The Galileans: A Novel of Mary Magdalene

by Frank G. Slaughter

  Just beyond Capernaum, where the road to Damascus turned northward toward the snowy cap of Mount Hermon and the Ford of the Daughters of Jacob, stood the custom house marking the boundary between the tetrarchies of Herod Antipas and his brother Philip. Joseph carried nothing on which a duty should be paid and so he was allowed to pass through and continue on toward Bethsaida.

  Chuza had been right, he saw, in saying he would have no trouble finding Jesus, for he came upon the edge of the crowd while still about a mile from Bethsaida. Looking over the heads of the people as his camel moved slowly along, Joseph was impressed by the variety of faces that made up the crowd. Jews thronged everywhere, of course, most of them the strong, vigorous peasant stock of Galilee. But here and there the lean ascetic faces of Pharisees and scribes from the more educated levels could be seen along with merchants, artisans, fishermen, travelers, Romans in togas or in military uniform, Bedouins from the deserts to the south and east, Syrians from the region of Antioch to the north, a few swarthy Egyptians from the caravans that passed nearby on the Via Maris, Persians, Phoenicians, and even an occasional Nubian, far removed now from the shores of Africa. This was almost as cosmopolitan a group as would have been found on the quays of Alexandria, and the row of boats drawn up on the shore side by side told him why there had been so few upon the water.

  As always wherever Jesus went, the sick made up a substantial part of the crowd. Beggars crawled along in the dirt, their hideous, oozing sores caked with filth. Men with joints drawn by the inflammations of rheumatism hobbled along on sticks or rude crutches. Some, unable to walk, were carried by their families on improvised litters. The blind led each other, bumping into those who could see, and these, in turn, cursed them and shoved them rudely away.

  To one side a small group occupied a little open space of their own in the crowd. Their very isolation would have betrayed the nature of their unclean disease, had not withered limbs, fingerless hands, and gaping face wounds exposing open nostrils named it even more certainly. Word had gone out that Jesus healed lepers, and every one for miles around now followed Him, hoping for His touch. A little way beyond the lepers, another group carried a man bound hand and foot, cursing and slobbering with insane fury as he fought against the bonds protecting the crowd from his ragings. Women with all manner of infirmities dragged themselves through the crowd, some marble-pale from the issue of blood, some hiding with dirty cloths the stinking cancers that ate into their bodies.

  The whining of beggars, the screams of pain from those jostled unmercifully in the crowd, and the babbling of the insane made a harsh cacophony of sound, equaling in its repulsiveness and horror the very sores of the lepers. Looking at the mass of miserable, suffering, cursing, and pleading humanity that made up at least half of the crowd, Joseph could understand why Pontius Pilate, naturally intolerant of people like this, could have come almost to hate the man whose followers cluttered up good Roman roads. Such things violated every sense of order that came so naturally to the military mind. Particularly galling to Pilate would be the knowledge that his wife, a Roman patrician with the blood of emperors in her veins, also secretly believed the teachings of this carpenter of Nazareth.

  As he rested his camel in the press of the crowd, Joseph could easily see Jesus, for the Teacher sat on a small outcropping of rock above the shore that formed something of a natural pulpit. Mary was not visible, nor was Simon Peter, but Hadja stood near Him. A group of Pharisees, distinguishable by manner quite as much as by dress, was gathered around Jesus.

  “Will you give us a sign, good Teacher?” Joseph heard one of the Pharisees ask. “A sign from heaven to show that the Most High has endowed you as His prophet?”

  Jesus raised His head, and Joseph was shocked by the change in Him since the day he had first seen the Nazarene before Mary’s house. His body and His spirit seemed bowed down as if by a great sorrow or disappointment. Yet Joseph could not understand why, for never before had he seen so great a crowd in Galilee. It must be, he thought, even greater than the five thousand whom Jesus was said to have fed with a few loaves and fishes.

  When Jesus did not answer immediately, the Pharisee who was questioning Him said insistently, “The prophets of olden time gave us signs. Moses brought forth water from the rock and fed the children of Israel upon manna from heaven.”

  “Why does this generation seek for a sign?” Jesus said quietly then. “Truly I say to you no sign shall be given to this generation.”

  Another group of Pharisees had been working their way through the crowd, and now they approached the rock where Jesus sat. “Get away from here,” one of them said loudly, “for Herod wants to kill you.”

  A deep growl of anger came from the crowd, but Jesus raised His hand and it subsided. “Go and tell that fox,” He said to them, “behold, I cast out demons and perform cures today and tomorrow, and the third day I finish my course. Nevertheless, I must go on my way today and tomorrow and the day following; for it cannot be that a prophet should perish away from Jerusalem.” Then His voice changed and became a cry of anguish. “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, killing the prophets and stoning those who are sent to you! How often would I have gathered your children together, as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not! Behold your house is forsaken and desolate. For I tell you, you will not see me again, until you say, ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’”

  Joseph was startled by Jesus’ impassioned cry. Just so, he thought in a flash of inspiration, might the true Son of God, the Expected One, have spoken if He had come to lead the Jews and been rejected by their rulers, as He was indeed being rejected now by the scribes and Pharisees who questioned Him everywhere He went, seeking to ferret from Him some statement in violation of the law. For the first time, Joseph’s conviction that Jesus could not be the Messiah was severely shaken. Moved by a sudden impulse, he got down from his camel and started to push through the crowd, hoping to reach Jesus Himself and ask Him a direct question which must reveal the truth.

  Just then, however, Jesus stood up, as if impatient with the righteousness of the Pharisees and their endless demands for signs. The crowd parted before Him as He went down to the water’s edge. Only when He stepped into one of the boats drawn up there on the shore did they realize that He was leaving, and they began to howl angrily for Him to remain and perform His miracles of healing. Some of them even tried to seize the boat and hold it back, but the boatmen leaped aboard and pushed it into deeper water with their oars. Hoisting the sails, they moved away toward Bethsaida.

  The crowd was in an ugly mood. The sick who had not been able to get close to the Nazarene cursed and grumbled, and the well, their movements obstructed by the slow-moving sick, pushed and struck those around them. Sporadic fights broke out, and the people milled about aimlessly, grumbling and even cursing the Teacher Himself.

  What had happened? Joseph wondered. Jesus’ sadness, the disappointment that He made no attempt to hide, and now the petulance of the crowds who had followed Him blindly before—all of this seemed to signify a change of some sort. Logic asserted that it was only the natural dissatisfaction of the people with one whom they expected to perform miracles and heal all who came to Him if He did not do so. But did the refusal of Jesus to give the Pharisees a sign mean that He did not possess the power? Or did He possess it, as He must if He were truly the Expected One, yet for some reason of His own refuse to use it?

  Hadja spied Joseph with his camel and came over to greet him. “What brings you to Galilee again so soon?” he asked.

  “The Lady Claudia Procula was ill and sent for me.”

  “We heard of it. Mary has prayed for her recovery daily.”

  Joseph looked at him in surprise. “Why do you not still call her the Living Flame?”

  “The one called the Living Flame was another person,” Hadja explained simply. “Now she is only Mary of Magdala, one of the women who ser
ve Jesus.”

  “Chuza told me she is chief among the women now.”

  “It is true. Perhaps because she loves Him more than the others.”

  For a moment Joseph felt a spasm of jealousy toward the Nazarene Teacher. But he put it from his heart at once, for he knew that Mary’s love for him and her love for Jesus were two different emotions. One was the love of a woman for the man to whom she is betrothed, the other that love which a person gives only to God.

  “We are camped in the hills just back of Bethsaida,” Hadja said. “Mary will be glad to see you.”

  The crowd had thinned out somewhat, and they were able to walk along the road that led eastward to the city.

  “I have come to warn you that Herod is plotting to kill Jesus,” Joseph told the Nabatean. “But the Pharisees who spoke just now were before me.”

  “We know Herod has hired the sicarii,” Hadja admitted. “That is one reason why we came into the kingdom of Philip. I now stay close to Jesus always when He is teaching,” he added grimly, “with my knife ready at my belt.”

  Hadja guided Joseph up into the hills above Bethsaida. As they walked along they could see below them the boat in which Jesus had left the shore, sailing on past the town. Soon they approached a small building around which a number of goatskin tents had been pitched. Several women were working at the outdoor ovens back of the house, but none of them had Mary’s red hair. “She may have gone into the city for something,” Hadja suggested. “I will go and ask the women.”

  Joseph had seen many camps like this outside the towns through which the caravans passed. People usually traveled in groups on the highroads of this turbulent land, joining together for protection against the thieves and brigands who infected the hilly country. The leader and his own family would sleep in the house, which they might have rented for the short period of their stay, while the others slept in the tents in winter or on the ground in summer, wrapped in skins and woven coverlets or rugs, for it was chilly on winter mornings and even on summer nights the air became cool before morning.

  Suddenly the voices of several people talking together reached Joseph’s ears from the small building near which he stood. He recognized the booming tones of Simon and moved closer, sure that his old friend from Capernaum would be glad to welcome him. Just outside the door, however, he stopped, for he realized that the men inside were quarreling.

  “I say proclaim Him king tomorrow,” a deep, angry voice said. “Philip is weak and will not oppose us. Before he knows what has happened, we will have gathered enough of a force to descend on Galilee and take it by storm.”

  “But if the Master refuses?” Simon asked.

  “Can He refuse to be king in Israel when we set the crown upon His head?” the deep voice said.

  “I tell you, Jesus does not want to be king.” Joseph started, for it was Mary’s voice. “Can’t you even try to understand His purpose?”

  “He must be king,” the deep voice said positively. “Is it not written in the Psalms of Solomon:

  Behold, O Lord, and raise up to them their king, the son of David,

  At the time in which thou seest, O Lord, that he may reign over Israel, thy servant.

  And guide him with strength that he may shatter unrighteous rulers.

  And that he may purge Jerusalem from the nations that trample her down to destruction.

  With a rod of iron he shall break in pieces all their substance.

  And shall destroy the godless nations with the word of his mouth.

  “It would seem that we do have the promise of the Most High that Jesus shall be king,” Simon admitted.

  Joseph had realized by now that he was eavesdropping upon a plan to force Jesus into becoming king in Galilee, preparatory, no doubt, to marching upon Jerusalem itself. He knew that, as an outsider, he had no right to listen. But Mary was in there, and what concerned her, he told himself, concerned him.

  “It would seem,” the deep voice parroted sarcastically. “Is your faith so small, Simon, that you doubt Jesus is the Messiah?”

  “No man can name me disloyal to the Master,” the fisherman shouted angrily. But before he could go on, Mary said firmly, “Simon called Peter followed Jesus long before Simon the Zealot. Neither of you have a right to settle this. The Master Himself must decide.”

  “But He has said He will go into Tyre,” the man called the Zealot objected. “It would be disastrous to leave Galilee now. The people are ready to crown Him king.”

  Suddenly Joseph felt an iron hand grip his shoulder. At the same moment the sharp point of a dagger penetrated his robe and pricked the skin. “Make no move,” a harsh voice ordered.

  He could not see his captor, nor did he dare cry out to Simon Peter and Mary inside the house, lest the man who held the dagger plunge it into his back. “Who sent you?” the harsh voice asked. “Herod Antipas?”

  “My name is Joseph of Galilee,” the young physician managed to stammer.

  “You are of the sicarii. Else why would you listen when honest men speak among themselves?”

  “Take me into the building,” Joseph begged. “Mary of Magdala and Simon Peter know me well.”

  “Walk, then,” his captor directed. “But make no false move.”

  When they went through the door Joseph got a glimpse of the man who held the dagger. He was a Jew, and tall, with prominent cheekbones, a jutting beak of a nose, burning eyes, and hair already turning a little gray at the temples. It was not a face easily forgotten, especially when met under these circumstances.

  Mary was the first to see them and moved quickly to seize the tall man’s arm. “Put up your dagger, Judas of Kerioth!” she cried indignantly. “Joseph is my betrothed and a friend to all of us.”

  Simon stared at them in amazement, but it was to the other man that Joseph’s eyes turned. The man called the Zealot, or “Zelotes,” no doubt to distinguish him from Simon the fisherman, was short and thickset, with broad shoulders and long arms. His neck was short and his head small, giving him an oddly formidable appearance. He got to his feet now with a muttered curse. “What is this, Judas?” he demanded.

  The man Mary had called Judas of Kerioth sheathed his dagger reluctantly. “I found him listening outside the door,” he explained.

  “Then he heard everything we were saying,” Zelotes growled. “Are you the Joseph of Galilee who is medicus viscerus for the temple and a friend of Pontius Pilate?”

  “Joseph does not eavesdrop upon other people’s conversations,” Mary cried indignantly. “He can explain anything he was doing.”

  “Hadja and I had come from where Jesus was teaching by the lake,” Joseph explained. “He went looking for you, Mary, but I heard yours and Simon’s voices from this building and started over to speak to you. When I realized that you were talking to someone else I didn’t come in.”

  “But you remained outside where you could hear,” Simon Zelotes pointed out. He turned to the other Simon. “What if he goes to Pontius Pilate?”

  “Joseph is no informer,” Mary insisted. “But I almost wish he were. What you are plotting is evil. The Master will tell you what to do; you will not tell Him.”

  “I have known Joseph of Galilee for a long time,” Simon Peter agreed. “If he has heard anything he should not and we ask him to keep it to himself, he will do so.”

  “Whatever I heard will be told to no one,” Joseph said. “I swear it by my honor as a physician.”

  Grudgingly the other two men accepted Joseph’s word, but he knew that their suspicions were not entirely allayed. Judas of Kerioth was also known, he learned, as Judas Iscariot. Both he and Simon Zelotes belonged to the group of Galilean fanatics called the Zealots, many of whom had been with that other Judas, the Gaulonite, who had brought down the wrath of Rome upon the city of Sepphoris. Joseph wondered if he should reveal to the
m that Pontius Pilate knew their intentions already, but decided that to do so would only increase their suspicions of him. Perhaps Mary might be able to convince Jesus that He should not follow them upon what must inevitably be a foolhardy course. And yet he was somehow sure the gentle carpenter of Nazareth was quite able to take care of Himself.

  XIII

  The camp was filled with tension that night. Judas and Simon Zelotes were waiting for Jesus to return to urge upon Him their projected uprising, and Simon Peter was of more than half a mind to support them. Then a thunderbolt struck. James and John, the sons of Zebedee, returned from Bethsaida with news that their leader had sent them back and had gone up into the hills to pray. And they also revealed that the Teacher was adamant in His decision to go into the region of Tyre, near the seacoast.

  When the evening meal was over, the others went away for a conference on this new development, but Simon remained behind for a while with Joseph and Mary.

  “I saw Jesus on the shore this afternoon,” Joseph said. “What has happened to Him? He seemed to be sad.”

  “He is disappointed because His disciples do not understand Him,” Mary said promptly. “They think in terms of earthly kingdoms, but Jesus wants only to change men’s hearts.”

  “But He is the Christ,” Simon insisted. “The Messiah sent from God to free the Jews from oppression.”

  “What proof do you have, Simon, that Jesus is really the Expected One?” Joseph asked.

  “What proof do I need save His own words?”

  “He told you that Himself?”

  Simon nodded. “Some time ago, when we were just north of here, in Caesarea Philippi. Jesus asked us, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ And I answered, ‘The Christ, of God.’ Then He commanded us to tell this to no one.”