“Conquer the world! Does he want to conquer the world? How? Speak, Magdalene, because that’s just what I want to do.”

“With love.”

“With love?”

“Saul, listen to what I’m going to tell you. Send the others away-I don’t want them to hear. This man you’re hunting and want to kill is the son of God, the Saviour of the world, the Messiah! Yes, by the soul which I shall render to God!”

A skinny, tubercular Levite with a scanty gray beard hissed: “Saul, Saul, her arms are wolf snares. Beware!”

“Go away!”

He turned again to Magdalene. “With love? I too want to conquer the world. I go down to the ports, see the ships leaving, and my heart burns. I want to reach the ends of the earth, but not as a beggarly slave of a Jew: no, as a king, with my sword! But how? It’s impossible. I feel so wretched I want to kill myself. In the meantime I find relief by killing others.”

He was quiet for a moment and then, coming still closer to the woman, “Where is your master, Magdalene?” he asked in a gentle tone. “Tell me so that I can go find him and speak with him. I want him to tell me what love is, and which kind of love will conquer the world… Why are you crying?”

“Because I do want to reveal to you where he is. I want the two of you to meet. He is all sweetness; you all fire. Together, you will conquer the world. But I don’t trust you; no, I don’t trust you, Saul-and that’s why I’m crying.”

She was still speaking when a stone whistled through the air and broke her jaw.

“Brothers-in the name of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob-strike!” howled the consumptive Levite. It was he who had seized the first stone and had struck her.

The heavens thundered. In the distance the setting sun was bathed in blood.

“Here’s for her thousand-kissed mouth!” howled one of Caiaphas’s slaves. Magdalene’s teeth scattered on the ground.

“Here’s for her belly!”

“And for her heart!”

“And for the bridge of her nose!”

Magdalene buried her head in her breast to protect it. Blood gushed from her mouth, her breasts, her womb. The death rale commenced.

The hawk beat its wings. Its round eyes had seen everything. Uttering a piercing cry, it returned, found its body still lying under the lemon trees, and entered. Jesus’ eyelids fluttered; a large drop of rain fell on his lips. He awoke and sat up on the rich mortuary soil, lost in thought. What had he just dreamed? He could not remember. Nothing remained in his mind but stones, a woman and blood… Could the woman have been Magdalene? Her face rippled, flowed like water, would not stay fixed so that he could see it. As he struggled to distinguish it the stones and blood seemed to turn into a loom, and now the woman was a weaver sitting before her machine and singing. Her voice was exceeding sweet, and full of complaint.

Above his head the lemons gleamed all gold between the dark leaves of the lemon tree. He pressed his palms into the damp soil and felt its coolness and vernal warmth. He glanced quickly around him: no one was watching. Leaning over, he kissed the earth.

“Mother,” he said softly, “hold me close, and I shall hold you close. Mother, why can’t you be my God?”

The lemon leaves stirred, there were light footsteps on the damp earth, an invisible blackbird whistled. Jesus raised his eyes and saw his green-winged guardian angel standing before him, pleased and merry. The curly fuzz on his body glittered in the oblique rays of the setting sun.

“Hello,” Jesus said. “Your face is sparkling. What more good news do you bring me? I have faith in you: the green of your wings is like the grass of the earth.”

The angel laughed and folded his wings. Squatting next to Jesus he crumpled a lemon flower and smelled it ardently, then gazed at the western sky, which was now the color of sour cherries. A gentle breeze rose from the earth, and all the leaves of the lemon tree rustled joyously and danced.

“How happy you human beings must be!” he said. “You are made of soil and water, and everything on the earth is made of soil and water. That’s why you all match: men, women, meat, vegetables, fruit… Aren’t you of the same soil, the same water? Everything wants to join together. Why, just now on my way I heard a woman calling you.”

“Why was she calling me? What does she want?”

The angel smiled. “Her water and soil are calling your water and soil. She sits at her loom, weaving and singing. Her song pierces the mountains, spills over the plain-seeking you. Listen. In a moment it will come here, here to the lemon trees. Quiet: there it is. Do you hear? I thought she was singing, but she is not singing; she is lamenting. Listen carefully. What do you hear?”

“I hear the birds returning to their nests. It’s getting dark.”

“Nothing else? Try with all your might. Let your soul escape your body so that it may hear.”

“I hear! I hear! The voice of a woman, far away, far away… She’s lamenting, but I can’t catch the words.”

“I hear them perfectly. Listen to them yourself. What is she lamenting?”

Jesus rose and exerted all his strength: his soul escaped. It arrived at the village, entered the house and stopped in the courtyard.

“I hear…” Jesus said, putting a finger to his lips.

“Speak.”

Tomb of silver, tomb of gold, gilded tomb,

Eat not the red lips, eat not the black eyes,

Eat not his tiny nightingale-voiced tongue…

“Do you recognize the singer, Jesus of Nazareth?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Mary, the sister of Lazarus. She is still weaving her trousseau. She thinks you are dead, and weeps. Her snowy throat is uncovered; her necklace of turquoises bears down upon her bosom. Her whole body is wet with sweat-and smells: smells like bread freshly removed from the oven, like the ripe quince, like soil after a rain. Get up. Let us go and console her.”

“And Magdalene?” Jesus cried, frightened.

The angel took him by the arm and sat him down once more on the ground. “Magdalene,” he said tranquilly. “Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you: she’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“She was killed. Hey, where are you going, Jesus of Nazareth, with your fists all clenched like that? Whom are you off to murder-God? It was he who killed her. Sit down! The All-Holy threw an arrow, pierced her at the highest peak of her happiness, and now she remains above, immortal. Can there be a greater joy for a woman? She will not see her love fade, her heart turn coward, her flesh rot away. I was there the whole time he was killing her, and I saw what happened. She lifted her hands to heaven and shouted, ‘Thank you, God. This is what I wanted!’ ”

But Jesus flared up. “Only dogs have such a longing for submission-dogs and angels! I’m not a dog and I’m not an angel. I’m a man, and I shout, Unjust! Unjust! Almighty, it was unjust of you to kill her. Even the most boorish of wood-choppers trembles to cut down a tree in bloom, and Magdalene had blossomed from her roots right up to the topmost branches!”

The angel took him in his arms and caressed his hair, shoulders, knees; spoke to him quietly, tenderly. It became dark at last. A breeze blew, the clouds scattered and a large star appeared. It must have been the Evening Star.

“Be patient,” he said to him, “submit, do not despair. Only one woman exists in the world, one woman with countless faces. This one falls; the next rises. Mary Magdalene died, Mary sister of Lazarus lives and waits for us, waits for you. She is Magdalene herself, but with another face. Listen… She sighed again. Let us go and comfort her. Within her womb she holds-holds for you, Jesus of Nazareth-the greatest of all joys: a son-your son. Let us go!”

The angel stroked his friend tenderly and slowly lifted him from the ground. The two now stood together under the lemon trees. Above them, the Evening Star went down, laughing.