‘Jesus rose from the dead after three days,’ said Caius, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world. ‘He gave the gift of speaking all languages to His apostles, to spread the word to all nations. And then He was lifted up to Heaven.’
I blinked. I had heard stories of the Roman Jupiter turning himself into a swan and Daphne being turned into a bush to escape Apollo. But surely no one really believed stories like that.
Another snort from Rabba. ‘Miracles! Miracle-workers were ten a denarius in Jerusalem back then. Tricksters, the lot of them. Though to give your Joshua credit, he didn’t charge for healing like the others. So people said,’ she added quickly. ‘But even the other miracle-workers never claimed to come back to life after they were dead.’
It seemed . . . unlikely. Thinking a crucified man was a god seemed as silly as believing any of the Caesars were gods, just because they’d ruled the Empire. God was . . . God.
‘How do you know this?’ I repeated. ‘You lived far away in Rome.’
‘The apostle Simon Peter came to Rome,’ said Caius. ‘He had been a fisherman. He followed Jesus and witnessed all His teachings and His Resurrection too. Simon Peter spoke the words of Jesus in many cities, then came to Rome to tell the Gentiles about our Lord. He preached in the public places where even slaves like my parents might hear him as they passed by on their masters’ business. He performed many miracles like healing the sick.’
‘Did you ever hear Simon Peter?’ I asked, passing Rabba the bowl with olives.
‘Just once, when I was carrying a message to another house. I could hardly hear his voice in all the noise of the crowd, but I will never forget it. His stories of Jesus’s words and miracles were passed from slave to slave, household to household.’
‘All of Rome should have followed Jesus if he really did do miracles,’ said Baratha.
‘More and more Romans became Christians,’ said Caius. ‘But just before we left Rome, a vast fire spread through the city. Much of Rome burned down. People whispered that the Emperor Nero himself had ordered the fire to clear away buildings to make way for his new palace. But the wind changed and the fire burned much of the city. Nero told the angry crowds that the Christians had lit the fire so they could rid Rome of unbelievers. Nero had Peter crucified. All the people known to be Christian were crucified, or fed to the lions too.’ Caius was silent, then added, ‘It is illegal to be a Christian now, in Rome or anywhere in the Empire.’
‘But you still are?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘My master never knew I was a Christian. If he had, he would have sold me to the mines long ago.’
‘Aren’t you worried we might betray your secret?’
He grinned. I hadn’t thought he even knew how to. ‘You tried to kill me, and then saved my life. Why would you waste my life now by telling the authorities that I am a Christian? Who would you tell?’
I turned to the goat. ‘We have a dangerous heretic here, a follower of a forbidden sect. What should we do?’
‘Maaagh,’ said the goat comfortably. She grabbed some more hay.
I looked back at Caius. ‘Why are you still a Christian if it’s forbidden? There are many other ways to worship in the Empire.’ Wrong and often silly ways, I thought, like believing the story of Jupiter turning into a swan or a bull, but I did not say so.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said slowly. ‘It is not just for my parents. It’s not because of miracles either. Partly it’s because I believe Jesus’s teachings: that we should do to others as we would have them do to us, and forgive those who hurt us.’
‘Ha,’ said Rabba. ‘As a child, I learned an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Far better!’
‘I . . . I just believe,’ said Caius simply. ‘I cannot not believe just because it would make my life easier.’
‘Are there Christians in other places?’ I asked.
He hesitated again. ‘I heard there were Christian groups in the cities the army passed through before we came to Judea, but I never had a chance to meet any. I need to meet other Christians. I need to learn more. Not all the Christians in Rome believed the same things. Some thought that Christians must keep all the laws of Moses, just as you do. Others say that Gentiles who are Christians, like me, only have to keep the Ten Commandments.’
Only ten, I thought. That sounded easy. We had hundreds to remember, from putting a fence up around our rooftop to not weaving flax in with the wool, and keeping separate pots for meat and milk, and —
‘Rabble!’ muttered Rabba. ‘Look at what all this messiahing has brought us to. They have lost us Jerusalem!’
‘Christians died in the siege of Jerusalem too,’ said Caius quietly. ‘The main Christian community was in Jerusalem. I had dreamed I might meet Christians there, learn what I should know. And I had to watch it burn . . .’ His voice broke. He looked down at the floor of the cave so we wouldn’t notice his tears.
Baratha moved over to him. She took his hand in her small one. ‘It wasn’t your fault the soldiers burned Jerusalem. Was it, Judith?’
‘No,’ I said.
One girl could not save a village. One slave could not save Jerusalem.
Rabba cleared her throat. ‘Well,’ she muttered, peering at him. At last she added, ‘They said that James the Just did good work among the poor. And Stephen too, until they stoned him for blasphemy and he died. I did hear that about the Christians in Jerusalem.’
It didn’t seem that being a Christian was particularly safe. But then no one in Judea was safe these days.
‘Thank you, Wise Mother,’ said Caius gratefully.
‘Would you like some dried apples?’ asked Baratha. She reached towards a big amphora. ‘They’re very good.’
I smiled. Baratha still believed that figs and apples could make anybody glad. ‘You’ve had enough fruit today,’ I said, and hugged her. ‘It’s time to sleep now.’
She clambered back up to her pallet.
I looked at Caius. If he believed in forgiving your enemies, he might have forgiven me for trying to kill him. On the other hand, he might steal my knife and run away with all he could carry. Or slit our throats and take the goat. But if he did, it wouldn’t be tonight.
‘Do you want anything?’ I asked. ‘The chamberpot? Another goatskin? Should I bandage your leg again?’
‘No, thank you,’ he said quickly. He turned to Rabba. ‘Wise Mother, could you tell me more about Mary — Maryiam, I mean — Anything! Was she beautiful? What was her life like? You must remember something.’
‘I need to sleep,’ said Rabba. ‘It is a hard time for an old woman.’
She curled herself around Baratha’s body and turned her back on him and his questions.
Rabba recited the Shabbat prayers the next morning and afternoon, and so did Baratha and I. They were in our own language, which Caius didn’t understand. I saw him whisper his own prayers, in Latin, I supposed. I didn’t understand his either.
In the village, the men met to pray and discuss the law every Shabbat, in the house of Shimeon the carpenter. Sometimes we girls and women listened from the courtyard to learn and understand. But not since the men had all gone to fight. Never again, I thought. I realised I hardly remembered what Father looked like, or the sound of his voice. The Romans had even robbed me of memories of Father.
All day we waited inside the cave, wondering if we’d hear Roman voices again up on the cliff, or searching the wadi — for Caius’s body perhaps, or firewood, or even looking for storerooms like ours. But no one came. The Romans really had gone.
I don’t think we ate much that day, except for the goat, who munched the grass I’d picked and drank from her bowl and bleated angrily now and then as her udder was full.
We had lost too much to eat or drink: not just our family, nor our land, but our past too. With Jerusalem lost and the Temple destroyed, we had lost the heritage we’d built up when Moses led our people here from Egypt. Now the Romans had led those who had survived away from Judea. E
xcept for us, and perhaps a few others.
We had lost our future too. All we had were the shadows in this cave, the stores, each other.
A year before, a week before, Baratha and I would have been full of questions for Caius, for he had seen Rome and other places. He would have stories of Jerusalem even more exotic than Rabba’s.
But Rabba would tell us no more stories of Jerusalem, I realised. Nor would she listen to them. For Jerusalem was gone.
Chapter 14
At last the sunlight faded from the window in the cave. The first star shone. The Shabbat day of prayer and rest was done, and I had work to do again.
I moved quickly to the goat, who glared at me with narrow eyes and winced as I began to milk her.
‘Can we light a fire?’ asked Baratha. Her voice was small, almost a whimper.
‘I’m busy,’ I said as the goat tried to kick the milk pot over again.
‘I’ll light one,’ said Caius.
To my surprise, he dragged himself off the goatskin, over to where I had piled the wood and tinder, gathered the kindling and struck the spark as if he had done it a thousand times before. I supposed he had, as servant to his master. They’d need a new fire each time they made camp. He was much faster at it than I was.
The fire flared, with good red flames. I wished we had some meat to roast. Tomorrow, when I went up to the village, I’d try to get a pigeon at least, or some sparrows. A slingshot needed to be swift to hit sparrows. Mine was swift.
I would have liked to mix carob powder into the milk, to make a hot sweet drink. But carob must be ground, like flour, and we had no millstones or quern. Maybe I’d find millstones in the village tomorrow.
I hoped the Romans had gone forever. I hoped the road opened up and swallowed them, like the Red Sea had swallowed Pharaoh’s army. I hoped their ships sank and whales swallowed them, like the whale had swallowed Jonah . . .
My hand shook so much with hatred that the milk almost spilled. I stopped imagining and stirred some honey into the pot, then added some parched barley to thicken the milk.
We passed the pot around, each drinking in turn while the fire flickered. It was good to feel warm again, inside and out. Although loss still burned like a hot coal inside us all.
Slowly, as I sipped the sweet milk, then passed it to Baratha, I felt gratitude as well. For my little sister was alive, and Rabba too, who had saved us, even if only to care for her.
I was even grateful to Caius for lighting the fire. I didn’t think he’d cut our throats now. Probably. I’d sleep with my knife under my pallet, just in case, now he could move despite his leg.
I knew the Romans were far away as soon as I stepped out of the cave the next morning. It wasn’t just the lack of voices and the sounds of metal clanging. Birds sang, no longer scared by the presence of so many people. Up on the clifftop a small herd of deer grazed among the saltbush, too far away for me to hit with my slingshot.
I must still go carefully, I thought. A few Romans might have lingered to collect the last things of value in our village; or there might be injured men, like Caius, still able to grab me.
I tethered the goat outside, then emptied the chamberpots and the washing water. We ate our dried parched barley soaked in goat’s milk, dates and raisins, then I carried Rabba into the sunlight. Caius dragged himself to the cave entrance.
Baratha wanted to come with me, but I gave her the job of picking extra grass for the goat to eat, as well as to dry for winter. I warned her not to go out of sight of Rabba and to run for the cave if she heard voices. There would be things a child should not see at our village. I didn’t want Baratha to have to share my nightmares.
There seemed to be two of me climbing up the wadi. One was grieving and scared of what I would see when I reached the top of the ridge and our village. The other had wings of joy in the sunlight and fresh air. The cave had become a prison in the last two days, not just a refuge.
I’ve grown used to freedom, I thought, herding the sheep by myself each day. Poor sheep, gone to the Roman soldiers’ feast. I’d loved my sheep, even though I knew that when they grew too old, they would be eaten. But somehow it is different to eat one or two sheep a year, rather than to kill them all. Though it might not seem so different if you were a sheep.
I could only think things like that to myself. Ma would have thought me strange if I talked about what a sheep might feel. But now I was free again . . .
I stopped, horrified at the thought. I missed Ma with a dagger ache, and Sarah and Rakeal too. My mind felt slashed by a sword when I thought of all the people our village had lost. I shouldn’t be glad just because I had time for unsuitable ideas, or could use my slingshot without anyone clucking in disapproval, or telling me I had brown legs or leaves in my hair or what a virtuous maiden ought to do.
I halted behind the rocks where I’d sheltered before and peered around. Nothing moved near the village, except for a few crows picking at the debris on the spits.
I felt exposed and very small as I crossed the fields and approached the village gates. But no one ran after me, or called to me.
I muttered prayers as I came to the vast black smudge where Ma’s body had lain, and the others of the village too. But there were no bones, nor any sign people had died here. There was only ash. I didn’t know any burial rites for ash.
A short while ago I had been a bird in the sunlight. Suddenly the ground itself seemed to burn my feet. This had been my home, but all I wanted to do was run back to the wadi, hide in the cave and never come out. Never face the loss of Ma. Never agonise over the fate of Sarah and Rakeal.
I forced myself to breathe, to move. I could not help Ma now. And I could not help Sarah and Rakeal. I didn’t even know where in the vast Roman Empire my sisters might be taken. But Baratha needed me. She needed blankets, a millstone, whatever else I might find of use here.
I must face my ghosts.
I stepped inside the gates. The street seemed full of flickering figures. That shadow was Father, the day he marched away. That was Samuel. And that almost solid ghost was Rakeal, carrying water from the well . . .
My feet would not walk to our house, not yet.
The first house by the gate belonged to Aha, wife of Zebediah, so I went in there instead. I touched the mezuzah, which the Romans had not wanted, and nearly tripped over a pair of millstones in the doorway. Millstones would be too heavy to bother carting away to sell; and the Romans probably had their own.
It was an omen, I decided. The first things I’d found were exactly what we needed. It gave me courage to go on.
Aha’s house, nor the next, nor the one after, weren’t as terrible as I’d feared. No bloodstains — though I did not look hard to find them — nor much damage to walls and doors. Why bother to wreck a village when you only wanted what it held of value?
I used my veil to hold the small things I gathered, but they grew too many. I made a heap by the village gates instead: six blankets that had been used for goats to sleep on — ragged dirty things, but they could be washed; a quern; cracked platters; a mortar and pestle; two clay lamps and a bundle of spare wicks; several spindles, though we had no sheep for wool; two moulds to bake flatbreads above the fire; a broken donkey harness; and another flint, as well as the pair of millstones. It was more than I could lug back and I hadn’t even searched half the houses. I would have to come back another day.
The room we used for Shabbat and other prayers, and where the boys went to school, had been wrecked too. Even the carpets had been taken from the floor. But there in the corner something lay trampled. It was the scroll that Micah read when he recited the teachings to the boys when they were ten. I could not read it, of course, but I’d heard it read every Shabbat.
I brushed off the mud as well as I could, then rolled it up carefully and thrust it inside my belt to keep it safe. I wasn’t sure what was on it, or what I could do with it, but it seemed wrong to leave it there. Our Temple has gone, I thought, and towns and villages acros
s the land are destroyed. How many copies of the laws are left now?
The soldiers had used the end of the street as a latrine. It stank. Even the village bath was filled with muck. I backed away from it, near tears. We had worked so hard to keep our street clean.
Finally I forced myself to go through the gate into our courtyard. The house looked just the same, which seemed impossible. The Romans had taken the pallets, the blankets Ma had woven, even our spare veils and dresses. But the plate Ma served cucumber on was still there, broken but just where she always left it. The other plates and pots were gone, but upstairs I found a wooden comb that Father had carved. We need a comb, I thought vaguely. But more importantly, it was something that was ours, mine and Baratha’s. I wondered if I should take the pieces of the broken plate. But they were of no use and sharp, so I left them.
I washed the blankets next to the village well and hung them on branches to dry. It was an action so familiar that I felt I could look around and everything would be the same. The women would be laughing, and the girls would be spinning wool or grinding sesame seeds or bringing in the olives.
I walked over to the vegetable gardens while the blankets dried. Most of the plants had been trampled and harvested, but I found five cucumbers and a whole patch of onions that the Romans had missed. I wanted to pick them all, but if I did, there would be no seed to plant next year. At last I took just two cucumbers and three onions, carrying them in my veil. More cucumbers might set on the vines before winter — I couldn’t tell if they’d been torn so much that they would die.
No melons, but there were some flowers on the vines. We might yet get a few. And, yes, there were still olives on the trees. Green olives were hard to see. I could pick them as they turned black over the next few days. I couldn’t manage the olive press by myself to turn them into oil, but I could soak them in wood-ash water so at least we had the fruit to eat. And next year the trees would bear again.
Would we be here next year? I didn’t know. How long till it would be safe to leave the cave? If we moved back into the village, we couldn’t run or hide easily, not carrying Rabba. Especially as Caius’s leg might not heal straight . . . I stopped. I’d been thinking of Caius as one of us, not the enemy.
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