I take solace in the thought of my mother’s money. As Father has always done, I will buy the services of some other to do these things, though I shall not buy their persons. This much humanity, by now, is mine. For if I do not have a servant, as Dinah has Rhoda, how shall I ever find time to teach? Or to learn? Or to travel? Or to write as Philo Judaeus writes? I also take solace in my never marrying. If I have no husband, I shall have no child. If I have neither husband nor child, especially no male child, I will have no one who takes precedence over what it is I would do, and no one I would be required to be more precious than rubies to. This proves a small comfort.
Addai is returned, and when he is settled and when he is fed, a thing he does without obliging Tata to act as servant, he tells Tata and me what has been said among the inner Nazorean. Already there is complaint at what Yeshu will do, or will not do. The names of those who grumble come as no surprise. Simon Peter and Jacob are speaking openly to Yehoshua, as is Izates, who though he is king in another land, is here zealous. To hear Addai say that Dositheus too would act, even this name does not confound me. Just as Addai, Dositheus is an old friend of John’s. Dositheus urged John to act and surely carries the guilt of his urging. I ask Addai if he too would free John?
“I have heard nothing,” says he, “more wonderful than what Yeshu’a has said this night. And I know that freeing John will not end with the Baptizer preaching on the river once more. I know it will prove a darker beginning. John himself would say this if John were here, for John knows the wind blows as it will. And yet, I would free John for I love John as I love you. And I would see him king.” Addai sits silently for a moment, and is as dark as the night is now dark. He who is the father of my heart cannot find his way. He tries spreading his hands to show the hopelessness of it all and by so doing wounds me. His precious fingers do not bend, nor do they straighten. “But if we go to make John king, would Pilate not set his soldiers on us as he does on all others at the slightest provocation? He would not hesitate to slaughter us in our thousands. And yet, I would free John.”
I too would see John saved. Even more, I would see saved Simon Magus. There is nothing more to say, and there is little sleeping done this night.
Three days have passed and no one leaves the valley near Bethsaida. I, now always Mariamne, would if I could, but neither Addai nor Tata nor Seth, not even Ananias, will leave until the very last word is said by the last and least of us. But if I do not leave this valley, I also do not leave this tent, not even to see to the small needs of Eio. Tata must do this, as she does all else I should do. So far, she has been patient with me, though I know her patience wears thin.
Seth comes only to tell us what is being said and what is being done. It seems that Yeshu is heard. Each day he speaks on the hillside and each day all gather to listen. So long as the tribes can see him and hear his words, the greater number of all here remains under his thrall. Seth, who is himself beguiled, tells us there are those who wonder at his teaching, saying Yehoshua of the Nazorean is become as a prophet from out of their midst, and these begin to listen with new ears.
But long into each night, some of the Nazorean, as well as others, argue. Yeshu sits among these, listening. Seth says that he seems to sleep and does not argue against them, but Seth knows he does not sleep. Jude sits as ever, near him, and he too listens. There is talk now not of an uprising—an uprising would surely spell doom, Rome is too strong, the Herods too devious—but of rescuing John. It is Jacob the Just who leads this talk, Jacob’s voice that is listened to. Over and over, they ask each other the same questions. How is it with John? Does he yet live? If so, and if Herod does not kill him, when will Pontius Pilate order he be given over into Roman hands for the death of the soldier who was killed by Stephen the Banker? And what is it they should do to save him?
No word arrives for me from Yeshu, and though I expected none, still I sorrow. Seth never remains long and has yet to make mention of what has passed between us. He does not call me Queen Bee, nor does he call me Mariamne Magdal-eder. Ananias has come only once. He sat and talked with Addai for a moment. He did not look at the female Mariamne, save to demand wine and to wink.
Before dawn on the morning of the fourth day, it is finally determined that a band of rescuers will secretly set south for the land of Moab and the Fortress of Machaerus. Yehoshua joins them. I am not surprised. Even as he is no longer Sicarii and even though he would not be as Judas of Galilee who led his people to slaughter, yet Yehoshua the Nazorean would not see Herod kill John.
Jacob knows where John has been taken, having learned it in his own escape from the men of Herod Antipas, therefore knows where all must go, though no one knows how it fares within the walls of Herod’s prison, and no one has ever been inside. Still, no matter the how or what of things, these men must do something.
Rising from their beds, Addai and Tata have gone out to wish them well. As has Seth. But I have left Addai’s tent on the pretense of fetching water from the small river that flows through this small valley and into the Sea of Galilee. The sun is yet to show first light, but I can see that farther along the riverbank Yeshu and Jude and Jacob and the others work in silence, and with speed. I creep as close as I dare, keeping to my bank of the river. Careful to keep my head cloth well forward on my face, I expect nothing more than to see them set forth. But in watching, I forget myself. I stand with my feet in the cold black stream, I hold Tata’s water jug in my hand, but I am as one who is deaf and one who is dumb. I gather no water. Unmoving, and entranced, I hear myself whisper, “Pray Isis and Osiris, pray the Father and the Mother, pray Glory. Bless these men, and walk with them. Let them bring Salome out from the jaws of Herod.”
Oh, that I were John the Less again and that I too set forth for Salome, and for John of the River!
They load what they would take on the backs of two donkeys, one of which is Eio. They do not speak and they do not look round, but are intent on what they do. Of the nine who ready themselves, it is plain they are led by Yehoshua. Yet for fierceness and steady purpose, Yeshu is well met by Jacob the Just and by Simon Peter, even by Andrew of Capharnaum. As for the two Sons of Thunder and the two men sent by the bandit chief, Eleazar, Timaeus and Saul of Ephraim, these four are cunning and bold. As for Jude there is none so resolute as he.
I remember to dip my jug in the stream, and as I have seen so many women do so many times, I try to balance the jug on my head, full now with water. How is this done? How is this done with comfort? I am not done with praying. “I cry out to you, Anat Jahu, wife of Yahweh, and to all the lost goddesses of Israel, and most of all to you, Zion, through these men, let Salome live. In return, I, Mariamne, shall find you and bring you home. I swear this.” The eastern sky lightens by the moment as I struggle with my jug of water. There, it steadies…I straighten…look once more at those who—by Isis, what is it I see? There has come a disturbance among them. My uneasy jug on my uneasy head, I move closer.
Even though it is not yet the first hour of the morning, and the birds only now begin to awaken, some traveler has found us. Whoever he is, he causes Andrew to cry a short sharp bark of pain and outrage. He causes Jacob to curse the sky. Addai has limped forward. Yeshu is already at the stranger’s side. The donkey that Simon bar Judas has been cinching up, kicks out and brays. What is it that dismays them so? Who is it that brings them bad news? For it is bad news, that much is plain. Simon Peter has a grip on the arm of the stranger; he pulls him close. Salome! The traveler is Salome!
The jar slips from my head. It smashes on the stones. Simon Magus has found us! From behind her there steps a second figure, Helena of Tyre. Though she is worn to the bone, Helena is still as lovely as the night sky. Helena does not desert my Salome. And now, as Simon Magus turns from Yehoshua to Jude to Peter, I hear a sound that comes from somewhere deep inside her. I cannot hear what it is she is trying to say; I do not want to hear. But I must hear it as she must speak it.
This is what she is saying, “They have killed
John.”
There is no body. There is no burial. But there is mourning; all of Israel weeps. All are onens, they who have lost a loved one.
Yeshu will go to the town of Capharnaum for shivah. And as Addai and Tata will mourn with him, so too must I, who am no more than Mariamne, an unmarried maiden in their care. As is, once again, Salome. With Seth’s help, Salome has quietly put away Simon Magus as I have put away John the Less. So that none would remark on this, Simon Magus has been seen to depart for Adiabene. The arrival of a female named Salome is not remarked on at all.
Salome rides Eio. If she had not ridden Eio, Tata and I would have had to carry her every foot of the way, for Salome is as still as death itself. I would think her entranced, I would think her poisoned. But in truth she grieves more than any here grieves. If by excess of grieving, Salome could call back John, she would grieve all the more. With each step I assure myself that this too will pass, that when she has ceased grieving she will surely be as she was again. I tell myself that all I suffer shall also pass, and I too will be as I was again. But I do not believe myself.
On the northern shore of the Lake of Galilee, Capharnaum is large and it is prosperous and it sits on a small peninsula so that it is almost entirely surrounded by the sweet water sea. The homes of Andrew and of Peter, who are the sons of Jonah, are here. In this town, they were fishermen before they were Sicarii, just as the sons of Joseph of Japhia were builders before they were Sicarii.
When we all of us come to a stop before the house of Simon Peter and the wife of Simon Peter, I at least know wonder. If ever I had thought of Yeshu’s righteous blood-thirsty rock as a man with a home and a family, I should never have thought he would have this home and this family. The house is large and white and has many rooms and many courtyards. The wife, who is named Perpetua, is as gracious as Dinah and almost as comely as Helena. Peter has a son, Mark, of few years and as lovely as any girl child and as shy as a desert mouse, and when the man who is his father walks through his door, he becomes shyer still. He now lives tucked away in his mother’s skirts.
Salome and I have hidden ourselves in the smallest courtyard, there to go unnoticed, and to wait out the time of mourning until we might flee this place and these people. Or rather, I have hidden Salome, for if left to herself, I think it possible she might finally walk, but only the short distance from the white house down to the blue sea. And there she would keep walking until the water closed over her head, and even then she would keep walking until she drowned.
Our small courtyard is behind the kitchen and is a distance away from the much larger courtyard where Yeshu stays with those now closest to him. Near us is a small and darkened room, and in this room lies Sarah, the mother of Perpetua. No matter how tender her daughter’s care, Sarah daily comes closer to death. As others mourn the killing of John of Kefar Imi in the largest courtyard, Tata ministers either to Addai or to Sarah. This she does while grieving as deeply as any in all of Palestine.
Tata believes neither rosh nor the oil of the balsam tree nor the bitumen from the Salted Sea will help Sarah. Nor will any other potion or poultice or unguent Perpetua has to hand. But though she does not know what ails her, having never seen its like, there is one thing Tata says will help, and that is for the mother to be brought out into the sun, though this causes the daughter to wring her hands with worry and concern.
There are now six of us who make do in this courtyard…no, seven. I have forgotten the boy Mark, whose eyes are the beautiful black of Helena’s skin and whose mouth is one of Tata’s roses. This is all we ever see of him, his eyes and his mouth and his tiny nose, peering out from the clothes of his mother, Perpetua. And while Sarah does not become well in the sun, she becomes better. Her color improves. Tata thinks she will not die as soon as she might, though a fever rages still in her blood, and she cannot raise her head from her pillow.
The kitchens and a courtyard away, I know Yeshu’a mourns his cousin, that he sits with Jude and with all the others, both men and women, that even Addai is there, and that Perpetua and her servants, with the help of Dinah and Rhoda, are hard-pressed to feed them all, and to honor their presence in her house, and at the same time to care for her mother and her son, as well as rejoice in the return of her husband—though I suspect any rejoicing will be saved for his yet again leaving. I know that Thecla and the other women do what they can, and I also know the men do nothing but mourn and eat.
This last thought has roused me from my habits as John the Less, and from those I knew as a person of privilege. If there are wonderful parts to being thought a man, there are parts that shame me. Why would I sit when all mourn the death of John, women as well as men, and expect only the grieving women to tend to me and to my needs? I am Mariamne, and I will tend to myself and to those I love.
Though Helena would as well, I make myself solely responsible for Salome. I make sure of Eio’s needs. I do whatever it is Tata would ask of me, and more if I notice a thing before Tata does. I sit by the hour near the side of the woman Sarah, and I bathe her hot skin with aromatics. I listen to her feverish mutterings. Plainly, having her son-in-law once again in her home and also the brother of her son-in-law, has done her no good. Sarah is frightened of them both, and I sympathize, poor woman. They are fearsome men, or they mean to be.
It happens that on the evening of our seventh day in Capharnaum, as the neighboring fishermen push their boats out into the sea so they might fish all night, and Salome is mercifully freed for a moment of the pain of John by sleep, and as Tata brews something over our fire, I am sitting by one side of Sarah and Perpetua sits on the other. Helena sits at her feet. We have been talking as we bathe her, Helena and I. We have been telling the wife of Simon Peter all that we can of Egypt, of Alexandria, of our time there. I have been saying that I mean to return, that I mean to found a school, and Perpetua has been listening, her dreams of far lands and exotic sights shining in her eyes. The child Mark too listens, and I am careful not to look his way, and by this, more and more of his eager wondering face appears, as he would not miss a single word. It is at this point that I notice that Tata starts and looks up. Therefore, I too start and look up.
Yeshu has joined us. As has Simon Peter and Seth.
My hand, in which there is a dripping sponge held over the bowl of Tata’s aromatics, freezes. The scented water seeps down my arm, and the words I have intended to say rise no further in my throat. I am sure my eyes have grown as round as the eyes of the child Mark at the sight of Yehoshua, but I have no skirts to hide in.
Though Peter does not come close, Yeshu and Seth walk across the courtyard, Yeshu to seat himself at the head of Sarah’s pallet, Seth to remain standing. Where he stands is directly behind me.
Yeshu does not look at me; he looks at Perpetua, saying, “How long has she suffered?”
Perpetua is too frightened to raise her eyes to this once Sicarii, perhaps even more than she is of her Sicarii husband himself, but still she finds the courage to answer. “Why, sir, for many weeks, and I tell you, I fear she dies.”
Yeshu touches Sarah’s weathered cheek, very softly and very tenderly. At his touch, the old woman’s eyes fly open like the lid of a hinged box. They are red with fever and blurred with confusion. “Sarah,” says Yeshu, “can you hear me?”
Though she seems to have heard no one else, it is obvious she hears Yeshu. “Yes,” she answers, clutching her sheet to her breast, “I hear you. Are you a demon?”
Yeshu leans so close to her face his red hair brushes her heated skin. “Sarah,” he whispers, “mother of Perpetua, as you can hear me, do you think there is a demon in you?”
At this, I come unstuck inside. All the things I have not allowed myself to feel, I feel now. To be so close to the friend of my heart and not to speak. To breathe the air my friend breathes and not to look into his eyes. All that we have said to each other, all that he has told me and no one else, and all that I know of his Glory, and he of mine, and here we sit in the house of Simon Peter of
Capharnaum who did not love me when I was John the Less and who affects not to know me now that I am Mariamne, the castaway daughter of a rich Judaean. I have heard my friend ask a woman if she is possessed by a demon, and only I of all who know Yeshu know that he knows there are no demons. Yet he will act the role of gazer; he will be an exorcist. For as he has said, the people make a demon of their illnesses, and of their troubles, so that they might have a thing to blame. If they believe a thing, it is as magic. Which means if they think a thing is in them, then it is in them. And if they think a thing cast out, cast out it will be. Only I know this is what is in his mind.
Sarah, the mother-in-law of Simon Peter, struggles to sit up. So eager is she to know her demon so that it might be blamed for what she endures, she would sit up in her bed, not lie. I place a firm hand on her back to help her, as does her daughter. Together, we cradle Sarah until she can hold herself. “Oh, yes, Master,” she cries as she struggles, “I am sure I am possessed of a demon. He tears at me.” So saying, she points at her belly and at her heart.
“What is its name?”
“Its name?”
“By what name would it be called so that we may demand it go away?”
“Ah!” Sarah brightens so visibly, even Peter who is scowling in the doorway is astonished. “I do not know its name. Do you?”
Yeshu smiles down at her, places his left hand on the back of her head and his right hand on her brow. Sarah has closed her eyes. She has given herself over to his touch. I know what it is he thinks at this, for we have talked of it long into the night. The woman believes in her demon, and now she believes that Yeshu believes. And if he, as a proper magician, should also know its name? Surely by knowing its name, he has the power to send it away.
Yeshu now shouts so that all might hear, and so too that the demon might hear. “Its name is Dread. And I cast it out! Begone Dread! Leave this woman in peace.”