According to Mary Magdalene (3 page)

“To the cross with you.”

That was a Greek speaking broken Aramaic.

Then the soldiers caught sight of the woman and the small children.

“Leave them be.”

“No, we're to exterminate the Jews as we do vermin.”

Mary closed her eyes tight as they slit the throats of her mother and brothers, only one thought now left in her head. She wanted to die.

But she didn't know how to. She kept her eyes closed, then smelt smoke.

They had set fire to the house.

Without thinking and without really wanting to, Mary fled, up toward the mountain, where she came to the old goat path, then she ran and ran and ran.

A
t home in Antioch, Mary Magdalene was making a supreme effort to recall those difficult images. What is true? What is fiction? Where does the boundary run? How much can anyone remember without falling apart?

She had no more memories. She had simply shut her eyes and run.

She had also continued to keep her eyes shut over all those years with Euphrosyne. But she had been frightened of the nights, when what had been forgotten appeared to her in the dark.

Though on the whole, she had largely succeeded in her aim: never to remember. Until she had met Jesus, and he had said: “Only the truth can free you.”

The truth? She looked at the scroll where she had written down the story of her childhood. Then the question returned: How much of it was true?

Had she gilded her childhood? No, even the most difficult upbringing has its brighter memories. A child requires so little, sun playing in the leaves of the trees, a newborn lamb sleeping in her arms, but also the joy of movement, leaping over stones and running over mountains.

Had she exaggerated her alienation?

She did not think so. She could still feel the shame of her yellow hair and her blue eyes. And the contempt she had faced.

Once again she read through what she had written, thinking in the way she thought about Jesus: how alone she was. But she could now also see that she had been a strong and robust child, that girl in Magdala.

Mother.

She had taken pains, racking her memory to remember her mother's name. In vain. She could remember her mother's smile, probably because it was so rare. But the clearest pictures were of her mother's sorrow. And her exhaustion, her body sucked dry from childbearing, bowed, its beauty gone, and the clenched hand pressed to her back to ease the pain.

It was slavery, she thought.

Naturally she had not seen this as a child. In that world, the scriptures, the years of children were a woman's lot, what life was about and the will of God. Many of the children died, disappearing like shadows and forgotten. Just like the mothers deprived of their lives by childbirth.

Mother was sixteen years old when she gave birth to me, twenty-two when she died.

Mary was tired when she went to bed. As she closed the shutter, she saw the night was dark over the mountains, yet another moonless night.

That night, she prayed for dreamless sleep, but her prayers went unheard. She dreamt about Chua. Even in her sleep she felt surprise, a woman, the wife of her uncle, Mother's brother, coming toward her on the sheep track over the mountain, her arms held open to the girl, then hugging her, making her laugh.

When Mary woke, she felt light from the warmth of the dream. That must have happened, and the dream now clarified. Chua had been tall and proud, her breasts round, not flat as rolled-out dough. But then she had given birth to only three children, two sons and a daughter.

Then she had been let off.

Rumors about her had been mumbled by the women around the well and at the quay where they fetched the fish. Woman-talk, as envious as judgmental: she made horrible brews of herbs and drank them, an art she had learned from Lucifer. One woman had actually seen one of his evil angels visiting her.

They said she was arrogant, but she had been the only one to be kind to Mother and me. Mary could suddenly remember the quiet talk by the oven as the two women did their baking.

The next morning, as she sat down and took out her writing materials, she realized that in the future she would have to rely largely on Leonidas' memories.

H
e had been wounded in battle, Leonidas, the Greek and centurion. Not seriously, but he had bled profusely and he was grateful and greatly relieved to be ordered to return to the doctor in Tiberias.

He detested his actions, but even more the overflowingly emotional Jews, with their hair splitting, their terrible rhetoric, and their fearful tribal god.

He was riding at dawn as quietly as he could through inhospitable landscape, the screams of the crucified still ringing in his ears, when he suddenly caught sight of a child running along the path, swift little feet and long, unusually fair hair flying like wings from the little head.

“Hello there, who are you?”

The girl stopped and stared wide-eyed at the rider. Blue eyes!

“I am Mary from Magdala.”

Then she collapsed. He dismounted and picked the child up. There was no doubt she had lost consciousness. What in all the gods was he to do with her? She had spoken Aramaic, so she must be Jewish after all.

As he lifted her up on to the horse, he puzzled over his own actions. One Jewish child more or less, why should he bother?

Then he knew it was something to do with her eyes.

An hour later, he was knocking on the door of Euphrosyne's house of pleasure, beautifully situated on the lakeshore in the new town. She opened the door herself.

“Leonidas!” she exclaimed. “You know perfectly well we're closed in the mornings. And I haven't had time to find a new boy for you.”

“Now listen. I've found a child and I want you to look after her on my behalf.”

Euphrosyne looked suspiciously at him.

“Her?” she said. “Is it a girl?”

“Yes, and an unusual girl. I'll pay for her.”

“Have you deserted?”

“No, no. I was wounded in battle and sent back.”

He put the unconscious child into Euphrosyne's arms. Euphrosyne unwound the mantle she was wrapped in.

“An unusual child indeed,” she said in astonishment.

Mary emerged from her daze when she heard that light female voice, and stared at the handsome woman, thinking she must be either an angel of God or one of Lucifer's. Euphrosyne met the child's eyes and in her turn thought she had never seen such eyes before.

“I rely on you,” said Leonidas. “And I'll pay you well.”

“Go and get your wounds seen to.”

At this stage, the whole house had woken and young women were standing in amazement around the child, all talking at once: “How pretty she is, how enchanting. And how dirty!”

Mary was lowered into a bath of warm water smelling of spring flowers. She was not afraid of water, but was ashamed of her nakedness. And yet she knew she was in heaven and that was what they did there with the unclean.

Then she was dried with soft towels and put on a bed. That frightened her more than the bath, for she had never slept in a bed before. She was given a piece of bread with herb-spiced yogurt on it. And hot milk with honey, she could taste that, but also something else, a bitter flavor that was still on her tongue as she fell asleep.

She slept all that long day, but was awakened toward night by music and laughter. Euphrosyne had put the child's bed in her own room and left young Miriam to keep watch over her.

“She must have someone to turn to when she wakes. And you're the only one who can speak Aramaic.”

Miriam was grateful. She dozed off now and again, then fell asleep and woke from the sense that someone was watching her. Mary had been gazing at her for some time, at the fine Jewish face, the nobly curved nose, red lips, and long brown curly hair. Just the kind Mary had always wanted to have.

As Miriam shook herself awake, Mary pretended to be asleep, needing time to try to remember where she was, and she had to think about why this beautiful girl looked so sad. Then she began to weep in despair. She wanted to scream but nothing came but a whisper: “Mother, they killed Mother.”

“There, there,” said Miriam, drying her tears and quietly calming her. “Your mother is with God. All is well with her now.”

“Where am I?”

Miriam hesitated, but in the end told the truth. “In Euphrosyne's house of pleasure.”

“Is that why they're playing so beautifully?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“But you're not happy. You're sad.”

“I miss my mother, just as you do.”

Then Miriam did something she would probably be scolded for. She crept into bed with the child and drew her to her. As the dawn light shimmered over the lake, Euphrosyne found them both sleeping soundly, and gratefully, she took the opportunity to rest herself. It had been a troublesome night.

The house slept until the sun reached midday height, the silence occasionally broken by a woman's shrill voice whimpering, or praying to one of the many gods of eastern countries. Mary was sometimes awakened by the voices, but soon fell asleep again, not wanting to, not wanting….

Then everyone seemed to wake at once, laughter and cries filling the rooms, water splashing and more and more calls for something to eat.

By all the gods, they were hungry. The slaves had cleaned the house and there was no sign of the activities of the night.

Mary would never forget some of the events of that first day.

The person cooking the food was a man!

And you could eat as much as you liked.

They pressed it on her.

“Have some more bread. Have you tasted the chicken? Here's a bit of breast. Try the cheese, no, perhaps that's too strong for you. But here's something you'll like, fig cake with honey and dried grapes.”

She was praised for every mouthful she took…clever girl.

There were other peculiar things, too. Mary nearly choked when she noticed the woman beside her had yellow hair. And blue eyes!

Then she noticed that Euphrosyne herself was blue-eyed, but the most astonishing thing of all was her hair, gleaming red like fire.

They were all interested in the child, and when they realized she could not understand their language, they turned to Euphrosyne:

“She can stay, can't she? We'll make new clothes for her. She's so enchanting, we can teach her….”

Euphrosyne answered evasively. “She's Leonidas' child,” she said.

The women laughed. Leonidas, the lover of boys, couldn't have made a woman with child!

“No, I think he found her in the mountains, escaping from the war.”

After their meal, they all disappeared out into the garden, Mary holding Miriam's hand. Euphrosyne shut herself into her room to count the money and enter the night's takings into the accounts. As so often, she had worries of her own—one of the girls had been mistreated, and seeing her injuries, Euphrosyne, had sent the slave boy to fetch the doctor.

When the doctor came, he might just as well examine the girl too, she thought, at heart wanting to be rid of her, for this was no place for a child, but at the same time, like the others in the house, she was greatly taken with her. There was something inexpressibly attractive about her, bright and secretive at the same time.

Well, it's Leonidas' problem, she said to herself. If he wants her to stay here, he'll have to be prepared to pay quite a bit. Miriam would have to be assigned to look after her, teach her to speak properly and behave decently. A few table manners, among other things; my goodness, the way she ate!

Euphrosyne spent some time reckoning out how much the loss of Miriam's services would cost her.

The big garden on the slope down to the lake took Mary's breath away. Never could she have dreamed of anything like it: birds singing in green thickets, flowers of the most amazing kinds glowing, hedges as high as walls making spaces to hide in, and springs rippling glittering water over elaborate mosaics. Down by the lake was a tree she recognized, a large terebinth, heavy with age and its secrets.

She reckoned it greeted her.

Most beautiful of all were the roses, their heavy silken heads white, yellow, and shimmering pink, though most were a deep, mysterious crimson.

She found the courage to ask.

“What are those flowers called?”

Miriam hesitated, for she knew no Aramaic word for roses, so it came about that rose was the first Greek word Mary learned.

On the way up from the garden, they met Euphrosyne, who told Miriam she must speak Greek. For the time being, Mary could ask questions in Aramaic, but Miriam was to give all the answers in Greek. Miriam's first thought was to protest that that was impossible, but no one opposed Euphrosyne.

“Go in now and show Mary around the house.”

The two girls pattered cautiously into the big hall, where the feasts were held, as Miriam put it. Mary thought it all indescribably grand, flowery rugs on the floor, wide divans, and stools with gilded legs. The walls were covered with mirrors, which frightened and fascinated her. She had once borrowed her mother's sliver of mirror, but had also learned that it was an abomination to look upon your own image. She had done so only that once, the day her mother had said that Mary's eyes were as blue as the irises.

Here she could not turn in any direction without seeing her own reflection, her whole body, perfectly clearly. And her face, her long nose, silly mouth, and horrid white skin. She gazed into her own eyes and found they were no bluer than Euphrosyne's.

“Can't you see now how pretty you are?” whispered Miriam in Aramaic.

But Mary could not; no, she shook her head, then gazed at Miriam's face in the mirror and at Miriam herself, amazed to find the two were exactly the same.

Toward afternoon, an old man came and squeezed her all over and looked long into the whites of her eyes. He did not frighten her, for he spoke kindly in her own language, then announced she was perfectly healthy.

A moment later Leonidas appeared, his arm now bandaged. He looked with delight at this fair child, now in a new pale blue tunic. He was suddenly inordinately pleased with his decision.

Mary dimly recognized the man on the horse, but dared not open her mouth, afraid of releasing the tears welling up in her throat.

“We'll be friends, you and I,” he said in his peculiar Aramaic. “I'll be your new father.”

Then Mary could no longer stop the tears filling her eyes. Euphrosyne told him he was going too fast. That made Leonidas feel like a clumsy ox, but then Miriam intervened and told them how Mary talked in her sleep and how the most horrible nightmares kept waking her up. From all this incoherent talk, Miriam had gathered that her mother and all her siblings had been slaughtered.

“Ask about her father.”

Miriam hesitated but then asked the question, and they saw the small face hardening.

“They took him and crucified him,” she said.

Not in so many words, but her expression told them she considered his death justified.

“She must have been afraid of him,” said Miriam.

“You'll have to wait a while before you take on the role of father,” said Euphrosyne.

Later on, Euphrosyne and Leonidas settled matters between them in the office, Leonidas agreeing to her conditions. He would pay for the child as well as the time Miriam would have to spend with Mary. As soon as she could speak passable Greek, he would find a teacher for her, for she was to have a Greek education. And he said she was to learn to read and write in Latin.

Then he stopped for a moment, before going on.

“She's not to be a whore.”

“Then you must take her away from here before she bleeds for the first time.”

As Leonidas rode away, he made his plans. He would be released from service with the Romans in a few years, and then he would return home with a little daughter.

How astonished they would be, his family in Antioch.