The Galileans: A Novel of Mary Magdalene (9 page)

“But the procurator’s lady could want for nothing,” Joseph protested. “It is no secret that all who know her love her.”

“You cannot know what it is to long for Rome and the things a woman who spent most of her life there yearns for, Joseph. Besides, the climate in Caesarea makes it difficult for me to breathe. Tiberias is better for me, but I am not free of it even here.”

Joseph’s interest was aroused at once. “Do you have the same trouble in the mountains?”

“Not as much. Once we took a trip into the desert and I was free of it altogether, but the procurator of Judea cannot live in the desert. Sometimes I can hardly get my breath at all.”

Joseph had seen many such cases. Some burned aromatic leaves and inhaled the smoke; others threw precious and fragrant oils, such as myrrh and spikenard, into boiling water and breathed in the vapor. There was no known cure for this sometimes fatal disease, and yet people sometimes became better for no reason at all.

Procula’s maid went to get a purse for Joseph, and while he was repacking the
nartik
, a child’s wail came from the adjoining room. He had heard of this child of Pontius Pilate who was never seen by the people, rumor said because it was deformed, but he had never known any real evidence before that the rumors were true. Now he sensed that there was indeed some mystery here, as rumor maintained, for a look of fear came into Claudia Procula’s eyes. Before she could speak, the door opened and Pontius Pilate came in. He did not see Joseph before he asked, “Has the leech come, dear?” Then he saw the bandage. “Oh, I see that he has. Does it feel better?”

She managed to smile. “Much better. Joseph is still here; he was just going.”

Pilate turned and saw the young physician. “You took long enough getting here,” he said sharply.

“I was treating the sick,” Joseph explained. “As soon as your message reached me, I came at once.”

The cry of the child came from the other room again, and the procurator seemed to freeze in his tracks. Watching his face, Joseph saw a look of defeat, almost of despair, come into it and realized that there was some tragedy here, perhaps something that might hold a key to the behavior of this strange, moody man who ruled Judea for Rome. Pilate’s gaze turned to Joseph. “Men have died for knowing less than you have just learned,” he said slowly.

“No, Pontius!” Procula cried. “Joseph is a good man . . .”

“Tell me,” Pilate snapped. “What do they say in Jerusalem and Galilee of Pontius Pilate? Are there stories that he has a child who is a monster?”

“I do not listen to idle talk,” Joseph said quietly. “Life comes from the Most High; I do not question how He gives it.”

Pilate stared at him for a long moment. “Perhaps you are right,” he said heavily. “Come and see for yourself.”

The adjoining room was fitted out as a nursery, and a small boy lay asleep on a bed in the corner enclosed by a low frame. He seemed to be about three years of age, and his face was beautiful, a miniature of his mother’s with her delicate features and light-colored hair. Pilate’s hand was gentle as he drew away the light quilt covering the child’s body, but Joseph saw at once why the procurator felt so bitter about his son. The boy’s right foot was deformed, the toes drawn until they pointed almost straight downward, a typical case of clubfoot. “You have some reputation as a bonesetter,” Pilate said. “Can you make such a foot straight?”

Reluctantly Joseph shook his head. “I am told shoes can be made with a thick sole, however,” he suggested, “so that such children can be taught to walk.”

“The son of a soldier,” Pilate burst out. “My little Pila! Hopping like a common beggar.” His fingers clenched and unclenched. “Is this God of yours able to heal such a thing as this?” He seized Joseph by the robe and shook him. “You are a Jew. Tell me, is He?”

“‘The Lord is merciful and gracious . . . as the heaven is high above the earth, so great is His mercy toward them that fear Him,’”
Joseph stammered.

Pilate dropped his hands. Turning back to the crib, he took the quilt and drew it up again, hiding the piteously deformed foot. Joseph saw that his hands were tender and that he loved the beautiful child in spite of his bitter disappointment. “I fear no gods,” the procurator said slowly. “Because there are none to fear. Truth is the only God of man. But what is truth? Has this so-called Jehovah of yours the answer, Joseph?”

“It is said of the Most High,” Joseph told him,
“‘He is the Rock, His work is perfect: for all His ways are judgment: a God of truth and without iniquity, just and right is He.’”

Pilate shrugged. “Truth lies within man’s soul, not in the gods he worships. I know the Jews say this thing was done to me because I crucified some of them who broke the laws of Rome.” His voice rose in anger. “But I spurn them, just as I spurn your priests who plot to drive me from Judea and make Antipas king in my stead. I will show them yet who rules in Judea.”

“My lord,” Procula said softly. “Joseph has a long way to go. He has given me a sleeping draught.”

“Of course, my dear,” the procurator said quickly. “We will leave you now.” He took the purse the maid had brought and gave it to Joseph. “But see that you tell no one of what you have seen tonight, leech. I am generous with those who serve me well, but whoever betrays me dies.”

“‘Whatever I see or hear in the life of men which ought not to be spoken abroad, I will not divulge,’”
Joseph said slowly,
“‘as reckoning that all such should be kept secret.’”

“The oath of Hippocrates.” Pilate nodded. “See that you keep it then. You will profit by doing so.”

Joseph’s heart was light as he untied his mule in the grove outside the villa. He had been well paid indeed for tonight’s work and, more important, Pilate had promised his favor in return for keeping the secret of the child called Pila and his deformed foot. The history of Pontius Pilate’s term as procurator in Judea had shown that his favor could be valuable, just as his anger could bring sudden death and the agony of crucifixion, the favorite method of execution with the Romans. But Joseph had no intention of angering the moody procurator. With such lavish patients as Pilate and his wife, he might have money enough to go to Alexandria much sooner than he had expected.

Seeing the other mule and the cart still tied to a tree as he led his own animal from the grove, he wondered again who might be visiting the villa of the procurator in such a mean conveyance at this hour, but gave it little thought.

Then as he rode through the grove that surrounded the villa, a strange sound came to his ears. It was an odd noise, as if a man were groaning in pain. While he listened, it came again, apparently from the bushes beside the road.

Getting down from his mule, Joseph searched until he found a broken branch as long as he could span with his arms and, gripping it in both hands, approached the spot from which the groans had come.

Thieves often lay in wait for the late traveler along these roads, he knew, and a favorite stratagem was to pretend to be injured, luring the sympathetic wayfarer within reach of a long knife or a sword. It might have been wiser not to stop at all, considering the value of the purse he was carrying, but Joseph never passed by one who needed help without investigating.

Soon he made out a white form lying in the ditch. It stirred and a man’s voice implored, “In the name of Ahura-Mazda, help me or I die.”

The voice seemed familiar, and when he came closer Joseph recognized the swarthy face with its hawklike profile and graying beard and the white robes stained now with mud. It was Hadja, leader of the musicians who played for Mary of Magdala. The Nabatean appeared to be semiconscious.

Quickly Joseph knelt and ran his fingers over Hadja’s skull, noting with relief that there was no depression of the bone. A cut over the injured man’s temple showed that he had been bludgeoned, a serious injury indeed if the bone were driven down upon the brain. The blood was still wet, although sticky, so it could not have been very long since he was wounded. The pulse, Joseph noted, was slow and strong, so he judged that no mortal wound was involved.

From his belt Joseph took a small flask of wine that he carried for emergencies such as this. The Nabatean swallowed automatically when the flask touched his lips, then gulped the wine down when he realized what was being offered him.

“What happened to you, Hadja?” Joseph asked.

“Is it the leech, Joseph of Galilee?”

“Yes.”

“Praise be to Ahura-Mazda! She whom you love is prisoner in the villa.”

“Mary?” Joseph cried. “But how?”

Hadja told him then of the summons to the villa, of Mary’s dancing before the procurator and his guests, and of her great success. “Afterward,” he continued, “we were told by the tribune that the Living Flame was dining there and we were to wait, but they served us food and led us from the palace under guard.”

Gaius Flaccus! This could be the work of no other. The stories he had heard about the libertine habits of the procurator’s nephew went racing through Joseph’s brain. “Why did you leave her?” he demanded angrily.

“Two soldiers with drawn swords walked beside each of us. I tried to break away, but one of them struck me down with the butt of his sword.”

There was no point in blaming the Nabatean. Only by the rarest sort of luck had the soldier used the butt of the sword instead of the blade, leaving Hadja alive. Joseph forced aside, too, the burning rage against Gaius Flaccus that rose within him, for he must think clearly now. It had not been long since Hadja was struck down; there might still be time to save Mary if he could somehow gain entrance to the palace. But since the high walls precluded any entry by that route, there was only one way, through the gate by which he had just emerged. The guard might remember that he had just left the villa and let him in.

“I am going inside to get her,” he told Hadja.

“They will kill you.” The musician stumbled to his feet, but swayed and was forced to catch hold of a sapling to keep from falling. He could only curse fluently, calling down the wrath of the supreme sun-god Ahura himself upon all Romans and upon the tribune Gaius Flaccus in particular. “I am but a blind man who must be led,” he mourned. “Take this knife, Joseph. You may be able to slip it between the ribs of a Roman.”

Joseph took the long weapon gratefully and thrust it under his robe. When he approached the gate, the guard stopped him with his sword. “What now, leech?” he demanded. “Were you not well paid? I remember a purse hanging from your belt.”

“I left some of my medicines in the apartment of the Lady Procula,” Joseph said, adding a silent prayer that the Most High would forgive him the lie. “Her maid knows me, so it will not be necessary to disturb anyone else. The medicine is very valuable.”

The guard shrugged. “If it is worth so much, you will not mind handing over one of the gold coins from that fat purse she gave you to someone less fortunate.”

Joseph would gladly have given the whole purse, if necessary, to gain access to the building without being observed.

“See that you hurry,” the guard growled, pocketing the bribe. “I will get the lash if it is known that I admitted you again.”

Two corridors opened from the atrium, which for the moment was empty. One, Joseph knew, led to the apartments of Procula and Pilate, for he had just come that way, so he chose the other. He heard music and, cracking open a door, found himself looking into the triclinium. The course of the evening’s revelry had taken its inevitable turn. Pontius Pilate and a fat Roman were declaiming in each other’s faces, their golden wreaths askew. On the other couches, Herod Antipas and another guest were embracing a pair of slave girls. Mary was nowhere to be seen, but one couch was ominously empty and Gaius Flaccus was absent, confirming his worst fears.

Closing the door to the triclinium, Joseph hurried along the corridor until he was stopped by a closed door, which he opened. The room was empty, but a woman’s dress that he recognized as Mary’s was hanging over a chair. Throwing the dress over his arm, he started out into the corridor, but, hearing the creak of another door, drew back just in time.

While Joseph watched, Gaius Flaccus emerged from one of the rooms, then staggered across the atrium and out of sight. Joseph quickly opened the door through which the tribune had emerged and stepped inside. A glance told him it was the Roman’s bedchamber, for his sword and insignia lay on a chair. Then his eyes moved to the bed and he recoiled in horror, for a single glance revealed what had happened here. Mary was still unconscious, but the marble pallor of her skin, the signs of struggle in the room, the pitiful tatters of her clothing in a pile on the floor where Gaius Flaccus had dropped them could only mean that she had been ravished forcibly, in spite of her struggles to defend herself.

Eyes averted, Joseph covered Mary’s body with the dress he carried over his arm. A quick examination showed that she was not seriously injured, although great dark spots already showed upon her tender skin. He knew that he must act rapidly, for the tribune might return at any moment, but first he ripped a heavy drapery from one of the windows and wrapped it about Mary’s body to protect her against the chill of the night if they were lucky enough to escape from the villa. All the while his thoughts were racing as he tried to decide what to do.

Going over the walls was out of the question—they were much too high—nor could he leave the way he had come, carrying an unconscious woman in his arms. One avenue only remained then, the lake. He had no way of knowing how deep the water was at the end of the wall where it entered the lake, but he must try to wade around the end of it. And if it was too deep he must swim, bearing the unconscious girl in his arms.

His decision made, Joseph lifted Mary from the couch. Then, carrying her in his arms, he stepped through upon the close-cropped green lawn outside. Next he worked his way slowly against the wall of the villa in the protecting shadows until he came to the corner. The way seemed clear now and, moving quickly, he darted across the open space to the protection of the ten-foot wall that marched down into the lake itself. No outcry had arisen yet to show that he had been discovered, so he crept along beside the wall, steadying himself against it until his feet splashed in the water and a chill shot through his ankles.