Читать книгу Two Women Of Galilee - Mary Rourke - Страница 9

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.”

“This isn’t a contest of wills,” he shouted. “I can’t protect you unless you follow the rules.”

His shoulders slowly fell back to their usual position. “When your husband finds out, he will not like this.”