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“Well, look at this,” said one of the men in Greek, “it seems you’re the only people that live in Nazareth. You have this whole town for yourselves. And we have the entire population gathered in one courtyard. Isn’t that good for us!”
No one said a word. Joseph’s grip on my shoulder almost hurt. No one moved.
Then another soldier who waved for the other to be quiet moved forward as best he could on his restless horse.
“What do you have to say for yourselves?” he asked.
The other soldier called out, “Is there some reason we shouldn’t crucify you with all the rest of the rabble down the road?”
Still no one spoke. Then in a soft voice, Joseph began.
“My lord,” he said in Greek, “we’ve only just come from Alexandria, to find our home here. We know nothing of what goes on here. We’ve just arrived, and found the village empty as you see.” He pointed to the donkeys with their baskets and blankets and bundles. “We’re covered with the dust of the road, my lord. We’re at your service.”
This long answer surprised the soldiers, and the leader, the one who was doing all the talking, made his dancing horse come close to us, the horse moving into the courtyard, making our donkeys shy back. He looked at all of us, and our bundles, and the woman huddled together and the little ones.
But before he could speak, the other soldier said:
“Why don’t we take two and leave the rest? We don’t have time to raid every house in the village. Pick out two of them and let’s go.”
My aunt screamed and so did my mother, though they tried to cover their screams. At once Little Salome started crying. Little Symeon began to howl, but I’m not sure he knew why. I could hear my aunt Esther murmuring in Greek, but I couldn’t make out the words.
I was so scared I couldn’t breathe. They had said “crucify,” and I knew what crucifixion was. I’d seen crucifixion outside Alexandria, though only with quick looks because we wanted never, never to stare at a crucified man. Nailed to a cross, stripped of all clothes and miserably naked as he died, a crucified man was a terrible shameful sight.
I was also in terror because I knew the men were in complete dread.
The leader didn’t answer.
The other said, “That’ll teach the village a lesson, two, and let the others go.”
“My lord,” said Joseph very slowly, “is there anything that we might do to show you we’re not guilty here, that we’ve only just returned from Egypt? We’re simple, my lord. We keep to our law and your law. We always have.” He showed no fear at all, and none of the men showed fear. But I knew they were in dread. I could feel it as I could feel the air around me. My teeth began to chatter. I knew if I cried I would sob. I couldn’t cry. Not now.
The women were shaking and crying so softly it could almost not be heard.
“No, these men have nothing to do with this,” said the leader. “Let’s get on.”
“No, wait, we have to come back with somebody from this town,” said the other. “You can’t tell me this town didn’t support the rebels. We haven’t even searched these houses.”
“How can we search all these houses?” asked the leader. He looked us over. “You just said yourself we can’t search all these houses, now let’s go.”
“We take one, at least one, to set an example. I say, one.” This soldier moved up before the leader and began to look over the men.
The leader said nothing.
“I’ll go then,” said Cleopas. “Take me.”
The women in one voice cried out, my aunt Mary collapsing against my mother, and Bruria sinking to the ground in sobs. “It was for this moment that I was spared. I will die for the family.”
“No, take me if someone is to go,” said Joseph. “I will go with you. If one is to go, I will go. I don’t know what I’m accused of, but I’ll go.”
“No, I’ll go,” said Alphaeus. “If someone must go, let me be the ransom. Only tell me why I should die?”
“You will not,” said Cleopas. “Don’t you see, this is why I didn’t die in Jerusalem. This is the perfect moment. I’m to offer my life for the family now.”
“I will be the one,” said Simon, and he stepped forward. “The Lord doesn’t spare a man to die on the cross. Take me. I’ve always been the slow one, the late one. You know it, all of you know. I’m never good at anything. I’ll be good for something now. Let me have this moment to offer for my brothers and all my kindred now.”
“No, I tell you, I will be the one!” Cleopas said. “I’m going. I will be the one.”
At that, all the brothers began to shout at each other, even pushing gently at each other, and trying to get ahead of one another, each saying why he should die instead of the others, but I couldn’t make out all the words. Cleopas because he was sickly anyway, and Joseph because he was the head of the family, and Alphaeus because he left behind two strong sons, and on and on.
The soldiers, who said nothing in their amazement, suddenly broke into laughter.
And James came down from the roof, my brother James, twelve years old, remember, he dropped into the courtyard, and ran up and said that he wanted to be the one to go.
“I’ll go with you,” he said to the leader. “I’ve come home to the house of my father, and of his father, of his father, and his father, to die for this house.”
The soldiers laughed even more at that.
Joseph pulled James back and they all started fighting again, until the soldiers looked towards the house. One of them pointed. We all turned around.
Out of the house, our house, there came an old woman, a woman so old her skin looked like weathered wood, and in her hands she had a tray piled with cakes, and over her shoulder she carried a skin of wine. This had to be Old Sarah, we knew.
We children looked at her because the soldiers looked past the men at her. But the men were still fighting over who was to be crucified, and when she spoke we couldn’t hear her words.
“Stop it, all of you now,” shouted the leader. “Can’t you see the old woman wants to speak!”
Quiet.
Old Sarah came forward with quick steps almost to the gate.
“I would bow, my lords,” she said in Greek, “but I’m far too old for that. And you are young men. I’ve sweet cakes to offer you and the best wine from the vineyards of our kindred in the north. I know you’re weary and in a strange land.” Her Greek was as good as Joseph’s Greek. And she spoke like one who is used to telling tales.
“You’d feed an army that’s crucifying your own people?” asked the leader.
“My lord, I’d prepare for you the ambrosia of the gods on Mount Olympus,” she said, “and call up dancing girls and flute girls and fill golden goblets with nectar, if you would only spare these children of my father’s house.”
The soldiers all broke into such laughter now it was as if they’d never laughed before. It wasn’t mean laughter, it never had been mean, and their faces were soft now and they did seem tired.
She went towards them and offered up her cakes, and they took the cakes, all four of the men, and the mean soldier, the soldier who wanted to take one of us, he took the skin of wine and drank.
“Better than nectar and ambrosia,” said the leader. “And you’re a kind woman. You make me think of my grandmother at home. If you tell me that none of these men are bandits, if you tell me they have nothing to do with the rebellion in Sepphoris, I’ll believe you, and tell me why there’s nobody else in this town.”
“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.