some purpose in God’s mind, but that seems less likely to me now. I’ve had no sign. God has not spoken to me. Since my father died, it has been pressed on me anew that I’m the eldest son. My mother, sister, and brothers depend on me. It would be difficult to leave them with little provision.” He faced me again. “I’ve wrestled with it, and more and more I think the calling I sensed was more in my own mind than in God’s.”
“You are sure?” I said. Because I was not.
“I cannot know for certain, but for now God is silent on the matter, and I’ve come to believe I can’t forsake my family and leave them to fend for themselves. The truth of these things has set me free to think of marriage.”
“You think of me like the fulfillment of a duty, then?”
“I’m compelled by duty, yes; I won’t deny it. But I would not speak of a betrothal to you if I weren’t also compelled by what’s in my heart.”
And what’s in your heart, I wanted to ask, but the question was brash and dangerous and I sensed that what lay there was a difficult puzzle—a jumble of God, destiny, duty, and love that couldn’t be solved, much less explained.
If we married, I would always look over my shoulder for God.
“I’m unsuited for you,” I said. “Certainly you know this.” I couldn’t think why I would try to discourage him, except to test his resolve. “I don’t just refer to my family’s wealth and ties to Herod Antipas, but to myself. You said you’re not like other men. Well, I’m not like other women—you’ve said so yourself. I have ambitions as men do. I’m racked with longings. I’m selfish and willful and sometimes deceitful. I rebel. I’m easy to anger. I doubt the ways of God. I’m an outsider everywhere I go. People look on me with derision.”
“I know all of this,” he said.
“And you would still have me?”
“The question is whether you will have me.”
I heard Sophia sigh into the wind—Here, Ana, here it is. And despite all that Jesus had just said, all his prevarication and provisos, the most curious feeling came over me, that I was always meant to arrive at this moment.
I said, “I will have you.”
xxxv.
Having no father or elder brother, Jesus bore the responsibility of arranging his own betrothal. He promised to return in the morning to speak with my father, a pledge that rendered me almost impervious to the anger I encountered when I entered the house. In retaliation for my refusal to be his concubine, the tetrarch had demoted Father from head scribe and counselor to a mere scribe among many other mere scribes. It was a dazzling fall from favor. Father was livid with me.
I couldn’t feel bad for him. His willingness to hand me over, first to Nathaniel, then to Herod Antipas, had severed the last tie that bound me to him. I knew somehow he would find a way to ingratiate himself to Antipas once again and recover his position. I would be proven right about that.
As Father berated me that night, Mother paced back and forth, interrupting him with outbursts of fury. They didn’t even know yet that the good citizens of Sepphoris had nearly stoned me to death for reasons of thievery, fornication, and blasphemy. I decided to let them discover this on their own.
“Do you think of no one but yourself?” Mother shrieked. “Why do you persist in these shameful acts of disobedience?”
“Would you rather I’d become Herod Antipas’s concubine?” I asked, genuinely shocked. “Would that not be an act even more shameful?”
“I would rather you had—” She cut herself off, leaving the rest unspoken but hanging conspicuously in the air. I would rather you had never been born.
* * *
? ? ?
A PALACE COURIER arrived the following morning before Father broke his fast. I was perched on the balcony awaiting Jesus’s arrival when Lavi ushered the messenger into Father’s study. Had Father struck some deal with Herod Antipas during the night? Would I be dragged off to become