good news of miriam - the lost gnostic gospel of mary magdelene - chapters four, five and six

- 4 -

The rabbi had done his recommendation as to who might act as a lawyer to administer my small stipend to my aunt. I had already decided on a course of action before I had ever met the woman. I had sent agents ahead last year to scout out blood members of my original family.

The rabbi also was instrumental since I was so into preaching my “way”, he recommended that I rediscover the “way” of Judaism. He recommended this even though I was a woman.

While I knew some of the formal writing and formal language, I was getting more familiar with the everyday language of this occupied Jewish homeland.

The rabbi loaned me his nephew to be a tutor to myself and household staff. I now had rented a comfortable Roman style villa outside the Hellenistic town of the rabbi.

The nephew, Hiram, was delighted to no doubt be earning money and he seemed to love learning the ways and language of another culture.

Hiram was also an adept scribe. One of his many tasks was to copy many scrolls the rabbi had loaned to me. One room in my villa served as a focus of teaching and learning. The walls needed shelves to accommodate many newly acquired copies of scrolls.

With a temporary headquarters set up away from the family and political stress in Persia, many of my own documents were making their way via caravans. These items began arriving on a regular basis. There is so much knowledge and so little space.

I put no restrictions on Hiram’s curiosity and all scrolls in the library were to be freely read. Religious scruples no doubt kept the young tutor from delving too deeply into Persian literature and laws.

I did think it wise to take the rabbi’s offer of his nephew’s services. I had no doubt that the rabbi would report to someone on some level either Roman or at the Temple in Jerusalem on something as exotic as myself and my excursion here to this land. Best to be as open as possible, play the tourist. My plans had no planned closure.

I had been to the noisy smelly Rome place as a mere child. It did not impress me. That such a heap of marble and bricks was center for this mighty empire is a surprise to myself.

That aside, where would my son, if he loses his struggle for power, where would he export a dying religion? It is a dying religion. Here away from the center of religious belief I could look at it from a distance and be honest in some measure with myself.

Judea is not a place to plant another eastern religion. Egypt was a possibility. Strange eastern religions grow like mushrooms in and about Alexandria in Egypt.

Perhaps a good place to replant the flower of the great master’s wisdom would be further south in Arabia or around the horn of Africa. Best to get away from the Roman influence.

The mindset of Bedouins and caravan men are where the “way” began in the old crescent, the mother of civilization. These same type of men further south are perhaps our best hope.

Hopes fade over time. The daily routine of a growing household and my absorption of Hebrew culture made me forget who and what I as a person had been for many decades.

My son does not write to me.

My agents report gossip but no good line by line account of the struggle for power back in Persia. Perhaps there have been letters. Perhaps there have been seized by my brother in law’s spies, by the Romans…?

We had acquired a cook and two middle aged women to clean, who came in for the day. They lived in a nearby village. The cook had a child that she was still nursing.

My maid was now more or less head of the household staff. She sat in my bedroom most of the day sewing and humming to herself. She was parked near many of my secret scrolls and valuables such as jewelry. She did her task as head of staff with great subtlety. She would move about the house supervising and at every step calculating who was where, doing what and so on.

J.D., in a house full of women, and despite his unique physique made his digs in the nearby stable with our horses. Along the way we had acquired a small covered wagon which I intended to use in some limited travel around the area. No more camels for a while or riding on the back of a horse for these aging bones.

Rebecca, my maid, is quiet, obedient, orderly. I found her a recent widow near the beginning of the recent caravan trip. Alone and penniless, the caravan master was likely to sell her as a slave to anyone along the trail. Such is the fate of the helpless in a world of heartless men.

Rebecca’s husband was of the brethren. I wanted her returned to her parents. I paid the caravan master his price. She is officially my property. There are varying opinions within the brotherhood as to whether slavery is still a valid institution in a modern age.

I have wanted to tell Rebecca of my intentions to return her to relatives in Persia. My plans, as well as my future were uncertain at this point in time. Her heart was broken at the loss of her husband. Rather than make promises I may not to able to keep, I treat her with dignity and with no less respect I have for my daughters. If the fates are kind, she will return to her family one day soon. Until then, I am her guardian.

I look at Rebecca and remember the loss of my own husband at an early age. Our union had been blessed with a son and four daughters. All are grown now and married and some of my granddaughters are reaching a young and tender age when arranged marriages will soon take place. I miss my home in Persia.

I may miss my home but I had forgotten how much I love to travel. Travel is a luxury to most in the world. My earliest memories were of traveling to exotic places with my adopted father. Egypt, Greece, Gaul are no strangers to my fondest memories of childhood.

Which brings me in my mind to finally sort out the details of how I came to become daughter and wife of Magi.

My visit to my aged aunt was sad. I made necessary introductions. Hiram and one of the older women in my employ accompanied me to a very primitive house in a village of little more than three dozen mud huts.

All about the village were children and small goats. All the people of the village sat outside their houses. I was as curious about them as they were about me. I thought I had dressed down but the quality of my clothes seemed to be of more interest to the people than that of myself. They would have touched my clothing except it might have been taboo. I was a foreigner and Hiram was escorting me in his most formal and Jewish “I am a scholar” kind of dress and authority.

Hiram spoke with the elder of the village. He then explained to them that I was a lady of great learning and that I was a distant relative to all in this village. Cousins, sisters, brothers, it was all a muddle to me.

The only person I was able to see during my brief visit was my aunt and her daughter, my cousin. Hiram handled the matter with great diplomatic skills. If I had been blunt and said who I was directly to all in the village, they may have been offended. I had no choice when my natural parents, now dead, would have more or less sold me to the exotic stranger from the east who was my adoptive father.

Considering the great poverty in front of me, I was suddenly grateful for being spared such a life of drudgery. The women here were all wrinkled and aged before their time. I guessed that nobody in the village could read or write.

This was not going to be a one on one thing with my aunt. She was aged but I saw in here eyes my mother’s eyes or what I thought I could remember of her. I left here when I was three. The Magi had a great star chart with him and he had decided that I was somehow special because of the time and place of my birth.

The stars are sometimes friends and sometimes enemies to those who bow in relation to the power they think that these heavenly bodies hold. Through a lifetime of experience, I must say that in the majority of the time, the stars do not lie. Most often the stars are misinterpreted by the astrologer whose skill is everything in such matters.

Skill? It is an art to hear and to feel the beat of the universe embodied in these sacred houses of the gods.

The old woman mumbled something several times like I remember you. I do not think she had a clue. Her daughter, my cousin, sat nearby and did not quite know what to make of the whole scene. Although uneducated, my cousin guessed that I had something to do with someone having paid the village’s annual taxes to the tax collector. She said as much through Hiram who was much more adept at speaking and understanding a dialect within the local language.

If I wanted to contact a sister, I had to sort out everyone named Miriam, the same as my aunt, the same as my cousin, the same as my mother’s given name. As for brothers, well, I did not see the point at that moment. Suddenly meeting so many close blood relatives was a burden. They were strangers in terms of culture and learning and outlooks on life.

I endured my first and probably last meeting with my aunt. A door had been closed on all this when I was young. I should have kept the door shut. Still a part of me and my curiosity were satisfied. A thousand unanswered questions from my lifetime about my blood roots were put to rest probably forever.

They in this village were blood to me. I in a modest fashion was now helping them all out on the road of life. I did my duty in some sense though I was not quite certain what my duty now was for the future.

- 5 -

Traveling in the back of a slow moving cart with my female servant, I was silent. There was only small occasional talk about a bump in the road or such. The woman with me must have sensed how disappointed I had been at the end of the day. At this day’s beginning I had been so filled with hope and enthusiasm.

My father has shown me my astrological charts when I had been old enough to understand their significance. Of course my skills in astrology had to be honed over the years to a near perfection. The Greeks had their Oracle at Delphi to entertain rich curious tourists.  The Magi had their stars.

A Magi in transit on a horse or a camel and traveling in a small or large caravan was a person always explaining and teaching the faith in the simplest terms possible. The great master said that there were no great men born to be great. Greatness comes from within.

Any man or woman has the potential to reach near but not be equal to that of the creator. Our souls are here to learn and return to the presence of the creator with gifts of deeds and quests for knowledge and truth. That the simplest low born is equal in soul at the time of birth to any king or emperor. The possibilities are endless as to what the human race could do for the human race for good or for bad.

Thinking of the Oracle of Delphi, the Magi these past centuries are now looking for a country. Persia and Babylon are gone. The seed of a new civilization can be an old seed and can be planted anywhere.

These seem like desperate times for the priesthood of my race. We are dwindling. The gods of Rome are replacing the “way” everywhere that the great machine travels and conquers.

There was a time when my father and many of his high level cronies were on to something extraordinary in the stars. Asar had quit his quest while in Egypt. The brotherhood had named him successor to the now dead high priest’s post. He came back to Persia and bureaucracy and politics and further delving into the sacred texts.

Perhaps being an outsider by birth, perhaps being accused by my brother in law of not having the right blood and in so doing trying to discredit my son’s claim to the high priesthood, I had to reflect.

Seeing and touching recently my blood origins in the form of a tiny impoverished village in Palestine, I knew something my father, my son or brother in law did not have a clue about. That on these many journeys in decades past all over the world, the search for prodigies was not to locate a savior but to save the dying race of Magi. Old blood led to infertility and new blood saved the inevitable demise of a race for a few more generations.

Bloodlines are not the answer. The position of stars at one’s birth is not an answer. The creator in infinite wisdom had preordained so much but not all.

The faith of the “way” had to open doors and be given freely beyond race, blood or culture.

So often I had listened to the wise men talk of how the master has somehow reappeared every five to six hundred years to reset the mechanisms of the creator’s universe. Coming back would to give fresh energy for the “way” to continue on a spiritual level that would in turn give energy to the physical world.

The Hindus in India talk of reincarnation for everyone. In fact many think that the Buddha was a reincarnation of the great master Zoraster some five hundred years ago. The time might be right for another rebirth of the master.

As for myself, I neither believe or disbelieve in the concept of rebirth of the eternal soul into another mortal body. That my adoptive relatives only believe in the reincarnation of the elite. That if one believed in the concept of ongoing life to life karma, they might see my birth village and say that all my blood cousins deserved their poverty because of past life.

Camel dung!

The stars dictate nothing. Karma is unpaid debt. You pay it here or it dissolves into the ground with garbage. You only get one life then you return to the creator. Whether you are born rich or born poor is merely up to the whim of the fates. It all factors out in the end and it all comes down to a tyranny of chance.

The Magi traveling and searching and collecting and scoping out new territory is an energy thing. That is the coming wave in the faiths of men. In the far off exotic land of Cheena, that concept is something I have heard of. The energy of a body, of land, of a planet are things that sound modern and worth exploring. I push away all the sacred texts of Persia. I have spent a whole life searching for truth and today I found certain truth. I am of this strange land.

- 6 -

Settling into a quiet routine in my new home was easy.

I took part in domestic chores such as cooking, sewing, and cleaning. Aside from learning formal Hebrew writing and the spoken language, my greatest passion was in learning the strange dietary habits of Jews in strict observance of their laws. What to cook with what and what not to mix came to me in time. The blessing of a rabbi on pertain parts of meat and other edibles came with the territory. There was the absence of pork, even though it could be bought in the nearby Greco-Roman towns.

There were few real Romans here outside of those in Roman uniform. I was told by Hiram that Roman officers raised pigs as part of their family compounds and farms.

Outside of barracks life, those Romans of high military rank lived in houses in proximity to the other Romans who had retired from the military. Some military of all ranks took their pensions here where they finished their long stretch of service to the great whore on her seven hills as some call Rome outside of hearing distance of any Roman.

Small regions of houses and farms were populated solely by active and retired Roman soldiers. These areas seemed a logical thing to do while living in conquered and sometimes hostile territory. There is always better protection in numbers.

My hired staff and Hiram always disappeared on the Jewish Sabbath or holy day of the week. This sacred day was a time of reflection and always spent with one’s family.

My small family of Rebecca and J.D. were an island of peace and solidarity on the Sabbath. We had the house to ourselves. Talking in Persian, cooking in Persian were a small treat. I was careful to set up an outside kitchen when weather permitted so as not to upset a returning cook or Hiram on the day after their holy day.

The noise from the nearby Greco-Roman town was nil on the Sabbath. At sunset, on most other days of the week and at twilight or into the early night, the sound of drums or odd musical sounds or chants could be heard from the town amphitheater. Greek style theater was all the rage here. Everyone in that town went to theater. Even Hiram’s esteemed uncle, the rabbi, was occasionally seen at certain plays whose topic did not greatly challenge Jewish law or tradition.

The Greek plays were mostly about the human condition. The characters were human carrying out deeds with universal themes. I did not discriminate against the content of any play. I was curious about Greek theater. I had read some Greek plays in Persia but never saw any performed there. My father had taken me to a few plays in our travels. I think that in general, that he was like the rabbi, some plays especially the comedies, were safe enough to attend but having the Greek gods as part of the script was something that could contaminate one’s thinking in relation to sacred faith.

I did not want to flaunt my wealth or attract too much attention while visiting this land. I went to the theater once a week on those days that did the tragedies. These I thought had much more eloquent writing and themes to interface with. It was so easy to get lost in drama and forget one’s own problems.

Many times short comedies were performed before and after the tragedies. I think that these short pieces were a way to provide time to visit the facilities or for the walkabout venders to sell food and drinks. Young writers were always trying to establish themselves as valid writers. The short pieces were a means to achieve such a goal. These young writers were many times performers as well.

The tragedies performed were the old and known classics. Comedy seemed to be something more spontaneous and of the moment. With a careful eye or ear one could decipher veiled comments that could apply to the regimes in Rome, Jerusalem or Caesarea.

I made acquaintance with some ladies in the audience at these performances. Some were very well educated or at least could read and write. Gossip was many times the only thing these ladies could offer me in social conversation. I was grateful of the social intercourse and the companionship of women who seemed on the surface a bit more independent in tastes and views than the average lot that was the fate of so many women.

Seating at the amphitheater was very restricted. Men and women sat in separate areas set aside for both Romans and the natives.

I did befriend the young wife of a Roman centurion but she left with her husband when he got reassigned duties in another part of the country.

It was after some talking and reading and gossiping that I learned that I was living in what was considered a safe part of this holy land. The concentration of retired Romans and Greco-Roman towns hereabouts made it a safer place for Jews to avoid the direct contact or wrath of the Roman army or administration.

I was told that certain parts of the country hereabouts were full of “trouble makers” and “rebels”. I was also told that Rome acted swiftly and harshly with any sign of disrespect from any quarter.

For the Romans, everything was about respect. It was so much like a scripted Greek play of manners. The Romans did not invent anything as great as the theater but Rome imitated theater in everyday things.

I suddenly remembered my visit to my aged aunt. I crossed referenced it to the place of my birth which I had mentioned to some of these female acquaintances at the amphitheater. Some said nothing about the village. Others gave me and “Oh!” but did not explain. Then the centurion’s wife said that it was good that I was a wealthy widow and not living there because there had been bloodshed there more than a decade or two ago.

I suddenly realized that when I had asked about brothers during my past visit to my native village, the subject got changed. I had not pursued the matter. The visit had been a burden. I suddenly shuddered and asked Hiram one day to tell me about my native village.

He gulped and reluctantly but obediently told the story of Roman troops in pursuits of rebels identifying and targeting that village as a hot spot of rebel activities.

The Roman army force descended on a much larger village some twenty three years prior. The force came through with armed cavalry followed by foot soldiers. Women and children were killed in the rush to kill all the men. None were spared. Survivors were women and children working in the fields or those lucky enough to flee intact from an ensuing blood bath. That any man left alive or wounded was crucified and placed along the road as a sign to see how Rome dealt with rebels.

The life in that village came back slowly after that. Hiram explained that the village elder he had spoken to on the day of our visit was not native to the village. He had married into the village after the massacre.

Over a cup or two of wine I got Hiram to open up and he, his eyes were filled with tears.

“We are not in charge of our land. We are not free. We, the once proud people of Moses and Joshua, David and Solomon, we are virtual slaves in all things except in name…”

He also began to relate stories about the puppet king Herod that the Romans put over much of the land. “Herod is a Jew in name only” was a phrase uttered many times by my young scholar friend.

“It was a direct blessing of the Almighty that you had been taken away from that village as a child. That is what my uncle told me. That village is cursed.

“The old king Herod, father of the present bastard king, was mad. Crazy! Insane! He put villages to the torch the same as the Romans. Whims of paranoia and insanity had decimated the whole of the land.

“Yes, he rebuilt the Temple. But the Temple did not need rebuilding.

“If the house of the Almighty is the house of the Almighty, how could a half baked Jew improve the property!”

This was a subject that I knew I would be careful to not bring up again with Hiram. Such passion I had never seen or guessed in him before. There was a fire in his belly and soul. There was a man after all under all his sacred garbs.