Three

The sun was behind her now, suddenly, it seemed, up the hill; it would soon be time for Judith to come. The thought roused her somewhat from her despair, as she sat on the grass looking at the lake. She had sat all night and the morning, simply aware. It was still she, she realized, but once she saw the dilemma she faced, there was consciousness without conscious thought. She knew that she had risen from her room and come outside and sat and let the dew drench her and the sun dry her off; and she was aware during every moment of the time, she knew, but what she was thinking of or seeing or hearing she could not say.

Or was it she? Was she the one who was staring hopelessly at the lake, watching its waves that rolled in like a miniature sea onto the rocks invisible at the foot of the cliff at the edge of the field beside the road off in the distance? Or was it that one of the others had left her shell there like a cicada's carapace, and was traveling somewhere else, invading another perhaps? Perhaps each of them, if there were in fact many of them, whatever "they" were, infected many bodies, and traveled from one to the other, or even were there behind the eyes of many others simultaneously, and she was thus somehow mysteriously connected to these other persons, who thought of themselves as only one something, and were actually many.

Her mind dwelt for a time on this puzzle, idly trying to picture how one of "them" was multiplied in many bodies, and a single body possessed simultaneously a host of "them." If this were so, what was a person? Which one was the real one? Because even one of "them" was not really single or one. It made no sense. But then, what did make sense?

Suddenly, as she sat there silent, something struck her almost with the force of a blow. The thought had occurred to her earlier that they might not be able to hear her think, and now the idea came as a revelation. Suppose they could not. Might not that mean that she could plan to outwit them?

But wait. She herself could not know what they were thinking; indeed, until this past--night, day, two days?--she did not even realize that they existed, if they did. But they seemed to know who she was and at least what she was saying; and as she thought back over what she could remember to have heard from the voices as they argued using her mouth to speak, they seemed to know also what she was feeling. Perhaps it was hopeless.

But what could it hurt to suppose that she could think in secret? If she did nothing to reveal her thoughts, if she spoke as if musing about the opposite of what she was thinking, if she feigned to feel what she should be feeling based on what she was speaking of and not what she was thinking, perhaps she could keep this thinking self private from them.

Her heart gave a leap of joy--which she immediately checked. They must not know why. "Death!" she said aloud, putting her plan into practice. "Some day I will die, no matter when! Perhaps years from now," she said, as she was thinking, perhaps as early as tomorrow, and went on, "but however far off, it will happen, and I will endure by keeping this before my mind!"

She thought that the elation itself would kill her, it was so violent. That she might actually be able to escape, and perhaps soon! If she were careful.

What to do? "I will go on as I have been living," she said, thinking, I will be able to kill myself. At the realization that this actually might come to pass, and soon, instead of feeling joy, she shrank in terror. How could one face the reality of oblivion, of nothingness? She realized that they could sense her fear, and wondered if she had given herself away. No, they will think that it is fear of facing my life--if they do not know what I think. And if they did? Then she could not kill herself, and she would indeed face a life of torment.

And this recalled her to herself. Certainly, nothingness could not be as horrible as that. To be forced to undergo what she had undergone four--five, now, was it? What did it matter?--days ago again and again. Nothingness is neither bad nor good; it is just that life recoils at confronting it. But her life had recoiled at confronting so much that she had rushed into; and so what was one more, one final confrontation?

She smiled gently, as something almost like peace flowed over her--and the smile deepened, as she realized what they would understand, that she was smiling in the same way as when she had made contact with a new Pharisee, a new hypocrite, an actor to be unmasked, and was waiting for him to creep through the veil of night to her house, telling himself perhaps he was coming to expose and publicly denounce her, all the while knowing that if he did so, he would be exposing himself for being there. But he would not admit that, even to himself, would he? Now she smiled in earnest, because she knew that in the course of the evening, while he was telling her that he came to rescue her, she would gently point out that, lofty as his intentions were, as soon as people knew that he had had any contact with her, they would think the worst--which, of course, was the truth; it always was.

He would, as everyone did, counter that no one knew he was there but she, and who would believe her? But she would hint that this was not true, that he was seen, a lie that he could not afford to disbelieve. She would also insinuate in the course of the night that her remarks about his body were not simply exclamations of delight, but evidence that she saw and could reveal things about his appearance that would be as damning as Daniel's trees against the old men.

But, she would remark, why need he be concerned? As long as he had induced her to sin, let them make the most of it and live for the night. She had as much to lose as he, and her lips were sealed. In his self-delusion, he would not then think that she had already lost everything that a person could lose, and would give himself over to pleasure; but the damage would have been done. When he left for home--and wife and children, often--he would realize that he was ruined if she chose to ruin him.

And of course this would bring him back, and back, and she would tell him that this time they should merely talk, since the previous time, he had taken advantage of a false reputation she somehow had. In his self-delusion, he would be willing to do so, at the start, since he would have cheated himself into thinking that he merely wanted to discuss the situation. He would know that this was as false as her protestations of innocence deflowered, as ludicrous as the Roman myths of the gods cavorting like beasts in heat; and yet he had to believe that it might just be true, as his own righteous motivations might be the real reason he had come. But in fact he would be so hungry for her that none of this would matter--and then after the release of his passion, he would wonder if he had indeed not led her even more deeply into sin. She would tell him that, whatever he had heard, he was the only one who made her weak enough actually to succumb.

And this, of course, would induce him--under her indirect guidance--to mention her to his self-righteous friends as having heard about this evil woman that someone should see and catch in the act and denounce, and he would rejoice at their interest, seeing that they were on the path toward the same degradation, and that it would not simply be he who had ruined her. And at the same time, the maggots of jealousy would be eating away at his rotting consciousness.

And the reason this had gone on for almost a decade now was that she had never used her power to ruin anyone's reputation; it was enough that she knew she could--or rather, that they believed it. She certainly had not wanted for money, though she asked no more than three times the price of the normal women of her sort. This was quite enough to keep her looking as she needed to look, and what other use had she for gold? It was the food of vengeance, no more. She had not looked at the treasure she had hidden in the hill behind her house for years now, though she knew that it was becoming increasingly difficult to fit more into the small cave.

Her life had its moments of satisfaction, she had to admit, if one hated men enough. She smiled again, realizing that if they knew what she had been thinking, they would rejoice, and to keep them off guard, she said as she rose, as if to sum up her musings, "But then, I must ready myself, and see to the damage that was done," thinking, as she said so, But in what way are men so worth hating that I should torture myself for them? No, to die is the only solution.

The first thing to do as to get out of these filthy clothes that she had been wearing, and to groom herself, pretending that she was now going to make the best of a hopeless situation. She went in, to one of the rooms that was in the cave inside the house--her private room and not the other one where she invited her clients when it was too hot or when the window made them nervous. She found herself another robe and undergarments, dropping what she had onto the packed earth of the floor and walking out naked to the little pool behind the house to bathe. That there had been a tiny stream running into the pool and out below had been one of the rarities that made the house so attractive--not to mention that it cost the small fortune she had paid for it. That and the privacy.

The water was icy, in contrast to the heat of the hill; and she realized, as soon as she immersed herself in it, the extent of the physical damage that had been done within her. "It will be agony," she said aloud, hoping that they were listening. "But it has been too long; I will have to bear it."

She cleansed herself carefully, gingerly, but thoroughly, thinking as she did so that even though the corpse could not go into a proper cemetery, it would be clean.

Her hair needed a great deal of attention, because it had been neglected for five days or more, and was matted and wild, in spite of the meager efforts at straightening it up she had made upon each approach of Judith. She washed and dried it gently with a cloth, then rose from the pool, dried her body with the same cloth, and girded herself with the underclothes and the fine linen garment.

The lamp inside the private room had almost gone out. She found the jar of oil and filled it, cursing Judith for her negligence, since this tiny flame was the only fire that was always to be kept alive; and with her house so far from any other, and with the impossibility in any case of anyone's giving her fire, letting it die would mean no cooked meal at sunset.

She looked around to see of there were other signs of Judith's carelessness, but could find none. She seemed to recall blood on the floor beside her bed, but when she went over to look for it, it was gone, and new earth seemed to have been tamped flat over the place. She could not recall that this was done, which meant that her apparently lucid moments were something of an illusion also; she must have been a clever automaton, doing and saying the right things without any consciousness of what was happening. The thought sent a shudder through her, and she almost fell back into the ague of before, especially since her body had been chilled by the pool, and was feeling the coolness of the room. But she refused to let herself tremble, and was able by force of will to restrain it. She walked about the whole house.

The furniture was all in order, and the stores of food appeared to be intact, with only the small amount missing that one would expect from having eaten for the several days of her madness.

Well, at least she had the lamp to reproach her with; often there was nothing at all.

Mary hated people of that sort, and she took out her hatred on Judith in any way she could, short of frightening her so much that she would refuse to come, in spite of her mother's condition and the wages that kept both of them comfortably alive. Making her angry enough to give up the service was apparently not possible.

As she went through the house, she was gathering the creams and brushes from their places and bringing them out to the window, where she had placed the lamp and the small but precious mirror so that she would have lighting from both without and by the lamp. She would have to be acceptable under both conditions, though the men, of course, would only see her in the dimmest of rooms. But there were times when it was necessary to walk by day--especially now, since she had at least to feign to go out to meet someone, so that she could bring herself near enough to the cliff to throw herself off before they realized what was happening.

First, she remedied one side of her face, and that first by the afternoon daylight; the sun itself had moved to the side of the house away from the window. Then she turned and worked on the other side by daylight, and afterwards, carefully looking in the glass all the time, corrected all by the light of the lamp, checking all the while so that what looked acceptable under the one condition did not make her look grotesque under the other, and also making certain that there was no hint of cosmetics, and all appeared to be simply the bloom of youthful innocence.

It was extremely difficult, and required a very critical eye. She had consummate skill in this art, unlike many who gave themselves over to what they called their "trade," who either could not, or had no concern, to do more than look like the masks that the hypocrites wore in their plays. Yet they too found their men; but with them it was obvious that nothing but necessity was responsible for their continued ability to survive; the men had no real desire to return--whereas in her case, she knew, there was a hunger in her clients far beyond this, a desire to talk with her, as men, they said, in Greece talked to their hetairai --a fact which gave her all the more opportunity to vent her hatred.

The hair took an inordinate amount of time, especially today. Very gently, she ran the brush down each of the long tresses, not pulling the tangles, but letting the brush work its way through them, separating each strand from every other, and imparting a sheen to it that only brushing, not applying oils, could give it. Her arm grew weary with the constant motion, which seemed to last for hours.

Finally, it began to take on the magnificence she knew it had, and she turned to the comb, and made it straight and long, with the slight wave it naturally had; a cascade of night, falling around her face and down past her breasts. She added a touch of scent to the hair behind her ears and let the comb take this down the full length of the hair, the odor that made men want to drown themselves in this velvet waterfall, an odor that complemented the sweetish scent that rose from the lamp.

The house had suffered from a lack of odors in these days; instead of spices and subtle perfumes of invisible flowers, she was aware of earth and vegetables and the ever-pervasive smell of burning olive oil mingling with the oak that was used for the fire on days when a log of terebinth or even one of imported cedar was not added for the delectation of the nostrils of clients.

Once she finished her hair, she opened jars and sprinkled drops here and there, carefully calculating which scent was to enhance which area of the rooms. The secret here was to make the odor unnoticeable, but to have the visitor walk in and take a breath in a kind of awe at the beauty he beheld, not realizing that it was as much with his nose that he saw as with his eyes. She enjoyed the enchantment that the whole effect of her dwelling worked in the men, and justified this to herself by saying that, the greater their anticipation, the greater power she had to induce remorse, while at the same time, the more the memory of the experience insisted to them that they could not live without repeating it, totally forgetting the anguish until once again they had come in and reached the point of no return, when it all came back to them, and they cursed themselves and her.

And then, to see how furious it made them when she feigned complete innocence, not understanding what could possibly be wrong, and drove in the knife by gently trying to persuade them to be reasonable; that if there was anyone wronged, it was she--they had come to her, after all, she was not stalking them.

She had grown skilled at stopping just short of the point where they would resort to physical violence, since in almost all cases, her clients belonged to a class which considered itself above that sort of thing. They knew that if she wished she could prove that they had been there--it became easier and easier the more often they came, because their hunger and their previous impunity made them more and more careless--and their ruin would be complete were she to denounce them to the Council for not only invading her home but battering her as she tried to fight them off. No one would really believe her, of course, but all would have to act as if they did, given the proof that she could bring forward; but the important thing was that the men knew it, and therefore submitted to the torture to the point just short of the uncontrollable rage where no consequences mattered.

Having satisfied herself about her hair and her face and the house, she lowered her garments, carefully this time, and saw to the rest of her body, which as usual, in spite of the tortures she could remember, held no bruises and not even any serious blemishes. Much as they hated her, they were careful of her appearance, just as she was careful not to go too far with her men, and for the same reason. Going too far was to replace longer satisfaction with a more intense, but singular one; and the prolongation of torment was the essence of true hatred.

Finally, she pronounced to herself that she would do, and resumed her clothes, putting away the jars and going back to the stool by the window, where she leaned hear arms on the sill and looked out over the countryside. She would do, perhaps for another fifteen years or so, before even art would fail her, before it would make her grotesque instead of alluring.

Fifteen years. Had she one day?

She had kept the glass by the window, and looked, as it were suddenly, into it from time to time, as if to surprise herself with her appearance and have a more objective assessment of it than that of the artist. Yes, it would do. It was not perfect, but what could one expect after five days of torment and neglect? Mainly, what it lacked was the full illusion of innocence. She could recapture some of that naivete, but no jars or ointments in the universe could now erase totally the knowledge that she had accumulated. She no longer seemed as she once did, as if she were about to plunge into an unthought-of adventure which might be glorious and might be deadly; it was simply not possible for her face to pretend this any longer.

With sleep, however, she would still be able to come close enough to deceive anyone but herself, at least for a few more years; her eyes would widen at the proper moment, her breath would have the delighted gasp when it was required; but there were the slight shadows now below the cheekbones that warned her not to overdo this or they would mock at her.

Still, it was amazing how often people--men more than women, because men thought that it was a female trait--read character into these little tricks of facial expression, which anyone with a little practice could summon up at will. She wondered why the hypocrites in plays always wore masks, since if they were to use their natural faces it would be much easier for them to make the audience laugh or cry. Perhaps in Greece and Rome, with audiences in the thousands, they needed them for those far enough away not to be able to see subtleties, with the megaphones behind the mouths necessary for the sound to carry. But here in Capernaum and even larger places like the Ten Cities, the audience was small enough so that masks were not necessary. But habit is a strong thing, she knew.

Even Judith, she thought as she began to realize that she would soon be here, even Judith believed nothing of the stories she heard about her, despite all the evidence corroborating them that she had to see to herself in her housework. Even her mother, who ought to know better. Mary was certain that, no matter how extreme her need and no matter how much more was Judith's offer than that of anyone else--which itself should have made a mother suspicious--Judith's mother would never have let her work for Mary had not Mary herself gone down to see her as she lay on her bed of pain, and commiserate with the lump of rotting flesh that she was, and assure her of her total concern for the well-being of both her and Judith, with a slight catch in her words, apparently fighting back tears at seeing her pitiful body, and then bravely taking a breath to go on. How could she believe something which not only was but had to be so totally false? Only partly because her need made her want to believe it; it was because Mary could make her believe it.

She toyed with the idea, as she occasionally had before, of how enjoyable it would be to seduce Judith, at least when she no longer needed her: Judith, who of all things, admired her, and sincerely believed her to be wronged by an unfeeling public "who did not really know her." How delicious to contemplate Judith's really knowing her!

Still, Mary ordinarily did not have much to do with women, because she had nothing particular against them; they were all they prey of men, who were the real wolves in this world; and she pitied those who fell with her into the same trap as men did. It made her feel unclean, whereas what she did with men made her feel powerful and vindicated. Yet on the other hand, it would be interesting to strip the blindfold from Judith. But, of course, if she did that, she would lose a good servant; and for someone like her, any servant would be hard to find, let alone a good one.

She suddenly realized that soon she would have no need of a servant, and at once felt joy and fear overwhelm her again. Perhaps tomorrow Judith would come and she would be no more!

Were they listening? Did they know? How could she dissemble? "No," she said to herself, "I will let Judith alone, at least for now, however much glee it would be to show her what she has done to herself by associating with me. I cannot afford it."

And now she could be heard around the bend of the path, making her way up the hill, as the shadows lengthened. On time, of course.

Oddly, now that she could see her, she felt a poignant longing and desire for her. It was a strange mixture of desire to destroy her, desire to possess her, but mostly a desire to be her--whatever that meant. If Judith were to make an overture to her at this moment, she would respond, and allow her to do anything she wished. But of course, if Judith were to make an overture, she would not be Judith, and anything attractive about her would vanish.

"You are late," she said, as Judith appeared in the doorway.

"I am sorry, Miss," said Judith, "but I think--"

"You think! You think! Spare me your thinking! I suppose you thought that the lamp had oil enough yesterday also."

"No, Miss. I was going to fill it, you remember."

"Then why did you not?" Mary could have bitten off her tongue, because as soon as she spoke she knew what the answer would have to be.

"You told me to leave, Miss." Judith was close to tears. "You said you would fill it yourself."

"I told you to leave because you had made yourself insufferable--as usual," said Mary, not daring to run the risk of saying that she had told her to leave because she had overstayed her time and having Judith reply that it was sooner than usual. "But since your memory is so good and mine so poor, would you then inform me about what I asked you to bring to eat today?"

"A bit of kid, Miss," answered Judith, taking down the basket that was on her head and showing Mary the piece of meat wrapped in grape leaves. "And I brought shallots and lettuce to go with it. And goat's cheese afterward. With the bread."

"Not barley bread?"

"Oh, no, Miss. Not with kid, as you said."

"Very well," answered Mary grudgingly, as she examined the meat. "It will roast, I think. Roast it in any case; I want no stew today of all days. Look in the back and find a few other vegetables--a cucumber, perhaps, and a bit of chicory to add to the lettuce--but very, very little, since too much of it makes things bitter. Insert the shallots into the meat as I showed you and cook them together."

"Shall I put some beans to soak for tomorrow while I have the fire?"

"No." No, wait, she would have to act as if there would be a tomorrow. "--Yes, why not?" she said. "Yes. Do you require that I tell you once again how to do it properly?"

"No, Miss."

"Remember the last time."

"But the last time, Miss, you had no complaint, I thought."

Another misstep. She must have had beans one of these past days. "By the hair on my head, if you continue to think, I will have to drown you! They were better than the time before, but you must give them more attention."

"Yes, Miss." Judith's secret little smile meant that she knew Mary was acknowledging that she had done it perfectly. It had taken her almost a year of anguish to discover that Mary was praising when the only complaint she had was that whatever it was could have been done better.

Mary looked at her with contempt. The pathetic tadpole, to glean comfort from the sort of treatment Mary gave her! Why did she not sell herself as Mary did, and instead of putting up with the thousand tiny humiliations she faced every day, earn enough money to--long every moment for death. Still, Mary would not change places with her even were she as innocent as she appeared--which was not possible. No one could be that blind; but she had to be to endure this torture. To be tortured was one thing, but to endure it and not even be a person . . .

"Why do you stand there, staring at me?"

"I am sorry, Miss." She turned to pick up the lamp and go outside to kindle the fire.

"Be careful with that!" Mary said unnecessarily. Everything she told Judith was really unnecessary, as the past five days witnessed. "And while the meat is cooking, take the robe in my room and the other things. They must be washed."

"Yes, Miss," she said, shielding the fire from the lamp, though there was not the slightest hint of a breeze. The sun was low already, and would be down just in time for the meal.

The sky outside, on the east over the lake, had turned purple. Mary heard the noises of Judith at the fire and the crackle as the meat began to sizzle. The smoke blew in her direction, and she savored the aroma of the cooking. Then she heard Judith by the pool splashing as she beat the cleaning-rock gently against the clothes and rubbed them in her hands under the running water of the stream. She would have added the slightest stroking with the bar of the mixture of lye and fat that Mary had bought from the merchant from far-off Thyatira, and Mary could picture the froth that the clothes were making on the smooth stone of the bank.

The sounds were just enough stir to make complete the sense of peace and rest that came into the room from the lovely evening landscape. It made one think that perhaps there might be meaning after all to the word Happiness. She smiled ironically, but did not repudiate the thought. Why fight the illusion when it was working within her? There would be time enough for reality.

"Miss . . ."

"What do you want?" Mary snapped.

"I had forgotten to tell you," said Judith, embarrassed at startling Mary, "and you said to tell you if any priest or man of the law came into the city."

"Oh, yes? Then one has come?" This might be an excuse for going out even tonight. Fate seemed to be playing into her hand.

"Well, it is not exactly that," said Judith. "This one is not a priest or a man of the law, but . . . perhaps he might be even more helpful."

"Helpful? What do you mean, helpful?"

There were tears in Judith's eyes. "Remember that you told me, Miss, that you wanted to know if any priest came into the area so that you could see him to get advice about your troubles." Mary could see that it almost broke her apart to have to voice the transparent lie that Mary had told her as an excuse for learning of possible victims. Yet at the same time, it was obvious that Judith so desperately wanted to believe it that she had almost convinced herself of its truth.

"What makes you think he will be better for me?" she said.

"They are saying that he is a prophet, Miss. They say that he has great wisdom, and is very kind." She continued in a fervent torrent of speech, "They say he cares nothing for a person's repute or for rumor, and is concerned only for what the person is in his heart, and has cured many diseases, and--"

"Why do you tell me all this, you cockroach? Do mean to say that I have some disease that requires curing?"

"Oh, no, Miss!" said Judith, shocked. "I was thinking of my mother. I heard that as he was passing through Nain a while ago, there was even a dead girl there that he brought back to life! So I thought that if I could let him see my mother--"

"You see what comes of your thinking!" laughed Mary. "You fool! You blind, benighted fool! Is your mother such a burden to you that you would listen to wild stories about magicians to free yourself from her?"

"To free myself?"

"Oh, I know. You think you love her and want to see her cured and happy. Twice the fool you for that, knowing your own heart so little! Even if he performed miracles, do you think he would bother himself with that old hag, unless she had mon--"

"Do not call my mother a hag!" cried Judith.

"Aha! Aha! I have found it! There is a chink in the armor after all, is there? You will not interrupt me again, you camel's turd, or you will lose this precious job, and then where will that hag of a mother be, prophet or no prophet? Yes, hag and three times a hag! You will listen to me, because no matter how little you believe it, I am doing you a favor!" She shouted this as Judith began to turn and leave the house.

"You came here this afternoon," she went on as Judith turned back, "full of high hopes. You planned to bring your mother to see that prophet, and then she would be cured, and instead of caring for her day and night and wiping up her blood and coming to slave for me, she would begin caring for you, and then you would be free to go out and find yourself a man and then become a thousand times more of a slave forever--or until he saw fit to throw you aside when some other fool worse than you came along.

"And you planned to make me happy by bringing me before that prophet also, did you not? So that I would learn not to hate men and would find myself a husband like all respectable women, and become as much a slave as you desire to be. You probably have a man in mind for both of us--oh, do not bother to deny it; I know that I am giving you credit for more imagination than you actually have.

"But I tell you now that you will fail in both your aims. And I tell you now so that when you do fail--and you will certainly fail, because you will try, I know, despite what I say--you will already have felt some of the disappointment, and it will not crush you. That is the favor I do for you.

"--But do not think that I do it for you. I do it because I detest fools, and I want to disappoint you myself; I want to be able to say that I foresaw what would happen, so that when it does happen I can gloat over you and make you miserable for not following my advice.

". . . Well?"

"May I go now, Miss? The meat will burn."

"Oh, go!--No, wait. This prophet. Is he here already? In Magdala?"

A small glimmer showed in Judith's eyes. "No, Miss. They say he is to arrive tonight, perhaps in the second or third watch. Simon has invited him for dinner tomorrow."

"Simon the Pharisee?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Interesting . . ." He must, she thought, be relatively important at that. But it was of no consequence; she needed nothing more than an excuse. Judith, she could see, was watching her. If she knew that this little announcement of hers would result in her not having an employer! . . . She smiled. "I suppose he will be coming on the road from Jerusalem through Samaria."

"I do not know, Miss. He is from Galilee himself, they say; from Nazareth, I think."

"From Nazareth!" Mary laughed. "A prophet from Nazareth! Do you know what the priests in Jerusalem would say to that?"

"I am sure I could not say, Miss."

"There now look, I have offended her again. Have you ever seen this prophet from Nazareth, that you are so attached to him?"

"No, Miss, but I have heard much and much of him. All of Capernaum is full of stories of wonderful things he has done!"

"Capernaum now, is it? I thought you said he came from Nazareth."

But he stays in Capernaum often; many of his students live there. --Please, Miss, the meat will be overdone."

"It is my meat. Do you know if he is coming from Capernaum, or Nazareth?" If he came from Capernaum, he would be approaching Magdala from the north, and Mary would not be able to meet him on the road. But if he came from Nazareth or even from Jerusalem, it would be from the south, and she could manage to be on the side of the road at the edge of the cliff ostensibly waiting for him, even edging over toward the precipice as if to see if he were coming.

"I know not, Miss."

"Very well. Go tend to your meat, and then come in and set up the table and the divan." Having no answer was almost as good as hearing that he would be coming from the south, since she would be able to go there as if to look for him. And she might even look for him.

--She could not do it. She would be too afraid.

Well, she would see. If she could steel herself to remember what faced her if she remained alive, she might in some moment of abandon be able to throw herself over. And if not? Well, there was this prophet, who would be a prize to seduce, if Simon himself had invited him to dinner, especially if he were a Galilean that had somehow acquired the reputation of a prophet. What a treat to unmask a man like that--and then perhaps hint afterwards to Simon when he appeared again that this prophet was another who was not as virtuous as he seemed.

Simon himself was doubtless going to try to trick him into betraying himself, if she knew Simon--and she did; how well she knew him! And if she knew Simon, this prophet, whoever he was, was no insignificant person. Simon would not waste his hospitality on anyone who was not about to make his mark on the world.

Of course, prophets were fanatics, people who often could not be induced even to look at such as Mary; and Mary could do nothing unless someone looked into her face of trusting innocence, if only to denounce her. She first disarmed, then demolished anyone who was that rash.

Well, she would see. If this attempt failed, she could try again. She wondered what she meant by "attempt": the planned suicide or the seduction. Which one of her was the one plotting this, and what was she plotting?

When thoughts reached this point, it was time to think no longer.

Judith by this time had the table set up and Mary lay down on the divan at its side, her left elbow on the table propping up her head, and ate, while Judith bustled about serving food and clearing away the dishes, washing Judith's fingers with a cloth between courses so that the tastes would not be confused. Mary preferred this to licking them, since it made Judith that much more a slave.

Mary made the customary derogatory remarks at her service, annoyed mainly because she could find no fault with what she was doing, though her attention was focused on the rapid darkening of the landscape outside. "When will the moon rise?" she asked. "I have not been paying heed."

"Fairly early tonight, Miss," answered Judith with some surprise. "It is nearly full, you recall."

"Oh. Of course, now that you mention it." That would be perfect. If the prophet came down the road, he would be sure to see her on the rise at the edge of the cliff, stepping out from the little coppice of young plane trees and broom bushes in a place she pictured to herself with some satisfaction. She would be facing south at that point, and so the moon would either light her left profile, which was her best side, or be full in the face, depending on when the encounter occurred. The very elements were conspiring in her favor.

When the dinner was over, Judith asked, "Will that be all for today, Miss?"

"Did you finish all the scraps?" snapped Mary in return. "I did not notice whether you were eating."

"Yes, Miss, thank you."

"Then I probably have not been poisoned." She looked with pleasure at the shock on Judith's face. "Probably." That would have solved the problem, would it not? "Doubtless you have some you kept aside for that mother of yours--oh, do not try to lie and deny it, I know what you do. The day I see you take some home without yourself eating, I will know to empty out my stomach."

She waited for a few moments for the bewildered Judith to realize the implications of what she was saying, enjoying the flush of embarrassment when she began to see what an enormity Mary was accusing her of entertaining. "Do not pretend you do not wish it," said Mary, fully aware that the thought had until this moment been as far from Judith's mind as the moon was from the earth. Judith made no reply.

"You will take something more home with you also. I wish to pay you tonight," said Mary into the silence.

"But it lacks two days to the Sabbath!" cried Judith.

"I know that!" snapped Mary. Actually, she did not. "But I wish to pay you now, in case--I wish to pay you." She rose from the divan and went into her room, taking the lamp, while Judith removed the table and placed the divan along the wall. She put the lamp on the stand and opened her chest. The whole first year that Judith served her, she carefully counted all the coins after she left, but never found any lacking, and lately she had not bothered, and even went so far as to give Judith money to do the shopping, which Judith did with as much husbandry as if it had been her own, and always returned her more change than she expected. She found the coins and returned.

As she put them into her hand, Judith protested, "But this is four shekels, not four drachmas!" She tried to hand them back.

"Nonsense! Do I not know what I have given?"

"No, Miss. It is, in truth!"

Mary saw that it was not possible to pretend ignorance; Judith would believe that she was stealing them. "Yes, I know it is four shekels. Waste--"

"But it is four times my salary! I cannot--"

"You cannot work for me if you persist in interrupting me! I give it to you for you to waste on that prophet of yours in the vain attempt to have him cure your mother. Otherwise, you would waste your whole wages and die of starvation, and I would not have a servant. Now go!"

"Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss."

"Go! Go! Go! You would thank me if I slit your throat! I cannot tolerate your gratitude! Hate me, cheat me, poison me, but spare me your gratitude!"

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