Mary of Nazareth by Marek Halter Page A

Before she had touched the ground, two powerful hands clasped her waist. She let out a cry as she was lifted and deposited on the ground.
    â€œI was sure we’d meet again,” Barabbas said, a smile in his voice.
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    H E was lit from behind, so dimly that she could barely make out his face.
    Behind her, Obadiah slid down the ladder, as light as a feather. Barabbas tenderly ruffled his hair.
    â€œI see you’re as brave as ever,” he said to Miriam. “You weren’t afraid of trusting these devils with your life. Not many people in Sepphoris would have dared do that.”
    Obadiah was radiant with pride. “I did what you asked, Barabbas. And she obeyed.”
    â€œThat’s good. Now go and eat.”
    â€œI can’t. The others are waiting for me on the other side.”
    Barabbas gave him a little slap and pushed him toward the door. “They’ll wait for you. Eat first.”
    The boy muttered a vague protest. Before leaving the room, he unexpectedly gave Miriam a big smile. For the first time, his face really looked like a child’s.
    â€œI see you’ve already made a friend of him,” Barabbas said, with an amused nod. “Strange-looking boy, isn’t he? He’s nearly fifteen and seems barely ten. It’s quite a struggle getting him to eat. When I found him, he was capable of eating once every two or three days. I think his mother must have coupled with a camel to have him.”
    He stepped into the light from the loft, and she realized that he had changed much more than she had expected.
    It was not just his curly beard, which was now thick. He seemed taller than she remembered. His shoulders were broader, his neck more powerful. Over his torso and thighs, he wore a curious white goatskin tunic, held in at the waist by a leather belt as wide as a hand. A knife hung at his side. The straps of his sandals, good-quality Roman ankle boots, rose halfway up his calves. His head was covered with a long strip of ocher linen, held in place with red and green strips of cloth.
    It was an unexpectedly conspicuous kind of costume for a man in hiding, and he had certainly not acquired it from the artisans of Sepphoris out of his own pocket.
    He guessed what she was thinking, and his face lit up mischievously. “I made myself handsome to welcome you. Don’t go thinking I’m always dressed like this!”
    Miriam assumed he was telling the truth. He seemed more self-confident than she remembered. But there was a gentleness there, too, not entirely concealed by the curiosity and irony with which he looked at her.
    He finished his scrutiny of her and remarked provocatively, “Miriam of Nazareth! It’s fortunate you told Obadiah your name, or I wouldn’t have recognized you,” he lied. “I remembered a little girl, and here you are, a woman. A beautiful woman.”
    She was about to make some ironic remark in return. But this was not the moment to waste time. Barabbas seemed to be forgetting why she was here.
    â€œI came because I need your help,” she said, curtly, her voice more anxious than she would have wished.
    Barabbas nodded, also serious now. “I know. Obadiah told me about your father. It’s bad news.” Before Miriam could say any more, he raised his hand. “Wait. Let’s not discuss it here. We’re not yet in my house.”
    They walked toward a courtyard paved with big broken flagstones. Through the cracks, Miriam glimpsed a mysterious labyrinth of narrow corridors, cisterns, fireplaces, and brick and earthenware pipes. The walls were blackened with soot and flaking in places, as if the bricks and the whitewash were only a fragile skin.
    â€œFollow me,” Barabbas said, leading her between the shattered flagstones and the gaping holes.
    They came to a porch that was quite dilapidated, although the door looked as solid as if it were new. It opened without his