The women became frightened. The men approached Jesus, who was sitting on a rock now and inscribing crosses and stars in the soil with his staff.

The sick and the lame from the whole village gathered around him.

“Rabbi, touch us so that we may be healed. Say a kind word to make us forget that we are blind, crippled and leprous.”

A tall, aristocratic old lady dressed all in black cried, “I had a son and they crucified him. Raise him from the dead!”

Who was this noble old woman? The astonished farmers turned. No one from their village had been crucified. They looked to see where the voice came from-but the old lady had disappeared into the twilight.

Bowed over the soil, Jesus inscribed crosses and stars and listened to a trumpet of war which was descending the hill opposite. Heavy, rhythmic marching was heard, and suddenly bronze shields and helmets flashed in the light of the evening sun. The villagers turned; their faces grew dark.

“The confounded hunter is returning from the chase. He’s gone out again to catch rebels.”

“He brought his paralyzed daughter to our village to be cured, so he says, by the pure air. But the God of Israel keeps a ledger and records and does not forgive. The soil of Cana shall bury her!”

“Don’t shout, wretches-here he is!”

Three horsemen passed before them. In the middle was Rufus, the centurion of Nazareth. Spurring his mount, he approached the crowd of peasants. “Why have you assembled?” he shouted, lifting his whip. “Disperse!” His face was afflicted. In several months’ time he had grown old; his hair was turning gray. He had been broken by his pangs of grief for his only daughter, who one morning had suddenly found herself paralyzed in her bed. As he charged and dispersed the villagers, he glimpsed Jesus sitting off to one side on a stone. Suddenly his face lighted up. He spurred his horse and approached him.

“Son of the Carpenter,” he said, “you have come from Judea -welcome! I’ve been looking for you.”

He turned to the villagers. “I have something to say to him. Go away!”

He saw the disciples and paupers who had followed from Nazareth, recognized several, and frowned.

“Son of the Carpenter,” he said, “you have helped crucify others; take care you don’t get crucified yourself. Do not touch the people; do not put ideas into their heads. My hand is heavy, and Rome is immortal.”

Jesus smiled. He knew very well that Rome was not immortal, but he did not speak.

The grumbling farmers had dispersed. They stood off at a distance and stared at the three rebels-a tall old man with a forked beard, and his two sons-who had been captured by the legionaries and were now being transported, loaded in chains. All three, with heads held high, gazed over the Roman helmets, trying to see the crowd, but they saw nothing, nothing except the God of Israel, erect in the air, and angry.

Judas recognized them. He had once fought side by side with them. He nodded, but they, blinded by God’s splendor, did not see him.

“Son of the Carpenter,” said the centurion, bending low while still mounted on his horse, “there are gods who hate and kill us, others who do not deign to look down and see us, still others who are well disposed and exceedingly merciful, and who heal the sicknesses of unfortunate mortals. Son of the Carpenter, to which of these categories does your God belong?”

“There is one God,” Jesus answered. “Do not blaspheme, centurion!”

Rufus shook his head. “I don’t intend to enter into a theological discussion with you,” he said. “I detest the Jews and if you don’t mind my saying so, all of you harp on God incessantly. The only thing I wanted to ask you was this: Can your God…”

He stopped. He was ashamed to condescend to ask a favor of a Jew.

But straightway a narrow, virginal bed arose in his mind and lying upon it, motionless, the pale body of a young girl with two large green eyes which looked at him, looked at him, and implored him…

He swallowed his pride and leaned even farther over on his saddle. “Son of the Carpenter, can your God heal the sick?”

He looked agonizedly at Jesus. “Can he?” he asked again, seeing Jesus silent.

Jesus slowly rose from the rock where he was sitting and approached the rider. “ ‘The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.’ Such is the law of my God.”

“Unjust!” shouted the centurion with a shudder.

“No, just!” Jesus contradicted him. “Father and son are of the same root. Together they rise to heaven, together they descend to hell. If you strike one, both are wounded; if one makes a mistake, both are punished. You, centurion, hunt and kill us, and the God of Israel strikes down your daughter with paralysis.”

“Son of the Carpenter, those are heavy words. I happened once to hear you speak in Nazareth, and your words then seemed sweeter than what would be suitable for a Roman. But now…”

“Then the kingdom of heaven was talking, now the end of the world. Since the day you heard me, centurion, the just judge seated himself on his throne, opened his ledgers and called for Justice, who came, sword in hand, and stood next to him.”

“Is yours, then, one more God who goes no further than justice?” shouted the exasperated centurion. “Is that where he stops? What then was the new message of love you proclaimed last summer in Galilee? My daughter doesn’t need God’s justice; she needs his love. I seek a God who surpasses justice and who can heal my child. That’s why I’ve moved every stone in Israel to find you… Love-do you hear? Love, not justice.”

“Merciless loveless centurion of Rome: who puts these words into your savage mouth?”

“Suffering, and my love for my child. I seek a God who will cure my child, so that I may believe in him.”

“Blessed are those who believe in God without requiring miracles.”

“Yes, blessed. But I am a hard man and not easily convinced. I saw many gods in Rome -we’ve got thousands locked up in cages-and I’ve had enough of them!”

“Where is your daughter?”

“Here. She’s in a garden at the highest point in the village.”

“Let us go.”

The centurion braced himself and jumped off his horse. He and Jesus marched in front. Behind them at a distance came the disciples, and farther back still, the crowd of peasants. At that instant Thomas, rapturously happy, emerged from behind the legion’s rear guard. He had been going behind the soldiers, selling them his wares at an immense profit.

“Hey, Thomas,” the disciples shouted at him, “you’re still not coming with us, eh? Now you’ll see the miracle and believe.”

“I’ve got to see first,” Thomas answered, “and to touch.”

“Touch what, you shrewd merchant?”

“The truth.”

“Does truth have a body? What’s this you’re piping, blockhead!”

“If it has no body, what do I want with it?” said Thomas, laughing. “I need to touch things. I don’t trust my eyes or my ears; I trust my hands.”

They reached the highest part of the village and entered a cheery whitewashed house.

A girl of about twelve years of age was lying on a white bed, her two large green eyes open. When she saw her father her face lighted up. Her soul shook violently, trying to lift the paralyzed body, but in vain; and the joy on her face went out. Leaning over, Jesus took the girl’s hand. All his strength assembled in his palm-all his strength and love and mercy. Without speaking, he pinned his eyes onto the two green eyes and felt his soul flow impetuously from the tips of his fingers into the girl’s body. She looked at him ardently, her lips just parted, and smiled.

The disciples tiptoed into the room, with Thomas first and foremost, his sack of wares over his back and his horn under his belt. The peasants scattered throughout the garden and narrow lane. Everyone was holding his breath and waiting. The centurion, leaning against the wall, watched his daughter and struggled to hide his anguish.