by Angela Hunt
But I lifted my right hand and found it smeared with blood and tangled hanks of hair. I touched my left hand to my scalp and winced when my fingertips encountered raw flesh.
I gaped at Marisa, whose expression mirrored my bewilderment. “Can you help me?”
She flung up both hands and turned away. “Go!” she cried, hiding her face as if the mere sight of my distress could spread contagion. “Get away!”
“But—”
“You are a curse! Leave me!”
I rose to my hands and knees in silence, then the voices began to babble again. I covered my ears and rocked back on my heels as they taunted and tortured, but Marisa’s scream overpowered them all: “Go away or I shall call for Herod’s guards!”
Somehow I staggered to my feet. The sun had barely begun to brighten the sky, so perhaps I could flee the city before Marisa sounded a warning. I could understand why Dodi might think me guilty of murder, but how could Marisa think me dangerous? She had introduced me to the voices.
The Egyptian? She is nothing, a pawn.
Why should we trouble ourselves over her? She has always belonged to us, but you, daughter of Avraham, are our crown jewel!
“Go away go away go away go away!” I pressed my hands over my ears and staggered down the street, understanding only one thing: I had to leave Tiberias. The city had become anathema to me.
I hesitated outside a baker’s booth as the voices raged. Somehow, I managed to take a deep breath and focus on escape. “If you want to survive, you must be silent.” I spoke aloud for the sheer pleasure of hearing my voice in a pitch more vital than the others’. “If you draw attention to us as we pass through the gate, the guards might take us before Herod.”
I closed my eyes, steeling myself to my task, and by some miracle the voices faded. I blew out a breath, relieved by the rare and concentrated silence. My thoughts settled into a single rhythm, my breathing returned to a normal pattern.
So. The gods could cooperate with mortals.
I wrapped my veil around my wounded head and made my way to the well in the center of town. I would wash my hands and face, then slip into the stream of morning travelers leaving the city. Tiberias had given me nothing, so I might as well return to Magdala where I owned property and might yet have a few friends.
After reaching the well, I pulled on the rope and brought up the bucket, then plunged my blood-stained hands into the cleansing water.
Chapter Nineteen
Because nothing but fiery light licked at the bare stone walls, Atticus had no idea how long he and Flavius remained in the temple chamber. Certainly days passed; perhaps a week or more.
He only knew that if given the opportunity to suffer for Mithras again, he would walk out of the temple and never look back.
Seven trials, the priest had said: fire, water, hunger, cold, flagellation, bloodletting, branding. Endured one at a time, a man might be able to bear each ordeal without complaint, but when endured in combination, any man would vent his agony.
After entering the smaller chamber, he and Flavius had been instructed to remove their armor and their tunics. Exposed to the elements and away from the warming sun, they began to feel the sting of cold from their first hour in the initiation room. Hunger reared its head soon after their arrival, for no one offered either of them food or drink. Instead they were chained to the wall and left with only each other for company.
For a while Atticus and Flavius talked to keep up their spirits, but as the hours wore on Atticus couldn’t help but wonder if the initiation was some kind of joke. Had Gaius heard that Atticus had taken a baby from the condemned Jews’ house? Was this an elaborate form of punishment? The centurion was the sort who would bear an insult quietly and strike when his opponent least expected it. He was also the sort who would think nothing of destroying an enemy and anyone close to him.
Flavius fell silent, then began to snore. Atticus yanked on his chains and strained to see his friend, unable to believe Flavius could fall asleep in an upright position. His nerves had stretched too tightly to allow any kind of rest; his thoughts had gone cold and sharp, focused like the point of an awl.
When Pilate had found Cyrilla and the baby, Gaius must have doubted the picture the governor’s wife presented. He must have sent spies through the ranks, and one of them might have talked to a man from Atticus’s contubernium. Maybe they’d gone out drinking one night, and Atticus’s comrade had loosened his tongue after too much ale and let it slip that the baby was Jewish and from Magdala, and Gaius had put the pieces of the puzzle together.
Atticus’s thoughts returned to the afternoon and his meeting with Cyrilla and Quintus in the palace garden. They had both seemed happy, so no one had stepped forward to threaten them … yet. But perhaps Gaius was at the palace now, informing the procurator that the young child under his wife’s supervision was a despised Jew and the handmaid a harlot. Pilate would be so furious he might have them both killed or sold into slavery …
These jagged and painful thoughts kept Atticus company until Flavius snorted and roused himself.
Atticus lifted his head from the stone wall. “Don’t go to sleep again.”
“What? I’ve been awake.”
“No, you’ve been snoring. I need to talk to you about something important.”
“Not the best time, Atticus.”
“I’m serious. I’ve been thinking. What if this is Gaius’s way of punishing us?”
Flavius grinned, but Atticus thought he saw a faint flicker of unease in the depths of his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“I think Gaius found out about the baby. I think he’s going to kill us. I’m sorry you got involved—”
He clamped his mouth shut when the swollen wooden door scraped against the floor and two soldiers entered, each wearing an animal mask. One of them carried a flagellum, a leather whip whose thongs had been weighted with bits of bone and lead.
The taller man tapped the whip against his palm while the other stepped up to release Atticus from his chains. Behind the mask, Atticus saw a grim smile in the man’s eyes.
From his spot on the wall, Flavius’s grin wavered. “You’re not really going to use that on us, are you? We’re Roman citizens.”
“You’re Roman soldiers,” came the gruff response. “You’ll bear what you must in order to be accepted by Mithras. If you want to avoid pain, speak now. If you want out at any time during the trial, all you have to do is say so.”
Surely that was a jest. For this was punishment, the discipline Gaius had ordained for Atticus first, then for Flavius.
Unless … maybe Gaius didn’t know about the baby. Maybe the centurion had only intuited that something was amiss among his men, and this torture was an attempt to get Atticus or Flavius to confess how they’d been breaking rules ever since Magdala.
Atticus pressed his lips together and tried not to think about the whip as the shorter man secured him between two pillars. He’d suffered dozens of blows from Gaius’s staff during training and narrow scars from errant swords laced his arms. But he’d never felt the sting and rip of a flagellum. The lead ball would leave bruises; the sharp bits of bone would tear his flesh.
He stood as tense and quivering as a just-fired bowstring, but his voice was calm when he asked: “How many blows?”
“Seven.”
Seven … unless he broke and confessed his crime. If he broke, though, he’d certainly doom Cyrilla and Quintus.
He turned and looked at the man with the flail. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”
Chapter Twenty
By the time the sun had risen halfway over the Sea of Galilee, I had joined a group of travelers en route to Gennesaret. Their journey would take them through Magdala, so I walked behind them, avoiding conversation as much as possible.
One of the older women, however, seemed determined to keep me company. I caught her peeking at me as she walked beside the road, and finally she lingered until I reached her side. Then she matched m
y stride and clucked in sympathy. “My dear, does he hit you often?”
The question startled me. “What?”
“Your husband. Who else would strike you?”
I blinked at her. “My husband is dead.”
The woman’s forehead knit in puzzlement. “Then who—”
I waved her away, warding off further attempts at conversation. “I am fine. And I want to be alone.”
Because I knew she would feel it her duty to persist, I left the group and walked toward the lakeshore. When I reached the reeds, I stood with my back to the travelers until the dust of their passage stretched far down the road.
Only then did I kneel to stare into a puddle on the sand. I hadn’t been able to imagine what the woman saw in my face, but in the reflection of still water I beheld bruises—deep purple splotches under my eyes, by my temples, and at the base of my ears—the results of my battering myself as I tried to silence the tumult in my head.
I sank to the wet sand and let my hand fall into the water. Why was I bothering with this journey? I had no family to care for; no business to oversee. My king, the authority who should have come to my aid, had refused to help me. The voices who’d promised miracles had betrayed me, driving me from the small shelter I had found … and the woman who’d shown me a bit of kindness.
I lifted my face to the breeze and listened to a plane tree rattle its leaves. Why not walk into the sea and lose myself beneath the waves? Why not follow Yaakov, Avram, Rachel, and my beloved Binyamin into the valley of death?
I rose on shaky knees and considered the blue-green waters of Galilee. In the distance, two fishing boats were rowing their way toward the markets that lined the northern shores. The wind had picked up, whipping the waters and painting whitecaps on the waves. Sudden storms frequently assailed this sea; boats often swamped in minutes.
I’d find it hard to swim in choppy water, if by some chance I changed my mind. The heaving sea would drag me down; the rising wind would push me away from shore. And though some in Magdala might hear of a middle-aged woman’s drowning and speculate, they would never know for certain what I’d done.
She’s looking at the water! Do you think she wants to die?
Stop her!
Yes! Don’t let her die! Where would we go?
Stop, woman! You can’t do this to us!
Come now, Miryam, you aren’t that brave!
Run away from the water! Come back to us!
An eel of fear wriggled in my gut, but I ignored it and took another step toward oblivion. Should I remove my sandals? A foolish question, perhaps, but a practical one.
Forget about your shoes, back away!
You idiot! You bring a curse upon yourself!
You are not brave enough for this! You are a fool!
Vulture! Sorceress!
I smiled. As a little girl I had run barefoot over these sands and splashed with abandon in these waters, but since reaching maturity I had not dipped a toe into this sea.
I would keep my sandals on, and my cloak, and my veil. The more items I wore, the heavier I would be. I would sink as soon as my strength gave out, and I would pass from this life as unremarkably as the hundreds of small fish Yaakov used to harvest from these waters every day.
I parted the reeds and waded through the greenish-brown scum that coated the surface at the shore. I took another step, and another. The voices in my head howled in protest, but I clapped my hands over my ears and grimaced in my determination to ignore them.
Moving steadily forward, I stared at the sun-spangled sea and tried to listen for the familiar shush of waves brushing the shore. Invisible hands twisted my stomach and pounded my heart, but I persisted, striding through every twinge and pain.
Soon my agony would be over. Soon I would join my family in Sh’ol, where together we would await the Day of Judgment. If my sins then kept me from my family, at least I had put an end to my pain.
The wind blew harder, flattening my garments against me. The swells of the sea looked like rolling hills. Out on the lake, fishing boats labored over the peaks of the waves as men struggled to haul in their nets before the unexpected storm capsized the ship.
I pressed on, shivering as the water laid a cold hand against the womb that had carried my children. The water rose, its touch increasingly intimate, caressing my waist, my breasts. I could scarcely focus, for inside my head the voices of foreign gods shrieked and caterwauled and hissed more violently than ever.
I lowered my arms, content to know nothing could stop me. I trailed my hands over the surface, creating little waves that rippled at my wrists, and noticed how the water shimmered with crimson streaks from a slanting sun. The incoming waves slapped at me, but I welcomed them.
I had been born at the edge of this sea … it seemed fitting that I die in its depths.
I tipped my head back to navigate a path between the swells and felt the sand beneath my feet give way. As the water closed over my face, my head, my first instinct—reinforced by the screaming entities in my head—was to fight to the surface, but with a supreme effort I straightened my arms and released the air in my chest. Silvery bubbles rose from my pursed lips and the taste of water filled my nose. I lifted my face toward the silvery surface and saw the world I had known slide away.
The voices cursed me in languages I’d never heard, but they could do nothing to stop me. I crossed my arms over my chest and lowered my gaze to the murky bottom.
I believe I even smiled.
Chapter Twenty-one
Atticus stiffens as the woman drifts into a heavy silence. He stands and walks toward her, then stops at her side. “You didn’t die.”
The woman smiles, impressed, perhaps, with his grasp of the obvious. “No. But … I wonder if you could spare a cup of water? I am not accustomed to talking so long.”
He gestures for the guard at the door. “Water for the prisoner. Be quick with it.”
He sinks to the bench at the woman’s side and studies her face. For one who has suffered so much, her face is barely lined, her hairline only touched with gray. He notices again the shape and color of her eyes. She looks like any other older Jewish woman from Galilee, but there is something about her …
He clears his throat. “You were well-treated on your journey to Rome?”
One corner of her mouth twists. “For a prisoner, yes.”
Atticus glances at the scribe. “You are recording all of her story? The emperor will want a complete history.”
The scribe flushes and points to a scrawled page. “A most protracted story. I have yet to hear the details of her crime.”
The woman’s gaze, as unfathomable as the ocean depths, rests on Atticus as she responds. “I’m not finished.”
The room swells with silence as Atticus brings his hand to his jaw and tries to make sense of the woman’s tale. Broken pieces from a distant past are fitting together, but still he cannot see the entire picture.
He sits without speaking until the guard brings a metal cup and hands it to Atticus. He rises and offers it to the woman, who swallows greedily, perhaps realizing it may be the last cup she will be offered in this life.
From the desk, Flavius clears his throat. “Perhaps, centurion, you would like to interrogate this prisoner? I will relinquish my place if you say the word—”
“No, Flavius, please continue. I’d rather listen to her testimony.”
Atticus returns to his bench and sits in full view of the prisoner. No point in hiding behind her now. He wants to watch as she tells her story; he wants an explanation for her presence in this place of judgment.
When the woman hands the cup back to the guard, Flavius urges her to continue. “You tried to commit suicide.”
“I did. In foolish ignorance I thought an end to life was an answer to life. Later I discovered the flaw in my reasoning … but not before I had other occasions to long for death.”
After glancing uneasily in Atticus’s direction, Flavius pinches the bridge of his nose an
d closes his eyes. “Continue, then. And scribe, take it all down.”
The woman draws a deep breath and continues.
Chapter Twenty-two
I awoke in the bow of a fishing boat.
Due to the rising wind and the howling in my head, I had failed to notice a pair of fishermen in a small boat to the south. My first recollection of them is among a score of memories I’d rather not revisit … but to fully appreciate the silver threads in a fabric, you must weave in dark threads as well.
The men had left me in the boat and gone ashore, perhaps thinking me dead. I sat up, bracing myself against the hull, and tried to visualize where I had come ashore. I guessed I was still south of Magdala, near the fish markets.
I spied one of the men just past the reeds; he was singing as he fastened the lids on baskets borne by his donkey. The second man stepped out from behind a tree, exchanged a word with his partner, and led the donkey away.
I ducked back inside the boat and grimaced. The voices remained with me; I could hear their gloating laughter and quiet murmurs. Somehow, they had won.
I lay quite still, struggling to listen over the slap of the waves against the vessel and the insistent noises in my skull. When the sound of the fisherman’s singing faded, I lifted my gaze and peeked at the shore.
Unfortunately, the fisherman hadn’t gone—he’d only stopped singing to tie on his sandals. His eyes widened when he saw me, then he tightened the knot in his shoe and hurried toward the boat.
I turned away in a panic. How would I explain what I’d done? Virtuous women did not wander about the countryside alone, and they certainly didn’t try to drown themselves in the sea.
For practical reasons, I very much wanted to be regarded as a virtuous woman.
“You’re awake, then.” The fisherman’s voice echoed with wonder. “By heaven’s throne, we’d given you up for dead.”
