“You said he wanted to restore the sovereignty of Israel. How could he hope to do that without an army?”
“He wanted more than that,” I said. “He wanted to restore the sovereignty of his god, of what he called the kingdom of heaven.”
I don’t think the general actually spat, but he made a sound that could be a precursor to it.
“So he was nothing more than another religious fanatic, after all. Just like the druids, who refuse to bear arms themselves but incite other people to fight their losing battles.”
“Is that really your view of the druids?” I ignored for a moment his insult to my beloved. I didn’t want to be put on the defensive. I didn’t want to keep backing up as he hacked away at me, so I side-stepped just enough to shift the direction and regain some control.
“Is there another?” he parried skillfully. “Yours perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” I stalled, wondering where I could take the debate that would not reveal my first-hand knowledge of druid resistance to Roman rule. “Or maybe I just think your premise is faulty, not to mention arrogant. You assume that anyone who chooses not to bear arms is a fool or a coward, or, worse still, willing to exploit other people’s bravery or skill.”
“I don’t assume,” he said. “I know.”
“What if someone willingly sacrificed the power of weapons for another kind of power?”
“I would say that proves what you just said: to sacrifice the right to self-defense makes someone a fool, a coward, or a knowing or unknowing exploiter of those who will fight. Power is power, however you wield it. Those who can make other people do their dirty work may be cleverer, but they are not morally superior. Quite the opposite.”
I sighed. My proselytizing was not going well. I had never been good at it. I could keep track of a narrative but not of the moral points I was supposed to draw out. The moral of the story is or should be an oxymoron.
“You misunderstand,” I tried again. “Jesus did not sacrifice military power for the kind of cynical power you imagine the druids have or for the kind of easy privilege Roman senators have, living off other people’s labor and sacrifice. He did not have that kind of power at all. He did not want it. His power was in himself, the way he saw, the way he spoke, the way he touched people, the way he knew what to do in the moment. Not so different from what it must be like in the midst of a battle. But instead of killing people, he healed them.”
The general was silent for a moment. Could I possibly have swayed him?
“Power is power,” he said again. “It comes from the same place, the power to kill and the power to heal.”
“Yes,” I agreed, remembering my mothers saying the same thing long ago when the fire of the stars first came into my hands. I also remembered Peter using the power in his hands to strike two people dead in a moment of wrath.
“Killing, healing, one is not better than the other,” he stated.
“I suppose you would think so,” I said, “since killing is your job.”
“It is my job, and it is a necessary job.”
A heaviness settled on me like the night dew on my cloak. It would be time for my watch soon, or past time, and if I didn’t show up Sarah and the women would be up in arms and searching for me. I looked around for my tunic, suddenly feeling old and absurd for imagining myself some Helen of Troy in reverse, able to stop a war with my irresistible charms.
“You didn’t finish your story,” he spoke gruffly, but I thought I heard a grudging gentleness underneath, almost as if he were making amends for being so dismissive. “What became of Jesus?”
Why had I started down this road? All his prejudices would be confirmed. Well, there was no help for it, no use in dressing it up.
“He was crucified,” I said. “By Pontius Pilate, the Roman procurator of Judea.”
“On what charges?”
“Sedition against Roman authority. In the end it didn’t matter that Jesus had refused to lead an armed uprising. Pilate accused him of claiming to be king of the Jews. A trumped up charge, but Pilate didn’t care. He saw Jesus as dangerous, because the crowds followed him.”
“Those crowds can be violent and seditious,” the general said, “whether or not Jesus believed in armed rebellion.”
“That may be true,” I conceded. “But that does not mean his death was just.”
“Many aren’t,” the general conceded.
“So how can you say healing and killing are the same?” I demanded. “Healing is always by consent. You can’t heal someone against their will. But you can kill them.”
Yet as soon as I spoke I knew it was more complicated than that. Jesus had spent his whole life moving towards his death, foreseeing it, dreading it, courting it, and, as his apostles now proclaimed, triumphing over it (with help from me that no one knew about or would acknowledge if they did).
“And even if killing is necessary sometimes in self-defense or defense of your country,” I went on, “even if someone accepts his death, it matters who you kill for—and why.”
“And,” he said, ‘it matters who you die for—and why.”
I waited for him to ask, who did Jesus die for? What did he die for? What difference did it make to anyone but me and his friends? What would I say? Don’t think Rome got rid of him so easily. A movement is spreading in his name all over the Empire, a movement that you Romans are gearing up to persecute, a movement that will eventually conquer Rome and create a new empire. I didn’t know that then. No one did. And if I had, frankly, I might have tried to stop it. But he didn’t ask that question.
“Why are you here?” he asked instead.
“I’ve told you. I’m looking for my daughter.”
“No,” he said. “I mean why are you here with me, a Roman general, a Roman governor, part of the same power that killed your husband?”
Was he implying that I was a whore or a collaborator? Well, I was a whore, and I’d been accused of sleeping with the enemy before now. There was a reason, a compelling reason, a noble reason. What was it?
“Love is indiscriminate,” I said.
“Love?” he repeated. I could hear his lip curling in disdain. “Indiscriminate?”
He was offended. I had wounded his vanity. I am afraid I was pleased.
“And it is as strong as death, love, that is, and passion as relentless as sheol.”
“Sheol?”
“The realm of death,” I explained.
Suddenly I remembered why I was with him. Love is as strong as death took on a new meaning.
“Something terrible is going to happen,” I told him, “in that valley where we met. You sensed it, too, I know you did. But it doesn’t have to happen. It doesn’t. That is why I am with you; that is why I am here.”
I stopped, confused. It had seemed so clear in the dream. Fuck for sovereignty. Make it so good for him that he’ll want to pack up and go home, retire to a villa, take the rest of the Romans with him. But the Romans weren’t going anywhere. They were building whole retirement communities here. And my general’s job was to defend them.
“You are a mad prophetess,” he told me. “You are as crazy as Jesus.”
Then he turned to me and gathered me into his arms with a tenderness that utterly undid me.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
And then we didn’t talk any more.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FILIAL WRATH
“OH, MOTHER OF SARAH!” Alyssa greeted me as I attempted to steal back to our quarters just before dawn. “You are in such deep shit.”
“I’m late for my watch, I know” I said.
Of course I was. The general and I had made love exhaustively and exhaustingly till we fell asleep entwined, both of us starting like guilty things at the first cock crow. Our affair was not meant for daylight. Both of us had our reasons for clinging to the tattered cloak of night. No one would have thought twice if the general had taken one of the young women to bed,
but consorting on the bare boards of the watchtower with an old crone? A general doesn’t want to be viewed by his troops as too eccentric.
“Sorry, Alyssa, go get some rest.”
Alyssa rolled her eyes at me.
“I’m not your problem, Mother of Sarah.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said, looking past Alyssa into our quarters to Sarah’s empty couch.
“I’m sure I don’t have to. Didn’t you know she’d ransack the fortress as soon as she knew you were missing?”
I didn’t answer.
“Well,” Alyssa stretched. “You don’t have to tell me where you were or what you were doing with who-ever. But expect a thorough and ruthless interrogation when your daughter gets back, if she gets back. I wouldn’t put it past her to get into a fight and get herself thrown into the brig. Bela’s with her. I hope she’ll have a restraining influence.”
“I suppose I should go and look for her,” I sighed.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Alyssa. “Best to stay in one place, say you got lost and that’s why you were late for your watch. Feign innocence.”
Now I rolled my eyes. Feigned innocence was not becoming at any age, certainly not at mine.
“I’ll go look for them,” Alyssa offered. “Finish out your watch.”
The filial interrogation that Alyssa had predicted never occurred, because Sarah had decided that she already knew everything. And she didn’t like it.
“Get your things together,” she said as she stalked past me without looking at me. “We’re leaving. Now.”
I should have said: who put you in charge? But it was a little late for that. Sarah had been in charge of this quest since before day one, and I had ceded authority to her. So, as usual, I said the wrong thing instead.
“What about breakfast?” I followed her inside.
“We’re not having it,” she snarled as she snatched up my sword and handed it to me; she was already fully armed. “We ate enough last night to keep us going for a week.”
She spoke with such disgust that I thought she might heave up our decent but by no means extravagant dinner (by Roman standards) right then and there.
“Those horses better be goddamned saddled and ready to go,” she said, and she strode out, clearly expecting us all to fall into line.
“I’m not going till I have a few of those olives,” I declared; there were still some in a dish as well as some bread to soak up the oil. It might be my last taste of Mediterranean food for all I knew.
“Don’t push it, Mother of Sarah,” Bele pleaded. Alyssa was already out the door.
“Yes, I am the Mother of Sarah. Technically that means she is supposed to defer to me.”
I spat an olive pit into an empty bowl. Bele sighed.
“We saw you and that Roman general climbing down from the watchtower.”
My stomach gave a little lurch. I decided against more olives but I did put a hunk of bread in my pocket as I headed for door.
“If you saw me, then why were you still out looking for me?” I wondered.
“We weren’t looking for you. I mean not after we saw you,” Bele hesitated.
There was more, I could tell.
“Then what were you doing?” I demanded.
“I am not sure Sarah would want me to tell you,” said Bele, glancing ahead at Sarah, though she was clearly too far away to hear.
“Let me guess. She accosted the general.”
It sounded preposterous, but as soon as I said it, I knew it was true.
“We’d better catch up with them,” Bele said as Sarah and Alyssa disappeared into the stable. “Sarah’s in a bad, bad mood. Foul. Rotten. Stinking. Let’s not make it worse.”
The horses were fed and groomed, looking more respectable than they had in ages, and all ready to go. The general had come to the stable himself to see that everything was done properly, an honor Sarah clearly could have done without. She ignored him as she led her horse and mine out into the courtyard. He and I exchanged a glance, and, I confess, almost burst into laughter. I felt young again in a horrible, wonderful way and at the same time old and foolish. I was glad to have someone to share my predicament, if only for a moment.
Soon we were saying our farewells, or I was. Sarah took it on herself to refuse all offers of any further help in any form.
I was the last to mount, and the general helped me silently, his touch so much gentler than his face, which tended always toward the grim.
“It doesn’t have to happen,” I said to him quietly.
“You don’t know that,” he answered. “You don’t know that at all. You may be a seer, but you are not the maker of fate.”
“Who is then?”
“Let’s go!” Sarah cut short our last-minute debate on fate and free will.
And we all followed her as she turned and galloped north across the open plain.
There was no way Macha, my staid and sturdy mare, could keep pace with the others, but I decided not to worry about it, even when I could barely see them. For us, we were going fast. Macha plunged forward, a warm-blooded ship, riding her own waves. And I felt something tightly coiled loosen in me, unravel and stream behind me on the wind, till it became a high cloud, not even mine anymore, just a part of a sky that was always changing.
After a few miles, I spied Bele walking out from a copse of trees to signal me. The others were waiting hidden there, watering their horses in a small stream. I dismounted, too, and Macha joined the other equines. Very soon it became apparent that the other humans had not benefited from their gallop on this summer morning. Sarah still refused to look at me, and the others seemed constrained by her attitude. Fine. I would take advantage of the quiet and rest.
“We’re waiting here till we are sure no one has followed us,” Bele relented, as I sat down with my back against a tree.
I just nodded, and closed my eyes.
“We’ve gone quite a bit out of our way,” Alyssa added with a hint of reproach, “so that they won’t know for sure which direction we’re going.”
Sarah still had not spoken. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. She stood arms folded across her chest, eyes narrowed, scanning the plain we’d just crossed, for signs of surreptitious pursuit. The message, however indirect, was not subtle. I was to blame for this detour. I had insisted on speaking to the general when we might have gotten away unnoticed or unrecognized. Because of me, we had spent the night in the fortress. And clearly they did not appreciate my efforts at reconnaissance.
“I am sure it’s always wise to take precautions,” I ventured. “But the general did give me his word that he would not interfere with us.”
That did it. Sarah’s icy silence shattered, and she turned on me in full molten fury.
“He is the enemy! His word is worth nothing.”
Sarah was standing, but I decided to remain seated, my spine connected to the oak, for so it was. There were acorns on the ground. I picked one up and held it, an on-the-spot talisman. It wasn’t a hazelnut or a mustard seed, but it gave me something to grasp as I wondered what to say to my daughter, who had so quickly adopted the enmities of her maternal line (at the same time as being appalled by her mother).
“The two don’t necessarily follow,” I said, looking up at her. “An enemy can be honorable.” And your father said: love your enemy, I did not say aloud, which turned out to be just as well.
“If you acknowledge that he is the enemy, why were you consorting with him!”
Alyssa and Bele exchanged a glance and went to rub down the horses.
“Consorting?” I repeated.
“You fucked him,” Sarah practically spat. Her golden eyes were fierce as a wild cat’s and her dark skin looked purple. “Didn’t you! I knew you were a whore, but I thought you had gotten over it. I thought you were sorry for what you did.”
It was time for me to get to my feet, to face her, to have it out once and for all.
“But you haven’t changed. You don’t care
about anything or anyone but yourself. You’ll fuck anything that walks, and you’ll ruin everything. Just like you did before.”
With Paul of Tarsus. When she was twelve years old. Part of her was still twelve.
Suddenly I understood. Sarah needed something from me, something I’d never been able to give her. I dropped the acorn and slapped her across the face, so hard she staggered. And then before she could run away from me again, I took her in my arms and held her tight. She twisted and struggled to break my hold, but I was stronger than she thought. Stronger than I thought. I held her with all my might and held her still when she finally let go and wept.
“I am sorry,” she said at last. “I should not have called you a whore.”
“Ah, cariad, I am a whore,” I said. “For better and worse. And I am sorrier than you will ever know for all the years I lost with you. But I am not ashamed of being a whore.”
I loosed my hold, and Sarah drew apart from me but not away. She looked me in the face for the first time that day. I met her gaze, and then I bent and picked up the acorn.
“Here,” I pressed it into her hand, unsure of what I meant by the gesture, but she accepted it, and held it quietly. For awhile neither of us spoke, just stood in the warming air, listening to the sound of the stream, the stir of leaves, the breath of the horses, the attentive silence of Bele and Alyssa, who were eavesdropping at a safe distance.
“I went after him, this morning, the general,” she said at length.
“What did you say to him?” I asked.
She stared down at the acorn in her hand.
“I told him not to believe anything you said. I let him know you were quite mad, that we had come to Pretannia in the hope that returning to your native land would restore your wits.”
“Why on earth did you tell him that?” I demanded.
“I was afraid you might have told him something or asked for his help finding Boudica.”
“Sarah, I may be crazy, but I like to think that I’m not entirely stupid. I still don’t understand why you went to him. Why didn’t you just ask me what I’d told him? Did you think I would lie?”
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