Roman soldiers; he has come before with mercenaries to exact his payments.
This time, he attempts to pretend that he is their friend. The Romans do not understand what he is saying, the people do not
understand what the Romans have said. There is no way to be sure that he is even communicating the true message.
“They’ve brought me here,” he says, “because they’re looking for people who fled Yaffo. In the uprising a few months ago,
I know you heard about it. Now, I’ve tried to reason with them, tried to persuade them. You’re good people, you pay your taxes
on time, you don’t make trouble. But they’ve heard the rumor that a boy from Yaffo is living in the village now. A new boy.
And I’m sure you don’t want to harbor known criminals, not in a quiet place like Natzaret! So my best advice is, hand him
over. They’ll take him away and ask him questions and leave you alone. You might even have time to save some of the”—he inclines
his head faintly towards the barn—“some of it, perhaps.”
They look around at one another. Gidon is not there, he is in the hills with the new lambs, he will be there for a day or
two probably. Miryam wonders if any of them will speak.
“He is living with me,” she says, loudly and suddenly, surprising even herself a little. “But he is not the man you’re seeking.”
The tax collector smiles. The gold ring glitters on his thumb.
“Mother Miryam, I would never have thought it of you! Well, hand him over and we’ll be on our way.”
Miryam sees her brother Shmuel shift in the crowd. He would go and get the boy now, she realizes. He would mount a pony and
gallop into the hills to find him and give him to the Romans.
“No,” she says, “he is not the man you want.”
Shmuel’s body stiffens. He tries to catch her eye, to mouth something to her.
“We’ll have to judge that ourselves, Mother Miryam.”
“No,” she says.
And something in the atmosphere turns. Perhaps it is that one of the soldiers fingers his spear, not understanding the conversation
but hearing something in her tone.
The lead soldier bends to whisper a word or two in the tax collector’s ear. The man nods.
“If you can’t produce him, Mother Miryam,” he says, and his voice is hard now, “we will take you instead. For questioning.”
She tightens the muscles in her stomach. She will need to lie.
When she came in to see him, she found she was singing a song under her breath. It was a psalm, set to a tune the goat herders
sing. She used to sing it to Yehoshuah when he was a tiny baby and perhaps some part of her thought that it would turn him
back to the child he was, and he would remember how he used to need her.
He was sitting with three of his men, and when he saw her he frowned and she realized that for a moment he did not recognize
her. Oh, this was heavy and cold. But at last, within a heartbeat, his face broke into a smile.
“Mother,” he said.
They walked together, to soothe her sore legs, stiff from the ride. She told him at first all the news of the family, the
nieces and nephews and the doings of the village. He listened but he seemed distant. He replied, “That is good,” to news of
a good harvest or “Those are sad tidings,” to a death in childbed.
“And what of you?” she said at last. “Here you are, a mighty man with many followers.”
She took his arm in hers and hugged it. “Are you going to set up a great school and be a teacher? I would be so proud to tell
the people at home that you had founded a college, taken a wife…” She lets her voice trail off.
He paused his walking. She stopped too. He bent down so his face was level with hers.
“Mother,” he said, “God has called me. He has told me to go to Jerusalem at Passover, because it is time for a new heaven
and a new earth.”
His eyes were unblinking. His face shone like the moon. There was a smudge of dirt in the center of his forehead.
She felt
This time, he attempts to pretend that he is their friend. The Romans do not understand what he is saying, the people do not
understand what the Romans have said. There is no way to be sure that he is even communicating the true message.
“They’ve brought me here,” he says, “because they’re looking for people who fled Yaffo. In the uprising a few months ago,
I know you heard about it. Now, I’ve tried to reason with them, tried to persuade them. You’re good people, you pay your taxes
on time, you don’t make trouble. But they’ve heard the rumor that a boy from Yaffo is living in the village now. A new boy.
And I’m sure you don’t want to harbor known criminals, not in a quiet place like Natzaret! So my best advice is, hand him
over. They’ll take him away and ask him questions and leave you alone. You might even have time to save some of the”—he inclines
his head faintly towards the barn—“some of it, perhaps.”
They look around at one another. Gidon is not there, he is in the hills with the new lambs, he will be there for a day or
two probably. Miryam wonders if any of them will speak.
“He is living with me,” she says, loudly and suddenly, surprising even herself a little. “But he is not the man you’re seeking.”
The tax collector smiles. The gold ring glitters on his thumb.
“Mother Miryam, I would never have thought it of you! Well, hand him over and we’ll be on our way.”
Miryam sees her brother Shmuel shift in the crowd. He would go and get the boy now, she realizes. He would mount a pony and
gallop into the hills to find him and give him to the Romans.
“No,” she says, “he is not the man you want.”
Shmuel’s body stiffens. He tries to catch her eye, to mouth something to her.
“We’ll have to judge that ourselves, Mother Miryam.”
“No,” she says.
And something in the atmosphere turns. Perhaps it is that one of the soldiers fingers his spear, not understanding the conversation
but hearing something in her tone.
The lead soldier bends to whisper a word or two in the tax collector’s ear. The man nods.
“If you can’t produce him, Mother Miryam,” he says, and his voice is hard now, “we will take you instead. For questioning.”
She tightens the muscles in her stomach. She will need to lie.
When she came in to see him, she found she was singing a song under her breath. It was a psalm, set to a tune the goat herders
sing. She used to sing it to Yehoshuah when he was a tiny baby and perhaps some part of her thought that it would turn him
back to the child he was, and he would remember how he used to need her.
He was sitting with three of his men, and when he saw her he frowned and she realized that for a moment he did not recognize
her. Oh, this was heavy and cold. But at last, within a heartbeat, his face broke into a smile.
“Mother,” he said.
They walked together, to soothe her sore legs, stiff from the ride. She told him at first all the news of the family, the
nieces and nephews and the doings of the village. He listened but he seemed distant. He replied, “That is good,” to news of
a good harvest or “Those are sad tidings,” to a death in childbed.
“And what of you?” she said at last. “Here you are, a mighty man with many followers.”
She took his arm in hers and hugged it. “Are you going to set up a great school and be a teacher? I would be so proud to tell
the people at home that you had founded a college, taken a wife…” She lets her voice trail off.
He paused his walking. She stopped too. He bent down so his face was level with hers.
“Mother,” he said, “God has called me. He has told me to go to Jerusalem at Passover, because it is time for a new heaven
and a new earth.”
His eyes were unblinking. His face shone like the moon. There was a smudge of dirt in the center of his forehead.
She felt
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