The hand of the King

THE HAND OF THE KING

Maria Pistola

To Silvana, my mother and my refuge.

With love to Emanuele and Jackline.

Copyright © Maria Pistola

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted

in any form or by any means without prior permission.

Epilogue

It was already hot that morning in Jerusalem.

Not the kind of heat that arrived gently, but the kind that pressed itself against the walls, the stones, the skin—as if it had always been there, waiting.

The light entered slowly through the narrow opening of the room, pale at first, then sharper, until it revealed everything without mercy.

Magdalene woke before she opened her eyes.

The nausea came first.

It rose from somewhere deep, familiar now, almost expected, moving through her body in a slow, steady wave. Then came the dizziness, light but persistent, enough to make the world feel slightly unstable, as if nothing were entirely fixed in place.

Her body felt heavy. Not from sleep, but from something sleep no longer touched.

For a moment, she didn’t move.

Not resting.

Not thinking.

Just delaying.

Because beginning the day meant something more than simply getting up. It meant stepping back into a life that no longer felt like something she had chosen.

She sat up eventually.

The effort felt disproportionate, as if even the smallest movement required negotiation.

The room was silent, except for the distant sounds of the city already awake. Voices carried through the streets. Footsteps. The low, constant hum of life continuing—indifferent, unchanged.

She stood and moved toward the basin.

The water, warmed by the early sun, ran over her skin. She washed herself carefully, almost with insistence, repeating the same gestures as if precision could erase what memory refused to release. Her hands lingered longer than necessary, pressing against her arms, her shoulders, her neck.

But it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

The scent remained.

Subtle.

Persistent.

Not only on her skin—but somewhere deeper, where water could not reach.

She closed her eyes.

She knew exactly where the nausea came from.

It wasn’t only the body.

There are choices that do not feel like choices. They do not arrive clearly, do not present themselves as decisions you consciously make. They begin elsewhere—in absence, in need, in moments so small they seem insignificant at the time.

A lack.

A fracture.

A moment of yielding.

And then, almost without noticing, that moment becomes a direction.

And that direction becomes a life.

At first, the body resists. It trembles, hesitates, remembers something different—something untouched, something that belonged to a time before. There is discomfort, rejection, a quiet voice that questions what is happening.

But the body learns.

It always does.

It adapts.

It obeys.

And over time, it stops asking questions.

It simply continues.

That is when something deeper begins to fade.

Not suddenly.

Not visibly.

But slowly.

Like a light that dims without ever going out completely.

Because something always remains.

Even in the darkest path.

A part that does not belong to what you have become.

A part that stays hidden.

Silent.

Waiting.

And sometimes—that is the most unbearable thing of all.

To know that what you are living is not entirely who you are.

And still—to continue.

Magdalene opened her eyes and looked at her reflection.

For a moment, she didn’t move.

Her face was calm. Composed. Almost untouched by everything that had just passed through her. Her long dark hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves, still damp, catching the light. Her eyes—deep, defined—held a quiet intensity that few people could meet for long.

She studied herself.

Not with doubt.

With awareness.

There was no innocence left in that gaze.

But there was something else.

Something sharper.

She reached for the small vial of musk oil and applied it carefully, letting the scent settle over her skin—stronger now, intentional. Then she darkened her eyes with practiced precision, enhancing what was already there, transforming presence into something undeniable.

Every gesture was known.

Every movement controlled.

This was not improvisation.

This was ritual.

She leaned slightly closer to the mirror.

For a moment, the two versions of herself seemed to overlap.

The one who remembered.

And the one who had learned to forget.

The difference was subtle.

But it was there.

Outside, the city had fully awakened. Voices louder now. Movement constant. The day had begun, whether she was ready or not.

There was no space left for hesitation.

That morning, she was expected at the house of Simon, a Pharisee who surrounded himself with men of influence and power—tax collectors, officials, men who spoke of law while living by entirely different rules.

Magdalene knew that world.

She knew how to enter it.

How to exist within it.

How to leave without leaving anything behind.

She had her place.

Her function.

Her role.

And despite her youth, she had already stopped imagining anything beyond it.

Not because she couldn’t.

But because imagining something else required a kind of hope she no longer allowed herself.

She straightened slowly.

Adjusted her dress.

Then she looked at herself one last time.

This time, she didn’t search.

She simply acknowledged what was there.

She was beautiful.

She knew it.

And in the world she had learned to inhabit— that was enough.

Or at least it was supposed to be.

For a brief moment, something moved behind her eyes.

A flicker.

So quick it could almost be ignored.

Not doubt.

Not regret.

Something closer to a question.

Then it disappeared.

Magdalene turned away from the mirror.

The day was waiting.

And she walked toward it without looking back.