According to Mary Magdalene (19 page)

A
s neither Leonidas nor Mary had ever had much to say about Mary's stepmother, Lydia had formed a picture of her own—a simple woman, a Greek peasant girl who for some unfathomable reason had married a Jew and soon been widowed in barbaric Palestine.

A marriage of that kind indicated a person with no sense.

Then she had settled in a house in Tiberias, a vulgar settler town in Galilee. That was where she had undertaken to look after the child. She was undoubtedly a clever housekeeper and had somehow probably made the dead Jew's money go around.

Leonidas had paid for Mary's education, the learned Greek teachers. Her brother had revealed that one evening when he had drunk too much and Livia had said something encouraging about how well educated Mary was.

I suppose it's always so, Livia thought, that mothers shape their daughters. And what Mary had learned in the house in Tiberias was obvious: cooking, looking after a garden, being careful with money, and being humble and grateful.

Consequently, Livia detested Euphrosyne long before they ever met. She also had sufficient troubles of her own without having an unknown relative around her neck. The poor state of the firm's finances, the absent Nicomachus, Leonidas' will, then the funeral and all the work that had entailed.

But Livia had promised her brother she would bring the stepmother there.

Mary was no help. She went around like a ghost, did not reply when spoken to, and had neither opinions nor desires.

One morning, it occurred to Livia that the small-minded Euphrosyne in Corinth had accepted her invitation because she wanted to watch over Mary's and her own interests at the distribution of the estate.

Of course. That was it.

But as they stood there down at the harbor watching the ship arriving, Livia was ashamed when she saw the joy lighting up Mary's face as she waved to the passengers, crying out: “Oh, Mother, Mother, Mother…”

Then Livia spotted the tall woman at the railing, and she clutched at Mera's arm—hold on to me. But she was still feeling shaken as the elegant woman walked down the gangway and took Mary into her arms.

“We'll survive this time, too,” Euphrosyne said to her stepdaughter.

Mary straightened up, and once again there was hope in her eyes.

But Livia was wondering what the stepmother had meant with those words.

Euphrosyne greeted her in a friendly but slightly polite way. She spoke classic Greek, too, with no trace of dialect. She's a woman of the world, Livia thought. Why didn't anyone tell me?

Later, Euphrosyne thanked the Roman captain for their good journey. Her luggage was to be taken to Mary's house, but Livia wanted to welcome them with dinner at hers. She had made a great effort over the numerous dishes and fine wines. An amused smile crossed Euphrosyne's face, and Livia loathed her.

After the guests had left, Livia went to bed. She was deathly tired after everything that had happened. But she had managed the funeral, which had taken place according to
Greek rituals. The mourning feast afterward, too, and all the consoling words to the employees, who were fearful for the future. The money?

Everything depended on the will, which was to be read the next day.

Mary had been central to Leonidas and the risk that paying out her inheritance would ruin the firm was great.

She missed her brother, by all the gods how she missed him, his laughter and his energy.

“I liked her,” said Euphrosyne on their way to Mary's house. “But what is she frightened of?”

“The will—it means the whole of the inheritance goes to me. I have to tell you the family firm is her life's work.”

At Mary's, the guest house that had once been equipped for Mera and her child had been put in order. Euphrosyne was to be made comfortable, almost as she was used to. She greeted Cipa with curiosity and Terentius with respect. Everything was to her satisfaction, she said, thanking them for their care. Terentius thought, as Livia had, a lady, a real lady.

They did not say much as they went through the garden and Mary was ashamed of the ravages caused by the heat. When they got back to the house, Mary asked Terentius for mulled wine.

“It helps you sleep,” she said.

“Do you sleep badly?”

“No, I sleep whenever I get a chance.”

“But you're eating badly, I can see that. And I think with horror about the time when…Leonidas died the previous time. We have no Octavianus now.”

“I'll try to do better.”

“Good.”

Mary ate some of the browned chicken and freshly baked bread, so much, her body felt heavy.

They said goodnight.

A long day was over, and Mary slept like a child. Like the child I am, she thought. Father is dead but Mother will look after me.

As usual, Euphrosyne was up at the crack of dawn and with pen and paper, she sat down at the kitchen table and said to Cipa: “I'm worried about Mistress Mary's poor appetite. We must get her to eat.”

Cipa took her time, then picked up the pen and wrote briefly, “You can trust me.”

Euphrosyne was very pleased.

When Mary appeared, she was almost swollen with sleep. “I can't tell you how well I slept.”

“We've quite a few things to talk about. But eat your breakfast first.”

Mary stayed at the kitchen table and Cipa served a very strange meal, fat cheese and salt olives, a large pear, bread, and cold beer.

“I know just who has been talking to you,” Mary said to Cipa, and she ate like a hungry child.

A little while later, Euphrosyne told her about her visit to Ephesus, about Salome, Lydia, and Susanna, who lived a thrifty life in two small rooms above their little shop.

“They had something. Peace and a naturalness,” she said, after some seeking for the words. Then she went on. “What are you going to do with your inheritance?”

“Leave it in the firm.”

They smiled at each other. Cipa noticed and was pleased.

Then the man with the will and endless piles of documents arrived. He had been in the service of the family for many years and was thorough and cold, as befits a lawyer.

He began by accounting for the firm's assets, the ships, the silk-weaving mill, outstanding claims, the houses.

The debts were also considerable, he said. One difficulty concerned the absent son-in-law, who might appear at any moment and bankrupt the whole firm by agreeing to the divorce. He did not look at Mera as he said it, but all of them around the table felt the chill in his voice.

There was a solemn silence as he broke the seal around the will.

Naturally it was just as Livia had feared, Leonidas' entire fortune was to go Mary.

Mary spoke, turning calmly and considerately to Livia. “I have decided to let my money remain in the firm. We will be part owners, you and I. You will have to take on all the responsibility and do all the work, unjust, I know, but you know I have no head for business. And I am going to move back home to my mother's as soon as I have sold the house.”

Once Livia had regained her powers of speech, she said, “What would Leonidas have said?”

“He would have burst out laughing,” said Euphrosyne.

Livia looked surprised, so Euphrosyne went on. “I'm convinced that clever boy has arranged things just as he had thought would happen. He has assured Mary's upkeep without making difficulties for the firm.”

Even Livia dared smile, but then her features sharpened. “I request that Mary appoint a good man to represent her interests in the firm,” she said.

“Where in God's name would I find anyone like that?”

“Perhaps I can help,” said the lawyer.

“No,” said Livia and Euphrosyne, almost in unison.

The lawyer was in a hurry to get back to his office, saying there were many more documents to be drawn up. Euphrosyne thought perhaps he was afraid Mary might change her mind.

That afternoon, the three women were at last able to talk about Leonidas.

“You knew my brother?” Livia said to Euphrosyne.

“Yes, very well. And I liked him. We came to be very close when we shared the responsibility for the child.”

“There's so much we don't know about him.”

“Yes, he was a quiet man.”

Euphrosyne sat deep in thought, then told them what it had been like when he had died the first time.

“Mary was only a child, but she almost died of grief, by starving herself. It was awful. I thought I'd go mad with worry.”

“We had a message from the Roman army, too, informing us of his death,” said Livia. “Then only about a month later, a dirty Bedouin appeared with the demand for the ransom. My husband flatly refused and he was head of the firm. They were dreadful years.”

They nodded. They understood.

“The women in our family have a tendency to marry the wrong men,” Livia said finally. “Mother did, I did, and so did Mera, poor thing.”

“I can't say I don't recognize the situation,” said Euphrosyne.

M
ary was walking slowly on the white marble along the colonnaded street in Ephesus. The houses were all beautiful, but the huge temple almost took her breath away. Full of admiration, she stood gazing at the goddess with her many breasts, surrounded by all the animals of field and forest, bulls, antelopes, flying sphinxes with female breasts, and then those gigantic bees, the symbol of Artemis.

Great, how great was Diana of the Ephesians.

The Greek artists, too, she thought, remembering Setonius' tale of the statues of divinities in their places on the island of his childhood.

There was a lesser goddess there, too, and Mary was surprised to find her face resembled that of Isis in the temple in Antioch. The great mother, now losing her power over the world, she thought, remembering the words of the old priestess.

A little later, she made her way to the outskirts of the town. It took some time, for the town was large, almost as large as Antioch. But so different, so much lighter, easier.

She was alone. Euphrosyne had objected and had said Terentius should go with her as her shadow and protector. But Mary did not want to arrive at her friends of all those years with a handsome slave in tow. She was wearing worn gray
garments she had found at the bottom of the clothes chest when packing, and she had washed them and had Cipa mend the rips and holes. They were the same clothes she had worn during her wanderings with Jesus, and as she dressed before going ashore, to her great surprise, the patched but indestructible garments gave her new strength.

The ship with Euphrosyne and the servants on board had continued on to Corinth.

Mary had to ask her way to the poor street where Susanna, Lydia, and Salome lived. It was far away from the handsome center of town, where Greeks from half the world strolled, made offerings to their gods, and enjoyed their beauty.

The streets here narrowed to alleys and just as Mary was thinking she was lost in the jumble of little shops and street stalls, she spotted their shop, a piece of blue silk in it glowing from far away. Mary recognized it. Euphrosyne had given that to Susanna, she thought.

She opened the door. Fortunately there were no customers, and behind the counter was Lydia, straight-backed, tall, and handsome. The two women looked at each other in silence, filled with solemnity and joy.

“May I sit down?” whispered Mary.

That was enough to rouse Lydia from her paralysis. She pulled up a chair and fetched a glass of water. “Have you walked far?”

“Only from the harbor. But it's a big town.”

“Drink!”

“Thank you.”

Then Lydia banged on the ceiling with a long stick. Mary heard a door open and Lydia called out: “Hurry, hurry. She's come.”

Salome came running down the stairs. Mary's eyes filled with tears, so that she could scarcely see, and Salome was in the same state.

Neither said a word.

How strange that we're almost shy of each other, Mary thought.

“I must go and see Susanna,” she said.

“Come.”

Susanna was sitting in the kitchen upstairs, her arms held out. Just as she had done in Corinth, Mary fell to her knees and buried her face in Susanna's robe. Susanna smiled with delight and chattered away about how pleased, how very pleased they were. And what a long time they had waited.

And hoped.

Light as a breeze, she smoothed the rough edges of their confusion and soon the four of them were all talking at once.

They went on until Susanna interrupted and cried out: “Food. We'll have a feast.”

Lydia went down and closed the shop. Mary went with her to fetch her bag of night things and change of clothes.

Salome made the meal, smoked lamb with a sauce, the flavors all kindling memories in Mary—it was just as it had been around their campfires in the evenings, all those years ago.

They did not say much that first evening, simply exchanging small talk after they had laid down on their mats. Oh, how well Mary recognized that gentle female chatter, though it took her some time to find the right position on the uncomfortable sleeping mat. It was a long time since Leonidas' wife had slept on the floor.

The next morning, the talk became a flood, they had so much to tell each other. At first, it was personal, about children and grandchildren and the rejoicing when they had gone back to their homes and could relate what had happened.

Mary sat in silence, knowing she had to tell them. “My husband died a month ago.”

They put their arms around her and wept for her, their grief far far away from Euphrosyne's matter-of-factness and Livia's self-control.

They had many memories of Leonidas, and they talked about the day he had come to Capernaum, how handsome he was and how friendly and open.

“He had an amazing laugh,” said Lydia. “I remember that
it took everyone with him, both Simon, who was so mindful of his dignity, and those zealots who became our misfortune.”

They fell silent.

“I've never understood what happened,” said Mary.

“Let's leave it until morning,” said Salome. “It's the Sabbath and we can spend the whole day on…our memories. We've read the copies of what you wrote, Mary. But we've also got notes Lydia has taken over the years. You can read them while we do what we have to do.”

“Thank you.”

While the women cleaned the house and shop and went out into town to shop for the Sabbath, Mary sat at the kitchen table and read. Their memories were different from hers in many details, but what was so wonderful was how similarly they had regarded the words and deeds of Jesus.

I was not as alone as I thought.

All the next day, they wove together their accounts, Mary's images with Lydia's notes. It strengthened them. They received confirmation, but Lydia told them how capricious memory was, all the same.

“For me, a memory can appear in a dream. It can be about a light over the lake, or the scent of a flower. Only sometimes is it a clear picture and someone saying something. Everything reminds me. When I wake, I try to make the picture clearer. I remember. But I become uncertain, where do I fill in and what do I add, what am I interpreting?”

Mary nodded. She recognized that.

But old Susanna laughed. “You've too vivid an imagination,” she said. “I remember what I remember and can go back whenever I want to, up the steps to the house in Capernaum, see the worn latch, stand there a moment listening to that young voice from the lake, as he sat there in the boat speaking to the people.”

“But that's amazing,” said Mary. “Can you do that whenever you want to?”

“No. Usually it's when the memory has something to do
with pain. I can see every detail of Golgotha, every event over those nine hours.”

“But that must mean there are things you find hard to remember,” said Salome. “All the happinesses…?”

Susanna nodded.

“It's strange,” said Mary. “You were the one who was the happiest.”

This time, the silence lasted a long time. Salome went to fetch apricot juice and beakers, and as she served it, Mary looked thoughtfully at her.

“But what about you, Salome?” she said. “How do you remember? You were the one who always had the best head.”

“No, that was you.”

“Wrong, you had intelligence. I had common sense.”

They laughed.

“The first years after the crucifixion,” said Salome, “I considered I had perfectly clear memories of everything Jesus said and did. But then all that great myth making started in the Christian congregations—the resurrection, the angels at the tomb, the mother who was a virgin. Now they've found a star over Bethlehem…” She hesitated, then went on. “They talk and talk, his apostles, and who am I to dare maintain they are wrong and I am right? I have become so uncertain….”

They all nodded. They all felt inadequate.

But Lydia rose to her full height as she said: “I believe in sagas, stories about gods and monsters and miracles, horrible sea creatures and angels. But when they start saying they are real, that all of it has happened in our world, then I lose faith.”

The others looked surprised, but Mary understood.

“None of us has any answer to just who he was and what his task was,” said Susanna.

“I think Mary is right,” said Salome, her voice gentle, but her eyes angry, “when she says ‘He was too great for us.' But there are plenty of people who have answers for everything—Peter, Barnabus, and Paul, just to name a few.”

Susanna clamped her mouth shut and mumbled, “What did you say?”

“That no one ever listens to women.”

They said nothing, for they knew that was true.

“Someone will in the end,” said Lydia. “And perhaps that's enough.”

Mary told them about the Christian association that had put itself outside the teachings of the apostles.

“I was at a Gnostic service….”

She described the drawing of lots before the service and drew a lively picture of the woman preacher and what she had said.

“I was veiled and all in black,” she said. “Over all those years in Antioch, I was always afraid of being recognized. You can imagine how upset I was when the woman up there started quoting from my dispute with Peter at the water carrier's house in Jerusalem—word for word,” Mary went on, the surprise still her voice. “That was when I realized that words have a life of their own. And power.”

They had been listening intently, as well as with some astonishment.

They sat there, thinking about it.

At last Salome spoke. “Perhaps it's important that we also submit our testimonies?”

“Yes,” said Mary. Then she explained her plan.

She had talked to her stepmother on their voyage from Antioch, she told them, and Euphrosyne was keen to help them. They were to build a house between the two green hills on the big site by the Bay of Corinth. Library, a bedroom each, and a large kitchen. It's beautiful,” she said.

“Money?”

“We are his disciples and will do as he taught us. We'll put our assets into a common purse and share everything.”

“But we have so little.”

“I happen to have a lot. And there must be some meaning in my inheritance from Leonidas.”

Mary could almost hear their thoughts in the long silence that followed.

Lydia was thinking it would be difficult to leave Ephesus, where she had felt at home for almost twenty years.

Susanna was thinking she was too old.

Salome was more practical and it was she who broke the silence. “But what would we do all day?” she said. “We can't just talk and write.”

Mary smiled. “I thought we might be able to grow vegetables and earn money from that. And then gradually we could take in pupils, women interested in what we have to teach.”

Comments fell like heavy raindrops.

“We must think it over.”

“Yes.”

“When are you leaving?”

“The ship is picking me up in a week.”

“What kind of town is Corinth?”

“Smaller than here.”

“Many Romans?”

“Yes, and many Jews.”

“What would people think of us?”

“Did you ever think that when you were following Jesus?”

“Do you think Jesus supports your idea?”

“Yes.”

“We'll let you know.”

“It's hard to change your life.”

“It's hard to live here, too. We're getting older.”

They got no further that evening. They laid the table for the Sabbath meal, lit their candles, and said the old prayers. But all their thoughts were a long way away.

Mary had to leave Ephesus without an answer. She had no desire to press the hesitant and reckoned she probably did not have to. Sometimes she was quite sure. The decision had already been made.

In the kingdom of heaven, she thought. Just what went on living so powerfully within these women?

When Mary went on board ship on the agreed day, they were all there and they held her hand as if they dared not let it go.

“If we don't…” said Susanna, her voice trembling. “Will you still come and see us sometimes?”

“Yes, I will, I promise.”

“So you won't be too disappointed.”

“Yes, but that'll pass, like everything else.”

“It's strange we've become so irresolute,” said Lydia. “When you think we once gave up everything and just followed the Master.”

Mary nodded. She had often thought about that, how incredibly strong these women were who had followed Jesus, not just leaving their families, but breaking with their whole tradition, the entire Jewish community. So much spitting, so much ridicule they had had to endure.

“But it was as if we had no choice,” said Salome.

Mary thought carefully and then replied. “I don't think we have now, either. We have a task.”

They smiled hesitantly at her.

Then the captain called out that the ship was ready for departure. The women had to go ashore and they parted with clumsy words.

“We'll meet again.”

And Mary knew that it would come to pass.