Magdalene

by Angela Hunt

  I hesitated, wavering between the sin of deception and the sin of unwomanly behavior. My desire for justice tipped the scales. “I have been wronged, Hadassah.” I lowered my voice. “There will be no justice for me in Magdala.”

  She patted my hand. “I know you are sad, but you should talk to the rabbi. He will remind you that the Law says we are not to take vengeance or bear a grudge. He will help you accept—”

  “The Law says we are not to bear a grudge against any of our people, and the Romans are not our people. No, the rabbi holds no answers for me, and I cannot accept what has happened. So there is only one place I can go.”

  I did not expect her to answer. I never dreamed a girl of her youth would guess my intention, but Hadassah knew me better than I had guessed. “You would go … to Tiberias?”

  I blinked at her, then felt the corner of my mouth twist. “Why not? It is not a long journey.”

  “But that city is—” she shivered—“unclean.”

  I blew out a breath. “Do you think I care about clean and unclean at a time like this? So Herod built his city on a graveyard … I have just placed my entire family in a tomb and buried my heart with them. Let me be unclean, I don’t care!”

  Hadassah glanced over her shoulder, doubtless wishing her father would return to talk me out of this notion, but he had left the courtyard.

  With no one to call on for help, she squared her slender shoulders and licked her dry lips. “Herod is a dog, an Edomite. If Father were here, he would tell you that no daughter of Isra’el should waste her time with him. Yaakov of blessed memory would rend his clothes if he knew you were thinking of going to see this vile king.”

  “If Yaakov had rent his clothes over Avram's foolishness, my family might be alive today.” Though I knew the words must have stung her young heart, I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the blazing sun. “My family cries out to me. I am the next-of-kin avenger, so the Law compels me to avenge their murders.”

  “Would you keep a law that commands you to kill Romans?” Hadassah’s eyes went wide. “The law says you must put a murderer to death when you meet him, but if HaShem is merciful, you will never meet those Romans again. Take your case to the rabbi and see if he doesn’t agree.”

  “The rabbi is helpless; the leaders of this town are powerless against the Romans. Herod is the authority in Galil, so to Herod I must go.”

  Hadassah shook her head. “Don’t go, Miryam. You can remain here; my family will help you rebuild your house. My father will speak for you. We will be your family, and in time your grief will pass.”

  Only the habit of womanly silence kept me from laughing in my young friend’s face. Did she think her father could command me? Within an hour of bringing me into his home, my dear Yaakov had realized that I would not be commanded. Yet we lived in love for twenty-five years.

  Hadassah’s heart would recover quickly from loss; the love she had borne my Avram went no deeper than infatuation. Yet I had known and loved my family members completely, and I could not mourn them until I achieved justice for them.

  I would walk away from Uriah’s authority, but not yet, for I did not wish to seem ungrateful for his help. My neighbors had been good to me. They had taken me in when I had nowhere to go; they had held me upright when my limbs were paralyzed with shock and grief.

  So I bowed my head and pressed my palm to the trampled earth that had once been a flowering courtyard. A shard of pottery jutted between my splayed fingers—a broken dye pot, the perfect symbol of my shattered dreams.

  Since my family could not be restored, I would have justice.

  Chapter Ten

  Atticus had felt a cloud of fatigue lift when Caesarea, proud capital of the territory of Judea, finally came into view. Built by Herod the Great in honor of Caesar, the city rose from the Mediterranean shore like a jewel in a glittering setting.

  The guards at the city gate snapped to attention when the century’s trumpet blared. An answering horn shrilled from the watchtower, followed by a welcoming shout. The signifer, the officer who carried the century’s standard, a thunderbolt, quickened his pace and separated from the main columns to march directly behind the centurion’s mount.

  Atticus straightened his spine as they proceeded into the city. Though they had been on a routine patrol, probably prompted by nothing more than Pilate’s wish to intimidate the unruly populace, dozens of Caesarean citizens poured from their homes to cheer the century’s arrival. Women waved from marble balconies; men lifted their arms in salute.

  Atticus breathed deeply of the air, grateful to be back in a place that even smelled like Rome. The delicious scents of pork and lamb wafted from braziers as slaves prepared the evening meal. A sewer system kept the streets clean, and servants kept the dust at bay with buckets of sparkling cold water brought via aqueduct from Mt. Carmel, seven miles away.

  Gleaming palaces rose from neat streets and beyond the hippodrome he could see the artificial harbor that provided a port for the growing shipping industry. Women in spotless white tunics smiled at him from beneath mountains of curls, unlike the modest Jewish women, who had peered at him from beneath veils designed to conceal every wisp of hair.

  Because Caesarea would always remind him of Rome, it would always feel like home.

  Following Gaius, Atticus and his comrades marched into the garrison, then stood at attention. At the sound of their centurion’s curt dismissal, the men let out a shout and scattered over the training ground, most of them hastening to the barracks.

  Atticus wandered toward the gate and peered through an opening in the stone wall. They’d left the Syrian women near a grove when they broke camp this morning. Would they reach the city before nightfall? Would Cyrilla be able to find food for the baby?

  He worried about her. The girl was entirely too unpredictable, but none of the other women had evidenced any interest in surrogate motherhood. He couldn’t really blame them. How could they care for a baby when they struggled to feed themselves?

  But Cyrilla had been willing … and able. She looked too young to have borne a child herself, so at some point in her life she must have cared for younger siblings.

  He had considered the baby’s situation throughout most of the long march back to Caesarea. He couldn’t keep a child in the barracks, so he’d have to find a reputable nurse. Which meant he’d have to pay a woman to care for the baby; which meant that most of his three hundred thirty denarii a year would go to care for the boy.

  His situation could have been worse. A common legionnaire received only two hundred twenty-five denarii a year, but Atticus had received pay-and-a-half since being promoted to tesserarius.

  Raising a child would be difficult, but not impossible. Given Flavius’s garrulous tongue, it had been impossible to keep news of the child from the others of his eight-man contubernium. But his closest comrades had enveloped him in a kindly conspiracy, so Atticus’s secret did not reach Gaius or anyone from the other nine contubernia of their century on the trek through Judea.

  Only once did Atticus fear that his small stowaway would be discovered. Pleading for a stretch of uninterrupted sleep, Cyrilla had crept in and out of Atticus’s tent, leaving the child with him for the night. Though the little boy did not babble like a normal toddler, he cried when he was frightened or uncomfortable, and the sight of so many strange men set the boy to wailing. When the guards came around to investigate, Atticus tucked the baby behind him while he and Flavius burst into song, lifting the praises of Romulus and Remus, the famous twins reared by a she-wolf.

  “Remember Romulus,” Atticus sang, leering drunkenly at one of the guards, “for without him there would be no Rome to rule the nations, impose the law of peace, or tame the proud in war.”

  The guards laughed and moved away, but the next morning Atticus heard one of them remark that his singing would be more likely to insult Romulus than praise him.

  If any of his comrades had disapproved of their unexpected mascot, Atticus doubted they woul
d have dared voice an opinion. The gods had gifted him with a gentle nature, but few men glimpsed it behind his impressive frame.

  Though no man had ever been able to wrestle him to the ground, Atticus wondered if a child might prove his undoing in the barracks. Four hundred eighty men, all members of the Cohors Secunda Italica Civum Romanorum, lived and worked in the garrison at Caesarea. Surely one small child could be hidden among so many until he could find a woman to care for the boy.

  If only the girl would bring the baby soon.

  * * *

  They had enjoyed less than an hour of rest when a message came from Gaius—the century was to stand for inspection immediately. The procurator of Judea wished to examine the century that had just returned from Tyre.

  Atticus glanced uneasily around the large barracks where men lay sprawled over their straw-filled mattresses. A few minutes before the messenger arrived, Flavius had murmured something about a visitor and disappeared. He’d be in for a beating if he didn’t return in time for the inspection.

  Atticus stood and pulled on the dusty armor he’d recently unbuckled. “Anyone seen Flavius?”

  His friend’s own voice replied: “Ho, Atticus! Look!” Flavius barreled around a corner, pushing a small wheeled wagon, the sort of cart vendors used to sell goods on the street.

  Atticus regarded his best friend with barely disguised irritation. “You’re late. Gaius wants us on the field for an inspection.”

  “I’m not late. And I haven’t removed my armor, so I’m more prepared than you.”

  Atticus sighed and picked up his sword belt. He had neither the energy nor the desire to debate the matter, and he was worried about the girl and the baby. Where were they? He had assumed the girl would have sense enough to come to the fortress, but who could tell what sort of scattered thoughts ran through her head.

  Flavius leaned one arm on the covered cart and grinned like a well-fed fox. “Well?”

  “What?”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  Atticus frowned. “We don’t have time for games. If you were as clever as you think you are, you’d be cleaning the dust off your shield.”

  “You’re no fun, Atticus. No fun at all.” Flavius lifted his voice and glanced around the room. “Would anyone like to see the souvenir I’ve brought from Tyre?”

  Several of the men stopped polishing their armor long enough to look up. Satisfied that he had an audience, Flavius whipped the linen covering away.

  Despite his irritation, Atticus glanced inside—and saw Cyrilla crouching in the cart with the baby on her lap. He looked up, not knowing whether to thank his friend or curse him. “Are you crazy?”

  Flavius answered with an impenitent grin. “I found her outside the gate. She wanted to come in, so—” he extended his hand—“here she is, with your boy.”

  Scowling, Atticus extended his hands and took the baby, then helped Cyrilla out of the cart. The men of his contubernium laughed and moved away; others of his century clapped and whistled.

  “Leave it to Atticus to bring a woman into the barracks!”

  “Atticus! I didn’t know you had a son!”

  “Fast worker, that one. He’ll be a centurion in no time.”

  Atticus ignored their comments and set the baby on his straw-filled mattress.

  Flavius crossed his arms. “Are you planning to leave him there?”

  Atticus bit his lip as he fastened the belt beneath his banded armor. “He’ll be fine.”

  “He’s fine now. What are you going to do when he squalls?”

  “He won’t squall.”

  “How do you know? He’ll cry, and this time I won’t be able to sing a hymn to Romulus.”

  “Then what would you have me do?”

  When Flavius flinched before the anger in his eyes, Atticus immediately regretted his outburst. He did not often lose his temper.

  “He will be quiet.” Atticus smiled at the boy and laid him flat on his stomach, then knelt and rested his hand in the small of the boy’s back. “He’ll sleep during the inspection. When it’s over, we’ll come back and get him something to eat. Tomorrow I’ll look about and find a nurse in the—”

  “Have you forgotten about me?”

  He glanced at the girl, whose color was higher than the temperature of the room warranted. She stood with her hands on her hips, expecting an answer … to what question? Atticus tilted a brow at Flavius. “You brought her in. What happens next?

  Flavius sank to his own mattress. “She’ll wait with the baby, I suppose, then I’ll sneak her out. Don’t worry about it.”

  Atticus shook his head. A toddling baby might make a little noise and soil a bit of straw, but a woman could get them into all kinds of trouble. A soldier’s life centered on discipline, and while women might be enjoyed anywhere a soldier found them, they weren’t supposed to be found in the barracks. He pointed at the girl. “She can’t stay.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s a woman.”

  Flavius nodded. “So? That’s a baby.”

  “He’s a boy. In a few years, with some training, he could be useful to us.”

  “The woman could be useful to us now.”

  “Stop talking about me as if I had no ears!” Cyrilla swallowed hard, lifted her chin, and boldly met Atticus’s gaze. “Did you think I promised to care for this child for only a few days? We made a deal, you and I. We promised to look after each other.”

  Atticus shook his head. “I told you I was a soldier. I have sworn fealty to Rome alone.”

  “Yet you would swear to take care of this baby! You made a promise, Atticus, you gave me your word!”

  Atticus would have argued further, but a trumpet blast from the training ground ended the debate. Exhaling between his teeth, he strapped on his sandals, hoping the baby would fall asleep and the wanton girl would vanish in the next few minutes.

  But the brown-eyed urchin wanted nothing to do with sleep. The toddler pushed himself into a sitting position and watched Atticus fasten his sandals, then he gave the girl who knelt beside him a wet, toothless smile.

  And Atticus saw that he had been defeated.

  * * *

  Gaius Cabilenus, who had served Rome’s army for more than twenty years, marched before his century, hands behind his back, his eyes sharp and accusing. Beside him walked Pontius Pilate, procurator of Judea, and his lovely wife, the Lady Claudia Procula.

  As a tesserarius, Atticus stood on the front row and tried to calm his racing heart while he stared straight ahead and focused on empty air.

  Pilate had questions, which he asked in a calm voice all the more intimidating for its control. How had the centurion found things in the region of Galilee? Had the Jews settled down from their recent uprising over the matter of Caesar’s standards? Had the men observed any signs of activity among the sicarii?

  “The so-called ‘dagger men,’” Gaius answered, “describe themselves as zealous for their God, but their efforts are not organized. They still exist, however, particularly in Galilee. The people of that region are stiff-necked and strong. They would rather die for honor than work for favor.”

  Pilate chuckled. “I think everyone in Judea fits that description.”

  He paused, smiling at his own joke, and Atticus urged himself to be patient. In a moment Gaius would release them and he could get back to the barracks—

  “There was one bit of trouble,” the centurion said, a frown settling over his features. “We handled it swiftly.”

  Pilate showed his teeth in an expression that was not a smile. “Go on.”

  “It happened in Magdala. One man openly insulted Rome and her leaders, but we took action to insure that he will never do so again.”

  Pilate regarded Gaius with a perplexed expression, as if a question had entered his mind without the courage to ask it. Finally the procurator nodded. “Good. I want no more trouble during my tenure.”

  The governor cast another long look over the eighty assembled men. In
a silence resulting from the holding of breaths, Atticus watched the procurator as he turned, smiled at his wife, and opened his mouth to speak.

  In that instant, however, an unexpected wail echoed from the garrison.

  Pilate’s eyes darted toward Gaius. “Centurion! Does one of your servants have a child in the barracks?”

  Gaius’s features hardened. “Not to my knowledge, sir.”

  “Find the source of that noise.”

  Gaius dispatched two men from the back row. Atticus closed his eyes, already feeling the blows of the centurion’s staff on his back. He would be punished for this, beaten until it hurt to draw breath …

  He lifted one eye in a squint. Pilate’s face had darkened like thunderclouds, but the Lady Procula was searching the garrison doorway with keen interest. Cyrilla had proven herself resourceful, so perhaps she would find a hiding place …

  A moment later the men returned with the Syrian girl secured between them. The baby rode on her hip, his long tunic wet with tears and drool.

  Atticus stifled a groan.

  Gaius thrust his hands behind his back and glared at the girl. “Whose are you?”

  She lifted her chin—and though he wanted to crawl under a rock, something in Atticus had to admire her audacity.

  “I am a free woman,” she said. “I’m called Cyrilla.”

  “Who brought you to the barracks?”

  She rolled her eyes in an expression that might have been charming in another time and place. “I brought myself.”

  Atticus exhaled softly. Beside him, Flavius was sweating like old cheese.

  “That baby.”

  Every man in the formation strained to hear Lady Procula’s soft voice.

  “Tell me, girl—how old is your little one?”

  For the first time, uncertainty entered the young woman’s face. “About … a year?”

  “I see. And who might the father be?”

  “The baby is … his.”

  Without looking, Atticus knew she had pointed to him.

  “Tesserarius!”

  Atticus stepped forward, snapped to attention, and met his centurion’s gaze. Gaius’s features had twisted into an expression of exceptional malignity. “Sir!”