The Whore and the Rock

The sky was ablaze with every heavenly being in its catalogue, and though it was night, the streets of Judaea shimmered like so many stars on earth. The soft glow of the myriad torches betrayed a sense of urgency in the tranquil city. Shimon was desperate for a dram of wine to settle his nerves. What he had seen, what he had done…or moreover, what he had failed to do. Struck with this new and ugly realization, he took off through the alleys he knew well, careful to avoid the Centuries on patrol tonight.

            Panting, he arrived at the door of Miriam of Magdala. He rapped on the door frantically, nearly falling into it as a disturbed Miriam investigated the rude obtrusion.

            “Shimon Cephas, what are you doing?” He pushed past her into the house and collapsed on the floor. Miriam quickly shut the door and gathered some water and a rag. She dabbed his forehead and cheeks, flushed red and damp with sweat. Shimon spoke.

            “Miriam, I have done wrong against him.” Shimon felt hot tears sluice down his face.

            “Shimon, what are you saying? He loves you, as you love him. He knew this day would come.” Her warm brown eyes settled upon his. Miriam could communicate such love and care with those eyes. Perhaps that is why she was his favorite. Shimon recovered some strength, due in part to Miriam’s gift of giving. He stumbled toward the table and, with his left hand, filled a small clay cup with wine. Miriam beheld this spectacle with worry. “To Yeshua,” he croaked, and swallowed the whole cup in one violent gulp. “It’s fitting, I think, that I should be drinking his blood tonight. Had I been a better man, I’d have spilt Roman blood amongst the olive trees and wildflowers, and he’d still be with us!” This outburst was followed by an unbridled wail, and Shimon Cephas, the Rock of the Church, fell upon the table in drunken sobs.

            Miriam could do little to quell the immense passions that now poured forth from Shimon like so much wine. She suggested his cries might bring the attentions of the patrols, which managed to dull his fits to a hushed weeping. The dimly lit house became brighter with each shake of Shimon’s broken frame, and for a moment Miriam supposed something miraculous to be happening. The heavy march of sandaled feet alerted her to the true cause. She tried to rouse Shimon, but to no avail. The door shook with two hard knocks.

            “Hallo! I would speak to the household. There has been an incident requiring investigation.” Miriam unceremoniously slapped Shimon into sobriety and smoothed her tunic. She opened the door, armed with a naïve and confused expression. “An incident? I hope nothing serious?” She was met with a lumbering block of a man, nearly thirty hands high. He wore a pauldron of polished bronze and his crest was dark maroon, the color of curdled blood. His eyes were slate gray, and at the moment they scrutinized Miriam’s countenance for any hint of deception.

            “Woman,” the centurion commanded, “if you or that man,” and here he gestured disgustedly at the red-faced and bedraggled Shimon Cephas, “have any knowledge of what has transpired this night, three miles north, in Gethsemane,” and at this Shimon Cephas’ head shot up as if he’d been stabbed, “you are obligated to divulge said knowledge to me, Marcus Acidinus, or suffer at the hands of the Roman law.” Miriam smiled coquettishly, an attempt to hide the tic that had formed at the corner of her mouth.

            “I can tell you,” came a throaty growl from the table that made Miriam start, “I can tell you something.” The centurion Marcus Acidinus took an eager step forward, his frame now blocking any form of exit. Miriam glared at Shimon. What was he at?

            Shimon smiled gravely. “I can tell you that I have been enjoying a loverly night with my woman, and you have intruded upon it. Would you say the same?” He turned his dopey face upon Miriam. For a second, she noted a fierce glint to his eyes. She decided to trust whatever he’d set in place. “Oh yes,” she replied, emphatically. “A truly wonderful night.”

            Marcus Acidinus bristled. He did not like this unexpected brashness toward himself and his betters. Toward Rome, even. He moved past the smallish woman and leaned hard over the red, bearded man. “You know nothing of the events in the garden of Gethsemane, and the treasonous party disbanded there?” Shimon shook his head. “No, I don’t. And I would like to ask, if I take offense to this sudden imposition on our festivities, do I take the issue up with you or the local procurator?” Marcus Acidinus was seething now. He dropped all semblance of policy and tore the impertinent, bearded little man from the table. Shimon swallowed hard.

            “DO YOU OR DO YOU NOT KNOW OF THE REBEL YESHUA OF NATZERET—“

            “I know nothing!” Shimon Cephas screamed. “I know nothing, nothing of this man. I tell you, I do not know him!” The centurion Marcus Acidinus dropped the sniveling heap of man atop the table and swiftly exited, scowling at Miriam as he left. She shut the door tight and cradled the limp frame of Shimon in her arms. He cried deeply, clutching at her tunic. Dawn crept over the horizon, and a pale orange light filled the chamber. Delirious with guilt and shame, Shimon Cephas, the Rock upon which the Church was built, held tightly to the prostitute Miriam of Magdala as the sun rose above Judaea.