Magdalene

by Angela Hunt

  “I’m not sure,” he finally answered, meeting Cyrilla’s troubled gaze. “But if you’d been there … when he died, it was as though he meant to do it.”

  Grinning, Quinn ran over to Atticus, then dropped the ball into his hand. Atticus ruffled the little boy’s dark hair and found it impossible not to return the child’s smile.

  “I have to go.” He pressed his lips to Quinn’s head, then kissed Cyrilla’s cheek. “I’ll see you two later.”

  When Atticus returned to the barracks, Flavius and several other legionnaires had gathered around a table playing knucklebones. Someone must have just told a joke, for they exploded into laughter as he approached.

  Atticus paused by the gathering. “What’s so funny?”

  Flavius snickered. “Those Jews. They put their temple guards at the tomb of that Galilean prophet—you know, the king. The undisciplined louts fell asleep on the job, and the prophet’s followers stole his body during the night.”

  Atticus frowned. A Roman soldier who fell asleep at his post would pay a severe penalty, especially if the results were unfortunate. “What are they doing to the guards?”

  Another soldier snorted. “That’s the unbelievable thing—nothing! The dullards are getting away with little more than a slap on the fingertips. No wonder they’re not afraid to take a nap on duty.”

  Atticus rolled his eyes and moved toward the latrine. The Jewish temple guards were controlled by the priests, who should be raging against their guards’ ineptitude—so why had they let the men off so easily?

  He pivoted on the ball of his foot and returned to the common area. “Flavius, have you heard anything else about the Galilean prophet?”

  Flavius looked up from the game. “What do you mean?”

  “Doesn’t it seem odd that those priests aren’t more upset over the theft of the prophet’s body? They were terrified of his effect on the people.”

  Flavius tossed the knucklebones. “That’s right—I nearly forgot about the women.”

  “What women?”

  “There’s a story going around about a group of women who went to the sepulcher and saw the Nazarene standing there, as healthy as you please. They say he came back to life and walked out of his tomb.” He paused to scoop up a handful of coins. “Thank you, gentlemen. A pleasure to take your money.”

  “I heard a story.” One of Flavius’s companions turned a mischievous eye in Atticus’s direction. “I’ll tell it for a sesterius.”

  Atticus hesitated, then pulled out his purse and tossed a coin in the man’s direction. Instantly, the man grinned. “The streets are full of the story of two men traveling to Emmaus from Jerusalem. As they traveled, their conversation ran wild with talk, of course, about the death, the darkness, the strange goings-on. They met a stranger who seemed not to know anything about what had happened, until they sat to eat a meal together. Then they looked at his wrists, saw the nail wounds, and recognized the prophet.” The soldier leaned over the table and flashed Atticus a gap-toothed smile. “Rumor has it you can see the holes in his ankles, too.”

  Atticus felt a series of ghost spiders crawl across the back of his neck. Could the story be true?

  * * *

  He was working in the armory later that afternoon, stacking shields and swords and tagging those that needed sharpening, when he saw a crumpled bit of cloth on the floor. He picked it up, felt the crust of dried blood in his hands, and realized what he’d found—the scarlet drape, the bit of royal silk they’d used to mock Yeshua, the King of the Jews.

  Atticus sank to a low stool and winced as a stab of regret reminded him of his part in the prophet’s execution.

  Flavius rapped on the door and thrust his head into the room. “Almost done in here? We’re supposed to leave at sundown.”

  Atticus looked up, distracted. “Why?”

  “The meeting.” Flavius lowered his voice. “Gaius wants to discuss new initiates.”

  Atticus brought his hand to his chin. The cult of Mithras, which had once seemed mysterious and powerful, no longer appealed to him. “Go without me,” he said, gathering the silk to his chest.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  We saw our master many times in the next forty days—in Galilee, on a mountain, by the shore of our beloved lake. Our rabboni’s teaching had transformed our thinking, but one thing still troubled me—nothing had changed in our world. I had followed Yeshua because I wanted him to free us from our oppressors, but the Roman yoke remained heavy on our shoulders.

  One afternoon as we sat by the shore of Galilee after Yeshua’s resurrection, Peter asked, “Lord, are you going to free Isra’el now and restore our kingdom?”

  “The Father sets those dates,” Yeshua replied, “and they are not for you to know. But when Ruach HaKodesh has come upon you, you will receive power and will tell people about me everywhere—in Jerusalem, throughout Judea, in Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.”

  We didn’t understand exactly what he meant, just as we hadn’t understood when he told us about his impending death and resurrection. But we learned.

  I wasn’t with the disciples when Yeshua left them, but I believe their account. Our rabboni literally rose into the heavens and vanished into a cloud. Two angels appeared and asked the disciples why they were staring at the sky. Yeshua would come again, they said, and to the Mount of Olives, where he had left them.

  On the day of the Feast of Pentecost, one hundred twenty believers gathered for prayer at John Mark’s inn, including Yeshua’s mother and his brothers, whose disbelief had turned to joyful acceptance. We were obeying the Lord and tarrying in Jerusalem, waiting for the Comforter he had promised.

  Like the sound of a mighty windstorm, a rushing swept through the room as the Spirit indwelled our bodies and flames appeared on our heads—all of us, men and women alike. Great joy filled our hearts as we began to speak in languages we had never learned. We spilled onto the street and moved to the temple, eager to share this wonderful news. Foreign pilgrims who’d crowded into Jerusalem for the festival heard us speaking in their languages—Parthians, Medes, Elamites, Mesopotamians, Judeans, Egyptians—everyone! They thought we were drunk, but Peter told them the hour was too early for drinking.

  I can’t remember that day without smiling. The Holy City gleamed in the bright glory of early summer. The markets brimmed with plenty, for most of the barley and wheat harvest had been gathered in, and the temple gates had been open since midnight, when the priests blasted their trumpets and announcement the commencement of the festival.

  Amid the joy of celebration, my brash friend Peter shared a message for everyone who gathered on the steps around us. He explained that this miracle had been predicted by the prophets. Yeshua of Natzeret had come to the children of Isra’el, performed signs and wonders, and died a cruel death. Yet all this happened as part of God’s ordained plan.

  “With the help of lawless Gentiles,” Peter explained, “you nailed him to the cross and murdered him. However, God released him from the horrors of death and raised him back to life, for the grave could not keep him in its grip. Now he sits on the throne of highest honor in heaven, at God’s right hand. And the Father, as he promised, gave him the Holy Spirit to pour out upon us, just as you see and hear today. So let it be clearly known by everyone in Isra’el that God has made this Yeshua whom you crucified to be both Lord and Messiah!”

  Over three thousand people believed that day, and their excitement was contagious. Hadassah and I walked back to John Mark’s inn and scarcely felt our feet touch the pavement.

  In subsequent weeks, we worshipped at the temple each day, telling anyone who would listen that the Messiah had come to Isra’el. Because he had come, we no longer had to fear to speak the name of God, for now we could call him Abba or Father. Anyone who would turn from sin and be immersed in the name of Yeshua the Messiah, would receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.

  For several months we lived in a continual state of excitement, overcome with joy and wonder.
Hadassah and I shared our faith with others in the Court of the Women; we continued to serve the disciples as we met for meals at John Mark’s inn.

  But even though I loved my Lord Yeshua, I couldn’t walk down the streets of Jerusalem without seeing Romans … and being reminded of the harm they’d done to me. At that point I held them responsible not only for the destruction of my family, but for the cruel murder of my innocent rabboni.

  Peter kept saying the Romans were a tool in God’s plan, and I believe he was right. But what woman loves the switch with which she disciplines her children?

  My burning hatred of the Romans, which had cooled to embers while I traveled with Yeshua, flickered into flame.

  * * *

  Shortly after Pentecost, Uriah and Yudit appeared at John Mark’s inn. After a moment of shock, I welcomed them with open arms, but Uriah would not meet my gaze and Yudit felt as stiff as a plank in my embrace.

  “We have come,” Uriah said, looking over my shoulder as if he addressed someone else, “to inquire about Hadassah. Now that this Yeshua is dead, it is time she came home. Jeremiah of Bethsaida has expressed interest in marrying her.”

  I glanced toward the chamber beyond, where Hadassah and John Mark’s mother were preparing the midday meal. “I will get Hadassah for you,” I said, folding my arms, “but you should know that Yeshua is not dead. He is alive and sitting at ADONAI’s right hand.”

  Uriah’s eyes darkened like thunderclouds. “Blasphemy! Yaakov, he of blessed memory, would rise up to curse you for saying such a thing.”

  I tilted my head and struggled to hold my temper. Hot words surged to my tongue, but this was not my fight. “Let me get Hadassah for you.”

  I went to the kitchen and told her she had guests; she stepped out a moment later, trailed by John Mark. I couldn’t help but notice the way the young man’s eyes followed her as she walked toward her parents with a light step.

  “Mother! Father! It is good to see you!”

  Uriah cast a glance of well-defined dislike in my direction, then turned to his daughter. “Hadassah, you will come home with us. This Yeshua is dead and I have found you a husband.”

  Hadassah, who’d been about to embrace her mother, lowered her arms. I expected her to look at me for assurance, but she didn’t need my help.

  “Father,” she spoke in a calm voice, “Yeshua said we must love him even above our family members. I want to honor you, truly I do, but I cannot dishonor my Lord. If obeying you means I must deny Yeshua, then I cannot obey.”

  Yudit, who’d managed to keep silent, burst into tears. “Hadassah!” she wailed. “If you do not come home, you will not marry. And how can you honor HaShem without creating a home and raising children?”

  John Mark stepped to Hadassah’s side. “I will marry your daughter and provide a home for her here in Jerusalem. You have my word that we will raise our children in a household that honors ADONAI and his son, Yeshua the Messiah. If you want to draw up a marriage contract, I will promise to honor, support, and live with her.”

  As Uriah’s eyes bulged and his face went pale, I felt a small surge of satisfaction. My former neighbor sputtered while Yudit clung to his arm.

  John Mark looked around. “If we had cups, I would drink with you in celebration of our betrothal—”

  “I will not have it!” Uriah peeled off his shoe and threw it to the floor. “I will not listen!”

  Mindful of Yudit’s anguished gaze, I turned to John Mark. “I will accept on Hadassah’s behalf … if she is willing.”

  I shifted my gaze to my young friend’s face—her eyes brimmed with tenderness and love as she regarded John Mark. I had sensed a connection between these two, so perhaps this encounter was part of HaShem’s plan.

  I took Hadassah’s hand and placed it in John Mark’s, then covered both of their hands with my own as I prayed: “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with your commandments. Blessed are You, O Lord, who sanctifies your people Isra’el by consecrated wedlock.”

  Tears glistened in the wells of Hadassah’s lovely eyes as she regarded her betrothed.

  I gave Yudit a quick smile, then turned back to the happy couple. “May ADONAI bless you and keep you, may ADONAI make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you. May ADONAI lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.”

  Unmoved by his wife’s sobs or his daughter’s happiness, Uriah turned with a quick snap of his shoulders and left the inn.

  I never saw him again, but in the spring of the year following our Lord’s resurrection, Hadassah and John Mark stood beneath the huppah and were joined in marriage.

  My heart warmed as I watched them beneath the wedding canopy. The Romans had stolen my family, but God had blessed me with Hadassah and John Mark, both of whom I loved with a mother’s full affection.

  * * *

  One night, after we had finished dinner, Peter and Susanna were in the courtyard talking to a mixed group of men and women. I waited until the conversation died, then I tugged on the sleeve of Peter’s robe. “Peter,” I said, taking care to include his wife in my gaze, “I have a question.”

  A wry smile flashed through the thicket of his beard. “Miryam, you know you may ask me anything.”

  “I wonder about the Romans. My heart remains hard toward them; I cannot see a Roman soldier without feeling my joy shrivel within me—”

  Peter nodded as if he understood. “We who have been filled with the Spirit of God must still live in our corrupt flesh, Miryam. Yeshua knew how difficult it would be. That’s why he sent the Comforter to teach and guide us.”

  “Still, I don’t feel—”

  “You cannot trust your feelings. You must surrender your hurts and let the Spirit of God love the Romans through you. Besides, think of all the good Rome has done for us.”

  I choked on the word. “Good?”

  “Look around.” He gestured toward the streets. “These fine roads are the work of Romans. Could we have traveled as easily in the master’s work if these roads had not been built? And they are safe—in the day of my father’s father, a man risked his life if he left the safety of his city walls. The Romans may not understand us, but they have made our land safer.”

  I snorted softly. “Safer for whom? We have always had a law. We could police our own people.”

  “Fair enough, but the Romans have given us a common currency. They have spread Latin and Greek as languages with which we can address the foreigner passing through Eretz-Yisrael.”

  “If not for the Romans,” I spat the word, “there wouldn’t be foreigners in the land of Isra’el.”

  Peter laughed and draped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We will always have foreigners among us. But Rome has given us a means to reach them with the news of salvation. I am going out to spread the news in the next few weeks, and I’ll be traveling on beautifully paved Roman roads.”

  I didn’t answer, but grudgingly conceded that he might be right. Perhaps Rome did possess glories that indirectly aided our cause.

  My hatred of the nation cooled with that realization, but nothing Peter said could erase my enmity toward a particular pair of Romans. I didn’t know where Gaius Cabilenus and Atticus Aurelius were, but it wouldn’t be easy to hide in an empire easily traversed on beautifully paved roads.

  Abruptly, I asked Peter and Susanna if they could use my help as they traveled as Yeshua’s emissaries.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  The condemned woman’s words stir shadowy memories of a dark time in Atticus’s military career. He shifts on the bench, recalling that Pontius Pilate had been a careful man the year of the Nazarene’s execution, but he was not a careful man by nature. Three years after the prophet’s crucifixion, once again the procurator overestimated his wisdom and underestimated his subjects.

  Pilate had known that the Jews bore little love for the Samaritans, a group who worshiped at Mount Gerizim instead of the temple in Jerusalem. Though the Samaritans
venerated only one God, they had little to do with the Jews, preferring to believe that Moses had hidden sacred vessels on the mountain.

  During a hot summer season, a Samaritan leader gathered a crowd on Mt. Gerizim and promised to display the secret vessels of Moses. Alarmed that the assembling of such a crowd might result in a riot, Pilate ordered soldiers to block the road to the mountain. When the people charged the roadblock, the Romans pulled their swords and killed the insistent pilgrims.

  The story of the Samaritan massacre flew to Rome on wings, and Tiberias wasted no time in recalling the governor of Judea.

  A wind had come up, riding the edge of an approaching storm, when Atticus stood in the fortress courtyard to hear Gaius’s announcement of Pilate’s recall. Atticus had been made a centurion by that time, as had Flavius.

  “Two centuria of the Cohors Secunda Italica Civum Romanorum,” Gaius intoned, standing with his hands locked behind his back, “will accompany the procurator of Judea back to Rome. Atticus Aurelius and Flavius Gemellus—you and your men will leave Caesarea within the month.”

  Leave Judea? Atticus had begun to think he would remain in that outpost forever. He looked at Flavius, who wore a grin the size of a Jerusalem melon. For an instant excitement pulsed through his blood, then he remembered—a soldier could not have a family. If he went to Rome, Cyrilla and Quintus would not go with him. Pilate would undoubtedly take several members of his household staff, but not a pair of lowly slaves.

  He nodded when Gaius dismissed them, then he turned and stared at the ground. What was he to do? As a soldier, he had to obey orders, but he had established a family in Judea. Though those ties were tenuous, he couldn’t sever them without breaking someone’s heart …