The Galileans: A Novel of Mary Magdalene (32 page)

Nicodemus had said much the same thing, Joseph remembered. What strange power was it this Teacher possessed that men could not forget the things He taught, when they forgot so easily what they learned as children from their parents in the synagogue?

Mary’s words recalled his thoughts. “I heard Jesus say: ‘Blessed are you when men revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you!’ . . . It was strange, Joseph,” she added. “I had cringed when they called me ‘harlot’ and ‘adulteress,’ but now I didn’t mind any more. It seemed as if He had given me strength to bear the insults and ignore them. . . . If you could hear Him you would know what I mean. And Simon says—” She stopped suddenly, as if she were about to reveal something that should be kept hidden.

“What is it, Mary?” he asked. “Or would you rather I did not know?”

“I promised Simon I would tell no one, but I know he wouldn’t mind your knowing. He says Jesus is the Messiah.”

“But if the Nazarene is truly the Expected One,” Joseph protested, “the good news should be proclaimed from the housetops.”

“I think Simon wants Him to get a much larger following before they reveal the truth.”

Joseph shook his head soberly. “Judas the Gaulonite also claimed to be the Messiah,” he reminded her soberly, “and Sepphoris was the center of his rebellion. But two thousand Jews were crucified here by the Romans and the whole city sold into slavery. That will happen again if the Galileans are foolish enough to follow another false messiah.”

A few hours after Joseph’s arrival, the condition of Gaius Flaccus changed sharply for the worse. He slept for a short while under the effect of the drug and awoke in a frenzy of delirium, fighting the slaves who tried to hold him on the couch and cursing at the top of his voice, while the rasp of his labored breathing filled the villa. When the frenzy was at its height, his head suddenly began to bend backward and his whole body became rigid and taut, while his arms and legs jerked in a continued spasm. Joseph looked at him and shook his head hopelessly. “The disease has reached the brain,” he told Mary. “A convulsion like this means only one thing.”

“Is it—the end?”

“Before very long. You had better send for Pontius Pilate and Claudia Procula.”

“She was coming back with the procurator after the evening meal. They should be here soon.”

Gaius Flaccus was in the throes of another convulsion when Procula came in alone. The color went out of her face at what she saw, and her hand flew to her throat. “Is he dying?” she asked in a whisper.

“I have given him a sedative drug,” Joseph exclaimed. “But the inflammation seems to have reached the brain. When that happens, it is—” He stopped, reluctant to say the fateful word.

“Then we can only pray to the Most High,” Mary said quietly.

To Joseph’s amazement, Claudia Procula knelt with Mary in one corner of the room and began to pray. Joseph himself dropped to his knees then and fumbled for some prayer from his childhood suitable for the presence of death. It was this scene that met the eyes of the procurator of Judea when he came into the sickroom.

The two kneeling women made a lovely sight with their eyes uplifted to the ceiling, lips moving in a whispered prayer, each supremely beautiful in her own way, yet so markedly different. Claudia Procula was tiny, exquisite, and richly dressed, like a figurine shaped by the hands of a superb artist. Mary’s gloriously colored hair was plaited and bound about her forehead. Her face was pale, but the inner fire that had always characterized her shone through the translucent skin. By comparison with Pilate’s lady, she was roughly dressed, and yet her beauty was far more striking than that of the Roman aristocrat whose ancestors were emperors.

Watching Pontius Pilate, Joseph saw the dark flush of anger rise in his face, but it was the hell in the procurator’s eyes that shocked him most. Utter despair was written there for an instant, as if Pilate were seeing something he had feared but, until this moment, was unwilling to admit. Then the look changed suddenly to one of cold, almost demoniac fury in one of the abrupt changes of mood that often came over him.

“Procula!” he snapped. “What are you doing?”

Claudia Procula got to her feet, trembling from the shock of the savage question. “We—I was praying for Gaius Flaccus,” she stammered.

“This is your doing.” Pilate wheeled upon Mary. But before she could speak Procula said firmly, “You are wrong, Pontius. I have prayed secretly to Jehovah for a long time. Mary had nothing to do with it, except to show me what believing in Him can do.”

Mary showed no sign of fear before the anger of the Roman official. It was as if a power and a vision they could not know set her apart from all of them.

“We who rule for Rome worship the emperor as divine, Procula,” Pilate said sharply. “But the Jewish God acknowledges no other. When you pray to Him, you blaspheme against the emperor. And you—” He turned upon Mary savagely. “You will henceforth worship the gods of your master’s household.”

“These are the words of Jehovah,” Mary said quietly.
“‘I am the L
ORD
your God. . . . You shall have no other gods before me.’”

For a moment Joseph thought Pontius Pilate was going to strike Mary and moved quickly to place himself between them. His eyes met the hot angry stare of the procurator, but his gaze did not fall while he waited, knowing fully the penalty if he were forced to resist.

A puzzled look came into Pilate’s face. “What is the punishment for striking one who rules in the name of Rome, Joseph?” he asked in a different tone.

“Crucifixion!” Joseph was surprised that his voice was calm and clear.

“And you would dare to strike me for chastising a slave?”

“She is a slave only to Gaius Flaccus,” Joseph said quietly. “I owe her my life and would protect her if I could, even from the emperor himself.”

“What if she breaks the laws of Rome?”

“Rome has guaranteed to the Jew in his own country the right to worship his God,” Joseph reminded him. “And Mary, being the adopted daughter of a Roman citizen, is protected by Roman law herself.”

“You should have been a doctor of the law, Joseph,” Pilate said then, but not unkindly. “At least you have a good mind, which is more than I can say for some of those I have to deal with in Jerusalem. But you forget that I can be judge as well as prosecutor under the law.” He turned to the couch. “Can you help my nephew?”

Joseph took a long breath of relief. “I have drawn blood and tried to preserve his strength,” he explained, “but the delirium grows worse. Just now he was taken with a severe convulsion.”

“I have seen cases such as this from wounds incurred in battle,” Pilate agreed. “There was no hope for him from the beginning, but I am glad Mary sent for you.” He turned to her, and for a moment Joseph thought he was going to apologize, but he only said, “You have suffered much at the hands of this kinsman of mine, Mary of Magdala. How can you pray for him when his recovery means you are still a slave?”

“There is one who said, ‘Love your enemies,’” she said simply.

“Can you Jews do nothing but quote texts from the sayings of your God?” Pilate asked sarcastically.

“This was spoken by a man,” Mary told him. “The Teacher, Jesus of Nazareth.”

Before Pilate could speak, Claudia Procula said pleadingly, “Jesus is said to perform miracles, Pontius. If we would ask Him to come here—”

“I will have no religious fanatics in the house of my kinsman,” Pilate snapped.

“B-But—”

“Say no more, Procula! Joseph is the best physician in this region. If he says there is no hope for Gaius Flaccus, there is no hope. Come. We will go back to Tiberias tonight. This mangy capital of Herod’s does not appeal to me.”

When Pilate and his lady had gone, Mary said softly, “You did a brave thing, Joseph, and I love you for it, but it would have been better to let him strike me than put your life in danger. I would not have minded the pain.”

“He had no right to blame you for what Claudia Procula believes.”

“Pilate is a troubled man, Joseph. Claudia Procula says he often seems beside himself lately, but she does not know what is worrying him. Sometimes he even accosts travelers on the road, asking, ‘What is truth?’”

Joseph smiled. “Philosophers have done that since time began. It is their favorite question.”

“I believe he knows the real truth, that everything comes from the Most High, but is afraid to believe it.”

“Why should anyone fear to worship the living God?”

“Could Pilate acknowledge the emperor as divine then? Or allow the eagles of Rome to be displayed before his palace? You can see what that would mean to a Roman.”

“Yes,” Joseph agreed. “But why did he object so strongly when Procula suggested that Jesus be asked to see Gaius Flaccus?”

“I think it was because of Pila.”

“The boy with the twisted foot? I saw him when he was a small child but could do nothing for him.”

“Since Jesus raised the daughter of Jairus from the dead, Procula has become hopeful that He might make Pila’s foot straight,” she explained.

“There was a Jairus who was a ruler of the synagogue at Capernaum. I treated him once.”

“It is the same man,” Mary confirmed. “Procula knew Jairus and his wife. When she heard about the miracle, she wanted to take Pila to Jesus, but Pilate refused. Now she feels that he neglected the boy.”

“Why did Pilate refuse to take Pila to the Teacher?”

“It may be because Jesus heals in the name of the Most High. If Pilate’s own son were healed by Him, the procurator would have to acknowledge the power of God.”

“And he could not do that when he denies the very existence of the Most High,” Joseph agreed thoughtfully. “It must have been a hard decision to make, with his own son involved.”

“I tried to tell Procula that,” Mary said, “but she is Pila’s mother, and things look different to her.”

Joseph smiled. “Once I lectured you on your duty to God. Now you are teaching me humility.”

“But everyone knows that you are good, Joseph.”

He looked at Gaius Flaccus, who for the moment was lying quietly in a stupor, having exhausted his strength in the convulsions.

“Am I?” he said slowly. “I am sworn to think only of the welfare of the sick, but if Gaius Flaccus dies you will be free. I don’t think I could pray for him as you did, Mary, when I know what it will mean for you if he lives.”

“When you see Jesus,” she said softly, “you will understand how I could pray for Gaius Flaccus’s life, even though I knew that tomorrow he would flog me and give me to any man who visits this house. Just to look at Jesus and hear Him speak can make you a different person.”

During the night, the sick man lapsed into a coma as the spreading poison of the infection completed the conquest of his body. Pontius Pilate and his wife returned to Sepphoris from Tiberias in the morning and were present at the end.

“Procula,” the procurator said when Joseph pronounced Gaius Flaccus dead, “we must follow the Roman custom, even though we are far from home.”

She came over to stand by the couch, with Mary a little behind her. “Gaius Flaccus, arise!” Pilate called several times, and Procula repeated the summons. It was the ancient rite of the
conclamentio,
the “calling back” of the dead customary in Roman households.

“
Conclamatum est
—the cry has been raised,” Pilate announced formally. “You may send for the embalmers, Joseph. In three days we will consign his body to the pyre with all honors befitting a military commander and send his ashes to Rome.”

The embalmers were skillful and did their work well. First the body was preserved and dressed in a fresh toga decorated with the numerous military and civil insignia that the deceased had won in life. Then it was laid in state upon a funeral couch in the atrium, with the feet toward the door and a coin of gold in the dead man’s mouth to provide passage money for the final journey across the river Styx.

Before the doors were opened to those who wished to enter and pay tribute to the dead, a wax impression of the tribune’s face was taken, called the
imago.
It would be sent later to Rome, where it would occupy a niche in one of the two
alae
at the rear corners of the atrium in the home of his family, along with an inscription, or
titulus,
telling of his accomplishments. The privilege of thus displaying
imagines
was limited to those of high rank.

Pontius Pilate had decided that his nephew should be cremated with full military and civil honors, just as would have been the case had he been in Rome. The ceremony, Joseph surmised, was also to serve as a reminder to Herod Antipas and the Galileans that Rome still ruled here. Herod Antipas did not dare object to honors given one who had been a favorite of the emperor Tiberius, even if it entailed a mighty show of arms and a flaunting display of Roman authority and pomp in the capital of a Jewish tetrarchy.

Joseph was surprised, in the midst of the preparations, when he was summoned to visit the procurator at Tiberias. Hadja accompanied him, and as they came down the steep and narrow road from Magdala to Tiberias, the whole panorama of the lake and the teeming, populous cities around it was spread out before them. To the north, beyond the city of Capernaum, lay the green carpet of groves and fields of the Plain of Gennesaret. From here in the spring came the first fruits and vegetables for the markets of Jerusalem, the finest of their kind in the world. So luscious indeed were they that the priests of the temple sometimes tried to keep them from reaching the markets on the feast days, lest the worshipers be tempted to enjoy the melons and other fruits, forgetting their duty to God.

A little way to the north of Capernaum was a place where springs of highly mineralized water burst from the rocks. Joseph had been there many times to bottle the water for medicine, especially to treat those whose accumulated excess of humors needed purging. And beyond this area of springs was a small cove, almost semicircular in shape, a place of peace so quiet that a man standing on the shore could speak in a normal voice and be heard high upon the mountainside.