Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt
Page 15
"These men are as they told you," said the old woman. James took the empty tray from her, as the men ate their cakes. "They've been in Alexandria for seven years. They're craftsmen who work in silver, wood, and stone. I have a letter from them telling me they were coming home. And this child, my niece, Mary, is the daughter of a Jewish Roman soldier stationed in Alexandria, and his father was in the campaigns in the north."
My aunt Mary, who couldn't stand up by herself any longer, and was being held up by the other women, nodded at this.
"Here, I carry the letter from these children, which came to me from Egypt only a month ago, and it by the Roman post. I'll show it to you. You read it. It's in Greek, written by the scribe of the Street of the Carpenters. You can see for yourself."
She drew out a little packet of parchment, the very parchment my mother had sent her from Alexandria when I was with my mother.
"No, that's all right," said the soldier. "You know, we had to put this down, this rebellion, you do know that. And a good part of the city has gone up in flames. It's no good for anyone when it's like this. You don't want it like this. Look at this village. Look at the farmland here. This is rich land, good land. Why this stupid rebellion? And now half the city burnt and the slave traders dragging away the women and children."
One of the other soldiers was quietly scoffing, and the mean soldier held his peace. But the first soldier went on.
"These leaders have no chance to unite this country. Yet they're putting on crowns and declaring themselves Kings. And the signals from Jerusalem tell us things are worse there. You know the better part of the army's marching south to Jerusalem, don't you?"
"Pray when death comes to any of us," said the old woman, "that our souls be together in the bundle of life in the light of our Lord."
The soldiers looked at her.
"And not in the bundle flung out, like the souls of those who do evil, as if from a sling," she said.
"A good prayer," said the leader.
"And wait till you taste the wine," said the soldier who now gave him the wineskin.
The leader drank.
"Ah, that's good," he said, "that's very good wine."
"For the life of my family," asked the old woman, "would I give you bad wine?"
They laughed again. They liked her.
The leader tried to give the skin back to the old woman, but she refused it.
"You take it with you," she said. "What you have to do is a hard thing to do."
"It is a hard thing to do," said the soldier. "Battle's one thing. Execution is another."
A quiet came over everyone. The leader looked at us and at the old woman as if he was speaking but he wasn't. Then he said: "I thank you, old woman, for your kindness. As for this village, let it be as it is." He reined in his horse and turned to make his way out into the street.
All of us bowed.
The old woman spoke and the leader stopped to listen: " 'The Lord bless you, and keep you; the Lord make his face shine upon you; and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.' "
The leader looked at the old woman for a long time, as the horses danced and pawed at the dust, and then he nodded and smiled.
And they rode away.
As they had come, they went - with a lot of noise and clatter, and rattling. And then Nazareth was as empty and as quiet as before.
Nothing moved but all the little flowers and leaves on the green vines that grew around us. And the new leaves of the fig, so brightly green.
I could hear but the cooing of doves, and the soft song of other birds.
Joseph spoke in a low voice to James,
"What did you see from the rooftops?"
James said,
"Crosses and crosses, on both sides of the road out of Sepphoris. I couldn't see the men, but I could see the crosses. I don't know how many. Maybe fifty men crucified."
"It's over," Joseph said, and everyone began to move and to talk at once.
The women crowded around the old woman and took her hands and showered her with kisses, and gestured for us to come and to kiss her hands.
"This is Old Sarah," said my mother. "This is the sister of my mother's mother. All of you come here to Old Sarah," she said to us children. "Come and let me present you to Old Sarah."
Her robes were dusty but soft, and her hands small and wrinkled like her face. Her eyes were under hoods of wrinkles. But they were bright.
"Jesus bar Joseph," she said. "And my James, and here, let me take my place under the tree, you come, you children, come here, all of you, I want to see everyone, and here, you put that baby in my arms."
All my life I'd heard of Old Sarah. All my life we'd read letters from Old Sarah. Old Sarah was the place where my father's family and my mother's family were joined. I couldn't remember all those links, no matter how often they were told to me. But I knew the truth of it, nonetheless.
And so we gathered under the fig tree, and I sat at Old Sarah's feet. The place was a place of shade and of sunlight. The air was fresh and almost warm.
The old stones were so worn that they showed hardly any of the marks of the mason's tools anymore, and they were big stones. I loved the vines with their white flowers fluttering in the breeze. There was space here and a softness to things, or so it seemed to me, that there hadn't been in Alexandria.
The men went to tend to the beasts. The older boys were taking the bundles into the house. I wanted to be with the men and help them, but I wanted to hear Old Sarah too.
My mother held Little Judas in her lap, as she told Old Sarah the story of Bruria and her slave woman, Riba, and they, Bruria and Riba, said they would be our servants forever and this very day they would prepare the meal for us, with their hands, and they would wait on everyone, if only we told them what they could use and where it was. There was talk all around me.
As for the rest of Nazareth, people were hiding in the tunnels under their houses, said Old Sarah, and some had fled to caves in the hills.
"I'm too old to be crawling in a tunnel," said Old Sarah, "and they never kill old people. And let us pray they don't come back."
"There are thousands of them," said James, the one who had seen them from the rooftops.
"May I go up on the roof and see them?" I asked my mother.
"You go in to see Old Justus," said Old Sarah. "Old Justus is in bed, and can't move."
At once, we went into the house, Little Salome, James and I, and my two cousins of Alphaeus. We went through four rooms in a row before we found him. His bed was up off the floor, and there was a lamp burning there that gave off a perfume. Joseph was already with him, seated on a wooden stool by the bed.
Old Justus raised his hand, and tried to sit up on his bed but he couldn't. Joseph said our names to the old man but he only looked at me. Then he lay back on his bed, and I saw that he couldn't speak. He closed his eyes.
Old Justus we'd spoken of, yes, but he himself never wrote. He was older even than Old Sarah. He was her uncle. And kin to Joseph and to my mother, just as Old Sarah was. But again, how, I couldn't have told out as my mother could, as if it were a psalm.
Now there was the smell of food in the house - fresh baked bread and a meat pottage on the brazier. These things Old Sarah had prepared.
Even though it was bright sunlight, the men made us all go into the house. They closed up the doors, even the doors to the stable where the animals were - our beasts were the only ones - and the lamps were lighted, and we sat in the shadows. It was warm. I didn't mind it. The rugs were thick and soft, and the supper was my whole thought.
Oh, I wanted with all my heart to see the fields around, and the trees, and to run up and down the street, and see the people of the town, but all that would wait until the terrible troubles were gone.
Here we were safe together, and the women were busy, and the men were playing with the little ones, and the fire in the brazier had a pretty glow.
The women brought out dried figs, raisins in honey, and sweet dates, and spiced olives, and other fine things, which we'd brought all the way from Egypt in our bundles, and that with the thick meat pottage, full of lentils and lamb, true lamb, and the fresh bread, was a feast.
Joseph blessed the cups of wine as we drank, and we repeated the blessings:
"Oh Lord of the Universe, maker of vine from which we drink, maker of wheat for the bread we eat, we give you thanks that we are home safe at last, and keep us from evil, Amen."
If there was anyone else in the town, we didn't know it. Old Sarah said for us to have patience, and have faith in the Lord.
After the supper, Cleopas came to Aunt Sarah and took her in his arms, and kissed her hands, and she kissed his forehead.
"And what do you know," he asked, "about gods and goddesses who drink nectar and eat ambrosia?" he asked her. There was a little laughter from the other men.
"Look in the boxes of scrolls when you have the time for it, curious one," she said. "You think my father had no room there for Homer? Or for Plato? You think he never read to his children in the evening? Don't think you know what I know."
The other men came to Old Sarah one by one and kissed her hands and she received them.
It struck me that it was very late, their coming to her, and that none of them said a word of thanks to her for what she had done.
When my mother put me to bed in the room with the men, I asked her about this, how it was they didn't offer their thanks. She frowned and shook her head and said in a whisper that I mustn't speak of it. A woman had saved the lives of the men.
"But she has many gray hairs," I said.
"She's still a woman," my mother said, "and they are men."
In the night, I woke up crying.
For a time I didn't know where we were. I couldn't see anything. My mother was near me and so was my aunt Mary, and Bruria was talking to me. I came to know we were home. My teeth were chattering, but I wasn't cold. James came up close to me and told me that the Romans had moved on. They'd left soldiers to keep guard on the crucified, and put down any last bit of rebellion, but most of them had moved on.
He sounded very sure and strong. He lay beside me with his arm over me.
I wished it was daylight. I felt my fear would go away if it was daylight. I began to cry again.
My mother softly sang to me: "It is the Lord who gives salvation even unto Kings, it is the Lord who delivered even David from the hateful sword; Let our sons grow as plants grow, and let our daughters be cornerstones, polished as if they were the cornerstones of the palace ...happy is that people, whose God is the Lord."
I drifted in dreams.
When daylight came I saw it under the door to the courtyard. The women were already up. I went out before anyone could stop me. The air was sweet and almost warm.
James came fast after me, and I ran up the ladder to the roof, and up the next ladder to the roof above that. We crawled to the edge and looked towards Sepphoris.
It was so far away that all I could see were the crosses, and it was as James had said. I couldn't count them. People were moving around the crosses. Others were coming and going on the road as people do and I saw wagons, and donkeys. The fire was out, though there was still smoke streaming up to the sky, and there was plenty of the city that wasn't burnt. But again it was hard to see.
To my right the houses of Nazareth went up the hill one against another, and to the left they went down. No one was on all the roofs we saw, but we could see mats and blankets here and there and all around the village the green fields and the forests of thick trees. So many trees.
When I came down, Joseph was waiting, and he took us both sternly by the shoulders and said, "Who told you that you could do this? Don't you go up there again."
We nodded. James blushed, and there passed between them a quick look, James ashamed, and Joseph forgiving him.
"It was my doing," I said. "I ran up."
"And you won't do it again," said Joseph, "because what if they come back?"
I nodded.
"What did you see?" Joseph asked.
"It's quiet," said James. "They're finished. People are taking away the bodies of the dead. There are villages that were burnt."
"I didn't see the villages," I said.
"They were out there, little places, near the city."
Joseph shook his head, and took James with him to work.
Old Sarah sat, bundled up against the open air, under the old bones of the fig tree. The leaves were big and green. She was at her sewing, but mostly pulling out threads.
An old man came to the gate, nodded and moved on. Women passed with their baskets, and I heard children.
I stood listening, and I heard the cooing of the pigeons again, and I thought I could hear the leaves moving, and a woman singing.
"What are you dreaming?" asked Old Sarah.
In Alexandria there had been people - people everywhere, and always we were with each other, crowded and eating and working and playing and sleeping crowded together, and there had never been this ...this quiet.
I wanted to sing. I thought of my uncle Cleopas and the way that he would sing all of a sudden. And I wanted to sing.
A little boy came to the entrance to the courtyard, and then another behind him, and I said to them,
"Come in."
"Yes, you come in now, Toda, and you too, Mattai," said Old Sarah. "This is my nephew, Jesus bar Joseph."
At once Little Symeon came out from behind the curtain of the doorway, and so did Little Judas.
"I can run to the top of the hill faster than anyone," said the boy Mattai.
My aunt Mary, who couldn't stand up by herself any longer, and was being held up by the other women, nodded at this.
"Here, I carry the letter from these children, which came to me from Egypt only a month ago, and it by the Roman post. I'll show it to you. You read it. It's in Greek, written by the scribe of the Street of the Carpenters. You can see for yourself."
She drew out a little packet of parchment, the very parchment my mother had sent her from Alexandria when I was with my mother.
"No, that's all right," said the soldier. "You know, we had to put this down, this rebellion, you do know that. And a good part of the city has gone up in flames. It's no good for anyone when it's like this. You don't want it like this. Look at this village. Look at the farmland here. This is rich land, good land. Why this stupid rebellion? And now half the city burnt and the slave traders dragging away the women and children."
One of the other soldiers was quietly scoffing, and the mean soldier held his peace. But the first soldier went on.
"These leaders have no chance to unite this country. Yet they're putting on crowns and declaring themselves Kings. And the signals from Jerusalem tell us things are worse there. You know the better part of the army's marching south to Jerusalem, don't you?"
"Pray when death comes to any of us," said the old woman, "that our souls be together in the bundle of life in the light of our Lord."
The soldiers looked at her.
"And not in the bundle flung out, like the souls of those who do evil, as if from a sling," she said.
"A good prayer," said the leader.
"And wait till you taste the wine," said the soldier who now gave him the wineskin.
The leader drank.
"Ah, that's good," he said, "that's very good wine."
"For the life of my family," asked the old woman, "would I give you bad wine?"
They laughed again. They liked her.
The leader tried to give the skin back to the old woman, but she refused it.
"You take it with you," she said. "What you have to do is a hard thing to do."
"It is a hard thing to do," said the soldier. "Battle's one thing. Execution is another."
A quiet came over everyone. The leader looked at us and at the old woman as if he was speaking but he wasn't. Then he said: "I thank you, old woman, for your kindness. As for this village, let it be as it is." He reined in his horse and turned to make his way out into the street.
All of us bowed.
The old woman spoke and the leader stopped to listen: " 'The Lord bless you, and keep you; the Lord make his face shine upon you; and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.' "
The leader looked at the old woman for a long time, as the horses danced and pawed at the dust, and then he nodded and smiled.
And they rode away.
As they had come, they went - with a lot of noise and clatter, and rattling. And then Nazareth was as empty and as quiet as before.
Nothing moved but all the little flowers and leaves on the green vines that grew around us. And the new leaves of the fig, so brightly green.
I could hear but the cooing of doves, and the soft song of other birds.
Joseph spoke in a low voice to James,
"What did you see from the rooftops?"
James said,
"Crosses and crosses, on both sides of the road out of Sepphoris. I couldn't see the men, but I could see the crosses. I don't know how many. Maybe fifty men crucified."
"It's over," Joseph said, and everyone began to move and to talk at once.
The women crowded around the old woman and took her hands and showered her with kisses, and gestured for us to come and to kiss her hands.
"This is Old Sarah," said my mother. "This is the sister of my mother's mother. All of you come here to Old Sarah," she said to us children. "Come and let me present you to Old Sarah."
Her robes were dusty but soft, and her hands small and wrinkled like her face. Her eyes were under hoods of wrinkles. But they were bright.
"Jesus bar Joseph," she said. "And my James, and here, let me take my place under the tree, you come, you children, come here, all of you, I want to see everyone, and here, you put that baby in my arms."
All my life I'd heard of Old Sarah. All my life we'd read letters from Old Sarah. Old Sarah was the place where my father's family and my mother's family were joined. I couldn't remember all those links, no matter how often they were told to me. But I knew the truth of it, nonetheless.
And so we gathered under the fig tree, and I sat at Old Sarah's feet. The place was a place of shade and of sunlight. The air was fresh and almost warm.
The old stones were so worn that they showed hardly any of the marks of the mason's tools anymore, and they were big stones. I loved the vines with their white flowers fluttering in the breeze. There was space here and a softness to things, or so it seemed to me, that there hadn't been in Alexandria.
The men went to tend to the beasts. The older boys were taking the bundles into the house. I wanted to be with the men and help them, but I wanted to hear Old Sarah too.
My mother held Little Judas in her lap, as she told Old Sarah the story of Bruria and her slave woman, Riba, and they, Bruria and Riba, said they would be our servants forever and this very day they would prepare the meal for us, with their hands, and they would wait on everyone, if only we told them what they could use and where it was. There was talk all around me.
As for the rest of Nazareth, people were hiding in the tunnels under their houses, said Old Sarah, and some had fled to caves in the hills.
"I'm too old to be crawling in a tunnel," said Old Sarah, "and they never kill old people. And let us pray they don't come back."
"There are thousands of them," said James, the one who had seen them from the rooftops.
"May I go up on the roof and see them?" I asked my mother.
"You go in to see Old Justus," said Old Sarah. "Old Justus is in bed, and can't move."
At once, we went into the house, Little Salome, James and I, and my two cousins of Alphaeus. We went through four rooms in a row before we found him. His bed was up off the floor, and there was a lamp burning there that gave off a perfume. Joseph was already with him, seated on a wooden stool by the bed.
Old Justus raised his hand, and tried to sit up on his bed but he couldn't. Joseph said our names to the old man but he only looked at me. Then he lay back on his bed, and I saw that he couldn't speak. He closed his eyes.
Old Justus we'd spoken of, yes, but he himself never wrote. He was older even than Old Sarah. He was her uncle. And kin to Joseph and to my mother, just as Old Sarah was. But again, how, I couldn't have told out as my mother could, as if it were a psalm.
Now there was the smell of food in the house - fresh baked bread and a meat pottage on the brazier. These things Old Sarah had prepared.
Even though it was bright sunlight, the men made us all go into the house. They closed up the doors, even the doors to the stable where the animals were - our beasts were the only ones - and the lamps were lighted, and we sat in the shadows. It was warm. I didn't mind it. The rugs were thick and soft, and the supper was my whole thought.
Oh, I wanted with all my heart to see the fields around, and the trees, and to run up and down the street, and see the people of the town, but all that would wait until the terrible troubles were gone.
Here we were safe together, and the women were busy, and the men were playing with the little ones, and the fire in the brazier had a pretty glow.
The women brought out dried figs, raisins in honey, and sweet dates, and spiced olives, and other fine things, which we'd brought all the way from Egypt in our bundles, and that with the thick meat pottage, full of lentils and lamb, true lamb, and the fresh bread, was a feast.
Joseph blessed the cups of wine as we drank, and we repeated the blessings:
"Oh Lord of the Universe, maker of vine from which we drink, maker of wheat for the bread we eat, we give you thanks that we are home safe at last, and keep us from evil, Amen."
If there was anyone else in the town, we didn't know it. Old Sarah said for us to have patience, and have faith in the Lord.
After the supper, Cleopas came to Aunt Sarah and took her in his arms, and kissed her hands, and she kissed his forehead.
"And what do you know," he asked, "about gods and goddesses who drink nectar and eat ambrosia?" he asked her. There was a little laughter from the other men.
"Look in the boxes of scrolls when you have the time for it, curious one," she said. "You think my father had no room there for Homer? Or for Plato? You think he never read to his children in the evening? Don't think you know what I know."
The other men came to Old Sarah one by one and kissed her hands and she received them.
It struck me that it was very late, their coming to her, and that none of them said a word of thanks to her for what she had done.
When my mother put me to bed in the room with the men, I asked her about this, how it was they didn't offer their thanks. She frowned and shook her head and said in a whisper that I mustn't speak of it. A woman had saved the lives of the men.
"But she has many gray hairs," I said.
"She's still a woman," my mother said, "and they are men."
In the night, I woke up crying.
For a time I didn't know where we were. I couldn't see anything. My mother was near me and so was my aunt Mary, and Bruria was talking to me. I came to know we were home. My teeth were chattering, but I wasn't cold. James came up close to me and told me that the Romans had moved on. They'd left soldiers to keep guard on the crucified, and put down any last bit of rebellion, but most of them had moved on.
He sounded very sure and strong. He lay beside me with his arm over me.
I wished it was daylight. I felt my fear would go away if it was daylight. I began to cry again.
My mother softly sang to me: "It is the Lord who gives salvation even unto Kings, it is the Lord who delivered even David from the hateful sword; Let our sons grow as plants grow, and let our daughters be cornerstones, polished as if they were the cornerstones of the palace ...happy is that people, whose God is the Lord."
I drifted in dreams.
When daylight came I saw it under the door to the courtyard. The women were already up. I went out before anyone could stop me. The air was sweet and almost warm.
James came fast after me, and I ran up the ladder to the roof, and up the next ladder to the roof above that. We crawled to the edge and looked towards Sepphoris.
It was so far away that all I could see were the crosses, and it was as James had said. I couldn't count them. People were moving around the crosses. Others were coming and going on the road as people do and I saw wagons, and donkeys. The fire was out, though there was still smoke streaming up to the sky, and there was plenty of the city that wasn't burnt. But again it was hard to see.
To my right the houses of Nazareth went up the hill one against another, and to the left they went down. No one was on all the roofs we saw, but we could see mats and blankets here and there and all around the village the green fields and the forests of thick trees. So many trees.
When I came down, Joseph was waiting, and he took us both sternly by the shoulders and said, "Who told you that you could do this? Don't you go up there again."
We nodded. James blushed, and there passed between them a quick look, James ashamed, and Joseph forgiving him.
"It was my doing," I said. "I ran up."
"And you won't do it again," said Joseph, "because what if they come back?"
I nodded.
"What did you see?" Joseph asked.
"It's quiet," said James. "They're finished. People are taking away the bodies of the dead. There are villages that were burnt."
"I didn't see the villages," I said.
"They were out there, little places, near the city."
Joseph shook his head, and took James with him to work.
Old Sarah sat, bundled up against the open air, under the old bones of the fig tree. The leaves were big and green. She was at her sewing, but mostly pulling out threads.
An old man came to the gate, nodded and moved on. Women passed with their baskets, and I heard children.
I stood listening, and I heard the cooing of the pigeons again, and I thought I could hear the leaves moving, and a woman singing.
"What are you dreaming?" asked Old Sarah.
In Alexandria there had been people - people everywhere, and always we were with each other, crowded and eating and working and playing and sleeping crowded together, and there had never been this ...this quiet.
I wanted to sing. I thought of my uncle Cleopas and the way that he would sing all of a sudden. And I wanted to sing.
A little boy came to the entrance to the courtyard, and then another behind him, and I said to them,
"Come in."
"Yes, you come in now, Toda, and you too, Mattai," said Old Sarah. "This is my nephew, Jesus bar Joseph."
At once Little Symeon came out from behind the curtain of the doorway, and so did Little Judas.
"I can run to the top of the hill faster than anyone," said the boy Mattai.
