by Angela Hunt
The child God preserved for me.
Someone, somewhere, is keening, but I am focused on the memory of my son, Binyamin. Quintus Aurelius. The young man who looked at me with such longing in his great dark eyes that it took all my strength to resist him.
Yet I did resist him and for that I can never forgive myself. I closed my heart to him and now my heart will forever be locked with shame.
When I can speak over the constriction in my throat, I fall to my knees and thrust my manacled wrists toward Atticus Aurelius. “Take my life now. I know you want to.”
The centurion stands and comes toward me. I expect his broad hands to wrap around my throat; instead they support my shoulders and lift me to my feet, then pull me into his arms.
Then I, a despised Jew and a traitor to Rome, sob within a Roman’s embrace. The centurion pats my back, comforting me as he must have comforted my son in younger days. “Shhh, hush now.” His breath fans my ear. “You did not know.”
“I should have known.” I can scarcely speak over the ache in my throat. “You did me good, not evil, but look how I repaid you! I should have forgiven you. Yeshua told us to forgive so we might be forgiven, but I have never been able to forget—”
“I forgive you.”
He speaks the words into my hair, and I’m so surprised I push away and stare at him through watery eyes. “How can you? How can God forgive me? I had him killed, your son and my son—”
“Our son lives, Miryam. The wound was not fatal.”
I blink at him. His mouth has moved; words have fallen upon my ear, but what I heard cannot be the truth.
“But—at the fortress, they told me he was dead. The rumors … everyone said Quintus had been killed.”
“I knew that whoever attacked us had more than robbery in mind. I wanted our enemy to think they had been successful, so I had Quinn transferred to Rome while he recovered from his injury.”
Relief rushes over me in a wave so strong my knees buckle. I sink to the end of the marble bench and close my eyes as my heart thumps in a stuttering rhythm. My skin is clammy, my breathing quick―
I may die before I reach the arena.
Atticus Aurelius sits beside me. “I think I would forgive you even if Quinn had not survived,” he says, his smile tinged with a touch of sadness. “It wouldn’t be easy, but I’d try my best. Because, you see, God has forgiven me of much.”
I meet his gaze as my mouth twists in a bleak smile. “Rome won’t forgive me.”
“But God already has.” He pulls a scroll from a bag hanging on his belt. “I have been reading a copy of a letter from an evangelist called John Mark. He ascribes these words to Yeshua: ‘But when you are praying, first forgive anyone you are holding a grudge against, so your Father in heaven will forgive your sins, too.”
I can’t stop a smile. “I remember Yeshua saying that.”
The door at the back of the hall opens with a complaining screech. “Atticus Aurelius?” a voice calls. “Someone to see you, sir.”
Atticus stands, leaving me alone.
* * *
After Atticus Aurelius leaves, I look at Flavius Gemellus, the centurion who has heard my case. He is reading parchments, apparently more interested in documents than in what is happening in his judgment hall.
I slide to the damp floor and prop my elbows on the marble bench, then lift my eyes to heaven and address the Lord who has been crowded out of my heart for too long.
What can I tell him he doesn’t already know? He knows I am an unfit vessel. When he delivered me from demonic bondage, he knew I would rather nurse my wounds than accept healing and extend forgiveness.
After walking with the eternal Son of Man, I turned a deaf ear to his Spirit and cherished my pain more than his leading.
I loved Yeshua dearly, but I loved my grief far more.
My rabboni begged heaven to forgive the Romans who nailed him to the cross, but I had kept an account of offenses ranging from murder to scornful looks cast in my direction.
Yet my heavenly Father responded with mercy. He preserved the son I thought I’d lost; he protected Binyamin from my own manipulations. The Lord poured grace upon me from an unexpected source, and now he wants me to … forgive.
Forgive Gaius Cabilenus for murdering my family.
Forgive Atticus Aurelius for taking my son.
Forgive myself for being too blind to see what God restored … and for trying to destroy that precious gift.
I press my cheek to the cold marble; I am poured out like wax, shapeless and used up. If God has a purpose for my suffering, I can’t see what it is.
Perhaps Yeshua can still make something good from my life. After all, he used me in his service when I had nothing to offer. I have less than nothing now, for I will not live to see tomorrow’s sunrise—
Don’t cling to your life, Miryam. Trust in me.
Though over twenty years have passed since I heard his voice, I recognize it at once. Yeshua. Still living, still powerful, still my Lord and rabboni.
And waiting for me.
* * *
I have regained my composure by the time steps echo from the outer passageway. I hear the clatter of swords and the tread of many feet—a company.
It’s time for me to go.
I stand and smooth my tunic, then swipe my palms over my damp cheeks. The door opens and a pair of guards enters, followed by the scribe and other legionnaires. Behind them walks Atticus Aurelius, and with Atticus is … Quintus.
Binyamin.
Beneath the surface of my son’s face there is a suggestion of movement and flowing, as though a hidden spring would like to break through.
He knows. Atticus has told him everything.
The soldiers flank the door; the scribe returns to his desk. Atticus escorts Quintus to my side, then steps back to give us room for an almost-private conversation.
“At least,” Quintus says, a wry smile twisting his mouth, “now I understand why you avoided me.”
My trembling hand floats up and touches his face with tenderness. “My son. If I had known—”
“I understand.”
“I should have known.” I look into his eyes, which are dark and wild with distress. “But more important, I should have loved. No matter whose son you were.”
A tremor passes over his face and a sudden spasm of grief knits his brows. “It’s not fair,” he says, his voice husky. “To find you and lose you in a single hour—”
“We will have eternity.” I place my hands on his shoulders. “We will sit down and trace the plan of God through our lives. And we will see—if God so wills—how even our deaths brought him glory.”
His arms slip around me, clutching me so tightly he nearly steals my breath. The guards start forward, eyes alert, so I lift my hands to show I mean Quintus no harm.
“It’s time,” another soldier calls from the hallway. “The prisoner must make ready.”
I squeeze my son as hard as I dare, then push him away and blink back fresh tears. The corners of his mouth are tight with distress, his eyes shiny. The thin line of his lips clamp tight and his throat bobs as he swallows.
“I heard,” he said, his voice low in my ear, “that before Herod’s executioner killed James, the disciple promised that the blood of Christ’s martyrs would be seed. John says a time of affliction is coming, so we should not be afraid of what we are about to suffer. If we remain faithful even when facing death, Yeshua will give us the crown of life.”
I wipe a trickle of tears from my cheek, then manage a smile for my son. “I have lived foolishly,” I tell him, “more foolishly than most. But as some people’s lives are examples of how we should live, let mine be an example of how we should not. You have a record—”I nod toward the scribe—“so share my story so others may learn from my mistake. But know this—better that my name fall into obscurity than Yeshua’s glory be eclipsed. The hope of Isra’el has come, my son, and our rabboni will come again.”
Atticus Aureliu
s steps to Quintus’s side, then offers me a bundle of linen. I feel an odd twinge of recognition in the gesture—Quintus held out a package in the same way when he presented me with the veil that now covers my head.
“I wanted to give you something that might … comfort you in the arena,” Atticus says, his eyes shadowed. “I thought of this.”
I unwrap the linen and find myself holding a rectangle of scarlet silk. Sections of it are dark and crusty, and I know without being told that this fabric will glow like a Caesar’s purple when I wear it in the sun.
Just as it did when Yeshua wore it.
I look up and study the Roman’s face, feature by feature. My dearest enemy has become a font of God’s blessing. There’s no way he could know the original source of this material, but ADONAI knows. And he is with me.
I pull the long rectangle over one shoulder, tie the ends in a loop at my side, and smile at Atticus Aurelius through my tears. “Thank you.”
The guards move into position on my right and left; they take my arms and lead me toward the door. When we reach the hall, I turn and see Quintus trailing behind us.
“No.” I send him back with a smile. “You will follow me, perhaps soon, but not today. So wait with your father and know that ADONAI will keep watch between us while we are apart.”
I look up and meet the tallest guard’s eyes. “I am ready.”
Epilogue
Flavius Gemellus, owner of Yeshua’s linen tunic, hanged himself shortly after Miryam the Magdalene perished in Nero’s arena. The tunic was found on the floor, under his body. His friend Atticus Aurelius mourned his loss.
Though Rome became aware of Christianity as early as Claudius Caesar’s reign, wholesale slaughter of believers did not begin until the Neronian persecution of A.D. 64.
During the night that fell between July 18th and 19th of that year, Rome began to burn … and the fires raged for nine straight days. The cause of the conflagration was never proven, but because Nero had often spoken of his admiration for the spectacle of a burning city, he was publicly accused of incendiarism.
Over 17,450 buildings were destroyed in the fire, including the homes of 98,500 people. Men and beasts perished by the score, and entire sections of the city were laid waste by the inferno.
To divert suspicion from himself, Nero cast the blame upon the Roman Christians. The citizens of Rome, who had been terrorized, displaced, and bewildered, swallowed the lie and demanded justice. Even cultivated and educated Romans such as Tictus, Suetonius, and Pliny, stigmatized Christianity as the populace surrendered to paranoid hysteria.
Christians were rounded up and arrested. Most of them were not charged with arson, but with the crime of “odium generic humani,” or “hating the human race.” Because believers abhorred heathen Roman customs, maintained an indifference to politics, and sprang from Jewish roots, they were viewed as intolerant misanthropes. Hundreds of Christians were crucified, including the apostle Peter, who died with his head down, deeming himself unworthy to be crucified in the same manner as his Lord. Peter’s wife Susanna was martyred before her husband, who cheered and encouraged her as she walked to the place of execution.
Enflamed by bloodlust, the carnage continued. Those responsible for killing Christians sewed some believers into the skins of wild beasts and exposed them to mad dogs in the arena. In the imperial gardens, executioners coated Christian men and women with oil and nailed them to pine posts, which were lighted and burned as living torches while Nero drove around them, displaying his prowess as a charioteer.
Clement, a believer, mentions a “multitude of the elect” who “became a most noble example among ourselves” and the Roman historian Tacitus speaks of a “vast multitude” of Christians who perished.
Tacitus had little respect for Christians, but was nonetheless convinced of their innocence. Despite his indifference to the Christian faith, he couldn’t help pitying the believers because they had been sacrificed only to appease the ferocity of a cruel tyrant.
Atticus Aurelius, who had publicly confessed his belief in the Jewish Messiah, perished in the persecution with his wife, Cyrilla. Quintus Aurelius, who had by then been sent back to Judea, survived and continued to spread the Gospel of Yeshua the Messiah, who had come to redeem Hebrews and Gentiles alike.
An Interview with Angela Hunt
Q: Don’t you find it a little intimidating to write a novel where you’re putting words into Jesus’ mouth?
A: Absolutely! That’s why I tried to use his actual words, or slight paraphrases, whenever possible.
Q: Okay—I have to know. Mary Magdalene was a real person, and of course I recognized the names of the disciples, but what about all the other characters? Which are fictional and which are real?
A: The challenge of a historical novelist is to flesh out the story world with fictional characters and events while not contradicting the historical record. So yes, Mary Magdalene is real, as were the other women around Jesus, the disciples, the emperors, and several other names you’ll recognize from the New Testament, including Claudius Lysias. Incidentally, Peter did have a wife who traveled with him, so she must have been one of the women around Jesus. Which one? I chose Susanna, but I could be wrong.
The fictional characters? Of the major figures: Atticus, Flavius, Gaius, Quintus/Binyamin, and Hadassah.
A: Where’d you learn the names of Jesus’ half-brothers and sisters?
Q: The brothers are named in Matthews 13:55 and Mark 6:3. The sisters’ names I used are fictional, but from those scriptures we know Jesus had sisters, too.
Q: You chose not to depict Mary Magdalene as a fallen woman, but that’s how I’ve always heard her described.
A: Poor Mary! She really has been falsely accused all these years. Tradition has furnished us with much information about Mary that is almost certainly inaccurate. First-century history does not portray her as a prostitute, an adulterous woman, or Jesus’ wife. The only thing Scripture tells us specifically about Mary from Magdala is that Jesus delivered her from seven demons.
We can assume other things about her from the biblical record: first, she was probably an older and much-respected woman because she is listed first seven of eight times when Scripture names the women present with Christ. Those who would portray Mary Magdalene as a prostitute, an adulteress, or Jesus’ wife have taken their cues from misguided sources.
Q: Didn’t the Pope say Mary was a fallen woman?
A: Many people, including Pope Gregory I, have confused Mary of Magdala with the unnamed “sinful woman” who anointed Jesus’ feet at Shimon’s house (Luke 8:36-39) and Mary of Bethany, who anointed Jesus’ feet at her house (John 12:1-7). But in 1969, the Catholic Church quietly admitted that Gregory was mistaken—clearly, Luke and John were not talking about Mary Magdalene.
Others have tried to portray Mary Magdalene as the woman taken in adultery (John 8:1-11) … but this could hardly be Mary, as this scene happens outside the temple, and Mary lived in Magdala before meeting Jesus. Furthermore, the most ancient Greek manuscripts do not include John 7:53-8:11, so the story may be apocryphal.
Q: Seems like there’s a lot of mumbo jumbo about Mary today—she’s a goddess, she’s the female apostle, she’s part of a new-age religion—
A: And all of that ‘mumbo jumbo’ is nothing but second-century man’s attempt to reduce salvation, an act of God, to an act of man. The Gnostics elevated Mary in their doctrine, particularly in apocryphal works such as the Gospel of Philip and the Gospel of Mary. (Gnosticism is the attempt to attain salvation through gnōsis, or ‘knowledge’ rather than faith. Such knowledge regularly dealt with the intimate relationship of the self to the transcendent source of all being, and this knowledge, according to Gnostics, was often conveyed by a “revealer.”[1]) They have tried to depict Mary as a prophet in her own right, or even as an “apostle to the apostles,” but nothing in Scripture validates such a concept.
Q: But since the publication of The DaVinci Code, everyone’s been sayin
g that Mary Magdalene was Jesus’ wife … or at least his lover.
A: Was Mary Jesus’ lover? Don’t think so!
I love the way my friend Liz Curtis Higgs handles this topic in her book Unveiling Mary Magdalene:
“Jesus loved Mary Magdalene, certainly. He knew her well. But he used the same words for all his disciples—to love, to know. Same Greek words, same emotions. In a sense he knows us all ‘very well.’ The psalmist confessed for all of us: ‘You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You … are familiar with all my ways’ [Psalm 139:2-3].”[2]
Many contemporary feminists and goddess-worshippers have attempted to elevate Mary Magdalene by linking her with Jesus sexually… a contradiction in approaches if ever there was one.
Bottom line: Jesus lived a sinless life that included abstaining from fornication and distraction. He was wholly dedicated to the Father’s will and his purpose of redeeming mankind. In repeated dealings with men and with Satan, he refused to allow himself to become entangled with the affairs of this world.
Q: You’ve portrayed Mary M. as quite the businesswoman. Isn’t that a little out of keeping with the role of women in those times?
A: Not necessarily. The virtuous woman of Proverbs 31 runs a home and a business. From what Scripture tells us, I think we can assume Mary had a source of income and could have even been wealthy. Luke wrote that the women who traveled with Jesus provided financial support for his ministry (Luke 8:1-3).
From the fact that Mary had the freedom to travel and money of her own we can surmise that she might have been a widow with no surviving children—otherwise, her children would have inherited her husband’s property.
Q: You used some Hebrew names and some Greek names—why the mix?
A: I wanted to give the story an authentically Jewish flavor, but I ran into difficulty with names. First, so many of them are repeated—Miryam was an extremely common name, as were John (Yochanan) and Simon (Shimon). If I thought the Hebrew name might cause a contemporary reader to stumble, in some instances I opted for the more common name, hoping to clarify the differences between characters.
