The Galileans: A Novel of Mary Magdalene

by Frank G. Slaughter

  The pressure was released suddenly. “Praise be to Ahura-Mazda!” Hadja cried, embracing Joseph and threatening to crush his bones again. “Why do you come through the garden like a thief?”

  “I was knocked down by a Roman when I tried to see Mary at the theater several days ago,” Joseph explained.

  “It was Plotinus?” Hadja growled. “Someday I will slip a knife between the gymnasiarch’s ribs! You have seen the Living Flame?”

  “In the theater only.”

  “What did you think of her?”

  “She has changed, Hadja, but she is more beautiful than ever.”

  “It is the beauty of evil. Sometimes I think as many as seven devils have possessed her,” the Nabatean growled.

  “Is she happy, Hadja? If she is, perhaps I should go away.”

  The musician shook his head. “She lives only to bring Romans to ruin. But come and see Demetrius. He will be glad to see you, Joseph.”

  Hadja led Joseph to a room at the back of the house. The villa was sumptuously furnished; beautiful paintings and expensive statues were everywhere, and deep rugs covered the floors.

  “The Living Flame is not here,” Hadja explained, “but she will be home from the theater soon.”

  Only a small oil lamp burned in the chamber where Demetrius lay propped up on a couch, and the curtains were drawn so that the room was almost dark. Hadja ushered Joseph in and shut the door, leaving the two of them alone. At first Joseph thought the old lyre maker was asleep, but when he came closer he saw why the musician had not greeted him. The pupils of both his eyes were obscured by a dead white disk, the opaque growth of cataract. Demetrius was blind!

  “I heard someone enter?” the old man quavered. “Who is it?”

  “An old friend from Galilee,” Joseph told him gently.

  “From Galilee? Joseph!” he cried. “Joseph of Galilee! I recognize the voice.”

  Joseph embraced his old friend. “I knew you would come,” the lyre maker cried. “How long have you been in Alexandria, my boy?”

  “Several months.”

  “And you did not try to find us? How could you, Joseph?”

  “I was seeking Mary of Magdala. How could I know that she is called Flamen in Alexandria?”

  “Or that she does not let it be known she has Jewish blood, as if she were ashamed,” Demetrius said bitterly. “You find us in a sad state, Joseph, my friend. This cursed desire for vengeance has made another person of Mary. She thinks of nothing but money and gaining power over Romans. It was an evil day when we left Magdala.”

  “Tell me about yourself,” Joseph urged.

  “What is there to tell?” Demetrius sighed. “I have all I want to eat and wine to drink, but what good is that when the light has gone?”

  “Can you see anything at all?”

  “I can tell night from day, but any bright light hurts my eyes, so I must live here in the dark. I cannot even see Mary, although they tell me she is more beautiful than she was as a young girl.”

  “She is. Much more beautiful, and in a different way.”

  “Then you have seen her?”

  “At the theater. But when I sought to speak to her, a Roman forbade me.”

  “Plotinus!” Demetrius spat out the word as Hadja had done. “If she would only hurry with the job of getting his money and ruining him. The others were stupid, but Plotinus is dangerous.”

  “Have there been others?” Until now he had hoped all the things he had heard might not be true.

  “A procession of simpletons who beggared themselves, hoping she would lie with them. Were I able to see, I might appreciate the irony of it, but I cannot help fearing for Mary herself. How long can you hate, Joseph, without your very hate consuming you?”

  “I don’t know. I never hated anyone very long.”

  “I know,” Demetrius agreed. “You are a good man. God knows there are few enough of them in Alexandria.”

  A slave came in bringing two trays of food. While Joseph ate, the slave fed Demetrius, but the old lyre maker had even lost his appetite, something that could never have happened to him in the old days! His enjoyment of food and wine then had been limited only by the lack of them. Now the skin hung loose and flabby on his massive frame, and even his thirst for wine seemed to have left him, for he pushed away the silver goblet when it was still half filled. “Take the food away, child,” he told the slave. “I have no appetite any more.”

  “Tell me something about your vision,” Joseph said when the trays were gone. “When. did the cataracts start to grow?”

  “Soon after we got to Alexandria; maybe they had really started before.”

  “And how long has most of your vision been gone?”

  “Three years at least. Why do you ask? It makes no difference.”

  “It might,” Joseph insisted. Bana Jivaka had taught him how to treat cases of cataract with the operation that had been used in India for almost a thousand years, one that brought sight to many cases such as this. Hippocrates, too, had mentioned it, but the Greeks had never been as skillful in such delicate mechanics as were the Indians. In the past several months Joseph had become as proficient as his teacher.

  “Do not tease me, Joseph,” Demetrius said wearily. “I know there is no hope.”

  “But there is; I have learned a way to treat cataract. If it is successful, you would regain your sight.”

  “And if not?”

  “What do you have to lose?”

  “As you say, what can I lose?” Demetrius agreed. “But if I could see, perhaps I could influence Mary away from this insane course she is following. When can you do it, Joseph?” he begged.

  “Sometime within the next few days, I think,” Joseph promised and stood up. “I had better go now. Mary may be coming soon.”

  “But you are an old friend,” Demetrius protested. “Why should you not be welcome in this house?”

  “I did not tell you the whole of my experience with Plotinus the other day,” Joseph explained. “He knocked me unconscious. I have no desire for a second dose.”

  Demetrius cursed savagely. Neither of them heard the door open or realized they were not alone until Mary cried from the door, “What are you cursing about, Demetrius? You sound more like yourself than you have in months.” In the darkness she had not noticed that the lyre maker had a visitor. “Joseph!” she cried, and her face flamed as she tried to gather the wholly inadequate robe about her body. “You—Excuse me,” she stammered and was gone.

  “What was the matter with her?” Demetrius demanded.

  “She wasn’t exactly dressed.”

  “That’s the only sensible habit she has picked up from the Romans.” Demetrius chuckled. “Their women go practically naked in hot weather, and it certainly makes life more interesting, even for an old sot like me.”

  Mary came back a moment later, wrapped in a long robe, and gave Joseph her hands. “Why didn’t you let me know you had come to Alexandria?” she said.

  “He has been here several months,” Demetrius growled, “but could not find us because you have taken another name. And when he did, the guards would not let him see you. How long are you going to keep up this insane life, Mary?”

  “We agreed not to talk about that, Demetrius,” she said sharply. “Remember?”

  “It is your life,” he grunted. “Ruin it if you must.”

  Mary took a taper from its bracket on the wall and held it so she could see Joseph. “You have not changed,” she said softly. “You will always be the same.”

  “I wish I could say as much for you, Mary.”

  For an instant there was a look of pain in her eyes, then she laughed, a brittle sound that was oddly like a sob. In an instant she was no longer the Mary he loved. “Of course I have changed,” she said somewha
t sharply. “When I left Magdala I was only a slip of a girl. I am a woman now.”

  “A very beautiful woman, Mary,” he agreed. “Even more than you were in Magdala. You have come a long way.”

  “I told you I would be the leading dancer of Alexandria.”

  “I saw you dance several days ago,” he told her. “And you deserve to have Alexandria at your feet. Are you happy with what you have accomplished, Mary?”

  Again the look of pain showed momentarily in her eyes before she gave the same brittle laugh. “I am rich. The leading men of Alexandria are at my feet, and the people adore me,” she cried airily. “What else could a woman want?”

  “The love of a good man instead of the lust of these accursed Romans,” Demetrius growled. “It was an evil day when you left Magdala.”

  “It was not an evil day for you, Joseph,” Mary said. “I hear that you are rich and the most famous physician in Jerusalem.”

  “Joseph has learned how to cure cataracts,” Demetrius broke in eagerly. “He is going to give me back my sight.”

  “Is that true?” Mary asked quickly.

  “There is an operation that restores sight to many who suffer from cataract,” he told her. “I hope it will let Demetrius see.”

  Mary ran to the old lyre maker and put her arms around his neck. It was an impulsive gesture, such as she had often made as a girl in Magdala, and Joseph saw that she was weeping, for her shoulders jerked convulsively and she hid her face against the old musician’s chest. Knowing her as he did, Joseph understood that her weeping was more than just for joy that Demetrius might regain his sight, and so did not interrupt.

  Demetrius let her sob on his chest until finally she raised her head and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of his robe. “It will be a happy day when your eyes are whole again, darling,” she said then. “I have a dance you have never seen. Joseph must take you to the theater and I will do it only for you.”

  Demetrius blew his nose loudly. “Run along now, you two,” he said, “and let an old man rest. Visit me again soon, Joseph.”

  “Tomorrow,” Joseph promised. “We can plan then about restoring your sight.”

  “How did you get into the villa?” Mary asked as she led Joseph out into the garden.

  “By the shore. After my experience with Plotinus the other day, I did not risk the guards.”

  “He told me he had knocked down a tradesman who was trying to see me. Of course I had no way of knowing it was you.”

  “Would you have acknowledged me if you had?” he asked deliberately.

  “Joseph!” she cried. “How could you say that?”

  “You have denied your Jewish blood. . . .”

  “I have not. I merely kept it a secret.”

  “But why, if you are not ashamed of it?”

  She put her hand on his arm. “You must try to understand, Joseph. As a Jewess I would have had little chance to succeed here in the theater. You know how the Romans hate Jews. And after all, I am part Greek.”

  “Have you also forgotten the God of your people?”

  She laughed again, the same brittle note. “Why should I be concerned with the Most High? He would have let me be sold into slavery if Simon and Demetrius had not saved me, and He forsook me when I needed help that night in Tiberias.”

  “It is written, ‘Do not say, “I will repay evil,”’” he reminded her, “‘wait for the LORD, and he will help you.’”

  Mary kicked angrily at the trunk of a palm tree beside the path. “Don’t quote proverbs to me,” she cried. “Wait! Wait! Where would I have gotten if I had waited, or if I had stayed in Magdala?”

  “Where have you gotten now, Mary?” he asked gently. “You are rich and famous, but no one is happy with what you are doing, not even you.”

  “I am doing what I want to do,” she said sharply. “What I have sworn to do.”

  “And if what you have sworn to do is evil?”

  “Then the evil will be on my soul. Why concern yourself with it?” She put her hand on his arm appealingly. “Please, let us not quarrel, Joseph, when we haven’t seen each other in five years. Why did you come to Alexandria?”

  “I came because I love you, Mary, to learn whether you still love me.”

  For a moment she did not speak, and he thought there were tears in her eyes. “And now that you know,” she asked almost in a whisper, “why don’t you leave?”

  “But I don’t know. You haven’t told me yourself.”

  “You must not love me, Joseph,” she said quickly, pleadingly. “It can only mean unhappiness for you. Go back to Jerusalem and forget you ever knew Mary of Magdala.”

  He took her by the arms, turning her until she faced him there in the darkness of the garden. “When you swear by the Most High that you no longer love me, Mary, I will go,” he said. “It is the only thing that will send me away.”

  He heard the sob in her throat, and then her arms were about him and she was clinging to him, her face buried against his chest, sobbing unrestrainedly. Wisely he held her thus until she was quiet, then he took her chin in his hand and, lifting it, kissed her gently upon the lips. The salt of her tears was upon them, and she clung to him with her mouth soft and yielding beneath his own for a long moment before she pushed him away. Then she dried her eyes with the flowing sleeve of her robe and pushed the soft hair back from her face. “It has been a long time since I have wept like that, Joseph,” she said with an oddly matter-of-fact note in her voice. “Nothing helps a woman more when she is troubled.”

  “You need be troubled no longer,” he suggested. “Come back to Jerusalem with me as my wife.”

  “You should know by now that I am not like other women, Joseph. I would not come to you as your wife when a part of me lived only to hate Gaius Flaccus.”

  “I might be able to show you the futility of hating.”

  Mary shook her head. “I could never be dishonest with you, Joseph. I love you too much for that.” But when he would have taken her in his arms again, she put her hands against his chest in a restraining gesture. “Do you think it is easy for me to be what I am? Do you think I want to see Hadja and Demetrius—yes, even you—unhappy? But until I carry out my oath to kill Gaius Flaccus, I can never be the girl you loved back in Magdala. It’s like a disease in my very soul, this hate for him and all the Romans. Nothing can purge it away except to kill him with my own hands.”

  “Hadja is right then. A demon has possessed you.”

  “Hadja claims there are seven.” She smiled. “Perhaps he is right. But the demon of hate will possess my soul until I kill the man who put it there.”

  “Have you seen Gaius Flaccus since you left Magdala?”

  “No.” She hesitated, then continued, “Plotinus is close to the emperor, though. He has promised to have Gaius Flaccus sent to Alexandria very soon, within the next few months at least.”

  “Did you tell Plotinus why you want to see him again?”

  “I only told him I hate Gaius Flaccus and want to humiliate him. Plotinus is cruel himself, so he understands and sympathizes with that sort of motive.”

  “Then your using Plotinus this way is only part of your plan of revenge?”

  “Of course!” she cried. “Do you think I could love a Roman after what Gaius Flaccus did to me? They give me gold because they think I will give myself to them in return. But when I get their money I throw them aside.”

  “When will you be through with Plotinus?”

  “When he brings Gaius Flaccus to Alexandria.”

  “Give up this madness, Mary,” he begged. “You can’t murder a man that easily.”

  “It will be difficult,” she admitted coolly, “but I will do it. I would even lie with him, if it meant I could plunge a dagger into his heart.”

  “Would it be worth satis
fying your hate to defile your body?”

  “My body!” She laughed on that same harsh note. “Gaius Flaccus made my body a thing of dishonor. What difference does it make how I use it now? Nothing could defile me more than I have already been defiled. And besides,” she added, “I was not without sin myself. I watched a girl dance at Pilate’s villa that night, a slave. She stripped the clothing from her body and danced before the men, and I wanted to do the same thing, Joseph. Does that not make me guilty too?”

  “The Evil One was tempting you.”

  “And when Gaius Flaccus held me in his arms afterward, I wanted to be there. He might not have done what he did if I had not let him kiss me. Maybe I wanted him to do what he did; I don’t remember, I don’t know.”

  For a moment he was given a glimpse into her very soul and the forces that strove there, torturing her. He knew now that, try as she might, Mary could not put out of her innermost being the teachings of God that all Jewish children learned early in life without suffering from the implacable demands of her conscience. Ruthlessly it demanded a sacrifice in retribution for the sin of lust that had tempted her there in the villa of Pontius Pilate, as it tempts, at one time or another, every man and woman. Mary might kill Gaius Flaccus, as the demon of hate drove her to do, but the act would bring no peace to her soul afterward, no satisfaction in her revenge, for the implacable conscience would still be there. She was only deluding herself, he knew. And yet he could see no way to make this clear to her, no way to convince her that the only way to peace for her was through admitting her own sin and praying God to exorcise the demon of hate from her soul.

  A sharp challenge came suddenly from the guard in front of the villa. “Go,” Mary whispered. “And stay by the shore. Plotinus has come to take me to a dinner this evening. I will tell him later that you are a physician treating Demetrius, so you can come here when you wish.” She stood on her toes and kissed him quickly. “Heal Demetrius, Joseph, and then leave Alexandria. Believe me, it is best for both of us.”

  She was gone in a rustle of silk, leaving Joseph alone in the darkness. As he made his way through the garden to the shore and past the wall that ran to the very water’s edge, he saw lamps being lit in the villa and heard the gay laugh of the woman called Flamen as she greeted her Roman admirer.