It was evening, the sound of excited feet scurrying along the streets of Bethany could be heard beneath the stone arches of the small developing town.
Greek, Roman and Sicilian men crowded beneath the windows of a two story, white stone house. Even the proud Hebrew men stole glances at the house of pleasure as they hurried passed, quickly shifting their eyes to...other things.
The sun had just begun to set, the air was crisp and fresh, like ink spilled by a painter, a rich pink was splashed across the sky, arcing over the roof of the Hetaerae dwelling.
The anticipation could be felt in the air, heavy and nervous, like a bird hovering just above an open flower the men’s’ lust vibrated through the street. There were other houses in Bethany, other houses in the nearby city of Jerusalem, but this was the house that held the five most beautiful courtesans in all of Israel.
The five windows with their curtains closed thrilled the men below into a frenzy as they began to wave and shout, pulling out their money bags and shaking them in the air
With a collective rush of noise the curtains were pulled back by young servant girls and tied with golden chords. The fragrance came first, the expensive, cloying scent of spikenard descended onto the street, billowing like a length of silk caught in the wind, twirling around the men like a dancer, seeping into their senses like a toxin.
Than the small noises followed, the approaching sound of tinkling bracelets and bells, the small sound of a drum being struck rhythmically quickly followed the fragrance out of the window and lingered on the street.
And then they came.
Haughty and beautiful, the five hetaerae took their places at their windows, leaning and luxuriating, laughing and giggling coyly at the suggestions made by the eager men. Although their bodies seemed to exude care free contrariness their eyes carefully picked out the men with the biggest money pouches and the finest clothing.
The owner of the house had made sure they were all different, not a single one of them looked like another, and they each had their own flavor, their own style. The only thing they each had in common was the small alabaster vial they wore around their necks filled with pure spikenard perfume, the signature scent of the house.
Mara, Tall and dark, she had a Persian great grandmother and Hebrew parents. Her mixture made for a breath taking collection of un-usually beautiful elements. She was not curvaceously endowed like the other girls, and she stood taller than the rest, her long skinny frame making her an awkward oddity amongst the other women in Bethany. Yet it was the confidence with which she wore her abnormalities that made her the appealing creature she was, it was this ability that had also made her a hetaerae.
She always preferred to wear the short tunic of Grecian tradesmen rather than the long flowing robes usually chosen by the other girls. The short tunic was always tailored to her liking, made purely of silk, and usually a glittering pink, it revealed her long dark legs. Because she decided to trade grandeur for cunning practicality when it came to her dress she instead over indulged in expensive jewellery, her arms and ankles heavily laden with bracelets of gold, ivory and silver inlaid with precious and semi precious stones.
Next came Tiy, the Egyptian born beauty who took pride in her exotic heritage and did her utmost to live up to every little cliché that was attached with being an Egyptian woman. Although Egypt had been under Greek rule till only a few decades ago and was now a Roman province she chose to dress like that of an original Egyptian woman, adorning herself with the finery of a Queen. Painted eyes and braided hair she wore only Egyptian style jewellery along with wide three layered collars in-laid with lapis lazuli and emeralds. In keeping with her Egyptian style she wore a figure hugging pleated linen tunic and kilt, always pure white.
Lydia, golden Lydia, her uncommon blonde hair was left to hang freely about her shoulders, she was an eighth generation Levite and yet her honeyed locks spoke of a break in the traditional bloodlines, evidencing the mixture of Hebrew blood and something less desirable. The only Blonde hetaerae for miles, if not the whole of the kingdom, she was a favourite among the younger customers, the son’s of rich governors and merchants.
Her golden hair making her seem like just a child, denying her twenty two years, and although she was not Greek she claimed she was a descendent of Alexander the Great himself, and held him responsible for passing to her the blonde locks that were like a siren to a mans body, calling, luring him till his body caught fire with the passion she had to offer, a passion that was so womanly it contrasted her youthful appearance.
Avagail was dark, darker than most Hebrew girls, her hair was jet black with streaks of red throughout, no one could really work out whether they were there because she had been blessed by birthright with the unusual trait or whether it was the work of a well paid and tight lipped hair dresser. The only thing anyone knew was from her debut as hetaerae the iconic streaks of red were there, no one can remember if they were there before but all anyone knew is that they never faded and she always matched her clothing to go with her symbol. Always dressing in scarlet or blood red she was hard to ignore when she sat at her window.
But at the middle window, the place reserved for the highest paid and most beautiful hetaerae sat the girl who not only fed a man’s lusts but always guaranteed that he would fall in love with her.
She sat quietly, her regal beauty sitting like an ever present breeze around her, men called out the crude things they’d like to do to the other girls, but not her, they just watched, treating her like a queen. As the highest paid hetaerae in Israel it was her privilege to choose her customers, she didn’t have to give herself unwillingly any more, she chose which man had the honour of being her companion for the night.
She was not un-usual or exotic like the others, she had the beauty that a million other girls might have, but there was something about her that dazzled like a star. She was not tall like Mara, mysterious like Tiy, she wasn’t coy like Lydia or dark like Avagail and yet it was her light that shined brightest.
She was small framed, curved in all the right places, she had dark skin, but not so dark that she appeared foreign, she had hair that was brown like ebony, she always let it hang in curling masses down her back and around her shoulders.
Her dress was always a simple shift made of pale and demure colored silk, she simply didn’t care, maybe it was her contrary disdain for life itself that made her a desirable entity.
Her name was desire, beauty, lust and all the other things men saw when they looked at her. Men didn't remember her name, they remembered her body, her whispers, her scent.
Yet on an out of town call she had come across a different type of man.
As she sat at her window, her long oiled muscular leg dangling over the edge she remembered the sunny day clearly.
She had been called to Galilee to attend to a senator who was visiting a provincial ruler there. On her way home to Bethany she was to pass through a place called Korazin.
She reclined inside her litter as they ambled along the "the international transportation artery" but she could clearly hear whispers amongst her attendants.
HE was here, they were passing through the place where HE was.
she had heard whispers of this new revolutionary man that had been causing havoc for the temple in Jerusalem. She laughed at the thought of those hypocrites getting their robes caught up over the exposing truths this man was claiming.
Her caravan had trouble pressing against the crowds that were making their way in a steady stream towards the great mount at Korazin, the man named Jesus was there teaching.
Something inside her flicked at her spirit, she looked at the faces of the crowd passing by, the eagerness, excitement, the skepticism and the hopeful all blending into a wash.
"Elizabeth!" Called the courtesan from her palanquin, her maiden came scurrying up beside her mistress.
"Turn the entourage around, we're going to the mount"
Elizabeth smiled excitedly and hurried to pass the orders around to the rest of the caravan.
Stepping out of her caravan she inhaled the smell of grass and earth. People kneeled on the lush grass or sat on rocks, old and young, rich and poor.
She looked up the sloping hill to where HE stood. She couldn't see his face clearly from here, but she could see he was tall and strong. His voice seemed to be carried by the wind as he spoke of love, forgiveness, giving and heaven.
It was a long time before she realized she'd been kneeling on the hill like all the others, mesmerized by his teaching.
She turned around to see her entire entourage of maids, palanquin bearers, porters and the like were all kneeling on the slope, some with glittering tears of joy on their faces as they smiled at the freedom that this man proclaimed existed.
"You have heard that it was said love your neighbor and hate your enemy, but I tell you love your enemy and pray for those who persecute you..."
He spoke of loving those who she hated, could she learn to do that?
And now as she sat at her window being desired by men she had heard that this man who had spoken so clearly to her heart was coming to Bethany!
Walking away from her window she sat at her mirror and toyed with the perfume jar around her neck. At sunrise he would be at the city gates, she would go to him, if only to say "I Love you" and then leave.
Tomorrow was a new day. But little did she know, tomorrow she would go down in history.
But what could she offer him? She had nothing, she stood outside of the house where the son of man was dining. Unlike the other gatherings usually hosted at this house this one was seemingly quiet, still, relaxed with just small hint of fear, something was in the air, something so pungent, and yet so distant. The hetaerae could not place it.
Her hands on her hips the hetaerae sighed and felt defeated, her many bangles clattering against each other she looked up to the night sky in frustration. If only this man had been like other men, if only she hated him with a blazing passion like she did the many men who frequented her house.
The difficulties in seeing this man seemed to mount one upon the other, she could not invite him into the house where she lived, her place of business, she did not want to shame him in the streets by walking up to him in front of the many watchful citizens of Bethany. Instead she followed him at a distance to the house of the man known as Simon the leper
She’d followed him all afternoon, her make up had melted in the heat, the dark kohl she’d worn around her eyes had begun to fade with perspiration and the henna on her lips had become a faint pink. The perfume jar all Hetaerae wore around their necks had bled its scent like a tap in the heat of the afternoon sun and now that night had settled the heady aroma had diminished and left behind a lingering vapour of juniper.
She clutched the vial of perfume as she worried, a habit she had developed over the years. She’d traipsed behind him and his followers since midday, stopping in the shadows of an arch a street away, watching from behind a corner where she could not be spotted. At one point she had even walked along the roof tops, keeping her eye keenly fixed on the tall, dark featured man in white below her on the street, the only evidence of her presence was the silhouette of her figure cast haphazardly onto the market stall roofs and shade cloths.
All of this it seemed had been for nothing, she had stupidly decided to seek him out and yet had not thought to bring him any gifts, again she handled the vial of perfume around her neck, clasping its little alabaster frame in her fingers. She usually wore the vial under her shift, where it could not be seen. The little vial was a symbol of what she was, a beacon to all around her, it was a tool of her trade, it was so each man that visited her could smell nothing of the man that had been there sometimes moments before. It said simply to all who saw her, that she was a prostitute, she was hetaerae.
She had not always been so disdainful, she had dreamed of a different life than the one she now led. Little did she know, that although she was the most desired woman in the kingdom, her life had a bigger purpose than to satisfy the hungers of men, She was was destined to change history.
But before this, even before her life as a courtesan, she lived another life, not as the famous seductress of Bethany, but as the peasant girl....from Nazareth.
And it is the girl of Nazareth we are going to meet.
The pain still burned her little body as she huddled weeping in the corner, her knees pressed tightly together, she wasn’t sure about what had happened, but she knew it was wrong. The sound of dust being crunched under sandals grew closer and closer, she knew it was her father.
The wooden door swung open so fast and hard that it nearly shattered it’s hinges and fell off the wall.
Her father was a powerful man, he filled the doorway, casting an intimidating shadow over the little girl as she cowered in the corner of the kitchen.
He ran at her, he came at her fast and lifting his foot kicked her in the face. Her little head snapped back and with a thud collided with the mud wall behind her.
Putting one hand to her nose and the other to the back of her head she knelt with her face to the ground crying hysterically, half in pain, half in fear.
She heard the sound of one of the stools in the kitchen being moved and as she looked up her father hurled her mothers’ little wooden stool at her, crouching into a ball again she cried out in pain as the stool smashed into her little bony shoulders.
“You little whore! I should stone you AND that stupid bitch of a mother of yours! It’s her fault she gave me a whore for a daughter when I wanted a son!” He went to the fire place and picked up a small log in his hand, and with death in his eyes he marched towards her.
All she could do was watch as he raised his hand above his head and came down swiftly with a sudden crack against the side of her face.
And then she felt nothing.
She was dreaming now, or was she remembering?
Something was pounding against her and it hurt, she could feel big hands gripped around her tiny shoulders, when she dared to open her eyes all she could see was an enamel breast plate hovering above her face, the sound of all its leather chords and metal buckles creaking and clacking as it moved. Her hair was tangled and matted as she lay in the dust, the initial pain was gone now, now she just felt strange. She was crying, something was wrong, but she couldn’t discern what. Finally he lifted from her and she could see his face, his protruding chin with its gruff un-kempt beard, bushy eye brows and large dark eyes. She propped herself up on her elbows.
He smiled down at her, it wasn’t even a greedy smile, who would have guessed that, that same smiling friendly face was the same face had just abused her.
He didn’t try to stop her when she got up and ran, and she knew he wasn’t pursuing her. But she ran never the less, although she knew it was an impossible notion she wished that somehow, if she ran far enough, she might just out run that moment.
And then she woke up, still on the dusty floor of the kitchen. Pain shot through her body as she tried to move. As she pushed through the pain and rose up on her knees she was amazed that nothing was broken when she should have been dead.
From where she knelt she could see out the window, the sky was night time black, dawn was fast approaching. Something shuffled beyond the door to her parents’ room, and quietly the door creaked open and her mother crept out into the kitchen. Gingerly closing the door behind her, her mother pulled her shawl around her shoulders and tip toed towards her daughter.
“Good, you’re awake. We have to hurry, I’ve organised a way to save you, but we must be quick before your father rises.” Pulling at her arm her mother tried to hasten her daughter to her feet, but she winced in pain and tried to stand more delicately.
Impatiently her mother jerked her to her feet “quickly, you’ll have to forget the pain for now, just hurry”, limping behind her mother the two fled through the door and around to the back of the house near the window of the children’s bedroom where her sister Michelle was waiting, “Here, thank you Michelle” said their mother as she took a small bundle from Michelle. “Now make sure the children stay quiet, in an hour take them outside and into the markets early, before dawn, make sure no one, or nothing is here to wake your father when he is usually woken. We need him to sleep for as long as we can” Michelle nodded, she glanced at her soiled sister and then disappeared into the darkness of the house.
Her mother turned and taking her hand they made their way through the still streets. The frightened little girl had not thought till now to ask her mother what exactly was going on.
“Mother, where are we going?”
“To my sister’s house”
Opening the door to the small stone house the little girl and her mother hurried into her aunts house.
“Sister” mother took her sisters hand and hugged her, both turned back to look at the little girl with sad eyes.
She stood a little of balance, her hair fell in long curling masses around her shoulders, knotted and dusty from having slept on the floor. Blood that had run in rivulets down the side of her face after being hit with the log had dried in a horrible pattern like red lightning down the side of her cheek. Her eyes were dark and weary, but luckily nothing was too damaged.
With tender hands they gently but quickly undressed her, sponged the blood from her body, rubbed soothing ointments into her bruised shoulders and brushed the knots out of her hair.
Dressing her in a simple long tunic and wrapping a shawl around her head and shoulders they sat with her by the crackling fire place
“Your father is a cruel man, you know that, he wants you stoned, he does not care if people know about what happened with you and that soldier, his mind loves cruelty too much. And I am sorry, he’s always hated me, and in turn he’s hated the children I’ve given him. I know you yourself would not be shocked if he was the first to pick up a stone against you. That is why I have made a plan to save you. It is not the most desirable path you might choose for your life, but it is better than death. Today, at dawn there is a caravan leaving Nazareth and heading for Jerusalem, in that caravan there is a man who owns a house in Bethany and he needs girls to work there.”
“What kind of house mother?” The little girl still asked, even though she knew the answer.
“Daughter understand that you are ruined, no man can marry you now, and if you are discovered you will be stoned! Even if they take mercy upon you, no man will ever touch what another has already had....”
The little girl held up her hand, her mother was silenced. Even at twelve she knew what her mother had planned, and as much as it hurt her, she knew her mother was right. She would either die by the stone, or die lonely and old because no one would care for her. The only way she could live, would be to do the unthinkable, her mother had sold her, and she would go with the caravan, and this little Nazarene girl, would become a whore.
Eight years later.....
Two men passed her on the street and spotted the perfume jar around her neck, they saw her many bangles and layers of neck laces made from semi precious stones, the saw the ear rings of lapis lazuli and the diadem of carnelian worn on her head. One of the men regarded her with a somewhat curious disgust, muttering a curse in Greek to his friend as they passed her, the other man nodded obediently agreeing with the other mans outrage, yet he said nothing, he saw her, she saw him, he was a customer.
Self consciously she pulled her veil around her. What was she to do? Stepping into the enclosed privacy of an alley she leaned against the wall,
“how can I go before the son of man as I am, these common folk scorn me, even those who have known me, I have no right”
Yet something pulled at her heart, pulled in the direction of the house. she’d often been described as brazen, yet this was not the same, this feeling was courage. She knew what she must do, she slipped off the diadem, unclasped the lavish necklaces and removed the bangles from her wrists. Just as she went to discard the alabaster jar she stopped and looked down at the small innocent container. She would anoint him, surely his feet would be washed after such a long humid day, she would anoint his feet with the perfume, but she would only use a little bit, she still had to get back to work later that night.
Holding the jar in her hand she strode around the corner and walked through the open door of the house.
Walking through the simple and small courtyard she passed a servant carrying a platter of stuffed pheasant, the smell was delicious, yet she kept walking, she could not afford to be thrown out, time taken to stop was time wasted. Walking through an arch way she stepped into the midst of the dining room, she looked around the room at the faces of the men, some were Pharisees, men that she had known, other men she had seen in passing. But there he was, the man she had come to see, the man she had loved from a distance for … only a little while now. She loved him as these few that were around him had loved him. He looked at her, the word escaped her mouth in a whisper “Emmanuel”.
She walked silently around the low table to where he was reclining, as she passed various members she heard mutterings of disgrace on their breath. A woman who was breathtakingly beautiful sat towards the corner of the table, she watched her silently, knowingly, she heard one of the men lean towards her and whisper. “Mary..” he had said.
She looked down at his feet, “my lords feet” she thought, and saw they were still dusty. Why hadn’t they been washed when he’d walked in? she knelt down at his feet and realized she had no water, no towel, what would she use?
She had failed him, like her whole life had been a failure, and now she knelt before the king with nothing to offer but the gaudy perfume of a hetaerae. She began to weep and her tears fell on his feet, she knelt and kissed where her tears had fallen, as her tears streamed over her masters feet she dried them with her hair, her long curling raven locks that had been a part of her work for so long, the hair that she had hidden under when she gave herself over, now she pressed it to her lords feet as her tears washed away the dust.
He spoke with one of the other men, his tone was scornful, in a moment of insecurity she looked to him, was he angry with her? But the look in his eyes confirmed that he was not. Taking the vial she went sprinkle a few drops over his feet, remembering that she still had to work later that night and would need the perfume, but she stopped and looked at him, he was gazing at her, his eyes talking to her heart, she looked at him, and then looked at the alabaster vial, the symbol of her life, the beacon of her profession. “never again, you never need to again” a small voice said within her.
As if her hands operated on their own they smashed the alabaster vial on the ground and poured the perfume over his feet. It was broken, smashed in two, it would never hold perfume again. Without a word she stood and swept from the room, through the court yard, out into the street.
Throwing the remains of the alabaster jar onto the ground she gulped in the hot night air, doubling over she wept, she didn’t know what had happened, but something had broken inside of her, broken open like the vial of perfume. She stood up and began to make her way down the street, to where she didn’t know, she couldn’t go back to her house, where a man was most likely waiting.
She sobbed, as she slowly walked down the street. She heard the sound of foot steps behind her and she turned to see who was approaching. The beautiful woman who had been in the dining room hurried towards her and grabbed her hand,
“Sister, my name is Mary”
“Mistress, do not touch me”
“why sister? I have things to tell you”
“please do not touch me, and do not call me sister, for I am not worthy of the title, I am hetaerae, and a well known one here in Bethany, now please for your names sake leave me be….”
The woman stopped as she glanced down at Mary’s out stretched hand, both women wept, for in Mary’s hand was the small shattered remnants of her own alabaster jar.
“You see sister? His love broke mine as well”
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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 17.03.2010
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