Mary of Nazareth (3 page)

“I was only there because you needed saving! They broke everything in our house and our neighbor's houses, my father's work, our furniture. All that, just so that you could show off!”

“Oh, be quiet! I've already told you, you talk like a child. Such matters are not for children!”

They had tried to talk quietly, but had both been carried away by the argument. Miriam ignored the insult. She turned to the staircase, her ears pricked, to make sure that there was no noise inside the house. Whenever her father got out of bed, the bed emitted a particular creak that she always recognized.

Reassured, she turned to face Barabbas again. He had walked away from the logs and was now leaning over the low wall, looking for a way to get down from the terrace.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Leaving. I don't suppose you want me to go out through your father's precious house. I'd rather leave the way I came.”

“Barabbas, wait!”

They were both wrong and both right, Miriam knew. So did Barabbas. That was what made him angry.

She went close enough to him to put her hand on his arm. He shuddered as if she had stung him.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“Not here.”

What an irritating habit that was, of never answering questions directly! All part of being a thief, she supposed.

“I know you don't live here, or I would have seen you before.”

“In Sepphoris…”

A sizable town, an hour and a half's walk to the north. You had to go through a dense forest to get there. No one would ever dare venture into it at night.

“Don't be silly,” she said gently. “You can't go back now.” She took off her woolen shawl and handed it to him. “You can sleep in the hiding place…Leave the trapdoor open. That way, you won't suffocate. And if you put this shawl around you, you won't feel too cold.”

His only response was to shrug and look away. But he did not refuse the shawl, and he abandoned his attempt to escape over the wall of the terrace.

“Tomorrow,” Miriam said, with a smile in her voice, “as early as I can, I'll bring you some bread and milk. But when it gets light, it's best if you close the trapdoor. Sometimes, my father comes up here as soon as he rises.”

B
Y
dawn, a thin, cold rain was falling, and everything felt damp. Unseen and unheard by anyone in the house, Miriam took a little pot of milk and a hunk of bread from her mother's reserves, and climbed to the terrace.

The trapdoor was closed. The wood glistened with rain. Making sure that no one could see her, she pulled on the plank. The panel tipped just enough to show her that the hiding place was empty inside. Barabbas was gone.

He had not been gone for long. She could still feel his warmth in the woolen shawl, which he had left behind, carefully folded. So carefully that Miriam smiled. It was as if he had left her a sign. A sign of gratitude, perhaps.

Miriam was not surprised that Barabbas had vanished like this, without waiting for her. It went well with the image she had of him. Restless, foolhardy, unable to settle. Besides, it was raining, and he must have been afraid of being seen by the people of Nazareth. If anyone had discovered him in the village, they would have been sure to connect him with the young men who were being hunted by Herod's mercenaries and might have been tempted to take revenge on him for the fear they had felt.

All the same, as she closed the trapdoor again, Miriam could not help feeling slightly disappointed. She would have liked to see Barabbas again, to talk to him at greater length, to see his face in the full light of day.

It was highly unlikely their paths would ever cross again. Barabbas would most likely want to avoid Nazareth in the future.

She turned away to go back down to the house, and as she did so she shivered. The cold, the rain, her fear and anger—it all came together within her at the same time. In turning, she had caught sight of the three wooden crosses that stood on the hill overlooking the village, and although she was accustomed to the sight by now, it never failed to arouse a sense of horror.

Six months earlier, Herod's mercenaries had hanged three men there, three “thieves” captured in the area. By now, the three corpses were nothing but shriveled, putrefied, shapeless masses half-eaten by birds.

That was what awaited Barabbas if he got caught. It was also what justified his rebellion.

PART ONE

THE YEAR
6
B.C.

CHAPTER 1

T
HE
torpor of early morning was shattered by the cries of children.

“They're here! They're here!”

In his workshop, Joachim was already at work. He exchanged glances with his assistant, Lysanias, but did not let himself be distracted by the noise. In a single movement, they lifted the cedar beam and placed it on the workbench.

Groaning, Lysanias massaged his lower back. He was too old for this heavy work, so old that no one, not even he himself, could remember when exactly he had been born, in a village somewhere far away in Samaria. But Joachim had been working with him forever, and could not imagine replacing him with a young apprentice. It was Lysanias, as much as his own father, who had taught him the trade of carpentry. Together, they had made more than a hundred roofs in the villages around Nazareth. Several times, their skills had been demanded from as far away as Sepphoris.

They heard footsteps in the courtyard as the cries of the children still echoed around the walls of the village. Hannah stopped in the doorway of the workshop. The morning sun cast her shadow across the floor as far as their feet.

“They've arrived,” she said.

The words were unnecessary, she knew. But she had to say them, to give an outlet to her fear and anger.

Joachim sighed. “I heard.”

There was no need to say more. Everyone in the village knew what was happening: The tax collectors of the Sanhedrin had entered Nazareth.

For days now, they had been going from village to village in Galilee, and the news of their coming had preceded them like the rumor of a plague. Each time they left a village, the rumor grew. It was as if they were devouring everything in their path, like the locusts inflicted on Pharaoh's Egypt by the wrath of Yahweh.

Old Lysanias sat down on a wooden block and shook his head. “We should stop yielding to those vultures! We must let God decide who to punish: them or us.”

Joachim ran his hand over his chin and scratched his short beard. The previous evening, the men of the village had gathered to give vent to their fury. Like Lysanias, several of them had decided they would give nothing more to the tax collectors. No grain, no money, no objects. Let each person step forward empty-handed and say, “Go away!” But Joachim knew these were just words, the hopeless dreams of angry men. The dreams would fade, and so would their courage, as soon as they had to face reality.

The tax collectors never came to plunder the villages without the help of Herod's mercenaries. You might be able to present yourself to the tax collectors empty-handed, but anger could do nothing against spears and swords. It would simply provoke a massacre. Or drive home your own powerlessness and humiliation.

The neighborhood children stopped outside the workshop and surrounded Hannah, their eyes bright with excitement.

“They're in old Houlda's house!” they cried.

Lysanias stood up, his lips trembling. “What can they possibly hope to find at Houlda's? She doesn't have anything!”

Everyone in Nazareth knew how close Houlda and Lysanias were. If it had not been for tradition, which forbade Samaritan men to marry Galilean women, or even to live under the same roof, they would have become husband and wife a long time ago.

Joachim stood up and carefully tucked the ends of his tunic into his belt. “I'll go,” he said to Lysanias. “You stay here with Hannah.”

Hannah and the children stood aside to let him pass. No sooner was he outside than he was startled to hear Miriam's clear voice. “I'll go with you, Father.”

Hannah immediately protested. This was no place for a young girl. Joachim was about to agree with her, but Miriam's determined expression dissuaded him. His daughter was not like other girls. There was something stronger, more mature about her. Braver and more rebellious, too.

The fact was, her presence always made him happy: a fact so obvious that Hannah never failed to make fun of him for it. Was he one of those fathers besotted with their daughters? Perhaps. If so, where was the harm in it?

He smiled at Miriam and gestured to her to walk beside him.

         

H
OULDA
'
S
house was one of the first you came to as you entered Nazareth from the direction of Sepphoris. By the time Miriam and Joachim arrived, half the men in the village had gathered outside it.

About twenty mercenaries in leather tunics stood a little way along the road, guarding the tax collectors' horses and the mule-drawn carts. Joachim counted four carts. These vultures from the Sanhedrin were aiming high if they hoped to fill them.

Another group of mercenaries, under a Roman officer, were lined up in front of old Houlda's house, holding spears and swords, all with an air of indifference.

Joachim and Miriam did not see the tax collectors immediately. They were inside the tiny house.

Suddenly, they heard Houlda's voice. A hoarse cry that split the air. There was a scramble in the doorway, and out they came.

There were three of them. They had hard mouths and the kind of arrogant expression in their eyes that power confers on people. Their black tunics swept the ground. The linen veils covering their skull caps were black too, and concealed most of their faces apart from their dark beards.

Joachim clenched his jaws until they hurt. Just seeing these people made him seethe with anger. With shame, too, and the desire to kill. May God forgive them all! They were vultures indeed, just like those that fed on the dead.

Guessing his thoughts, Miriam took him by the wrist and squeezed it. All her tenderness was in that gesture, but she shared too much of the father's pain to really calm him.

Again, Houlda cried out. She begged, thrusting forward her hands with their gnarled fingers. Her bun came loose, and locks of white hair fell across her face. She tried to catch hold of the tunic of one of the tax collectors, stammering, “You can't do it! You can't!”

The man broke free, and pushed her away with a grimace of disgust. The two others came to his aid. They seized old Houlda by the shoulders, making no allowances for her age and frailty.

Neither Miriam nor Joachim had yet discovered why Houlda had cried out. Then one of the tax collectors moved forward and they saw, between the tails of his black tunic, that he was holding a candlestick against his chest.

It was a bronze candlestick, older than Houlda herself, decorated with almond flowers. It had come down to her from her distant ancestors. A Hanukkah candlestick, so old that, according to her, it had belonged to the sons of Judas Maccabaeus, the first people to light candles in celebration of the miracle of eternal light. It was certainly the only thing of any value that she still possessed. Everyone in the village knew the sacrifices Houlda had had to make in order not to part with it. More than once, she had preferred to go without essentials rather than sell it for a few gold coins.

At the sight of this candlestick in the tax collector's possession, the villagers cried out in protest. In the households of Galilee and Israel, wasn't the Hanukkah candlestick as sacred as the thought of Yahweh? How could servants of the Temple in Jerusalem dare to rob a house of its light?

At the first cries from the crowd, the Roman officer yelled an order. The mercenaries brought their spears down and closed ranks.

Houlda cried out again, but no one could understand what she was saying. One of the vultures turned, his fist raised. Without a moment's hesitation, he hit the old woman in the face, projecting her frail body against the wall of the house. She bounced off it, as if she weighed no more than a feather, and collapsed in the dust.

Cries of fury went up. The soldiers took a step back, but their spears and swords pricked the chests of those at the front of the crowd.

Miriam had let go of her father's arm. She called out Houlda's name. The point of a spear flashed less than a finger's distance from her throat. Joachim saw the frightened look in the eyes of the mercenary holding the spear.

He could tell that this madman was about to strike Miriam. He knew that even though he had been urging himself to be wise and patient since the night before, he could no longer bear the humiliation these swine from the Sanhedrin were inflicting on old Houlda. Nor—may God Almighty forgive him—could he ever accept a barbarian in Herod's pay killing his daughter. Anger was gaining the upper hand, and he knew he would give in to it, whatever it might cost him.

The mercenary drew back his hand to strike. Joachim leaped forward and pushed aside the spear before it could reach Miriam's chest. The flat part of the head hit the shoulder of a young man standing beside him, with enough force to throw him to the ground. Joachim tore the weapon from the mercenary's hand and slammed his fist, as hard as the wood he worked on every day, into the man's throat.

Something broke in the mercenary's neck, cutting off his breath. His eyes opened wide in astonishment.

Joachim pushed him away, and out of the corner of his eye saw Miriam help the young man to his feet, surrounded by the villagers who, not realizing that one of their enemies had just died, were shouting curses at the mercenaries.

He did not hesitate. Still holding the spear, he leaped toward the tax collectors. With the cries of the villagers in his ears, he aimed the spear at the stomach of the vulture holding the candlestick.

“Give that back!” he yelled.

Stunned, the other man did not move. It was possible he did not even understand what Joachim was saying. He moved back, white-faced, slavering with fear, still clutching the candlestick, and huddled against the other tax collectors behind him, as if to melt into their dark mass.

Old Houlda still lay on the ground. She had stopped moving. A little blood ran down one of her temples, blackening her white locks. Above the angry yelling, Joachim heard Miriam cry, “Father, watch out!”

The mercenaries who had been guarding the carts were running to the tax collector's rescue, brandishing their swords. Joachim realized that he was committing a folly and that his punishment would be terrible.

He thought of Yahweh. If God Almighty really was the God of Justice, as he had been taught, then he would forgive him.

He thrust in the spear. He was surprised to feel it sink so easily into the tax collector's shoulder. The man screamed in pain and at last let go of the candlestick. It dropped to the ground, tinkling slightly like a bell.

Before the mercenaries could throw themselves on him, Joachim threw down the spear, picked up the candlestick, and knelt beside Houlda. He was relieved to see that she had only fainted. He slid his arm under her shoulders, placed the candlestick on her stomach, and closed her misshapen fingers over it.

Only then did he become aware of the silence.

The cries and yells had stopped. The only sound was the moaning of the wounded tax collector.

He looked up. A dozen spears, and as many swords, were pointing directly at him. The indifference had gone from the mercenaries' faces, replaced by arrogance and hatred.

Ten paces along the road, the people of Nazareth, including Miriam, stood unable to move, held back by the mercenaries' spears.

The stunned silence lasted for another moment or two, and then there was pandemonium.

Joachim was seized, thrown to the ground, and beaten. Miriam and the villagers tried to surge forward, but the mercenaries pushed them back, cutting a swathe through the arms, legs, shoulders of the boldest until the officer in command gave the order to retreat.

Some of the mercenaries carried the wounded tax collector to his horse. Leather straps were tied around Joachim's wrists and ankles, and he was thrown unceremoniously onto one of the carts, which was already turning to leave the village. The body of the soldier he had killed was dumped next to him. Amid much yelling and cracking of whips, the carts sped away.

The horses and soldiers vanished into the darkness of the forest, and silence fell over Nazareth.

Miriam shivered. The thought of her father tied up and at the mercy of the Temple's soldiers brought a lump to her throat. Although the whole village was crowding around her, she was gripped by a boundless fear. She wondered what she was going to tell her mother.