The Galileans: A Novel of Mary Magdalene (26 page)

“Plotinus said nothing about this,” the soldier in charge of the guard objected as the procession halted.

“Would you rob the dead of a decent resting place?” Joseph demanded sternly. “Be sure her soul will torment yours throughout eternity if you do.”

The soldier shivered. “It is true that the
gymnasiarch
did not forbid that she be buried in a coffin,” he admitted.

“Then there is no reason why she should not.” Before the soldier could object any more Joseph hammered on the door of the coffin maker’s shop. “Wake up!” he shouted. “We have need of your wares.”

The slaves had put down the litter, grateful for a chance to rest. In a few minutes the proprietor emerged from the building, rubbing his eyes, his sleeping cap still on his head. Joseph had already canvassed the row of coffins leaning against a building and selected the largest one he could find. “I will take this one,” he said. “What is the price?”

“Why do you need such a large one?” the soldier grumbled. “It will only mean more weight to carry.”

“This one has the best wood,” Joseph explained. “It will last longer.” He paid the coffin maker and called Hadja to help carry the rough wooden box.

Once again the little procession got under way. Now they were inside the City of the Dead itself, and as they moved through it toward the burial place reserved for paupers and criminals near the shore of Lake Mareotis, the shouts and sounds of revelry from the city across the canal grew fainter and fainter. Finally, almost at the water’s edge, they came upon an empty space, and the soldier at the head of the party ordered a halt.

One could not dig very deeply here close to the water without having the grave turn into a well, so the pits were very shallow, with the sand piled up to cover the coffin if the dead were lucky enough to rest so luxuriously. Rotted fragments of wood sticking out of the ground all around them showed where others had lain, and sometimes bones projected from the soil, bleached white by the salt air from the sea that blew across the narrow tongue of land upon which the Necropolis stood.

A shallow grave was quickly dug by the slaves, barely deep enough to cover the coffin. Joseph did not insist upon its being deeper, for if his plan were to be carried out—and a desperate one it was indeed—every minute lost in uncovering Mary’s body might mean the difference between life and death for her. He did not let himself think that his desperate plan might fail; the thought of his beloved smothering there in the darkness beneath the earth was more than he could bear. And yet he could see no other, no better way; the three of them, unarmed, would have no chance of overpowering the soldiers and the slaves. And if they were killed in a fruitless fight, all chance of saving Mary would be gone.

Joseph himself placed Mary’s body in the roomy box. When it was covered, he managed to push a hole down to the wooden cover under the guise of placing a marker of driftwood at the head. He had purposely left the cover itself unnailed, hoping that some air would filter down through the loose dirt, at least enough to preserve life until his plan could be carried out.

When the burial was finished, the slaves departed hurriedly, anxious to be away from this realm of the dead. Joseph’s heart lifted when he saw that only one soldier remained behind as a guard. It was like the Romans, he thought, to consider one armed soldier more than equal to three men, especially when one was a Jew. Actually, it was no part of his plan to attack the guard, for even if they managed to kill the soldier, another would come to relieve him in a few hours, soon enough to rouse the city and intercept them before they carried through their plan of escaping up the Nile. For all of them to be quite safe, it was important that Plotinus should think Mary was dead.

Joseph drew Bana Jivaka to one side, out of the guard’s range of hearing. “How long do we have?” he asked anxiously.

“The coffin is large, and in the trance she breathes very lightly,” Jivaka whispered. “She may have several hours. It is difficult to say.”

Hadja clenched and unclenched his great hands. “Engage the soldier in conversation, Joseph,” he begged. “And I will slip behind him and throttle him.”

Joseph shook his head. “It is best if they do not know we have stolen the body,” he explained. “We must wait a little while yet.”

“But we cannot let her lie there in the grave and die from lack of breath.”

“I am as worried as you are, Hadja,” he admitted. “Believe me, my way is best, but I will hurry it.”

The soldier paused in his steady pacing up and down beside the grave when Joseph approached. “What do you want, Jew?” he demanded, drawing his sword.

“This woman was my betrothed,” Joseph explained. “Have you never loved a woman yourself?”

The guard relaxed. “She was very beautiful,” he admitted. “I saw her dance once in the theater.”

Joseph nodded toward the Rhakotis, only a short distance away across the canal. The sounds of singing and drunken laughter floated to them across the tombs. “There will be many such in the drinking houses tonight,” he suggested. “Why should you not be with them?”

“I have been ordered to stay here until I am relieved.”

“And when will that be?”

“Four hours at least. By that time my relief will probably be drunk and stop for another flagon.”

“Surely no one will care if you quench your thirst in the Rhakotis for an hour while I watch beside the grave of my beloved.”

“It would go bad with me if I were found out,” the soldier said doubtfully, but Joseph realized with a rising sense of elation that he was wavering.

“Can the dead speak?” he asked. “I would pay well for an hour alone with her.” He lifted his purse and let the man see that it was well filled.

The sight of money settled the soldier’s doubts. He took the liberal handful of coins Joseph gave him and set off at a trot toward the gate leading into the city and the merriment of the Rhakotis. No sooner was he out of sight than Joseph whistled to Hadja and Bana Jivaka and, dropping to his knees, began to claw dirt from the shallow grave.

Quickly they uncovered the top of the coffin and removed it. Mary lay inside, just as Joseph had placed her, but the skin of her hands and feet were as cold as the marble they resembled, and there was no sign of life. “She is dead, Jivaka,” Joseph said brokenly as they carried her to one side and laid her body upon their cloaks. “I waited too long to bribe the guard.”

“Waste no time in self-censure,” Jivaka said. “Place your mouth over hers and breathe into her body while Hadja and I cover the grave again. It is a method I have often used to breathe life into babies at birth.”

Kneeling beside Mary and putting his mouth over hers, Joseph forced his breath between her lips. Steadily and slowly he breathed into her body, feeling her breast rise as the air distended her lungs. And when he drew away, a soft rushing sound could be heard as the air escaped from her nose and mouth. Over and over again he kept up the steady rhythm of inflating her lungs while Bana Jivaka and Hadja worked rapidly, covering the grave so the soldier would not suspect that it had been tampered with. When they finished, the Indian physician knelt beside Mary and felt for her pulse.

“Can you feel it?” Joseph asked anxiously.

Jivaka shook his head. “No. Have you seen any sign of life?”

“I cannot be sure. Her lips seem warmer, but it may be from my own.”

“Wait!” Jivaka said. “I may be able to tell.” Quickly he took from his pocket the green stone he had used to bring on the trance. Polishing it on his sleeve until it shone in the faint moonlight, he held it in front of Mary’s mouth and nostrils for a few moments, then lifted it and studied the gem closely. “I believe I can make out a film,” he said. “But we must get her to a place where we can warm her body.”

“The Rhakotis is out of the question,” Joseph said.

“Or anywhere else in the city,” Jivaka agreed. “With so many people on the streets, we would certainly be seen.”

“And there is no boat to take her to her own villa by water,” Hadja added hopelessly.

“The catacombs!” Joseph cried. “Why didn’t I think of them before?”

“Catacombs?”

“Achillas and his band live there. They are under an obligation to me.”

“But could you find a thief’s hiding place in the darkness?” Jivaka asked doubtfully.

“I am sure I remember the burial society whose name is on the entrance to the crypt,” Joseph explained. “We will go there at once and look for it.”

“What of the Roman?” Hadja asked. “He will give the alarm.”

“The soldier will not know we have removed the body,” Joseph pointed out. “That was the most important part of my plan. And he certainly will not tell that he was absent from his post.”

Through the sepulchral City of the Dead the three of them carried Mary’s unconscious body. The thieves would be busy tonight, Joseph knew, for there was much drunkenness in the city and purses could be lifted easily. But he did not believe Achillas himself would be out, for the old man had not completely recovered his strength from the long illness. He was counting on Achillas or someone to be at the underground headquarters.

Joseph’s memory did not betray him, and without any difficulty he found the entrance to the catacombs where he had been taken to treat the old thief’s empyema. But as he continued to knock on the inner door without receiving an answer, his hopes of finding someone there began to fade. Then a light shone inside and a face appeared at the small barred window. It was Achillas, and Joseph held up his own torch, taken from the rack just inside the outer door, so that the old thief could see his face.

“It is Joseph of Galilee,” he said. “We need help.”

The door was unbarred at once. “By Serapis!” the old man cried when he saw the burden they bore. “What is this, a corpse?”

“It is the dancer called Flamen,” Joseph explained. “She is in a deep trance, and we must work to save her life.”

Achillas did not waste their time with questions. He showed them where to place Mary, upon his own sleeping couch, and while Joseph started again to breathe into her body, he scurried about getting warm covers in which to wrap her and setting stones to heat on the always burning brazier. Bana Jivaka worked beside Joseph, chafing Mary’s hands and feet to restore the flagging circulation.

Long minutes passed without any evidence of success. The stones and the covers brought some warmth to Mary’s body, but it seemed that she was past generating any sign of life within herself. Then suddenly, as he pressed his lips to hers and breathed gently into her lungs, Joseph felt a convulsive movement of her breast, as if she were trying to breathe against him. And when he felt for her pulse with trembling fingers, hardly daring to hope even yet that his senses had not deceived him, he detected a faint, swift flutter beneath his touch.

“She lives, Jivaka!” he cried exultantly. “Thanks be to the Most High, she lives!”

“It is a miracle!” The Indian physician’s eyes were wet. “A miracle of faith, Joseph. Because you would not believe that she was dead, your God has brought her back to you.”

Inspired by this promise of success, they renewed their efforts to strengthen the life now beginning to stir once again within Mary’s body. Soon she began to breathe shallowly and rapidly, then more slowly as her body began to come alive again. “What about the trance?” Joseph asked. “Should we do something to bring her out of it?”

“I fear the shock of a sudden awakening,” Jivaka said. “It is better to let her regain consciousness slowly and of her own accord.”

Morning had come outside and the members of Achillas’s band had long since returned from their night’s adventures when Mary opened her eyes. “Where am I?” she whispered. “I don’t remember this place.”

“You are in the catacombs of the Necropolis,” Joseph told her. “Some friends of mine who live here gave us shelter.”

“I—I seem to remember having a bad dream. As if I were in a dark place like a—like a grave.”

“Don’t think of it now,” he urged. “You have been very close to death, but we were able to bring you back. That is all that matters. We will be safe here until we can escape from Alexandria.”

“Did I kill Gaius Flaccus?”

“No. It was a flesh wound. The dagger did not go true.”

“My hand would not obey my will,” she said slowly. “Something held it back.”

“It was the power of the Most High. He would not let the devil that possessed you drive you to murder.”

Her eyes moved around the room, to Bana Jivaka standing by the couch, the tall smiling Nabatean, and Achillas blowing upon the coals of the brazier to heat more stones. The other members of the band hovered around the second brazier in the corner, upon which the usual pot of stew bubbled.

Everyone was happy at the return to life of such a beautiful woman, everyone, that is, except the son Manetho, who seemed constitutionally surly. When Joseph’s eyes occasionally met those of the young thief, he was shocked by the hatred in Manetho’s gaze. For a moment he could think of no reason for it, and then the truth suddenly came to him. After his father, Manetho would be the leader of the band. Achillas had come very near to dying several months before, only to be saved by Joseph’s skill. And to a hate-distorted mind, the hand that had kept Manetho from becoming leader of the band, even though it saved his father’s life, was lifted against him. Watching the glowering thief in the corner, Joseph felt a shiver of dread sweep over him.

“Achillas is the father of Albina, who dances in the theater,” he told Mary. “These are his sons and the men who work for him.”

Mary smiled. “Your daughter is a fine dancer. She will be the leader now.”

The old thief bowed his head and lifted her pale fingers to his forehead. “No one will ever equal Flamen. I have said a prayer of thanks to Isis that you have been spared.” None of them held the attempted death of a Roman against her; in a way it made her akin to them through a common enemy.

By midmorning Mary had recovered enough to drink a bowl of broth. While she had been unconscious, Joseph had dressed the shallow wound in her breast where the dagger had almost found its mark. Now, wearing one of Albina’s robes, she looked little the worse for her narrow escape from death.