“Indeed, it was not me—I mean I—it was not I who cast judgment upon him, for it is not for I—or me—or any of us to judge.” Peter addressed the assembled. “For as our Lord and Master taught us, judge not lest ye be judged. No, my fellow followers of the Way, it was the Holy Spirit working through me. God is my witness. You,” he gestured in the direction of some younger men. “Uh, take care of this.”
I did not stay to see the men wrap the body and carry it out. Nor was I present when Ananais’ wife Sapphira (whom the Bible ultimately blames for the swindle) showed up a few hours later and suffered the identical fate. Instead, I bolted from the room into the street, heaved what was left of my lunch, and took off before Ma or Mary B could follow me.
I had no idea where to go, so I just walked. It was not the first time I had been at loose ends in Jerusalem. I had run away from Jesus after the fig tree incident and within hours I had found myself turning a trick. (If you are supposing that I returned to whoring as a way to punish him, or myself, you would be wrong. It was a deeper, more mysterious impulse that I remain at a loss to explain.) Anyway, it doesn’t matter to this part of the story except to serve as a contrast. When I disappeared before I had only myself to consider. It was simple enough to survive as a whore, and if I didn’t survive, who cared.
Now the full implications of my condition dawned on me as never before. Any woman who has ever had a baby will know exactly what I mean. I was not a free agent; I was carrying a child. I needed food, some kind of shelter, a clean place to give birth. Temple Magdalen was several days journey away on the other side of rugged, bandit-infested mountains. I couldn’t just take off on my own. I would be raped, murdered, robbed or, since I owned nothing of value, sold into slavery, or all of the above. I had no money to buy a place in a caravan.
As for whoring, my fallback position, I was now quite visibly pregnant which tended to put most men off and the ones it didn’t, well, I didn’t want to go there. Perhaps I could manage to get back to Bethany on my own. Lazarus would take me in. Here in Jerusalem, I might also approach Nicodemus, a kindly, maverick Pharisee who was a friend of Joseph’s from the Sanhedrin. But would either man be willing or able to fight off James and Peter and the entire ecclesia, if they tried to marry me to James—or worse.
I stopped still at the thought of what worse might mean. The traffic flowed past me, jostling me like a stick that’s gotten lodged in a stream. People were carrying palm branches, masses of grapevines, for the autumn festival of Sukkoth was just starting, and pilgrims thronged to Jerusalem to line the streets with the temporary booths. The whole city would go on an eight-day bender. It was the drunken riotous Sukkoth crowd that had hailed Jesus as the son of David and strewed palms in his way a year ago just before he started a riot at the Temple. Maybe I could find some Galileans who would take me home with them out of kindness, though it seemed unlikely that any Jews would want to lumber themselves with a pregnant Gentile. God (yes, God) knows I could pass myself off as a proselyte if I had to, and for Christ’s sake (see, he was right?) I had been married to the Son of David. No, I couldn’t mention that, not if I wanted to escape the apostolic posse.
Help, I prayed, help. (Help, help is one of the best prayers I know. You just have to be prepared for some bizarre responses.)
I walked on, beginning to feel hungry again, now that I’d gotten over my initial shock at—what to call it—the Pentecostal execution? It couldn’t be more than an hour or so till sundown, when the shofar would sound and all work would cease. Women were doing their last minute errands, and some of the pilgrims were cooking over charcoal braziers. I tuned my ears to try to catch a Galilean twang. When I turned into a street of meat vendors where the shopkeepers were beginning to close up, I heard another accent altogether, Roman-flavored Greek spoken in a strident, imperious voice that rose above all the others.
“I expressly ordered strangled meat, and at the last minute my cook comes and tells me there is none to be had in all of Jerusalem. But I know you’ve procured it for me before. Bona Dea, Jerusalem used to be a sophisticated, international city where you could get good bloody rack of lamb if you required it. And I do require it. I will expect a delivery before you all go home to your bloodless dinners. What? No, of course, I don’t care if it’s been sacrificed to an idol. I don’t care if it’s been offered to Beelzebub himself. I have fifty people coming to dinner. Just do it.”
Gathering up her stola and preparing to flounce away, the Roman arch-matron turned in my direction. Whoever would have thought that godless Paulina, my former owner cum benefactress, could ever be an instrument of the Lord, so to speak, for clearly here was the answer to my prayer.
“Paulina!” I ran to her and flung myself into her arms, with such force that we both narrowly escaped falling into a gutter.
“Red!” She was the only one who still called me by my Roman whore name. “Thank, Isis. I have been looking for you everywhere. Joseph sent me word that you’ve gone off the deep end, and he begged me to come to Jerusalem and check on you. Lazarus was quite incapable of directing me to this…this commune you’ve joined. And everyone in Jerusalem pretends they don’t know what I’m talking about when I ask for your late husband’s followers. I’m beginning to think it’s a conspiracy.”
“Well, the Roman governor did crucify him,” I reminded her, a little huffily. “No one is going to tell a Roman anything.”
“It wasn’t my fault they crucified him. I came to warn you.”
“I know you did, Paulina,” I acknowledged, and then I lowered my voice. “Listen, can we go to wherever you’re staying. I don’t want to be seen.”
“Are you implying that you’re embarrassed to be seen with me?” she raised her voice and narrowed her eyes. “Because if you are, take a look at yourself, wandering around in unbecoming widows weeds, six months gone. Just because your husband is dead is no reason to let yourself go. Au contraire.”
“No, shh, Paulina, that’s not it. I need a place to hide.”
“Oh, you’re in trouble. Of course, you would be. That’s all right then,” she said. “Here, cover your head, stulta, and walk behind me. Let me see….Carry this.” She handed me a bolt of fine purple linen. “We’ll pretend you’re my slave. It’ll be just like old times.”
CHAPTER NINE
WHITHER THOU GOEST
IF YOU BELIEVE I should have gone back to the ecclesia and given Peter what for and changed the course of Christianity single-handedly, well, I did warn you this story begins with a failure. For better and worse, the ecclesia’s radical communist phase didn’t last that long, anyway, as you may have noticed. Being struck dead for withholding a pledge is a far cry from feeling obliged to place an envelope or toss some change into the collection plate.
When I fled, I wasn’t thinking of the ecclesia’s future at all. I had no foreknowledge of the powerful institution it would become, how it would rule a hefty chunk of the world, till schisms rent it asunder and secular humanism had a (perhaps brief) chance to rear its head. Nor was I fretting over Ananais, who was no doubt a sleazebag, though there would be few people left alive if sleaziness merited the death penalty. And I certainly wasn’t worrying about my beloved and his reputation as the founder (and ultimately god) of a new religion.
I was thinking only of getting my pregnant self the hell out of a place where people could get zapped for their sins. Or maybe I was just using my impending motherhood as an excuse. Maybe I just plain didn’t want to hang around while what would become Christianity got itself organized. I will let you be the judge of that.
I followed Paulina back to her apartments in the swankiest section of the Upper City. When I crossed the courtyard, where the servants were just lighting the lamps, I did not notice a woman sitting in a corner with a drop spindle until she began to croon.
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary, where will your garden grow? Poet’s bells and cowry shells, only the angels know.”
“Ma!?” It was a primal cry of emotions too
mixed to distinguish.
“Come along, Red,” Paulina turned, seeing me halted in the dusky courtyard. “My guests will be arriving soon, and frankly, my dear, you are not fit to be seen.”
“What are you doing here?” I demanded of Miriam.
“I came to find you,” Ma said calmly.
I didn’t bother to ask how she knew where I would be. I wished the angels would mind their own business, but I gather they are constitutionally incapable of it. Butting in is apparently the purpose for which they were created.
“Who are you talking to?” Paulina retraced her steps. “Oh, pardon me, domina, I didn’t see you. But of course I know you. You’re the mother of—”
“God,” said Miriam serenely.
“A god,” I muttered.
“Quite,” said Paulina, extending her hand and helping Miriam to her feet. As a Roman matron of high society she was accustomed to mixing with people who claimed kinship with divinity. “Now do let us retire to my private apartments.”
To Paulina’s not-very-disguised relief, Ma and I both begged off attending her dinner party.
“I am attempting to hide,” I reminded Paulina in a whisper as I followed her out into the hall. “And I’d like to leave Jerusalem before daybreak. Peter and the rest can’t travel on the Sabbath, so I could get a good head start.”
“But why do you assume they’d follow you?” asked Paulina. “As I recall, they don’t like you very much. Wouldn’t they be glad to see you go?”
“They’d be happy to get rid of me. But at the moment, I’m a sacred vessel, so to speak.”
I reached for her hand and placed it on my roundness. On cue the baby gave a gentle kick.
“Oh, Red, honey. I’ve completely forgotten to congratulate you. I’m so happy for you. I only wish your Jesus hadn’t—” She stopped herself in an unusual display of tact.
“Yeah, me, too.”
“Well, having his baby must be a great comfort to you.”
“If no one tries to take the baby away from me.”
“Oh! So that’s why you’re running away!” Light finally dawned. You may recall the lead pipes in the Roman water system, how it contributed to the decline of the Empire. “Well, it will be difficult to make arrangements so quickly—I won’t even be in bed before dawn—but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Paulina.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ve been meaning to save your life for some time now. I’m thrilled to have the opportunity. No, really, darling, I mean it. Now what about your mother-in-law? Do I need to save hers, too?”
“I hope not,” I sighed.
Two servants brought Miriam and me a feast and would have stayed to attend us, if I had not insisted they leave. We ate in silence, and for a while I couldn’t think of anything but the food, how seasoned and satisfying it was—grape leaves stuffed with garlic, dates, olives, pine nuts, and chickpeas, lamb and eggplant roasted with mint and rosemary. When Miriam finally spoke, it startled me.
“I heard them talking.”
I assumed she meant her heavenly kibitzers.
“Do angels ever stop talking?” I asked a tad rudely.
“Not very often,” she said matter-of-factly. “But I don’t mean the angels. I mean the men.”
“Well, they don’t stop talking very often either,” I observed.
“They were talking about you.”
I waited for her to go on. And waited. “Are you going to tell me what they said?”
“I think you know.”
Unlike men and angels, she could be parsimonious with speech, but of course, she was right. I did know. Still my hands began to shake, and I was afraid I might lose my sumptuous dinner—it was much richer food than I was used to.
“Tell me exactly what they are planning. Please, Ma, for your son’s sake.”
“For your sake, too, my dove.”
At her rare use of an endearment, the very one he used, tears rose but I brushed them away. Now was not the time to weep.
“They intend to take you and me back to Nazareth as soon as Sukkoth is over. For our safety.” She allowed herself a faint hint of irony. “Several of the younger men are to stay there with us, to guard us, and to carry word to the apostles when the baby is born.”
“And after that?”
“The baby will be taken somewhere far away to foster. They might let me go, too. They were arguing about that. James wants the baby to grow up with blood kin. Peter thinks it would better if no one knows who the baby’s family is.”
“And what about the baby’s mother?”
“The first ship out of Jaffa.”
I decided not to waste words either. There was no point in ranting against the apostles or speculating on What Would Jesus Do.
“Ma, thank you for coming to warn me.” I took her hands in mine. “I know you won’t tell anyone where I am.”
“Oh, I already did,” she said airily.
For a moment I could hardly breathe; she might as well have sucker-punched me.
“But why?” I whispered. “Why?” My hands shook, but she held onto them tight.
“Because they asked me. So naturally I told them you had a sick headache—the kind with lots of vomiting and diarrhea; I made it sound very nasty—and so you had gone upstairs to lie down. Then I excused myself to go check on you. To keep light and noise away from your poor head, I closed the shutters in the dormitory. I also stuffed pillows under your covers. It helps that you are rather lumpy looking at the moment. No one will notice the difference tonight.”
Perhaps the cult of the Virgin Mary began there and then as I gazed at my mother-in-law with awe and reverence. Not only a thief but a liar! I threw my arms around her.
“Thank you, Ma.”
She held me in a bemused sort of way, and began to hum absently as if I were a baby to be lulled. And I felt like one; my stomach was full, and my eyes were heavy. But I couldn’t afford to let go. Not yet. I sat up and disengaged myself
“Ma, listen, you’d better be getting back before anyone notices you’re missing. I’ll call one of Paulina’s servants to escort you.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I think it would be a good idea to have someone with you,” I reasoned with her. “The streets are bound to be full of drunks tonight, because of Sukkoth.”
“No doubt, but I am not going anywhere.”
“What do you mean?”
She didn’t answer right away but she began to hum again as she rose and went to lie down on one of the couches.
“You’d better get some sleep, too, if we’re to start before dawn.”
“We?” I said. “We? As in you and me?”
“As in Miriam and Mary, Ruth and Naomi,” she crooned. “Naomi and Ruth. Mary and Miriam.”
So it had come to pass. Deep (way deep) down hadn’t I always known it would, since the moment I saw her standing outside the root cellar, the onions she had fetched slowly dropping down the folds of her dress and arranging themselves in rays at her feet. I had dreaded it, too. Really, I thought, husbands ought not to let their mothers outlive them—wasn’t there a pertinent law somewhere in Leviticus?
“Ma, I appreciate your concern,” I finally spoke, “but if this is my cue to say, whither thou goest, I will go, thy people shall be my people, thy gods—or rather god—my god, whither thou diest, there I shall be buried, forget it, it’s not going to happen. I’m not going to convert. And there is no way I am lying down at James’s feet on the threshing floor or whatever it was Naomi told Ruth to do to cozen Boaz into marrying her. Carpenters and apostles don’t have threshing floors, anyway. But the point is, I don’t want another husband—”
“Hush, Mary of Magdala. Hush. Listen.” And she sang, as atonally as she hummed, “Whither thou goest, I will go, whither thou livest I shall live, thy people shall be my people, thy goddess, my goddess, whither thou diest…” Her voice trailed away and she had a rare moment of uncertainty. “Well, don’t worry ab
out the dying and burying part. I’m afraid it may be a bit complicated. As for husbands, I don’t want one, either, so don’t fret, child.”
She lay down and pulled a blanket up to her chin.
“Ma,” I said. “I’m going home to Temple Magdalen, a heathen whorehouse.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” she said crossly. “The trouble is, other people will figure it out, too. But we might as well stay there for a time. I do recall that the Temple spring water is curative for bunions.”
“It is,” I said, pensively. “Ma?”
“What now, Mary of Magdala?”
“If you’re coming with me, you have to call me Maeve. The angels got my name wrong, you know.”
“Harumph,” she said. Or that’s as near as I can translate the sound she made.
“What would you like me to call you?” I asked politely.
Miriam sat bolt upright on the couch and gazed into the middle distance.
“The Ever Blessed Virgin Mary, Queen of Heaven, Star of the Sea, Mother of God,” she began rattling off titles that I had never heard applied to anyone but a goddess, “Mother of Sorrows, Immaculate Conception, Our Lady, Our Lady of Lourdes, Guadalupe, Fatima, Our Lady of—”
She went on, her voice hypnotic, and I had a glimpse then, though I didn’t understand it, of thousands of altars to the goddess in cavernous spaces, blazing with candles, while before my image (although I didn’t know it was mine) a few candles guttered, one, two, or none. Prescience is like that sometimes, confusing, more or less useless.
“Maeve,” she spoke my name for the first time, and the vision vanished. “Just call me Ma, as you always have. Goodnight.”
And she lay down again. By the way, in case you were wondering: The Ever Blessed Virgin Mary snores.
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