The Galileans: A Novel of Mary Magdalene by Frank G. Slaughter Page B

imagination and her outbursts of enthusiasm. “A thousand sesterces might take us halfway—if we had them.”
    “Oh, but we do have them! Or we will, after tonight.”
    “Is King Herod bringing us his coffers?”
    “Something even better. I am to dance for the procurator, Pontius Pilate.”
    “For the procurator!” Demetrius sat up in bed, clutching the wine bottle. “Where did you get this crazy idea, child?”
    “It is not crazy!” She stamped her foot. “Pilate’s nomenclator was here just now and bade me dance at a dinner tonight. And he mentioned a purse of a thousand sesterces if I entertain the procurator and his guests well.”
    “A thousand sesterces!” Demetrius fell back on the couch. “I have not seen so much money since I came to Galilee. Let me see: two hundred will buy a mule stout enough to bear this besotted carcass of mine along the Via Maris to Joppa. And another three hundred for baggage mules to carry our furnishings and the citharas to be sold in Alexandria. We could sell the animals at the seaport to pay our passage by ship.”
    “Then it would take us?”
    He shook his head. “Not quite. But if Pilate likes you, others of the rich Romans and Syrians who have villas at Tiberias will want you to dance, perhaps even Herod Antipas himself. And it will not hurt to say you danced for the procurator of Judea when we see the director of the theater at Alexandria.” Then his face grew serious. “But is it safe for you to go to Tiberias?”
    “You and Joseph are old women!” Mary cried in disgust. “I am not a child any longer, Demetrius. And besides, Hadja and the others will be there to guard me.” She dropped to her knees beside the couch, and tears came into her eyes. “You must let me go, darling,” she pleaded. “It will mean so much to us all.”
    “We do need the money badly,” Demetrius admitted, smoothing the rich waves of her hair with his pudgy fingers. “But promise me that you will keep Hadja and his men with you always.”
    “I promise.” Mary leaped to her feet. “Now what will I wear? I know, the white stola of silk you gave me for my eighteenth birthday. And the palla over it, the yellow one. I was saving them to wear in Alexandria. And Hadja must rent a cart and a mule for me to ride in, so I will not be too tired to dance well. And my hair! Oh, I have a thousand things to do.” She was gone in a flurry of skirts.
    It was just dusk when Mary and her party arrived at the villa of Pontius Pilate in Tiberias and tied the mule and cart to a tree in the grove outside the villa. Mary carried the package containing her silken stola and the yellow palla, plus fragile sandals of leather chased with a thin tracery of gold. A wall nearly ten feet high surrounded the elaborate, if small, palace. Most of the villas at Tiberias had such high walls running down into the water itself.
    The Roman governor of Judea spent much of the time here in Galilee by the protected waters of the lake where the winter climate was mild, rather than at his castle on the coast at Caesarea, which was buffeted by cold winds and storms from the Mediterranean, the Mare Nostrum of the Romans. It was common knowledge that Pilate’s wife, the Lady Claudia Procula, suffered badly from asthma in Caesarea but was much better in the warmer climate of Tiberias and the Sea of Galilee.
    An armed guard let them through the gate, and the nomenclator met them in the atrium, as the central room of the house was called. Even in the darkness they could see something of the beauty of the terraced gardens descending the hillside to the water’s edge and the fragrance of flowers was everywhere. Slaves in white garments moved about through the open terraces, carrying dishes to and from the triclinium, the banqueting room, where the dinner was already in progress.
    The nomenclator raised his eyebrows at Mary’s rough dress. “Is that your costume for dancing?” he asked, then a knowing smile came over his face.