LITMIR.BIZ

      Out of the crowd, a woman ran toward us. I thought she was hurrying to tell the men who were tending the herd nearby that new people were arriving. But she swerved suddenly, rushed directly at me and spat at my cloak.

      “Give that to your Governor Pilate,” she snarled as she raced back toward the camp.

      “Bring that woman here,” Manaen ordered, his voice hard as iron.

      “Can’t we just go on?” I said, wiping the spit off without looking.

      Two guards reached the woman quickly and scooped her up as if she were a mole plucked by an owl. They dragged her to Manaen and dropped her in front of him. A crowd had gathered to watch what would happen. Manaen met their hostile stares.

      “Take her away,” he said to the guards.

      The woman dropped her forehead to the dirt and wailed as two men from our escort tied her hands with rope.

      We moved on.

      “It’s not the worst thing,” Manaen said, his eyes locked on the view ahead of us. “Plenty of troublemakers are put in jail and released after the festival.”

      I found myself defending the woman. “She did what many of her people would like to do to those who betrayed them and followed the Romans,” I said. “My ancestors were treated like royalty for their support, while our relatives lost everything.”

      “Why did your father, born a Hebrew, support the Romans?” Manaen asked, impatient as if he were talking to a dull child.

      “He said Rome could bring our backward country into the modern world.”

      “He was right.”

      “Do you like seeing the Romans in control?”

      “We can’t push progress out of our way. The Caesars bring progress.”

      I watched his face for anything that might explain the anger mixed with a fatherly concern in his voice. It was only clear to me that he had conflicted emotions about the Romans.

      “Onward,” he shouted. The soldiers closed in behind us and followed.

      We rode to the temple precinct in silence. When we were almost there, I asked if we could give up our horses and walk.

      “Too dangerous,” Manaen said. “I promised your husband that I would protect you, and the crowds are unpredictable.”

      I tried flattery. “But you can handle them,” I said. He did not waver.

      At the archway leading to the gentiles’ court we finally did dismount and stepped into an explosion of noisy activity. The merchant stands on the plaza were buried under a crush of customers haggling for votive candles and frescoed tablets painted with scenic views of the temple. Butchers selling sheep and goats from wooden carts could not move the squealing beasts fast enough.

      The entire courtyard pulsed with life—pilgrims, caged doves, money changers’ booths. The stench of bloody hides mixed with the more pleasant scent of incense. Two herders passed us with a carcass tied to a pole that rested between their shoulders. The bulging eyes of the animal’s head grazed my nose. I gagged. The cough I had been stifling broke out. I had to turn away and try to hide my fit from my escort. Blood speckled my handkerchief, but I was skilled at making light of my attacks. I drank water from the skin I wore at my hip and breathed slowly until at last I regained my composure.

      As the herders passed the alms box, one of them dropped the pole and placed his coins in the slot. An older man tripped on the beast and fell. Some weasel-faced character rushed to help him and deftly slipped the old man’s change purse off his belt. Spinning on his toes, the pickpocket stood face-to-face with Manaen, who caught him by the neck.

      “You’re going to jail,” he snarled, motioning for the guards to remove the oily thief. I took a step backward as the old man staggered to his feet, his forehead smeared with blood. He fell against Manaen, who steadied the frail body. I took another step back. I could hear the voices of the women praying in their separate court. They were closer than before.

      An energetic father and his little boy cut across my path, dragging their goat toward the butcher’s stone inside the men’s court. Their lips moved in exact harmony as they recited the blessing. I took another step back to give them room.

      “Wait there,” Manaen ordered me, maneuvering around the goat without taking his eyes off me.

      A barefoot priest spattered with blood hurried across the plaza. In his rush toward the sanctuary he kicked a jar of oil that someone had left behind. It frightened a young boy, who dropped his lighted candle. The flame ignited the oil.

      People scattered.

      I ran to the end of the wide courtyard and all but threw myself into the women’s quarters. Men were forbidden from entering, and Manaen could not reach me there. Veiled heads turned toward me to see who was disrupting the prayers. I kept my face hidden and made my way to the back. I began to follow the other women’s movements. They were like dancers, bowing low, reaching toward the heavens.

      Could prayer heal me? I wondered.

      The scent of sandalwood filled my nose and made me light-headed. A tickle in my throat refused to be stilled. I breathed evenly, trying to calm myself. Slowly my insides settled. The voices of the women near me, chanting their prayer, lulled me as if I were an infant falling sleep.

      More at peace than I had been in some time, I relaxed and listened. It was then that I heard a distinct voice. It was huge and loud enough to shake the temple walls, yet it felt very close. I wondered if it came from somewhere inside me. I heard my name. “Joanna.”

      I searched the sky for thunderheads, but only white clouds drifted by.

      The echoing voice filled me like the sound of a ringing bell. Some force, more enormous than Mount Horeb, called to me again.

      “Joanna.”

      “God of my ancestors,” I said. I can’t explain how I knew who it was.

      “Help me!” I cried. “I don’t want to die.”

      Two thick hands clamped onto my shoulders. The women had finished their prayers and emptied the courtyard without my noticing. Manaen was standing

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