Two Women Of Galilee

CHAPTER TWO

Mary treasured all these things in her heart.

—Luke 2:51

In early autumn, my husband and I returned from Tiberias to Sepphoris for the harvesting of the figs and dates. I had plenty to do at home. We had been away all summer. My roses needed tending.

Our first morning at home I saw my husband off, waited until I was certain he was on his way and called Octavia. “We’re going to Nazareth,” I said. “We’ll need a sack of flour and a jar of olive oil. Add the rest of the salted fish if there is any.”

“Doesn’t the healer we saw in Sepphoris come from there?” Octavia asked. My maidservant was uncommonly skilled at guessing my intentions.

“I would like to meet his mother,” I said. “I don’t know her, of course. And perhaps she won’t be at home.”

“We can wait for her,” Octavia suggested. “Or, leave word that we will return another day.”

“You like this idea, don’t you?” I teased. At times Octavia seemed more like family than a servant.

She widened her dark eyes in approval of my plan. An hour later Phineas was driving us toward Nazareth. The weather was warm and dry. We rolled up the sides of the canopy so that Octavia and I could take in the view. There were several hours of daylight ahead of us and Chuza would not be home until late. Still, I urged Phineas to hurry. We arrived well before dusk and walked the final distance from the town gate so as not to disturb the residents of Nazareth with a horse drawn carriage.

I hid my hair beneath a sheer white stole, the closest I had to the brown flax of the local women. Fortunately, I had removed my ankle bracelets and left them at home. No one in Nazareth wore such things. Phineas walked close to me, my vigilant bodyguard. He watched the streets from beneath his hooded eyes.

We found Mary sitting on a low wooden bench outside her house, surrounded by the girls from the village who were bubbling with expectation. The youngest of them nestled in their older sisters’ arms. Mary passed a bowl of mashed olives and bits of bread to share. She had tied her head scarf at the back of her neck, like a worker in the field. Under her belt she had tucked squares of old fabric that she used to wipe away the crumbs from the younger girls’ cheeks. They all went to her and pressed their tiny lips toward her. Anything to get her attention.

Some of the mothers helped to prepare the girls for a story. They dressed the children up as characters, rubbing ash on the faces of those who would play the penitents. Their job, mothers reminded them, was to pray for victory before the battle.

One of the older girls stepped forward and waited until everything was quiet. Then she glanced at Mary, who lifted her chin, just slightly, and nodded her approval. The girl announced the story, “Joshua at the battle of Jericho,” and began her narration.

Some of the girls, the defenders of justice, stole into the midnight valley as Mary stretched a line of painted wooden stars above their heads. They marched around the city walls to frighten their enemy, the Cananites. Mary handed a ram’s horn to a pudgy girl with one wandering eye. The sudden blast from the horn made the audience lurch into nervous laughter.

When the brave marched back home after their victory, the youngest girls, who had been crowding behind Mary, jumped up. Each one wore a straw wreath in her hair. Mary tapped a tambourine against her hand and led them in the victory dance. The girls imitated her, twirling and spinning as she did.

When they were finished with their story, the more forward girls smiled confidently at the audience, while the shy types clung to Mary’s skirt. She bent down and kissed their hair, or whispered words of encouragement.

I practiced my speech, waiting for her to come toward me. She finally did approach, but only after all the mothers and grandmothers had their fill of her attention.

“Peace be upon you,” she said to me. She was inviting, as if she thought she knew me.

I thanked her for her blessing, unsure of how to address her. I rarely spoke to people outside my own circle of acquaintances.

“How did you like our story?” she asked.

“I must have heard it when I was young.”

“The Lord is always with us. Joshua’s victory reminds us of that.”

Her confident voice soothed me. “Yes,” I said.

I was about to explain my visit when an unusual shyness came over me. I stood looking at her tapered fingers, so like her son’s.

“You are Joanna, Abijah’s daughter,” she said.

“How did you know?”

Her answer was far from what I expected.

“Don’t you remember me?” she asked. “I am your cousin.”

I can only imagine the expression on my face. Not certain whether to believe her, I tried to appear composed, but the sudden rumbling in my chest betrayed me. My face felt hot and moist. She recognized my illness but did not back away from me, as so many do. Instead, Mary took my arm and walked with me to the low wall that had been crowded with relatives and neighbors not long ago.

“I will bring you something,” she said. When I was alone and waiting for her to return, a tickling in my throat worried me. I never knew what a coughing fit might bring. She came back quickly and held out a drink of herbs and honey. It quieted me at last.

“I remember you as a little girl, in the square in Sepphoris,” she said. “I would see you there with your parents. Don’t you know me? I am the daughter of Joachim and Ann.”

My father’s brother was Joachim. I was surprised that I recognized the name. I remembered that he had married my mother’s sister, Ann. I was very young at the time. Our families broke apart after that. My aunt and uncle kept the Hebrew ways and opposed the Romans, but my father and mother did not. They welcomed Caesar and the wider world he represented. Prosperity became their god.

“You wore pretty woven sashes around your dresses,” I recalled. I hadn’t thought of my cousin’s colorful linen belts for years. “If we saw you in the market, my mother told me I was not to talk to you.”

“I envied the way your father carried you in his arms,” Mary said. “You were his little treasure.”

“And now you have grown children of your own,” I said, hoping to ease conversation toward the purpose of my visit.

I didn’t know about my cousin’s life, only that she was married and her husband died. She raised children with him and called them all her sons and daughters.

“I have seen your son, the healer,” I said.

Her gaze moved slowly across my waxy complexion and slid over the coat that hung on my shoulders. “What have you heard about him?”

“That he heals the sick by touching them.”

“And so you have come here,” she said. Her voice dropped, just slightly. I sensed her caution.

“Perhaps you could arrange for us to meet,” I suggested.

“In private, you mean,” Mary said.

It suddenly occurred to me that I was not the first to make this request of her.

“My husband is chief steward,” I said, to remind her of my station. “It would be awkward if I were to be seen in the crowd that follows your son.”

The truth is, I didn’t plan to listen to the speeches or learn the teachings of Jesus. I only wanted him to save my life. Mary’s silence told me that she understood all of this.

I looked up at the sky to avoid her questioning gaze. A full moon slid from behind the clouds and lit the town, turning whitewashed huts into blue pearls.

It seemed best to end our conversation and continue it another time. My cousin was protective of her son, or, perhaps she did not agree that I deserved special treatment. A moment’s shame came over me, an uncommon thing for the wife of Herod’s steward.

“May I come to see you again?” I asked. Mary pressed my cold hands between hers, which were strong and reassuring. She did not explain her earlier reticence and I did not dare to ask about it. For all her quiet grace, I sensed a formidable nature.

“I hope you will come to see me again,” she said. “You are welcome here.”

Octavia had been sitting a close distance from us. I motioned for her to call Phineas. Mary waited with me until he arrived. We were just about to leave when she made a promise. “I will tell my son about you.”

CHAPTER THREE

My soul yearns, even faints

For the courts of the Lord

—Psalms 84:1

Spring brought the rain that forced the crocus into bloom and the feast of Passover that set the Hebrews on pilgrimage. Each year they entered Jerusalem in such numbers that every rooftop was rented two or three times over. By night the hills outside the city flickered with campfires.

That year Antipas’s knees and ankles swelled to twice their normal bulk. He was in such pain from his gout that he could not walk. Chuza went to Jerusalem in the tetrarch’s place, to keep order during the festival. I arranged for us to transport my husband’s bed, his copy of Virgil and his most comfortable sandals, hoping to lift the gloom out of the guest rooms in the governor’s compound where we would stay. Pontius Pilate governed Jerusalem and Judea with disdain for those he ruled. It soured the very air around him, even in his own household.

From the day that we arrived in Jerusalem my husband made a point of being visible on the streets, especially in the Hebrew quarter. At home he turned quarrelsome and complained about things he could usually ignore.

“Give back those berries,” he snarled one night at dinner. Manaen, my husband’s trusted colleague, was our only guest. Chuza drank several extra glasses of wine, and then he craved something sweet. He reached for the small bowl of wild strawberries, a gift from Claudia Procula, the governor’s wife.

“You’ve had enough,” I said. “You know what will happen.” Berries raked through Chuza’s insides like shattered glass. I slid the bowl away from him.

“Tell me,” Manaen interrupted. “What have you seen around the city these last few days?” Manaen was at least ten years younger than my husband, closer to my age. He spoke with the respect he would show a teacher. Chuza warmed to it.

“Chaos,” my husband said, tossing back another swallow of wine. “You would think Tiamat and his demons had taken control.”

“The Syrian god,” I offered. “The one who rebelled against heaven.” My husband’s references to his native gods were always from the old regime. It was his way of mocking the whole idea of a heaven and an underworld. He didn’t believe in gods any more than I did. He therefore called on those who had been cast out after the Greeks conquered Syria.

Manaen nodded politely, not much interested in my help.

“I have seen it, of course,” he said about the frenzied crowds.

“Does it offend you, that the Jews are patrolled this way?” Chuza asked. “You are one of them, after all.”

“I’d rather it be me keeping order in the streets than someone who has no understanding of them.” Our guest was a clever politician.

“The city swells to three times its normal size during Passover, as you know,” my husband said. “You can help by reassuring the Jews that the Romans only want to keep the peace.”

They were at ease with each other in a way I rarely saw in either of them when Antipas was present. They talked about how to relieve traffic near the temple and limit the fire hazards in the campsites outside the city. I stole glances at Manaen’s amber-colored hair, his green eyes.

“We had to stop repairs on the aqueducts as of this morning,” Chuza said, swizzling the last of his wine. “It’s the worst possible time for it. After all the rain, the plaster is peeling off the canals.” Every year at Passover, what Pilate resented most was the work stoppage. He had no choice.

“The Hebrews don’t work on their holy days,” Manaen said. “I am only here because it is my duty. Antipas has never asked me before.”

“It’s pointless to force them when so many refuse to cooperate,” Chuza said. “Nearly half the men working on the aqueducts now are Jews. Pilate gives in to them for one reason. He expects them to give him seven days of peace in return. No riots.”

“Bribery,” Manaen said. An outspoken man, he must get noticed at court, I thought as I guessed the width of his shoulders. Nearly double that of his waist. He ran his fingers absently over the leather cuff he wore on his wrist.

“There have been riots, you know,” I said, looking to my husband for approval. “That was before you were born, Manaen.”

“Some of the worst were more than thirty years ago,” Chuza said. “Oddly enough, they were in Sepphoris.” He sat forward on his couch, more interested now that the conversation turned to war stories. “Herod the Great sent soldiers to inspect the city, with Caesar’s insignia blazing on their shields. It’s against Jewish laws to make a human replica.”

“Idolatry,” Manaen answered.

“They stoned the soldiers and forced a retreat. The next day Herod sent five hundred men into Sepphoris. They torched the city. Hundreds were killed.” Excited by this talk of military strategy, Chuza reached across the table, scooped up a few more berries and tossed them into his mouth.

Manaen picked up the story. “There were no Hebrews in Sepphoris for some time after that. Not until Herod the Great died and Antipas was named Tetrarch of Galilee.”

“That’s right. Antipas brought them back.” Chuza was delighted by all this talk of blood and battles. “He needed workers to rebuild the city and they needed jobs. Why not bring them back? He is a Jew himself, though he doesn’t keep their ways. I give him credit. The city has improved its relations with the Romans, over time.”

Finishing the last of his wine, Chuza placed his cup on the table. In the same move he dropped a few more berries into his mouth, looked at me and smiled sweetly.

He knew what I was about to say and so answered me, “They will not.” I went to sit beside him on his couch. His drooping eyelids told me he was tired. I nudged him to his feet and aimed him toward the door.

“I’ll take the first shift in the morning,” Manaen said, rising in respect for my husband. He was taller than Chuza by a hand’s width.

“May I go with him?” I asked. Chuza stopped our swaying walk and puffed up his cheeks to hold back a laugh.

“I’ve always wondered,” I said, pushing away the berry bowl as we passed by the table, “what it is like in the temple precinct at the festival.” Perhaps I would see the healer from Nazareth. His mother might have told him about me, as she promised.

Chuza reached around me. His fingers danced mischievously along the rim of the berry bowl. Life with him was a game of negotiations. He did not reach for more but passed the table and went toward Manaen. “A woman from court is never welcome in the temple precinct,” he said. “It will make your work more difficult.”

“She’ll be all right with me,” Manaen said.

Chuza slapped his young friend on the shoulders and shook him. Then, he came back to me, reached behind me and scooped the last of the berries into his mouth.

“Good,” he said, content that he was getting his way. “Now we can all go to bed happy.”

The next morning at sunrise Manaen appeared rested but not relaxed. His eyes seemed screwed tighter in their sockets.

“We’ll pass by the outskirts of the campsite on our way to the temple,” he said over his shoulder. Eight armed guards followed us. I covered my hair with a scarf I had draped over my shoulders.

The vest Manaen had chosen for our tour worried me. Studded leather, it was the sort worn by hunters.

“Do you expect trouble?” I asked.

“Caution can prevent problems.”

As we came closer to the campsite, he led us along the outskirts, traveling at a respectful distance from the Hebrews. Some of the tents we passed were made of canvas and set up precisely, others were a balancing act of wooden planks and striped blankets. It was not unlike the villages near Sepphoris.

At a cooking fire three women built up the morning embers with pine needles and fallen branches that the children carried in from the thickets. Two cauldrons of porridge hung from iron stakes over the heat. One woman was making bread on a large stone.

New pilgrims came trailing into the camp from the hills to the north. Even before I could see them, I heard their chant.

Happy are those who live in your house,

Ever singing your praise.

Happy are those whose strength is in you,

In whose heart are the highways to Zion.

Out of the crowd, a woman ran toward us. I thought she was hurrying to tell the men who were tending the herd nearby that new people were arriving. But she swerved suddenly, rushed directly at me and spat at my cloak.

“Give that to your Governor Pilate,” she snarled as she raced back toward the camp.

“Bring that woman here,” Manaen ordered, his voice hard as iron.

“Can’t we just go on?” I said, wiping the spit off without looking.

Two guards reached the woman quickly and scooped her up as if she were a mole plucked by an owl. They dragged her to Manaen and dropped her in front of him. A crowd had gathered to watch what would happen. Manaen met their hostile stares.

“Take her away,” he said to the guards.

The woman dropped her forehead to the dirt and wailed as two men from our escort tied her hands with rope.

We moved on.

“It’s not the worst thing,” Manaen said, his eyes locked on the view ahead of us. “Plenty of troublemakers are put in jail and released after the festival.”

I found myself defending the woman. “She did what many of her people would like to do to those who betrayed them and followed the Romans,” I said. “My ancestors were treated like royalty for their support, while our relatives lost everything.”

“Why did your father, born a Hebrew, support the Romans?” Manaen asked, impatient as if he were talking to a dull child.

“He said Rome could bring our backward country into the modern world.”

“He was right.”

“Do you like seeing the Romans in control?”

“We can’t push progress out of our way. The Caesars bring progress.”

I watched his face for anything that might explain the anger mixed with a fatherly concern in his voice. It was only clear to me that he had conflicted emotions about the Romans.

“Onward,” he shouted. The soldiers closed in behind us and followed.

We rode to the temple precinct in silence. When we were almost there, I asked if we could give up our horses and walk.

“Too dangerous,” Manaen said. “I promised your husband that I would protect you, and the crowds are unpredictable.”

I tried flattery. “But you can handle them,” I said. He did not waver.

At the archway leading to the gentiles’ court we finally did dismount and stepped into an explosion of noisy activity. The merchant stands on the plaza were buried under a crush of customers haggling for votive candles and frescoed tablets painted with scenic views of the temple. Butchers selling sheep and goats from wooden carts could not move the squealing beasts fast enough.

The entire courtyard pulsed with life—pilgrims, caged doves, money changers’ booths. The stench of bloody hides mixed with the more pleasant scent of incense. Two herders passed us with a carcass tied to a pole that rested between their shoulders. The bulging eyes of the animal’s head grazed my nose. I gagged. The cough I had been stifling broke out. I had to turn away and try to hide my fit from my escort. Blood speckled my handkerchief, but I was skilled at making light of my attacks. I drank water from the skin I wore at my hip and breathed slowly until at last I regained my composure.

As the herders passed the alms box, one of them dropped the pole and placed his coins in the slot. An older man tripped on the beast and fell. Some weasel-faced character rushed to help him and deftly slipped the old man’s change purse off his belt. Spinning on his toes, the pickpocket stood face-to-face with Manaen, who caught him by the neck.

“You’re going to jail,” he snarled, motioning for the guards to remove the oily thief. I took a step backward as the old man staggered to his feet, his forehead smeared with blood. He fell against Manaen, who steadied the frail body. I took another step back. I could hear the voices of the women praying in their separate court. They were closer than before.

An energetic father and his little boy cut across my path, dragging their goat toward the butcher’s stone inside the men’s court. Their lips moved in exact harmony as they recited the blessing. I took another step back to give them room.

“Wait there,” Manaen ordered me, maneuvering around the goat without taking his eyes off me.

A barefoot priest spattered with blood hurried across the plaza. In his rush toward the sanctuary he kicked a jar of oil that someone had left behind. It frightened a young boy, who dropped his lighted candle. The flame ignited the oil.

People scattered.

I ran to the end of the wide courtyard and all but threw myself into the women’s quarters. Men were forbidden from entering, and Manaen could not reach me there. Veiled heads turned toward me to see who was disrupting the prayers. I kept my face hidden and made my way to the back. I began to follow the other women’s movements. They were like dancers, bowing low, reaching toward the heavens.

Could prayer heal me? I wondered.

The scent of sandalwood filled my nose and made me light-headed. A tickle in my throat refused to be stilled. I breathed evenly, trying to calm myself. Slowly my insides settled. The voices of the women near me, chanting their prayer, lulled me as if I were an infant falling sleep.

More at peace than I had been in some time, I relaxed and listened. It was then that I heard a distinct voice. It was huge and loud enough to shake the temple walls, yet it felt very close. I wondered if it came from somewhere inside me. I heard my name. “Joanna.”

I searched the sky for thunderheads, but only white clouds drifted by.

The echoing voice filled me like the sound of a ringing bell. Some force, more enormous than Mount Horeb, called to me again.

“Joanna.”

“God of my ancestors,” I said. I can’t explain how I knew who it was.

“Help me!” I cried. “I don’t want to die.”

Two thick hands clamped onto my shoulders. The women had finished their prayers and emptied the courtyard without my noticing. Manaen was standing beside me, prodding me toward the main courtyard. Glaring, he pressed his fingers into my arm and directed me quickly out of the place forbidden to all men. His embarrassment made him even angrier.

“You put yourself and my men in danger.” He clenched his teeth so tightly they should have splintered.

“I had to see for myself. You wouldn’t have agreed to it.”