“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: