According to Mary Magdalene (17 page)

F
or the next few hours, Mary Magdalene busied herself with inessentials. Why was Jesus' mother wearing a sky-blue robe? And John, the young boy, why did he have such trouble placing his feet? Did he have to stumble?

She had chosen her most down-at-heel shoes.

Just as they were leaving the house, she felt hungry and asked the Greek woman for a piece of bread, which she then broke into pieces and ate as they walked, two by two, down the alleyways toward the wall, through the gateway, and out to Mount Calvary.

The sun was above Mount Zion.

It was going to be a hot day.

No matter. I am cold.

Mary of Nazareth was swaying in front of her. Mary Magdalene caught up with her and held out her hand, but her hand was strangely feeble, so in a hard voice Mary Magdalene told John he should help the mother of Jesus.

He obeyed but continued stumbling.

When she saw the execution place, even all these meaningless thoughts ceased and she was drained of emotion, flung out of time.

Yet there were some sensible moments. An elderly man came up to them and said he was Joseph of Arimathea and a
friend. Then he looked at them for a long time and said in a subdued voice that it was dangerous to stand by the cross, that the Romans had a habit of crucifying those mourning the executed.

Mary Magdalene laughed in his face, then pulled herself together. “Don't you see,” she said. “I would like to die with him.”

He stroked her cheek.

Then he said he had a garden nearby with a cave tomb already prepared. He would ask the Romans whether he could take the body to it. Mary Magdalene kept her head, reckoning he would almost certainly have his way, for he was a rich man with great authority.

After a while she was again back in that emptiness, the heat vibrating on the bare rock. Mary was cold, for the first time noticing that her whole body was shaking, but it did not affect her; and with no surprise, she seemed no longer to exist within her body.

Then cries from the mob could be heard, and he was there with his cross, lashed, tortured, the crown of thorns pressed down onto his forehead. Blood was pouring down his face and pieces of flesh peeling from his ravaged back. Both eyes had been blackened and he could see nothing.

Mary Magdalene was then flung out of her emptiness, the pain like knives slicing through her, and she screamed, screamed like a madwoman.

Joseph of Arimathea covered her mouth with his hand and held it there as the soldiers drove the nails through Jesus' hands. She closed her eyes, praying for forgiveness for it, and when she opened them, for a moment she saw the other women with their hands over their ears at the terrible crunching sound.

She closed her eyes again as the cross was raised, but that was no help, the knives slicing through her and twisting around and around inside her, worst of all in her heart, the knife in it burning like fire.

The next moment the blessed emptiness returned and she was not herself, nor did she exist in this place.

The scornful cries rang all around her—“He saved others; himself he cannot help.” The crowds who had praised him were now absorbing with pleasure his torment and enjoying it. A memory shot through her head—“Mary, I had no inkling people were so evil.”

She glanced at the mother of Jesus and saw Joseph putting his arm around her. Then the other crosses were raised, two more men to be executed. She looked up at one of them. He had been less severely tortured than Jesus and he defiantly returned her gaze. She recognized him, she knew him.

But when, where had she met him?

He spoke to Jesus and Jesus answered him, but no one on the ground heard what he said.

The hours crawled by, time without end. At the sixth hour, the sky darkened, the terrible wind from the deserts swept over the town, into people's lungs, tormenting them. She hoped the desert sand would fill his body and cut short his suffering.

But he did not give up the ghost until the ninth hour.

At that moment, a great calm fell over her, the knives vanished and with them all those unendurable emotions.

That was when she went mad.

Like a puppet, she followed Salome, Joseph's servant, as they carried the body to the rocky tomb in the garden. Joseph of Arimathea himself wrapped the thin shroud around the dead man. The soldiers watched and made sure the big stone was rolled across the entrance. Mary looked around the lovely garden, so full of peace. As they left, she took careful note of the way and whispered to Salome: “We'll come here at dawn after the Sabbath to anoint him.”

“But the stone?”

Mary replied in her new cold voice, “God must somehow help us.”

T
he water carrier's house was strangely unaltered. The women went quietly up to their room, and once there were at last able to weep, all except Mary Magdalene, who spread out her sleeping mat and fell asleep.

The silent weeping of the women around her deepened her sleep, now as black as pitch and with no images.

Then it was the morning of the Sabbath. They took their Passover meal, but could eat no more than crumbs of the good food. They went to bed early and then they were all able to sleep, Mary Magdalene as soundly as if unconscious, until she was awakened by the water carrier standing in the doorway.

“It's an earthquake,” he said. “I have a protected room below the floor on the ground floor. Take your sleeping mats and go there.”

At that moment they felt the house shaking and the floor moving beneath their feet. Some screamed with fear, others began to collect up their things and run toward the stairs. Only Mary remained unmoved, in fact pleased. That's good, Jesus, shake up the world so that it at last understands what it has done.

But the water carrier hurried her, and last of all, she slowly went down the stairs to the cramped room under the house where the servants and the Greek woman had brought bread, cheese, olives, and water.

Mary Magdalene was the only one able to eat. Then she lay down on her mat and at once fell asleep. The mother of Jesus, Mary the wife of Clopa, and Salome, who had all endured at the foot of the cross with Mary Magdalene, did the same.

At dawn, she was awakened by Salome, who had bought spices and oil. They were generous with the fragrant spices as they prepared the olive oil that was to anoint his body.

Before daylight, they were on their way. The earthquake had subsided, but making their way along the alleys was difficult, for houses and walls had collapsed and people were desperately searching in the ruins for their lost relatives. No one noticed the two women climbing over collapsed shops, a spacious basket between them containing the linen cloth and precious oil and spices.

The town stank of shattered drains and rotting remains of food.

Then suddenly they were outside the wall, where the destruction was not so great, but there were plenty of fallen pillars and large stones.

Salome gasped. “Do you remember,” she said. “Yesterday evening Mary Magdalene said that God would help us with the stone? Now you'll see.”

And it was just as she had said. When they reached the garden, they at once saw the great stone had rolled away from the entrance and down the slope. Best of all was that the earthquake had frightened away the Roman soldiers ordered to guard the tomb. The two women were alone in the garden when the first rays of the sun trickled through the treetops and the first birds began to sing. Mary Magdalene drew a deep breath and listened.

Despite everything, perhaps she was on her way back to herself, she thought.

They crept into the rocky tomb. A few thin rays of sunlight were making their way in through the opening, but it was still so dark, it took a moment or two for their eyes to get used to it.

It took them some time to grasp what they saw.

The rocky ledge on which they had laid the body was bare, nothing but the lovely shroud left behind.

“It's not possible,” whispered Salome. “Not possible, not possible.”

Mary Magdalene was unable even to whisper, but then her great burden of grief at last caught up with her.

She wept, the tears welling up from inside her and pouring out with such force, she found it hard to breathe. Then her sobs took over, loud and inhuman.

More like screams than tears.

“Try to be quiet,” said Salome. “No one must find us here.”

Mary's sobs slowly ceased, now only her tears still streaming down her face, as impossible to stop as the rain in the winter months.

“What do we do?”

“There's nothing to do here.”

“We must go back and tell them.”

“Yes.”

“Ssh, there's a man outside.”

Mary was not frightened. She would not hesitate, even if the entire Roman cohort was on guard outside the tomb.

A man was standing there. Although dazzled by the sunlight, almost painful to her eyes after the dark of the tomb, she could see him against the light. She thought it was one of Joseph's gardeners.

“Why weepest thou?” he said.

Mary tried to swallow her tears. “If thou have borne him hence, tell me where you hast laid him, and I will take him away.”

“Mary,” said the man.

That very moment she knew the voice, that light voice she loved. The knowledge cut through her, transformed her, and she felt the clarity and strength restore her body, mind, and senses.

The wind rose, the morning wind whipping up the dust and leaves from the garden, which had been damaged by the earthquake. The picture of him blurred.

But the voice was clear and full of humor as he said: “But go your way, tell his disciples and Peter that he goeth before thee into Galilee: there you will see him, as he said unto you.”

They ran, both of them, but had to stop at the town wall to get their breath back.

“But where shall we find them?” said Salome. “They've not been here during all the difficult times.”

Mary Magdalene smiled. “Jesus knew. We'll go to the water carrier's house.”

She was right. They were all there, in the big room at the top of the house, paralyzed with grief and impotence. Naturally, they did not want to believe her, but finally Peter rose and went off toward the empty tomb.

I
n her house in Antioch, Mary Magdalene sat putting down her memories in writing on parchment.

She had been doing it for two days and Leonidas was worried over her tiredness, her stomach pains and pallor. Late that afternoon, Peter and Paul came to see them to say farewell before their long journey to the congregations in Thessalonica.

It was a relief.

“I'll write a letter to you and tell you everything I can remember about the resurrection,” she said.

Paul look pleased and Peter gave her a great bear hug and thanked her. They all said at once that they would soon be seeing each other again.

Leonidas went with them to the gate, and when he came back he saw the color had come back to her face and she had straightened up. Then he told her he had just loaded a ship that was to sail to Corinth.

“You wanted to go there,” he said.

Mary smiled at him and her “yes” was large and sunny.

She was told they were to sail as soon as the end of the week. So she had only a short time for the letter to Paul. Mary thought that did not matter, she would write briefly and factually to describe what she had seen and experienced.

“You know they say you saw an angel in the tomb,” said Leonidas.

“No, I didn't know that. I shall write that it's not true. I shall also spare him that my emotions were split in two at Golgotha. And my madness when I sought him out in Galilee.”

“That's good, nothing personal.”

“No, I promise.”

The letter was not short. She was thorough about every detail, and factual.

She added a postscript.

“You know that I met him yet once again, in a vision. What he said that day you have already heard many times over. “Make no laws.…”

On the Friday morning, the ship departed from Seleucia, the sails filled by the wind and Mary with a new happiness.

IV

T
hey had a good east wind and the heavily-loaded ship almost danced across the seas, wind singing in the sails and waves slapping against the hull. But as they sailed below the mountains of Peloponnesus and set course north, it turned almost solemnly calm. For a moment.

Then the great sail crackled as the oarsmen put all their strength into the turn, others sheeted, and slowly the sail filled with the light breeze from starboard.

Leonidas gazed out across the water and said to Mary, “The Aegean always makes me think of your eyes.”

“Oh, no, no eyes are that blue.”

She had rested a great deal during the voyage, sleeping long into the mornings.

But one day he had awakened her early.

“Come on now, sleepyhead, up you get and come and see the quays of Cenchree.”

She dressed quickly. Inside the mole in the long bay lay the harbor town with its warehouses, and there, in the swarm on the quay, Euphrosyne was waiting. They would soon be meeting, and not until the ship glided in to the lee below the mole did Mary realize how much she had been longing to see her stepmother.

Then they caught sight of her, standing there with a horse and carriage in all the noise and confusion on the quay, Setonius in the driving seat. Mary had to blink back her tears.

It was warm, but not hot, the sea wind cooling the air.

Euphrosyne came on board and they stood as they usually did, holding each other's hands, their eyes scrutinizing each other's faces.

“You've changed,” said Euphrosyne finally.

“I have much to tell you. But you are the same. You don't age.”

“No. When I thought I'd aged enough, I put a stop to it.”

Leonidas appeared at that moment, the only one with no respect for Euphrosyne's distance. He took her in his arms and gave her such a hug, it pained both her chest and her soul.

“My children,” she said. And the next moment: “Don't let's be sentimental.”

“No,” said Leonidas. “I haven't time. I've a great deal to do.”

He went off to the harbor office and in customary fashion bribed his way through customs. Within an hour began the unloading of the silk that was to go to Corinth, a third of the cargo, the rest destined for Ostia; then the ship was to sail as soon as the next morning.

“But you've time to have dinner with me?”

“Of course. And I won't be away for long. I'll be back to fetch Mary in a few weeks.”

When he saw a shadow flit across Mary's face, he added: “If you don't want to stay any longer, of course.”

She shook her head in confusion.

Down on the quay, Mary embraced Setonius, now aged and looking like a wise old man. Quite right, Mary thought, for that's just what he is.

They drove through the new town, past side roads down which they could just glimpse the huge temple ruins of the old Corinth the Romans had burned down and plundered.

Then there it was, just as it should be, Euphrosyne's lovely house clinging to the hillside, where the high mountains softened toward the Bay of Corinth. They were welcomed with
wine on the terrace and sat gazing out across the sea, listening to the waves breaking against the stone-laid quay.

After the meal, Leonidas had to leave. Euphrosyne was given another great bear hug, but he held Mary long and gently in his arms, his eyes not meeting hers, the heavy eyelids lowered.

“That man does not earn his money easily,” said Euphrosyne as they waved him off and were on their way back to the house. “He seems worn out and weary.”

Anxiety and self-reproach washed over Mary like a wave. Had she even noticed Leonidas these last few months? They had talked a lot, but only about her and her problems.

Euphrosyne went on. “He also has a lot of trouble with that son-in-law reveling around and misappropriating the firm's money. Do you know how the divorce is going?”

Mary shook her head. She had forgotten all about Nicomachus and had not listened particularly carefully when Livia and Leonidas had talked about the difficulties in getting a divorce from an absent husband. She had not even gone to see Mera and the child. How were they?

Mary sat in silence as Euphrosyne persisted. “Leonidas is getting old. He must be well over sixty now.”

“I never think about it.” Mary was ashamed. “Remember I once told you I lack empathy?” she said finally.

“You've changed. That isn't true any longer.”

Mary could not stop her tears. “I learned so much from you, your caring for everyone and your sense of responsibility. And then, when I went to Capernaum, you never had a word of reproach.”

“Here's a handkerchief,” said Euphrosyne.

Mary blew her nose and pulled herself together. “Not that I wish to defend myself, but it has been a trying time. If you could bear it, I'd like you to read the notes on my talks with Simon Peter and Paul.”

“Paul?” said Euphrosyne, and Mary could hear she was surprised.

She went up to her room to unpack, a lovely room, high ceilinged and with a long balcony, as white as white, bright blue covers on the bed and a view over a bay as wide as a sea. She picked up her case of papyrus scrolls and took them down to where Euphrosyne was resting in the shade on the terrace.

“I'll read them,” she said. “You go unpack and take a rest.”

Mary tried to relax, but her conscience was troubling her. She had indeed known that Leonidas had had difficulties, and sorrows. He had pulled himself together and had left that self-absorbed boy, his lover of several years standing. One evening he had mentioned it. In passing. And Mary had felt relief. The beautiful boy had demeaned Leonidas.

But not for a moment had she given a thought as to how hard taking that step must have been.

Nor had she thought about Leonidas being twenty years older than she.

Perhaps she still regarded him as a father who would provide her with consolation and security. She flushed with shame when she remembered what she had said to Paul about how important it was to free yourself from your parents.

To become an adult yourself.

Then she thought that if Leonidas really had been her father, she would have taken greater care of him.

She had no peace of mind, so could not rest. She got up and went out onto the balcony. Down in the garden, she could see Setonius and his laborers and decided to go and take a look at his work.

On previous visits, she had always thought the garden was very like the old one on the shores of the Gennesaret. Here, too, was the fine contrast between enclosed spaces and wide views.

“You're an artist, Setonius,” she said.

He brightened and was proud and eloquent as he showed her around. They discussed roses and Mary complained that hers suffered badly from the heat in Antioch.

“And the wind,” said Setonius. “That's a windy site you have. How are the irises doing? And the gardenia you were given?”

“The irises only just survive. But the gardenia died long ago.”

He sighed. “It's hard struggling against nature.”

Then he looked at her and after some hesitation said, “Did you hear about Octavianus?”

“Yes, Euphrosyne wrote to tell me.”

“He died. He was ill for only a few days…and we probably didn't take it all that seriously. You know how he used to exaggerate.”

Mary smiled as she recalled Octavianus trying to make her eat with the most hideous threats. “He had dramatic talents,” she said.

“Yes, an actor. Come, I'll show you his grave.”

Octavianus had been buried by the wall facing the sea, the grave covered with flowering herbs and lush green vegetables, a large pumpkin hanging over the headstone.

“I thought he'd like it here,” said Setonius.

Mary nodded, then her eyes fell on the cross against the wall, and Setonius noticed. “Yes,” he said. “Octavianus became Christian, burning with faith.”

As they left the grave to inspect the vegetable beds, Mary asked, “But you stick to your old gods, do you?”

“Yes, they'll have to do for me. They're closer to nature. And they are still alive today and roam around on earth here. If one is humble and observant, maybe they'll stay for a while and listen.”

Mary nodded. She understood. Then she thought that if anyone had presence and love, then it was Setonius.

“Jesus would also have stopped to listen to you.”

“Me, a stubborn old heathen!”

Setonius laughed before going on. “Here among the Christians of Corinth, someone like me is condemned to a fiery hell. Whatever that is.”

“That's lying talk,” said Mary.

As she went back to the house, she was thinking that her self-appointed task of giving other people interpretations of what Jesus had taught was meaningless, a single cry in the darkness, and when she reached the terrace and saw that Euphrosyne had read all her notes, that thought was confirmed.

“You've been ambitious, Mary. But over the ages mankind has had a great many great new thinkers. And only very few people have understood what they said. Most have been misunderstood and adapted to prevailing prejudices.”

Mary nodded. Euphrosyne smiled her crooked smile.

“Here in town, Paul is an important man and has a great deal to offer. We can partake of the flesh and blood of Christ every Sunday and find consolation for all wretchedness in solemn rituals and incomprehensible devotions. The price is reasonable, most people think, only submission and loss of individual thought. Do as the new church says and everything will go well for you.”

Mary said nothing for a long spell.

“So you mean this was all in vain,” she said finally, pointing at her scrolls.

“No, I think they're important, very important in fact. I suggest we have them copied and keep the copies in my vault in the cellar.”

“I thought you'd become a Christian,” said Mary.

“So I did. For quite a while. I was even a member of Paul's congregation. But the price was too high for me. I thought too much and asked too many questions…to put it briefly, I and other women here became thorns in the side of the apostle.”

“To express it in the Jewish way,” she added, laughing.

Then she looked surprised. “Perhaps I am Christian at heart. I was thinking that as I was reading what you've written. It was his parables as you heard them that made an impression.”

Mary was so pleased, she almost cried.

“You really have become quite maudlin,” said Euphrosyne, but her voice was full of tenderness.

At dinner, Euphrosyne told her the story of a young man who fell in love with his equally young stepmother, a girl who had been brutally given away to a rich old orthodox Jew.

“She was raped in the customary marital way, night after night. She wasted away and lamented, and one day she said to her stepson that she was going to walk into the sea. He tried to comfort her and as he did so, they were both overcome by love.

“The story was soon out around town, growing and growing and flourishing in every man's mouth. The old man's verdict was totally without mercy—she was to be stoned. The family had all been christened and strangely enough several members of the congregation spoke of mercy. The old man was disliked, so that probably added to it. Perhaps there was a streak of Jesus' gentleness in their minds, I don't know. Otherwise the congregation is constantly squabbling. Apostles quarrel just like rabbis.”

She sighed before going on with her story.

“After a while, the congregation split into two camps, hitting each other over the head with quotes from the scriptures. In the end they agreed—the question of the young couple was to be referred to Paul. After endless discussions on the wording, a message was sent off with the letter to Macedonia, where the apostles were.”

Euphrosyne sighed, took a gulp of wine and went on. “The answer came swiftly back and was unambiguous. I'll read it to you.”

She left the dining room, headed for the library and came back with a copy of Paul's letter.

“Listen to this: ‘It is reported commonly that there is fornication among you…but ye are puffed up, and have not rather mourned…might be taken away from among you. I have judged already…in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ to deliver such a one to Satan for the destruction of the flesh…’”

Euphrosyne slapped the table before going on. “That same night, the two young people walked into the sea. And the next day, I left the congregation.”

In the light of the lamp, Mary noticed her stepmother was looking exhausted. “We must sleep,” she said.

“Yes, it's been a long day.”

“Have you any more copies of Paul's letters? May I read them?”

“Of course. Read them before you go to sleep. Perhaps you'll take a different view of Paul from that of the good listener in Antioch.”

Before they parted for the night, Euphrosyne said, “Have you considered that neither Peter nor Paul asked about what the relationship was between you and Jesus?”

“As you see, I avoided saying anything. Simon Peter knew. And Paul never even touched on the subject.”

“But why not?”

Mary laughed. “But it's obvious, Euphrosyne. Their God was not allowed to need a woman.”