by Angela Hunt
“Is this your child?”
Atticus blurted out the only available answer: “Apparently it is.”
Gaius’s eyes appeared to be in danger of dropping out of his face. “What do you mean?”
The procurator’s wife spared him from answering when she stepped between Gaius’s hot gaze and Atticus’s confusion. The Lady Procula gave Atticus a smile, then stretched out her bare arm and touched her husband’s shoulder. “I think,” she said, displaying remarkable courage, “that this soldier has spent considerable time with this young woman and, due to the will of the gods, they now have a baby. Would my assumption be correct, legionnaire?”
Atticus reluctantly shifted his attention to the lady’s oval face. He felt like a trespasser, allowing his eyes to behold loveliness belonging to another man, but her face shone with kindness and he stood in sore need of compassion.
Though the picture she had painted was neither entirely accurate nor entirely a lie, it was … useful. If Gaius guessed that the child had come from the house in Magdala, the baby was as good as dead. If anyone realized the boy was deaf—well, no one wanted to invest in a child that would never be of any use.
He dipped his chin in an abrupt nod. “My lady, you are wise.”
She gave him a sly half-smile, then turned to her husband. “Please, my lord,” she said, her voice low and intense. “They are common people and do not know any better. No harm has been done, and surely we can find some useful service for the girl? Let her be my handmaid and she can care for her child. The soldier is still a soldier; you have lost nothing.”
Pilate’s stony face softened at his wife’s entreaty. “I suppose we can always use another servant.” He lifted his wife’s hand and squeezed it. “Take the woman and child with you, my dear, and do with them as you will.”
Cyrilla’s brow wrinkled. “But—”
“Go!” Atticus hissed under his breath. “Be grateful for mercy and be off!”
As the governor’s wife glided toward the piazza, Cyrilla shifted the baby on her hip and hurried toward the white marble balustrade.
With a mixture of relief and longing, Atticus watched them depart. He’d escaped a beating—for the moment—but now he felt responsible for the baby and the girl.
“See?” Flavius muttered under his breath. “I told you not to worry.”
Atticus wanted to smack him.
Chapter Eleven
After a full month of mourning, I slipped away from Uriah’s house under the soft cover of dawn. I carried nothing but a leather scrip, my purse, and Yaakov’s staff. I lingered in the shadows by the city gates until they opened, then I set out on the paved road that paralleled the curving shore of the sea and led to Tiberias.
After the arrival of our conquerors, miles of paved paths had begun to penetrate Judea. Though I disliked the Romans, even I had to admit that travel became safer with this pagan improvement. Where roads led into major cities, heathen engineers provided raised walkways for pedestrians. Drainage tunnels kept the layered pavement dry and smooth; mile markers informed a traveler of his location. Yaakov told me that a man could purchase maps of all these roads in the shops of Rome, but I had never seen such a thing in the region of Galilee.
Most people marveled at the highways, but my eldest son resented anything created to aid our conquerors. Though we walked on the roads, if we spied a Roman chariot or a contingent of soldiers in the distance, we had to leave the pavement and stumble through overgrown grass until the roadway cleared.
I saw no Romans the morning I set out for Tiberias, so I walked with a quick and light step. I had heard many things about the city, most of them negative. Herod Antipas had built himself a wonder, the men of Magdala said, ostensibly to honor the Emperor, but actually to honor himself. Antipas had cleared a burial ground near the shore, he had renamed our beloved Sea of Galilee after Tiberias, and he had enticed residents to his city with offers of free land, free housing, and freedom from taxation. No self-respecting child of Avraham would live on an unclean burial ground, but through bribery and force Herod managed to build a citizenry for Tiberias.
I pushed all thoughts of his impure city from my mind and clung to the hope that Antipas still wanted to be respected by his people, most of whom were people of Isra’el. If so, he would hear my plea and take action on my behalf.
I walked with brisk steps, not stopping to greet any of the early rising fishermen or merchants headed to the wharves along the shore. No self-respecting woman traveled alone, so I was relieved to spot a party of men, women, and children on the road ahead. I quickened my step until I reached the women, then I asked if I could join them for the day’s journey.
The oldest woman in the group took in my appearance with one swift glance. After wishing me shalom aleikhem, she said, “Do we know you? Are you from Capernaum?”
“Magdala,” I answered, firmly holding her gaze to show I had nothing to hide. “I am Miryam, wife of Yaakov, but my husband has been killed and I must seek recourse from the king.”
The old woman’s brows lifted, but she didn’t object to my company. The others offered me polite smiles, then resumed talking among themselves. They seemed to intuit that I wanted company, not conversation.
Heat covered the road like a blanket. To the east, the dazzling sun reflected off the lake, forcing us to squint every time we lifted our gazes from the pavement. The men at the head of our group talked and laughed with loud voices, gesturing frequently in the direction of Jerusalem. I don’t think any of them were even aware of my presence.
We walked all morning, stopping at midday to rest in the shade of a grove. While the men watered the pack animals, we drank from the sea and splashed our faces; I nibbled at the bread I’d packed in my scrip and wiped my neck with a damp cloth. One of the women started toward me as if she wanted to make conversation, but I rebuffed her with a frown.
Soon after returning to our journey, I sensed a commotion among the men and within moments, I understood why. A tax collector stood in the road, watching our approach with calculating eyes. After he counted our number, the sun-lined grooves beside his mouth deepened into a lazy, smug smile.
I could almost taste the tension in the air as each of us walked by the complacent publican and paid the toll tax. I had never had to pay it myself—Yaakov had always handled these things when we went up to Jerusalem—but I knew only part of this payment would find its way into Roman coffers. Tax collectors asked for whatever amount they chose, and anyone who did not submit ran the risk of persecution.
As the towers of Herod’s gleaming city came into view, the leaders of our party turned toward an unpaved path that led west. They would not enter the king’s unclean monstrosity, but would skirt it and look for a sheltered place to camp for the night.
The old woman sought me out. “Are you sure you must leave us?” she asked, her eyes searching my face.
“Yes. But thank you for your concern.”
Her smile was more like a wrinkle with brown teeth in it. “Then may the Holy One of our fathers, blessed be He, guide and direct you and keep you from all dangers on your way, bring blessing to the work of your hands, and return you home in peace.”
I bowed my head and realized I was crying only when I tasted the salt of tears on my lips. I stood in the road with dust swirling around my ankles until the group had moved on.
Chapter Twelve
When the group from Capernaum had gone, I blinked tears from my eyes and considered the city that lay only a short distance away. Intersected by two formidable watch towers, the stone wall encircling Herod’s infamous settlement loomed above me. Embroidered flags fluttered from the towers, ensigns that bore images of the reeds growing at the water’s edge. Because the sun had not yet set, the city gates stood open, the wooden doors pushed flat against the towers, their iron hinges gleaming like dull silver in the fading light. A passage between the towers led into the heart of the city, but armed guards in yellow tunics and mail armor blocked my way.
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br /> How I wished I could disguise myself as one of the sparrows flitting in and out of the gate without attracting attention!
I must admit, the sight of Herod’s guards unnerved me far more than the hawk-eyed sentries who watched over the entrance of a typical Israelite city. At least these were not Romans—from their features, they appeared to be Idumean, descended from the same Edomite tribe as Herod and his kin.
A ray of hope sprouted through my despair—perhaps the guards and merchants gathered at this gate wouldn’t care that I had arrived without husband, father, or brother as an escort.
I turned as if looking for someone on the road behind me, then stepped beneath a shade tree to study the situation. Outside the gate, several men stood around wagons and two-wheeled carriages for hire. A pair of horses stamped the earth as a team of oxen chewed hay and blankly regarded the horizon. A publican lounged on a rock, ready to tax anyone who wanted to pass through the gate, and a pair of guards stood at the entrance, swords dangling from their belts and daggers sheathed on their forearms.
I took a deep breath, gathered my slippery courage, and stepped forward. An earthen mound outlined a drainage ditch that curved toward the city wall while a cloud of flies buzzed around a dead dog that lay half in the water. If Herod cared so much for his beautiful Tiberias, why didn’t he have someone remove this spectacle of death from his front gate?
As I lifted my veil to shield my nostrils from the stench, I felt the sharp eyes of the guards probing me. Doubtless they would think it strange that a Hebrew woman would approach the gates alone. Would they turn me away?
I could almost feel intrusive questions rising off the heathen strangers. If stopped, I could tell them the truth about why I’d come, but they might not believe me. I could say my husband waited within the walls, but if I told one lie, I’d have to buttress it with another.
At thirty paces from the gate, a guard strode out to meet me. “Halt!” he commanded in Greek. “Who are you?”
I lifted wide eyes and pretended confusion.
“Where is your man, woman?” He jabbed his index finger at me and raised his voice as if I was hard of hearing. “What business brings you here?”
I glanced past him to the passage that would lead me to Herod. I could see a busy road at the end of the stone tunnel, but at least twenty long steps lay between me and the safety of that street. I didn’t think I could bolt and run without being caught.
A lifetime of training in modesty fell away as I lifted my gaze and directly addressed the guard. “My name is Miryam of Magdala.”
“I asked your business, not your name.”
“I have come to seek an audience with my king.”
The corner of the guard’s mouth lifted in a smirk. “A woman alone?”
“Please. I have a petition to set before Herod.”
I held my breath as he stepped back, his gaze raking over my form. I thought I caught a glimmer of kindness in his eye, but before he could speak, another guard called from a group of men squatting on the ground: “Send that one away! Tiberias has more than enough of her kind!”
My cheeks burned as though they’d been seared by a candle flame. Mortified by the man’s comment and his assumption, I turned and walked away as swiftly as my tired legs could carry me, then darted into a grove. This sheltering place might have to serve as my abode for the night.
I crouched on the ground and nibbled at my thumbnail. I’d come so far; how could HaShem allow me to be turned away when I was so close to reaching my goal?
The sun was teetering on the rim of the western horizon when the creak and rumble of wooden wheels interrupted my thoughts. A man and his wagon approached, pulled by a team of oxen. From the length of his beard and the tzitziyot on the edges of his robe, I knew he was a child of Avraham.
I ran toward his wagon like a rabbit seeking a burrow. “Please, friend, let me hide among your wares. I have to enter the city.”
The startled man’s hand automatically went to his belt, where he’d probably hidden a dagger among the folds of his tunic. Like the guard at the gate, he glanced around for the husband I’d lost, but this fellow, at least, did not question my virtue.
He called a low command to the oxen, which chuffed and grumbled to a stop. “Hurry.” Without once looking at my face, the man glanced toward the horizon. “They will close the gates in a moment.”
Thanking him with a nod, I ran to the back of the wagon and climbed in, then sat with my knees pressed close to my chest, insinuating myself into the space between two rows of baskets. The familiar scent of salted fish brought a wry smile—this man had probably come from Magdala.
As the wheels creaked and rumbled, I held my breath and prayed that HaShem would close the guards’ eyes. The prayer held no power, though, no conviction. HaShem had failed to protect my family last month, so why should he act on my behalf now?
With each turn of the wheels, I saw the guard’s taut face on the backs of my eyelids. What would he do if he found me? Would he strike me down as carelessly as Roman soldiers had struck my family?
When the odor of dead dog invaded the scent of salted fish, I bit down on my curled index finger and tried to stifle a shiver. The wagon slowed, then stopped. I heard the low rumble of men’s voices, then the sound of hobnails scraping against pavement. The guard was walking to the back of the wagon.
HaShem, King of the universe, blind his eyes …
“Wait a minute.”
Gooseflesh formed on my arms as I recognized the guard’s rasping voice. I closed my eyes at the sound of a creaking basket and a sudden rush of fresh air.
“Do you always make your wife ride in the back?”
I looked out to see the guard convulsed in raucous laughter. He must have glimpsed my form behind the baskets, but apparently he didn’t think it unusual for a woman to be tossed into a wagon like so many other marketplace goods.
My newfound friend didn’t answer, but with a swish of his flail, the oxen strained against their harness and we rumbled through the stone passageway.
I leaned against the baskets and breathed in the odor of fish while fresh perspiration chilled my skin. But I had reached Tiberias.
I owed my success, at least in part, to ignorance: to the Idumean guards at the gate, one Hebrew woman looked much like any other.
* * *
After thanking my rescuer, I slipped out of the wagon and found myself in a city even larger than Magdala. The tower entrance opened to a large public square, where several streets converged in a busy hub.
Despite its many reported sins, Tiberias appeared to gleam with prosperity. I walked past dozens of sellers who were putting away the produce of their fields, orchards, and dairies. Across the road, foreign merchants secured their exotic wares. One woman called to me, suggesting that I exchange my plain tunic for a silken gown and a Roman palla—as if I would ever wear anything Roman dogs had produced. I averted my gaze and walked faster, then turned into another alley, this one occupied by goldsmiths, metalworkers, and sculptors, each calling persuasive promises to those who would linger to buy in the remaining moments of daylight.
The sky, streaked by that time with orange and gold and red, seemed to be descending over the city like the lid of a brightly lined jewel box. I bit my lip as I considered the horizon. I needed a place to spend the night, and I had no idea how to find accommodation in a heathen settlement. In a Hebrew village, a visiting stranger could go to the well and wait for an invitation to lodge with a family—our rabbis say that whenever a stranger stands at our door, the Holy One, blessed be He, stands at our right hand.
I wasn’t sure I could count on any kind of hospitality in Herod’s heathen city.
I passed an inn—a tall building with a large courtyard for animals—and lingered at the gate, wondering if I dared enter. I was about to enquire about a night’s lodging, but the sight of a painted woman with free-flowing hair stopped me cold. I’d rather sleep under the stars than in a place where evil flourished so
openly.
I turned another corner, then blinked at the sight of a building that had to be Herod’s palace. The structure’s opulence had not been exaggerated—white marble pillars separated the building from the street while gleaming tiles paved the walkway. The palace’s decadence had not been exaggerated, either—the builders had carved animal figures into the stone walls, directly violating our laws against graven images.
Yaakov would have fainted dead away at the sight, as would half the men in Magdala. How could Herod claim to represent our people when he blatantly ignored our laws and convictions? Bad enough that I’d seen statues in the merchant stalls, but to have images carved into a building …
I slowed my step as I approached the well. What was I doing in this place? I had come to Tiberias to seek justice for my murdered family, but could justice exist in a pagan place like this?
I listened to the sounds around me with rising dismay. Somewhere in the distance, a baby cried; not far away, a woman sobbed. The scents of incense rose from pagan altars and mingled with the aroma of roasting lamb and the odor of bleating goats. Tiberias offered something for everyone, apparently. Would it offer anything for me?
Night lights had begun to glow in windows along the city streets by the time I sat and smoothed my veil, hoping to present an image of respectable virtue. Dust covered my tunic and my feet were gray with grime, but again I felt a flicker of hope.
Without help from anyone in Magdala, I’d entered Herod’s city. All that remained was to gain an audience with the king, present my case, and rest in the conviction that Antipas would seek out and punish the Romans who had destroyed my family.
To my left, the sky blazed crimson and gold. I crossed my legs and pasted a placid, harmless expression on my face even though the story of the men who visited Lot in Sodom reminded me that evil roamed in darkness, especially in pagan cities.
