The Galileans: A Novel of Mary Magdalene (27 page)

Early in the afternoon, Hadja was sent into the city with a note to Matthat, asking him to give the money Joseph had left in his care to the Nabatean. With a part of it Hadja was to hire a swift galley which would wait for them at the mouth of the Agathadaemon Canal that very night. Tomorrow would find them far up the Nile on the way to where the canal from the Red Sea opened into the river. Once safely away from Alexandria, the way would be clear to freedom. Hadja was also instructed to stop at Mary’s villa for her clothes and her jewels and to dismiss her servants.

Joseph had not expected Hadja to return much before nightfall, but the musician was back in three hours. His face was grave and, noting that Mary was asleep on the couch, he drew Joseph out into the passageway leading to the underground refuge of Achillas and his band of thieves. “I have bad news, Joseph,” he said at once. “Plotinus is using Mary’s attempt to kill Gaius Flaccus as an excuse to persecute the Jews of Alexandria.”

“But why? They are respected here.”

“In the city they say Flamen has bankrupted the
gymnasiarch.
He owes much money to Jewish moneylenders and hopes to kill them in the riot so he will not have to pay.”

“Did you find Matthat?”

Hadja shook his head. “A great crowd was going through the streets, breaking open the shops of the Jews. I saw them smash the door to Matthat’s shop, but he was not there and I could get no money.”

This was disquieting news indeed, for Joseph had deposited a substantial sum with the jewel merchant, and he had counted upon that money to pay their expenses until a transfer of funds from his bankers in Jerusalem could be made to whatever city they settled in after escaping from Alexandria.

“I have only a few coins,” Hadja added, “but they are yours.”

Joseph squeezed the tall Nabatean’s arm gratefully. “There may be another way,” he said. “Perhaps Achillas will make me a loan in return for a draft upon my bankers in Jerusalem.”

Just then they heard the outer door creak open. With a muttered oath Hadja drew the long dagger he carried always beneath his robe, and they flattened themselves against the wall of the tunnel. In a moment a torch flared up, lessening the darkness of the tunnel, and began to move toward them. Joseph started to call to the visitors, but Hadja put his fingers to his lips and tightened his grip upon the dagger.

Soon two people appeared, a woman and a man. When Joseph recognized Albina and Matthat, he drew a long sigh of relief. He had been fairly certain that Plotinus would have no way of knowing about the stratagem, but they still could not afford to be surprised by the enemy. When he stepped out into the corridor, in the full light of the torch, Matthat gave a cry of fear and dropped the torch, but Albina cried, “Thank the blessed Isis you are safe, Joseph. What of Flamen?”

“She is here,” Joseph told them. “But what happened to you?” Their clothing was torn and mud-spattered, and Matthat’s face was bruised and battered. He swayed there in the corridor, and Joseph took his arm to support him.

“Evil days have come to Alexandria,” Matthat moaned. “Curses be upon all Romans.” Supported by Joseph and Hadja, he managed to stumble into the room and collapsed upon a pile of rugs in one corner. “Speak softly,” Joseph warned. “Mary is asleep.”

Matthat could still only groan, and it was Albina who told them the story of what was happening in Alexandria. “I went to Matthat’s shop this morning,” she said, “trying to learn something about what happened after you left the stadium with Flamen’s body. The crowd was already breaking into it, but I saw Hadja on the street and he told me the story.”

She stopped for breath before going on. “I thought I might find out more about what Plotinus is going to do at the theater, so I went there.” She stopped for a moment, as if reluctant to go on. “Manetho has gone to Gaius Flaccus and Plotinus with the story that Flamen did not die, Joseph.”

“My son a traitor!” Achillas cried angrily. “I will kill him with my own hands.”

“Fortunately Manetho did not tell where Mary is hidden,” Albina continued. “He pretended not to know. Plotinus is wild with anger and has arrested Philo and the other Jewish leaders. He threatens to kill every Jew in Jerusalem unless Flamen is found.”

Matthat had found his voice now. “He is taking them to the theater, where a mob has gathered,” he managed to gasp. “The Forum would not hold the crowd. They had me, too, but I managed to slip away. Albina found me hiding and brought me here.”

“Plotinus was already inflaming the crowd against the Jews before I got away from the theater,” Albina added. “When the people are aroused, he will turn them loose upon Philo and the others. Then they will start through the city.”

Joseph looked at Mary, still sleeping on the couch. He had thought their troubles would be over when he rescued her from the living death of a criminal’s grave. But now innocent people were suffering because of what they had both done, and more would lose their lives unless someone intervened. It was unthinkable to turn Mary over to Plotinus as a sop to his anger. Nor did he believe that would necessarily guarantee the safety of Philo and the other Jewish leaders, since it was to the
gymnasiarch’s
interest to insure that the men to whom he owed large sums of money were killed by mob violence.

There was one other possibility, however. If Joseph insisted that the guilt was all his own, Plotinus might be forced to accept him as a hostage for the safety of Philo and the other Jews. With the letter he carried from Pontius Pilate to the governor of Alexandria, he could be certain of a fair trial in the courts. Roman justice was slow but fair, and once he was allowed to present the case against Gaius Flaccus and Plotinus in an open court, there was a chance that it might be decided in his favor. In any event, the proceedings would take a long time; enough, certainly, for Mary to be taken to a safe place. But first he must find money to hire a galley to take her safely away from Alexandria.

“Can you lend me five thousand denarii on a letter to my bankers in Jerusalem?” he asked Achillas.

“You can have it without any security,” the old man said promptly. “After all, did you not save my life?”

“I had better give you the letter,” Joseph insisted. “In case . . .” He did not finish the sentence, but they knew well enough what he meant. There were wax tablets on a table in the corner and, searing the surface of one of them quickly in the flame of a candle to smooth the wax of a former writing, he scribbled on it with the metal stylus, blowing the wax shavings away when he had finished. “When the riots are over,” he told Achillas, “take this to a banker here. He will send it to Jerusalem and give you the money when it arrives.”

Achillas went to a chest in the corner of the underground room to count out the five thousand denarii. While he was doing so, Joseph drew Hadja aside. “Listen closely, my friend,” he said. “I am entrusting all that I love to you. Take the money Achillas will give you and hire a galley—the fastest one you can find. Tonight you must carry Mary aboard with Bana Jivaka and leave Alexandria at once. Take them both by way of the canal to Arsinoe at the head of the Egyptian Sea. I will meet you there when I am free.”

“But you—” the Nabatean started to protest.

“Swear that you will do as I tell you,” Joseph insisted.

“I swear by Ahura-Mazda, the god of the sun itself, that I will do as you have bid me,” Hadja said gravely. “But the Living Flame will not want to go.”

“Tell her I will join you at Arsinoe, then,” Joseph said impatiently. “But take her with you, if you have to bind her.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I am going to the theater and try to save Philo and the others.”

Albina overheard them. “They will kill you, Joseph,” she protested. “Any Jew found on the streets is liable to be torn to pieces by the mob.”

“I must take the risk,” Joseph insisted. “If I can reach Plotinus and Gaius Flaccus, perhaps I can persuade them that I alone was responsible for Mary’s escape.”

“You are sacrificing yourself for her,” she protested. “She would not let you do it if she knew.”

Joseph shook his head. “Mary is safe, since Manetho did not reveal where she is. But I cannot let the Romans throw Philo and the others to the mob when the fault is mine, not theirs. Plotinus will have to arrest me, and since I carry a letter from Pontius Pilate to the governor of Alexandria, they will have to give me a fair trial. Philo will defend me, and there is no more respected authority on both Jewish and Roman law anywhere than he.”

“I have felt the temper of the crowd,” Matthat objected. “They will kill you, Joseph, as Albina says.”

But Joseph knew what he had to do. It was better to risk death than for innocent men to be killed because of what he had done.

“Let me go with you,” Bana Jivaka begged as he was leaving the catacombs, but Joseph shook his head firmly. “This is none of your affair, my friend,” he said embracing him. “You know the canal route to the Egyptian Sea. Go with Hadja and Mary and see that she gets safely away. You can help me better thus than in any other way.”

Joseph had never seen the Rhakotis in such an uproar. There was a natural antagonism between the inhabitants of this polyglot area and the larger Jewish Quarter, whose residents were usually wealthier than the inhabitants of the Rhakotis, and now a rabble of every nationality surged through the streets, seizing any Jew who was unlucky enough to get in their path. Joseph was forced to dodge from house to house to escape them. He had not gone far before he realized the utter impossibility of making his way across the city to the theater without being seized by one of these mobs and bludgeoned to death before he could even speak. There was only one possible way to reach the theater—by water.

Dodging from the shadow of one house to the next, Joseph managed to make his way back to the bridge where the Street of Canopus crossed the Agathadaemon Canal near the Necropolis Gate. The slow-moving oily waters of the canal swirled lazily almost at his feet, as he hid in the shadows under the bridge, hoping one of the boats for hire would pass.

From the Rhakotis the angry shouts of a Jew-hunting mob were plainly audible as they ranged through the quarter. Looking down at the water, Joseph wondered how many Jews would be found floating in it tomorrow, their bodies bruised, beaten, and torn beyond identification. His own might well be one of them, he knew, and with the thought came a chill of fear.

Logic argued that one man alone could do nothing to rescue the Jewish leaders from the wrath of Plotinus and the mob. There was still time for him to return to the catacombs where Mary and the others were and make his escape with them. He had made the attempt to break through to the theater and had failed. Nothing but his conscience could argue that he should do more.

While Joseph was battling with his own conscience beneath the bridge, a pleasure galley appeared from Lake Mareotis, with a torch flaring at its prow and four slaves at the oars. Reclining on the cushions was a fat Greek in a finely pleated robe, obviously a man of some substance. He probably lived in a villa on the shores of Lake Mareotis, Joseph thought, and therefore might not know of the happenings in the town. And besides, the Greeks and the Jews got along better than the other nationalities of Alexandria, for many Jews were part Greek.

If he hailed the galley, Joseph knew, he could probably gain a ride to the quays of the Brucheion itself, only about a block from the theater. But in doing so he would be crossing his own particular Rubicon, for once he was in the city itself, there could hardly be any going back. The torch at the carved prow of the galley was abreast of him now, and if he were going to hail, it must be soon.

A beguiling picture raced through Joseph’s mind of himself with Mary, Hadja, and Bana Jivaka in just such a galley as this, only larger, speeding up the Nile toward the canal to the Egyptian Sea and freedom. But then another scene crowded the pleasant one aside, a scene that he knew was probably taking place right now within the great theater of Alexandria: the howling of a mob intent upon the murder of Philo and the patriarchs among the Jews, and the cold hard face of the
gymnasiarch
Plotinus stirring them up.

His decision crystallized, Joseph waited no longer. “Wait, please!” he called to the galley, and stepped out where he could be seen. “I am a physician and a friend is desperately ill across the city,” he explained. “Would you do me the favor of letting me ride with you?”

At a word from their master the slaves leaned upon the oars, stopping the boat. Joseph stepped down to the very edge of the water, into the circle of light cast by the torch on the prow. “I am quite alone,” he said, holding up his hands. “If you help me, it may mean the life of a friend.” He was not telling an untruth, for he did indeed hope to save the life of his friend Philo.

“Bring the galley against the bank,” the Greek ordered the slaves, and when the boat touched the earth, he gave his hand courteously to Joseph to steady him as he stepped aboard. “I am going to a dinner at the house of Alcibiades,” he said jovially. “And if his food is no better than usual, I may need the services of a physician myself before the night is over.”

The galley sped through the Agathadaemon Canal and into the Harbor of the Happy Return, turning northeastward then to pass under the bridge of the Heptastadium nearest the city. At this time of day the great causeway leading to the Pharos normally thronged with people, but tonight it was almost deserted.

“Everybody must still be drunk from the Dionysia,” the Greek observed. “I never saw the mall so deserted.”

Joseph only nodded, although he knew the cause. Baiting the hated Jews would be a far greater attraction to the fickle tastes of the Alexandrians than the ordinary pleasure of strolling along the causeway.

“Were you at the stadium yesterday?” the Greek continued. “I hear Flamen tried to kill the tribune Gaius Flaccus.”

“Yes, I was there,” Joseph admitted.

“That was one god who almost failed to be resurrected,” the other observed with a grin. “A pity she did not succeed.”