The Child Madonna

Chapter 1 On the Edge
We’re watching and waiting. Messenger and spy. When is it? You, reader, need to fix a point in time. We can try to prolong the soft-edged ambiguity in sonorous sentences with grand phrases about the timelessness of cosmic symbols. But that sudden clarity of hindsight pinpoints a real moment in time between the old year and the new which we erroneously now call 10 B.C. And somewhere, down in that darkened village, framed by a black dense brooding hillside against the eerie soft moonlight, you, all innocent, are slumbering – dreamlessly, or is there a stirring even now flitting across your smooth brow?
Why now, you ask? Why at this particular causal moment in time? Why should eons of waiting ever be rewarded with mundane hard-nosed fact rather than mystical poetic expectancy that could be ascribed to the archetypal longing of the soul? Because we were instructed and obeyed, that’s why. And when we did, dreams became reality that altered lives, for better or for worse. Not just in that time, but reverberations echo down the years. We - I and my creator - both have to live with this knowledge now and bear the consequences, ever repeating, ever fresh, ever the same.
So we gaze down below at squalid unsung Nazareth, you and I; and, as I said before, there is little that can be discerned. As our eyes grow accustomed to the darkness we may make out the jagged edges of a few rough hewn walls or hutments, awkward gaps and angles that suggest a confusion of alleyways, a higgledy-piggledy cluster of dwellings clambering clumsily up the barren hillside as if on each other’s shoulders. If we climb higher on our own hillside, massing on the opposite side of the valley, we could, with some imagination, perceive the signs of nearby Sepphoris, a city of some fifty thousand souls straddling the highway from the central coastal plain into the heart of fertile Galilee, junction with the southern branch across the Jordan valley into the Decapolitan cities, Gadara and its sisters.
Our little backwater here – perhaps off the beaten track is a more apt epithet – with barely a thousand inhabitants eking out an existence just above the poverty line, owes its survival to that cosmopolitan city just five miles away; source of work and culture, tenuous link with the outside world so hated by the pious locals for its contaminating Gentile influence. Stress and tension seeps through the daily mix of Jew and foreigner with all their cacophony of myriad beliefs culled from Judea, Samaria, Syria, Babylon, Persia and the Arabian Gulf. At the western terminus of that highway the Romans are just completing their new administrative centre at Caesarea, a further offence to our insulated villagers, who, no doubt, will be taxed for the dubious privilege of contributing to its completion, at best an irrelevance to their lives.
So, far away down south in the capital, so the gossip goes – from those making their annual pilgrimages there – the glory of their nationhood, the Temple of Jahweh, is at last nearing its final construction phase. The bastion of the Jew against the usurping of their land? Not a bit of it, Herod’s folly some call it, spoilt in its conception by the very identity of the conceiver. Oh well, they’re a rum lot here. You’ll never please some of them. Indeed, it’s hard to imagine just what it is they want; if they could put it into words and you delivered exactly according to specification, they’d like as not throw it back in your face.
But we must not anticipate, you and I. Somewhere down there is the spark we’re looking for, hostile environment though it be. And anyway, it’s beginning to spit with rain, and despite the common misconception, it can seem remarkably bleak on a winter’s night up here. Let me cease my brooding, go back into the village and find some shelter, where, as I prepare for sleep, I can ponder my mission in this seemingly god-forsaken spot.
It’s best to wear the cloak of darkness for now, until I’m ready to act. To reveal myself too soon will cause needless suspicion and trouble, and as likely as not, abort the very purpose of this quest. A spy, they’ll think, if not something worse, a fair haired foreigner tainted with goddess-worship, come to seduce and pervert our young. I shall be lucky to escape with a running out of town pursued by a hail of rocks. So, drawing my cloak around me as I snuggle into the bales of straw in the corner of the barn at the edge of the village, I rehearse once more in my mind the train of events that has led me to carry out this assignment in this inhospitable community.
Creation comes from turmoil. To bring order, you must first have chaos. You may not like this truth, uncomfortable as it is; few create chaos deliberately in order to impose their order, but the fact remains. Unless there is darkness, raging night, light cannot be created. And, of course, the will to change.
The time and place of which I tell have the right ingredients. That is why I have been sent here to watch, extra attentively.

Interlude 1 The Cauldron
Some fifty years ago the Romans thought they were bringing their brand of order into a turbulent local maelstrom of politics, incomprehensible to outsiders like themselves. Then unrest hit hard the heart of their own hearth, as civil wars gave way to murder and anarchy, spawning further upheavals as rivals strutted round the spinning stage. More murder and mayhem disposed of Antipater, brought Herod and his elder brother to the fore until distant power struggles eradicated Pompey, then gave Antony as star to hitch your wagon to. The unseemly gallop to be first to pledge loyalty to the new conqueror – long live the Emperor and all that – was joined not only by Herod and his brother, but also by the Jewish leader Hyrcanus and his scheming nephew, Antigonus. This, therefore, solved nothing. Herod watched with increasing dismay from his northern outpost as Jerusalem fell to the young pretender, and with even more alarm as his brother was imprisoned and the elderly Hyrcanus carried captive to Babylon.
Poor Herod, at the nadir of his fortunes, decided that little could now be lost by throwing himself on the mercy of his Roman masters, and to his own astonishment, found the jackpot tumbling into his lap. Equipped with a Roman army of conquest, he returned giving rout to his enemies, besieged Jerusalem and found himself King of Judea within three months. Now for his revenge. Or, perhaps you might argue, using the realpolitik of the age, the bringing of order to the chaos by executing his rivals and those factions that would have hampered proper administration of his kingdom.
Unfortunately, in the very implementation of his campaign of orderliness, he sowed the seeds that were to exacerbate his frustrations and rages at a later date. He dealt swiftly with Antigonus and then moved against the Jewish Sanhedrin, that overripe pompous talk-shop that found a dozen sanctimonious reasons for double-dealing whenever his back was turned. They would be sorry now that two years before, he, Herod, had been summoned like a common criminal to explain why he had had the temerity to rescue his much harassed Galilean peasants from the marauding brigands masquerading under the flag of zealot patriots.
He rounded them up, the whole bloody lot of them, in one night of retribution, drove them into the stadium still sleepily protesting at the outrage, and had the Syrian troops slaughter every one after the most summary of secret hearings. Then, to drive his position home the harder, he confiscated their property, and with the proceeds bought himself a new Sanhedrin, stuffed with Pharisees of a more complaisant kind.
It was a pity that in the process he forgot to tell Hyrcanus’ daughter (his own mother-in-law, Alexandra), not to mention his beloved wife, Mariamne, of the changing scene, as they had believed – until rumours confirmed otherwise – that Herod, with Rome’s connivance, was setting darling nephew, Aristobulus, Mariamne’s young brother, on the Judean throne. And now, when his own accession was a fait accompli, they discovered that Herod himself had obtained from Octavian a short-cut to the seat of power.
To the average Jew in our humble Nazareth, all these conspiracies and manoeuvrings would have meant nothing, even if they’d known of them, which most of course did not. But for one or two of the leaders in the village, the rabbi and the elders of the local synagogue, such issues were the very source of argument and prejudice, invective and scandal. And one family of influence and status in the village had been disturbed and marked quite traumatically in these affairs. It is the family I have come to watch.

Interlude 2 The Courtyard
Near the centre of the village, within a stone’s throw of the plain white synagogue, is a larger than average one storey house built around an enclosed courtyard. This property, together with a number of fields on the hillside opposite and a couple of terraced vineyards, belong to a native Pharisee of solid reputation, known to all as Heli – or more often, Eli. He has lived in the village since his youth, and his family have had roots here for many generations. A widower for over fifteen years now, since his wife died giving birth to a cripple child, long since buried also, Eli brought up his brood of son and four daughters under the respectful gaze of the village elders and gossips alike. A pillar of the local synagogue, he takes his turn to read and expound the scriptures, teach the children and partake in the judgement of petty squabbles and disputes and the counselling of those seeking assistance in their affairs.
The income from his farming interests makes him one of the wealthiest men in the village and certainly the largest local employer of casual labour in the harvest season. Eli’s wealth of course has been well tapped to provide a tax source for the Romans, and like so many provincial Pharisees, he resents both the use to which the money has been put, and the inevitable contamination of the pure Jewish culture by alien elements that are destructive to his innate conservatism.
Alongside Eli’s ordered residence off the main courtyard are the crowded couple of rooms belonging to his son, Clopas – a confident young man in his late twenties – and his twenty one year old wife, Miriam, and their three children, the eldest barely seven years of age. Whilst Eli retains contact with his married daughters, all living within a five mile radius of Nazareth, his heart is firmly here in his son’s home, cherishing in particular his two grandsons, James and Jude, whom he sees as the ultimate heirs of the family business.
The remaining parts of Eli’s home are shared by another branch of his extended family, for whom Eli is both saviour and benefactor. Opposite his own rooms lives Salome, a widow of nearly sixty, sheltered here during the last twelve years following the catastrophes that have overtaken her. The first traumatic shattering of her life took place on that dreadful night when her revered husband, Joseph, Sadducee and leading member of the Sanhedrin, was manhandled from her embrace by Herod’s mercenaries, never to be seen again, whilst she cradled her sons for fear that the soldiers would deprive her of them as well. Thrown out of her home the next day, as her husband’s property was annexed, she sought refuge in her cousin’s home in Ein-karem, some ten miles out of central Jerusalem.
During her sojourn there, she watched in trepidation as her sons grew in maturity and political awareness and, part in reaction to her husband’s fate, became sucked into the anti-Herod plots and conspiracies that were rumoured to be rife. Supporters of the Alexandrine strategy to bring Hyrcanus’ grandson, Aristobulus, to the throne, they unwisely allowed their allegiance to be too evident, and when, after a near-successful putsch when Herod was in Rome, the Queen and her mother were disgraced, Salome’s two eldest boys were arrested in the subsequent royal panic.
Her youngest son, Joachim, only a baby when his father was murdered, had grown up a wild and rebellious lad much influenced by the other youthful hotheads in the city. The knowledge that his adult brothers were still incarcerated in Jerusalem inflamed and shaped his political and religious beliefs, which in turn put him at risk. In an effort to stabilise him and get him to give priority to other responsibilities, Salome had contracted to betroth him to her cousin’s youngest daughter who had just reached marriageable age. Astonished and thankful that her son had not been arrested, Salome had eventually fled with the youth and his little bride-to-be, Anna, together with the few possessions they could carry and flung herself on the mercy of her late husband’s cousin, Eli, in Nazareth. This was sufficiently remote from court, she hoped, to escape Herod’s vicious mopping-up operations against all suspected conspirators.
Eli had been very good to her, despite the fact that her husband had been a Sadducee, and too embroiled in Greek culture for the likes of a strict Jewish Pharisee. Without a qualm he had taken her and her embryo family in and given them a home and work within his interests. As they were virtually destitute, he had provided the young girl’s brideprice and paid for the wedding celebrations as in effect Joachim was being forced to set up home with his cousin immediately. Salome’s cousins and their families and other more distant relatives from Bethphage and Bethlehem, beyond Jerusalem, joined Eli’s local family and neighbours in the wedding feast, and the two young folk were given a room next to Salome off the courtyard next to the opening to the narrow street.
At first Joachim accepted his new lot and quickly made his young wife pregnant. Salome, by now grieving for her other sons whom eventually Herod had had crucified by his Roman allies along with thirty or forty other men caught up in the so-called Alexandrine conspiracy, channelled her emotional energies towards the new baby, a girl, whom Joachim and Anna named Mariam. Even while Anna was still pregnant with his second child, however, Joachim was contacted by factions hiding in the hills in western Galilee and was persuaded to join forces in occasional harrying skirmishes with Herod’s foreign soldiery. Whilst he was sympathetic to the nationalist fervour of the Zealot idealists, Eli was a cautious man with too much to lose, and had a strong sense of duty towards those for whom he had responsibility, so that he forbade Joachim to allow others to use his home as sanctuary, although he covertly financed the outlaw cell through the young man. Eli could count on the hostility of the village elders to the Herodian forces to keep his secret, and indeed profited from a network of information which gave him prior advice of troop movements and the periodic raids that Herod’s soldiers carried out, searching for terrorists and their sympathisers.
Salome, then, has good reason for the anxious frown that perpetually sits on her visage, except when she is cooing over Anna’s children, now four in number – the latest darling little boy spawned during one of Joachim’s infrequent clandestine visits home. The toddler, Benjamin, now weaned and nearing his fourth birthday, is idolised and spoilt by his sisters, seven year old Rebecca, Salome who is eight and the ‘little mother’ Mariam, the eldest who is eleven. Anna is relieved to have produced a son, he has given her a position of increased value and status in Eli’s household, where previously the only boys had been in Clopas’ home. Anna had felt this keenly. She had always been aware of her obligation to Eli for giving her a home, her family work and sustenance, and then more charity as her husband ceased to provide for her on a regular basis. Anna, at twenty five years of age, is worn with fatigue, her face tanned and hardened by the elements, her hands coarsened and cracked. She and her mother-in-law draw mutual comfort and strength from one another, accept, mostly with good grace, their peripheral and charitable status within the household, and yearn that life will be better for their children.

Chapter 2 First Moves
So much, then, has been easy to find out. It is common knowledge in the village. Even a suspicious stranger can glean this far without undue curiosity. I lie back on my bale of straw, mind whirling in my allotted task. The facts are easy. But how do I evaluate the inner life, even with my heightened sensitivity? Secondhand observations are no longer valid. I need to sense their hopes and fears, listen to the nuances, feel the words unsaid, see the reaction of tiny children, true diviners of character. I am nearing the end of my mission. Soon I shall have to reveal myself to the subjects of my scrutiny and risk creating a façade of false reaction – though if this happens it will identify a weakness in the plan revealed already to me. I need to make myself Eli’s house guest. I have to ask and risk rebuff. But Eli has a strong sense of obligation, he is an upright man, with a reputation to defend. And he has the space.
I hover near the corner of the rough street where I can watch the comings and goings at Eli’s house without actual intrusion. Children are swarming all around me, preoccupied with their play, taking no heed of me whatsoever except occasionally as a prop to hide behind or obstacle to clamber over. On the other hand, to the women of the village, I am an object of considerable interest, not to say outright curiosity – except that they dare not make a direct approach, but hurry past, eyes averted whilst whispering avidly to their neighbours. Most of the menfolk have long since left their homes for the fields, although sounds of a rhythmic hammering from a house in the next street indicate that the village carpenter is busy. Others have gathered down at the synagogue to while away the morning in debate, or teach the solemn ranks of boys I watched earlier making their deliberate individual ways, evading the shrieking tiny children grabbing at their tunics and mocking voices of the girls calling after them. I saw Eli make his way towards the white-walled building – saw him from a distance that is, for at that stage I was still observing from the barn at the edge of the village. I wanted time to judge my approach, to blend into the atmosphere; not to startle.
Two stray dogs begin to yap at the running children before the latter pause in mid-stride and pick up sticks and stones to throw at them. One of the younger boys runs screeching at them until the dogs turn tail and slink away whimpering. One of the village girls emerges from a doorway leading a couple of goats which she coaxes towards a rough bank of dirty brown grass and tethers them there. Chickens peck absentmindedly around my feet, jerking haphazardly in the village rhythm. I can feel eyes staring at me from behind the doorways and windows of the secretive houses, wondering, guessing who I am. It is dry today although occasional gusts of wind blow from the eastern hills. I gather my cloak around my slender form and stare through my piercing blue eyes at the humdrum scene, disconcerting all who would stare me in the face.
Then I see a young girl returning with water from the well, trailing a bevy of younger children at her heels. I rouse myself and pay attention now. As she strolls towards me, chattering to the children, hitching up her tunic with her spare hand, I concentrate all my powers of discernment on her wide-eyed high-cheekboned face, finely chiselled; watch her natural mirth pull her mouth into a smile that illuminates her gaze as she jokes with the little girl that is almost tripping her over.
I wait until she is approaching the corner where I am standing, then stretch and shake myself so that she becomes aware of my movement, flinching involuntarily in surprise. The younger children gape at me, open-mouthed, as I say, as softly and kindly as I can:
“Young lady, I am a stranger here and have urgent business to undertake. I need lodgings. Can you tell me if your uncle would be prepared to give hospitality to one in need?”
She fixes me with her eyes which widen perceptibly as she hears me correctly surmise her relationship with Eli, then, clasping one toddler to her side with one arm, balancing her water pot more comfortably on her shoulder with the other, she politely replies:
“Sir, wait here while I ask my mother.”
I watch her dusty brown feet step nimbly over the uneven earth and her form slip inside the courtyard opposite, followed by her entourage of waifs. One more piece of the jigsaw is now in place – the first contact has been made; a request is given. A silence falls over the village while I wait.
Suddenly I notice the veiled face of a woman, nervous and hesitant, peering at me from the doorpost. She gestures me with a quick indecisive hand movement and as I walk toward her, she confirms that she has understood the message that I passed to her daughter. Suddenly sure of herself, she calls the girl who comes scurrying from inside one of the dark low buildings in the far corner of the courtyard, and speaks to her in urgent tones. The girl gives me a quick glance, then dashes off lightly down the little street towards the synagogue.
“Wait for a moment, sir. My uncle will return in a minute and consider your request.”
Then she was gone, leaving me standing facing the tiny yard, empty of everything except a few baskets and cooking utensils and the ubiquitous clucking chickens. I wait. There is no risk. After all, I have prepared for ages for this moment.
Eli comes striding from the synagogue, his niece dancing and skipping beside him to keep pace. The tall impressive Pharisee halts abruptly before me, appraises me briefly without acknowledging my attempts at eye control. He dismisses the girl with a flick of his wrist and she scampers off into the shelter of her own home.
“Sir,” says the unsmiling but courteous head of this household, “I understand from Mariam that you have need of lodgings. Come inside while we discuss the matter further.”
We enter the opening into the courtyard but halt before we reach his rooms. As I said, the yard is ostensibly empty. I feel eyes peering at me from within the low surrounding buildings, her eyes. She is already being ensnared by her own curiosity, her adventurousness. It is unfair of me to exploit this openness; I will disrupt. But I have made my opening move and the stage is now prepared. The drama must now be enacted.
“This is an unusual request, sir. What is your business here?”
“I am on a mission of some confidentiality and importance, rabbi. I may not divulge to anyone the exact nature of my goal at this moment.”
He does not look pleased at this answer.
“My home is not an inn. Why seek accommodation from me?”
“I wish to be in the centre of the village and in touch with the opinions of people of importance here. Your home was recommended to me as both meeting my requirement and being the most likely source of hospitality, given the space you have at your disposal and your reputation for generosity.”
“I am flattered by your words and the opinions of my neighbours. But perhaps you presume too much. You are obviously a stranger here. Are you not also a
foreigner? Your appearance seems alien to my eyes.”
“I am not a Jew by birth as you rightly perceive. But I am acquainted with your customs and in sympathy with your aspirations.”
His eyes grew wary. He thinks I am a spy, perhaps for the Herodian party, even for the King himself, because he sees that I am no ordinary secret messenger. I can give him some reassurance.
“”I see, sir, that you doubt my allegiance. I bear no commission for either King or Emperor. I intend no harm to any Jew. On this, you have my word.”
He is torn. His ingrained sense of duty is struggling with his anxiety about my motives and his antipathy towards a foreigner whom he still suspects of doubtful loyalty. He equates flaxen curls and bright blue eyes with other influences, shot through with Greek or Roman cultural abominations. I cannot with sincerity narrow myself to his strict and bigoted viewpoint, shaped as it is by the confines of this obscure village, unaffected by the receptivity of ideas that Jews of Sepphoris or Jerusalem would now display. I make a last effort.
“I am sorry, rabbi, that I cannot put your mind to rest, by taking you fully into my confidence and disclosing my mission to you. It is one of honour to your household, please believe me. I would not risk rebuff, were it not so important.”
Eli is in no hurry to bring things to conclusion. He is weighing my words most carefully, sifting them for inner meaning. But he is naturally cautious, a man moulded more by learning and upbringing than by imagination or intuition. He is going to refuse: I see the mask of polite rejection fall into place, his face grows blank obscuring any doubts he may still hold.
“You push me hard, sir. And I do not wish to be discourteous. I will be honest with you and not seek excuse. If you will not trust me with details of your business, how should I believe your goodwill to us? I have a responsibility towards my fellow countrymen. I have to say, sir, that I feel no such obligation to gentiles, however innocent of guile they are. And despite what you say, or indeed because of it, I cannot take your request at face value. If you had some ulterior motive, some treachery in mind, you would not tell us so, but mask your purpose in honeyed words just as you do to me now. No, sir, I cannot grant your request. I have my family to protect. I do not know what influence, what disruption you would make on them. I will not risk it.”
Can I say that he is wrong? Can I look him in the eyes, assuming he will not flinch from my gaze, and assure him I will not disturb and disrupt?
“Rabbi, I accept what you say. I will press my case no further. I must carry out my duties without your support, I see that. But I bear you no ill will for that, sir. I wish I could inform you of my purpose but to do that would break a sacred trust.”
He nods in acknowledgement and indicates our discourse is over. It is going to be harder than I thought after all. I withdraw.

Chapter 3 Spying
Mariam watched the stranger go with disappointment. She had guessed that this was going to happen. When she excitedly told him of the fair young man, after he had been interrupted in his discourse in the synagogue, Eli was unenthusiastic and unreceptive to her chattering. Why did she want the stranger to stay? Well, he looked different and interesting. He would talk of different places and customs. There would be a new routine, perhaps a celebratory meal, to which they would be invited.
The other children were curious. They too had seen the young man, of course, but they did not hear or understand all that he was saying. Mariam had given them the gist, lent mystery and intrigue to his talk of sacred missions. Her mother had twice shooed her away from the doorway of their little room, scolded her for spying on the conversation taking place in the courtyard, then had abandoned discouraging Mariam’s natural curiosity and had returned to her sewing.
For a moment or two Mariam whispered in a conspiratorial way to Rebecca, then seeing that Salome and Benjamin were engrossed in some mutual make-believe, the eleven year old sidled up to her mother and planted herself almost at her feet, her head lolling, half resting on her mother’s lap. She glanced inquisitively at Anna to see if she was listening, and caught her eye.
“Why can’t that young man stay with us? Uncle Eli’s got plenty of room.”
Anna stopped her sewing and looked exasperatedly at her highly charged daughter.
“It’s none of your business, my girl. Uncle Eli’s got his reasons, I’m sure.”
“He looked nice. It could have been interesting.”
“Yes, I dare say, Mari. But you’d do a lot better minding your own affairs and leaving Uncle to deal with his.”
“Oh, mother! Really, tell me really why he couldn’t stay here.”
“I’ve no idea. And I don’t intend to ask Eli either. And if you’ve any respect for your tender bottom, dear child, I strongly recommend that you don’t ask him either. Whatever the reason is, it has nothing to do with you whatsoever.”
Mariam made to speak further, but Anna placed her fingers on the girl’s half open lips, and hushed her good-naturedly.
“You’re too inquisitive for your own good, child. It’s time you learned a little humility in life. One day you’ll have a husband and you’ll not find him too pleased with your incessant boldness. It’s unbecoming in a young lady of your age.”
Mariam pulled a face at her mother and was rewarded with a playful push that propelled her back towards her siblings.
“Take the children out and fetch the goats,” Anna called after her, “and leave me in peace to get on with mending your sister’s tunic.”
They all trooped out of the shadowy room. Anna heard dwindling peals of laughter long after they had gone. She shook her head to herself and pulled at her lower lip, then shrugged once more, and concentrated on her stitches in the dim wintry reflected light. She could well guess why Eli has sent the young man packing, despite his courteous mien and refined speech. Nowadays Eli trusted no-one, certainly not since he had become so embroiled in supporting Joachim and his friends. Nor was it unknown for Herod to send out spies into the villages in order to uncover the whereabouts of outlaws and their means of support and sustenance. Some four years previously Herod’s troops had purged a neighbouring village, after spies had fed back rumours that brigands had found shelter there, and in the mayhem more than a dozen of the local men had been murdered or executed and much property destroyed or confiscated.
Eli was too canny to be caught this way. His lifestyle made him a clear target for suspicion, should Herod’s friends look in his direction. He was a Galilean Pharisee, conservative, nationalistic in outlook, making no secret of his hatred for the occupying power and contempt for his own country’s collaborators. He avoided their gentile pleasures, their so-called civilising customs imported from the fashionably decadent Greek mainland and its former dominions.
Even more cause for concern was the common knowledge of his generosity to Salome and her family fleeing in disgrace from Ein-karem. How firm he had been in laying down the conditions of their sojourn here, how reluctant to encourage Joachim until the die was cast. Then, faced with the rebel’s exclusion from the village, Eli had considered at length his duties and responsibilities, and taken the brave and risky course – despite his nature - because his sense of rightness and hope of justice under the Almighty outweighed his fear of persecution by the hated foreigners.
Of course he was right, thought Anna, who had much cause to feel grateful for the man’s overwhelming sense of obligation. But to live in receipt of such martyred charity, always conscious of the peril your presence throws onto your benefactor, that was hard. And it didn’t help to have your innocent foolhardy young daughter, who was not aware of half your history, continually reminding you by her ignorant questions of your subservient status.
Having restored Rebecca’s best tunic, Anna turned to the pile of clothes neatly stacked alongside her bedding roll. With a sigh she picked up and shook out a patterned headpiece belonging to one of her neighbours. At least three of the garments waiting near the top of the mound had been promised to be ready for their owners that same day. She could well do without further interruption.
Meanwhile Eli was battling with his conscience. Oblivious to the greetings of those he passed, heedless of small children through whose innocuous pastimes he blundered, he tried to justify to himself his rejection of the fair-haired stranger. For, despite all his instinctive prejudices against foreigners and heathens, he had taken to this young man. He had hinted of important things beneficial to his family. What opportunities had he thrown away?
Ignoring the chanting schoolboys in the side-room, now under Simon’s supervision, he pushed past into Joel’s quarters at the rear. There he found not only Joel himself, one of his fellow rabbis, but also Jethro the elder, both deep in debate. After a brief acknowledgement of his presence, the two Pharisees resumed their somewhat intense discussion, which Eli discovered was concerning possible steps that could be taken to mollify the impact of the latest tax impositions, rather than interpretation of the scriptures which was a more normal topic at this hour. Eli could well understand why. He, too, would normally be a trenchant participator in such complaint, as, of all locals, his contribution would be the greatest. Now, however, he wanted confirmation and support for his recent action and he waited impatiently on the edge of the conversation for a break sufficient to interject and change direction. At last the topic ran its natural course.
“Have you noticed the stranger among us? Do you know who he is? Or anything about him?”
One of their womenfolk had remarked on the presence of the man, that was all. She had thought at first that he was a Sadducee. On the other hand, opined one of the men, when had a Sadducee last dared set foot in Nazareth? Surely they knew this was Pharisee territory.
“He kept referring to a secret mission. What could he have meant?”
Surely a spy would not have aroused suspicion so openly, with so weak a story? Yet why else be so secretive? There were no affairs of the village unknown to Eli or his fellow Pharisees, so could not they have helped the man? Perhaps the man should have been brought to the synagogue to explain himself to them as a group?
One of the lads was dispatched to scour the village and fetch him, but half an hour later the breathless boy, red in the face, stumbled back reporting total failure. The man had left the village; no-one at all had seen him since earlier that morning at Eli’s house. Strange. That suggested he was taking steps to cover his presence, or even deliberately hiding. Having failed to convince Eli of his story, he had gone to ground. Eli was quite right in refusing hospitality to the man. He was a spy. They would alert those who needed to be careful.
Then, having discussed Eli’s concern, their conversations turned to the latest rumours emanating from Magdala of a man performing strange deeds there whom his followers claimed to be the Messiah. Yes, yet another claim. It was becoming so commonplace that if ever the true Messiah were to announce himself, no-one would have believed him. The messianic currency was being debased. Eli felt reassured.

Chapter 4 The Watched
A little set-back to our plans. But there is time, all the time in the world. And the countdown has begun. A tactical withdrawal for the moment; then to rebound with renewed vigour. I have seen the solution, though, and that is enough. I will bide my time, I know I can act the catalyst, the trigger at the moment when the execution of the plan will be conceived.
Her face is in my mind’s eye. Her faint expression of surprise when I called attention to my presence. The wide-eyed brimming look that trembled with barely concealed excitement, all against the rules. Those eyes! Great dark liquid depths mirroring my steely stare, yet allowing those whose gaze is bold and still to see beneath her surface, give insight to her soul. I saw more than enough to know we’d made a choice of quality. In the courtyard, peering searching eyes, bright with mischief, irreverent, conscience-pricking. Large, brown and bold, fearless and vulnerable like a cat. I know that, but does she realise it?
Then there is her movement, liquid and flowing like a mountain stream, clear and sparkling, spraying in all directions glinting in the sun. Deft and lithe, she would make a stumble full of grace. Delicacy cannot be equated with lack of strength, however. Carrying tired infants, lifting heavy waterpots onto her neat young shoulders, herding her uncle’s flocks out in the winter rain and winds, all give her frame a skeleton of steel under the fragile surface glow. She stands apart in other ways. Most of the village children are all roundness – chubby arms and thighs, plump faces with curly black moppet hair arching over their rosy features. Life may be poor and hard, but outdoor ways encourage rude health. Mariam’s dark locks hang loose and straight about her shoulders, her bone structure is light and airy like her tripping gait. The little children do not see her as different though. To them she is older sister, minder, playmate, special only in the care she lavishes on them when they fall, or hurt.
She is special. She has a sharpness that counters any sense of oversweetness. She has an unforced wholeness bubbling from within, she is ungroomed, she does not conform to adult expectations, not yet anyway. Be prepared for surprises. You will not easily forecast her mood, predict her reactions. She might shock you, she is not necessarily sound of judgement, nor judicious in her taste. And she will not let you get away with easy statements, or a comfortable mode of life. You will have to be young at heart to keep up with her.
Look at her again, then. You may, without embarrassment. She is not aware of our scrutiny, in fact at this moment she is not even aware of our presence. Look down from the hillside, watch her languid progress down the rough track, hampered as she is by meandering toddlers, whom she has accumulated on her amble through the village streets. The sounds of shrill voices carry to our heights, clear but snatches only, offering no meaning but their merriment. Then the smallest infant, barely walking, trips and falls face down amid the protruding rocks and howls of anguish echo in the valley. Mari picks up the screaming baby and cuddles him on her knee, squatting on the tufted bank surrounded by the other children, Madonna-like. There is silence.
She tosses her head. She flashes a grin of gold, but it is secret; only the children will see it, or so she thinks.
Look at her again, serene – comforting the now sleeping child; wondering if she dare risk awakening him by moving onwards to the scrappy slope where her uncle’s goats are tethered. You hadn’t really thought, had you, how poor she is. That pale bleached tunic of indiscriminate colour is perhaps her only garment of that type, her little shawl of blue pulled around her shoulders to ward off the whipping wind is luxury to her. Bare legs, bare head – she really hasn’t very much.
But surely she is provided for in the house of the richest man in Nazareth? Well, yes, as a case of charity. Eli’s wealth is relative, of course. No-one in Nazareth aspires to the opulence of the town-dwellers. And Eli has his own family to feed, to clothe, to house; four daughters to have wed; synagogue expenses to be funded; tithes and taxes. And all Salome’s family, including Joachim’s zealots living off the barren hillsides. Anna, too, is proud. She will not ask for more than she can justify by necessity.
Look at her then with realism. Search your conscience; are you embarrassed now? Do you feel guilty that she is picked out, plucked from her familiar surroundings to suffer as well as to shine? When you think of what we’ll do to her before we’re over, you’ll see how vulnerable she is, down there protecting her flock with no-one but us watching over her. And yet, and yet, we’ve seen that greed for life that surfaces irrepressibly through her pores. She is chosen, perhaps, because she would risk it, even if she knew.
Call her softly by name. Practise on this hillside letting the wind tear the syllables away towards Tabor or Hermon. Mariam, Mariamne, Miriam, Mari, Mary. Rose of Sharon, Rose of Hebron, Rose of Nazareth, Rosemary. Five petalled rose. Rose of the Temple. Chosen maiden. Maid Marion. Virgin. The dancing flower. The rite of Spring. Sacrifice. Mari ! Mari ! Are you listening ? Do you hear our voices on the moaning wind ? Stay, my love, a little while longer. Enjoy the last few months of innocent maidenhood!

(These are the first chapters of the novel 'The Child Madonna' published by Melrose Books of Ely in February 2009 and available on Amazon)