Matthew went inside, closed his ledgers, put a blank one under his arm, wedged his bronze inkwell into his belt and placed his quill behind his ear. Next, he removed a key from his belt, locked the shed and tossed the key into a garden. As soon as he had finished, he approached Jesus with trembling knees. He stopped. Should he go forward or not? Would the teacher offer him his hand? He raised his eyes and looked at Jesus as if imploring him to have pity.

Jesus smiled at him and offered his hand. “Welcome, Matthew. Come with me.”

The disciples felt troubled and stepped to one side. The old rabbi bent over to Jesus’ ear. “My child,” he said, “a publician! It’s a great sin. You must listen to the Law.”

“Father,” Jesus replied, “I listen to my own heart.”

They had advanced beyond Nazareth. Passing the orchards, they reached the fields. A cold wind was blowing. Mount Hermon gleamed in the distance, sprinkled with the first snow.

The rabbi took Jesus’ hand once more. He wanted to talk to him before they separated. But what could he say? Where should he begin? Jesus claimed that in the Judean desert God entrusted him with the fire in one hand and the seed in the other. He said he would burn up this world and then plant a new world… The rabbi regarded him stealthily. Should he believe him? Did not the Scriptures say that God’s Elect would be despised and rejected by men, like a withered tree which has sprouted among stones? It was possible, therefore, possible that this man was the One…

The rabbi leaned against Jesus. “Who are you?” he asked softly, so that the others should not hear.

“You’ve been with me such a long time, Uncle Simeon-from the hour of my birth-and you still haven’t recognized me?” The old man’s heart stood still. “It’s more than my mind can hold,” he murmured, “more than it can hold…”

“And your heart, Uncle Simeon?”

“My child, I do not listen to my heart. It leads one to the abyss.”

“To God’s abyss-to salvation,” said Jesus, looking sympathetically at the old man. And in a moment: “Father, don’t you remember the dream the prophet Daniel had about the race of Israel one night in Babylon? The Ancient of Days was sitting on his throne, his clothes white as snow, the hair of his head like the white fleece of a ram. His throne was made of flames, and a river of flames flowed at his feet. The Judges were enthroned to his left and right. Then the heavens opened up and upon the clouds descended-who? Do you remember, Father?”

“The Son of man,” answered the old rabbi, who had been nourishing himself on this dream for generations. There were even nights when he dreamed the same dream himself.

“And who is the Son of man, Father?”

The old rabbi’s knees gave way. He looked at the youth, terrified. “Who?” he whispered, hanging on Jesus’ lips. “Who?”

“I,” Jesus replied tranquilly, and he placed his hand on the old man’s head, as if blessing him.

The old rabbi wanted to speak, but could not open his mouth.

“Farewell, Father,” said Jesus, holding out his hand. “You must be a happy man, Simeon, for God kept his word and deemed you worthy of seeing, before your death, what you longed to see all your life.”

The rabbi stood and gazed at him with protruding eyes. What was all this around him: thrones, wings and the Son of man upon the clouds? Was he dreaming? Was this the prophet Daniel? Were the doors of the future opening before him and enabling him to look in? He was not standing on soil but on clouds; and this young man who held out his hand and smiled was not the son of Mary, he was the Son of man!

Feeling dizzy, he drove his crosier into the ground and propped himself up on it so that he would not fall. Then he looked, looked at Jesus, who, holding his shepherd’s staff, was passing under the autumn trees. The heavens had darkened; the rain could no longer hold itself in the sky: it fell. The old rabbi’s clothes became drenched and stuck to his body. Water ran down from his hair. Though shivering, he remained motionless in the middle of the road. Jesus, followed by his companions, had already disappeared behind the trees, but as the old rabbi stood in the wind and the rain he saw them, ragged and barefooted, still going forward and mounting. Where were they going? In which direction? Would these barefooted, illiterate ragamuffins set fire to the world? The designs of the Lord are a great abyss…

“Adonai,” he whispered, “Adonai…” and his tears began to flow.

Chapter Twenty-Two

ROME SITS upon the nations with her all-powerful insatiable arms spread wide and receives the boats, caravans, gods and produce of all the world and all the sea. While believing in no god she fearlessly and with ironic condescension receives all gods into her courts: from faraway fire-worshiping Persia, Mithras the sun-faced son of Ahuramazda, mounted on the sacred bull which is soon to die; from the many-uddered land of the Nile, Isis, who in springtime upon the blossoming fields seeks the fourteen pieces of her husband and brother Osiris, whom Typhon dismembered; from Syria, amid heart-rending lamentations, exquisite Adonis; from Phrygia, stretched out on a bier and covered with faded violets, Attis; from shameless Phoenicia, Astarte of the thousand husbands: all the gods and devils of Asia and Africa; and from Greece, white-topped Olympus, and black Hades.

She receives all the gods; she has opened roads, freed the sea of pirates and the land of bandits, brought peace and order to the world. Above her is no one, not even God. Under her-everyone. Gods and men: all are citizens and slaves of Rome. Time and Space are richly illuminated scrolls rolled up in her fist. I am eternal, she vaunts, caressing the two-headed eagle which, having folded its blood-stained wings, reposes at the feet of its mistress. What splendor, what irremovable joy to be omnipotent and immortal, thinks Rome; and a wide fat smile flows over her fleshy rouged face.

Contented, she smiles… and forgets. For whom has she opened up the routes of land and sea, for whom has she toiled for so many ages to bring safety and peace to the world? This never even crosses her mind. She conquered, made laws, became rich, stretched herself over the entire universe-for whom, for whom?

For the barefooted man who at this moment, followed by a swarm of ragamuffins, is proceeding along the deserted road from Nazareth to Cana. He has nowhere to sleep, nothing to wear or eat. All his larders, horses and rich silks are still in heaven-but they have begun to descend.

Holding his shepherd’s staff he marches with bloody feet amid dust and stones. Sometimes he halts, leans on the staff and without speaking sweeps his eyes along the mountains and then above the peaks to a light: God, who sits on high and keeps watch over men. He raises his staff, salutes him, and then resumes his journey…

They finally reached Cana. At the well outside the village a pale young woman with swelling womb was happily drawing water and filling her jug. They recognized her. It was the girl whose marriage they had gone to in the summer. They had expressed their wish at that time that she might have a son.

“Our wish has been fulfilled,” Jesus said to her, smiling. She blushed and asked if they were thirsty. They were not, so she put the jug on her head, went into the village and disappeared.

Peter took the lead and began to knock at all the doors, running from threshold to threshold. A mysterious drunkenness had swept him away. Dancing, he shouted, “Open up! Open up!”

The doors opened and women appeared. Night was falling; the farmers were returning from their fields. “What’s up, friend?” they asked, surprised. “Why are you pounding on the doors?”

“The day of the Lord has come,” Peter answered. “The deluge, men! We carry the new ark. All believers: enter. Behold! the master holds the key. Step lively now!”