“How do you know, Mary?” asked Magdalene, her eyes gleaming.

“God gives us time, Magdalene, time to repent,” Jesus’ mother replied with certainty.

But as the three women talked and were about to be united by pain, cries of “They’re coming! They’re coming! Here they are!” flowed forth from the vineyards, and before old Zebedee could slide down again from his platform, huge incensed men appeared at the street door, and Barabbas, flushed and drenched with sweat, strode over the threshold, bellowing.

“Hey, Zebedee,” he shouted, “we’re coming in, with or without your permission-in the name of the God of Israel!”

This said, and before the old proprietor could open his mouth, Barabbas ripped the house door off its hinges with one shove and seized Magdalene by her braids.

“Outside, whore! Outside!” he roared, hauling her into the yard. The citizens of Magdala entered at this point. They grabbed her, lifted her up, brought her amidst boos and fits of laughter to a pit near the lake, and threw her in. Then both men and women scattered all around and loaded their aprons and tunics with stones.

Old Salome meanwhile had jumped off her couch despite the pains which tortured her and had dragged herself into the yard in order to berate her husband.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she shouted at him. “You let those rowdies set foot in your house and grab a woman right out of your hands, a woman who was seeking mercy of you.”

She turned also to her son Jacob, who stood irresolutely in the middle of the yard.

“And you-you follow in your father’s footsteps. Shame on you! Aren’t you going to turn out any better? Are you going to let profits be your God too? Go ahead, run! Run to protect a woman that an entire village wants to kill. An entire village! They should be ashamed of themselves!”

“Calm down, Mother, I’m going,” answered her son, who feared no one in the whole world except his mother. Every time she turned upon him with anger he was overcome with fright because he felt that this wild, severe voice was not hers; it was the ancient, desert-roughened voice of the obstinate race of Israel.

Turning, Jacob nodded to Philip and Nathanael, his two companions. “Let’s go!” he said. He searched all around the barrels in order to find Judas, but the blacksmith had gone.

“I’m coming too,” said Zebedee, who felt irritated because he was afraid to stay alone with his wife. He bent over, picked up his club and followed his son.

Magdalene was screeching. Covered with wounds, she had collapsed into one corner of the pit and put up her arms to protect her head. The men and women stood around the rim and looked at her, laughing. Carriers and vintagers from all the vineyards of the vicinity had left their work and were approaching, the young men panting to see the famous body in its bloody, half-naked state; the girls because they hated and envied this woman who enjoyed all men while they had none.

Barabbas lifted his hand as a signal for the shouting to cease. He wanted to pronounce the decree and set the stoning in motion. At that moment Jacob appeared. He started to advance toward the bandit-chief Zealot, but Philip held him tightly by the arm.

“Where are you going?” he said. “Where are any of us going? We’re a mere handful, and they’re the whole village. We haven’t a chance!”

But Jacob continued to hear his mother’s savage voice within him. “Hey, Barabbas, hey, cut-throat,” he shouted, “you’ve come to our village to kill people, have you? Well, leave the woman alone; we’ll judge her. The elders of Magdala and Capernaum will come to judge her; and her father the rabbi of Nazareth will come too. That’s the Law!”

“My son is right,” interrupted old Zebedee, who had arrived with his heavy club. “He’s right, that’s the Law!”

Barabbas swung his whole body around and stood directly in front of them. “The village elders have greased palms,” he shouted, “and so has Zebedee. I don’t trust them. I’m the Law, and if any one of you brave lads dares, let him come forward and match his strength with me!”

Men and women from Magdala and Capernaum swarmed around Barabbas, murder glittering in the pupils of their eyes. A troop of boys arrived from the village, armed with slings.

Philip grabbed Nathanael by the arm and stepped back. He turned to Jacob. “Go, son of Zebedee, go on by yourself if you want-but as for us, we’re staying put. Do you think we’re crazy?”

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves, cowards?”

“No, we’re not. Go on, go on by yourself.”

Jacob turned to his father, but Zebedee coughed.

“I’m an old man,” he said.

“Well?” shouted Barabbas, guffawing.

Old Salome arrived, leaning on her younger son’s arm. Behind them came Mary the wife of Joseph, her eyes filled with tears. Jacob turned, saw his mother, and quivered. In front of him was the terrifying cut-throat with the mob of frenzied peasants; behind him, his mother, savage and mute.

“Well?” Barabbas bellowed again, rolling up his sleeves.

“I won’t make them ashamed of me!” murmured Zebedee’s son. He stepped forward, and at once Barabbas advanced directly at him.

“He’ll kill him!” said the younger brother, trying to shake himself loose in order to run to Jacob’s side. But his mother held him back.

“You keep quiet,” she said. “Don’t interfere.”

But just as the two opponents were about to come to grips a happy cry was heard from the edge of the lake: “Maran atha! Maran atha!” A sunburned youth jumped in front of them, panting and waving his hands.

“Maran atha! Maran atha!” he shouted. “The Lord is coming!”

“Who’s coming?” they all cried, circling him. “Who?”

“The Lord,” answered the youth, and he pointed behind him toward the desert. “The Lord-there he is!”

Everyone turned. The sun was going down now; the heat was abating. A man could be seen climbing up from the shore. He was dressed all in white, like a monk from the monastery. The oleanders at the lake front were in bloom, and the white-robed man put out his hand, picked a red one and placed it between his lips. Two seagulls were walking on the pebbles; they stepped aside to let him pass.

Old Salome lifted her white-haired head and sniffed the air. ‘Who’s coming?” she asked her son. “The wind has changed.”

“My heart is ready to burst, Mother,” the boy answered. “I think it’s him!”

“Who?”

“Shh, don’t talk!”

“And who are those people in back of him? Good grief, there’s a whole army running behind him.”

“They’re the poor who glean the leavings of the vintage, Mother. They’re not an army; don’t be afraid.”

And truly, the swarm of ragamuffins which began to appear in his train was like an army. They immediately scattered all through the harvested vineyards-men, women and children, with sacks and baskets-and began to search. Each year at the reaping, the vintage and the olive harvest these flocks of hunger poured out of the whole of Galilee and collected the wheat, grapes and olives which the landowners left for the poor, as ordered by the Law of Israel.

The man in white suddenly halted. The sight of the multitude had frightened him. I must leave! he said to himself, overwhelmed by the old fear. This is the world of men. I must leave; I must return to the desert, where God is… Once more his fate hung on a delicate thread. Which way should he go-forward or back?

Everyone about the pit stood motionless, watching him. Jacob and Barabbas still faced each other, with rolled-up sleeves. Even Magdalene lifted her head and listened. Life? Death? What was this silence? The wind had changed. Suddenly she jumped up, lifted her arms and cried, “Help!”

The man in white heard the voice, recognized it and quivered.

“It’s Magdalene,” he murmured. “Magdalene! I must save her!” He advanced rapidly toward the crowd, his arms spread wide.