“It’s a little late for passion.”
“If there was love, real love, between you, who can say if it’s — ”
“You know,” said Sela, cutting her off, “I think we have more urgent things to talk about, like the fact that we’re alone in the middle of the desert. Or that a whole army’s trying to find us and kill us.”
Mary realized she’d gone too far. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine.”
“No, you’re right. It isn’t my place.”
“Really, it’s fine. Let’s just leave it — ”
“I was only trying to help. Give you a little advice,.”
Sela couldn’t help but smile.
“What?” asked Mary.
Just say “nothing,” Sela. Don’t insult her — just leave it alone.
“I just… I think it’s funny, that’s all.”
“Think what’s funny?”
Leave it alone, Sel —
“The fact that I’m getting relationship advice from a fifteen-year-old girl. And one who freely admits that her baby isn’t her husband’s.”
A considerable silence followed.
“It’s different,” said Mary at last. “It’s God’s child.”
Sela smiled again. “I thought we were all God’s children.”
And now another considerable silence, and a tinge of regret from Sela. She could see that she’d really wounded the girl with that one.
“You think I’m a joke,” said Mary at last.
Sela rolled her eyes. Here we go. This was exactly the conversation she didn’t feel like having. Not now. This wasn’t two girls talking about boys anymore. Just move past it.
“I don’t think you’re a joke. I just… ” How to put it?
“You just don’t believe me,” said Mary.
Look at this face — this earnest face… this fifteen-year-old who thinks she knows everything.
“No,” said Sela. “I guess I don’t.”
Mary turned away, toward the ever-darkening visage of her sleeping husband. Her exhausted husband, bruised from shielding her through the storm. Poor Joseph, she thought. Poor, noble Joseph.
“I understand,” Mary said. “Sometimes I ask myself, why, of all the girls in the whole world, did he choose me? Should I not love my baby as a mother is supposed to? Should I not hold him when he weeps? Comfort him when he is frightened? Scold him when he misbehaves? Or should I worship him, even now?”
“I can see how that might get a little complicated, sure.”
“I didn’t ask for this burden. I didn’t appeal to heaven or beg of God for any honor. But this is the path that’s been chosen for me by God, and I have to walk it.” She turned back to Sela. “I can either walk it alone,” said Mary, “or walk it holding the hands of the ones I love. Either way, it’s the same path.”
Sela looked at Mary intently and smiled. She supposed this fifteen-year-old knew more than she let on. Mary turned away from her and stared straight into the desert, toward the fading image of their broad-shouldered protector.
“He doesn’t believe me, either,” she said, looking at Balthazar.
“Yeah, well, don’t take it personally. He doesn’t believe in much of anything.”
“He’s a strange man. He’ll fight to protect my child, but he won’t so much as look at him, hold him. And I wonder how a man can be so angry — so cruel, so violent. And how this same man can risk his life for a child he hardly knows.”
Now it was Sela’s turn to sit in silence for a while, considering. Maybe it was the guilt of having insulted Mary, or the need to show a little girl who thought she knew everything how little she actually knew. Maybe it was the need to sort it all out in her own head, to remind herself of how this had all begun. Whatever the reason, Sela decided right then and there to tell Mary about the day Balthazar died.
“We were still in Antioch,” she said.
And we’re fifteen again, and in hopeless, hideous young love. There’s Balthazar and I kissing on the banks of the Orontes, and it’s beautiful and golden and forever, and it always will be. And there’s Balthazar’s little brother, Abdi, following us everywhere we go. Four years old and still wearing that gold pendant around his neck. The one his big brother stole for him but won’t tell me from whom or where. There he is, proudly imitating Balthazar. My God, he loves his big brother. And my God, Balthazar loves him more than any object or idea or feeling in this world. We both do. He’s our constant companion. Our shadow. Our son. A practice son, for the ones we’ll have together when we’re married.
But not marriage — not yet. First, Balthazar teaches me how to live again. How to fend for myself. Teaches me how to fight. How to pick pockets in the forum. And Abdi looks on as he teaches me. Imitates his brother. Idolizes him. He wants nothing more than to be Balthazar.
And there’s Balthazar taking me to the forum when he thinks I’m ready to try my pickpocketing skills on a real target. There he is playing my accomplice. And there’s Abdi, who we’ve told to wait for us across the forum. “Don’t move from this spot,” says Balthazar, “until we come and get you.” But there’s Abdi moving anyway, wanting so desperately to be like his brother. Sneaking off on his own, trying to pick a pocket all by himself. He’s watched us practice so closely, so often. He’s sure he can do it. But he’s not yet five years old, and he doesn’t know it isn’t a game. And there he is, following a man through the forum. A man who looks like he’ll have a great deal of money hidden away. There he is, mimicking the way Balthazar slips his hand into the target’s robes, pulls out his coin purse. And there’s Abdi reaching… and there’s Abdi taking…
And there’s Abdi caught in the act.
His hand seized as it grabbed at an overstuffed coin purse. Seized by a man who towers over him, looking down with a pair of harsh, unforgettable eyes as he squeezes that thieving little hand. Squeezes it until its little bones threaten to break. Squeezes it until Abdi has no choice but to scream out. And the towering man leans over this little thief. This little Syrian rat. The very picture of everything that’s wrong with this wretched city.
And the man is a Roman centurion.
And the centurion’s bodyguards surround him now. And a crowd of locals forms around the centurion and this suddenly very, very frightened little boy — not yet five years old. And a few of the locals, the men, beg the centurion to let him go. “We’ll make sure he’s punished,” they say. “We’ll beat him until he bleeds,” they say. And the little boy is terrified, of course. Screaming out to be let go. Screaming out because his hand hurts so, so much. Screaming out because he suddenly knows this isn’t a game. And the centurion pulls out his sword. And some of those in the surrounding crowd gasp and cry out in protest. And the men redouble their promises to punish the child themselves, even though they know they’re helpless to interfere.
“Let this be a warning!” the centurion shouts. “A warning that crime will not be tolerated in Antioch! By ANYONE!”
And he squeezes Abdi’s hand even tighter, eliciting another anguished cry. But there’s Balthazar to answer it. Here’s the heroic big brother who would never, ever let any harm befall Abdi. There’s Balthazar, drawn by his brother’s anguished cries — running right at the centurion, with me on his heels. We’ve been summoned by that familiar voice. And Balthazar is going to tackle this Roman before he can do what he intends to. He’s going to tackle him and beat him bloody while Abdi and I escape. And chances are he’ll pay for this with his life, but he doesn’t care.
