According to Mary Magdalene Read Online Free PDF Page A

exhaustion, her body sucked dry from childbearing, bowed, its beauty gone, and the clenched hand pressed to her back to ease the pain.
    It was slavery, she thought.
    Naturally she had not seen this as a child. In that world, the scriptures, the years of children were a woman's lot, what life was about and the will of God. Many of the children died, disappearing like shadows and forgotten. Just like the mothers deprived of their lives by childbirth.
    Mother was sixteen years old when she gave birth to me, twenty-two when she died.
    Mary was tired when she went to bed. As she closed the shutter, she saw the night was dark over the mountains, yet another moonless night.
    That night, she prayed for dreamless sleep, but her prayers went unheard. She dreamt about Chua. Even in her sleep she felt surprise, a woman, the wife of her uncle, Mother's brother, coming toward her on the sheep track over the mountain, her arms held open to the girl, then hugging her, making her laugh.
    When Mary woke, she felt light from the warmth of the dream. That must have happened, and the dream now clarified. Chua had been tall and proud, her breasts round, not flat as rolled-out dough. But then she had given birth to only three children, two sons and a daughter.
    Then she had been let off.
    Rumors about her had been mumbled by the women around the well and at the quay where they fetched the fish. Woman-talk, as envious as judgmental: she made horrible brews of herbs and drank them, an art she had learned from Lucifer. One woman had actually seen one of his evil angels visiting her.
    They said she was arrogant, but she had been the only one to be kind to Mother and me. Mary could suddenly remember the quiet talk by the oven as the two women did their baking.
    The next morning, as she sat down and took out her writing materials, she realized that in the future she would have to rely largely on Leonidas' memories.

H e had been wounded in battle, Leonidas, the Greek and centurion. Not seriously, but he had bled profusely and he was grateful and greatly relieved to be ordered to return to the doctor in Tiberias.
    He detested his actions, but even more the overflowingly emotional Jews, with their hair splitting, their terrible rhetoric, and their fearful tribal god.
    He was riding at dawn as quietly as he could through inhospitable landscape, the screams of the crucified still ringing in his ears, when he suddenly caught sight of a child running along the path, swift little feet and long, unusually fair hair flying like wings from the little head.
    “Hello there, who are you?”
    The girl stopped and stared wide-eyed at the rider. Blue eyes!
    “I am Mary from Magdala.”
    Then she collapsed. He dismounted and picked the child up. There was no doubt she had lost consciousness. What in all the gods was he to do with her? She had spoken Aramaic, so she must be Jewish after all.
    As he lifted her up on to the horse, he puzzled over his own actions. One Jewish child more or less, why should he bother?
    Then he knew it was something to do with her eyes.
    An hour later, he was knocking on the door of Euphrosyne's house of pleasure, beautifully situated on the lakeshore in the new town. She opened the door herself.
    “Leonidas!” she exclaimed. “You know perfectly well we're closed in the mornings. And I haven't had time to find a new boy for you.”
    “Now listen. I've found a child and I want you to look after her on my behalf.”
    Euphrosyne looked suspiciously at him.
    “Her?” she said. “Is it a girl?”
    “Yes, and an unusual girl. I'll pay for her.”
    “Have you deserted?”
    “No, no. I was wounded in battle and sent back.”
    He put the unconscious child into Euphrosyne's arms. Euphrosyne unwound the mantle she was wrapped in.
    “An unusual child indeed,” she said in astonishment.
    Mary emerged from her daze when she heard that light female voice, and stared at the handsome woman, thinking she must be either an angel of God or one of