Mary of Nazareth (4 page)

“
I
SHOULD
have gone with him,” Lysanias said, swaying on his stool. “I stayed in the workshop like a frightened hen. It shouldn't have been Joachim defending Houlda. It should have been me.”

The neighbors who had crowded into the room listened in silence to Lysanias's moans. They had told him over and over that it was not his fault and that there was nothing he could have done. But Lysanias could not get the idea out of his head. Like Miriam, he could not bear the thought that Joachim was not here with him now, and would not be with him tonight, or tomorrow.

As for Hannah, she sat there stiffly, in silence, nervously creasing the tails of her tunic.

Miriam, dry-eyed, her heart pounding, was watching her out of the corner of her eye. Her mother's mute, solitary sadness intimidated her. She did not dare make a gesture of tenderness toward her. Nor had the women neighbors taken Hannah in their arms. Joachim's wife was not an easy woman to get close to.

There was no point in crying for vengeance now. All they could do was nurse their pain and meditate on their own powerlessness.

Closing her eyes, Miriam relived the drama. She saw her father's body huddled, tied and thrown like a sack into the cart.

She kept asking herself, “What's going to happen to him now? What will they do to him?”

Lysanias was in no way responsible for what had happened. She was the one Joachim had been defending. It was because of her that he was now in the cruel hands of the Temple's tax collectors.

“We'll never see him again. He's as good as dead.”

Echoing in the silence, Hannah's clear voice made them jump. No one protested. They were all thinking the same thing.

Joachim had killed a soldier and wounded a tax collector. They knew what his punishment would be. The only reason the mercenaries had not killed or crucified him on the spot was because they were in a hurry to tend to the vulture from the Sanhedrin.

They would want to make an example of him, which meant one thing: crucifixion. It was a foregone conclusion. He would hang on a cross until hunger, thirst, the cold, or the sun killed him. His death agony could last for days.

Biting her lips to hold back the tears, Miriam said in a toneless voice, “At least we should find out where they're taking him.”

“Sepphoris,” a neighbor said. “It's sure to be Sepphoris.”

“No,” someone else said. “They don't imprison people in Sepphoris anymore. They're too afraid of Barabbas's men. They've been chasing them all winter without catching them. It's said Barabbas has already plundered the tax collectors' carts twice. No, they'll be taking Joachim to Tarichea. No one has ever escaped from there.”

“They might also take him to Jerusalem,” a third man said. “Crucify him in front of the Temple as one more demonstration to the Judeans that we Galileans are all barbarians!”

“The best way to find out is to follow them,” Lysanias said, rising from his stool. “I'll go.”

Objections were raised. He was too old and tired to run after mercenaries! Lysanias insisted, assuring them that they wouldn't be suspicious of an old man, and that he was still nimble enough to get back quickly to Nazareth.

“And what then?” Hannah asked, in a restrained voice. “When you discover where my husband is, what will you do then? Go and see him on his cross? I certainly wouldn't. Why should I go and see Joachim being eaten by birds when he should be here taking care of us?”

A few voices were raised in protest, but only halfheartedly, since no one knew what was the best thing to do anymore.

“If I don't go, someone else will have to,” Lysanias muttered. “We must find out where they're taking him.”

After some discussion, two young shepherds were chosen. They left immediately, avoiding the Sepphoris road and cutting through the forest.

         

T
HE
day brought no comfort. On the contrary, it divided Nazareth like a broken vase.

All day, the synagogue was full of men and women, praying endlessly, talking, and above all listening to the rabbi's exhortations.

God had decided on Joachim's fate, he asserted. It was wrong to kill a man, even if that man was one of Herod's mercenaries. We had to accept our path, for only the Almighty knew and could lead us to the coming of the Messiah.

They should not be too indulgent toward Joachim. Apart from putting his own life in danger, his actions had condemned the whole village in the eyes of Romans and the Sanhedrin. There would be many who would demand punishment. And the one thought of Herod's mercenaries, pagans fearing neither God nor man, would be of revenge.

There would be dark days ahead, the rabbi warned them. The wisest course was to accept Joachim's punishment, as well as praying long and hard for the Lord to forgive him.

These words of the rabbi's merely increased the villagers' confusion. Some found them full of good sense. Others recalled that the day before the coming of the tax collectors, they had been prepared to rebel. Joachim had simply taken them at their word. Now they no longer knew if they should follow his example and take action. Most were disoriented by what they had heard in the synagogue. How were they to distinguish good from evil?

Lysanias lost his temper and declared out loud that when you got down to it, he was glad he was a Samaritan rather than a Galilean.

“You're fine specimens,” he cried to those supporting the rabbi. “You can't even sympathize with a man who defended an old woman against the tax collectors.”

And, sure now that there was nothing to stop him, he went to live with old Houlda, who was confined to her bed with a pain in her hip.

Miriam kept silent. She had to admit that there was a degree of truth in what the rabbi said. But she could not accept it. Not only did it justify whatever Herod's mercenaries did to her father, but it also implied that the Almighty no longer showed justice toward the just. How could that be?

         

T
HE
shepherds returned before sunset, out of breath. The column had only stopped in Sepphoris long enough to tend the tax collector's wound.

“Did you see my father?” Miriam asked.

“We couldn't. We had to keep out of sight. Those mercenaries were evil. What's certain is that he stayed in the cart. The sun was beating down, so he must have been very thirsty. The people of Sepphoris couldn't approach him, either. There was no way to pass him a gourd.”

Hannah moaned and whispered Joachim's name several times. The others bowed their heads.

“After that, they put the wounded tax collector in another cart and left the town. In the direction of Cana, according to the shepherds.”

“They're going to Tarichea!” one of the neighbors exclaimed. “If they'd been going to Jerusalem, they would have taken the Tabor road.”

Everyone knew that.

A heavy silence settled over them.

They all recalled Hannah's words. Yes, what good did it do them to know that Joachim was on his way to the fortress of Tarichea?

“At least,” a woman neighbor sighed, as if in response to everyone's anxieties, “that means they won't crucify him straightaway.”

“Tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, what difference does it make?” Lysanias muttered. “Joachim will have longer to suffer, that's all.”

They could all picture the fortress. A stone monster dating back to the blessed days of David, which Herod had enlarged and strengthened, ostensibly to defend the people of Israel against the Nabateans, their enemies from the eastern desert.

In fact, its real purpose for some time now had been as a prison for hundreds of innocent people, rich and poor, learned and illiterate alike. Anyone who displeased the king. A rumor, a malevolent piece of gossip, a personal vendetta—anything could lead to a man being thrown in there. Most never came out again, or else ended up on the forest of crosses that surrounded it.

A visit to Tarichea was a grim experience, despite the great beauty of the shores of the Lake of Gennesaret. No one could escape the sight of the crucified. Some said that at night their moans echoed across the waters like screams from the depths of hell. It was enough to make your hair stand on end. Even the fishermen did not dare go near, despite the fact that the waters closest to the fortress were especially rich in fish.

They were all struck dumb with terror, but Miriam said in a clear, unwavering voice, “I'm going to Tarichea. I won't let my father rot in that fortress.”

Everyone looked up. The deep silence of a moment earlier was replaced by a cacophony of protests.

Miriam was raving. She mustn't let herself be carried away by her grief. How could she get her father out of the fortress of Tarichea? Had she forgotten that she was only a girl? Barely fifteen, still so young she had not yet been married off. It was true that she looked older, and her father had the unfortunate habit of considering her a woman of reason and wisdom, but she was only a girl, not a miracle worker.

“I'm not planning to go to Tarichea alone,” she said, when calm had returned. “I'm going to ask Barabbas for help.”

“Barabbas the thief?”

Again, there was a chorus of protests.

This time, Halva, the young wife of Yossef, a carpenter friend of Joachim's, looked at Miriam and shouted over the din, “In Sepphoris, they say he doesn't steal for himself but only to give to those in need. They say he does more good than bad, and that the people he robs have deserved it.”

Two men interrupted her. How could she say such things? A thief was a thief.

“The fact is, these wicked thieves draw Herod's mercenaries to our village like flies to a wound!”

Miriam shrugged. “Just as you claim the mercenaries will attack Nazareth in revenge for what my father did!” she said, harshly. “What matters is that however hard they pursue Barabbas, they never catch him. If anyone can save my father, he can.”

Lysanias shook his head. “Why would he do it? We have no gold to pay him!”

“He'll do it because he owes it to me.”

They all stared at her wide-eyed.

“He owes his life to my father and me. He'll listen to me, I'm sure of it.”

         

T
HE
debate went on endlessly, until late in the night.

Hannah moaned that she did not want to let her daughter leave. Did Miriam plan to leave her completely alone, to deprive her of her child as well as her husband? For just as surely as Joachim was already as good as dead, Miriam would be taken by the thieves or by the mercenaries. She would be violated, then murdered. That was what awaited her.

The rabbi supported Hannah. Miriam was talking with the recklessness of youth as well as the forgetfulness of her sex. It was inconceivable that a young girl could throw herself into the mouth of a wild beast, a rebel, a thief like this Barabbas. And to what purpose? To get herself killed at the earliest opportunity? To fuel the resentment of the Romans and the king's mercenaries, who would be sure to turn against all of them?

They were intoxicated with their own fearful imaginings, wallowing in their own powerlessness. Although she knew they were all fond of her and wanted what was best for her, Miriam started to feel disgusted.

She slipped out onto the terrace. Filled with all the sadness of the day, she lay down on the logs that concealed the hiding place her father had made for her when she was only a little girl. It was no use to her now. She closed her eyes and let the tears well up beneath her eyelids.

She had to weep now, for soon, without anyone noticing, she would do what she had said. She would leave Nazareth and save her father. There would be no time for weeping then.

In the darkness, Joachim's face came back to her. Gentle, friendly—and terrifying, too, the way it had been when he had struck the mercenary.

He was the gentlest of men, a man they sought out to patch up quarrels between neighbors, but he had had the courage to do what he had done. He had done it for her, for old Houlda, and for all of them, the inhabitants of Nazareth. Now she had to have the same courage. What was the point of waiting for dawn if the coming day did not see you fighting the things that humiliate and destroy you?

She opened her eyes again and forced herself to look up at the stars, trying to sense the presence of the Almighty. Oh, if only she could ask him whether he wanted her father's life!

Something brushed against her, and she jumped.

“It's me,” Halva whispered. “I guessed you were here.” She seized Miriam's hand, squeezed it, and kissed the fingertips. “They're afraid and they're sad, so they can't stop talking,” she said, pointing downstairs, from where raised voices could still be heard.

Miriam said nothing.

“You're going to leave before dawn, aren't you?” Halva went on.

“Yes, I must.”

“You're right. If you like, I can take our mule and go with you a little way.”

“What will Yossef say?”

“I already talked to him. If it wasn't for the children, he'd go with you himself.”

There was no need to say any more. Miriam knew that Yossef loved Joachim like a son. He owed him everything he knew about carpentry. Joachim had even given him his house, two leagues from Nazareth, the house where he had been born.

Halva laughed tenderly. “Except that Yossef is the last man I could imagine fighting mercenaries! He's so timid, he doesn't dare say what he thinks!”

She drew Miriam to her, and went with her to the stairs.

“I'll walk in front, so they don't see you leave. We'll go to my house. I'll give you a cloak; that way, your mother won't know. And you can have a few hours' rest before we set off.”

CHAPTER 2

B
Y
the time they left the forest, the sun was rising above the hills. Far below, nestled deep in the valley at the foot of the path they were on, between the flowering orchards and the fields of flax, they could see the huddled roofs of Sepphoris. Halva stopped the cart.

“I'm going to leave you here. I mustn't get back to Nazareth too late.” She drew Miriam to her. “Be careful with this Barabbas! After all he's still a bit of a bandit….”

“If I even manage to find him.” Miriam sighed.

“You will, I'm sure of it. Just as I'm sure you're going to save your father from the cross.” Halva kissed her again, not a mischievous kiss this time, but a tender, solemn one. “I feel it in my heart, Miriam. I just have to look at you to feel it. You're going to save Joachim. Trust me. My intuition never lets me down!”

They had both been thinking, as they walked, about the best way to find Barabbas. Miriam had not tried to hide from Halva the fact that she was worried; she quite simply had no idea where he was hiding. She had confidently declared to the people of Nazareth that he would listen to her. Indeed he might. But first she had to get to him.

“If the Romans and Herod's mercenaries can't find him, how will I?”

Halva, always practical and trusting, had dismissed her anxieties. “That's the reason you'll find him—because you're not a Roman or a mercenary. You know the way things are. There must be people in Sepphoris who know where Barabbas is hiding. He has his followers, people who are indebted to him. They'll tell you.”

“If I ask too many questions, they'll be suspicious. I'll only have to walk the streets of Sepphoris, and people will start asking who I am and where I'm going.”

“People there may be curious, as they are here, but who'd go running to Herod's mercenaries to report you? You just have to say you're visiting your aunt. Say you're there to help your aunt Judith, who's expecting a child. It's not such a big lie. In fact, it's almost true, since she did have a baby last autumn. And when you see a likely looking person, tell them the truth. Someone is sure to have the answer.”

“And how will I recognize a ‘likely looking person'?”

“You can rule out the rich,” Halva replied, impishly, “and the artisans are too serious! You must have confidence. You're perfectly capable of distinguishing a treacherous person from an honest man and a vicious shrew from a good mother.”

Halva might be right. When she spoke, everything seemed simple, obvious. But now that she was nearing the gates of the town, Miriam doubted more than ever that she could extricate Barabbas from his hiding place and ask for his help.

But time was short. In two or three days, four at the most, it would be too late. Her father would die on the cross, charred by the sun, eaten by crows, jeered at by the mercenaries.

         

I
N
the early morning light, Sepphoris was waking up. The shops were opening, the hangings in the doors of the houses were being drawn aside. Women were hailing each other with shrill cries, inquiring about one another's nights. Clusters of children were setting off to get water from the wells, squabbling as they went. Men with faces still creased with sleep were leaving for the fields, pushing their donkeys and mules ahead of them.

As Miriam had predicted, people cast curious glances at her, this stranger entering their town so early in the morning. Perhaps they guessed, from the slow, cautious way she was walking, that she did not know the way but did not dare ask. Nevertheless, she did not arouse as much curiosity as she had feared. People sized her up, noted that her cloak was of good quality, then looked away.

After going down several streets, she remembered Halva's advice, and began walking with a firmer stride. She turned left here, right there, as if she knew the town and had a clear idea of where she was going. She was looking for a face that inspired confidence.

In this way, she went from one quarter to another, past the stinking workshops of the furriers, and the stalls of the weavers who were spreading draperies, carpets, and tapestries over long poles, dazzling the street with a riot of color. Then came the quarter of the basket makers, the tent weavers, the moneychangers….

On every face she saw, she looked for a sign that would give her the courage to utter the name of Barabbas. But, each time, she found a reason to lower her eyes and not linger. Besides the fact that she did not dare to stare at them, for fear of appearing impudent, no one looked as if they might have any idea of the whereabouts of a bandit sought by the Romans and the king's mercenaries.

There was nothing for it but to trust in the Almighty. She plunged into the increasingly noisy and populous alleyways.

Avoiding a group of men coming out of a little synagogue between two tall fig trees, she ventured into an alley just wide enough for two people to pass each other. Below the level of the pavement, a cobbler's den gaped open like a mouth. She jumped when an apprentice suddenly waved long creepers of ropes in her direction. His laughter pursued her as she ran almost to the end of the alley, which kept getting narrower as if about to close around her.

The alley led to a patch of waste ground strewn with litter and covered in weeds. There were stagnant puddles here and there. Hens and other fowl barely moved aside as she advanced. The walls of the hovels surrounding the area had not been whitewashed in a long time. Most of the windows were shutterless. A donkey with filthy fur, tied to the trunk of a dead tree, turned its big head toward her and brayed. The sound echoed, as unsettling as a trumpet raising the alarm.

Miriam cast a glance behind her. For a moment, she thought to turn around and plunge back into the alley, but she did not want to endure the apprentice's taunts again. On the other side of the waste ground, she could see two streets that might perhaps take her back to the center of the town. She moved forward, looking down at the ground to avoid the puddles and the litter. She did not see them coming. Only the sudden cackling of the disturbed hens made her look up.

They seemed to have emerged from the muddy ground. A dozen hairy, ragged boys with snotty noses and crafty eyes. The oldest could not have been more than eleven or twelve. They were all barefoot, and their hollow cheeks were as black with dirt as their hands. They were so badly nourished that, young as they were, they were already missing teeth. They were
am ha'aretz.
That was the contemptuous name the Judeans gave them. It meant morons, yokels, bumpkins, the wretched of the earth. Sons of slaves, who themselves would never be anything other than slaves in the great kingdom of Israel.
Am ha'aretz:
the poorest of the poor.

Miriam stopped dead, her face burning, her heart pounding, her head full of the monstrous stories she had heard about these children. How they attacked you like a pack of wild animals. How they stripped you naked and violated you. And even, people said with a thrill of hatred and fear, how they ate you.

This was a perfect place, she had to agree, for them to commit these horrors without fear of being disturbed.

They also slowed down. There was caution on their faces, but also the pleasure of sensing that she was afraid.

Having quickly judged that she posed no risk to them, they leaped toward her. Like cunning dogs, they surrounded her, hopping up and down, mocking her, their mouths open to show their small, hungry teeth, nudging each other with their elbows and pointing their disgusting fingers at her beautiful cloak.

Miriam felt ashamed of her own fear, her wildly beating heart, her moist palms. She remembered what her father had said to her once: “Nothing people say about the
am ha'aretz
is true. People make fun of them because they are the poorest of the poor. That is their only vice and their only wickedness.” She made an effort to smile at them.

They replied with their ugliest grimaces, waved their filthy hands, and made obscene gestures.

Perhaps her father was right. But Joachim was a good man and liked to see good in everyone. And, of course, he had never been in the position she was in now: a young girl surrounded by a pack of these demons.

She couldn't just stay here and do nothing. Perhaps she could reach the nearest street, where there would be houses.

She took a few steps in the direction of the donkey, which was watching them and wagging its big ears. The boys followed her, increasing their stupid cries and threatening leaps.

The donkey brayed angrily, showing its yellow teeth. The boys were not impressed. They immediately slapped its sides and imitated its braying. Then, all at once, they were crowding around Miriam, laughing at their own antics like the children that they were, forcing her to come to a halt again.

Their laughter wiped out her fear. Yes, they were just children, amusing themselves with what they could: a scared donkey and a stupid, scared girl!

Halva's words crossed her mind. “Find likely looking people.” Well, here they were; these were likely looking people. The Almighty was offering her the opportunity she had despaired of ever getting, and if Barabbas was what they said, well, she had found the messengers she needed.

She turned suddenly, and the children leaped back, like a pack of dogs afraid of being hit.

“I mean you no harm!” Miriam cried. “I need your help!”

Ten pairs of eyes looked at her suspiciously. She looked for a face that appeared more reasonable than the others. But they all looked the same: dirty and mistrustful.

“I'm looking for a man named Barabbas,” she said. “The one Herod's mercenaries call a bandit.”

It was as if she had threatened them with a firebrand. They ran about, muttered inaudibly, scowled at her. Some clenched their fists and struck comic poses, like little men.

“I'm his friend,” Miriam went on. “I need him. Only he can help me. I've come all the way from Nazareth and I don't know where he's hiding. I'm sure you can take me to him.”

This time, their curiosity was aroused and they fell silent. She had not been mistaken. These boys would know where to find Barabbas.

“You can, I know you can. This is important. Very important.”

Curiosity was followed by embarrassment. Their mistrust returned. One of them said in a harsh voice, “We don't even know who this Barabbas is!”

“You must tell him that Miriam of Nazareth is here, in Sepphoris,” Miriam insisted as if she had not heard him. “The soldiers of the Sanhedrin have imprisoned my father in the fortress of Tarichea.”

These last words broke what remained of their resistance. One of the boys, neither the strongest-looking nor the most violent of the gang, came up to her. His dirty face seemed prematurely aged in relation to his puny body.

“If we do it, what will you give us?” he asked.

Miriam searched in the leather lining of her cloak and took out some small brass coins: barely a quarter of a talent, the price of a morning's toil in the fields. “This is all I have.”

The children's eyes shone. Their leader, though, pretended not to be excited and made a scornful face that was surprisingly convincing. “That's nothing at all. And you're asking a lot. They say this Barabbas is a really bad man. He could kill us if he doesn't like people running after him.”

Miriam shook her head. “No. I know him well. He isn't a bad man, and he isn't dangerous to those he likes. I don't have any more with me, but if you take me to him, he'll reward you.”

“Why?”

“I told you: He's my friend. He'll be pleased to see me.”

He gave a cunning smile. His companions now crowded around him. Miriam held out her hand, offering the coins.

“Take them.”

While his comrades looked on vigilantly, the boy took the coins, his fingers as light as a mouse's paws.

“Don't move from here,” he ordered Miriam, his closed fist against his chest. “I'm going to see if I can take you. But until we come back, don't move, or you'd better watch out.”

Miriam nodded. “Make sure you tell Barabbas my name: Miriam of Nazareth! And that my father is going to die in the fortress of Tarichea.”

Without a word, he turned his back on her and set off with his gang. Before leaving the waste ground, a few of the boys shooed away the cocks and hens, which scattered in panic. Then all the boys disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared.

         

S
HE
did not have long to wait.

From time to time, a few people came along the alleys. None of them looked much more prosperous than the children. For a moment, their weary faces would light up with a hint of curiosity, and they would stare at her, before continuing on their way, indifferently.

The hens returned to pick at the ground around the donkey, which had lost all interest in Miriam. The sun was climbing in a sky studded with little clouds, heating the litter-strewn ground. The smell was increasingly sickening.

Trying to ignore it, Miriam forced herself to be patient. She wanted to believe that the children were not deceiving her and really did know where Barabbas was. She could not stay here too long; she was clearly out of place, and her presence would arouse suspicion.

Then, without warning, they were back. This time, they were not running, but walking toward her with measured steps. When they reached her, their leader said in a low voice, “Follow us. He wants to see you.”

His voice was as rough as before. Miriam supposed it was always like that. But Miriam noticed a change in his companions.

Before they left the waste ground, the boy said, “Sometimes people try to follow us. We don't see them, but I can sense them. So if I say to you, ‘Get out of here,' that's what you do. You don't argue. We'll meet up again later.”

Miriam nodded. They plunged into a muddy alley flanked by blind walls. The boys advanced in silence, but without any fear. “What's your name?” she asked the leader.