The Secret Magdalene

by Ki Longfellow

  Again, I look to see how Salome fares. Her color is higher, her gaze fixed on a spot above the head of Eleazar. Should I be glad she hears at all?

  When Seth speaks next his voice is low and flat with warning. “Herod has no stomach for feasting. What you have heard is not so.”

  Eleazar is not Simon Peter, nor is he the merchant Ananias. He senses his error, though he could not say where it lies. He counters, but he counters cautiously. “But if it is not so, then why is it said?”

  And here it is that Father joins in, calling for a slave to take away the pomegranate whether Eleazar wishes to eat it or not. “If our guest says it is not so, young man, it is not so. We shall speak of other things.”

  If I did not pity Salome, and if I did not pity myself, perhaps I could pity poor thoughtless Eleazar for what he says next, and I imagine he thinks he is speaking of other things. “Well, then…what, sir, of this thing? Have you heard of the new messiah, the one some say is the prophet Elias?”

  “Piffle,” says Nicodemus, and contents himself that he said quite enough.

  Father is engaged with Naomi, calling for a slave to mop her spilled wine. Seth peels an orange, which I think he does to calm himself. Eleazar therefore turns on his couch, seeking an interested eye, but the only eye he finds is that of his mother, Rachel. Poor Rachel stares at her son, unable to decide how best to act, encourage, or insistently hush him? “Have you heard of Yehoshua the Nazorean?” he asks her. “He who goes about making the blind to see and the dead to rise? I have heard that he drives out demons and that he calms storms and that he can feed thousands with a few fishes and a loaf of bread. He even heals ten lepers at a time. It is said that the mother-in-law of one of those who follow him was dead and already decaying, but that he laid his hand on her and her body was instantly as new and her spirit once again in it. On the spot, she jumped up and prepared food for a hundred men!” Eleazar pauses for breath, though not for thought. “It is said that Herod Antipas greatly fears he is the risen John, that Herod becomes as mad as his father, Herod the Great, was mad, and goes about ranting that he is beset by enemies. If not the King of Arabia, he is said to shout, then prophets returned from the grave, and he will kill this one—”

  Eleazar pauses. I think he finally remembers who besides his mother listens to him, and how they listen. I think he thinks better of how he would end this, which is why he swallows the word too.

  “It is also said,” says Father, who has returned from glaring at Naomi and her spilled wine, only to glare at Rachel, she who brought forth this offending boy, “that ‘a wise son maketh a glad father, but a foolish son is the heaviness of his mother.’”

  If she could, Rachel would sink lifeless under the table.

  But it is too late. Eleazar has finally said too much. Salome has risen; she stares at Eleazar, who has the wit to shrink from her as an Essene would have others shrink from his avenging god. Her voice rises against him as her voices once rose against the men of the Yahad and of the Poor and against all those who could not hear, nor even listen. Her voice is tremendous. If Father’s red dishes do not tremble on his table, and his cups of thick glass shatter, I will be amazed. “Know you not of whom you speak? For shame! For shame, you dolt of a boy! Have you the power to judge angels!”

  With that, she flees the room. Helena and I flee it after her.

  Salome has talked for hours now. When at last the words come, they come until her throat burns dry with them, and still she talks.

  I have turned away Rachel whose penance for birthing Eleazar was to be sent by Father to comfort us and to lure at least me back to his table. I have sent away the food he thinks we must have. I have sent all away save Helena, who would not go in any case, so that I might hear Salome speak once more, and by this, I have heard of the last days of John of the River, and it takes all that I have to listen.

  This is what Salome tells of it.

  As it was with Addai in the Fortress of Antonia, John was thrown into the deepest darkest hole in the Fortress of Machaerus in the mountains of Moab. Day after day, he was scourged and he was beaten by the soldiers of Herod Antipas, and he was given neither food nor drink. Nor was he freed from his chains. And if he was not kicked or slapped, or hit with the hilts of their swords, or cut with the blades, then he was dragged out before the other prisoners so that he could be taunted and could be laughed at for being he who said he could save his people yet could not save himself. And there came a time when they broke him, when John of the River, tall as a ladder and thin as a rung, and who was as full of joy as a child, wept as a child. There came a time when he cried out as a terrified child and clung to their legs, begging that they would stop, begging that if they would kill him, then pray God would they put an end to it and kill him.

  I am put in mind of Osiris. I remember how it was each year in the delta of the Nile when exactly this was done to the godman, how he was reviled and spat upon, how he was humbled in spirit, and how he was killed, and how each time I wept as if all the tears in the world were mine, and through me they would find a way to fall. I weep in this way now. Over and over, I swear I will not cry again in this life, and over and over I find cause to weep.

  And when the time came that John forgot himself and forgot all that he had taught and all that he believed, in this time, he clung to Simon Magus as they huddled in the cold and the dark and were covered in their own filth. John and Simon, and poor Helena, who had been jailed with them, her own pain dreadful to see, clung each to each, and John confessed to them, and to the dark, that he knew nothing, believed nothing, could save no one. He cried out that he was not the Messiah. That perhaps Yehoshua was he who was to come. Or perhaps it was some other. Or perhaps there was no messiah at all. He had always known there was no messiah; it was the hopeless dream of hopeless men. And though he had tried and he had tried, he could not make himself into the dream men dreamed. He cried out that life was nothing but madness. It was a hollow promise, a deceit, a trick of the mind. He clung to Simon and said that John of the River was no more than a fool before the one true God whose name was Suffering and whose name was Death.

  But at this same time, Herod Antipas also suffered. There was no feasting and no dancing and no demanding heads on platters, for Aretas, the outraged father whose daughter Phasaelis had been the true wife of Herod, had come for him. Herod, putting away Phasaelis as if she were chaff, had taken not merely another wife, but Herodias, a woman who was wife to his own half brother, Herod Philip, and daughter to another half brother, Aristobulus. This had so infuriated Aretas and his tent people they had entombed the fortress of Machaerus as a storm of sand entombs a caravan. Trapped within, Herod was close to gibbering in his fear.

  And so it was that while Herod cowered before the avenging Aretas, far below in his dungeons, John of the River fell, and in that hour of deepest falling, his god entered him and, by entering, took away fear. On the night they came for John—in his terror, Herod would put an end to at least one of his tormentors—he did not cower and he did not cling. In that time he stood straight before them, and the Glory in him blazed suddenly forth, and though the men who had come had swords, they were afraid.

  Telling this, Salome’s pride in John is fierce as fire. And I know that John. I know how it was when Herod’s men saw him. They were each of them afraid to touch John the Baptizer, they were terrified before him, he who walked with Judas of Galilee, and they hung back, and they hung back, until one among them grew desperate in the face of what he had been sent to do. This man swung blindly out at the prophet in whose eyes it seemed God looked out at him. In this moment, all that John had ever believed, and all that he had ever taught, fused in the arm of this one man, and John’s head was taken from his shoulders.

  But Salome swears on her life and on mine that it was not carried away to be displayed on a platter. John is whole, secreted in a cave in the Land of Moab overlooking the Salted Sea, and within sight of his beloved wilderness. She swears there will come a day whe
n she shall build him a great tomb, greater than Alexander’s tomb, and there she will place his bones, every one.

  With John’s killing, Simon Magus himself was released as a person of no importance. So too was Helena of Tyre. As for the whole body of the Baptizer, it was tossed on a litter for Salome to do what she would with it.

  There is something else. Joanna, wife of Chuza who was and is the chief steward of Herod Antipas, was taken with them. As John the Baptizer, shackled to Simon Magus and to Helena of Tyre, was being led down steps too dark to see, so too was Joanna, but though John and Simon and Helena were thrown together into one cell, Joanna was led to some other place, but what other place they could not tell. But this both Helena and Salome could tell: when they were brought up out of the dark and the cold, save for the body of John, they were brought up alone. There was no Joanna set free that day.

  And now Salome weeps, crying out, “He did not rise, Mariamne! He was as Osiris and he was beaten and he was killed, but he did not rise!” She, who has not shed a tear in all this time, sheds them now.

  As John of the River and Simon Magus held each other in Machaerus, the fortress of Herod, so Mariamne the Jew and Semne the Egyptian hold each other now, and I say, “John rises in spirit, Salome; he is risen.”

  But she does not hear me.

  Helena watches as I cradle Salome’s shuddering body, and as Salome is wracked with sobs deeper than any I have felt. I hold my friend and I rock with her as she weeps that John was killed as the Messiah who the people would make king. And I think, Oh, I have been blind. Salome straightaway saw there was a demon in John; there was a god in him. Was he not awkward and foolish? Was he not stern and forbidding? Could he not shout and cavort and terrify with his visions of wrath and righteousness? Could his face not wreathe itself in a smile as sweet and as warm as a mother’s love? And then, from one awe-filled moment to the next, could he not blaze forth with urtom, an unclothed heavenly splendor like to singe? That was John. Small wonder if one could not easily know him or easily love him, for he was too terrible to love, too lovable to be so terrible.

  I shall miss him now that too late I love him.

  Salome is alive again. She is changed, but she is alive. And for the moment I ask no more than this.

  We live now in Father’s house, taking our meals with Helena, and with Seth when he visits us. We talk of what it is we will do. I have collected the monies held by Caiaphas of the House of Ananus. Coming before him as I did, suddenly and unannounced, I have rarely seen such surprise on a human face and never seen such revulsion and fear. But I remember that for Father’s good friend, the highest of all the Temple priests, I am not only a whore, and not only do seven demons live in me, I am the female Mariamne, who has never done other than cause him immense disquiet. Caiaphas, who sweats more than any man I have ever known—he is the very Jordan of sweat—has always shunned me. But he has given me my mother Hokhmah’s money, and he has given me the money of Coron of Memphis meant for Semne. How could he not? Josephus is not dead, and Josephus keeps impeccable records.

  Both Salome and I are now well-to-do young women, and should we wish it, Father could arrange to have us married. That is, if he could find a man who would overlook our past for the pleasure of his future with our wealth. But Salome is as a widow, and I will never marry at all. All that we wait for is the proper time, and the nerve, to set out alone for Alexandria. I have sent word of our intentions to Philo Judaeus, and to Theano the Therapeutae, and to the poetess Julia. We will take a small house near the house of Philo, we will paint its door green as I have a liking for green, and there we will make ourselves known as the Egyptian, Semne the daughter of Coron of Memphis, and the Jewess, Mariamne the daughter of Josephus of Arimathaea. I relish the day I will first stand before Philo Judaeus as Mariamne. Even more, how I long for that moment with Apion, haughty hater of women! As for Theano, I think she might swoon with welcome delight—to think her most brilliant student a female! And as for Julia, we shall surely cause her an anxious moment. If Simon Magus is female, and if John the Less is female, what then is the beauteous Seth?

  From this house, there shall come no prophecy. If ever I was, I am not now a prophet. I do not portend that which will come, nor do I speak for a god. The Loud Voice is silenced forever, and I daily thank Isis for this large gift. I shall be a philosopher, for that is who I am. I will walk forth from time to time as did the learned women I once met in the house of Heli bar Nehushtan. I will teach and I will write and I will not give two figs for the opinions of men. And now that I am thinking about it, I will have a shell of stone in my garden and an almond tree and I will have doves in a dovecote. In this house, Salome means to seclude herself. In seclusion, she will set down in the best ink on the best vellum all that she remembers of John, all that he said to her, all that he taught, and all that he would have taught if he had lived. As John of the River was the most beloved teacher of Simon Magus, Simon Magus will be John’s most faithful disciple. John may be dead in body, but so long as Salome lives, he shall not die in spirit, and should it take the rest of her life, he shall never die to the world.

  In Simon Magus who is Salome, John is risen.

  Surprisingly, I have come to care for Eleazar. For all that he prattles, and for all that he primps, he is a sweet soul, and harmless. But Eleazar is also ill, and I can do nothing. If only Tata were here, but she is gone with Addai to the wilderness. Or if Salome knew of other than poisons, odd mixtures of odd plants and odd animals that cause odd reactions for odd reasons, all the secret concoctions of Sabaz.

  With no one looking, twice I did as Yeshu does: I lay hands on Eleazar. But to heal in this way, the person one heals must believe one can heal. Not only did I not believe, neither did Eleazar, though he was happy to have me try. We ended up laughing, or I did. Eleazar ended his laughter with a fit of coughing and a visit to the chamber of relief.

  He worries me. In his sputum, there are bright red spots of blood. If I worry, Eleazar worries twice as much, staring in horror at his own blood. He staggers back to bed, throws himself on his pillows as if at any moment he might die. But whether he is dying or no, Salome says blood cannot be a good thing to find in one’s mouth; it indicates ill humor in the lungs. I press my ear against the bony chest of my cousin-brother, and listen. It sounds as wind caught in a cave.

  Meanwhile, I cannot keep Martha out of her brother’s sick room. When first she came, I thought it a sister’s tender regard. Now I know she comes from a strict sense of duty. I once believed the son of Pinhas ben Yohai broken to the Law, but Eleazar is too impetuous and excitable to be cowed by commandments. It is Martha who lives by the Law. Martha is twice the Law. My sister-cousin has rules even the rabbis or the Poor have yet to think to impose on their fellow man. Yeshu’s brother, Jacob, old Camel Knees himself, would have trouble meeting this one’s standards of correct behavior before a judgmental god. Martha begins to fascinate me. She teaches me that though I might fret at what it means to be female, there are those who take a terrible pride in it. She is still a virgin, not having had her first menses, yet she is a woman. And if God has decreed, as men claim, that a woman must cook and a woman must weave and a woman must bear all the burdens of a house, and none of its pleasures, then Martha will cook and she will weave and she will bear such burdens without pleasure as would make Eio bite. There is nothing of “woman’s work” in which Martha does not excel. There is nothing expected of a woman that Martha does not do and then uphold as if a kingdom depended on it. Where then is the man who would wed her? I have seen no sign of him. Could it be that though men might demand a woman be more precious than rubies, they do not enjoy living with such a woman?

  Seth has no answer for this. What does he know of women when the women he knows are girls who have lived half their lives as boys, a companion who was once a slave as well as a zonah, and a mother who is yet a queen, and who builds palaces for kings?

  Where some months back I would sit on one side of the woman Sarah
, while her daughter Perpetua sat on the other, now I sit by the head of Eleazar while Martha takes her place by his feet. He is slowed by his illness but not silenced. He babbles of a horse he hopes Father will buy him. He gabbles of how he shall make sure his slaves take care of this horse. Peeling an orange for Eleazar, whose fondness for oranges is as excessive as his sister’s sense of duty, I idly reach out to Martha, idly enter her, and for a moment, there is…nothing. It is as if she were empty of sensation, of thought, even of self. How odd. I reach further and further, and then suddenly I pull back as if I were scorpion stung. What terrible black chaos is this? I cannot describe the hatred. How she loathes me. How she loathes Salome. Never in all my life, not with Caiaphas and not with Izates and not with Simon Peter himself, have I known such abhorrence of my person. I catch her eye, and there is nothing there. It is as empty of feeling, other than pious rectitude, as ever. Does she know how she hates me? It seems she allows herself only to know that she disdains me. But what have I done to cause such hatred? What has Salome done? And then, as clearly as dawn in the wilderness, I know. We left Father’s house and his protection. We have not taken husbands, nor have we taken helpless refuge with brothers or uncles. What men would make of us seems not what we are. In short, we have not followed the Law. For this, my cousin cannot forgive us.

  If I were Martha, the daughter of Pinhas ben Yohai, and she were me, perhaps I too could not forgive such things. Poor Martha. But if she detests me now, how much more if she knew my pity?

  I write long letters to Philo Judaeus and to Addai and to Tata, knowing there is always someone who will deliver what it is I write, eventually. I wait for Salome’s strength to return. I read to her from the new work of Philo, which was inscribed to us. In the afternoons, now that Nicodemus has gone back to his own home in Bethphage some four stadia from here, I spend an hour with Father as a loving daughter would with a loving father, albeit a learned daughter who therefore speaks to him of things that cause him wonder. I do not tell him of my time in the wilderness, or in Samaria, or in Galilee, or in Gaulanitis, but I do tell him of Egypt. He tells me how his glass factory fares, exceedingly well; how his ships sail, only three mishaps in eight years; how goes his position among his peers, he is risen not only in age but also in stature, being appointed to a small group who petition Tiberius personally. It startles me. My father’s name is known to the emperor Tiberius.