why we celebrate the memory of Jesus on the Sabbath, where we sing some songs, hear readings from the memoirs of the Apostles, and drink His Body and His Blood – until he comes again. Pio has sworn to help Mary and the followers, and there is a building they can have. The Shroud is kept safe there, and many have been healed by it. I have told Pio he must be careful – the spirit of this age will persecute the followers of the Way; but we shall prevail – He said as much.

Legend has it that Claudia Pilate did indeed convert to Christianity.