too manly and ungainly. Her undernourished heart. Now she was embarrassed even more, in front of strangers. Her inadvertent scream had brought them running
from their caves. It was as if she'd summoned them. Now she
was exposed. Her hair, uncombed inside its scarf. Her wet and
dusty clothes. The earth and water on her face and chest. A
married Jewish woman ofher age was not accustomed to spending
any time alone with men, apart from family or priests. Even
Thaniel, her husband, did not spend much time with her on his
50
own if he could help it. Thank god for that. So she was not
comfortable to be displayed for strangers in this way. She tucked
her feet out of sight, behind the hem of her tunic, wrapped her
arms and shoulders as modestly as she could inside her cloak,
hunched her shoulders like a raven so that her tunic hung straight
down as a curtain and hid her body, and sat a little distance from
the men. She put her hands on to the edges of her tunic and
found the seeds that she had stitched inside the hem some years
before, a good luck charm. There were ten seeds, each one an
unborn child, each one hardened by the passing months. Five
daughters and five sons, a balanced set of dowries if all of them
survived. She ran them through her fingers like prayer-beads on
a bracelet, counting them up to forty and then back to nought
again. She counted secretly. She did not move her lips. She tried
to tum herself to stone. She'd have to be discrete for forty days.
She'd have to keep her distance from the men. The priest was
right: it had been wilful, perilous and unbecoming to flee from
home into the wilderness. No one had warned her, though, how
fired and animated she would feel.
The old man did not worry her or even interest her, despite
his frailty. He was a Jew. She'd met his type a hundred times
before. Her uncles and her older neighbours were like him,
meek and pompous all at once, slow to walk, quick to talk, and
made babyish by any pain. This was her husband in old age. The
blond one, though, was odd and beautiful. A foreigner, she
thought. A disconcerting foreigner to dream about. She'd seen
that colour hair before, amongst the legionnaires and sometimes
on the merchants coming from the north. A perfume-seller's
hair. It was the colour of honey. His neck and cheeks were as
brown as beeswax. She watched him from the comer ofher eye,
not wanting to be seen, but not finding any reason to look
elsewhere. He sat cross-legged, self-consciously, his legs
entwined, almost in a braid. He had a staff, made out of twisted
5 1
wood, with perfect curls along its stem, which he held across his
lap. He ran his fingers round the curls. He was a handsome man,
she thought. More than handsome. Statuesque. She wondered
if his body hair was blond . . .
Marta did not like the badu much. He'd jumped in the cistern
with no regard for anybody's cleanliness. She did not trust the
way he squatted on his heels, rocking like a crib, twisting his
hennaed hair between his fingers, and ready to spring up. He
was too small and catlike, with far too many bracelets on his
arm, she thought, to be much of a threat to her. But there was
something devilish and immature about his face. If he had any
body hair, it would not match his hennaed head.
Marta had her numbers and her seeds for company. She
watched the men, and waited for the sun to warm her up. The
badu did not speak at all. He dropped pebbles in his mouth. But
the old man was glad to talk, and the blond, though he hardly
turned his head, seemed resigned to listen. The old man did not
whisper, but spoke up loudly - in self-conscious Greek - so that
everyone could hear, perhaps. He gave his name, his place of
birth, his trade. He was Aphas the mason, from Jerusalem. He
reported on the complications of his journey to the caves, his
attempts to light a fire, the discomforts of the night. All unimportant, unrevealing, reassuring facts. What other
from their caves. It was as if she'd summoned them. Now she
was exposed. Her hair, uncombed inside its scarf. Her wet and
dusty clothes. The earth and water on her face and chest. A
married Jewish woman ofher age was not accustomed to spending
any time alone with men, apart from family or priests. Even
Thaniel, her husband, did not spend much time with her on his
50
own if he could help it. Thank god for that. So she was not
comfortable to be displayed for strangers in this way. She tucked
her feet out of sight, behind the hem of her tunic, wrapped her
arms and shoulders as modestly as she could inside her cloak,
hunched her shoulders like a raven so that her tunic hung straight
down as a curtain and hid her body, and sat a little distance from
the men. She put her hands on to the edges of her tunic and
found the seeds that she had stitched inside the hem some years
before, a good luck charm. There were ten seeds, each one an
unborn child, each one hardened by the passing months. Five
daughters and five sons, a balanced set of dowries if all of them
survived. She ran them through her fingers like prayer-beads on
a bracelet, counting them up to forty and then back to nought
again. She counted secretly. She did not move her lips. She tried
to tum herself to stone. She'd have to be discrete for forty days.
She'd have to keep her distance from the men. The priest was
right: it had been wilful, perilous and unbecoming to flee from
home into the wilderness. No one had warned her, though, how
fired and animated she would feel.
The old man did not worry her or even interest her, despite
his frailty. He was a Jew. She'd met his type a hundred times
before. Her uncles and her older neighbours were like him,
meek and pompous all at once, slow to walk, quick to talk, and
made babyish by any pain. This was her husband in old age. The
blond one, though, was odd and beautiful. A foreigner, she
thought. A disconcerting foreigner to dream about. She'd seen
that colour hair before, amongst the legionnaires and sometimes
on the merchants coming from the north. A perfume-seller's
hair. It was the colour of honey. His neck and cheeks were as
brown as beeswax. She watched him from the comer ofher eye,
not wanting to be seen, but not finding any reason to look
elsewhere. He sat cross-legged, self-consciously, his legs
entwined, almost in a braid. He had a staff, made out of twisted
5 1
wood, with perfect curls along its stem, which he held across his
lap. He ran his fingers round the curls. He was a handsome man,
she thought. More than handsome. Statuesque. She wondered
if his body hair was blond . . .
Marta did not like the badu much. He'd jumped in the cistern
with no regard for anybody's cleanliness. She did not trust the
way he squatted on his heels, rocking like a crib, twisting his
hennaed hair between his fingers, and ready to spring up. He
was too small and catlike, with far too many bracelets on his
arm, she thought, to be much of a threat to her. But there was
something devilish and immature about his face. If he had any
body hair, it would not match his hennaed head.
Marta had her numbers and her seeds for company. She
watched the men, and waited for the sun to warm her up. The
badu did not speak at all. He dropped pebbles in his mouth. But
the old man was glad to talk, and the blond, though he hardly
turned his head, seemed resigned to listen. The old man did not
whisper, but spoke up loudly - in self-conscious Greek - so that
everyone could hear, perhaps. He gave his name, his place of
birth, his trade. He was Aphas the mason, from Jerusalem. He
reported on the complications of his journey to the caves, his
attempts to light a fire, the discomforts of the night. All unimportant, unrevealing, reassuring facts. What other
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