According to Mary Magdalene (18 page)

M
ary spent all night reading the letters. She was not so upset as Euphrosyne had been, either by the many rules for the righteous or the severe judgments on the unrighteous. They were all familiar from her childhood synagogues.

Like the contempt for women.

Woman, the gateway to the Devil.

Leonidas used to say that it was fear of love between men and women that was reflected in the messages and Mary considered that a friendly interpretation. She went back to the letters.

Despite everything, it was better to marry than to burn, she read. Women who appeared with their heads uncovered might just as well shave off their hair. Man, on the other hand, needed no headgear, as he was an image of God.

Shame on a woman who speaks in assembly. If she wants to know something, she must ask her husband once they are home.

With some bitterness, Mary remembered Magdala, where her brothers could go to school and she was not even allowed to ask what they had learned.

Then she smiled slightly, imagining Euphrosyne and all those questions she must have put to Paul.

A moment later she found a very strange passage. He wrote that he had bad times, been beaten, suffered shipwreck,
starved, and thirsted. In exchange, he had received great revelations, but in order not to boast about such things he had a thorn in his flesh, an angel of Satan who prevented arrogance.

She closed her eyes and pictured the tormented figure, bowed and stumbling as he made his way down the hill by her house. What kind of illness did he suffer from?

But what interested her most was the theology he had constructed around Jesus. By one man sin entered the world, and death by sin, and so death passed upon all men, for all have sinned. For until the law sin was in the world: but sin is not imputed when there is no law. For as by one man's disobedience many were made sinners, so by the obedience of one shall many be made righteous. For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.

How magnificent, she thought without irony. But she could not make Paul's vision fit in with the young man she had loved.

In the end she read about love: Charity suffereth long and is kind…charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up…beareth all things…endureth all things.

And she learned the conclusion by heart: For now we see through a glass darkly…but then face to face…now I know in part…but then shall I know even as also I am known.…And now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three, but the greatest of these is charity.

She prayed for Leonidas before she fell asleep.

Mary and Euphrosyne talked all the next morning.

They had a lot to catch up on.

Mary told Euphrosyne about Terentius and his wife, Cipa, who had had her tongue cut out as a child. “She's a secretive girl, and I found it difficult not being able to talk to her. But one day when she was cleaning my workroom, I caught her taking a secret look at my notes. Cipa was afraid, but I was pleased and said: ‘Can you read?’”

Nod. “‘But Cipa, then we can talk to each other. You write and I'll answer in speech.’”

“A strange friendship grew between us. Every midday, Cipa came with a number of written questions and I took them one at a time and answered them fully. They could be about practical matters or about God and what he might have intended with her tongue. But I also asked questions and learned a lot more about the Gnostic faith.

“It was good for me,” Mary said to Euphrosyne. “I was made to think in a new way. She is so innocent.”

“I see.”

“She has a sense of humor, too. Isn't that strange? There's always laughter lying in wait behind her closed mouth. She seems to have lived in a secret corner of life, observing and enjoying the comedy we all act out.”

Euphrosyne laughed and said she did not think that at all strange.

She told Mary about her new cook, the exact opposite of Octavianus, silent and serious. His dishes were not flavored with words about how divinely good they were; on the contrary. ‘I'm sorry, but it became a bit salt.' Which was not true. He cooked excellent food, as Mary must already have noticed.

“The only time he lets words fly is when he quarrels with his wife,” said Euphrosyne. “That happens regularly once a week and the sharp words and clatter of pans and dishes echo all over the house. He's happier then and more voluble,” Euphrosyne said and she laughed as she added: “Quite a lot of earthenware gets smashed, as you can imagine.”

At breakfast, Mary was told her stepmother had prepared a surprise. As they sat chatting on the terrace, they heard a carriage on its way up toward the house.

Mary, go up to your room and brush your hair. Put on your blue tunic and come down in a minute. We've got company.”

Mary obeyed.

As she ran down the stairs, she heard the voices of two women deep in confidential conversation, one Euphrosyne's, and the other…? She recognized it, gruff, joyous. But who, from where did she remember it? Her heart suddenly began to thump.

She stopped and stood still for a moment, then slipped over to the wide door out on to the terrace. In the most comfortable chair in the house sat an old lady, slightly hunched, but grandly dressed and dignified.

“Susanna!” cried Mary, so loudly the birds rose from the trees, and the next moment she was on her knees by the old lady with her face buried in her lap.

“Susanna,” she cried again and again. “Can it be true, is it really you?”

The old lady cautiously ran her hand over the fair hair. “My child,” she said. “My little child.”

Mary wept and wept, so much, Euphrosyne had to tell her to calm down. It was no use, Mary just went on crying: “Susanna, Susanna.”

Euphrosyne's voice sharpened. “Mary, Susanna is old. All this excitement does her no good.”

That helped. Mary fell silent, but stayed where she was, holding the old lady's hands. “Are you still as clever with your needle?” she asked.

“No, some things are lost over the years.”

Euphrosyne had wine brought in, despite the early hour, and she poured it out. She said they were all to take a drink and calm down. Susanna drank and the color came back to her face. Mary sipped a little of hers and yet seemed intoxicated.

“Where did you go?” said Susanna, with no hint of reproach, and Mary knew the question had to be asked and answered.

“I went mad,” she said simply.

When she saw the other woman's surprise, she felt she had chosen the wrong word. “My mind just went,” she said.

Her words made the two women sit up and Mary thought perhaps she had never told Euphrosyne.

She began with Golgotha and how she had been split in two as they had waited below the cross, one part empty, incapable of either thinking or feeling, and the other, the usual, containing a life-threatening agony.

“I didn't become whole again until the third day, when I met Jesus by the tomb. You remember how Salome and I came running back with the news to the water carrier's house, and there you all were, even the men who had dared come down from the mountains. A day or so later I had a second vision, when he said: ‘Make no laws….’ And then the dispute with Peter and the break when he threw me out, us…

“Then the split in my mind came back, and somehow it saved me. I simply escaped into the emptiness. I had but one thought. I would meet Jesus in Galilee. It was stupid, but the only thing in that emptiness. I remember nothing about how I left town, or about the long walk to Galilee.

“You must see, my memory had gone. All of you, and all I'd been part of, Euphrosyne and Leonidas—it had all just disappeared.”

She told them how she had begged her way there, slept under the open sky, though occasionally in a sheep hut, the ashes in her hair, the sores, dirt, and neglect.

“Leonidas found me much much later. I was sleeping on the shore of the Gennesaret. He washed me, found a doctor, and took me with him to the sea. There he kept on talking to me to get my head going again. I slowly recovered, and began to get used to the idea of being the wife of a merchant.

“Then I was in my house in Antioch for years, reading books, training my mind, and filling my head with knowledge. But it took a long time before I found the courage to remember, and even then I had to let it happen slowly and carefully. Oh, I was so frightened, Susanna.”

“Of madness?” said Euphrosyne.

“Yes. It's terrible to lose your mind.”

They stayed there for a long time, looking out over the garden and the sea.

Susanna's voice was gruff when she broke the silence. “We searched for you for days in Jerusalem, the other women and I. We went up and down all the alleys and asked wherever we dared. In the end we sat in a grove on the Mount of Olives and
told ourselves you were dead, that you had followed the man you loved.

“Eventually we all returned, each to her own. But we wrote to each other and once a year we met in someone's home and reminded each other what Jesus had said and done during those years. And Lydia wrote down our memories.”

“Is Lydia still alive?”

“Yes, she and Salome live with me in Ephesus. Most of them are still alive, Mary.”

Mary Magdalene closed her eyes, making an effort to grasp that they all existed, that they had done as she had, shaped their own memories far away from the apostles and their teachings.

Susanna went on: “One day we went to the synagogue in Ephesus to listen to the famous Paul. He was a disappointment, an insignificant man, we thought. Afterward there was a lot of talk about him, and a Jew said that there was a rumor that Paul had carried on conversations in Antioch with Mary Magdalene.

“At first I thought that was nonsense, but I knew the man who had talked of you and couldn't let the matter drop. So I went to him and asked. He was certain. You were alive and married to a silk merchant in Antioch.

“Then I suddenly remembered the Greek Leonidas and recalled that he came from Syria: When I went home to the others, I was so excited the words came tumbling out of me.

“Then Lydia remembered that you had talked about your stepmother and that her name was Euphrosyne and she lived in Corinth. We wrote a letter to her. And had an answer that said we were welcome to stay with her in September when her daughter, Mary of Magdala, was to visit her.”

Susanna laughed. “It surprises me we didn't have a stroke, the joy of that letter arriving,” she said.

Euphrosyne said perhaps they had had enough for the moment. They had a light dinner and then Mary went with Susanna to her room to help her to bed.

“Why didn't the others come with you?” she whispered.

“We have a shop and someone has to see to it. I was the one they could most easily do without.”

The days of calm went by quickly. Susanna slept a lot and Mary wrote a long letter to Salome and Lydia. It was not easy. She was driven by a need to account for everything, all those many long years. In the end she also wrote of the future, at least the near future. She would persuade Leonidas to call in at Ephesus on the way home, she wrote. Then they would make a plan together on how their cooperation could continue.

When the scribe was to copy Mary's notes, Mary asked for an extra copy that Susanna could take back with her to the other two.

Mary found it hard to sleep at night. Everything that had happened and her anxiety over Leonidas plagued her, nor was it any better when he returned. He was pale and tired and kept clasping his hand to his chest. “I've peculiar pains around my heart,” he said.

The next day Euphrosyne summoned her doctor, a conscientious man, a Greek. He didn't like the sound of Leonidas' heart, but considered a long rest would help. What was most important was that he got home and was looked after by his own doctor.

Leonidas fell asleep while the doctor was still there.

Mary realized that no detour to Ephesus would come about. She bade Susanna a lengthy farewell and gave her the letter and a well-filled purse. “A gift from me to the three of you,” she said. “You'll hear from me as soon as possible.”

Susanna was to stay on in the house in Corinth for a few more weeks.

“Don't worry,” said Euphrosyne. “I'll go with her to Ephesus to make sure she gets there safely.”

“We'll write, we'll write.”

O
n their voyage home, Leonidas seemed better, sleeping at night with Mary's hand in his, his color improved, and she coaxed him into eating. They could talk to each other again. She said it was due to the sea air. He said it was due to her.

But then one morning, just as they had their first glimpse of the Orontes, Leonidas became very out of breath and his heart started racing. Mary was at a loss, for there was nothing she could do.

“Try taking deep breaths.”

But he could not, and the next moment he lost consciousness. Then just as suddenly as they had come, the pains in his chest went away and he fell asleep.

But God in heaven, how pale he was.

Livia, Mera, and her little boy were all waiting at the harbor in Seleucia, Livia full of energy and curiosity over the results of the voyage. Mary persuaded Leonidas to stay in his bunk and went ashore on her own.

“No one is to make demands on you now,” she had said, expecting some protest, but he smiled gratefully, and that only increased her anxiety.

She briefly explained to Livia that Leonidas was ill, and that they must summon his doctor immediately and meet him back at the house.

“Ill?”

“His heart.”

“Like Father,” whispered Livia.

Back at home, the days and nights were long in the cool bedroom.

The doctor said much the same as his colleague had in Corinth, only slightly more directly. “His heart is worn out.”

They were given medicine, but it was little use.

Leonidas liked soups. Cipa boiled meat and rendered down strong stock into bouillon and Mary flavored it and added vegetables. They tried fish, but the smell nauseated Leonidas. Mary wondered whether he had never liked fish but had pretended to for her sake.

“I'll speak to the sisters at the temple of Isis,” said Mera.

Mary nodded.

A day or two later, a palanquin arrived outside the gate and Mary smiled at the aged priestess with relief and hope. The old woman wanted to be alone with Leonidas and she sat in his room, running her hands over his body while Mary waited outside with thumping heart.

“He'll go soon,” she said, when she came out. “With joy and without hesitating. There's nothing I can do. He has decided, but I can alleviate his pain so that the days will be more bearable.”

She showed Mary a large flask full of a dark liquid.

“What is it?”

“Digitalis, from the foxglove” said the old priestess. “In moderate doses. Give him three spoonfuls a day. It is not a cure, but it relieves.”

Mary thanked her and the old lady made her farewells. “What must happen, will happen,” she said. “When it's over, you are welcome to come and see me.”

Mary had to go via the kitchen to wash the tears from her face before going back to Leonidas, who smiled at her and said it was a remarkable witch she had found.

“Yes, and she brought a remarkable witch's brew with her. Let's try it.”

His heavy eyelids blinked with amusement, but he obediently opened his mouth when she offered him the first spoonful of digitalis. A moment later he was asleep and she sat quietly by his side. She could see he was breathing more easily and some color had slowly come back into his face.

When he woke, he sat up for the first time for several days. “I'm hungry. Soup. And where's that miracle medicine?”

Mary thought about the old priestess' words: “doesn't cure, just relieves,” but she said nothing. Then she thought about the stately foxgloves in her garden, long since dead. She had never known they had such strength.

She had her bed taken into Leonidas' room and slept spasmodically, listening to his breathing, thinking a lot, remembering, in all her despair able to feel gratitude to him.

I never said how much I loved him.

He was always worse when daylight came.

“Medicine, Mary,” he hissed.

That helped him through the mornings. Then his strength failed again and it would take another spoonful for him to be able to get a little dinner down.

They were occasionally able to talk in the afternoons and she spoke of their love and everything he had meant to her.

“One of the strangest love stories in the world,” he said, winking at her with amusement.

Livia came, tiptoed to her brother and sat quietly for a while. Rabbi Amasya came, knelt at his bedside, and prayed. Leonidas slept most of the time. At night, Mary sometimes wept in her sleep and woke him.

“It hurts me that you're sad,” he said, with difficulty. “You're well provided for in my will,” he added.

“Leonidas,” she almost snapped at him, and that was the only time she raised her voice during his long illness. He smiled and looked ashamed.

“Try to get Euphrosyne to come,” he whispered.

Mary shook her head.

But when Livia came for her afternoon visit, he emerged
from his sleep. “See to it that Euphrosyne comes,” he whispered. “I don't want Mary to be alone when I leave her.”

“I promise,” said Livia.

Days and nights merged into each other, the first blessed rains came, but Mary did not notice. The only moments she had to herself were when Terentius cared for Leonidas, helped him empty his bowels, washed his body, and changed the sheets. Then Mary went to the bathroom and sometimes had time to take a bath. But she mostly stayed sitting beside him.

She could no longer weep.

“Mary,” Leonidas said one night. “I want you to promise me one thing.”

“Yes.”

“I want you to swear to it.”

“Yes.”

“You are not to go into that emptiness.”

“I promise. I swear I won't.”

Another night, he said, “I often dream about Jesus, that he's here in the light.”

“He is,” whispered Mary.

Then she lay awake, thinking that she could not feel that presence.

Nor did she see any light. The darkness was dense outside and Leonidas wanted no lamp in the room. She had a little bowl of oil on her bedside table and the flame glinted like old silver.

But at dawn that day, she was awakened by the light Leonidas had talked about, the whole room dazzlingly white. She leaned over him and at once knew he had gone.

She had no memory of the following few days, only one thing on her mind, reminding her every evening of her promise to Leonidas: “I must not give way to that emptiness.”