Mary of Magdala

by Joanna Courtney

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

A devoted follower.

At the dawn of a new era, Mary of Magdala is swept up by the radical teachings of Jesus of Nazareth. But her choice to follow him comes at a great cost: her family's disapproval and rejection.

A woman with a voice.

Together with her companions Prisca and Lydia, Mary begins a journey to share the message of love, hope, and renewal in a world where women's voices are silenced. As they face hostile crowds and the ever-present threat of persecution, their determination is tested, their faith redefined.

A leader ready to rise.

As the early Christian community struggles to find its footing, Mary discovers the strength within herself to inspire and help shape a movement that will echo through history.

This is the story of the church through the eyes of the women who helped build it.

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

JERUSALEM, 48 AD

The sea of Galilee was twice as blue as Mary had remembered it in even her most feverish dreams. She stopped dead on the dusty track to drink in the fertile richness of the place where she’d grown up. For so long she’d believed she would live out her days here, but Jesus had changed all that.

She eased out her aching back. It was twenty-one years since she’d heard Jesus of Nazareth speak on the shores of this lake and her thirty-five-year-old body was not as resilient to life on the road as it had been then. Her heart, however, was just as strong. Jesus had turned her path away from the comfort, safety and quiet insularity of this pretty corner of Judea. Since she’d last been here, she’d travelled to Rome and back and seen places and people she’d never have dreamed possible. Now, though, she was home and memories were swarming in on her.

‘Is it not beautiful?’ she said, turning to Barnabus.

‘Beautiful,’ he agreed dutifully, but he was from the stunning isle of Cyprus so she supposed the small inland water before them was unlikely to impress. Only if your heart was rooted here would Galilee look special.

‘I can almost see Him,’ she breathed.

At that, Barnabus drew in an envious breath. ‘You were so lucky to walk with him, Mary.’

‘I was. He changed my life.’

She stared along the soft shoreline, half seeing Jesus standing there, preaching the love of God and of one’s fellow men. And women. His words had exploded into her heart the first time she’d heard him speak and there had been nothing to do but follow him.

It had seemed too obvious to her. Not so much to her family.

‘What if they still hate me?’ she asked, squinting down the sparkling water.

‘Talk to them,’ Barnabus said. ‘Explain.’

Mary smiled softly. Explaining was Barnabus’ way and he was a talented preacher with a golden tongue. He had come to follow Jesus in the dark final week in Jerusalem, eighteen years ago, so had had only days of his inspiration before they’d been plunged into the horror of his trial and death. He’d been there for her in the dread days after the crucifixion and there, too, when Jesus had come to her, risen in glory. He’d been one of the first to believe her, to support her, and they’d taken to the road together two years later when the persecution in Jerusalem had grown too great to bear.

A small group had stayed in the Holy City, around Jesus’ mother, Mariam, and his brother, James, but most of the apostles were spread out around the Green Sea these days and there were communities in many cities. Though many yet to establish. Sometimes – often – Mary feared there was too much to do in her lifetime, but she was trying her best. They all were.

Marriage had been vital to operate in the world, but Mary and Barnabus’ was a spiritual union, contracted before they’d set out on their first missionary journey. Many of the apostles had done the same for it made sense to travel in pairs, both for safety and for the practicalities of their mission. They offered baptism in the New Way to all converts, but men would not wish to be immersed by a female preacher, and women certainly not by a male one.

Some pairings were full spouses, like Peter and Perpetua, who’d already been married when Jesus had walked into their fishing cottage in Capernaum. Mary and Barnabus preferred it their way, giving them companionship and respectability in the eyes of the world but leaving them free to bind themselves to the risen Lord more strongly than to any earthly person. Many a time people had called them the ‘perfect couple’ – she like an olive, dark-skinned, with raven-black hair, and he like fresh honey, bronzed with blond curls – but they knew the truth. They were brother and sister in Christ and it was perfect.

‘Is that Magdala?’

Barnabus pointed along the lakeshore to the tower that gave the town its name and Mary was pulled back to the present mission – far harder than any she’d faced on the road. She’d described her home to him many times but feared, looking at the small structure, that he may have imagined it more grandly. For the last fourteen years they’d moved through the beautiful Hellenistic cities of Asia Minor and Greece with their colonnaded avenues, grand temples and elegant agora. The red-brick tower, where the locals processed their fish, looked very humble in comparison.

‘That is Magdala,’ she agreed, adding hastily, ‘it’s just a village.’

‘It’s your home, Mary, and lovely as such.’

It was sweet of him to say so but not true. Not any more. The last time she’d been here, twenty-one long years ago, her mother had been screaming at her for breaking her duty to the family.

‘They will definitely still hate me.’

Barnabus put an arm around her shoulder. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

That she knew, but it didn’t make it any easier. She’d rather take to the steps of the forum in Rome than knock on her own parents’ front door. She’d rather cross the Mediterranean in a ship too small for a sudden squall, or defend herself before a synagogue full of angry rabbis, or approach a group of big-armed housewives, unimpressed by a chit of a girl with a message of redemption. But she had done all those and survived. Now, she was home and must face whatever it brought.

‘Shall I come with you?’ Barnabus asked.

She shook her head. ‘Better not, at least at first. If my parents have … softened, I shall fetch you. If you don’t mind?’

‘Whatever is best for you, Mary.’

He was a very calm man, and she was grateful, for she could feel herself starting to shake.

‘God will be with you,’ he said, kissing her cheek.

Mary thought of her mother, filled with righteous fury, and sighed. ‘It is not God that worries me today, Barnabus.’

But she had travelled a long way for this and, leaving him in contemplation on the hill, she forced her feet to carry her down to the lakeside and along the water’s edge towards Magdala.

The village was little more than twenty houses, her own in the first clutch overlooking the lake, with their fishing boat pulled up outside. Instantly she thought of Jesus, who’d been preaching from just such a boat the first time she’d heard him. He’d stood on it so his voice could carry to the small crowd. Most of them had been sceptical but she’d been enraptured.

‘There are only two true rules,’ he had told them. ‘Love God. And love your neighbour as you love yourself.’

Much squabbling had followed, people bringing up every petty rule under the sun, but Jesus had said they were all just man-made complications. Love was the key. If you loved God and you loved your fellows – truly loved them and acted according to that love – then you could not go wrong. It had seemed so obvious.

Eighteen years on the road had told her that it wasn’t only her own family who could not see the surely self-evident truth of Jesus’ teachings. But it was her own family who were before her now and she felt herself shake with nerves. There was an old man mending the nets and it took her a moment to realise it was her father. David had been tall and vigorous when she’d left, but now he was grey-haired and hunched, though he worked with a rigid determination that she remembered with a clench of her gut.

‘Father?’

‘Ruth?’ David looked up, squinting into the morning sun, then stood slowly, the net dropping from his gnarled hands. ‘No!’ He backed away as if she were a demon. ‘No, Mary! You are not welcome here.’

His fury, curiously, calmed her nerves. It was unjust, ill-considered.

‘It’s been years, Father. Surely we can talk?’

‘I have nothing to say to you, harlot.’

Mary winced but stood her ground. A woman came running out of the house and she turned instinctively to her mother before realising this thick-set housewife was her younger sister.

‘Ruth!’

‘Mary? Is that you?’

Ruth ran to her, clasping her in an easy embrace, and Mary soaked up her love like the warmest sunshine.

‘Is Davey here?’ she asked, looking for their older brother.

‘No. He moved to Capernaum for—’

She was interrupted by a shriek, like a hunting hawk.

‘I told you never to darken our door again!’

Sima, Mary’s mother, stood on the doorstep, hands on hips and eyes ice-cold.

‘Mother. I’ve come to talk to you. To explain how—’

‘There’s nothing to explain. You left us. You left your loving family, and Asher, your loving fiancé, and you marched after a strange man like the worst of Babylonian whores.’

‘It wasn’t like that. Jesus—’

‘I don’t want to hear his name. Poor Asher. Thank the Good Lord he was happy to marry Ruth instead or we might have died of shame.’

Mary looked at her sister in surprise. ‘You married Asher?’

‘Like a good daughter,’ Sima answered for her. ‘And has given him three lovely children.’

As if on cue, three young faces peered round their grandmother. Mary’s heart contracted. She had nephews, two by the looks of it, and a toddler niece as well.

‘What are their names?’

‘This is young Ash,’ Ruth said. ‘And—’

Sima cut her off. ‘She doesn’t need to know, Ruth. They are nothing to her.’

‘They’re my blood,’ Mary objected.

‘Not any more. You turned your back on your blood the day you walked off with that man.’

Mary wanted to scream in frustration. She reminded herself that she was an apostle, renowned for her ability to face tough crowds with bravery and eloquence. This should be easy.

‘It wasn’t how you imagine, Mother. There were many of us. I was with other women.’

‘A harem!’

‘No! A mission. A fellowship of believers, a covenant family.’

Sima’s eyes narrowed. ‘A covenant family? You left us, your true family, for a “covenant” one? And it is better, is it, this new family?’

‘Not better, Mother, different – wider, more inclusive, united in shared beliefs in the resurrection and message of—’

‘Enough, Mary! You have broken our hearts once already. We do not need you to grind glass into the wounds.’

Mary shivered at her mother’s surprising eloquence. Many times she’d been praised for her perception and intelligence. She’d thought it a gift from God, awakened when Jesus reached into her heart and brought it to life, but perhaps some of it came from her mother. Sima had never been quite the same as the other fishermen’s wives.

‘I’m sorry,’ she offered.

‘You regret it?’

‘No!’

‘Well then.’ Her mother spun away, ushering her grandchildren back into the house.

‘Please!’ Mary called after her. ‘I’m married.’

She was ashamed of herself for using Barnabus in this way but Sima’s steps hesitated. ‘To that man?’

‘Jesus? No. He’s dead, Mother. He was crucified. You must have heard?’

Sima sniffed. ‘Something came back to us, yes. The neighbours delighted in rubbing it in. Not only did our eldest girl leave us to run off with a strange man, but a criminal besides.’

‘He was not a criminal. He was the Messiah. He rose again, Mother, and—’

‘Enough!’

Sima looked to David who came striding to her side. Ruth wavered, her eyes turned longingly to Mary, but dutifully joined the rest of the family on the doorstep.

David folded his arms. ‘Go, Mary. And don’t return.’

Mary nodded. Had she not known it might go like this? Had she not, indeed, feared it would.

‘I came to say I’m sorry for any hurt I caused. I came to say I love you, all of you.’

Ruth leaned towards her, the children too, but her parents were rigid.

‘Words are easy, Mary,’ Sima said. ‘Actions are what counts. You left us.’

‘And now I’m back.’

‘But the door is closed.’

Then, with a loud slam, it was. Mary stood looking at her childhood home, a place that had once been full of love and laughter and was now simply a hole in her past. Biting her lip, she turned away, passing a wide-eyed gaggle of villagers. Respectability was all in these villages and Mary had taken that from her parents. She was sorry, but sorrier still that they would not listen to the reasons why, would not open their hearts to Jesus as she had done, for they would have found a richer and gentler way of living.

Putting her hand to her heart to ease the ache within it, she left Magdala. The sun was high now, but Mary saw, hazy against the shimmering lake, a man in a simple tunic preaching words of love.

‘Jesus?’

Mary.

His eyes were as intensely blue as she remembered, his smile as soft.

‘I miss you,’ she whispered.

I am still here. Here in your heart.

It’s not the same.

For most people it will be all they have.

She thought of Barnabus’ envious words: ‘You were so lucky to walk with him, Mary.’

I know, but I wanted more. I’m greedy.

She heard his soft chuckle, just as it had been when they’d disputed on the road for those three too-short years.

I am still here, he repeated. Here in your heart.

She reached out desperately but he was gone, fading into the beautiful blue of Lake Galilee, and she was alone.

‘Mary!’

Not alone, she reminded herself as she waved to Barnabus, up on the hill, loyally waiting. She had Barnabus and she had the others of the community, back in Jerusalem. There were so many people to tell the good news of Jesus’ resurrection, and so little time in which to do it. She could not linger indulgently in a lost past, but must step forward. However hard it sometimes felt.

ROME

‘Careful of my tablet!’

Prisca snatched her best wax tablet off the table before her son, Cyrus, could put his bowl down on it and ruin her careful arithmetic. The taxes for their tent-making business were due and she intended to pay them today, along with the usual ‘sweetener’ for the local official. Jewish businesses were resented for their success in Rome, although their profits were always welcome.

Cyrus sank into his chair with a grunt and began sleepily spooning porridge into his mouth. At twenty years old, he had the strong body of a man but his mind was yet to mature. Phoebe, Prisca’s daughter, despite being two years younger, had twice her brother’s perception, but then, she always had. Her very first word had been ‘why’ and for years it had felt as if she’d spoken only in questions. She was endlessly curious about the world, whereas Cyrus was interested simply in making his corner of it comfortable.

Prisca looked at him fondly, feeling mean. Cyrus was a conscientious boy and far easier company than Phoebe, whose restless energy could be exhausting. He’d been part of their tent-making business for three years and, although he did not have his father’s flare with the precision tools of their trade, he was strong and diligent. He was also proving a devoted husband to Golda, his wife of just two weeks, and would no doubt be a doting father when God blessed them with children. She reached out to riffle his hair and he squirmed away.

‘Mother! I’ve oiled that.’

‘And very fine it looks too.’

He rolled his eyes but smiled. ‘Where’s Father?’

‘Gone to fetch a new batch of leather for the trims on that centurion’s tent.’

‘Well, I hope he’s not too long, the wolves will be out soon.’

‘Wolves?’ Prisca squinted at her son, wondering if marriage had twisted his brain. ‘There are no wolves in Rome, Cyrus.’

‘There are today. It’s Lupercalia, remember?’

Prisca hit her hand to her head. How had she forgotten today was the ridiculous festival where the young Romans dressed as wolves and rampaged in the name of their gods? It was her age, that was the problem. She’d been as sharp as Phoebe in her youth but as she crept close to her fiftieth year, she felt fogged. The accounts didn’t add themselves up as swiftly as they used to, and chasing down an error seemed to take forever. She was hot one minute and cold the next and her temper was not, she knew, as in control as it had once been.

She went to stash the tablet on the top shelf, where her hard-won numbers could not be wiped out, and was surprised when Cyrus came over and gave her a hug.

‘Stay inside today, yes? And keep Golda and Phoebe with you.’

‘Is that necessary?’

‘Hopefully not, but Lupercalia makes the Romans feral so it’s best not to take the risk. You know what happened last year.’

Prisca shivered at the memory. Several of their neighbours, coming out of the synagogue, had stumbled into a gaggle of ‘wolves’ and found themselves snatched high above their heads and dumped into the Tiber amidst much howling. It had been harmless, she supposed – ‘high spirits’ the official had said – but very unpleasant.

‘They should not be allowed to persecute us in that way.’

‘They believe us to be a danger to them because we will not pander to their graven images,’ said Phoebe, coming into the kitchen looking as fresh as a rock rose. ‘They live their lives on a knife-edge with their capricious deities, blaming every sway of fortune on the failure to offer honey to this god, or a pretty dance to that. There is no consistency to their beliefs, no system – just a frantic desire to appease the forces of nature.’

Prisca blinked. Her daughter had started philosophising early today.

‘Then thank the good Lord that we have seen the light,’ she said calmly.

‘And been charged with sharing it,’ Phoebe shot back. ‘If the Romans turn to the New Way, they will see that there is no need to build temples on every corner, or offer oblations to graven images, or dress up as wolves.’

‘I think they like dressing up as wolves,’ Cyrus said sagely.

Phoebe tossed her head. ‘Then let them do it for fun, but not in the name of worship. What sort of god do they think would admire such behaviour in his creation?’

‘One carved in the same mould as themselves,’ Cyrus suggested and Prisca thought that perhaps she underestimated his intelligence.

Her daughter saw the world as it could be, but her son saw it as it was. The Romans resented the Jews because they had dispensation from worshipping the official city gods, in exchange for asking the blessing of their own, sole (and true) God on the Emperor. Recently there had been mutterings about whether this privilege should include those following the New Way, for they attracted many gentiles to their company, especially the wealthy women who had once been drawn to the various city cults. The Romans resented their community’s popularity and they should not rile them, especially today.

Going into the back pantry, Prisca took out the bread and cured meats she’d wrapped in an offcut of the waxed linen. ‘Luncheon for you and your father,’ she said, handing it to Cyrus.

‘Thanks, Ma.’ Cyrus kissed her cheek. ‘And remember what I said about staying indoors.’

‘Indoors?!’ Phoebe looked indignant. ‘Why should we stay indoors? God will protect us.’

‘I have no doubt of it, sister, but why make His job harder than it should be?’

He went to kiss her too, but at the last moment turned it into a lick up her cheek that had her squealing. ‘Cyrus! Grow up.’

‘Why?’ He ducked out of reach of her flailing hand.

‘You’re a married man.’

‘So am doing my best to remain youthful for my pretty wife. Take care today!’

And then he was gone, whistling down the street as Phoebe ran for a cloth to scrub at her cheek.

‘Why are men so disgusting?’ she demanded.

‘It’s because he’s your brother. A husband would be far tenderer.’

Phoebe screwed up her nose. They’d often raised the subject of her marriage but she resisted vehemently, saying she had God’s work to do before she tied herself to a hearth. And that was true. She was an eloquent preacher of the New Way, bringing far more people than Prisca to the light – far more than anyone, save perhaps Mary of Magdala.

Prisca closed her eyes a moment, remembering those fiery days when Mary and Barnabus had arrived in their synagogue eleven years ago to speak of the risen Jesus.

‘Love your neighbour as you love yourself,’ Mary had instructed and that had fitted so perfectly with how Prisca and Aquila had always tried to lead their lives that they’d embraced the New Way instantly, gladly giving their lives over to bringing others to the same happy revelation. Prisca loved nothing more than seeing new converts open their hearts to the New Way, casting off the need for excess riches and envy of others and opening themselves up to tolerance and inclusion. It was, surely, a much happier life than dressing as wolves to appease a god you did not know and could not trust?

Smiling at Phoebe, Prisca ladled out porridge. There was no sign of Golda but she was fresh into her marriage and, if Prisca remembered those days, the girl may not be getting much sleep. Besides, she was a gentle soul who found Phoebe’s headlong approach to life exhausting so it would be better to get her daughter fed and set to a task that might absorb some of her endless energy before her daughter-in-law tried to break her fast.

‘I thought we might do the laundry today,’ she said to Phoebe.

‘The laundry? It’s not Monday.’

‘No, but if we’re stuck inside we may as well get it out of the way and free ourselves for more interesting tasks later.’

Phoebe swallowed porridge crossly, as only Phoebe could. ‘I do not see why we should stay indoors because of Roman foolishness and intolerance.’

‘Because they are stronger than us.’

‘We are strong in the Lord.’

‘We are, my love, but I’m sure He has better things to do than protect us from idiot Romans.’

‘Or perhaps, on this day of flagrant pagan ritual, He is keen for us to go into the fray and preach His truth.’

She had a point. Was that how they’d done it at the start?

‘Mother?’ Phoebe demanded impatiently. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m wondering what Mary would do.’

‘Mary of Magdala?’ Phoebe was always eager to hear about the apostle who’d walked with Jesus. She’d been seven when the family had converted and, although she had questioned the poor woman endlessly at the time, remembered her only vaguely.

‘That Mary,’ Prisca agreed. ‘She was like you – all passion and zeal.’

Phoebe looked delighted. ‘I’d love to meet her, Mother. Is she coming back to Rome?’

‘She said she would, but there are many cities to convert and many souls within them.’

‘She needs help then.’ Phoebe leaped up. ‘She needs others of the New Way to work with her.’

‘I’m sure she has many helpers,’ Prisca said quickly, fearing where this was going.

Sure enough, Phoebe came over and grabbed her hands. ‘Let me go, Mother. Let me go with Boaz and Judith when they take the boat to Philippi with the next delivery. There might be apostles there who will know where Mary is. I could find her, learn from her, help her.’

‘It is too dangerous,’ Prisca said tightly.

Phoebe put her hands on her hips. ‘Is it, Mother. Is it really? And was it any less dangerous when, at exactly my age, you went off on the road?’

‘With your father,’ Prisca pointed out. Aquila had come to her hometown with his tent-making business and they’d fallen in love. With her parents’ blessing, he had carried her off to a life on the road. A life together. ‘I had him to protect me, Phoebe.’

Her daughter tossed her dark hair. ‘But I have Jesus.’

Prisca sucked in a breath. ‘It’s not the same.’

‘You’re saying Jesus, the son of God, cannot protect me like an earthly man?’

‘Of course not. But he cannot be there with a strong arm every time an upstart thief or chancer tries to take advantage of you.’

‘I think he can.’

‘You think the son of God is best occupied keeping you safe? Is that not a little arrogant, my sweet?’

Phoebe bit her lip. ‘I think I can look after myself, thank you very much, Mother. Besides, I’d be better dying on the road than stuck here doing Cyrus’ damned laundry.’

‘Phoebe!’

Prisca glared at her daughter, though she had to admit she had a point. Not about the dying, but about her talents being wasted in the home. At eighteen, Prisca had loved being on the road and had settled reluctantly into their Roman home when a second child had hampered their movements too much. Now that child was demanding the same freedom.

‘Mary said you would make a wonderful apostle,’ she admitted.

‘Mary said that? About me? Well, there you are then, Mother, it is God’s will.’

Was it? Prisca feared it was. She’d kept her sharp, eloquent daughter to herself for long enough. But the world was a dangerous place and Phoebe was more naïve than she knew.

‘We should ask your father,’ she hedged.

‘Very well. Let’s go and ask him.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now. It is urgent. Boaz and Judith could sail any day and must know if I’m to travel with them.’

That was true. The stock was almost ready and their junior partners were all set to move it to the nearby port of Ostia to await the tides.

‘Cyrus said not to go outside today.’

‘And you will let him tell you what to do? Come, Mother, we all know you have the strongest will in this family.’

‘Used to,’ Prisca said ruefully.

Golda appeared in the doorway, pink and sleep-tousled. Prisca moved to draw her to the table, but Phoebe stepped between them.

‘We are going to the workshop, Golda.’

‘Now?’ the poor girl asked, bemused.

‘Now,’ Phoebe confirmed.

A ‘wolf’ howled somewhere down the street and Prisca knew she had to stand firm. ‘No, Phoebe. Not today. It can wait.’

Phoebe stamped her foot. ‘You always say that. I’m sick of waiting, Mother, sick of being put off so you can keep me here as your little helper instead of letting me out to travel, as you travelled. It is hypocritical.’

Prisca gaped at her. ‘Hypocritical? To love you? To care about your safety? To—’

‘Supress me like a baby. I’m a grown woman who knows her own mind and has a right to act on it.’

Now it was Prisca who put her hands on her hips. ‘Legally, daughter, you can do nothing without your father’s permission.’

Phoebe let out a dark laugh. ‘Oh, Mother, where are your precious New Way principles of inclusion and equality now?’

‘I—’

‘I need no one’s permission but God’s.’

‘Of course. I didn’t mean—’

‘But as a courtesy to you and father, as my parents …’

‘Your loving parents, who—’

‘I am prepared to discuss it. Now.’

She strode for the door, grabbing Golda’s hand as she went, and was halfway down the street before Prisca could get between the kitchen chairs to stop her. She chased after the two girls, looking nervously around as noise spilled from the various taverns, and was mightily relieved when they made it to the workshop.

Cyrus was not pleased to see them and rushed over to put a protective arm around Golda. ‘I gave you one instruction, Mother! Could you not even keep that?’

Prisca opened her mouth to defend herself but Phoebe was there first. ‘What right do you have to issue instructions, brother? You’re not head of this household.’

‘Neither are you.’

‘No. We live in equality as Jesus taught.’

‘Did he though? Can we be sure?’

‘No,’ Phoebe shot back, surprising him,. . .