by Marek Halter
“Shut up, Barabbas. I know who you are; your name has come as far as here. I know what you do and why you fight; you don’t have to prove you’re a brave man. And you don’t have to die pointlessly because you’re so sad about your young companion being at death’s door. Use your head. Let us look after you, rest for a few hours, and then you’ll be able to help him.”
The tension in Barabbas’s muscles relaxed all at once. He glanced toward the room where Miriam and Obadiah were. His shoulders sagged. Even though no tears came, his lips quivered. Rachel and the midwife both knew what that meant, and they discreetly looked away.
A little later, he slid into the bath the handmaids had prepared and fell asleep, weary to his very soul. The midwife smiled and whispered in Rachel’s ear that his medicine could wait.
If Miriam had heard the argument, or Barabbas’s protests, she did not show it any more than she inquired about his condition.
Beside her, Mariamne observed her face and did not recognize it. The serious but welcoming features had turned harsh and fierce, gaunt with anger as much as with sadness. Her fixed stare seemed not to see Obadiah’s body. Beneath the folds of her tunic, the extreme tension of her back was evident. Her breathing was as faint as Obadiah’s.
Disconcerted, Mariamne did not dare utter a word. Nevertheless, she was dying to know the identity of this young am ha’aretz who had so distressed her friend. Miriam had never spoken of him, whereas they had often joked together about Barabbas, whose courage, determination, and pride Miriam loved to describe.
Hesitantly, she touched her hand. “You need rest too. You hardly slept last night. I’ll stay with him. You have nothing to fear. If he opens his eyes, I’ll call you right away.”
Miriam did not react immediately, and Mariamne thought that perhaps she had not heard. She was about to repeat her words when Miriam raised her head and looked at her. Strangely enough, she smiled. A joyless but tender smile, which broke up the harshness of her features like a fragile piece of pottery cracking.
“No,” she said, with some effort. “Obadiah needs me. He knows I’m here, and he needs me. He draws his strength from my heart.”
THE sun was not yet high when Barabbas awoke. His first concern was to know if Obadiah had regained consciousness. The midwife shook her head, but she did not give him time to ask any other questions before tending to him. When she had finished putting a thick bandage around his thigh, stiffening his leg, he approached Miriam.
She did not even seem to notice his presence. With a gesture that was never mechanical, she would sponge Obadiah’s forehead from time to time or place a few drops of potion on his lips. At other times, she would stroke his hands, cheek, or neck. Her lips would move as if she were uttering words that neither Rachel nor Mariamne, crouching on the other side of the bed, could understand.
Suddenly, Barabbas’s harsh, abrupt voice broke the silence. Facing Miriam, as if addressing only her, he started to tell the story.
“Mathias, my friend who joined us in Nazareth, at Yossef’s house, came one day to the place where we were hiding from the mercenaries, near Gabara. ‘How long do you plan to hide like a rat?’ he asked me. ‘We need men to fight Herod and really hurt him. You have a thousand men ready to follow you. I have only half that, but I have a lot of weapons. I haven’t changed my mind, you know. We have to fight. And if we have to die, at least let’s die planting our swords in the bellies of those pigs!’ He was right, and I was tired of hiding. And also of constantly remembering your reproaches, Miriam. You may be right; perhaps we do need a new king. But he won’t come just because you wish it. So I shook Mathias’s hand and said yes. That’s how it all started.”
At first, their best weapon had been surprise. There were enough of them to organize attacks in several places simultaneously: on passing columns of soldiers, on camps or small forts built on the edges of villages…Herod’s mercenaries, not expecting their attacks, made little attempt to defend themselves and fled, leaving many dead. Or if they resisted, being superior in numbers, Mathias and Barabbas would retreat so quickly the enemy was unable to pursue them. Most often, it was an easy task to plunder or burn the reserves.
Within a few months, anxiety had spread through Herod’s troops. The mercenaries were afraid of moving around in small numbers. No camp in Galilee was safe enough for them anymore. The thefts and burning of the storehouses disrupted supplies to the legions. Even the Roman officers commanding the forts, usually so sure of themselves, started to get worried.
“But in Herod’s house, madness reigned,” Barabbas went on. “The Romans feared him and didn’t dare tell him the truth. In the palaces, no one could tell the difference anymore between truth and lies. Everything was happening exactly as I’d predicted. There was no better time for a rebellion.”
Every day, men came to them to join the fight. In the villages of Galilee and the north of Samaria, they were welcomed with open arms. The peasants were only too happy to give them food and, if necessary, hide them. In return, when their sorties against the tyrant and his supporters brought in sufficient booty, they were pleased to share it out among everyone, fighters and villagers alike.
Encouraged by their newfound strength, Barabbas and Mathias had decided to launch attacks farther afield, outside Galilee. Never big battles, but rapid, deadly fights. In Samaria at first, then in the port of Dora, in Phoenician territory, where they had captured a fine cargo of weapons forged on the other side of the sea. On that same occasion, they had freed a thousand slaves: barbarians from the North, some of whom had stayed with them. They had attacked Shechem and Acrabeta, at the gates of Judea, thumbing their noses at the surviving sons of Herod, who had taken refuge in the fortress of Alexandrion.
“We didn’t need to fight them, since at the last moon, Herod murdered them himself!”
After each victory, enthusiasm grew in the villages.
“Even the rabbis stopped denouncing us in the synagogues,” Barabbas said in a toneless voice. “And when we entered towns not watched over by the mercenaries, the inhabitants would greet us with singing and dancing. That may have been what brought about our downfall.”
He was talking and talking, as if to clear his mind of all the intense, extraordinary things he had lived through in the course of the last few months. Meanwhile, Miriam had not taken her eyes off Obadiah. She showed no sign that she was listening, unlike Rachel and Mariamne, who were looking up at Barabbas, hanging on his every word.
He pointed to Obadiah with a painful, almost caressing gesture.
“He liked it too. He’s always liked fighting. In close combat, when we’re there with our swords in our hands, everyone cutting and slashing and yelling, he’s in his element. He takes advantage of his size. Of the fact that he looks like a child. But he’s not to be trusted. He’s cleverer than a monkey and braver than all of us. Yes, he really likes to fight. It’s his revenge….”
Barabbas broke off for a moment and watched as Miriam stroked Obadiah’s arm and dabbed his temples. He shook his head.
“It was his idea to come back to Galilee and attack the fortress of Tarichea. He wanted to pull off a major feat. Not out of pride, but as a final demonstration to everyone that both the Roman legionnaires and Herod’s mercenaries were at our mercy. Even where they thought they were at their strongest.
“We had to find a place with the reputation of being impregnable. We thought of the fortresses of Jerusalem and Caesarea. But Obadiah said, ‘It’s Tarichea we have to take. We nearly did it once already.’ ”
It was true. The attack during which they had freed Joachim had exposed the weaknesses of the fortress. The Romans were too stupid and too sure of themselves to have remedied them. Stupidly, they had rebuilt the market stalls and the wooden buildings surrounding the stone walls. Just as they had done the first time, all they had to do was set fire to them.
But this time, instead of taking advantage of the confusion caused by the fire to escape, they would storm the gates. They were
sure they had enough men to overrun the place.
In addition, Barabbas and Mathias were convinced that once battle was joined and it was clear that the mercenaries and legionnaires were weakening, the people of Tarichea would take up sledgehammers, scythes, and axes and join in the fight.
“The hard part of it,” Barabbas went on, “was trying not to arouse suspicion. Herod’s spies were everywhere. More than a thousand people couldn’t just turn up in the town overnight.”
So the two bands had divided into small groups of three or four. Disguised as merchants, peasants, artisans, and even beggars, they had found refuge in the hill hamlets and fishermen’s villages between Tarichea and Magdala. That took time: almost an entire month.
“Of course, some guessed,” Barabbas sighed. “But we thought…”
He made a weary gesture.
Who had allowed himself to be bribed? Was the traitor from Mathias’s band or from his? A fisherman? A scared peasant or just someone who wanted to make a few denarii at the cost of other people’s lives?
“We’ll never know, but I think it was one of us. Otherwise, how would they have known where Mathias and I were staying? Obadiah was with us. That’s what the traitor must have told them: that Mathias and I were in that village. That all they’d have to do would be to take us and the others wouldn’t dare to fight.”
Two nights before the attack, in the first light of dawn, while the village was still asleep, a deluge of fire had descended on the thatched cottages. During the night, a large fighting boat had taken up position on the lake, close to the little harbor. The catapults on board had hurled dozens of burning javelins onto the roofs. As the families fled in panic, a cohort of Roman horsemen had entered the village from the north and the south. Children, women, old men, fighters—the horsemen had cut them down indiscriminately.
“It was an easy job for them,” Barabbas went on. “There was so much panic. The women and children were screaming and running in all directions, and the horses’ hoofs just knocked them down. The Romans were jubilant. We were barely able to fight. There were only five of us: Mathias, two of his men, Obadiah, and me. Mathias died immediately. Obadiah helped me to escape….”
Barabbas could not say anything more. He rubbed his face, in a vain attempt to wipe out what he could still see.
The silence that followed was so intense, so terrible, that Obadiah’s harsh breathing could clearly be heard.
Without realizing it, Mariamne had been clutching her mother’s hand. Now, weeping noiselessly, she slid down the wall into a crouching position.
Miriam had still not moved. It was as if she had turned to stone. Rachel knew that Barabbas was waiting for her to say something, anything, to him. But nothing came. All she said, in a curt voice, was, “If Obadiah stays here, he won’t live.”
Rachel shuddered. “What can we do? The midwife says she’s done all she can. And she’s the best healer there is, here in Magdala.”
“There’s only one person who can bring him back to life, and that’s Joseph. In Beth Zabdai, near Damascus. He knows how to treat the sick.”
“Damascus is much too far! Three days at least. Don’t even think about it.”
“We can do it. We’d only need a day and a half at most, if we don’t stop at night and we have good mules.”
Miriam’s voice was sharp and cold. It was clear that during the whole of Barabbas’s account, she had been thinking about one thing, and one thing only: how to get to Damascus as quickly as possible. She looked up at Rachel.
“Will you help me?”
“Of course, but…”
There was no point in vacillating. It was obvious that, if need be, Miriam would carry Obadiah in her arms all the way to Beth Zabdai. Rachel got to her feet, ignoring Barabbas’s stunned look.
“Yes…You can take my wagon. I’ll ask Rekab to get it ready.”
“He needs to make it more comfortable,” Miriam said. “We must have a supply of bandages, water, and plasters. And also a second person to drive the mules. They can take turns. We have to leave right away.”
The words rang out like commands, but Rachel did not take offense, merely nodded.
Mariamne stood up, wiping her eyes with a pleat of her tunic. “Yes, we must hurry. I’ll help you. I’m going with you.”
“No,” Barabbas said. “I’m the one who should go with her. We need a man to drive the mules.”
Miriam did not even glance at him, any more than she had before, nor did she either accept or reject his help.
CHAPTER 11
LEAVING Magdala not long before the sun reached its zenith, they did not allow themselves any rest. The team had been doubled, and Rekab, Rachel’s coachman, had sat down beside Barabbas on the driver’s bench. Taking turns at the reins, they had to keep the fastest pace the mules could bear.
Jars of water and nourishing potions, pots of ointments and a flask of citron vinegar were ready to hand, in large baskets tied to the benches. Mariamne and Rachel had added clean bandages and spare linen. The speed made for a bumpy ride, even though the handmaids had lined the interior of the wagon with thick woolen mattresses, as Miriam had demanded. Obadiah lay on one of these mattresses, still unconscious, his body tossed about between the cushions.
Miriam watched over him and checked his breathing. Regularly, she would dip a cloth in water and wipe his face, hoping to cool him down.
Not a word was spoken. The dull rumble of the wheels covered every other sound, except for the occasional yell from Barabbas or Rekab ordering people out of the way.
On the road, or in the hamlets and villages they passed through, the fishermen, the peasants, and the women returning from the wells would stop dead for a moment, then quickly move aside and watch with a mixture of surprise and suspicion as the mules and the wagon sped past, raising as much dust as a storm.
In this way they passed through Tabgha, Capernaum, and Corozain. By nightfall, they had reached the southern tip of Lake Merom, from where the Jordan could be crossed.
There, in the dim twilight, Barabbas had to argue with the boatmen to persuade them to take the wagon and the animals on board. One after the other, the men came and raised the jute curtains that hid the interior of the wagon. Glimpsing Miriam’s leaning figure and Obadiah’s shapeless mass among the cushions, they recoiled, horrified, at the odor of sickness. The handful of denarii that Barabbas took from a purse—a contribution from Rachel—made up their minds for them. They demanded three times the usual price and prepared their oars and their rigging.
It was almost completely dark by the time they reached the shore of Trachonitis. There, Arab horsemen from the kingdom of Hauran subjected them to a torchlit inspection. They, too, demanded a fee to let them pass.
Once again, time was wasted in haggling. When the horsemen took the covers off and shone their torches into the wagon, Miriam turned to them, lifted the blanket off Obadiah, and said, “He’ll die if we don’t get to Beth Zabdai soon.”
They saw her bright eyes and Obadiah’s bandaged body and pale face, and immediately drew back.
They turned to Barabbas and Rekab. “Your mules are exhausted. You’ll never get to Damascus, especially at night. There’s a farm two miles from here, where they hire out animals. You’ll be able to change your team there. If you have enough denarii.”
Relieved, Barabbas agreed. The horsemen took up position on either side of the wagon, brandished their torches, and escorted them between the shadows of the agave and prickly pear that lined the road.
They had to wake the farmers, overcome their surprise, and count out a generous number of denarii. When, at last, the yokes were placed on the necks of the new animals, Rekab put torches on the harnesses and lanterns all around the wagon, plus one inside.
When it was done, he said to Miriam, “Now that it’s dark, we won’t be able to go as fast as before. The mules could fall in a rut and hurt themselves.”
Miriam merely replied, “Go as fast as you can. And don’t make any m
ore stops.”
BY the time the horizon, on the edge of the desert, was pink with dawn, they were only fifty miles from Damascus. The lanterns and torches had long since gone out. Beneath the leather harnesses, the mules were white with sweat.
Barabbas and Rekab were struggling to keep their eyes open, even though they had changed places a dozen times. Inside the wagon, Miriam was still sitting, her muscles stiff, her head nodding with every jolt.
When the lamp had gone out, plunging her into darkness and making it impossible to see Obadiah’s face, she had taken his hand and pressed it to her chest. Since then, she had not let go of it for a moment. Her numbed fingers no longer even felt the pressure Obadiah sometimes exerted in his coma.
As soon as she sensed that day was breaking, she lifted the curtain. The cool night air struck her face and chased away both her torpor and the mustiness of the interior, of which she was no longer aware.
Gently, she prized Obadiah’s fingers from her hand, dipped a cloth in water, and wet her face. Her mind clearer now, she again moistened the cloth and was about to wipe Obadiah’s face with it when she stopped in midgesture and stifled a scream.
Obadiah’s eyes were wide open. He was looking at her. For a brief moment, she wondered if he was still alive. But there could be no doubt. Within the dark rings of pain and illness, Obadiah’s eyes were smiling at her.
“Obadiah! God Almighty, you’re alive! You’re alive….”
She stroked his gaunt face and kissed him on the temple. He responded with a shudder that went all through his body. He did not have the strength to speak or even raise his hand.
Miriam moistened his lips, then gave him a little to drink, struggling to keep the cup close to his mouth in spite of the jolts. Obadiah did not take his eyes off her. His pupils appeared immense, darker and deeper than night. You could drown in them. They seemed to offer a softness, a tenderness without limits.
Miriam looked at him, spellbound. It seemed to her that Obadiah was strangely happy. His heart and soul spoke neither of pain nor reproach, neither of struggle or regret. On the contrary, he was offering her a kind of peace.