by Ann Swinfen
One evening we were gathered together at the end of one such day amongst the amê hâ-’erets, when the labourers had returned to sleep in the hovels on their master’s estate. These huts were no more than straw mats thrown over a framework of rough branches, adequate now in summer, but in winter or during the heavy rains of autumn they would provide no more shelter than a bush.
‘How can the Pharisees condemn these people?’ Yeshûa demanded. He tore a piece of flatbread in half as if he were wrenching a Pharisee’s head from his neck.
‘They call them scum and rabble and sinners, just because they don’t wash before every meal or practice all these new rituals which the Pharisees have added to the ancient Law.’
He poked at the fire with a dry branch, so that it flared up and lit his face, which was filled with fury.
‘How can such people be condemned if they can’t wash their hands? They can count themselves lucky if the overseer allows them to pause long enough to eat a few scraps of stale bread in the midst of a day of cruel labour in the fields.’
The end of the branch had caught fire and he held it up, his eyes fixed on the burning end, which crackled and sparked in the darkness.
‘Did you see that lad today?’ Yehûdâ asked quietly. ‘The old man working beside him was falling behind. He was bent with the stiffness of age and couldn’t gather up the heads of grain as fast as the others.’
‘I saw him,’ I said. ‘The boy worked back and forth between the two rows, so the overseer wouldn’t notice and punish the old man.’
‘Exactly,’ said Yeshûa, resting his chin on his up-drawn knees and staring into the fire. ‘There are good men and bad amongst the amê hâ-’erets, just as there are anywhere else in the world. But that young man showed true loving-kindness.’
‘But, Master,’ said Yôhânân, who would wriggle his way into the conversations of others whenever he could, ‘the amê hâ-’erets are all very well, but should we not pursue our mission amongst the men of power? Should we not go to Jerusalem?’
Yeshûa paused a long while before answering him.
‘That time will come.’
When we encountered Pharisees in our travels, and they remonstrated with Yeshûa for eating with these unclean sinners, he argued in the same way, but they still condemned him. They claimed that he was destroying the true devotion and religious practice of Israel, that he was shamed before the Lord.
As winter set in, we returned to Capernaum. We had not been there many days when a few of us received a startling invitation.
‘We are invited to dine,’ said Yeshûa, ‘with Mattaniah and his wife at his house. Myself and four others. I will take you, sister, and also Yehûdâ, Shim’ôn and Yôhânân.’
We gaped at him.
‘Mattaniah?’ said Yehûdâ. ‘The tax collector?’
‘Even he.’
‘But . . . a tax collector?’
I think there was hardly any class of man more hated at that time in the Land of Judah. The Romans, they were hated, yes. But the tax collectors were recruited from amongst our own people. Not only did they collaborate in the imposition of the oppressive taxes. Wherever they could, they forced more than their due out of the people, and kept the surplus for themselves. I knew nothing of the man Mattaniah, save that he was a tax collector, but I knew the reputation of his kind.
There was agitated discussion amongst the followers.
‘If you think it right to go, then I will go,’ said Yehûdâ slowly.
Shim’ôn was doubtful, frowning and grumbling. Yôhânân, I could see, was in a dilemma. He was always thrusting himself forward, wanting to be chosen as favourite by my brother, trying to put himself before Shim’ôn. He was flattered at being one of the chosen ones, but dismayed at the prospect of having to sully himself in the company of a sinful tax collector.
In the end, we went, those my brother had chosen, and Mattaniah seemed to me to be a man like other men I had met in Capernaum. He had a better house than the fishermen, but it displayed no sign of riches. The meal was good, but modest, his manner towards my brother eager yet humble. Perhaps, I thought, there may be such a thing as an honest tax collector, whatever men say.
When the meal was over and we prepared to leave, Yeshûa turned to Mattaniah and said simply, ‘Follow me.’
Mattaniah took up his cloak, kissed farewell to his wife (who looked stunned), and followed us.
The others disciples were horrified. They felt tainted by this new disciple, who was to become one of the chosen shelîhîm, and they grumbled constantly to Yeshûa, until he told them sharply to hold their tongues.
‘What profit is there in calling a righteous man to the Lord? I am sent to the sinners and lost sheep of Israel.’
I watched them work that out, for none of them were very quick of mind. And when they did, they were subdued and complained no more about Mattaniah.
As well as being a centre for fishing on Gennesaret, Capernaum was also a trading port. Not only did it lie on the caravan route between ports of the Middle Sea like Caesarea Maritima and the great inland city of Damascus (an important centre for the silk trade), Capernaum was also a port for goods passing back and forth across the waters of Gennesaret, thus connecting the cities of the Decapolis with the caravan route. Because of all this trade, the town was an important centre for the collection of customs dues, which had been one of Mattaniah’s duties.
Although the Land of Judah was part of the Empire and under ultimate Roman control, the Galilee was ruled directly by Herod Antipas as tetrarch. This meant that, unlike Judaea, we had no garrisons of Roman troops on Galilean soil. Of course we saw them from time to time, marching across country, but in our daily lives we rarely encountered them. However, there was one task which brought Roman soldiers at certain times to Capernaum, and that was the transport of moneys collected in taxes or customs dues. Where taxes were paid in kind—grain or oil or wine—the goods were moved by ass or by ox cart to one of Antipas’s palaces or some other collection point. It was too risky, however, to move the small but valuable chests of coin in this way, when there were so many outlaws and robbers at loose in the countryside. Therefore, a Roman centurion would bring a troop to escort the money at regular intervals.
One such man came to Yeshûa, and begged him to help his son, who was gravely ill. I never knew the man’s name and I realise now that he was probably no more Roman than Petradix, who had also served not far away, in Syria. This man probably came from some other province of the Empire, whither he would some day return. Certainly he was one of the gôyîm, a pagan, a Gentile, and certainly he spoke execrable Aramaic. I have wondered why he had a son, since Roman soldiers are forbidden to marry, but many of them do form irregular liaisons. Twenty years is a long time to ask a man to remain celibate. And their women and children often follow them.
This man, this Roman centurion, bowed low before my brother, a mere Galilean peasant, and begged his help.
‘I cannot ask you to come to my house, Lord,’ he said, ‘for it is too humble. But might you send one of your followers to see my boy?’
Yeshûa took his hand and look round at his disciples.
‘See what faith this is! Go home, my friend. Your son is cured.’
I heard afterwards that at that very moment the child jumped from his bed and ran to meet his father.
It is very quiet in the room. The breathing is fainter but more regular. The light is soft—it may be a little before dawn or perhaps early evening. Apart from the breathing there is a delicate watery sound, a murmur and hiss, almost beyond hearing.
‘Is it raining?’ she asks the empty room.
To her surprise, a voice answers.
‘Yes. A good rain. Light but steady. It has been raining all day.’
‘Sergius?’
‘Yes, Mother?’
She forgets what she was going to ask him. She knows why he is here. He knows she is dying and has come from Massilia to be with her. She feels about the bedclothes and fi
nds his hand.
‘It will spoil the hay.’
‘The hay is long gathered, Mother. It is the month of Augustus.’
‘The vines. It will be good for the vines. The new vines . . . ?’ Her voice trails away. It takes so much strength to speak, it is almost too much for her.
‘The new vines are doing well. All but half a dozen are growing, and Manilius says he will leave even those in the ground until next year, to give them a chance.’
‘Sometimes . . . Yeshûa used to say . . . For some, it takes a little longer . . . ‘
‘Yeshûa?’ His voice is puzzled. ‘Who is Yeshûa, Mother?’
‘Long ago. Long gone. He was your uncle.’
‘I thought his name was Ya’aqôb.’
‘Another uncle.’
It is so long before she speaks again that he thinks she has fallen asleep.
‘We were a family of many sons,’ she says at last. ‘But Yeshûa was . . . different. Long dead. At your age. Crucified.’
‘Crucified!’
The shock runs down his arm to her hand.
She cannot speak any more. Too tired.
He was so young. I am twice his age. What would he think of the world now? Of the Land of Judah destroyed by insurrection and war? Of a Christ cult that worships an instrument of torture?
‘Is it raining? she asks.
There was a sinful woman. It was whispered amongst the disciples that she was a prostitute, and I saw the shiver of fascinated dread the word evoked amongst them. But I had not forgotten what Ya’aqôb had called me—filthy whore—and I wondered what kind of woman she might be.
We had been invited to dine at the house of a local Pharisee called Shim’ôn, a double-edged honour, for we knew that he intended to trap Yeshûa in some breach of the Law. Towards the end of the meal, the sinful woman managed somehow to slip past the doorkeeper and enter the room where we were dining. As this was a strict household, the women of the party sat somewhat apart at the back of the room, but I saw everything that happened. The woman was very beautiful, but gaudily dressed, and at first no one moved, struck motionless by shock and disgust.
I noticed that she was carrying a little alabaster box. When it was opened, I could smell the precious scent of spikenard it contained, even at the far end of the room where we women were seated. She fell down before my brother and anointed his feet with the costly substance, weeping. She had no basin, no towel, but that did not deter her. I watched, my mouth falling open in astonishment, as she washed my brother’s dusty feet with her tears, then dried them with her hair. She had lovely hair, long and glossy and interlaced with multi-coloured ribbons, very different from my own tangled mane. She kissed his feet, begging him to forgive her sins.
At that, I heard the hissed intake of breath from the Pharisee’s wife, who was sitting beside me.
‘That woman is a strumpet,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘A notorious whore.’
And she signalled to one of the servants to take the woman away.
Shim’ôn the Pharisee was also gesturing angrily at the woman, shooing her off like a street cur.
‘Why do you allow this accursed woman the freedom to touch you?’ he asked Yeshûa in disgust. ‘A woman whose very hands are defiled?’
‘You did not anoint me with precious balm,’ Yeshûa said calmly. ‘Neither you, nor your wife, nor your maidservant washed my feet when I entered this house as your guest. Yet even amongst the poor in my mountain village we would do this service for a guest. This woman has bathed my feet with her own tears and anointed me with precious oil and dried my feet with her own hair. What she did, she has done from a loving heart, and so her sins are forgiven.’
The Pharisee grew red in the face with anger and embarrassment, but what could he answer? Neither he nor his family had shown any of us this simple courtesy. We left soon afterwards.
The woman begged to be allowed to join my brother’s followers, and despite horrified misgivings on the part of some, he welcomed her. There were some who forgot his message of universal brotherhood, fearing that such an unclean woman would defile us. Others worried at the effect she might have on the younger men. There were many whispers and sidelong glances amongst the men, and a kind of frisson whenever she entered a room where they were gathered. I do not think that, at first, Salome, Yoanna and Susanna were comfortable in her presence, though they came to accept her later.
Yet from that day I never saw her behave with anything other than perfect modesty and decorum. She had come from Magdala, she told us, hoping to find the rabbi, the teacher, because something had told her in her heart that she must serve him for the rest of her life. Her name was Maryam, though when people wanted to distinguish between our similar names, they called her ‘the Magdalene’, the woman from Magdala.
When I was a child, learning to read, I realised that my name meant mâr yâm, ‘bitter sea’, and I wept a sea of bitter tears over it, for I felt I was doomed to a life of pain. But Yeshûa comforted me.
‘Do not cry, little sister,’ he said. ‘Do not be so hasty, for there are many hidden meanings in a name. Did you not realise that your name can also mean mir yâm? That is “beloved of God”. You are blessed in your name.’
I took great comfort from this at the time, but in my declining years I am apt to think that my first interpretation was nearer the truth.
Because of this coincidence of our names, I felt drawn to the Magdalene from the first. I was fascinated too by her beauty and her strangeness. And because I welcomed her whole-heartedly, she turned to me, so that I found in her a woman friend such as I had never had before. In the hard times that were to come, our friendship remained steadfast and grew into deep affection.
Not long after she joined us, I overheard Salome’s son Yôhânân talking to my brother.
‘It is surely not right, Master,’ he said in his unctuous voice, which always made me grind my teeth. ‘Women are lesser creatures. They have not the minds and souls of men. Indeed, I’ve heard it said that women may have no souls. Eve was a crude being, fashioned from Adam’s rib, meant for nothing more than procreation. And she disobeyed the Lord and brought about Man’s fall from grace. Such creatures are vile and unworthy to be part of your great mission. I beg of you, Master, have no more to do with them. Send them away! And above all, that piece of filth, that whore, that prostitute.’
Before Yeshûa could answer, I burst in upon them, crackling with rage.
‘You serpent!’ I shouted. ‘You would pervert my brother’s message and his mission to serve your own ends! Women have minds and hearts and souls as great and as fine as men. Yeshûa has said from the beginning that he comes to all people, men, women and children, rich and poor, sick and healthy. Who are you, you vile worm, to abuse women so!’
I gasped for breath, but before he could gather his wits to reply, I rushed on.
‘Maryam from Magdala is good and kind and devout. She hurts no one. She slanders no one. What she may have done in the past has hurt no one but herself, and my brother has said that her sins are forgiven. Who are you to question that? You who speak evil of people behind their backs, while you set yourself up to be a model of virtue, which you are not.’
‘Mariam,’ said Yeshûa. ‘Peace.’
Before Yôhânân could make an answer—and before I flew at him and scratched his face—I turned on my heel and ran off. No more was said of excluding women from the mission. Indeed, from that time onwards Yeshûa called on us more often to speak, both in the private councils of his followers and in public. Yôhânân’s insinuations had made him more determined than ever that women should rank with men. The Magdalene was honoured and loved along with the rest of us. But neither Yôhânân nor I forgot the encounter.
It was spring, the month of Iyar, with fresh grass greening the slopes above the town and the orchard trees a glory of white and pink blossom. Our hearts were high and eager, for we were on the point of setting out again on our mission to the villages and farms of the Galil
ee, when the news came that I suppose we had all been dreading, although we never spoke of it.
Two followers of our cousin Yôhânân the Baptiser arrived unexpectedly in Capernaum and met Yehûdâ near the gate of the town. He recognised them at once and brought them hurriedly to Zebedee’s house, where Yeshûa and I had just finished our midday meal. Salome brought food and wine for the strangers before leaving us alone in the room, which opened on to the terrace fronting the lake. The two men, Benyamin and Yitzak, barely touched the food, although they were travel-stained and exhausted.
‘We have come as fast as we could from Machaerus,’ said the older man, Benyamin. Yitzak was barely more than a boy and looked half crazy with fear.
‘You have been with my cousin?’ Yeshûa asked. He sounded calm, but his face was very white and I could see a nerve jumping in his temple.
‘We were not with him, no. When he was carried off by Antipas’s soldiers, we followed a little behind, and in all the months since, we have stayed nearby, as near as we could. I got work as a scribe in the office of the palace treasurer. Yitzak here was taken on as a scullery boy. No one in the palace knew that we are followers of the Baptiser.’
He took a deep drink of his wine, as if to give himself courage.
‘Yeshûa, your cousin is dead.’
Yeshûa said nothing, but bowed his head and pressed his clenched fists against his lips. I think we had all guessed already that this was the news they brought, but even so we were shocked at the suddenness of it.
‘Executed, in the end?’ said Yehûdâ tensely. ‘I thought it would not come to that. There have been stories flying about that Herod Antipas was much taken with Yôhânân’s ideas, that he spent many hours in discussion with him. We thought that he would be released at last.’
‘That was how it seemed to us, too. The tetrarch used to summon him most evenings to his private quarters and hold long discussions. Of course, we were not privy to them, but a ruler does not usually debate religion and morality with a man he plans to execute.’