Magdalene

by Angela Hunt

  I drew a deep breath and sat up, then winced as Natar hissed in my ear. I smacked the meaty part of my palm to the side of my head in an effort to stop the vibrations.

  “Are you all right? Come out of there and let me have a look at you.”

  With my limbs weak and trembling, I could not move. The fisherman’s broad fist gripped my arm, his other hand tugged at my belt and hauled me out of the boat.

  When he released me on shore, I tried to stand, but my legs felt as a weak as a newborn lamb’s. I crumpled to the earth, and at the touch of solid ground my voices erupted in such gleeful gibbering that I cringed and thrust both hands against my ears.

  The man spoke, but I couldn’t hear a word over the racket in my skull. I squinted at him, trying to read his lips, but I couldn’t tell if he spoke Greek or Aramaic. I finally turned toward the muddy grass, cushioning my elbows in the soft soil as I sought the comfort of warm earth. There I was, a lone woman, confused, disheveled, and defenseless …

  When he touched me, I thought immediately of that poor girl in Tiberias. She had been more vulnerable than I; she would be far more damaged. I was already a shattered vessel, a home fit only for unpleasant pagan gods.

  The fisherman thought I was one of those women who lingers by busy roads and makes her living in the most primitive way imaginable. And so he smiled and his hand went to my neck. My voices trilled at his touch, several of them shrieked my dead husband’s name, and for an instant I thought I had found my way to death’s shore and Yaakov, he of blessed memory, was waiting for me …

  But the moment the stranger’s mouth touched my skin, I knew the shore was not Sh’ol, nor was that stranger my husband. I drifted into a dark place as my ears filled with the taunting hoots of the invaders who had bedeviled my soul.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Fire, water, hunger, cold, flagellation, bloodletting. Branding of the shoulder with the images of a dog, a snake, and a scorpion. Atticus endured them all in the dark initiation chamber where time stopped and the outside world ceased to exist. At times pain rose slowly inside him like a wave, cresting, sending streamers of anguish in every direction; at other times agony crackled over his back like heat lightning.

  During the water test, in which his tormentors held his head under water far longer than he would have imagined possible, he couldn’t find enough air to push out the scream clawing in his throat. During the trial by fire, in which the torturers held torches to the soles of his feet, he screamed until he thought he would wake Julius Caesar.

  But through it all, he did not betray Quintus, nor did he ask for mercy.

  After being branded, when Atticus had wearied of breathing the odors of blood, sweat, and seared skin, the swollen door opened again. Four masked soldiers entered; two of them carried new togas and armor.

  Atticus closed his eyes, relieved at this tangible sign of the real world’s return.

  Along with their armor and tunics, he and Flavius were given raven masks to indicate their rank. “But before you put them on,” the priest said, his now-familiar voice scraping across Atticus’s frayed nerves, “there is one more rite of initiation.” Again, the eyes behind the mask smiled. “Follow me.”

  Atticus avoided looking at Flavius as they stepped out of the chamber and walked back to the central temple. As before, masked soldiers in full uniform filled the benches, and for a moment Atticus wondered if they had moved since that first night.

  “Our Mithras,” the priest intoned, “was commanded by Apollo to slay the bull that represented the fullness of life. In the taurobolium, you must slay the bull and be immersed in its blood in order to partake of its life-giving properties and join us in fellowship. Will you do this?”

  Atticus lifted his gaze. Behind the priest, a deep bowl had been cut into the earth; above the bowl, someone had erected a slatted wooden bridge. A bull had been led onto the bridge and tethered between two posts. The bull blew gustily, then lowered its great head to bellow in displeasure.

  Flavius did not hesitate. “I will slay the bull.”

  Atticus nodded. “I will, too.”

  “Then take up your swords and strike in the name of Mithras!”

  Atticus glanced to the right, where two swords waited on a stone altar. He reached for the first and waited for Flavius to take the second, then they stepped down the curving slope of the bowl and looked up through the wooden slats.

  The bull tossed his head and bounced in agitation. Atticus nodded at Flavius, then they thrust their swords through the slats and pulled, piercing and slitting the bull’s exposed belly. Above the bull’s death roar Atticus heard his own triumphant shout.

  Blood and entrails showered down upon them in a crimson spatter. Atticus looked at his friend, chagrinned and a little amazed that deprivation and trials could ignite a bloodthirsty fire in his veins, but Flavius’s eyes were aflame with exultation. Atticus felt the same, though he took less joy in the ritualistic slaughter than in the simple fact that the trials had been tests, not a sinister plan to break his spirit and force him to betray the people he’d promised to protect.

  Together they knelt, tipped their heads back, and opened their mouths to drink the baptism of blood. At the altar, the priest recited a prayer to Mithras, then pronounced that Atticus Aurelius and Flavius Gemellus had passed their trials and experienced the taurobolium. As a result, they were now renatus in aeternum, reborn for all eternity.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Evening shadows had stretched across the ground by the time I reached the fishing stalls outside Magdala. I trudged past overturned boats and empty booths and dragged my feet over paths I had crossed a thousand times with Avram and Yaakov and Rachel. When I reached the city gates, I leaned my bruised cheek against them, not at all surprised to discover I’d been locked out.

  Too late to call for the watchman. Magdala was not Tiberias; we did not keep a man in the watchtower all night. Whichever husband had drawn tower duty had already gone home to his wife, his children, and a good night’s rest.

  No choice but to sleep under the stars … if I could find a place to lay my head.

  I turned and wearily considered the landscape. A half-moon the color of bleached bone hung in the eastern sky, but the shadows under the plane trees were cold and blue. I shivered. The moon cast strange shadows across the sands, and in the shifting shapes I could see the unspeakable things mentioned by the voices in my head. As invisible creatures prowled through the darkness and murmured under the voice of the wind, my heart trembled like an animal in a cage of ribs.

  I gulped back a sob and ran for the security of the gated graveyard. There, at least, I would rest with my beloved Yaakov, Avram, Rachel, and Binyamin. And if in the morning the women of Magdala found me dead among the tombs, they would wonder how I’d come to be there, but they would not mourn my loss.

  They would only remind each other that a woman is nothing without her family.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Family. The word snaps Atticus back to a time when he had been training a group of recruits outside the barracks when a slave approached and asked for a private word. After Atticus dismissed his recruits, the slave informed him that the Lady Procula wished to see him at once.

  He would have rushed directly into the governor’s hall, but the slave suggested that he clean up before going to the house. Atticus obeyed the suggestion, but barely—he splashed water on his damp hair, dried his face on his tunic, and pulled his cloak over his sweaty shoulders before striding toward the palace.

  The servant ushered him into a cool room where tall doorways allowed a breeze to enter. Low couches encircled a short-legged table bearing a pitcher, several cups, and a plate of fruit.

  Atticus thrust his hands behind his back and resisted the urge to pace. He could think of no reason for Pilate’s wife to summon any of the legionnaires who guarded her home, so this must have something to do with the child.

  Had the boy fallen ill? The thought struck like a rock dropped
into a pool, sending ripples of anxiety in every direction.

  A door opened and in walked Pilate’s wife, a vision in gold and silk. Cyrilla, with the baby on her hip, followed in Procula’s shimmering wake. The baby, thank the gods, looked healthy and whole.

  Quintus regarded Atticus with wide eyes, then broke into a smile. Atticus had to force himself not to rush forward and scoop the toddler into his arms.

  The lady Procula reclined on one of the couches, then smiled and examined Atticus’s face with considerable concentration. “I have heard good things about you, Atticus Aurelius. Cyrilla tells me you care a great deal for this child, not minding that he is deaf, limited in usefulness … and a Jew.”

  Atticus shot a quick look at the girl, who held Quinn’s uplifted hands as he practiced walking on the other side of the room. What, exactly, had she told her mistress?

  Procula clasped her hands and looked at him with something fragile in her eyes. “Do not fear, soldier. As far as I’m concerned, the child is yours. But some people in my household would be happy to be rid of the Jews altogether, so we must keep certain facts to ourselves.”

  He bowed before the governor’s wife. “I would never want to burden the army or your household, my lady, but it seemed … unkind to snuff out a life the gods have granted.”

  “I agree. And I wonder … would you be willing to take a break from your legionary responsibilities to do something for me?” The lady gave Atticus a careful look, with only a slight lift of her brow to indicate that she knew she might be treading on precarious ground. “This favor … would be an act of kindness.”

  He barely managed to restrain a gasp of surprise. As far as he knew, no governor’s wife had ever singled out a soldier in this way.

  “I would be happy to serve you in any way possible,” he fumbled for words, “if the procurator and my centurion know and approve.”

  “Therein lies the problem.” Procula lowered her voice. “The procurator and your centurion must not know of my request. Neither would approve, I’m afraid, and both would condemn us.”

  “If this request is not proper, then—”

  “I sent for you, Atticus Aurelius, because I have it on good authority that you value honor more than blind obedience.” Her brows lifted. “Have I misunderstood the sort of man you are?”

  Some dim recess of his mind, a segment not occupied with seeking a way out of the situation, speculated that Flavius would claim Atticus’s sword and possessions after his execution. Because if Procula’s request required Atticus to act against the army, Gaius or another of the centurions would surely find out. The men of Mithras would not hesitate to kill him for disloyalty.

  “Soldier?” The lady’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Have I misunderstood?”

  He shook his head. “My lady, I don’t know what to say. I have vowed to serve Rome—”

  “Say nothing for now, but listen. I know men, Atticus, and I know Romans. My husband and your centurion see yonder child as nothing more than a worthless slave, while I, who am well-acquainted with the grief of a barren woman, would not willingly allow any child to suffer unnecessarily. So I will ask this favor … for the child’s sake.”

  Atticus glanced at Cyrilla, who watched with wide eyes, then he knelt before the procurator’s wife. “I will honor your wish,” he said simply. “But I pray you—don’t ask me to dishonor my cohort or my emperor.”

  “I would not ask that of you.” Procula’s calm voice warmed his troubled heart. “My request is simple—I want you to travel to Galilee. Gaius is accompanying my husband’s guard to Jerusalem, so he will not be aware of your absence. Though you are certainly a leader among your men—” her lips curved in a smile—“I do not think the recruits will forget how to march if you are gone for a few days.”

  Atticus propped his elbow on his bent knee. “What would you have me do in that region?”

  The lady drew a deep breath, then stood and walked to the window. “The last time we visited Jerusalem, Pilate and I dined with Herod. The king introduced us to his steward, a man called Chuza, and later I had occasion to meet Joanna, the steward’s wife.”

  Atticus nodded. Pilate and his household stayed at Herod’s Jerusalem palace whenever they traveled to the holy city. Because the palace lay only a short distance from the temple and the Fortress Antonia, a single cohort could easily guard both rulers and control all three locations.

  “Joanna,” Procula continued, staring out the window, “told me of a healer from Nazareth, a man many of the Jews consider a prophet. They say he has turned water into wine.”

  Atticus struggled to stifle a snicker. Any drunk could be fooled into believing water was wine if he’d swallowed enough of the latter—

  “They say,” Procula went on, “he has opened blind eyes and deaf ears.”

  Atticus froze as comprehension seeped through his incredulity. A man who could heal the deaf?

  Procula turned to face him. “I want you to take the child to this healer. But you cannot go as a soldier of Rome; you would attract too much attention. Put on plain clothing and take Cyrilla with you. Pose as husband and wife, take the boy and offer him to this prophet. See what can be done for the child.”

  Atticus blinked. “And … if nothing can be done?”

  The lady’s eyes shimmered with wetness. “At least we will have tried.”

  Atticus turned to Cyrilla, who gazed at her mistress with worry in her eyes. “Do you know how to locate this healer?”

  Her head bobbed. “From other servants I’ve heard that he travels through the lands around Galilee, teaching in various towns. Hundreds follow him, so I don’t think he’ll be hard to find.”

  Atticus returned his attention to his mistress. “When should we go?”

  “Tomorrow at first light, I think. Gaius and Pilate are leaving tonight.” She frowned slightly. “Have I forgotten anything, Atticus?”

  “No. Thank you for trusting me with this task.” He rose, then paused in the doorway before leaving. “May I ask one thing?”

  “Ask.”

  “Why me? Any one of your servants could do this for you.”

  Her lips parted in a still, small smile. “Because you love the boy.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Atticus rose before daybreak and pulled off his red tunic. Cyrilla had sent fresh clothing from the palace—a tunic of beige linen, a belt to tie at the waist, and a deep brown cloak. The clothing was finer than anything Atticus had worn before his army enlistment, but without his armor he felt curiously underdressed.

  Flavius opened one eye, saw him dressed as a merchant, and sat up. “By Apollo’s foul breath, what are you doing?”

  Atticus pressed his finger over his lips. “Running an errand.”

  “Have you gone mad?”

  “I’ll be back in two or three days. While I’m away, say nothing. If anyone asks, I’m around the corner or in the barracks.”

  He moved to the doorway, then peered into the courtyard. Cyrilla, dressed in a common cloak and unadorned tunic, waited in a wagon near the gate. The baby sat in her lap, drowsing against her shoulder.

  Flavius crept up behind him and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I see what you’re up to. If it’s the woman you’re wanting—”

  “It’s not the woman.” Atticus clapped his friend’s shoulder in a farewell salute. “I’ll tell you about it when I return.”

  He plucked a staff from a barrel near the doorway, stepped out into the courtyard, and strode off to join his temporary family.

  * * *

  Nazareth and the Sea of Tiberias lay more than a day’s journey from Caesarea, but as Atticus swatted the slow-moving donkey, he was grateful not to be marching in the stultifying heat.

  The Lady Procula had been wise to send them in a wagon instead of a chariot or a litter. The latter conveyances would have drawn hostile attention, and while no one would take them for Jews, at least they weren’t readily identifiable as a soldier and a former harlot.r />
  As the donkey clomped over the stone pavement, Atticus stared at the landscape and considered the task before him. How could he find one Jewish man among so many? He knew little about the Jews, but his centurion insisted they were a lazy, ignorant, and superstitious race. “They will not work on the seventh day,” he’d once proclaimed to his century. “If you strike a Jew on a Saturday, he will not lift a hand even in his own defense. They exclude themselves from other people and will not let their daughters talk to strangers. They say these are the laws of their god, but there are no gods in their temple, nor any in their synagogues. How foolish is that?”

  Atticus wasn’t certain he would be able to accomplish his mission among people who would scarcely speak to strangers, but as the gods would have it, they had set out on a Saturday and he did appreciate the nearly empty road.

  He glanced behind him, where Cyrilla sat in the wagon with her legs tucked beneath her tunic and the baby by her side. “Everything all right back there?”

  “We’re fine.” She ran her hand over Quinn’s downy hair. “He really is a lovely boy, Atticus. The Lady Procula is quite taken with him.”

  He looked away, lest she see how much her comment pleased him. “That’s good.”

  “I’m fond of him, too.”

  “That’s how it should be. A boy needs a mother.”

  “A boy also needs a father.”

  Atticus swallowed hard and flicked the donkey’s reins. Conversing with Cyrilla was like treading over a beach dotted with quicksand … one thoughtless reply could land Atticus in unyielding muck.

  “Do you think,” she continued, “this healer will be able to help our Quintus?”

  Our Quintus? With an effort, he dredged words from his throat. “I don’t know.”

  “My Lady Procula is most impressed with the stories she’s heard. She’d go see this man herself, but her husband would not allow it.”

  “Well … it’d be hard to guarantee her safety. The Jews can be a troublesome lot.”