The Galileans: A Novel of Mary Magdalene

by Frank G. Slaughter

  Simon the fisherman improved so rapidly that soon Joseph could find no excuse to hold him in Magdala. As he left the house one morning, having promised that Simon could return to Capernaum following tomorrow’s dressing, Mary came out carrying a lyre. “I am delivering this to the Street of the Dove Sellers,” she said. “May I walk with you?”

  He made way for her beside him, with the mule carrying his equipment following them. “I shall be sorry to see Simon leave tomorrow,” he told her. “For then I shall have no excuse to visit the house of Demetrius.”

  “But you can come to see us whenever you wish.”

  “If I come without being called, people will say I am paying court to you.”

  “No one has ever paid court to me, Joseph,” she said softly, and then her voice grew bitter. “The young men are afraid because their mothers call me Jezebel. Why is it a sin to want to be happy?” she demanded fiercely.

  “My mother does not think you are a Jezebel.”

  “I know.” She put her hand on his, and her fingers were warm and very much alive as they curled about his own. “She is sweet like you, Joseph, and I love her.”

  “I am going before the judges in about two months to become rophe urnan,” he told her.

  “Joseph!” she cried, her eyes shining. “That is wonderful!” Then her face grew sad. “But you will go to Jerusalem then; Magdala will be too small for you.”

  “My mother thinks I should marry and start practicing medicine for myself. She has already picked out the girl.” Mary did not look at him, but he saw her lips soften in a smile.

  “She is a very lovely girl named Mary of Magdala,” he added.

  “Don’t you have anything to say about the matter?” she asked demurely, her eyes twinkling.

  They were crossing a little park and at the moment were screened from view by a clump of trees. Joseph pulled her around to face him. “You know I love you very much, Mary,” he said.

  “As much as Philodemus loved Xantho in the song?”

  “That much and more,” he said quickly.

  “‘Too soon the music ends,’” she sang softly, her eyes shining. “‘Again, again repeat the sad sweet strain.’ But you don’t know me at all, Joseph. I am vain and forgetful.”

  “And very beautiful . . .”

  “Greedy and thoughtless . . .”

  “And lovable . . .”

  She stamped her foot in mock anger. “Will you let me finish? I am telling you that I am not the kind of a wife you deserve. I would embarrass you, and people would talk about me.”

  “What would all that matter when we loved each other?” He drew her close. “Is it because you don’t love me that you argue against me, Mary?”

  “Oh, I do love you, Joseph,” she said then, all in a rush. “I do. I do. But I love Demetrius, too, and he comes first.”

  “Demetrius himself told me he thought you might be happier married to the right man.”

  “He was only trying to protect me.” Suddenly she clung to him and he held her there, asking nothing more, content to savor the sweetness of having her in his arms. When she lifted her face from his chest, he kissed her and found the sweetness of her mouth mixed with the salt of her tears. Finally, she pushed him away and wiped her eyes upon the sleeve of his robe. “We must be sensible, Joseph,” she said firmly. “I can’t possibly marry you. Not for a long time.”

  “But why?”

  “It’s a long story, but you deserve to hear it. Years ago Demetrius was the director of the Alexandrian Theater and the most famous musician in the empire. He loved a girl named Althea and trained her to be the leading actress there. She was his mistress, and he adored her, so he could not believe she would be untrue to him. But she took up with a rich Roman and tried to get rid of Demetrius by telling her lover that he was the leader in a plot against the Romans. Demetrius barely escaped with his life and a little money by joining a caravan going to Damascus, but some thieves robbed him in Capernaum and left him for dead in the lake. Simon found him and nursed him back to health. Since he had no money, Demetrius set up a shop for making lyres here in Magdala, but he lives only to return to Alexandria.”

  “Would it be safe for him to go back?”

  “Yes. Althea’s lover was really plotting to make himself ruler of the city and both of them were executed, but it was too late to help Demetrius. From what Simon tells me, he was about to kill himself when I came to him. Since then I have been his whole life. He taught me everything I know, Joseph, and he lives only for the time when he can make me the most famous actress and dancer in Alexandria. It will be his revenge upon Althea.”

  “But Demetrius loves you enough to want your happiness, Mary.”

  “Don’t you see?” she pleaded. “I have to do this for Demetrius, but I want it, too. Kings have deserted queens for women of the theater. What girl wouldn’t long to be as important as a queen?”

  “But suppose you are not an instant success?” he objected. “How would all of you live in Alexandria?”

  “Demetrius says I am more talented than Althea was and that I will only need to sing and dance before the director of the theater to be accepted immediately.”

  Remembering the living flame of her body when he had seen her dancing in the street at Tiberias, Joseph could understand the confidence of the lyre maker.

  “This new cithara Demetrius has made is far superior to the old ones,” Mary continued. “It is bound to be in great demand in a city the size of Alexandria, where there are so many musicians. We can live on what he makes from selling the cithara if we have to, but I would sing and dance in the streets to make him happy. No one but me can ever realize how much I owe him, Joseph.”

  Loving her as he did, Joseph could not find it in his heart to try to dissuade her. Having important plans of his own, he understood the fire of ambition that burned within her. “How much longer before you go to Alexandria?” he asked.

  Mary laughed and was herself again, gay and eager. “Who can tell? We have barely enough to eat now. But that day when I danced in Tiberias, the crowd threw more coins than I would earn in a week in Magdala or Capernaum, or even as far as Bethsaida.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t go back to Tiberias, Mary,” he said quickly.

  “You go there yourself nearly every day,” she protested. “If it doesn’t make you unclean, why should it make me unclean?”

  “I’m not talking about uncleanness. You are a beautiful girl, and you saw the way the procurator’s nephew, Gaius Flaccus, looked at you.”

  “Men look at me every day. Do you think I can’t read what is in their eyes?” She wrinkled her nose at him. “The tribune was a very handsome man and free with his gold. He gave Hadja twenty denarii.”

  “But you know how these Romans are. A young girl is not safe—”

  “Joseph!” she cried delightedly. “You’re jealous!”

  “Of course I’m jealous,” he admitted. “Didn’t I just finish telling you I love you and want to marry you? But just the same, the Romans are evil and not to be trusted.”

  Her face sobered. “I know all about Romans; my father was going to sell me to one of them. But they pay well and we need their gold. Besides, I never dance without Hadja and his men, and any one of them could kill a man with his bare hands. Don’t worry, Joseph. I will be safe even in Tiberias.”

  VII

  Mary was in the garden overlooking the lake a few days later when the messenger from the procurator was ushered in. She had been learning a new song, and she put down the lyre as the visitor bowed before her. He was tall and imposing in appearance, but when she looked closer she saw that his ears were slit, showing that he was a slave.

  “I am the nomenclator of Pontius Pilate, procurator of Judea,” the man said loftily. “Where is she who is called Mary of Magdala?”

&n
bsp; Mary’s heart jumped. “I am Mary of Magdala,” she said. What could Pontius Pilate possibly want with her? she wondered.

  “The procurator bids you attend a supper to be given at his villa in Tiberias this very evening, to sing and dance for his guests.”

  “Are you sure he wants me?” she asked incredulously.

  “Quite sure. He has heard of your dancing in the streets of Tiberias.”

  The thrill of being summoned to the procurator’s palace swept from her mind all memory of Joseph’s warning a few days ago and the unsavory things she had heard about the orgies held in the Roman villas at Tiberias. She thought only that here was a chance to earn some of the money, perhaps a large part of it, that Demetrius needed to take them to Alexandria.

  “Will you come?” the slave asked politely, although his manner said it was unthinkable that a Jew should refuse the summons of the Roman governor of Judea.

  Mary had recovered her poise now. “You may tell your master that I shall be honored to dance before him and his guests this evening,” she said with considerable dignity. “My musicians and I will be there at dusk.”

  The nomenclator’s eyebrows rose. “The governor has his own musicians.”

  Now Mary remembered Joseph’s warning. “I dance to no music save that played by my own troupe,” she said firmly. “They accompany me wherever I go.”

  The slave shrugged. “Bring them then. Perhaps Gai—the procurator forgot to mention them.”

  Mary did not notice the slip. She was too busy wondering whether to ask about money now or wait until after she had danced. As the slave was turning away she said quickly, “Could you tell me what my pay will be?”

  “Entertainers do not ordinarily demand pay for pleasing the procurator,” the nomenclator explained. “It is enough to say they received a summons to appear before him.” But seeing the disappointment in her face, he added kindly, “It is customary, however, to throw a purse to those he likes.”

  “A purse? How large?”

  “No sum is set. A thousand sesterces, perhaps, if you prove particularly agreeable to him.”

  “A thousand sesterces!” Mary gasped, but quickly recovered her composure. “Of course I shall be honored to dance for your master, whatever the purse,” she said graciously.

  The nomenclator bowed again, as if he were enjoying this little farce. “Can you direct me to the house of the leech, Joseph of Galilee, here in Magdala?” he asked.

  “What has Joseph done?” Mary asked quickly.

  “The procurator’s lady would have the services of the leech at once.”

  Quickly Mary gave the necessary directions to Joseph’s home. “If you see him,” she added, “please don’t tell him I am dancing tonight.” She blushed. “I have a reason for the request.”

  When the slave was gone, Mary rushed to the room where Demetrius was bedded with a cold, solaced no little by a bottle of wine she had brought from Capernaum that morning. “Demetrius!” she cried excitedly. “Demetrius! The most wonderful thing has happened!”

  “Simon has sent more fish,” he groaned. “I am beginning to look like one.”

  Mary laughed and threw her arms about his neck. “Better than that. Would a thousand sesterces take us to Alexandria?”

  Demetrius was accustomed to her rich imagination and her outbursts of enthusiasm. “A thousand sesterces might take us halfway—if we had them.”

  “Oh, but we do have them! Or we will, after tonight.”

  “Is King Herod bringing us his coffers?”

  “Something even better. I am to dance for the procurator, Pontius Pilate.”

  “For the procurator!” Demetrius sat up in bed, clutching the wine bottle. “Where did you get this crazy idea, child?”

  “It is not crazy!” She stamped her foot. “Pilate’s nomenclator was here just now and bade me dance at a dinner tonight. And he mentioned a purse of a thousand sesterces if I entertain the procurator and his guests well.”

  “A thousand sesterces!” Demetrius fell back on the couch. “I have not seen so much money since I came to Galilee. Let me see: two hundred will buy a mule stout enough to bear this besotted carcass of mine along the Via Maris to Joppa. And another three hundred for baggage mules to carry our furnishings and the citharas to be sold in Alexandria. We could sell the animals at the seaport to pay our passage by ship.”

  “Then it would take us?”

  He shook his head. “Not quite. But if Pilate likes you, others of the rich Romans and Syrians who have villas at Tiberias will want you to dance, perhaps even Herod Antipas himself. And it will not hurt to say you danced for the procurator of Judea when we see the director of the theater at Alexandria.” Then his face grew serious. “But is it safe for you to go to Tiberias?”

  “You and Joseph are old women!” Mary cried in disgust. “I am not a child any longer, Demetrius. And besides, Hadja and the others will be there to guard me.” She dropped to her knees beside the couch, and tears came into her eyes. “You must let me go, darling,” she pleaded. “It will mean so much to us all.”

  “We do need the money badly,” Demetrius admitted, smoothing the rich waves of her hair with his pudgy fingers. “But promise me that you will keep Hadja and his men with you always.”

  “I promise.” Mary leaped to her feet. “Now what will I wear? I know, the white stola of silk you gave me for my eighteenth birthday. And the palla over it, the yellow one. I was saving them to wear in Alexandria. And Hadja must rent a cart and a mule for me to ride in, so I will not be too tired to dance well. And my hair! Oh, I have a thousand things to do.” She was gone in a flurry of skirts.

  It was just dusk when Mary and her party arrived at the villa of Pontius Pilate in Tiberias and tied the mule and cart to a tree in the grove outside the villa. Mary carried the package containing her silken stola and the yellow palla, plus fragile sandals of leather chased with a thin tracery of gold. A wall nearly ten feet high surrounded the elaborate, if small, palace. Most of the villas at Tiberias had such high walls running down into the water itself.

  The Roman governor of Judea spent much of the time here in Galilee by the protected waters of the lake where the winter climate was mild, rather than at his castle on the coast at Caesarea, which was buffeted by cold winds and storms from the Mediterranean, the Mare Nostrum of the Romans. It was common knowledge that Pilate’s wife, the Lady Claudia Procula, suffered badly from asthma in Caesarea but was much better in the warmer climate of Tiberias and the Sea of Galilee.

  An armed guard let them through the gate, and the nomenclator met them in the atrium, as the central room of the house was called. Even in the darkness they could see something of the beauty of the terraced gardens descending the hillside to the water’s edge and the fragrance of flowers was everywhere. Slaves in white garments moved about through the open terraces, carrying dishes to and from the triclinium, the banqueting room, where the dinner was already in progress.

  The nomenclator raised his eyebrows at Mary’s rough dress. “Is that your costume for dancing?” he asked, then a knowing smile came over his face. This girl was smart indeed, he thought, in choosing to dance naked before the revelers. Her slim loveliness would be a welcome change from the more opulent charms of the girls who usually entertained Pontius Pilate and his guests.

  Mary held up the package she carried. She had not seen his smirk, or she would have been angered by it. “I have my dress here for dancing,” she explained. “Is there somewhere that I can change?”

  “The entertainers dress for the performance in a room off the banqueting hall,” the slave explained. “I will take you to it and show your musicians to the alcove where they will play.” Through heavily curtained doorways on one side of the hall along which he took them came the sound of voices and laughter, the soft strains of the lyre and cithara, and the clink of glassware a
nd cutlery. This was obviously the triclinium, and Mary judged that the doors across the corridor gave access to bedchambers.

  The room to which she was ushered was small but tastefully arranged, with a door to one side giving access to the triclinium. An elaborate dressing table occupied one wall, complete with perfume and cosmetics, antimony to whiten the cheeks, kohl for the eyelashes, henna for toes and fingernails, and everything that a beauty would use in her boudoir. In an open recess hung a rack of costumes, some of them so diaphanous that they seemed not to exist at all. She had heard rumors that women danced in such costumes at the banquets of the Romans, while some were said to wear nothing at all. Now her startled eyes were seeing very real evidence that the tales were true.

  Mary had not admitted to Demetrius or to herself that she felt any apprehension about dancing before Pilate and his guests. But now that she was alone, with the shouts of the drunken revelers coming from the next room, she could not swallow the lump that insisted upon rising in her throat.

  Quickly, before her courage could desert her, she took off her dress and hung it over a chair. In a sudden burst of exuberance, she stretched her body luxuriously and whirled in a lithe dancing turn. Suddenly, though, she gave a little gasp and stooped quickly to hold her dress in front of her body. Only then did she realize that the lovely girl facing her on the other side of the room was her own reflection.

  Timidly she crossed the room and touched the large mirror set into the wall, for she had never before seen such a thing. Her whole body was reflected in it. Hers was the lithe grace of the huntress Diana, but ineffably feminine nevertheless, and as she loosened her hair and let it fall upon her shoulders, the whole white length of her body seemed to take fire from it and glow with a warmth of its own.

  Reluctantly, Mary turned from the adoration of her own beauty to open the package she had brought. She wished now that she owned a length of silken cloth to wrap about her loins for an undergarment, such as women were said to wear in Rome and the other rich cities of the empire. But silk was expensive, and so she had to wear her thin knit trunks—the kind worn by ordinary people, when they wore any undergarments at all. Over the trunks went a linen undershirt and then the silken stola, a sleeveless dress cut along classical lines and girt just beneath the breasts with a band of silver ribbon.