I cupped my hands about his face. I said, “How I love you.”
We lingered only a second longer before the centurion returned and jerked me upward. He flung me to the side of the street, where I stumbled into a man who put out his hand to keep me from falling, but I fell nonetheless. As Lavi appeared and helped me up, I looked back at Jesus, who was being roughly hefted to his feet. His eyes lighted on mine before he trudged forward behind the large man chosen to carry the crossbeam.
As the procession began again, I noticed that the strap on one of my sandals had broken when I fell. I stooped and removed both shoes. I would go to my husband’s execution as he did. Barefoot.
iv.
I called out in Aramaic, “I’m here, Beloved. I’m walking behind you.” The centurion twisted in his saddle and looked at me, but said nothing.
Most of the spectators had hastened ahead of us toward the Gennath Gate that led to Golgotha, too impatient to wait on the man who was taking one slow, agonizing step after another. Glancing behind me, I saw that the few who’d remained to walk with him were women. Where were these disciples of his? The fishermen? The men? Were we women the only ones with hearts large enough to hold such anguish?
All at once a cluster of women joined me, two on my right, two on my left. One took my hand, squeezing it. I was startled to see she was my mother-in-law. Her face was wet and shattered. She said, “Ana, oh, Ana.” Next to her, Mary, the sister of Lazarus, tilted her head at me and sent me a steadying look.
At my other side, a woman slid her arm about my waist and gave me a wordless embrace. Salome. I grasped her hand and pulled it to my chest. Beside her was a woman I’d never seen before, with copper hair and flashing eyes, whom I guessed to be the age of my mother when I last saw her.
We walked pressed together, shoulder to shoulder. As we left the city gate and the hill of Golgotha came into view, Jesus halted, staring up at the little summit. “Beloved, I’m still here,” I said.
He lurched forward, moving against the swell of wind.
“My son, I am here also,” cried Mary, her voice shaking, the words shredding apart as they left her lips.
“And your sister walks with you as well,” Salome said.
“It is Mary of Bethany. I, too, am here.”
Then the unknown woman called, “Jesus, it’s Mary of Magdala.”
As he climbed the slope, toiling to lift his feet, I quickened my pace and drew closer behind him. “The day we gathered our daughter’s bones, the valley was full of wild lilies. Do you remember?” I called out the words loudly enough for him to hear, hoping not to draw the soldiers’ attention. “You told me to consider the lilies, that God takes care of them and will surely, then, care for us. Consider them now, my love. Consider the lilies.” I wished for something beautiful to fill his mind. I wished for him to think of our daughter, our Susanna. He would be with her soon. I wished for him to think of God. Of me. Of lilies.
When we reached the top of Golgotha, the man who’d carried the crossbeam laid it down beside one of the uprights and Jesus stood gazing down at it, swaying a little. We women were allowed no farther than a small knoll twenty or so paces from him. A putrid smell pervaded the air, and I wondered if it was the accumulation of all the atrocities that had ever transpired here. I pulled my scarf across my nose. My breaths came in small gulps.
Don’t look away. Terrible things will happen now. Unbearable things. Bear it anyway.
Beside me the others moaned and wept, but I didn’t join them. Later, alone, I would wail and fall to the ground and beat the emptiness with my fists. Now, though, I choked back my anguish and fastened my eyes on my husband.