Beauty Unveiled: Sisters of Lazarus, #1

Part One

Bethany and Jerusalem

Chapter 1

9 Nisan 3792

One week before Passover

Bethany

Slowly, cautiously, a young woman’s head and shoulders appeared around the open door, her face veiled except for the eyes. Eyes that darted around, searching for signs of life. Outside the door the sun—molten at midday—baked the packed dirt road; the wind—coming from the south—gave little relief. Beads of sweat shimmered across the delicate brow.

Martha? The whispered breath barely moved the fabric covering the lips. She stepped through the doorway and looked left and then right. Martha?

No response. No movement. No sound.

Filling her lungs with a quiet sigh, the young girl straightened and lifted a hand to release the veil covering her nose and mouth. She folded the sheer material to silence the tiny bells sewn along its length. Ears straining to hear footsteps, she bent over to ease the sandals off her feet and placed them in the basket on her arm. She carefully slid off the dozen gold bracelets on her arms—Why did I have to wear so many today?—and laid them on top of the veil. Confident that nothing would betray her presence, she stepped quietly into the house and eased the door shut behind her.

The thick cut stone of the house’s outer walls kept out the heat of the Judean spring. The front room reflected the wealth of the home’s owners. Used to entertain their frequent guests, it stretched the full width of the house. The walls were covered in smooth clay with bright frescoes of pomegranates and flowers; niches in the walls held expensive glassware and painted pottery. A large, wooden lattice-work screen stood near the arch to the right hallway. The floor was tiled with an elaborate mosaic of alternating circles of purple, red, and blue instead of packed dirt like those in poorer homes, and the ceiling was covered with stucco in raised swirled patterns. Lamp stands set around the room gave off the scent of perfumed oil. Along one wall, several low limestone tables held terra sigillata dishes; the glossy red pottery was a recent acquisition from Rome. Large stone jars beneath the tables held water and wine. Thick cushions were placed around a low table in the center of the room, where people would recline during a meal.

The girl turned toward the hallway on the left, which led toward the bedchambers. If I hurry, I can hide the—

Mary! It is about time you got back!

Startled, Mary dropped the basket she was carrying. It thumped sideways onto the central table, spilling her things as well as several cloth bags and a small crock with a tightly fitting lid. The crock spun lopsidedly toward the edge; Mary lunged to grab it before it fell off.

She breathed a sigh of relief and placed the container in the center of the table.

You scared me, Martha! She turned to face her sister. If that crock of honey had broken, it would have been your fault.

Martha stood in the arch of the hallway on the other side of the room, arms crossed, holding a cloth in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. It was obvious that she had been cooking; wisps of black hair lay damply across a brow smudged with soot, and dark spots splattered her plain wool tunic.

You have been gone all morning. Martha frowned and wiped her face with the cloth, smearing the soot across her forehead. I was beginning to think that you had gone all the way to Greece to harvest the saffron yourself rather than buy it in the local marketplace.

Color washed Mary’s soft cheeks. She shrugged as she bent to pick up the scattered items. Abrim’s booth was busy today. A troop of Roman soldiers stopped to buy some spices from him. He told us that Pontius Pilate had requested extra soldiers to help control the crowds that would gather in Jerusalem for Passover.

Romans! Martha gasped. Rushing across the room, she grabbed Mary’s arm.

Did they speak to you? Did they bother you? Did the—

Calm down, Martha. Mary removed Martha’s hand from the sleeve of her tunic.

I stayed away from Abrim’s booth until the Romans were gone. A slow smile crossed her face. Although I was close enough to see that several of the soldiers were very handsome.

Mary!

What? Mary was the picture of innocence. I do not intend to marry a Roman, but I do not mind looking at them.

Mary, Mary, Mary, Martha shook her head. You always push the boundaries. She took a deep breath. Well, I hope you were able to get everything I need. She dropped the cloth on the table and bent over to reach for one of the small bags on the floor—

Do not! Mary snatched the bag before Martha’s fingers touched it.

Her sister straightened up, eyebrows raised. Why not?

Mary squirmed under Martha’s penetrating gaze. Uh, I mean, there is no need. I will pick them up. Mary scrambled to get the other bags. After all, I am the one who dropped them.

But you would not have dropped them if I had not startled you. Martha picked up a bag, opened it, and poured several tiny light brown balls into her hand. Coriander, she said, dropping the seeds into the bag and opening another. Reaching in, she pulled out a brown, oval pod. Cumin. Good. I needed this to season the meat. She picked up a third bag; a spicy, sweet scent permeated the air as she pulled out a short, dried stick. Cinnamon. She picked up the last bag. This must be the saffron. She bounced the bag on her palm. Rather heavy for such a light spice. She opened it and peeked inside, and then looked at Mary, her gaze cold. Holding her empty hand in front of her, palm upraised, Martha turned the bag upside down.

A small mirror slid onto her hand. The polished bronze surface reflected Martha’s frown.

I do not remember any recipe calling for this ingredient. Martha’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

Mary grabbed the mirror from her sister’s hand. Very funny.

Where is the saffron?

Mary shrugged. I forgot it.

"You forgot it? Martha seethed. I sent you to the marketplace for honey and four spices—only four spices—and you forgot the saffron which I need for the date and honey cakes; yet you bought a mirror instead?"

Mary picked a small speck of lint from the sleeve of her tunic. There was a merchant from Egypt in the marketplace, and he was selling mirrors, she said. It did not cost very much.

How much?

Mary lifted the sleeve to inspect it for more lint.

Mary? How much did you pay for it?

A denarius.

A denarius? Martha gasped. She held out a hand. Give me the money. Or at least, what is left of it.

Mary glared at her sister as she handed her a small leather bag.

Martha opened the bag to count the remaining coins. "I have known you to haggle with a merchant over a copper penny, but a denarius? What would make you spend that much without thinking about it?"

I have always wanted a mirror, and it was the last one he had. If I had tried haggling over it, he might have refused and sold it to someone else.

Why did not you ask Lazarus to bring one back from his journey?

I did not want to wait.

I cannot believe you did that, Mary. A denarius is as much as most families earn in one day.

"We are not most families. Mary sniffed, crossing her arms. We are wealthy. We can afford nice things. Why should I not have it?"

It is vain! Martha said, thrusting her hands wide for emphasis. Vain and prideful! Since you were a child, you have been spoiled, allowed to spend too much time and money on your appearance! Look at what you are wearing. She pointed to Mary’s clothing. That yellow linen tunic is fine enough to wear on a feast day! The veil ... why are you even wearing a veil? You are not a woman meeting her betrothed husband.

The wind was blowing dust today, Mary retorted. I did not want to breathe it.

I doubt it was beneficial, said Martha, lifting the veil and holding it up to the light. "It is as sheer as a butterfly’s wing. I imagine you wore it to draw attention to your eyes.

All your life, you have thought too much about how you look, spent too much on your appearance. I understand Father spoiling you when you were a child—after all, you reminded him of ... she paused, her eyes misting, "of Mother. But you are older now.

Vanity in a child is one thing, but in—

It is not vain to want to look my best! Mary interrupted. Besides, as you pointed out, I am older now—old enough for marriage—and you have proven that a large dowry is not enough to get a husband!

Mary’s vision exploded with the force of Martha’s slap. She stumbled backward, arms waving to regain her balance. She stepped on a cushion, which slipped from under her feet. She twisted, arms out to break her fall, slammed into the side of the table, and fell, sprawling across the floor.

Martha gasped, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes wide in shock. Mary ... she sputtered. I ... I did not ... mean to ... I ... I am ... Turning, she ran from the room.

Mary lay on the floor, dazed. Martha hit me, she thought in amazement. Although she frequently made her sister angry, never before had she caused this reaction.

She sat up slowly and placed a hand on the floor to steady herself while her vision cleared and her head stopped spinning. She did not need the mirror to know there was a red mark on her cheek. There’ll be a bruise. She sighed. I will have to wear a thicker veil to cover this until it heals. She ran her tongue across her teeth; none felt loose. Well, that is a blessing. What husband would want a wife with missing teeth? She grimaced, recalling what she had said to Martha.

Looking around, she saw the mirror under the large table in the middle of the room. Sighing, she turned on her stomach and reached for it, but it was beyond her fingers. Squirming her head and shoulders under the edge of the table, she stretched her arm, felt the cool metal of the mirror’s handle and—

You will have to apologize.

Startled, Mary bumped her head on the underside of table. Ow! Pressing a hand to the back of her throbbing head, she edged backward and turned to see her brother Lazarus.

He was leaning—arms crossed—against the arch of the hallway Martha had just run through. He wore a simple white tunic and girdle and brown outer robe and plain leather sandals. He owned richer garments—and wore them when the occasion called for it—but around home, he preferred comfortable garments. While his posture and clothing might be relaxed, from his frown—an unusual expression for her brother—Mary knew he was serious.

Lazarus had been ten years old—and Martha thirteen—when Mary was born. In appearance, the two older siblings took after their father. Lazarus and Martha were tall, Martha even taller than some men. They had long limbs and slender bodies, and although Lazarus’ muscles kept him from looking feminine, Martha had none of the curves desired in a female form. On Lazarus, their father’s angular jaw looked strong; on Martha, it looked manly. Dark, straight hair sprung mane-like around Lazarus’ face, yet the heavy braid Martha wore aged her.

One thing separated the older siblings’ appearance. The spring Martha had turned thirteen, her skin broke out in red, pus-filled pimples. Their mother had assured her this was common for young people her age. Although they tried different remedies, nothing helped. Eventually the pimples finally receded, but left her face scarred.

Mary, on the other hand, looked like their mother. Shorter than her siblings, she had womanly curves, thick wavy hair, delicate features, almond-shaped eyes. Two years ago, when she had turned thirteen, her skin remained clear and soft as a doe.

Jacob ben Philemon and his wife Esther had spoiled their youngest child. Whatever Mary wanted—whether expensive clothing, jewelry, or trinkets—a flutter of thick lashes and a dimpled smile would send Jacob to the marketplace. When Mary failed to learn the usual domestic skills, Esther shrugged her shoulders and sent her daughter off to play. Her parents praised Mary’s loveliness to all who would listen, claiming, With her beauty and rich dowry, she will have her choice of any man in Israel as husband.

When Mary had just turned twelve, Esther died giving birth to a stillborn son. Jacob assuaged his grief by indulging his youngest child even more. When he died, a year later, he was holding the hand of my beautiful little Mary.

From the time she could walk, Mary believed that beauty had power, especially when she was in trouble. Like now.

Standing up, Mary straightened her tunic and head covering. She tilted her head so that she gazed up at her brother through thick lashes. Apologize? She pouted. Why should I apologize? She slapped me.

I know. I saw her just now, and she told me what happened. What she did was wrong.

Mary gingerly touched the back of her head and then moved her hand to her still stinging cheek. It hurts.

Lazarus straightened and crossed the room to her. Stop pouting, Mary; it will not work this time. He touched her cheek gently. This will heal, he said. Moving his hand under her chin, he lifted her face to peer into her eyes. But your words poured vinegar on an open wound in Martha’s heart.

Mary stared defiantly into Lazarus’ dark eyes and then dropped her gaze and sighed. You are right.

He lifted a finger to touch her nose. I am always right. He smiled. And do not you forget it.

She laughed. "How can I forget, O Wise One, when you constantly remind me? Her smile disappeared. Moving around the room, she picked up the scattered items and put them into the basket. I was wrong to say what I did to Martha, but she made me so angry, I spoke without thinking."

"Be not quick with your words, nor hasty in your heart to utter anything before Yahweh," Lazarus said, bending over to pick up the crock of honey and place it in the basket next to the spice bags.

It is not enough that you are always right, she grinned, lifting the basket, now you are quoting from King Solomon’s writings. What will you do next? Begin playing the harp and singing, like King David?

Lazarus threw back his head and roared in laughter. I have no talent for playing any instrument and some would consider listening to me sing to be nothing short of torture. However, I recall that as an infant in your bed, you fell asleep whenever I sang lullabies.

I fell asleep because I knew that if I did not, you would not stop singing. Mary ducked to avoid the cushion Lazarus threw at her. I am sorry, Lazarus, she said. Why do not I bake some of your favorite date and honey cakes?

"That would be torture! He laughed, lifting his hands before him in a sign of surrender. I am sorry; let us call a truce. I will not sing if you will not cook!"

Lazarus did not duck fast enough; the cushion hit him square in the face.

Chapter 2

Martha had run down the hallway and collided with Lazarus as he stepped out of the small storage room. He had grabbed her by the upper arms to keep her from falling.

Martha! Are you all right? What happened?

No ... I mean, yes, I am all right ... I, she had paused to draw breath and gasped, I slapped Mary.

What?

And Martha had poured out the whole story.

"I sent her to the marketplace for spices and honey for tonight’s meal. Instead of getting everything I needed, she spent some of the money on a mirror. We argued. I accused her of being vain and only concerned with her beauty.

She said she needed to be concerned with her beauty because I ... Tears filled her eyes, ...because I had proven that a large dowry was not enough to win a husband, she finished in a rush and burst into tears.

Oh Martha, he wrapped her in his arms, I am so sorry. That was wrong of Mary.

Martha pulled back, shaking her head. But Lazarus, I was wrong. Her eyes widened in horror at the memory, "I slapped her," she whispered. I need to apologize to her.

Yes, you do, he agreed, and you will. But not now. Go to your bedchamber. Wash your face and rest. I will take care of Mary.

But I need to prepare the evening meal. Abigail and her family will be coming for the evening meal. I want everything to be perfect for you and your betrothed wife.

There is plenty of time. He leaned over and kissed her forehead and then guided her toward the back hall. Now go.

†††

Martha stumbled down the hall, past the door to the courtyard, turned left, climbed the narrow stairs, and opened the first door. Closing the door behind her, she slumped against it and slowly slid to the floor.

She stared blankly around her room. The wood of the furniture gleamed from diligent care. The walls were covered with tapestries she had made. An intricately carved wooden chest that held her clothes was a gift from Lazarus, purchased on one of his journeys to Egypt. On a side table was a bowl and pitcher for washing and a comb for her hair. Her bed, a thick pallet on top of a wooden frame, was covered in linens she had woven.

She leaned her head against the door and closed her eyes. In her mind, she saw her hand lifting to strike Mary’s cheek. She saw Mary stumble backward. She saw Mary slip on the cushion and fall. Her hand lifted to strike Mary’s cheek. Mary stumbled backward. Mary slipped on the cushion. Mary fell. Slap. Stumbled. Slipped. Fell. Martha relived the scene over and over again, tears streaming down her cheeks, her stomach clinching with disgust at her actions, pain wrenching her heart at Mary’s biting reminder,

You have proven that a large dowry is not enough to get a husband!

She reached up and felt her cheek. It was not covered with a red handprint like the one she had left on Mary’s cheek, but—it felt rough. It felt pock-marked. She did not need a mirror to know she was ugly.

Since she was a girl, Martha had known she would never be a beauty like her mother and—later—her sister. She was too tall, her figure too flat, her features too angular. Her one beauty was her mouth: she had inherited her mother’s soft, full lips. They look as if they have been stung by bees, her father had told her once.

Determined not to bemoan her lack of beauty, young Martha turned her focus on becoming the godly woman King Solomon wrote about in the last of his proverbs. As a young girl, she read that proverb over and over again, until she knew it from memory.

Who can find a virtuous wife? She is worth more than rubies.

Her husband trusts her and lacks nothing because of her.

All her life, she will only bring him good and not evil.

She finds wool and flax and happily works with her hands.

She is like the ships of merchants and brings food from far lands.

She arises long before the dawn, to prepare food for her family and her servant girls.

She inspects a field and buys it; from her own money, she plants a vineyard.

She works diligently; her arms are strong for work.

She crafts goods that are valuable for trading, even working late into the night.

She spins thread and uses it to weave cloth.

She helps the poor and gives to the needy.

She is not afraid of the coming winter, for her family is clothed with beautiful garments.

She makes garments for herself that look like tapestries of rich silk.

Her husband is well known among the people and among