Magdalene

by Angela Hunt

  The woman turns back to Flavius, but a tremor now fills her voice. Atticus squints at the back of her head, trying to place her face and features. In younger days, she would have been striking, even beautiful. Did he know her in Galilee? In Caesarea? Perhaps he met her in Jerusalem.

  Or … perhaps she is insane and he never met her at all.

  He considers her crime and is again perplexed. Insanity would explain the charge against her, but her calm voice is both powerful and gentle. Her language is precise and rational, and she speaks Greek with apparent ease, emphasizing a word now and then with a restrained gesture.

  Nothing about her suggests madness or wide-eyed fanaticism.

  Atticus transfers his gaze to the scribe, who listens with a bored expression, his stylus moving over the papyrus in short, quick strokes. Flavius sits in the seat of judgment, his arms folded, his legs extended and crossed.

  Atticus leans forward, hoping for another look at the woman’s face. As if she senses his presence, she turns slightly and meets his eye, but this time she doesn’t falter and her resolute gaze lacks even a trace of panic or fear. She wouldn’t be here unless she deserved death, but why would she confess to a capital crime?

  Chapter Four

  As a breeze swept away the heat of midday and the other merchants reappeared, I made Rachel lie down in the shade of the stall. “Get some rest,” I told her, realizing that I would be holding my first grandchild within a month. “It should be quiet this afternoon, but if Rekhav tries to buy anything, you must refuse her. She has not paid what she owes us from the last time she visited.”

  When Rachel gratefully sank to the mat, I wrapped Binyamin in my arms and walked toward the lake. The smell of water and the tang of fresh fish reached me before I could even see the silver waves of Galilee.

  Fishermen crowded the shore, unloading their catches, as salters filled their baskets with the palm-sized fish that abounded in those waters. I averted my eyes from the sight of so many bare-chested men and walked directly to the place where my Yaakov stored his boat.

  As always, my heart leapt at the sight of my dear husband. His skin shone like oiled olive wood as he stood at the bow and tugged on his nets. He called something to Avram, our firstborn, and smiled when he saw me.

  “You have brought Binyamin,” he said, holding out his arms.

  Glad to be rid of the weight on my breast, I leaned across the shallows and handed our sleepy son to his father. Yaakov held the boy above his head and called to him, but though Binyamin smiled, he did not greet his father like other babies his age.

  As always, a shadow of concern filled Yaakov’s eyes as he returned our son to my arms.

  “There now, Binyamin.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he caught my gaze. “Go with your mama while I clean the boat.”

  So … once again, we were going to avoid talking about Binyamin’s refusal to babble. Yaakov kept telling me not to worry, all would be well, but my husband was always looking for miracles.

  In all my forty years, I had never seen one.

  Avram splashed into the water and called a greeting before hauling a basket of fish from the stern to the shore. He would take the day’s catch to the salter, then join Rachel at the market stall.

  I settled beneath a shade tree and bounced the baby on my knees. “You did well today.”

  “We did.” Yaakov paused, his hands on his hips, as if trying to remember what he’d been about to do before I appeared. “A nice haul. But one of the nets ripped; it must have caught on something under the boat.”

  I looked at the sky, where the sun had retreated behind a cloudbank. “It’s a good day for mending.”

  Yaakov grunted a reply and gathered a net into his arms, then leapt out of the boat and splashed toward me. After settling in the shade, he spread the net on his lap and showed me the broken strings.

  I clucked in sympathy. “It’ll mend.”

  “I think so.”

  While he pulled out his twine and tools, I told him of the Lady Carina and her fascination with the purple cloth. I did not tell him she had asked me to meet her at the inn.

  “Ten gold denarii?” His dark eyes glittered above his beard. “It’s too much.”

  “She agreed to pay. What can I do if she refuses to bargain?”

  “You tell her you’ve had a change of heart, then you lower the price.”

  “Why should I deprive her of wearing the most expensive tunic in Galil? A thing is worth whatever the buyer is willing to pay for it.”

  “A thing is worth a fair price, no more. When her servant comes tonight, you will tell him the price is five gold denarii. And the lady will still be wearing the most expensive tunic in Isra’el.”

  I rolled my eyes and pretended to pout, but I actually felt grateful for my husband’s intervention. Despite her ignorance, I had liked the Lady Carina and had no wish to cheat her.

  When Binyamin made a fist and rubbed at his eye, I dropped my hand onto Yaakov’s sun-warmed back. “I should go home. The baby wants a nap.”

  “Go then.” My husband’s eyes went soft with affection. “I’ll be along later.”

  “I’ll have your dinner ready.”

  Reluctantly, I left the thick shade and stepped into the bright sun. I noticed that I had the road to myself; not a Roman chariot in sight. As a thin ribbon of sweat wandered down my back, I felt myself longing for the comforting atmosphere of our house. My business kept me busy in the marketplace three days a week, but I always loved coming home.

  I hadn’t traveled more than forty paces when I spotted Avram standing on the edge of the road with a group of men. Like him, several wore sleeveless tunics over their bare chests, the uniform of fishermen. Two others wore the broad tzitziyot and tefillin—fringes and phylacteries—of Pharisees. Those two would not be happy to see me, a woman, walking alone in the sight of so many men.

  I lowered my head in a modest posture and quickened my pace, but an overheard comment from my son halted me in mid-step.

  “I will obey all six hundred thirteen commandments in the Torah—” Avram’s voice rolled with the thunder of an offended rabbi—“when the people of Isra’el join me in honoring the creator of those commandments. We will not have the Holy One, blessed be He, as our king until we throw off the Roman oppressors.”

  What was he thinking? I turned toward the men and closed my eyes, momentarily wishing that Avram had been born as compliant as Binyamin. Such talk would get him into trouble with the rabbi and the Romans. A good thing none of the legionnaires had been around to hear him.

  Despite the heat, my forearms pebbled with gooseflesh when I heard the distinct crunch of hobnails on pavement. Shifting slightly, I glanced up the road … and saw bare legs, thickly strapped sandals, the tip of a sheathed sword.

  A soldier was coming toward us.

  I stepped off the pavement, but I could not let the Roman pass while Avram spouted belligerencies only a few feet away. Desperate to protect my firstborn, I lifted my head and boldly stared at the interloper. The plumed half-circle crest on his helmet told me he was a centurion; the hard lines of his face assured me he would resent my son’s aggressive talk.

  The Roman officer walked with his left hand on the hilt of his sword, the other swung free at his side. Beneath his helmet, his face looked like a stretch of sun-baked desert, trenched by deep ravines.

  The man ignored my defiant eyes and continued his advance. He probably wanted to buy fish; soldiers often snacked on the dried sardines sold at the water’s edge. Perhaps he hadn’t heard Avram’s rash comment.

  I stood at the side of the road and pretended to examine Binyamin, who drowsed against my breast. I clenched my jaw, willing Avram and his companions to be silent as the empty air between us vibrated and the silence filled with dread.

  My eldest son and his companions parted when they saw the Roman. They stepped off the pavement, but they did not retreat. They stood at the edge of the road, their faces signaling silent contempt for th
e oncoming centurion.

  The heathen did not slow, but turned his head to regard the men with an unnerving and implacable expression. Deliberately meeting their eyes, he seemed to hold their scorn in his grip while his mouth took on an unpleasant twist. After a long moment, he lifted his chin and looked away.

  I exhaled a pent-up breath, then winced as a soft, wet sound reached my ear.

  No. Not that.

  I peered at Avram, whose lips were still curled as the back of his hand rose to wipe his chin.

  I looked at the centurion and saw a shining circle of spittle on the Roman’s sandal.

  Binyamin began to whimper as my hand rose to my mouth. HaShem, Holy One, please, not Avram, not now, not here—

  The Roman turned. I saw the slight squint of his eye, the sideward movement of his jaw, the throbbing pulse in his neck.

  But he did not move toward my foolish son. He scowled at the group, his brows knitting together, then he pressed his lips into a flat line and continued toward the lake.

  As one, Avram and the others watched the Roman until he disappeared among the trees, then Avram howled in laughter.

  If he’d been ten years younger, I’d have dragged him home by the ear.

  As it was, all I could do was hold my youngest son close and hurry toward the safe shelter of my home.

  * * *

  I was still trembling with impotent rage when I heard Hadassah’s lilting voice: “Miryam? Can I help with dinner?”

  I straightened and looked into the courtyard. My neighbor’s fifteen-year-old daughter stood at the gate, her eyes alight with expectation.

  I couldn’t stop a smile. “Come in, dear one.”

  She whirled into the room with the energy of youth, then paused to peer into Binyamin’s basket. “Oh, Miryam, he looks like a sleeping angel. He grows sweeter every day.”

  “I would have to agree.”

  “Do you think I’ll ever have a baby?”

  I lifted a brow. “Don’t you think that’s a question for your mother?”

  Hadassah shrugged. “Mother wants me to get married; she’s eager for grandchildren. But Father insists he’s not ready to let me go.”

  I returned my attention to the mess of vegetables I was cleaning for the stewpot. “Surely your father knows what’s best.”

  “I don’t want to get married now.” Hadassah sank to the rug, then propped her chin on her elbow. “I haven’t wanted to get married since … well, you know. It’s hard to find anyone who measures up to him.”

  I pulled a handful of lentils from my bowl and paused before dropping them into the pot. “You have to think of someone besides Avram. He’s married to Rachel and he’s happy. Besides, he’s too old for you.”

  “Avraham wasn’t too old for Sarah. And Yitzhak was years older than Rivkah!”

  I smiled as she continued to name examples of aged patriarchs and their younger wives. In truth, the girl’s prattle lightened my spirit. Seeing my headstrong firstborn through her adoring eyes helped me forget how furious I was with him.

  “And my father is twenty years older than my mother—”

  I held up a hand to interrupt her. “Will you pour some water into the pot, please?”

  She sprang up and grabbed the pitcher, then tipped it into the pot. Something in the gesture reminded me of myself in younger days.

  “You know,” I said, smiling at a memory, “I was once quite taken with a man … who wasn’t Yaakov.”

  The dark lashes that shadowed her cheeks flew up. “You were?”

  “Yes. I was betrothed to a young man from another village. Hoshea was handsome and kind, and our fathers arranged everything. But before he came to take me to his father’s house—” I shot a glance at Hadassah, who stood frozen in a paralysis of astonishment—“I heard he had walked alone with another girl from my village. I promptly begged my father to break our arrangement, of course.”

  Hadassah lowered the pitcher to the floor. “What—what happened next?”

  “Hoshea came to my house and begged my father’s forgiveness. He said he’d made a mistake, but he hadn’t soiled the other girl’s honor or hurt my good name. But if I couldn’t trust him in simple things, how could I trust him in more important matters? So my father ended the betrothal and soon afterward Yaakov’s father spoke to my father. And now all is as it should be. Yaakov was meant to be my husband.”

  Hadassah gaped at me, her luminous eyes wide with wonder. “And what happened to Hoshea?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose he married a girl from his village—probably someone who doesn’t know the first thing about dyeing fabrics. So you see, Hadassah, the Holy One knows what He is doing.”

  “Yaakov is a blessed man to have married a merchant, a dyer, and a good wife.” She checked the water level in the pot, then tipped the pitcher again. “I know you’re the best mother in the entire world. You raised such a fine son.”

  “If the Holy One, blessed be He, wills it, I will raise two fine sons,” I said. “Now, that’s enough water and enough foolishness. Your father is a wise man and he will arrange a good marriage for you. And when you are betrothed, you will come to see your father’s choice as everything you need in a husband—”

  “Not unless he’s as handsome as Avram and as practical as you.” She stood and returned the pitcher to its place, then bent to kiss my cheek. “I’d better help Mother; she’ll be looking for me. And she wants you to taste her fig bread. She’s trying something new.”

  “I’ll see her tomorrow.” I waved the high-spirited girl out the door, then sat in a room that suddenly seemed far too silent.

  Like my youngest child.

  Chapter Five

  By the glow of lamplight I set the stewpot on a chunk of wood in the center of our rug. I had already nursed Binyamin, who played quietly by his father as Yaakov and Avram sank to their usual spots across from each other. Rachel offered bread to Yaakov, who took it and recited the blessing: “Baruch Atah ADONAI Elohenu Melech Ha’olam, hamotzi Lechem Min Ha’aretz.” Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.

  Having given thanks, Yaakov tore the flat loaf, gave half to Avram, and dipped his half in the pot.

  As a woman, I should have waited, but as a mother I had to speak my mind. “Your son,” I bent to catch Yaakov’s eye, “nearly brought the wrath of the Romans down on us today. I was so terrified my heart nearly stopped.”

  Yaakov blinked. “Binyamin?”

  “Not Binyamin, this one!” I pointed at Avram, who flinched beneath my trembling finger. “This long-eared, big-mouthed fool who cares more about hearing himself boast than preserving his family!”

  “Mother!” Avram twisted his face into a look of aggrieved dismay. “You misunderstand me. I am only zealous for the Holy One, blessed be He, who will free Isra’el when we are brave enough to stand up to our oppressors.”

  “Did that Roman in the road oppress you? The man wanted fish; he came alone to the lake. He was minding his own business, as peaceful as a new morning, and you spat on him!”

  Yaakov blinked again. “You did what?”

  “I demonstrated my disdain for him and his obnoxious fellows,” Avram said, his voice hard and flat. “He came into our territory alone and unafraid. You should have seen the look on his face! His bearing alone was an affront to all who call themselves sons of Avraham, Yitzhak, and Yaakov. His presence was an insult to Isra’el, so I let him know that while our people might be under Rome’s bondage, we are not broken.”

  Yaakov stared at our son, his hand hovering over the pot of lentils. “You must be wise, Avram,” he said finally, dipping his bread into the pot. “You must choose your battles with care. I do not think you were meant to strike at Rome today.”

  “How will we know when it is time to strike?” Avram persisted, his eyes blazing. “The Holy One, blessed be He, will equip us when we muster the courage, but how are we to rouse the people when men like you refuse to—”

&nb
sp; “Avram!” Though he was a grown man, I could not bear to see my son insult his father. Yaakov was no coward—after all, he had been married to me for nearly twenty-five years and I am not known for soft words. “You must not speak to your father in that tone.”

  “I meant no disrespect.” Avram’s eyes flashed from me to his father. “But I will continue to do all I can to rouse Isra’el to action. Only when we have mustered the will to strike against the Romans will the Holy One, blessed be He, free us from the domination of these Caesars.”

  Frustrated by my son’s dangerous ideas, I lifted my dye-stained hands to a heaven that had grown stony with silence. “You think HaShem is watching us now? You think He cares? Not now, He doesn’t. He has left us, Avram, He has left us to find our own way. How long have the prophets been silent? How long has it been since we were promised a deliverer? Generations, my son. HaShem is no longer with us.”

  “Miryam.” Yaakov’s voice cracked with weariness. “You do not know what you are saying. Sit down.”

  “I cannot sit.” Still trembling with the terror of the afternoon, I crossed my arms and glared at my family. Poor Binyamin, thankfully, could not understand these things, but Rachel should have talked sense into her husband months ago. Yaakov, light of my life, was too gentle to restrain our firstborn, so the job of hobbling that stubborn mule had fallen to me.

  “Do not leave this house tomorrow—” I glared at Avram—“if you are going to persist in this foolish behavior. HaShem is not working to save Isra’el, not now.”

  A flush raced across my son’s face like a fever. “Were the prophets wrong, then? Is there no hope for us? No Messiah coming?”

  “If he does come, he’s certainly not coming to Magdala.” I pulled my veil from its hook and flung it over my head. “One thing I know for certain: it is better to do one’s work and not make trouble than to persist in foolish dreams.”

  When no one responded, I folded my arms and stepped out into the blessed coolness of the courtyard.

  I loved my family, but on some days I longed for the freedom to run away.