Tired, he went up again to the capital of the column and sat down.

“Pie in the sky when we die!” a voice shouted, and laughter broke out.

But Jesus was swept away by God, and did not hear.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,” he now shouted.

“Righteousness isn’t enough,” interrupted one of the famished. “Righteousness isn’t enough. We want bread!”

“Bread too,” said Jesus, sighing, “bread too… Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled. Blessed are those who mourn, for God will comfort them. Blessed are the poor, the meek, the wronged. It is for them, for you, the poor, the meek and the wronged, that God has prepared the kingdom of heaven.”

The two amazons, who stood with their baskets of grapes still on their heads, glanced rapidly at each other and without a word lowered their baskets and began, one to the right and the other to the left, to distribute the grapes to the poor. Magdalene, fallen at Jesus’ feet, still did not dare lift her head and let the people see her face, but she secretly kissed the teacher’s feet, which were buried in her hair.

Jacob’s endurance gave out; he jumped up and left. Andrew was infuriated. He extricated himself from his brother’s grasp and went and stood before Jesus. “I’ve just come from the river Jordan in Judea,” he shouted. “There a prophet proclaims: ‘Men are chaff and I am the fire. I have come to burn up and purify the earth, to burn up and purify the soul so that the Messiah may come forth!’ And you. son of the Carpenter, you preach love! Why don’t you take a look around you? Everywhere: liars, murderers, robbers! All are dishonest-rich and poor, oppressed and oppressors, Scribes and Pharisees-all! all! I too am a liar, I too am dishonest, and so is my brother Peter over there, and so is Zebedee with his fat paunch: he hears ‘love and thinks of his boats and men and how to steal as much as he can from the wine press.”

When old Zebedee heard this he flew into a rage. His blubbery nape turned fiery red, the veins of his neck swelled and he rushed forward with raised club, ready to strike. But Salome was in time to catch hold of his arm.

“Shame on you, shame on you,” she said to him softly. “Come, let’s go home.”

“No barefooted beggars are going to get the upper hand here in my territory!” he yelled at the top of his voice, so that all could hear. Huffing and puffing, he turned to the son of Mary. “And you, Carpenter, don’t go playing the Messiah with me, because woe is you, poor thing, you’ll end up being crucified like the others-that’s the way you’ll forget your problems! But it’s not you I pity, you good-for-nothing, it’s the unlucky mother who has you for her only son.”

He pointed to Mary, who had collapsed to the ground in a heap and was beating her head against the stones.

But the old man’s anger was still not appeased. He continued to bang his club on the ground, and shouted, “ ‘Love,’ he says, and forward everyone-you’re all brothers, so grab what you can, everything’s on the house! But can I love my enemy? Can I love the beggar who roams outside my yard, just itching to break down the door and rob me? ‘Love,’ he says-just listen to the cock-brain! Three cheers for the Romans! That’s what I say, even if they’re heathens. Three cheers! They keep order!”

This provoked the paupers to action. Bellowing furiously, they started toward Zebedee, and Judas bounded out from his pine tree. Old Salome was terrified. She silenced her husband by putting her hand over his mouth and then turned to the stormy, intimidating multitude which was coming closer.

“Don’t listen to him, my children. His rage makes him say one thing when he means another.”

She turned to the old man. “Let’s go,” she said in a commanding tone.

She nodded also to her darling son, who sat tranquil and happy at Jesus’ feet.

“Come, my boy,” she said. “It’s dark.”

“I’m going to stay, Mother,” the youth answered.

Mary got up from the rocks where she had thrown herself. Wiping her eyes, she went forward with unsteady steps in order to fetch her son and bring him home. The unfortunate woman had been frightened both by the love which the poor had shown him and by the threats hurled at him by the rich village elder.

“I implore you in God’s name not to listen to him,” she said now to one, now to another as she went by. “He’s ill… ill… ill…”

Trembling, she approached her son. He now stood with crossed hands, gazing out over the lake. “Come, my child,” she said to him tenderly, “come, let’s go home together…”

He heard the voice, turned and looked at her with surprise. He seemed to be asking who she was.

“Come, my child,” Mary repeated, clasping him around the waist. “Why do you look at me like that? Don’t you know me? I am your mother. Come, your brothers are waiting for you in Nazareth, and your old father…”

The son shook his head. “What mother,” he said calmly, “what brothers? My mother and brothers are here.”

Holding out his hand, he indicated the ragamuffins and their wives, and red-haired Judas, who stood mutely in front of the pine tree and looked at him with rage.

“And my father-” he raised his finger toward heaven-“my father is God.”

The eyes of this luckless victim of God’s thunderbolt began to flow with tears. “Is there any mother in the whole world more miserable than I?” she said. “I had one son, one, and now…”

Old Salome heard the heart-rending cry. Leaving her husband, she retraced her steps and took Mary by the hand. But the other resisted, and turned once more to her son.

“You’re not coming?” she cried. “This is the last time I’m going to say it to you: Come!”

She waited. The son was silent: he had again turned his face toward the lake.

“You’re not coming?” the mother cried in a heart-rending voice. She lifted her hand.

“Aren’t you afraid of a mother’s curse?”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” answered the son without turning. “And I’m not afraid of anyone, except God.”

Mary’s face became ferocious. She lifted her fist and even opened her mouth to utter the curse, but old Salome was in time to place her hand over the mother’s lips.

“Don’t! Don’t!” she said. She clasped her around the waist and forcefully dragged her away. “Come, Mary, my child,” she said, “come, let’s go. I have something to tell you.”

The two women started down the hill to Capernaum. Old Zebedee went in front in a rage, decapitating the thistles with his club.

Salome spoke to Mary. “Why are you crying, Mary, my child? Didn’t you see them?”

Mary looked at her with surprise and held back her tears. “See what?” she asked.

“While he spoke, didn’t you see blue wings, thousands of blue wings behind him? I swear to you, Mary, there were whole armies of angels.”

But Mary shook her head in despair. “I didn’t see anything,” she murmured, “I didn’t see anything… anything.” Then, after a pause: “What good are angels to me, Salome? I want children and grandchildren to be following him, children and grandchildren, not angels!”

But old Salome’s eyes were filled with blue wings. Putting out her hand, she touched Mary’s breast and whispered to her as though confiding a great secret. “You are blessed, Mary, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”

But Mary was inconsolable. She shook her head and followed behind, weeping.

The infuriated ragamuffins, meanwhile, had encircled Jesus. They uttered threats, beat their staffs on the ground, waved their empty baskets in the air.

“Death to the rich!” they shouted. “You spoke well, son of Mary-death to the rich!”

“Go in the lead and we’ll burn down Zebedee’s house.”

“No, let’s not burn it,” others objected. “Let’s break in and divide up his wheat, oil, wine and the coffers-full of expensive clothes… Death to the rich!”