Magdalene

by Angela Hunt

  Dread strummed a shiver from my soul. Far down the street, a pair of men approached. One man kept his eyes lowered as he walked, but the other man stared at me, his eyes bold and possessive. I stood and faced the well; I pulled up the rope and drew out the bucket, pretending to be engaged in my task. I must not let them know I was unprotected …

  I flinched when a hand gripped my wrist.

  “Do you need a place to stay?”

  A woman stood to my left; a young woman with dark eyes and urgency in her voice.

  I nodded.

  “Will you pay for a night’s lodging?”

  I blinked. The woman appeared to be Hebrew—she wore a modest tunic and a veil covered her hair. I’d never heard of Israelites charging for their hospitality, but perhaps things were different in this city. “I’ll pay.”

  “Come. Quickly.” She tugged on my sleeve, urging me away.

  She led me to a small door in a long row of attached buildings of various sizes and shapes. Diamonds of light marked the lattice at the window, and a wooden door hung at an angle on leather hinges. Before opening the door, she paused and held out her hand. For an instant I stared at her palm like a simpleton, then I pulled my purse from my belt and gave her a quadrans—a coin which, I noticed, had been ornamented with Herod’s Galilean reeds.

  “My name is Dodi,” she said, her fingers closing around the money. “My husband and I run an inn—for Israelites.” She opened the door and led me into a wide room, dimly lit but scattered with clean-smelling straw. A young family—husband, wife, and two small children—had taken refuge in one corner. A donkey stood in the opposite corner, idly munching a mouthful of oats.

  I thanked my hostess and smiled at the young mother.

  “Are you alone?” the innkeeper asked, looking out the door.

  I moved to an empty spot in the straw and tugged my veil from my head. “I am.”

  “But your husband—”

  “Is dead. I have come here to ask Herod to punish those responsible for murdering my family.”

  Dodi snapped her mouth shut, then bolted the door. The young husband watched me with wary eyes.

  My hostess came closer, the hem of her tunic swishing over the floor. “Would you like water? A basin to wash your hands and feet?”

  “Please.”

  “Are you hungry?” The woman tilted her face toward the light and for the first time I saw a shade of concern in her eyes.

  The tension in my shoulders began to fade. “I’ve had nothing to eat since noon.”

  “I have a stew. Sit and rest; I’ll bring what you need.”

  Without further urging, I knelt, heaped an armful of straw into a bundle, then placed the bundle between my back and the wall. It felt good to stretch my legs, and after a few minutes of allowing my muscles to relax, I leaned forward to unlace my sandals.

  Across the room, the young husband cleared his throat. “Do you really think he will see you?”

  I looked up, surprised he would speak to a woman—and a stranger. “Who?”

  “Herod. What makes you think he will see you?”

  I tugged off my right shoe. “I am one of his subjects and I have a complaint about an injustice. Why wouldn’t he see me?”

  The man’s expression shifted into a smirk. “Surely you don’t believe Herod cares a whit for us. Did you look at this city? The people speak Greek, the guards are Edomite, and did you see the amphitheater at the eastern gate? Herod stages spectacles there. Heathen entertainments.”

  I pulled off my left shoe and let it fall. “I saw no amphitheater, and I hear Greek spoken in my own city. And Herod is our king.”

  “Bah.” The young man spat out his disagreement, then lowered his voice. “He is an imbecile and a profligate. You will be lucky if his steward even notices you.”

  “Then I will wait outside his gate until I am as gray as his pagan statues.” I lifted my chin and smiled as Dodi brought me a basin of water and a towel. “Perhaps you know a way to gain an audience with the king?”

  “Why would you think such a thing?”

  I shrugged. “You run an inn. People must come here to seek an audience with Herod. Surely you know how such a thing can be arranged.”

  Dodi lowered the basin to the floor, then stepped back, hands on hips, and watched as I washed my hands, then lowered a dusty foot into the cool water. As I closed my eyes, relaxing in the refreshing sensation of liquid on my skin, I heard her sigh.

  “I know nothing of such things, but my husband might. He’s at the palace now.”

  My eyes flew open. “He works for Herod?”

  “For several years Tirza has tended the king’s horses. I could ask him to put in a word for you with the steward. Other than that, there’s nothing I can offer.”

  I nodded my thanks, then lowered my other foot into the small basin and splashed water over my ankle. My sandals had worn painful blisters on the heels of both feet, but each mile had brought me closer to my goal.

  This pain would be a small price to pay for justice.

  Chapter Thirteen

  My host, a rough-bearded, brawny man known as Tirza, scowled when his wife told him why I’d come to Tiberias. “She wants to see Herod?” he asked, his brows shooting up to his hairline. “She thinks she can walk right in and talk to a king?”

  Dodi held up a soothing hand. “She has come all the way from Magdala. She is a widow and she seeks justice. Surely you can do this one thing to help her.”

  Without warning, the man’s gaze shifted and locked on me, focusing with bold intensity. “You have truly come alone?”

  I spread my arms. “Do you see an assassin hiding under my cloak?”

  “I wouldn’t be so bold in the king’s presence.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “I’ll see what I can do. You’ll have to wait at the gate until the king receives petitioners in his judgment hall. You may have to wait many days.”

  I nodded in gratitude as his wife handed me a blanket. “I am facing a lifetime without my family. I can wait a few days.”

  I slept like a dead woman that night, waking only when one of the young couple’s children tapped my shoulder. When I woke at the touch of those stubby fingers, I breathed in the scent of little boy and looked into wide eyes that looked like Binyamin’s. For an instant my bitter reality vanished, then memory surged and I cried out, startling the child into running back to his mother.

  I sat up and struggled to swallow the sob that rose in my throat. Lest I alarm the others, I turned, allowing the curtain of my hair to hide the tears that trickled over my cheeks in an overflow of feeling.

  “He was worried about you,” the young mother called, settling the toddler on her lap. “You have been sleeping a long time.”

  “I was tired.” Despite my resolve, my voice wavered. I wiped the wetness from my face, then looked toward the latticed window. Indirect sunlight brightened the space while street sounds poured through the opening. Already I could hear the babble of voices and the nickering of goats. “I … am not used to sleeping so long.” I stood, brushed straw from my tunic, then turned to see if I could help my hostess. Dodi knelt on a woven rug, where several small loaves of bread waited in a bowl.

  She caught my gaze and smiled. “You should eat.” She pointed toward the food. “My husband has remembered your request. He said you should go to Herod’s courtyard and remain there until the steward summons you.”

  I thanked her with a smile, accepted a loaf from her bowl, and gratefully took a bite. The sight of food had awakened my appetite, and I felt ravenous. Dodi was a good cook, and the fruit-filled bread was as good as anything I’d ever eaten in Magdala.

  When I had finished eating, I pulled my veil from the straw and shook it out, then smiled at the young mother and her children. “Will you travel today?”

  She nodded, but her lips flattened to a thin line, as if she dreaded the prospect. “We are traveling to Jerusalem. My husband’s father was at the temple when he fell ill. He needs us to brin
g him back to Bethsaida.”

  “You are a long way from home.”

  “Yes.” She pinched a bit of bread from a loaf, chewed it, then transferred it to her little boy’s gaping mouth. “I have seen so much of the land … too much, really.”

  I smiled. “Before this, I had only journeyed from Magdala to Jerusalem and back. Though I had heard stories of Tiberias, I had no idea the city was really—”

  This bad, I wanted to say. Instead I shrugged. “—so interesting.”

  After finishing my breakfast and washing my face, I thanked my hostess and stepped out onto the street.

  “Watch out!”

  I whirled in time to see a runaway donkey trotting toward me. I flattened myself against the side of the house as the beast and his frustrated owner passed, then I drew a deep breath, checked to be sure my veil still covered my hair, and tried to arrange my face in pleasing lines.

  Before Herod, I would have to appear as a rational and aggrieved woman. He would have to understand that I was no beggar, no slave, no uncivilized farmer’s wife. I was Miryam of Magdala, seller of fine fabrics and widow of Yaakov the fisherman. With my husband and son, I had held a place of honor among my countrymen until a company of rogue soldiers took everything from me.

  I might not be Roman, but I knew injustice when I saw it. And I had been most grievously wronged.

  * * *

  After an hour of standing, I shifted on my feet and crossed my arms. A crowd had gathered around Herod’s gates since the early morning, yet none of the guards had moved from his position. No one had opened Herod’s door, either, which meant the king was either busy with other things or determined to ignore his waiting subjects.

  Out of a dozen people standing at the entrance to Herod’s courtyard, I was one of only two women. The other woman was young and also alone. At one point I moved toward her and touched her arm, intending to make conversation, but her eyes flew up at me like a pair of blackbirds scared out of safe hiding.

  I backed away, seeing that I had alarmed her. “Excuse me.”

  She lowered her gaze, hanging her head so the edge of her veil obscured her features. Yet she hadn’t been quick enough to prevent me from seeing the ugly bruise marring her eye and cheek.

  Without being told, I knew what had brought her to Herod’s door. This poor child had a cruel husband or father and apparently felt she had no recourse but an appeal to the king.

  I clicked my tongue against my teeth. Why was no one defending this child? Where was the girl’s mother?

  That question brought visions of my children rippling in its wake: Avram and Rachel and my precious Binyamin. They slept in their tomb, awaiting justice. I was their only advocate, and I could not fail them.

  The wound of their loss, still so fresh, opened like a painful scab and I closed my eyes lest I sob before a dozen strangers. I had left my home and friends to come to this place; I had ignored almost every standard of virtuous conduct. Must I also expose my tattered heart to heathens?

  The sun had climbed high in the sky before Herod’s tall doors opened. The crowd around me surged forward, propelled by the heat and whatever had compelled them to seek an audience with the king, but the two stern guards did not grant us passage.

  Instead, an olive-skinned face appeared in the opening between the double doors. “Your king is busy.” The messenger squinted, peering at us as if he were gauging our propensity for violence. “Herod bids you all go home and come again tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow will be too late!” the man next to me cried. “The merchant who cheated me will be too far away from the city.”

  The messenger stepped back into the cool shade of the hall while his jeweled hand flapped us away. “Go home, all of you.”

  Unwilling to believe I had heard the man correctly, I threaded my way through the crowd. Hadn’t Tirza told the steward about me? I had come such a long way and braved so many trials—

  “Wait. Wait!”

  As the door was closing, I thrust my foot into the opening. A guard gripped my arm, but the messenger held up a hand, his nostrils flaring as he looked down the length of his nose at me.

  “Remove your foot, woman.”

  “Wait, please. Tirza knows me. I am Miryam from Magdala and I must speak to the king.”

  His look of disapproval deepened. “I told you to go home.”

  “I have no home—not anymore.”

  “Remove your foot or I’ll ask one of the guards to chop it off.”

  I slid my sandal out of the way. When the door closed with a final thump, the closest guard’s eyes blazed down into mine. “You heard the steward,” he said, his voice gruff. “You should go.”

  “But I’ve received no answer.”

  “Come again tomorrow, then.”

  I shook my head and wearily stepped aside. I had a choice—return home or remain in Tiberias until I could present my case. I missed Magdala and hated Herod’s city, but for the sake of my loved ones I could not leave.

  I trudged over the flagstone street and knocked again on Tirza’s door. Dodi opened it and did not seem surprised to see me.

  I sank to a section of clean-swept floor. Without speaking, the innkeeper’s wife swept up the remaining soiled straw from the previous night. The scent of goat hung heavily in the air.

  “The children have gone,” she finally said, her gaze roving over the area the young family had occupied. “I will miss them.”

  I lowered my head into my hands and wept.

  * * *

  Except for the Shabbat, which I quietly observed with Tirza and Dodi, for the next several days I presented myself at Herod’s gate and waited among the heathens until late afternoon. The coins in my purse dwindled; the faces outside Herod’s palace became far too familiar. Many of those who sought an audience with the king gave up and went on their way, but I would not be swayed from my quest.

  So I waited.

  Each night, Tirza provided another excuse for his inability to act on my behalf—either Herod had not gone to the stables that day, or Tirza had not been called into the palace. Or Herod had gone to the stables but had been too busy to listen to his groom, or the king had walked by the stables but had been too angry to speak to anyone.

  Every night I gritted my teeth, thanked Tirza for remembering my cause, and promised to wait another day.

  I also learned to invest my time more wisely. When I realized that Herod did not rise until long after sunrise, I wandered the boulevards of Tiberias before joining the crowd at the palace gates. I examined the goods of cloth makers and visited the booths of other weavers and dyers. I smiled in quiet pleasure when I realized that though the leading dyer of Tiberias had managed to produce a deep and lovely purple, his silk would not project a crimson hue no matter how carefully one shaded it from the sun.

  So many times I would see something and find myself thinking I must remember to tell Yaakov about this. On those occasions, sorrow fell on me like a weight, encumbering my limbs and curbing my enthusiasm for everything but justice.

  One morning, when the heaviness in my chest felt like a millstone, I paused at a booth where a young woman with dark skin stood beside a skeletal tree dripping with amulets.

  “My lady,” she said, bowing as I struggled to restrain a sudden rush of tears, “have you been visited by grief and sadness? Perhaps your heart is filled with despair. My amulets, blessed by the gods, can drive such awful feelings into the abyss.”

  I waved my hands and backed away, repelled as much by her words as by the sight of so many graven images swinging in the breeze. But as the days passed and the girl’s invitation became familiar, I lingered in the music of the tinkling amulets.

  On my eleventh day in Tiberias, the girl met my gaze and smiled. “I am Marisa,” she told me, tossing a clicking mass of beaded hair over her shoulder. “Formerly a slave, now a free woman.”

  I’d never met a freed slave. Few Hebrews in Magdala kept slaves, and none were as exotic-looking as this girl.
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  She must have seen the question in my eyes. “My master bought me in Egypt and brought me here. I thought I would die of loneliness in this place, so I prayed to Isis for wisdom.” She reached out and cupped an elaborately carved amulet in her hand. “One night my master lay down near the fire. I had fallen asleep, but the stench of burning hair woke me. I sat up, saw my master’s hair afire, and beat out the flames with my hands. My master was so grateful he granted my freedom.”

  She looked at me with an odd mingling of wariness and amusement. “Have you been praying for something?”

  I hesitated, then nodded.

  She gave me a bright-eyed glance, full of shrewdness. “Perhaps you have been praying to the wrong god.”

  I took a half-step back and forced a laugh. She was a persuasive saleswoman, but I did not need an amulet. No daughter of Avraham should even look upon a graven image. I lifted a brow. “If you were so lonely, why didn’t you go back to Egypt when you were granted your freedom?”

  She spread her hands. “How was I supposed to get back to the land of my birth? I remained here because Isis told me she would take care of me no matter where I lived. As long as I have Isis and a place to sleep, I am home.”

  I glanced up the street and felt my pulse quicken. The gate leading to Herod’s courtyard had opened.

  “I have to go.” Hope and anticipation brightened my voice as I called my farewell. “A prosperous day to you, Marisa.”

  * * *

  Herod’s bejeweled steward was scanning the crowd when I arrived, breathless and flushed. My heart did a double-beat when I saw Tirza standing behind him in the open doorway. The keeper of the king’s stable bent to whisper in the steward’s ear, then the haughty man pointed to me. “You, woman—come forward. And you, the merchant from Jerusalem. All the rest of you must go home; the king will see no one else today.”

  Taking a deep, unsteady breath, I stepped forward as the grumbling crowd dissipated. The merchant from Jerusalem, a tall man in a richly embroidered robe, shifted a polished wooden box from one arm to the other, then charged toward the steward without even glancing at me.