Poisoned Honey: A Story of Mary Magdalene (3 page)

As we crossed the avenue leading down to the docks, the waterfront came into view. I recognized our family’s packinghouse among the buildings on the wharf. There the sardines were salted down and sealed in huge jars, ready to be shipped northeast to Damascus or west to Ptolemais. Offshore, at the
entrance to the harbor, the stone lighthouse tower rose from a pile of boulders.

Past the wharf, the Jewish neighborhoods bordered smaller settlements of Syrians, Phoenicians, and Greeks—all Gentiles, or non-Jews. At the edge of the Gentile district, my father and uncle halted their donkeys in front of a house, leaned over, and spit on the doorstep. The house, as far as I could see from its plastered walls and tiled roof, was respectable—in fact, it was larger and finer than ours. My brother, riding ahead of me, also paused and spit. I called to him, “Why are you spitting?”

“Harbor-tax collector’s house,” said Alexandros. He wiped his mouth and twisted around to explain further. “Filthy Roman-lovers. His sons went to the same rabbi where I learned my letters. None of the rest of us would talk to them. Uncle Reuben complained and got the rabbi to teach them separately.”

A tax collector! How dare he live in this well-built house, just as if he’d earned it with honest work? Tax collectors were the scum of the earth, parasites, bloodsuckers. Some of them, like the household-tax collectors, worked for Herod Antipas, ruler of Galilee. Some of them, like the harbor-tax collector, worked directly for the Roman overlords. But all of them made their living by cheating us.

I, too, leaned over to spit on the tax collector’s doorstep,
but just then the door opened. A young man, perhaps a little older than Alexandros, paused in the doorway. His thick eyebrows, tilting down and out from the bridge of his nose, gave him a mild look. For an instant, his face was unguarded, showing nothing but shock that a young girl, a stranger, was going to spit at him. Then his face turned hard, and he ducked inside and slammed the door.

“Oh, Mari!” Chloe tightened her arms around my waist. “I thought he was going to hit us.”

I didn’t think that, but I was shocked. The young man from the tax collector’s household had looked so hurt. Surely such a despicable person had no right to be hurt! And yet, I felt uneasy, as if I might have done something wrong.

We rode on out of town by the south gate, then left the paved highway and followed a dirt road up the long, gradual south slope of Mount Arbel. We passed pomegranate orchards and olive groves, then rocky pastures where flocks of sheep were feeding. The higher we climbed, the clearer the air became, and I breathed deeply to draw in more of it.

The direct way to the town of Arbel and my aunt’s house wound around the side of the mountain, but my father led us first to the top to see the view. Herod Antipas’s army had a garrison with a watchtower up there, and there was also a Roman army post. The boys were curious to see the Romans,
and so was I, since they were supposed to be some kind of demons. But Uncle Reuben told us sharply to stay away from the soldiers, and Abba herded us on to the lookout point.

“The lake is so little,” said Chloe behind me on the donkey. “Is that our lighthouse, that dot?” She spoke in a small voice, as if she’d dwindled with the lake.

I felt just the opposite, as if I’d grown enormously tall. I’d never seen the lake from end to end, only the part of it visible from Magdala. I was so excited, I almost thought I could fly.

My father quoted a line of Scripture: “As it is written: ‘They who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles.’”

I’d heard those words in the synagogue, and they always lifted my heart in a mysterious way. Now I felt I understood: the soul had wings, as well as eyes and ears. As my father glanced away from the view, I caught his eye. We exchanged a look, and I felt as if we were soaring together.

My uncle didn’t seem moved by the eagle’s wings; he was busy pointing out sights to the boys. In the valley to the west was the town of Arbel, our destination. Southwest was the peak of Mount Tabor, where the Temple priests lit a beacon to let the villages know when the holidays began.

Alexandros had been up here before, and he eagerly joined in to show off his knowledge. Magdala was right
below us, with its stone breakwaters reaching two sheltering arms out into the lake. As we watched, a tiny ship slid past the lighthouse and into the harbor. That must be a merchant ship, Alexandros said. It wouldn’t be a fishing boat; they fished at night and were pulled up on the shore by dawn.

My brother went on to point out the city of Tiberias, gleaming white on the lakeshore south of Magdala. From Tiberias, Herod Antipas ruled Galilee, the territory on this side of the lake, as far west as we could see and farther. Across the lake were independent Gentile cities, as well as Gaulanitis, where Herod Philip ruled.

As Alexandros talked, the landscape seemed to divide into sections, like embroidery markings on cloth. I wished I hadn’t listened to him, because my sensation of floating above the world faded away.

Uncle Reuben interrupted Alexandros with a harsh laugh. “You know many little facts about this ruler and that, nephew. But there’s only one big fact: all lands belong to the Roman Empire.”

“Brother!” exclaimed my father. “It’s not right to talk that way in front of …” He motioned toward Alexandros and Chloe and me and our cousins.

Uncle Reuben looked as if he’d like to argue, but he was the younger brother. He took my father’s rebuke with a shrug.

“The Romans in their pride may think they own the
world,” Abba added, “but we Jews know better. As it is written, ‘The earth is the Lord’s.’”

Again I felt the lift of eagle’s wings, the wings of my soul.

One evening soon after the trip to Mount Arbel, Uncle Reuben ate supper with us to discuss some business with my father. We ate on the rooftop, as we usually did except during the rainy season. Chloe and I served the bread and stew, the olives and cheese and watered wine, while Abba and Uncle Reuben talked. They’d been giving money to the family of an injured fisherman, and Uncle Reuben thought it was time to stop. My father thought they should support the family for another year or so, until the oldest son in the family was big enough to go out with the fleet.

My grandmother whispered to me to fetch a special basket from downstairs. As I took the basket from its peg, I could guess from its sweet, spicy smell what was in it. Safta had baked my father’s favorite fig cakes again. Back on the rooftop, she took the basket from me and set it in front of him. “For you, Tobias,” she said in a soft voice.

I saw a loving glance pass between them—and a flash of resentment from Uncle Reuben. Abba offered the cakes to my uncle, and he took one, but he chewed it sullenly. If I were Safta, I thought, I, too, would favor my elder son.

When dinner was over, I carried the leftover stew down
to the kitchen. I started back to fetch the wine jug, but near the bottom of the stairs I met my brother, Alexandros. It annoyed me, the knowing way he looked at me. Had he come all the way down from the rooftop just to stare at me? “What is it?” I snapped.

“I can’t tell you,” he said solemnly. “It’s men’s business.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that? What is it?”

Alexandros hesitated, but he couldn’t resist showing off his information. “Abba had an offer for you.”

An offer. An offer of marriage, that meant. My stomach dropped. “Who? Who is it?” In my mind, I pictured the young men of Magdala in our synagogue and sorted through the unmarried ones.

Shaking his head regretfully, Alexandros started to turn away. “I shouldn’t have told you. But it’s a good offer, and he’ll probably accept it. Uncle Reuben thinks he should.”

Ordinarily, I tried not to let Alexandros see that he bothered me, but now I was too upset to worry about my pride. I pestered my brother, hanging on his sleeve.

Finally, he gave in. “All right, if you have to know … it’s Eleazar the merchant.”

“Eleazar?” I couldn’t take in whom he meant at first because I didn’t know of any young men with that name. There was a certain merchant, Eleazar bar Yohannes, who sat in one
of the best seats in the synagogue. But he was as old as our father.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” said Alexandros uneasily. “Don’t say anything to Abba.”

I felt sick. Scarcely hearing his words, I pushed past my brother and ran up the stairs to the rooftop. My heart pounded, choking me.

My father and Uncle Reuben were now leaning on the wall, gazing out to the waterfront and talking quietly. Uncle Reuben frowned at me as if I were a sheep struggling against being sheared, but Abba took my hand. “Mari, what’s the matter?”

Gasping for air, I couldn’t speak at first. I kissed his hand. “Abba, please, please …” When I finally managed to choke out the words, my father frowned, too. “Alexandros shouldn’t have said anything to you. Nothing has been done so far. It was only a suggestion from Elder Thomas, Eleazar’s cousin.”

“But please, Abba, please don’t …” I kissed his hand again. “Dear Abba!” Raising my eyes, I saw that I was embarrassing him, and I stopped talking.

“Surely,” said my uncle, “Mariamne should speak to her mother about such matters. Then her mother could speak to you.” He spoke in a pompous tone, as if he were the older brother. “To put it plainly, brother, this outburst is unseemly.”

My father looked annoyed, but he put an arm around my shoulders and guided me away from Uncle Reuben. “Mari, my dear,” he said in a low voice, “please calm down. You shouldn’t get yourself so worked up. It would be rude of me to reject an offer right away, especially since Elder Thomas was the go-between. I must consider, then answer politely.”

I nodded, already ashamed of my panic. It was Alexandros’s fault, for talking as if my betrothal to Eleazar was bound to happen. “I’m sorry, Abba.” I wished I hadn’t made such a scene in front of my uncle. Squeezing my father’s hand, I ran back down the stairs.

But at the bottom of the stairs, doubt nibbled at me. My father hadn’t promised me anything. He hadn’t actually said he would never betroth me to a man who was distasteful to me.

That night, I lay down on my cot beside Chloe as usual, but I didn’t go to sleep. I listened to the sounds of the others settling in with sighs and clearing of throats. Someone coughed and rolled over; someone else (Safta, I guessed) made whistling noises in her sleep. When the whole family except me seemed to be asleep, I got up and stepped softly to the low wall at the edge of the rooftop.

The town was quiet and dark except for lamplight here and there in a window. As I watched, one window went dark,
then another. From the shore came faint sounds of boat keels scraping on pebbles as fishermen set out for a night’s work. The lake glimmered, lit by the half-moon at the top of the sky.

I yearned to soar above the broad expanse of water, into the broader sky. This house was such a small place, dear as the people in it were to me. How is it that my father and uncle can choose my destiny? I cried silently.

Your destiny is not theirs to choose, Namesake
, said a voice close by.

I whirled around. A woman stood beside me, dressed in a wool tunic that left one shoulder bare. Her dark, wavy hair was loose except for an embroidered headband, and she carried a timbrel, a hand drum, under one arm. Lines fanned out from the corners of her eyes, as if she’d spent years out in the sun, searching the far horizon.

With my brothers, I led our people out of bondage in Egypt
, she said.
No man chose my path for me, and none may choose yours
.

“What is my path?” I whispered. “Tell me what to do!” Trembling with fear and excitement, I reached out to take her hand.

She was gone.

Slowly I seemed to sink back into my small place in my family, in the Jewish community in the town of Magdala. I
returned to my cot and lay down. But I felt certain that my life could never be the same. Miryam, the heroine of long-ago times, had spoken to me.

In the light of day, however, I wasn’t so sure. My vision of Miryam had called me Namesake, yet many girls were named Mariamne or some other form of Miryam. They couldn’t all become great heroines, could they?

Besides, how was I, a maiden of thirteen years, supposed to seek out my own path? I wasn’t even allowed to go out the courtyard gate by myself, or to talk to anyone except relatives or family friends. It was baffling.

Still, I was sure that the vision was about something urgently important. It seemed connected with the breathtaking sight of the world from the mountaintop.

The Jews of Magdala considered Alphaeus, the harbor-tax collector, a traitor to his people and a bad man. However, he was a good father to his sons, Matthew and James. Alphaeus sent them to a private teacher to learn to read, write, and do arithmetic. He taught the boys common Greek so that they could bargain and negotiate with foreigners. He tried to teach them his business.

Matthew and James’s mother had died when James was still a baby, and Matthew didn’t remember her well. Since then, Alphaeus had married three more wives, but each of them had died in childbirth. “You don’t want to get too attached to a woman,” he told Matthew the night after the third wife’s death. “They’re like pet doves. Very pretty, but you can’t count on them lasting more than a few years.”