CHAPTER TEN

PALESTINE. What might I say of such a contradiction to my way of thinking?

I cannot say that I experienced the breadth and width of that legendary land, for our journey took us north, east of Perea, through Decapolis and into Galilee toward Nazareth from the east. We avoided many well-traveled roads and skirted cities for fear of being challenged by any authority. But I learned much from Judah, who was acquainted with the way of the Jews and had questioned several Jewish travelers on the journey.

In the wealthy Roman house I served in Egypt, all was orderly and we remained clean in the sight of both man and the gods. In Dumah too, that rich oasis overflowing with water and date palms, the gods were satisfied with our cleanliness, if they indeed cared for such things. Except among the poorest, the nomadic way was noble and there was little concern about being unclean.

But in Palestine, I saw that the people were enslaved by all that was unclean before their god. Man and woman alike were dishonored by the oppression of Rome and those wealthy Jews who’d joined with the Romans. The people were surely hated by both their Roman masters and their god, who lived in a temple in Jerusalem. This then was cause for terrible misery.

The women in particular were hated, for they, like me, had been born into shame and were the most unclean before their god.

Upon first entering Galilee at the sea that stretched north, Judah had been overwhelmed with joy. He was like a boy who’d finally returned home, and his exuberance was infectious.

“Have you seen such water, Maviah?” he cried, flinging his arm toward the sea. “The purest and cleanest in the world.”

It was magical to see this water after weeks in the sands. I wanted nothing more than to run to its bank and fling myself in.

“We must bathe!” Judah said.

“We will reach Sepphoris by day’s end,” Saba said, looking about. “We will bathe there.”

“Maviah must enter the city as a queen from the desert, dressed in linens and perfumed for a king.”

“You forget where we are,” Saba said. “A woman may not bathe in the same waters as men. If she is seen—”

“I know precisely where we are! And I also know that we might not find suitable public bathing for Maviah in Sepphoris precisely because she is a woman. If she is to go as a queen—”

“I would bathe here,” I interrupted, eager to be clean. For many days I had fixed my mind on approaching this king—thinking on what I would say and how I might represent my father. But I’d given little thought to how I might appear or even smell when first before him.

The men looked at me.

“I must! I can’t go on smelling like a camel.”

“You smell nothing like a camel,” Judah said. “And I have frankincense.”

“You’re saying that I do smell like a camel?”

He was flummoxed. “No. I only say that if you do—”

“I would bathe. Now.”

“As I said.” Judah looked to Saba and offered an apologetic smile.

But we did not bathe there, for Saba was right about the danger of being seen. Judah found a small cove down the road, and there we both bathed, separated by reeds and beyond the sight of any who might approach. Saba kept watch at first, but seeing no one, he too plunged beneath the waters and splashed about like a child.

I could see between the reeds. The sight of two such powerful men frolicking about, all care drowned in that water, made me laugh. This they heard, and then we were all laughing, until Saba scolded us for risking unwanted attention.

I dressed in the clothing Judah had obtained from the sheikh Fahak bin Haggag. A white linen dress and a scarlet cloak, simple and yet fine. I had combed my dark hair and tied it back to best show my high cheekbones, as favored by many men. The sash about my waist was the color of olive leaves, as was the mantle I wore over my head. Judah had also acquired strings of black stones to be worn about my forehead and neck, but I would not wear them here in the countryside. I wasn’t comfortable in such luxurious appointments.

Both Judah and Saba stared at me when I stepped beyond the reeds and approached the camel.

“Is it too much?” I asked after neither spoke.

Saba arched a brow. “Herod will be pleased,” he said.

This gave Judah a moment’s pause. Each day he’d become more comfortable and easy in his tone with me, and I with him. We had not spoken of our affection for each other, but to deny it would have been deceitful. And in the wake of my loss, I had decided to accept his affection in whatever form it took.

Judah smiled and dipped his head. “You are perhaps the most beautiful woman Palestine has yet seen.”

I felt a blush rise to my face. “Then I should take it off.”

“But why? You are a queen!”

“I have been a slave most of my life. Have I suddenly become what I never was? I don’t want to be noticed in this strange land.”

“You go to Herod,” Saba said. “He must notice you.”

Judah could not hide the pride in his eyes. “You are no longer a slave, Maviah, but a queen. And now it is plain.”

I cannot deny that I was flattered. And Saba was right—it was Herod who would first decide my fate and then take the plight of the Kalb to Rome. Herod’s decision now depended on me.

My thoughts returned to treachery of the Thamud. To the screams of the Kalb being slaughtered on the streets. To the face of Kahil bin Saman as he cut out my father’s tongue and then threw my son from the window as if he were a bone for the dogs. My people in Dumah were enslaved by butchers. Their hope rested in me. I did not feel up to the task.

And yet there I stood, a woman of wonder before Judah and Saba.

It might be said I was plunged beneath the waters of the Galilean sea a dirtied slave and emerged a queen fit for any king, at least by Judah’s reckoning. But that would only be true of appearances.

Palestine offered us its own illusions.

We put the sea behind us and passed through small villages along the road. At first I saw the many fields of grain and the vast groves of olives tended by farmers. Then villages made of stone-and-reed houses cobbled together with mud and dung. Everywhere I looked I could see abject poverty forced upon the people by the Roman taxes. As Judah explained with growing consternation, in the occupation of Palestine, Rome demanded a heavy tax to support its empire. Up to fifty percent, but paid in coin, not grain or produce. Many farmers had to sell their land to rich Jewish landowners in order to pay their tax. Most who had themselves once been landowners now worked in those same fields for new masters, to make the coin owed in taxes. Fishermen and tradesmen were robbed in the same fashion.

The people walked about with heads bowed. Judah explained they suffered so because the Jews of Palestine were by nature exceedingly pious and clean. It seemed to me that the Jews were no more soiled than any person I’d seen in Egypt or among the Bedu. But they could not attain their standards of cleanliness amid the filth of poverty.

And I could feel an even deeper oppression in the air. Something else seemed to have overshadowed this land that Judah called Israel.

By late afternoon we came to Nazareth on a narrow path rarely traveled. My mind was consumed with Sepphoris, which lay only an hour’s walk north from this poor village. Had it been mine to decide, we would have bypassed Nazareth, for I was a foreigner and Judah had been clear that all foreigners were considered unclean.

And yet Judah was thoroughly committed to finding this Yeshua, and he’d convinced himself that Nazareth would lead him to the man.

“We must not remain long,” Saba said, staring at the dingy huts.

“With only a few questions, they will know,” Judah replied. “Only a few hundred live here.”

There were perhaps fifty houses by my reckoning, all of stone and mud, many sharing a common courtyard. I could not imagine any king living in such a state of poverty. I wasn’t eager to enter the town dressed as I was.

“You should go, Judah. Saba and I will wait.”

He looked over at me. “No, I would have you with me. You must see as well.”

See what, I did not bother to ask.

So as not to appear lofty in this place of squalor, I replaced the olive mantle over my head with the threadbare one from Dumah.

Judah prodded his camel forward and we entered Nazareth on the single dusty road that passed through.

It was true, only a few hundred could live here. Most were gone, presumably to the fields or to nearby Sepphoris. Three small children squatted on the roadside, dressed in what might pass as rags. The moment they saw us, the youngest boy, perhaps eight years of age, jumped to his feet and raced our way, yelping with delight. There was no mistaking his announcement for all to hear.

“Foreigner, foreigner, foreigner!”

It appeared he was too young to realize that this designation was meant to be shouted not with delight but with scorn, to warn others.

Judah only chuckled. “You see, they love you, Maviah.”

All three wide-eyed children had now reached the camels and were hopping about, slapping at the camels, tugging on their ropes, hands extended as they chattered and bickered.

“Do you have denar?”

“I will brush this camel!”

“They are from the city.”

“No, they are from the desert!”

“From Jerusalem!”

“What do you know?”

“Do not touch her, it is forbidden!”

“Do you have honey?”

Judah slid from his mount, dug out a small jar of honey from the bags, and handed it to the first child, only to be descended upon by yet more children who’d heard the commotion and magically appeared from the houses—no fewer than a dozen.

A woman emerged from the nearest door and cried out, shooing the children frantically. “Leave them! Have you no decency? Get back to your mothers!”

They scattered, surprisingly obedient. An old man with a cane had appeared from behind one of the mud homes, and it was to this man that Judah went without giving the woman a second look, for among the Jews a woman could not be easily approached by a man.

He quietly spoke with the man for a few minutes, likely explaining that he too was a Jew and was looking for this Yeshua. I kept my eyes on the children now peering at me from the sides of the road, several still holding their hands out for food or money, some daring to call out.

“Do you need a guide?”

“You must be careful of the robbers on this road!”

“I can guide you!”

“Can you give me honey?”

The woman, now joined by another, offered even more pronounced scolding.

I sat upon my camel next to Saba, and for a few minutes I felt a terrible pity for these young children.

Except for the aged, there were no men that I could see. Others who saw us watched for only a few moments before ducking from sight.

“Come!”

I turned to see that Judah had returned and was eagerly tugging at his camel by its rope.

“What is it?”

“Did I not say it? He is from here! Yeshua ben Joseph. His father is now passed, but his mother, Miriam, lives at the end of the village near the spring. She will know.”

Miriam. I knew the name, also called Mary among some. It meant “star of the sea.” I could only imagine what Judah, the stargazer, might make of this.

“How can anyone of royalty come from this village?” Saba said. “This old man said that your Yeshua is a man of high standing?”

“Not in such words.”

“Then how?”

Judah glanced back at the old man, who frowned at us. “He says Yeshua is a mystic who has left his family to be with his followers, because no one will pay him mind in Nazareth.”

Saba’s brow arched. “And this brings you courage?”

Judah dismissively flipped his hand. “What do they know? Don’t you see? My elders spoke of his mother. When I tell her this, she will remember. Then we will know this is the same child. You must trust, Saba!”

Saba grunted but made no objection.

Most of the houses adjoined others in walled courtyards and had thatched roofs. High windows prevented any from seeing inside the homes while still allowing for ventilation. I would have preferred the open tents of the Bedu.

It took us only minutes to travel that dusty path to the western edge of the village, then a short way up another path to the far corner.

When we came to the house of Miriam, mother of Yeshua, Judah told us to remain by the road while he inquired. He hurried to the wooden door and called out. A woman’s voice answered and when Judah explained that he was a Jew from the desert who’d come to find Yeshua, she was silent.

“Miriam? It is I, Judah ben Malchus, who searches for the one who will liberate the Jews. I beg you hear me.”

The door then opened and a woman peered out cautiously, then stepped into the sunlight. She was dressed in a simple, dirtied tunic and a brown mantle, which she held closed with one hand.

The woman was slight and fair, but it was her eyes that struck me, for they stared at me upon my camel, not at Judah. I saw a woman who bore the weight of the world on her shoulders, and yet those eyes understood all of that world. A woman of sorrow and grace at once.

“You are Miriam?” Judah asked.

Only after watching me for a long moment did she turn to Judah.

“I am.”

“Then you must know that I am of the Kokobanu tribe from the east, the great Bedu who read the stars. Our wisest elders came many years ago and offered gifts to you and your son, I am certain. Do you remember?”

Miriam did not need to respond because her face had paled and I knew at once that Judah had found the mother of his king.

He did not wait for her to speak, but immediately stepped back and went to one knee in a bow. “It is my honor to stand before you.”

“No, you must not.” She glanced down the street, but no one was in sight.

“Among the Kokobanu, you are blessed among all women, for you are the mother of the one who will…”

Before he could finish, she stepped behind the wall of the courtyard, leaving him on his knee. He glanced back at me, then quickly stood and followed, vanishing from our sight for the moment.

I turned to Saba, who wore a curious look. “He was right. What do you make of it?”

He didn’t quickly respond. At the very least, this woman and her son were those Judah’s elders had found. But as far as I was aware, Miriam might be wary of Judah and his tribe of stargazers, for such men put their trust in what is not of the earth.

Yet I knew that Judah was a sane man.

“It isn’t good for him to be alone with a woman in this land,” Saba said, glancing down the street.

But it was she who’d drawn him aside, I thought. And none had seen him enter the courtyard.

The moment held the quality of a dream. I had come to avenge my son’s death by begging favor in Herod’s royal court, and yet here I was beside a house made of mud and dung as Judah paid homage to the mother of his king.

Saba was right to ask how a king might come from such a home.

I do not know what Judah spoke, nor Miriam, only that when he strode from the courtyard, his eyes were on me and aflame with hope.

“She will speak to you,” he said, taking the lead rope and tugging my camel down to its knees.

“Me?”

“I’ve told her who you are. She would speak to you in the house.”

“Why? I have no business with these people.”

“Because you now know what I know about her son. It concerns her.”

“I know only what is claimed.”

Judah set his jaw. “What I’ve claimed is now made certain. Miriam’s son was the child. Herod’s father tried to kill him. No one must know Yeshua is this same child. She will speak to you.”

I slid from the camel and saw that the door was still open.

“Hurry, she wishes not to be seen with us.”

So I walked to the door and glanced back at Judah, who motioned me forward. Then I stepped into the dimly lit house.

Miriam stood by the oil lantern, watching me. Here in her own home, she appeared far more at ease.

The moment I looked into her eyes, I felt like a servant. I could not understand, for she was not a man to command me, nor was I a slave in Egypt to be commanded by a woman. But I did not resist her influence.

I dipped my head. “You have asked to speak to me?”

“Judah tells me that your son was killed in Arabia,” she said.

For weeks my loss had been my constant companion, silenced by the resolve that compelled me to avenge him. For all the Kalb, I had been obliged to remain strong, for they now depended on me as much as my son had, and I could not fail them as well.

But with Miriam I was again a mother. The emotions that swallowed me came unbidden.

I saw my baby cooing at me with a full belly, milk still on his tender lips. I saw his little arms grabbing awkwardly at the air, only just learning what it meant to be alive.

I saw Kahil bin Saman casually walk over to my sleeping child, pluck him from the ground by his one leg, and throw him from the window.

I saw my infant son lying facedown on the stone, head crushed.

I saw it all and I could not speak. I could hardly breathe.

Miriam, seeing my pain, stepped up to me and brushed a strand of hair from my face.

“I’m so sorry, sweet Maviah.” Her eyes were misted. “I am so very sorry for your loss.”

Her words, spoken as if from my own soul, washed over me and I felt rivers of grief rising. Then flowing. I didn’t want to cry there in Nazareth, but she had given me permission and I could not remain strong.

My head fell and my body shook as I began to weep.

I felt my mantle eased from my head. Miriam’s arms encircled me and I lowered my forehead onto her shoulder.

“Weep, my child,” she whispered. “Weep for your son.”

Judah had told me to hurry, but I was undone by anguish and I could not move. Nor did Miriam seem to want me to. For long minutes she soothed me and held me as if she were my own mother.

Indeed, in my mind’s eye, she was my mother, and sobs racked my body. I placed my arms around Miriam and clung to her as only a daughter might, and I could not stop weeping.

I wept for my son. I wept for my father. I wept for the fear that lurked in my breast like a tiger waiting its turn to tear out my throat.

But I wept mostly because I was offered deep understanding and comfort from a mother who knew of suffering and fear.

When I finally began to settle, she wiped my tears from my cheeks with her mantle.

“You must weep for your son,” she said. “Even as I weep for mine.”

I felt I should say something, but no words came.

Miriam walked to the table, where she’d been kneading a lump of floured dough. She picked up a vessel and poured water into one of two chalk cups on the table.

I glanced around the humble room. Light filtered in from small windows near the thatched reed ceiling. Two oil lamps on the mud walls produced flames that filled the room with the scent of olive oil. Mats covered the dirt floor. A passage to my left with only a sheet for a door led into what must be the sleeping room. Several large earthen vessels sat in the corner, presumably holding wheat to be ground by hand.

It was by all accounting a poor home.

Her eyes found mine as she handed the water to me. I drank.

“Among my people, you are seen as unclean. It is forbidden to break bread with a foreigner. Even touching you has defiled me in my people’s eyes. My son never saw it that way. He was always beyond the simple ways of religion and tradition, seeking instead a far deeper knowing. And I know now that he was right. I suppose I knew so even from the time we were in Egypt.”

“Egypt? I grew up there as a slave.”

She hesitated. “Our people were once slaves in Egypt. Now we are slaves in our own land.”

Miriam took the cup from me and placed it back on the table. When she faced me, urgency had claimed her expression.

“Judah tells me that you travel to Herod.”

“Yes.”

“That you seek his favor.”

“Yes.”

“Then you must know that Herod knows no more mercy than the one who took your son’s life.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I agreed. “No king understands mercy.”

“You must say nothing of my son to Herod. Not even that you were here to see me. It is all that I ask from you or from Judah.”

“Yes. Of course.”

She held my eyes longer, then smiled faintly as if believing my intentions.

Miriam looked at one of the oil lamps on the wall. “They have rejected him, you know,” she said. “He not once spoke a word of disrespect to any in Nazareth, and yet they could not understand him. His brothers still believe him to be out of his mind. Just a quiet boy who liked to spend time alone in the hills and speak of another world in the tradition of the spiritual teachers. He was more interested in being with the birds than in learning his father’s craft. He often went to Sepphoris with the others to work with his father, but even there his fascination was with the synagogue. And with Herod’s grand theater.”

It was clear to me that Miriam rarely spoke of her son and yet had found reason to confide in me.

“Your husband was a craftsman?”

“Joseph was a simple man who worked with wood and stone, trades needed in rebuilding Sepphoris. He traveled there an hour every morning to return upon the evening.”

She faced me again. “His brothers thought Yeshua out of his mind, but they do not know him. One cannot truly know my son and remained unchanged. Perhaps the world will see that one day. But today I fear they will try to kill him.”

“The Romans? Why?”

“Because they fear the kingdom of which he speaks. Even the Jews may try to kill him—I have seen hatred here in Nazareth.”

“It is true then… that Yeshua is a great mystic who works wonders.”

“You’ve heard this? Where?”

“From a man in Arabia.”

She studied me for a moment and spoke very quietly. “He works wonders. And far more.”

The notion intrigued me, because I had known of holy men who traded in the world of wonders, but I had lost my belief in them.

“Then eventually they must embrace him,” I said.

“Perhaps. But Yeshua rises above even the Jewish way of mystery. And above all the ways of the world. I pray for his safety.”

“Then he should leave Palestine,” I said. “You are his mother, he will listen to you.”

“He is bound to the world of spirit, not to me. My son will do what he was born to do. Even as you, Maviah, must do what you were born to do for your people. And I will do what I was born to do.”

“You know what I was born to do?”

“Judah tells me that you will be a queen of the desert one day, uniting all that divides. That you will bring salvation to your people.”

“I fear Judah is a man taken by impossible dreams.”

Miriam hesitated. “I would not discount dreams so quickly, Maviah. Do what you must do. Only be careful of Herod.”

In that moment her words compelled me even more than my father’s, urging me toward my purpose, because she understood my place in the world as a woman and as a mother.

“I will.”

A knock sounded at the door. Judah, surely wondering what had become of us.

“Then go and take my blessing with you.”

I thought that Yeshua was fortunate to have a mother such as Miriam. And in small way, I thought of her as a mother to me as well.

“Thank you. You are very kind.”

She smiled at me and turned toward the door.

“Maviah…”

I turned back. “Yes?”

“You will find that Yeshua loves you.”