by Angela Hunt
We gathered around heaping platters of fried locusts, fish, fruit, and pastries, a Shabbat feast. After giving thanks, we began to eat. Uriah, who peered at me every few minutes as if he expected me to burst into flames, remarked that he hadn’t brought in a good catch; Yudit responded by saying that her day had been interesting.
Uriah’s irritable mood did not improve when he heard that Yeshua had enticed several of the young men away from their work. Yudit pointed to me as proof of Yeshua’s calling as a prophet, but Uriah would not be persuaded.
“How many would-be messiahs and deliverers have we heard about in the last twenty years? A dozen? How many Israelites have been delivered from Rome? None. No, Yudit, I will not be glad about this Yeshua and you are not to serve him or his tagalongs again. Let him leave Magdala in peace, but do not encourage him.”
“He is doing great good among the people,” Yudit countered, her voice low. “He has healed sick people from towns all around Galil. I spoke to one of the women who travels with him; she says blind men see and lame men walk at the prophet’s touch—”
Uriah shook his head. “It’s easy to fool a crowd. He has only to hire men to pretend they are lame.”
Hadassah looked up, a glittery challenge in her eyes. “What about Miryam?”
Uriah studied me, sucking at the inside of his cheek as his thick brows worked like a pair of caterpillars. “Miryam was crazed by grief,” he finally said, his voice gruff. “What woman wouldn’t lose her mind in such a situation? But time has healed her and now she is home where she belongs.”
Yudit exhaled, then caught my gaze and quietly rolled her eyes. In that moment, I knew she wouldn’t be joining me when I left Magdala.
But I had made my plans. Abruptly, I told Uriah I wanted to sell my house, the boat, and Yaakov’s fishing nets. “I will pay you to handle the sale.”
He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, signaling that I had transgressed the bounds of womanly behavior. “You will need those things. You need a place to live.”
“I’m not staying in Magdala.”
“Then where?”
“I’m not sure.”
He digested this. “What about your market stall? Your business?”
“Yudit may have my stall—you’ve always admired it, now it’s yours. I would also like to share my secret dye formulas with her and Hadassah; I can do some of that tomorrow. We will be partners in the business and you will deliver my portion of the proceeds every month or so.”
When a livid hue overspread Uriah’s face, I knew my forthrightness had confounded him. While Yaakov still lived, my husband had spoken for me; I doubt I had said ten words in Uriah’s hearing. But with neither husband nor son, I had to speak for myself. If that upset Uriah, well, so be it.
Yeshua hadn’t minded when I spoke directly to him.
Hadassah didn’t seem to mind my decision. “You’ll teach me how to dye fabrics?” she asked, her eyes widening. “Oh, Miryam, how wonderful!”
“I have always wanted to teach you.” I patted her hand. “Now I can.”
I lowered my gaze as a wave of sorrow rose in my chest. If not for the Romans, I would have shared my formulas with Rachel and Binyamin’s wife; my dyeing techniques would have remained in the family. We would have spent the rest of our days either crushing crimson worms and stirring dyes or selling in the marketplace … now Yudit’s courtyard would be scattered with dye pots and piles of crushed shells, not mine.
A cold, congested expression settled on Uriah’s face. “As your late husband’s friend, I must warn you that traveling with this so-called rabbi is not in your best interests. I have heard stories from Natzeret. Did you know his family does not accept him? Only his mother supports him. His brothers think he is insane, and I have heard that—”
“You are my late husband’s friend,” I interrupted, “and I thank you for your concern. But please arrange the sale of those things and keep the marketplace stall. Yudit deserves to enjoy a bit of shade as she works.”
Uriah pinched his lower lip with his teeth, then drew his mouth into a tight smile. “And where shall I bring the money?”
“To me,” I answered, my voice light. “I will be traveling with Yeshua.”
* * *
The night before I left Magdala, I lay awake and thought about Yeshua. He’d remained in Magdala for the Shabbat and he’d spoken in our synagogue about the coming kingdom of God.
As a woman, I had always preferred to leave theological discussions to Yaakov and Avram. But with a personal stake in the struggle between Isra’el and Rome, I wanted to learn more about the Messiah.
A memory flitted past my face like moth wings. One night at dinner, Yaakov and Avram had begun to discuss whether Herod Antipas might be the Messiah.
“Impossible!” Avram insisted. “The Messiah will fight for Isra’el, and Herod fights for no one but himself.”
“But his father rebuilt the temple,” Yaakov pointed out, a light in his eye as he stroked his beard. “And he won victories over the Parthians and Nabateans. So perhaps the kingdom of God is already upon us.”
“The father is not the son,” Avram countered. “And as long Isra’el is not properly observing the Torah, the kingdom has not come. Unless the defeated pagans come to Zion for instruction as the prophets foretold, the kingdom has not come.”
But the kingdom of God was coming … Yeshua the prophet had said so.
I felt like a child on the brink of a new life. I was too old to marry again. I had given birth and lost my children. I had built a home and a business and watched them go up in flames. I had been possessed by foul demons and I’d been freed. I’d be eternally grateful for my deliverance, but I wanted one thing more from Yeshua, the Holy One’s true prophet.
I wanted to stand in his service when he ushered in the kingdom of God. By helping him, I’d be doing something to overthrow the Romans and achieve justice for my husband, sons, and daughter-in-law. What I could not accomplish through Herod or my own strength, I could achieve by helping Yeshua. When he had driven the stench of Rome from our holy land, I could return to Magdala and die a satisfied woman.
With this thought uppermost in my mind, the next morning I joined Yeshua’s group when they left Magdala. Hadassah threw her arms around me as I prepared to leave. “I will do my best to honor you with all you’ve taught me,” she said, nodding toward the dye pots in her courtyard. “When you come home again, I hope to have a lovely piece of purple to show you.”
“You’ll do well,” I said. “You have an eye for color.”
“And I am so sorry,” she whispered in my ear, “about how my mother treated you before—before—”
“Hush, child.” I smoothed her hair away from her face, then kissed her forehead. “Everything’s fine between us.”
“Then why must you go? You’ve just come back and now you’re leaving again—”
I clasped her hand and held it tight against my cheek. “Do you remember how much we loved Avram?”
“Of course!”
“I’m going away to help Yeshua set things right for us … for all of us. So be a good girl and I’ll see you soon.”
“You promise?”
“I do.”
Though something of my heart remained behind as I walked out of Magdala, I knew I was doing the right thing. Yeshua had said so.
Since women usually keep to themselves, most men will scarcely notice if a woman travels behind them. But while the prophet’s disciples might not have noticed my presence, the women who assisted the prophet could not avoid me. Four of them followed Yeshua when we left Magdala on the first day of the week—Yeshua’s mother, also named Miryam; Joanna, wife to Herod’s steward; Susanna, Peter’s wife; and Salome, sister to Yeshua’s mother.
The women of Yeshua’s company proved friendly enough. They were prone to speaking in whispered voices, as if they didn’t want to miss a word that passed Yeshua’s lips. The men didn’t treat him with that kind of respect, not when I firs
t joined the group. Occasionally he’d say something that closed their mouths in thoughtful regard, but within a few hours they’d go back to bragging that they had been chosen to usher in the kingdom of God.
Though I enjoyed watching the men, I walked with the women. We didn’t talk much that first day—I think they were waiting for me to divulge my motives—and I was struggling to listen to any conversation that might reveal Yeshua’s plan for the future. I couldn’t hear much, though, walking behind the men, so after a while I slowed my pace and fell into step with Yeshua’s mother.
The prophet’s mother was a singer. She sang nearly all the time, usually in a voice pitched so low only those closest to her could hear it. I grew to love the sound of her musical murmur and listened for it at all hours of the day and night.
We camped that night in the wilds outside Capernaum. The sun had just vanished below the western horizon when Uriah trotted up on a donkey. He’d come to tell me he’d sold the boat and the house, and he handed me a purse filled with denarii. Of course, Peter invited him to enjoy a meal and the fire, so he stayed the night, though I suspected he wasn’t happy about sharing a campfire with Yeshua.
I had just opened the purse when Judas, a broad-faced man from Kerioth, stepped forward and held out his hand. “I’ll take that for you.”
I clutched the purse to my chest and looked to Salome for confirmation. “It’s all right,” she said. “Judas handles the money for our group.”
“It’s not safe for women to carry great sums of silver,” Judas said, looking at the stars, the rocks, the trees, everything but my eyes. “So if you will give me your purse, Miryam—”
I pulled out a denarius and placed it in his palm. “I’ll give you that,” I told him, “until I feel the need to give more.”
“It’s not safe,” he began again, as if I were hard of hearing.
“Young man,” I interrupted, “I fear few things in this life. I am certainly not afraid of a thief.”
I almost felt sorry for Judas when he finally met my gaze. How could he know what I’d endured in the wilds around Galilee?
I let him go without offering another word.
Joanna lifted a brow in silent inquiry.
“I’m not being greedy.” I tucked my purse into the belt at my waist. “I don’t trust that young man.”
“If Yeshua trusts him—”
“Yeshua can trust him or not,” I answered. “But I know business, and I want to wait.”
“For what?” Susanna asked.
“For time to reveal what sort of man he is.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Atticus leans his elbows on his knees as the mention of a coin purse fills him with remembering. He had been ten the year his father knelt before him, placed a coin purse in his hand, and told him to take care of his mother and younger brother.
“I have to deliver a load of supplies to the army in Gaul,” he said, pride and tenderness mingling in his expression. “You will be the man of the house while I am gone, so you must look after your mother and little Quinn. Use these coins to buy whatever you need, all right?”
Atticus braced his shoulders, eagerly accepting the burden his father placed on them. His mother was easy to care for—soft-spoken and gentle, she drifted through life with the grace of a petal floating in a fountain. Caring for Quinn would be more challenging, but the little boy with the wide eyes spent most of his day squatting in the shadows, watching as Atticus practiced maneuvers with his shield and wooden stave.
His father kissed Atticus’s forehead, then gave his shoulders a squeeze. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll bring you a present. So remember to say your prayers and obey your mother while I’m gone.”
He had hugged his father and held his mother’s hand as Varinus Aurelius rode off in the service of the Empire.
Atticus never saw his father again. According to the letter they received a year later, Varinus had been supposed to meet up with a caravan at Lugdunum, but the caravan had not arrived a full week after the appointed time. Not wanting to delay further, Varinus pressed on alone, only to be robbed and killed by brigands on the highway.
Atticus’s mother, who’d never been strong, could not bear the weight of her grief and the strain of providing for two sons, including one whose hearing and speech had been stolen by a raging fever. Atticus tried to help her, but he couldn’t dispel the aura of melancholy that radiated from his mother’s pale and delicate features. The coin purse had long been empty, and the money he brought in by selling sweetmeats from a street cart did not go far.
One winter day an older man, a merchant of patrician rank and considerable wealth, came to the house and proposed marriage, but Atticus’s mother insisted on visiting a priest at the temple of Jupiter before accepting the merchant’s offer.
That night she came home, placed her hand on Atticus’s forehead, and said they’d soon be moving to the home of Titus Rutilius.
Atticus couldn’t sleep after hearing the news. He stretched out on his bed and tried to persuade his eyes to remain closed, but excitement had fired his imagination. How wonderful to live in a big house, to have a pony, and go to school!
Unable to sleep and not wanting to disturb his mother, he crept to the chamber where Quinn slept, only to find his brother’s pallet empty.
He found his mother, dressed in her cloak, tunic, and sandals, weeping on the moonlit portico. When he asked about Quinn, she shook her head and wept harder.
In a panic, Atticus flew through the house, searching all of Quinn’s hiding places. Once he thought he heard his little brother’s laughter, but when he turned the corner he heard only the splash of the fountain.
Where was he? Atticus was responsible for him; his father had told him to take care of the boy. How could he fail his father now?
With panic like a scent on him, Atticus slipped on his sandals and went out into the night. A cold fog had seethed into the city; it roiled over the cobblestones and cloaked his path. Atticus hurried from house to house, calling Quinn’s name, his voice growing hoarse.
Somehow he found himself at the temple of Jupiter. The white marble façade gleamed beneath a star-washed sky, imposing and unapproachable, but Atticus gathered his courage and climbed the steps of the portico.
A lone priest stood on the porch, a shriveled old man who huddled beneath a cloak. His eyes narrowed as Atticus drew near, but he didn’t speak until Atticus asked if he knew the priest who had advised his mother.
“And who is your mother?”
“Lithia Aurelius.”
The priest frowned in a way that made Atticus wonder if he was trying to remember or trying to forget. “Why do you care about this?”
“Because my brother is missing and my mother weeps.”
“Ah.” The priest lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “She has done it, then.”
Atticus felt cold fingers tiptoe down his backbone. “She has done … what?”
“Do not concern yourself, boy, go home. The sun will rise before you’ve had any sleep.”
“What has she done?” Atticus met the priest’s indifferent eyes without flinching, then put his hands around the man’s skinny throat. “Tell me what she’s done!”
He didn’t want to hurt the priest; he acted out of desperation to save his brother. But he was a head taller than his peers even then, and unaware of his burgeoning strength. The priest tossed him a look of pure terror, then waved in the direction of the street.
“What are you saying?” Atticus’s hands tightened around the man’s throat. “Tell me!”
The old priest’s face went the color of blood as he clawed at Atticus’s wrists. When he crumpled at the knees, Atticus released him and stepped back, alarmed at what he and his anger had done.
But the old priest didn’t look up to see the remorse on his face. He leaned forward, supporting himself on his hands and knees, and spoke in a wavering voice: “She can’t … marry … with a mute son. So she has … given him … back to the gods.”
Atticus blinked. “What are you talking about? She didn’t sacrifice—” He halted as a cold panic sprouted between his shoulder blades and prickled down his spine. How many oxen and lambs had he seen disemboweled on the altar of Jupiter? Surely his mother wouldn’t do that …
“She surrendered him,” the priest said, wheezing. “In the field outside the Via Cornelia.”
Atticus ran down the steps, his sandals slapping the marble. The Via Cornelia ran through the northwest corner of Rome, a hard run from the temple of Jupiter.
The first pale hint of sunrise had lit the eastern sky when he reached the city gate opposite the Via Cornelia. A broad field lay beyond the watch tower, a meadow that sloped away from the city.
Panting, Atticus reached out to steady himself on the stone wall. He lingered in the shadows until the changing of the guards and the opening of the gates, then he slipped through the gap and sprinted down the road.
He’d heard of little ones who mysteriously went away … but until that moment, he’d had no idea where the children went. Now he understood, and understanding brought him no peace. No youngster could survive in the cold for long; no child could survive in an area where wild animals and lawless men foraged.
He forced himself to walk at a slower pace, looking right and left while he called Quinn’s name. Skirts of long grass and tufts of wildflowers grew along the edge of the road, but none were taller than Quinn. If only the boy would stand up …
The road sloped downward, following the curve of the hill, and Atticus spotted a ribbon of water at its lowest point. And there, among the rocks along the edge of the creek, he spied a small form.
Swallowing a cry, Atticus tore through the grass and sprinted down the incline. The meadow around him vibrated softly with insect life, but no sound came from the motionless boy.
Atticus splashed into the water, then turned the naked body toward the sun.
He’d found Quintus—alone, exposed, dead. The bruise on his forehead supplied the story—left to himself, the bewildered boy must have wandered to the stream, fallen in, and hit his head on the rock.