Jesus knew, as their surroundings dissolved, that he had never forgotten her either. Mary, her mother had called her. His eyes traveled from the birthmark below her right eye, to her threadbare tunic, and settled on her bare feet. Her lot had not improved since that night.

He softened his mind and let it intuit her. He was shocked at how easily he could meld his thoughts with hers. How easily she drew him into soulful connection. He gazed upon her splendid face and sensed that she was reading his thoughts with equal ease. He realized that within her gaze, within her long-cherished memory—of the night he courageously stood up in defense of her—he felt naked. And free of disguise. In her gaze, he remembered his name and all he believed. The past and present circled. The he met the she. And his mother’s voice rose again in song.

Mesmerized, he held Communion within the intricate petals of her eyes. She warmed beneath his gaze, as beneath the sun.

She smiled.

After a brief hesitation, he smiled back.

CHAPTER 44

Somewhere within ancient Palestine—33 A.D.

As the afternoon sun blazed down, Mary Magdalene led her donkey northward. Jesus rode on the animal’s back. His body swayed with a watery motion. Ruth had been truly grateful for the conveyance, as she feared his leg was quickly becoming too weak to carry him.

Every few minutes, Mary turned to glance up at Jesus. Having expressed her desire to stay and support their efforts, she had become an indispensable part of the group. Without any urging, she had begun to help Tabitha gather plants and herbs. She cooked meals, repaired children’s tunics, and collected firewood. She made refreshing teas to cool people’s throats during the heat of the day. At other times, she sat on the pallets of the ill or incapacitated. Her mere presence seemed to alleviate their pain and anguish. As Jesus wove among the people, he noticed that clouds of contentment rose from wherever she stood. And her devotion reignited his purpose.

Peter sulked at the back of the group. He had grown silent and difficult since Mary’s arrival. From a distance, he scowled at the budding intimacy between Jesus and his silver-eyed admirer. He winced at how the woman blushed and toyed with his friend’s affections. How she curled around his words and pressed her fingers, ever so gently, on his sleeve. He cringed at the sound of his friend’s ready laughter. He had never heard him so merry. Not even when they had been shepherds!

Peter had been further infuriated when Jesus chose Mary to lead the donkey instead of him. He had wanted to protest, but remained silent.

How could he compete with a woman’s lascivious wiles? Her empty smiles and knowing glances? Truly, she was the work of the devil!