The Thief by Stephanie Landsem

the streets of the upper city until her feet bled, knocking on doors. She offered to scrub their marble floors, clean their stables, carry water. They took one look at her and shooed her away with words she wouldn’t use on her donkey.
    Abba watched others at dice. Mama disappeared most days. Nissa and Cedron shared Amit’s barley and drank water from the Pool of Siloam to fill the emptiness in their bellies.
    Nissa slumped against the wall and surveyed the men in front of her. If she had a husband, life would be better. But it was too late for that. Several men in this very synagogue had come to her father when she was young, shopping for a wife. But none had wanted her.
    Beg or whore, her mother had said as her hopes of marriage dwindled. Those were her choices if a man didn’t speak for her. Begging didn’t bring in enough to keep her and Cedron fed. And selling her body in the brothels of the lower city? Cedron would die of shame, and they would both die of starvation.
    It’s not my fault. It’s because Abba is one of the am-ha-arez. She couldn’t remember the last time Abba had prayed the Shema or tithed to the temple. Yes, it was his fault they were despised, but they would starve just the same.
    The bleak voice whispered between the murmurs of prayers around her. There is another way.
    No. She shook her head to dispel the voice. No more stealing. The idiot centurion was still looking for Mouse. Perhaps Abba would come to his senses tomorrow when his family had nowhere to lay their heads. Perhaps he’d take Amit outside the city and gather wood to sell at the market, like he’d done before he’d surrendered to the lure of the dice. She’d do it herself, but no one would buy wood from a woman.
    When the prayers and songs ended, she found Cedron outside the doors of the synagogue easing toward a loud group of men, their faces flushed with excitement.
    A man in a worn robe spoke out. “There is no master but our God. The Romans defile our city. We’ve been under their rule for long enough.”
    Another man, a pilgrim from the country, pushed forward. “But the Sadducees, the traitors, they’re in bed with the Romans. They’ll do whatever it takes to keep their money and power, even support the pagan occupation of our land.”
    “The Pharisees are no better. We must fight the Romans, not compromise with them!”
    A scruffy young man stepped forward. “I’ve heard there’s a man who calls himself the Messiah.”
    A man as old as Noah grumbled, “Another messiah?”
    The youth nodded. “The Sadducees hate him. So do the Pharisees. But the people love him.”
    The pilgrim spoke up. “Yes, and he performs miracles. Heals the sick. Makes the lame walk. Thousands flocked to hear him in Galilee.”
    The youth lowered his voice. “He’s in the city for the feast. He speaks in the temple almost every day.” He glanced to each side. “Perhaps he is the one to overthrow the Romans. If we can get enough men and some weapons—”
    “Come on, Cedron.” Nissa dragged her brother away from the group. “This can only lead to trouble.” No good would come from the Zealots plotting against the Romans. Enough of them had already been crucified.
    Cedron turned his sightless eyes to her, his brows raised. “Nissa. Bring me to the temple. I want to hear this man. Perhaps he is all they say. If he can cure the sick, heal the lame . . .”
    Nissa’s chewed on her lip. How many miracle workers had they seen? How many times had Mama brought Cedron to a man claiming to be a prophet, a healer? Too many to count. Magic men curing lame beggars who were never lame to begin with. So-called prophets full of promises. Frauds. This one would be no different. She guided him toward the street. “We need food more than we need a prophet.”
    “Perhaps he is the one who will deliver us from the Romans.”
    How could he think about overthrowing the Romans when they didn’t even have bread? “Today is the last day of the