Mary of Nazareth Read Free

him. But not her mother.
    â€œI thought they were going to hurt you,” she murmured, “and I didn’t want to stay up there all alone while they did that.”
    It was only a half lie. Hannah drew her close, wetting her temples with her tears and kisses. “Oh, my poor girl! You’re mad.”
    Joachim set one of the stools on its legs and smiled slightly. “She stood up well to the officer. Our daughter is a brave girl, and that’s a fact.”
    Miriam moved away from her mother, her cheeks flushing pink from the compliment. Joachim’s eyes were full of pride, and almost happy.
    â€œHelp us to tidy up,” he said, “and then go to bed. We shan’t have any more trouble tonight.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    T HE yells of the mercenaries did in fact cease. They had not found what they were looking for. In fact, they very rarely did, and this frustration often drove them as crazy as wild animals. When that happened, they slaughtered and destroyed without discrimination or pity. That night, however, they simply left the village, exhausted and sleepy, and went back to the legion’s camp two miles from Nazareth.
    As usually happened in cases like this, each household closed in on itself. The villagers bandaged their wounds, dried their tears, calmed their fears. It was only at dawn that they ventured out and spoke to each other about the terror they had been through.
    Miriam had to wait for quite a while before she could slip out of bed. Hannah and Joachim, still shaking with fear, took a long time to fall sleep.
    When she finally heard their regular breathing through the thin wooden partition separating her bedroom from theirs, she got up and, wrapped in a thick shawl, climbed the stairs to the terrace, taking care this time that no step creaked.
    A crescent moon, veiled in mist, lacquered everything in a pale light. Miriam advanced confidently. She could have found her way in pitch darkness.
    She easily found the plank that kept the hiding place closed. As she moved it, the trapdoor was pushed violently from the inside, and she just had time to step aside and avoid it hitting her. The boy was already on his feet.
    â€œDon’t be afraid,” she whispered. “It’s only me.”
    He was not afraid. Cursing, he shook himself like an animal to get the straw and wool from the bottom of the hiding place out of his hair.
    â€œNot so loud,” Miriam whispered. “You’re going to wake my parents—”
    â€œCouldn’t you have come earlier? A person could suffocate in there. And there was no way to open the damned box!”
    Miriam chuckled.
    â€œYou locked me in, didn’t you?” the boy growled. “You did it on purpose!”
    â€œI was in a hurry.”
    The young man merely snorted.
    To placate him, Miriam showed him the mechanism that opened the trapdoor from the inside, a piece of wood that just had to be pushed hard. “It isn’t complicated.”
    â€œIf you know how it works.”
    â€œDon’t complain. The soldiers didn’t find you, did they? If you’d been hiding behind the barrels, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
    The boy was starting to calm down. In the gloom, Miriam could see his bright eyes. He might even have been smiling.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” he asked.
    â€œMiriam. My father is Joachim, the carpenter.”
    â€œFor a girl your age, you’re brave,” he admitted. “I heard you with the soldiers; you handled them well.” The boy rubbed his cheeks and neck energetically, to wipe off the wisps of straw that still clung to them. “I suppose I have to thank you. My name’s Barabbas.”
    Miriam could not help laughing. Because his name wasn’t a real name; all it meant was “son of the father.” Because of his serious tone, too, and because she was pleased that he had complimented her.
    Barabbas sat down on the logs.