Magdalene

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Magdalene Page 29

by Angela Hunt


  I looked to see if he had caught the meaning hidden in my words, but Quintus’s expression remained pleasant. “My father’s century traveled all over Galilee. Sometimes I think there’s not a foot of Judean soil my father’s foot has not trampled.”

  I gritted my teeth as I lifted the pitcher. “More wine?”

  “Please.”

  “Does your father ever come to Jerusalem?” I asked, insinuating a friendly note into my voice as I splashed liquid into his cup. “Surely a centurion is free to travel as he pleases.”

  Quintus lifted his hand. “That’s enough, thank you. Actually, Father rarely travels without his men. I’m not likely to see him any time soon.”

  “Do you hope to make the army a career?”

  “If I can. Though I have to admit, lately I’ve been wondering how it’s possible for a follower of Yeshua to belong to the emperor’s army.” He shot a look at James, who reclined on the couch next to him. “My father always said we owe one sort of allegiance to Caesar and another sort to God. But I’ve never been sure how to reconcile those two.”

  James smiled. “Your father is right, but you might consider something else as well. Our Law, which was fulfilled by Yeshua, tells us not to murder. Killing is not always murder. When repentant soldiers came to Yochanan the Immerser, he told them to turn from their sin, but he did not tell them to leave the army. When centurions came to Yeshua, he healed their diseases without telling them to quit their occupation—which he would not have hesitated to do, for he frequently admonished people to stop sinning.”

  Quintus swallowed hard. “So it is right, then, for me to use my sword in the defense of Rome?”

  James tugged at his beard. “Defense may be the best use of a sword. Yeshua told his disciples they might bring swords for their journey to aid in their defense. Then again—” his eyes darkened with emotion—“Yeshua did not strike at those who arrested him in the garden and he freely laid down his life for all mankind. Stephen did not defend himself, nor did James, the brother of John, nor did the Immerser. Yeshua said we should love our enemies and turn the other cheek to those who would strike us.”

  The leader of the Jerusalem congregation took a deep breath and adjusted his smile. “I think, young Quintus, that the Holy Spirit will direct you when such a time comes. Listen to that still, small voice and you will not fail to honor the Lord.”

  I felt James’s gaze settle on me, but I did not meet his eyes. I had heard such comments before; I knew what Yeshua would have me do. But knowing and doing are different things, and I had set my heart on achieving justice.

  As a child, my father would not allow me to play with the Passover lamb lest I become attached. The holiness of our just God demanded sacrifice, which we had to give without hesitation.

  So I would not open my heart to Quintus Aurelius.

  * * *

  Quintus began to appear regularly at our synagogue and the inn where so many believers gathered. He took so naturally to our conversations that one day James joked that Quintus must have been born an Israelite. Everyone around the table thought this terribly funny—everyone but me and Quintus, whose jovial expression faded and became somber.

  The suggestion lodged in my brain, however, and I found myself studying Quintus’s face. He did bear a resemblance to some men of Isra’el I had known—I saw it in the curve of his nose and the slight stretch of his dark eyes—yet the deliberate curling of his short hair and his clean-shaven jaw overruled those features. The young man was as tall as James, and wide-shouldered, but that effect could have come from his red soldier’s toga, which he wore in all public places.

  Miryam teased the young man and welcomed him with open arms. She confided to me that Quintus was a blessing from the Holy One, for he had entered her life when she missed her son most. We heard only occasionally from John Mark, who was working with Peter.

  “He is writing,” Miryam told us after one dinner, scarcely able to hide the pride in her shining eyes. “John Mark is writing an account of Yeshua’s life.”

  James nodded. “These things should be written down. We who are eyewitnesses should not tarry because … well.”

  He didn’t have to finish his thought. No one had to remind us we wouldn’t live forever.

  I cleared my throat. “John Mark wasn’t with Yeshua at the beginning. So how can he—”

  “Simon Peter,” Miryam answered. “Peter is telling him all the things Yeshua said and did, and Mark is translating them into Greek.”

  “How I wish I remembered,” Quintus said. He looked up, his cheeks flaming as if he hadn’t meant to enter the conversation. “My father met Yeshua once. I was born deaf, you see, and my father took me to see the healer. He told me that Yeshua touched my ears, then held me up and said the purposes of God would be revealed in me.” A fleeting look of discomfort crossed his face. “I’ve often wondered what he meant.”

  No one spoke as we absorbed the news in silence. We had never doubted Quintus’s faith, but I doubt any of us had imagined that his father might have met Yeshua. Still, hundreds of people encountered our rabboni and went away without believing …

  “The purposes of God are revealed in all of us.” James’s eyes caught and held those of the young Roman. “But how much better it is when we bring him glory instead of shame. You do your father credit, Quintus.”

  The men kept talking, but John Mark’s mother turned and placed her hand on my arm. “You had a baby born deaf, didn’t you?”

  I picked up an empty platter. “We have more fruit. Would anyone like something else to eat?”

  * * *

  One day slid seamlessly into the next, one festival merged with another. We moved from Yom Teruah to Yom Kippur and prepared to reconcile ourselves to relatives and friends we had wronged in the past year.

  I confessed petty annoyances to Miryam and Rhoda, her servant, but the Holy One, blessed be He, did not send anyone to confess the wrongs done to me.

  We were preparing to celebrate Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles, when I received the news for which I’d been praying—Atticus Aurelius would be among the hundreds of pilgrims crowding Jerusalem for the festival. Quintus came to the inn and eagerly shared his announcement, expecting us to rejoice with him.

  I welcomed the news, but hearing it from Quintus brought me no joy. I stood on the threshold, saw the light in his eyes, and heard my heart break—a small, distinctive sound, like the snapping of a twig.

  Quintus must have seen sorrow enter my gaze. “Miryam,” he asked, his eyes alive with calculation, “have I done something to offend you? I’ve searched my conscience, but I can’t see what I’ve done.”

  I held up my hand and stepped back. “I have to go.”

  “Miryam, please.” He caught my wrist and held it. “You are so … so motherly with the others; your love spills out on them. Why are you so distant with me?”

  “Release me, please.” My heart was squeezed so tight I could scarcely draw breath to speak. “I have work to do.”

  “Miryam!”

  I stepped into the cool shadows of the hallway and closed the door, then leaned against it, my palm pressed to the rough wood. On the other side, I heard shuffling steps, then a muffled oath as Quintus kicked the courtyard gate.

  I had not planned to torture this boy; I bore him no ill will. If not for my shredded heart, I might have loved him almost as much as I loved John Mark and Hadassah.

  But I had vowed to obtain justice for my family, and I would honor my vow. That boy in the courtyard, that winsome young man, would pay for his father’s sin just as David had paid for his sin with Bathsheba.

  After the blow had been struck, I would go to the Roman fortress and confess my part in his murder. Because I was not a Roman citizen, they would probably execute me without a trial. They might force me to stand before the man I’d wronged.

  If so … all the better. Atticus Aurelius deserved to know what he’d done.

  I might enter eternity with a stain on my cons
cience, but I had been stained worse than this when I met Yeshua. He’d forgiven me and delivered me from the darkness of my sin.

  I would beg him to forgive me again.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  When a woman has murder on her mind, nearly every man she meets appears capable of the deed.

  During the Feast of Tabernacles, amid the rejoicing of Jerusalem, I walked into the poorer parts of the city and wended my way through the temporary booths erected along the narrow, winding streets. I brought my veil to my face and peered over the edge at families who devoutly celebrated the festival while others reclined on mats and drank themselves into a stupor.

  I went out alone, not wanting to endanger or involve any of my brothers or sisters. In truth, I feared for my life with every step. Hard men loitered in this part of the city, Gentiles and Hebrews who cared nothing for the virtue of women or the holiness of HaShem.

  If I had met with misfortune and been murdered in the street, my friends would have assumed I’d gone to that part of town in search of a lost soul.

  They would have been right.

  A notion had occurred to me a few weeks before—I knew a murdering thief; everyone in Jerusalem did. I had never personally met him, but his name had been branded into my brain when Pilate had asked what prisoner he should release in honor of the Passover. Instead of asking for Yeshua, the innocent lamb of God, the crowd, bribed by the religious authorities, had demanded the prisoner Barabbas.

  Barabbas—convicted murderer, thief, conspirator—had been released to walk free while Yeshua died in shame. I had not heard much about Barabbas since my rabboni’s death, but if he still lived in Jerusalem, I knew I’d find him in that decrepit quarter.

  Keeping my veil tight around my face, I made a few discreet inquiries and was finally directed to a spot where four mud brick houses slumped into ruin. No booths lined the road at the end of that decaying street; no one celebrated in those grim shadows.

  I knocked on a grime-coated door and was admitted by a woman with loose hair and a black eye—the sort of companion I’d expect to keep company with a murderer.

  Barabbas reclined inside the drab room on a soiled mattress, his eyes closed, one hand across his bare chest. A huge belly bulged over the belt at his loincloth, a bowl of foul-smelling stew lay on the floor beside him.

  A goat in the corner lifted its head as I approached, then went back to chewing its feed.

  I stood by the man for a long moment, then cleared my throat. When he didn’t respond, I nudged his leg with the toe of my sandal.

  His eyes flickered open.

  Barabbas had been a young man when Pilate released him. He should still have been in the prime of his life, but the man on the mattress had forfeited the strength of his youth. Something brutal lay about his mouth; something feral gleamed in the deep-set eyes that glared at me. “Who are you, woman, and why do you disturb my nap?”

  I pulled a pouch of silver coins from my belt and dropped it by his side. “I have a favor to ask.”

  He studied the bag, then lifted it and felt its heft. “Most people make me work harder for their money.”

  “You will work—for that bag and another twice its size. But you cannot tell the authorities what I’m asking you to do.”

  His eyes narrowed, then he pushed himself up. “What do you want?”

  I tucked my hands into the safety of my sleeves. “There is a Roman legionnaire called Quintus Aurelius stationed at the Fortress Antonia. His father, Atticus Aurelius, has joined him for the festival of Sukkot. What I ask is this—wait until the two are together, then stop them in the guise of a robbery. Take their money if you wish, but stab them both. Kill the younger man; leave the older man to bleed.”

  Barabbas gaped at me like a fellow faced with a hard sum in figures. “Which of them do you really want dead? Let me lie in wait for that one and kill him when he is alone.”

  “I want both of them to feel the bite of your blade. If possible, I want the older man to watch his son die.”

  Barabbas’s eyes widened, then he tilted his head as his mouth twisted in a grudging smile. “And they say women are the weaker sex. You surprise me.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “I don’t care about understanding.” He scratched the grizzled beard at his chin and regarded the purse in his hand. “Killing a Roman soldier won’t be easy.”

  “No, it won’t. The older man is big, but you’ll have the advantage of surprise. You can bring a companion if you like—bring ten men, I don’t care. Just do what I ask.”

  Outside, his woman moved past the window, her shadow rippling over Barabbas like water over a sunken rock. He showed no more expression than a rock, either, as he considered my request.

  Finally he looked up. “You want I should tell you when it’s done?”

  “You won’t have to—I’ll hear about it. When I do, I’ll deliver the rest of the money. Do we have an agreement?”

  His dissipated face showed no more than mild interest, but his eyes gleamed in their shadowy caves. “I can keep anything I take from the Romans?”

  I sighed. “You wouldn’t tell me if you took a pound of gold. I don’t care, take it all.”

  “I never cared for those Roman pigs.” He brought the bag of coins to his lips, kissed it, then settled back on his mattress. “I’ll find the ones you want and I’ll do as you asked. Then I expect the rest of my payment, or I’ll find you and kill you, too.”

  Though I had no fear of him—I expected to be in Roman custody long before the thug could hurt me—his threat sent a chill up the ladder of my spine.

  But I lifted my chin and met his glittering gaze head-on. “Done.”

  * * *

  The bruised and swollen sky burst into rain before I reached the inn. A rising wind whooshed past me, lifting the veil from my shoulders and whipping my tunic around my legs. I ran through the deluge and wondered how much longer I’d be able to consider the inn my home. A week? Two days?

  The knowledge of what I had done turned and twisted within me as I hurried through the streets. How easy, to bribe certain men to kill. With no concern for others, they cared only for gold and silver and what it could buy. But I cared about more than pleasure. I cared about justice and vengeance and the satisfaction of debts.

  I had just come through the courtyard gate and our Sukkot shelter when Rhoda strode toward me, her eyes alight. “You have a visitor,” she said, pulling my wet veil from my head. “Someone who has ventured out into the storm to see you and the other Miryam.”

  I brushed water from my tunic and wondered if the stench of Barabbas’s house remained on my clothing. “Someone from the assembly?”

  Rhoda’s entire face spread into an approving smile. “Young Quintus.”

  I turned away with a feeling of unease, my hand rising to my stomach. “Give him my regrets, will you? I’m not feeling well.”

  “But he has a gift for you, and he’s braved the rain—”

  I turned toward my small chamber, but hadn’t taken two steps before Miryam and Quintus appeared in the hall.

  “Oh, good, here she is.” Miriam caught my sleeve. “I was hoping we’d catch you.”

  “I’m not feeling well—”

  “That’s all right, I can’t stay.” The young man smiled, then thrust a fabric-covered bundle toward each of us. “I hope you like them. I thought with the change in the weather, you might be able to use something that repels water.”

  My fingers felt paralyzed, but Miryam had no trouble opening her package. Within a moment the wrapping fell away and she shook out a beautiful square of lightweight gray wool. I had to admit it was a good piece of material.

  “Yours is like it, but blue.” Quintus focused on the unopened bundle in my hands. “I’ve noticed you favor that color.”

  I gave him a wintry smile. “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

  “It’s the least I can do for women who feed me almost every week. I’ve told my father
about you, he can’t wait to meet—”

  Abruptly, I said I needed to lie down.

  Chapter Sixty

  Atticus leaned back on his couch, lifted his goblet, and smiled at Quintus across the rim.

  His host, Longinus Priscus, chuckled at this sign of his guest’s pleasure. “Is the wine not delicious, my friend? I told you Jerusalem could rival Rome’s sensory delights.”

  “The wine is good,” Atticus admitted after taking a sip. “And I have always enjoyed the city.”

  “And your son? He finds Jerusalem to his liking?”

  “I do.” Quintus lifted his bronze cup. “I find the place delightful, though I am often confused by the Jews.”

  “Who isn’t? The Jews are an odd lot indeed.” The merchant set his cup on the table, then picked up a pastry and popped it into his mouth. “Have you seen the ragtag collections of tents on the streets and rooftops? They stay in those things for a week, commanded to live outdoors by their God. They actually pretend to enjoy such lunacy!”

  Atticus caught his son’s eye and smiled. “I don’t understand the reasons behind the tents, but they do seem to take pleasure in them. And I can’t say their traditions are any odder than some of ours.”

  The merchant clapped his fingertips to his pursed lips and widened his eyes. “Oh, dear centurion, don’t let anyone hear you speak such heresy! If the idea is Roman, it has to be brilliant. We are, after all, the masters of the world.”

  Atticus smiled, not certain if his host meant to be honest or sarcastic. In either case, better to say nothing than to err at a rich man’s table.

  He reached for a sliver of roasted chicken and dropped it into his mouth. Longinus might be trying, but he did set a good table. Quintus would undoubtedly find this a better meal than the frumentum he would have had back at the garrison.

  “Now,” Atticus pushed himself up on one elbow, “let’s talk about the business that brings us together, shall we? You are concerned about one of your shipments.”

  “Indeed I am.” The merchant’s fat face melted into a buttery smile. “But I am sure you can alleviate those concerns. I have gathered a great collection of delicacies and I must transport them from Jerusalem to Rome. They will sail from the port of Sebastos, of course, and I will be at the mercy of the gods while we are at sea. I need your help, my dear centurion, to be sure my shipment and I travel safely from Jerusalem to Caesarea.”

 

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