clapping
as she led the way for him, would have to do. He had his dreams.
There would be twenty men at his command when he was rich.
He'd be preceded everywhere he went by twenty men. They'd
clear the path of stones. They'd throw down rushes. There'd be
twenty girls as well - and none of them would look like chickens.
At last they reached the valley bed with its soft clay. Musa
didn't have to stamp to make his mark. His feet sank in. His
5 9
ankles twisted when he walked. He summoned his wife to his
side, and leaned on her. His buttocks and calves were aching
now. Compared to Miri's, his were buttocks ten times worthy
of the name. So his pains were ten times worse than hers. His
lungs were bursting. He wasn't built for hiking. He was built
for litters, or for camels. Perhaps he had been hasty when he
killed the donkey. He could, perhaps, have ridden on her back
to meet the Galilean or got Miri to assemble a donkey cart. That
would have been more dignified.
Except there was no Galilean there, as far as he could tell. When
Miri had finally pushed him up the last few steps of the scarp,
through the rash of poppies, to the shaded foot of the cliffs, and he
had settled down with his exhaustion on the mat, there wasn't any
sign oflife at all, except the congregation ofbirds.
'Call out,' he ordered Miri. 'Unless, of course, a call's too
heavy for you.'
She obeyed, and called 'Gather, gather!', her husband's market
cry; and soon the quarantiners came down from their caves, one
by one, and stood a little nervously in line in front ofMusa while
he looked each of them in the face as if they were for sale. He
could tell at once what they were worth. Not much, the badu.
Musa could trade two badus for one goat. Except this one had
silver bracelets. The old Jew was an artisan and dying, by the
looks of him. A man like him would be too proud to travel
without money. The blond was carrying a walking staff, made
out of spiralled tarbony. Quite valuable. Musa knew his type, a
seasoned traveller and, probably, prepared for thieves. He'd have
some hidden coins sewn in his cloak. The woman? Good clothes
- a woven hair veil in fine material, a long sleeveless tunic,
girdled twice as was the fashion, once beneath her bosom, once
around her waist. Good cloth. Good skin. Good teeth. Good
heavy purse, as well, he thought. And easy pickings.
The four cave-dwellers seemed to know they should not
6o
speak. The badu tugged and twisted his hair in high strands. The
other three stood patiently, glad - so far, at least - of this diversion
in their day. What was it about her husband, Miri wondered,
that made strangers treat him regally, defer to him? His size?
Were they afraid of size? Or was their meekness more deliberate,
not signifying their respect for Musa, but a token of their own
tranquillity?
'Just four of you,' he said at last. The old one nodded in
agreement. 'And where's the other one?' The woman shook her
head, and for an instant caught Miri's eye. Just half a smile. Miri
had seen smiles like that before - from people who were surprised
by Musa's adolescent, reedy voice.
The old Jew spoke for all of them. He thought, perhaps,
there'd been a fifth when they were walking to the hills the day
before. It might have been a boy, a woman or a man. He could
not tell. His eyesight was not good. The figure was too far away.
Quite tall. It might have been a shepherd even. But there were
only four of them who'd come to carry out devotions in these
caves. 'My name is Aphas. From Jerusalem . . .' he began.
'And you?' Musa said, ignoring Aphas from Jerusalem. He
pointed with his chin at Marta. 'Why are you here?'
'To pray and fast. Like them,' she said. 'For quarantine . . .'
'Why fast? What will you gain from it?'
She shook her head. She didn't want to say. She smiled and
shrugged and blushed. Musa watched her breasts and shoulders
lift. She might be Miri's age, perhaps, but she was tall
as she led the way for him, would have to do. He had his dreams.
There would be twenty men at his command when he was rich.
He'd be preceded everywhere he went by twenty men. They'd
clear the path of stones. They'd throw down rushes. There'd be
twenty girls as well - and none of them would look like chickens.
At last they reached the valley bed with its soft clay. Musa
didn't have to stamp to make his mark. His feet sank in. His
5 9
ankles twisted when he walked. He summoned his wife to his
side, and leaned on her. His buttocks and calves were aching
now. Compared to Miri's, his were buttocks ten times worthy
of the name. So his pains were ten times worse than hers. His
lungs were bursting. He wasn't built for hiking. He was built
for litters, or for camels. Perhaps he had been hasty when he
killed the donkey. He could, perhaps, have ridden on her back
to meet the Galilean or got Miri to assemble a donkey cart. That
would have been more dignified.
Except there was no Galilean there, as far as he could tell. When
Miri had finally pushed him up the last few steps of the scarp,
through the rash of poppies, to the shaded foot of the cliffs, and he
had settled down with his exhaustion on the mat, there wasn't any
sign oflife at all, except the congregation ofbirds.
'Call out,' he ordered Miri. 'Unless, of course, a call's too
heavy for you.'
She obeyed, and called 'Gather, gather!', her husband's market
cry; and soon the quarantiners came down from their caves, one
by one, and stood a little nervously in line in front ofMusa while
he looked each of them in the face as if they were for sale. He
could tell at once what they were worth. Not much, the badu.
Musa could trade two badus for one goat. Except this one had
silver bracelets. The old Jew was an artisan and dying, by the
looks of him. A man like him would be too proud to travel
without money. The blond was carrying a walking staff, made
out of spiralled tarbony. Quite valuable. Musa knew his type, a
seasoned traveller and, probably, prepared for thieves. He'd have
some hidden coins sewn in his cloak. The woman? Good clothes
- a woven hair veil in fine material, a long sleeveless tunic,
girdled twice as was the fashion, once beneath her bosom, once
around her waist. Good cloth. Good skin. Good teeth. Good
heavy purse, as well, he thought. And easy pickings.
The four cave-dwellers seemed to know they should not
6o
speak. The badu tugged and twisted his hair in high strands. The
other three stood patiently, glad - so far, at least - of this diversion
in their day. What was it about her husband, Miri wondered,
that made strangers treat him regally, defer to him? His size?
Were they afraid of size? Or was their meekness more deliberate,
not signifying their respect for Musa, but a token of their own
tranquillity?
'Just four of you,' he said at last. The old one nodded in
agreement. 'And where's the other one?' The woman shook her
head, and for an instant caught Miri's eye. Just half a smile. Miri
had seen smiles like that before - from people who were surprised
by Musa's adolescent, reedy voice.
The old Jew spoke for all of them. He thought, perhaps,
there'd been a fifth when they were walking to the hills the day
before. It might have been a boy, a woman or a man. He could
not tell. His eyesight was not good. The figure was too far away.
Quite tall. It might have been a shepherd even. But there were
only four of them who'd come to carry out devotions in these
caves. 'My name is Aphas. From Jerusalem . . .' he began.
'And you?' Musa said, ignoring Aphas from Jerusalem. He
pointed with his chin at Marta. 'Why are you here?'
'To pray and fast. Like them,' she said. 'For quarantine . . .'
'Why fast? What will you gain from it?'
She shook her head. She didn't want to say. She smiled and
shrugged and blushed. Musa watched her breasts and shoulders
lift. She might be Miri's age, perhaps, but she was tall