Mary of Nazareth by Marek Halter

can’t read. But my father read the Book in the Temple, and he often tells me stories from it.”
    Their dirty faces lit up with admiration, making them almost beautiful. What a wonder it must be, that a father should tell his daughter beautiful stories from the Book! They found it hard to imagine. Now they were dying to ask her more questions.
    Miriam protested, serious again. “Let’s not waste time chatting. With every hour that passes, Herod’s mercenaries are making my father suffer. Later, I promise you, I’ll tell you.”
    â€œAnd your father, too,” Obadiah replied confidently. “When Barabbas has freed him, he’ll have to tell us.”
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    T URNING left and right in a zigzagging movement that did not seem to take them very far, they came to a wider street. The houses here were less dilapidated, and even had gardens. The women working in the gardens looked up, intrigued, as their group passed. Recognizing the children, they immediately went back to work.
    Obadiah turned right again and plunged into an alley hemmed in by thick walls of naked brick: an old Roman building. Here and there, wild pomegranate trees and tamarisks had grown between the cracks, both widening them and concealing them. Some of the trees were so tall that they towered over the walls.
    Miriam noticed that some of the boys had remained behind, at the entrance to the alley. At a sign from Obadiah, they ran forward.
    â€œThey’re going to keep a lookout,” he explained.
    He pulled her unceremoniously toward a big tamarisk bush. The proliferating branches were supple enough to be pushed aside, and they passed through.
    â€œHurry up,” Obadiah breathed.
    Her cloak held her back, and she clumsily unfastened it. Obadiah took it from her and pushed her forward.
    On the other side of the tree, to her surprise, she found herself in a field of beans, dotted with a few stunted almond trees. Obadiah leaped through the gap, followed by two of his companions.
    â€œRun!” he ordered, stuffing the cloak into her hands.
    They hurried along the outside of the field of beans until they came to a half-ruined tower. Going ahead of her, Obadiah climbed a staircase strewn with broken bricks. They entered a square room. Most of the wall at the far end had been knocked down. Through the breach, Miriam could see the back of another building. It, too, was Roman, and very old. It had a slate roof that had partly collapsed.
    Obadiah pointed to a shaky wooden bridge leading from the broken wall to a skylight on the roof of the Roman building. “We have to cross. There’s no danger, the bridge is solid. And there’s a ladder on the other side.”
    Holding her breath, Miriam ventured onto the bridge. It might be solid, but it was also terribly shaky. She slipped through the skylight, let herself down gently onto a wooden floor, and stood up. The room in which she now found herself was like a small loft. Old baskets, used for carrying jars, were heaped up in a corner, eaten away by damp and insects. The floor was covered with plaited straw, broken and crumbling, which crunched beneath her feet. She caught sight of a trapdoor with its flap down just as Obadiah came through the skylight behind her.
    â€œGo on, go down,” he urged her.
    The room below was dark except for the light filtering in through a narrow door. But there was just enough light to show that the flagstone floor was a long way down. The distance was at least four or five times Miriam’s height.
    With the tips of her toes, she groped for the rungs of the ladder. Obadiah, with a mocking smile on his lips, leaned toward her, and obligingly took hold of her wrist.
    â€œIt’s not so high,” he said, amused. “Sometimes, I don’t even use the ladder. I just jump.”
    Miriam could feel the rungs wobbling beneath her weight. Without a word, and clenching her teeth, she went down.