feel it leaving—yet they went on standing there, glaring, clutching stones in their fists.
Jesus lifted out his palms to them. “Let the one who is without sin cast the next stone.”
A moment passed, a tiny lifetime. I listened to the sound of dropping stones. They were like mountains moving.
xxxiv.
Jesus remained beside me until Chuza slunk away and the mob disbanded. I was shaken by the savagery of the crowd and my bare escape from death, and he seemed reluctant to leave me to myself.
He gazed at the diminishing light. “I will walk with you as far as your house.”
“Were you injured?” he asked as we set out. Though my hip throbbed from the single stone that had struck me, I shook my head.
His declaration that I would soon be his betrothed was like a fire in my head. I wanted to ask what he’d meant, whether his admission had been sincere or was calculated to win over the crowd, but I was afraid of his answer.
Quiet fell. The city floated in a soupy twilight, his face half in shadow. The silence lasted only moments, but I thought I might choke on it. In an effort to breathe, I recounted the unexpurgated story of the mosaic, how I’d agreed to sit for it in order to save my brother, Judas. When I told him of Antipas’s lust, of his intent to make me his concubine, and described my panicked escape to the building site, I saw the anger flare again at his jaw. I confessed that the sheet of ivory, which was back again in my sleeve, had perhaps been more taken than given. I wanted him to know the truth, but I had the sense that my chatter was making matters worse, entirely worse. He listened. He asked no questions.
Upon reaching the gate of our palatial house, I stared at my feet. It was excruciating to look at him. Finally, lifting my face, I said, “I doubt I’ll see you again, but please know I will always be grateful for what you did. I would be dead if not for you.”
His forehead wrinkled and I saw disappointment in his eyes. “When I told the crowd we would soon be betrothed, I didn’t mean to assume your answer,” he said. “I overstepped in an effort to assert my authority with them. I accept your refusal. We shall part well, as friends.”
“But I didn’t think . . . I didn’t think you meant the betrothal seriously,” I said. “We walked all this way and you said nothing.”
He smiled. “We walked all this way with you talking.”
I laughed, but my face burned, and I was glad for the gathering darkness.
“I’m required to marry,” he said. “All Jewish men are. The Talmud does not sanction a man without a wife.”
“Are you saying you’re required to marry, therefore you’ll settle on me?”
“No, I’m trying to say men are required to marry, but I often see things differently than others. It may be that for some men it’s better not to marry. I thought that was true of me. Before my father died, he wanted to arrange a betrothal for me, but I couldn’t agree to it.”
I stared at him, bewildered. “Are you saying you’re not meant for marriage, but it’s a duty you must endure?”
“No, only listen.”
I would not. “Why would it be required for some not to marry? Why would you be among a group such as that?”
“Ana, hear me. There are men who are summoned to something even more pressing than marriage. They’re called to go about the country as prophets or preachers, and they must be willing to give up everything. They must leave their families behind for the sake of bringing God’s kingdom—they cannot give themselves to both. Wouldn’t it be better to never marry than to abandon their wives and children?”
“You believe you’re one of these? A prophet or a preacher?”
He turned his face from me. “I don’t know.” I watched him press the tips of his thumb and forefinger between his brows and squeeze. “Since I was a boy of twelve I’ve felt I might have