Read Online The Galileans: A Novel of Mary Magdalene by Frank G. Slaughter - Free Book Online
Authors: Frank G. Slaughter
Tags: Historical fiction, Christian fiction, Classic fiction, Magdalene, life of Jesus, life of Jesus Christ, Frank Slaughter, Mary Magdalene, Magdala, Joseph of Arimathea
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This girl was smart indeed, he thought, in choosing to dance naked before the revelers. Her slim loveliness would be a welcome change from the more opulent charms of the girls who usually entertained Pontius Pilate and his guests.
Mary held up the package she carried. She had not seen his smirk, or she would have been angered by it. “I have my dress here for dancing,” she explained. “Is there somewhere that I can change?”
“The entertainers dress for the performance in a room off the banqueting hall,” the slave explained. “I will take you to it and show your musicians to the alcove where they will play.” Through heavily curtained doorways on one side of the hall along which he took them came the sound of voices and laughter, the soft strains of the lyre and cithara, and the clink of glassware and cutlery. This was obviously the triclinium, and Mary judged that the doors across the corridor gave access to bedchambers.
The room to which she was ushered was small but tastefully arranged, with a door to one side giving access to the triclinium. An elaborate dressing table occupied one wall, complete with perfume and cosmetics, antimony to whiten the cheeks, kohl for the eyelashes, henna for toes and fingernails, and everything that a beauty would use in her boudoir. In an open recess hung a rack of costumes, some of them so diaphanous that they seemed not to exist at all. She had heard rumors that women danced in such costumes at the banquets of the Romans, while some were said to wear nothing at all. Now her startled eyes were seeing very real evidence that the tales were true.
Mary had not admitted to Demetrius or to herself that she felt any apprehension about dancing before Pilate and his guests. But now that she was alone, with the shouts of the drunken revelers coming from the next room, she could not swallow the lump that insisted upon rising in her throat.
Quickly, before her courage could desert her, she took off her dress and hung it over a chair. In a sudden burst of exuberance, she stretched her body luxuriously and whirled in a lithe dancing turn. Suddenly, though, she gave a little gasp and stooped quickly to hold her dress in front of her body. Only then did she realize that the lovely girl facing her on the other side of the room was her own reflection.
Timidly she crossed the room and touched the large mirror set into the wall, for she had never before seen such a thing. Her whole body was reflected in it. Hers was the lithe grace of the huntress Diana, but ineffably feminine nevertheless, and as she loosened her hair and let it fall upon her shoulders, the whole white length of her body seemed to take fire from it and glow with a warmth of its own.
Reluctantly, Mary turned from the adoration of her own beauty to open the package she had brought. She wished now that she owned a length of silken cloth to wrap about her loins for an undergarment, such as women were said to wear in Rome and the other rich cities of the empire. But silk was expensive, and so she had to wear her thin knit trunks—the kind worn by ordinary people, when they wore any undergarments at all. Over the trunks went a linen undershirt and then the silken stola, a sleeveless dress cut along classical lines and girt just beneath the breasts with a band of silver ribbon.
Some women wore broad girdles of woven metal mesh, or fine leather chased with a filigree of gold or silver design, but Mary’s slenderness needed no such disguise. The clinging fabric of the stola fell in straight silken folds from her waist to her ankles. Over the stola went the palla, a mantle usually worn out of doors, which she would drop as she poised to begin her dance.
There remained only to buckle on the light sandals, tying the thongs about her slender ankles, and she was ready. She scorned the cosmetics with which even young girls had begun to paint their faces, for her virginal loveliness needed no such artifice. Picking up an ivory brush from
Mary held up the package she carried. She had not seen his smirk, or she would have been angered by it. “I have my dress here for dancing,” she explained. “Is there somewhere that I can change?”
“The entertainers dress for the performance in a room off the banqueting hall,” the slave explained. “I will take you to it and show your musicians to the alcove where they will play.” Through heavily curtained doorways on one side of the hall along which he took them came the sound of voices and laughter, the soft strains of the lyre and cithara, and the clink of glassware and cutlery. This was obviously the triclinium, and Mary judged that the doors across the corridor gave access to bedchambers.
The room to which she was ushered was small but tastefully arranged, with a door to one side giving access to the triclinium. An elaborate dressing table occupied one wall, complete with perfume and cosmetics, antimony to whiten the cheeks, kohl for the eyelashes, henna for toes and fingernails, and everything that a beauty would use in her boudoir. In an open recess hung a rack of costumes, some of them so diaphanous that they seemed not to exist at all. She had heard rumors that women danced in such costumes at the banquets of the Romans, while some were said to wear nothing at all. Now her startled eyes were seeing very real evidence that the tales were true.
Mary had not admitted to Demetrius or to herself that she felt any apprehension about dancing before Pilate and his guests. But now that she was alone, with the shouts of the drunken revelers coming from the next room, she could not swallow the lump that insisted upon rising in her throat.
Quickly, before her courage could desert her, she took off her dress and hung it over a chair. In a sudden burst of exuberance, she stretched her body luxuriously and whirled in a lithe dancing turn. Suddenly, though, she gave a little gasp and stooped quickly to hold her dress in front of her body. Only then did she realize that the lovely girl facing her on the other side of the room was her own reflection.
Timidly she crossed the room and touched the large mirror set into the wall, for she had never before seen such a thing. Her whole body was reflected in it. Hers was the lithe grace of the huntress Diana, but ineffably feminine nevertheless, and as she loosened her hair and let it fall upon her shoulders, the whole white length of her body seemed to take fire from it and glow with a warmth of its own.
Reluctantly, Mary turned from the adoration of her own beauty to open the package she had brought. She wished now that she owned a length of silken cloth to wrap about her loins for an undergarment, such as women were said to wear in Rome and the other rich cities of the empire. But silk was expensive, and so she had to wear her thin knit trunks—the kind worn by ordinary people, when they wore any undergarments at all. Over the trunks went a linen undershirt and then the silken stola, a sleeveless dress cut along classical lines and girt just beneath the breasts with a band of silver ribbon.
Some women wore broad girdles of woven metal mesh, or fine leather chased with a filigree of gold or silver design, but Mary’s slenderness needed no such disguise. The clinging fabric of the stola fell in straight silken folds from her waist to her ankles. Over the stola went the palla, a mantle usually worn out of doors, which she would drop as she poised to begin her dance.
There remained only to buckle on the light sandals, tying the thongs about her slender ankles, and she was ready. She scorned the cosmetics with which even young girls had begun to paint their faces, for her virginal loveliness needed no such artifice. Picking up an ivory brush from
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