Palace business, I realized, was just as sordid as the less-exalted kind. Will your father provide one?

I believe so. My father wishes to take on a lesser position requiring fewer physical demands, without giving up the prestige of being part of the tetrarchs household.

I wish I could help, I said wistfully. In the old days, I would have woven you some splendid lengths of cloth, glorious enough to suit even Herods rich tastes.

As winter drew to a close, Viriato called on me again. I had been sick for over two years now. The constant bleeding and pain had made me thinner and I often felt tired. Worse than the symptoms that dogged my every waking hour was the plague of loneliness. Sometimes I felt starved for just one touch. One tiny embrace. But being with Viriato was like taking a dose of invigorating medicine. He made me forget that I was ill.

There had been a shortage of wool that year due to a terrible plague that had struck the new lambs in Palestine, killing many. We commiserated over the loss and laughed about the many absurdities that such a shortage had created.

We have had to import wool from Italy. The prices are so high after paying the Roman taxes that only the very rich can afford new lengths of wool this year. Mens tunics have grown shorter, and last week, I saw a Roman lady wearing a tunic that only came to the middle of her calves.

No! I laughed. What a spectacle that must have made. What did her husband say?

He praised her for her pecuniary zeal if not her modesty. She became very popular with the men. Just before I came, I saw several ladies with shorter tunics. They had actually cut their old, long skirts.

I shook my head thinking about the cold, wet days of winter and how inconvenient a pair of bare legs would prove in such weather, as the poor had good reason to know. Why would any man want to ogle a pair of goose-pimpled legs, white from cold?

Viriato shrugged. The temperature of a womans skin has no effect on a mans ogling tendencies.

I grinned. Men are a mystery to me. Let us speak of something I understand. How fares the workshop?

It does well. They dont produce the ingenious fabrics you designed while you ran it. But the quality remains good, and the workers are secure.

I nodded. I could have written Joel to ask for more information had I wished. By now, he most likely knew the ident.i.ty of the new owner, even if the man himself never set foot on the property, but hired managers to do the work for him. I did not have the heart to discover that final mystery related to my past. Better leave the secret in Master Ezers hands.

How is Ethan? The question leapt out of my mouth before I had time to think better of asking it. I dont know what made me violate my own unspoken ban on the subject of Ethan. I suppose my longing to hear about him finally surpa.s.sed my pain at the very mention of his name.

Viriato lowered his eyes. They are expecting a child, mistress.

I swallowed past the ball of misery rising in my throat. This, after all, was why I had set him free. I wanted him to have a good and full life. My sickness only affirmed that decision. If he had married me, he would be chained to my side, too dutiful to divorce me. He wouldnt have a child. He wouldnt even have a wife. Not really. Decimus Calvus had done both of us a favor.

I am happy for him. He always wanted to be a father.

I am expecting a baby again! Joanna bounced on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet, too excited to sit on the chair we had set out in expectation of her visit.

I clapped my hands. Praise the G.o.d who saves us! I knew he would bless you again. My arms felt empty for want of holding her.

Start working on those baby clothes again, Sister. Wool and linen both, I think.

Joanna. My voice wobbled.

She stopped midstream in her excited chatter, alerted by the grave tone of my voice.

I have given this much thought, for I knew this moment would come. My eyes welled up and for a moment I could not speak for fear that I would lose all control and start wailing. I took a deep breath and tried to clamp down the flood of emotion that threatened to drown me.

Joanna, I tried again. This time my voice emerged stronger. I do not wish you to return here while you are pregnant.

She shook her head, her eyes wide. You cant mean that.

Listen to me. You will want to know that you did everything in your power to take care of this little one. You will want to have no shadow of guilt placed upon you while you are pregnant.

I need you, Elianna. Do not forbid me from seeing you! Your condition has no bearing upon mine. Tears started rolling down her cheeks.

My heart was breaking. But for her sake, I could not fall apart. I could not give in to her frantic pleas. I had to be the strong one.

Why does goodness sometimes cut sharper than a sword?

My beloved sister, we cannot be certain of that. There is a mystery to such matters. Let us take care that you and the babe will remain safe. I will pray for you every day. Write to me as often as you can, beloved.

Elianna! She reached a long arm toward me.

I shut the door in her face before she could touch me. Leaning against it weakly, I bit hard on my lips to keep from sobbing.

All my severe precautions were for naught. Months of separation, of isolation, and Joanna lost her baby anyway.

It was the most awful loss imaginable, for it meant I could no longer see my sister. She lost her baby and I lost her. I withdrew from her in order to give her a chance at having the desire of her heart. I kept my door closed to her visits from that moment. Perhaps if she had not come to see me at the start, at the time she had conceived, she would have been able to keep her child. Perhaps my very presence had brought a curse upon her. I did not wish to be responsible for that. I thought if I stayed away from her completely, she might have a chance at happiness. I had little to give except my absence. This, I offered her, though it was like robbing myself.

She wrote, begging me to reconsider. There were few things in life I wanted more than to surrender to her pleas. But for her sake, I refused. I would not bend. I would not soften.

Now I had only Joannas letters and Keziah for company. I did not even have the comfort of writing Joanna anymore. I refused to allow her to touch anything I had touched.

TWENTY-FOUR.

Is there no balm in Gilead?

Is there no physician there?

Why then has the health of the daughter of my people not been restored?

JEREMIAH 8:22.

IN THE THIRD YEAR of my illness, Sira returned from Ephesus. I have brought a new crocus from Greece. It is famed for its healing powers.

You know I shall try anything short of witchcraft.

He waved a hand. We have all we need in my pouch.

My medicine included a mix of c.u.min and fenugreek, plus an addition of Siras new crocus, for which I paid an astronomical sum. These he boiled in water and, after clarifying, gave me to drink.

Arise from thy flux, he shouted at the top of his lungs after I swallowed the last drop. Even as I rose from the floor, I felt blood leeching out of my body.

Early days, yet, he said when he saw my stricken face. We shall do this for a month.

A months worth of his concoctions made no more difference than the first batch had. His famed crocus failed me.

We still have another remedy to try, he said to me. He tried to sound jovial, but his tone was more subdued than I had ever heard.

Viriato wrote to tell me that Ethan had a daughter. Rachel. Typical of a man, he included none of the information I longed to know. Did she have Ethans eyes? Did she smile often? Did she get along with her cousin? Did she sleep well at night?

How Ethan would treasure this little one. He was just the man to father daughters. Tender, accepting, protective, and yet willing to allow the kind of freedom that most of Jerusalem would frown upon. Though she was not my child, I felt an odd tenderness for her. I would never set eyes upon Rachel. But I loved her, because she belonged to Ethan. I added her to my prayers. Every day I blessed her as if she had come from my own womb.

This remedy is more complex than the rest. Sira adjusted his spotless tunic.

I rolled my eyes. How much shall it cost me?

He threw up his hands. How can you be so prosaic? What is money when your health is at stake?

My health would like to maintain a roof over my head and food in my belly. How much? He named a price that made me sit down. Sira, can you not devise a cheaper cure?

To tell the truth, mistress, this is my final effort. I have saved it for last because it is the hardest. It is what you need; I am convinced of it.

What could I do? If I did not comply, I would have to acknowledge defeat. Then for the rest of my life I would wonder if I had missed my one opportunity for healing.

Lead on, physician. I pray the Lord may bless your efforts.

I had to hand it to Sira. He worked hard on that cure. He had hired a servant to dig seven trenches in a piece of land that he had hired from a farmer. Each trench was deep enough to hide a grown man from view when he stood in it. At the bottom of the pits he had carefully arranged piles of dried wood mixed with fresh branches, still bearing green leaves. From vines not yet four years old, he said. They have never been pruned.

I could see why this particular remedy had cost so much. He lit the vines on fire until smoke began to rise from each pile. Giving me a cup of new wine, he took me by the hand to the first pit and lowered me carefully into it. I coughed from the acrid smoke as I sipped from my cup. He pulled me out, saying, Arise from thy flux before leading me to the next trench and lowering me down again. Seven times he did this. My eyes burned, my skin grew hot, and my clothes stank from the smoke rising from the young vines. The wine and the fumes were making me dizzy and a little nauseous.

But I stopped bleeding.

One, two, three, four, five, six days pa.s.sed. I began to dream of all the things I would do when I was declared clean. Free to walk outside without worry that those around me would look upon me with distaste. Free to visit with Joanna. To embrace her and talk to her all day if I wished. Free to start working again! Free to have a full life. Oh, how happy I was. How filled with hope.

The seventh day dawned. My final day before I could go to the priest and be declared free of my disease. One hour before sunset, one single hour before freedom could come to me, I began to bleed again. This time the bleeding was so heavy, I could not rise out of bed for a week. Feeble and unsteady, I lay on my mattress, unable to believe that I had come this far without being released from my suffering.

A dark cloud of despair descended upon me on that seventh day. It choked life and hope out of me. That night, I slipped a knife into my bed and hid it under the covers. When Keziah had fallen asleep, I took it out and stared at it for a long while, wondering if I would have the courage to cut my wrists and end the misery of my life the way Romans did. They found a strange kind of honor in suicide. We Jews believed life belonged to G.o.d and the taking of it was a grave sin.

Fear of having to face his displeasure unto eternity made me sheathe the knife that night. But for ten days, I kept it with me in bed. I took it out after the lamps banked low and Keziahs soft snores filled the chamber. Each night, I had a decision to make. Live or die. I stared at the glittering silver metal of that knife, knowing my destiny rested on its sharpened edge. Each night, death wrestled with life. In the end, life won. I could not bear the thought of Joannas grief, or G.o.ds punishment. But that dark blanket of despair did not quite leave me, lingering through my every waking moment and sometimes even haunting my dreams.

Thank G.o.d, the heaviness of my hemorrhage subsided after several weeks, though the bleeding continued. Some days, it would come to a complete stop, only to resume after a few hours. Everyone in our neighborhood now knew that I was unclean.

Once, when Keziah had fallen sick with a fever and cough, I had to fetch water from the well myself. Though I went at the noon hour in order to avoid the crowd, I found myself waiting while a Jewish woman filled her jar. Catching sight of me, she frowned. What are you doing here?

I need water.

Thats disgusting! You cant touch the well.

I did not intend to. I brought my own"

I care not what you brought. Leave here, or I shall cry out and bring the whole neighborhood down on your head. A good beating will teach you to spread the pollution of your body amongst decent people.

I took a deep breath to control the anger that longed to leap off my tongue and decided to leave. I had no defense to offer that would change the womans mind. It was useless to remain and argue.

As I turned on my heel, I saw a woman with dark hair, dressed in a simple brown tunic and mantle. Give me that, she said, grabbing my jar from my hand. From her accent I guessed her to be of Syrophoenician origin.

Many foreigners lived in Tiberias at that time. Because of the Pharisees declaration that the city was ritually impure due to the presence of an old graveyard beneath its foundations, most truly pious Jews refused to live here. In the absence of sufficient inhabitants, Herod had invited the Gentiles to take occupation. With such Greek attractions as a stadium and hot natural springs, foreigners were more readily drawn to this city than other parts of my country.

We Jews lived alongside them in peace, though we managed to keep to ourselves and they kept their own counsel. We had few social interactions outside the bounds of necessity.

I stood, mouth agape, not understanding the womans intention.

She marched to the well and drew out a heavy bucket of water, filling my jar with it carefully, all the while glaring at my Jewish tormentor. Returning, she handed the filled jar to me. My Jewish neighbor spat on the ground to show her indignation and huffed off.

My words of thanks floated in the wind as I turned to express my grat.i.tude to the Syrophoenician woman and saw that she had already moved on. She did not even linger to see how grateful I felt.

It came to me that my Jewish neighbor, by keeping the Law, had added condemnation to my already wounded heart. This woman who was a Gentile, living outside the strictures of our Law and the salvation of the Lord, had gone out of her way to help me. She had extended compa.s.sion and mercy to a complete stranger.

I thought of the goodness of the Law, for it was from the Lord and given to make us righteous. What had we done with its G.o.d-given grace to turn it instead into a weapon against the sick and the helpless? How had we twisted the glory of G.o.ds precepts to such a degree that foreigners and unbelievers had grown more compa.s.sionate than the people of G.o.d?

I had not set eyes on Joanna for over a year. Even Keziah was not allowed to visit her, lest she carry upon her some part of my sickness. Joanna wrote me every day"short notes, long letters, tearstained missives, and happy, news-filled ones.

Chuza had been given the post of Herods steward. This was a complex and unique role, different from an ordinary household manager. It placed Chuza in charge of Herods entire staff of servants. Even the bodyguards had to report to him in matters of expense and their daily concerns. His varied responsibilities kept him busy in the palace, but having grown up under his fathers tutelage, he knew the intricacies of his work and dealt well with the acerbic tetrarch and his many demands.

Though I read each one of Joannas letters repeatedly, I could not answer any of them lest the parchment on which I wrote make her unclean. From me, she received only silence and prayers.

I spent many of my hours spinning wool and weaving on my simple loom, which I had brought from Jerusalem. I even began to develop homemade dyes, experimenting with cheap plants available in the market. The cloths I created surprised me with their simple beauty. I was able to sell some to the Gentiles living near me. They were more impressed by the quality of my products than the uncleanness of my womb. I could not make a proper living with one loom and a weak pair of hands. But the extra income from those fabrics helped pay our daily expenses. And it kept me sane to remain busy and useful in a minor way.

In the fourth year of my sickness, Joanna wrote to say that she was with child again. Fear and rejoicing wove in equal measure through the words of that letter. She had learned too well how her hopes might be dashed and could not trust this promised happiness. This time, at least, I knew that I had done everything in my power to protect her from my disease. Keziah and I prayed every night for Chuza, for my sister, and for the babe growing in her womb.

Four months into her pregnancy, Joanna lost the baby.

She ran to my home a week later, looking terrifyingly thin and sad. It had been such a long time since I had set eyes on her. To see her so diminished and ill-looking ripped something inside me.

I shoved the door wide open and ran to her and pulled her into my arms. What was the point of turning her away now? Her babe had been lost in spite of every precaution I had taken.

After years of deprivation, I finally held her in my arms, weeping over her agony, barely able to believe that I could touch her. I caressed her hair, wiped her tears, kissed her cheeks, held tight to her fragile hands. I dont think I let go of her for the whole span of that afternoon. I dont believe she let go of me either. We clung to each other like two little orphan children instead of grown women who had seen too much of the world.

Chuza joined us that evening. He did not come to fetch his wife back home, but to find solace. Holding Joanna in his arms, he cried too, wrenching male tears that would shatter a heart of ice. Their pain was like a tangible thing, a sharp-taloned beast that ate away at their lives. I could do nothing to a.s.suage it.

The next day I went to a scribe and dictated a letter. This way, the missive would not be tainted by my ritual uncleanliness. Chuza and Joannas plight gave me the boldness to attempt this insane idea when I would never have tried it on my own behalf. I wrote to Gamaliel, highly respected member of the Sanhedrin, beloved teacher of the Law, and asked for his help. A woman with an issue of blood, cursed by G.o.d, unwanted by our society, reached out to one so high and asked for pity, for hope, for intercession. I suspected he might ignore me. I could not blame him if he did.

A month later, his answer arrived. Come, it said simply, And bring your sister and her husband with you.

It took Chuza a few months to disengage himself from his responsibilities as steward in Herods palace. We journeyed south in an Egyptian caravan. Foreigners paid no mind to the religious delicacies that my illness offended. I was back inside Jerusalems walls after five years of absence. I had left in defeat. I returned crushed.

Healing is in the hands of G.o.d, Gamaliel said, when he came to visit us at the inn Chuza had secured. He can give it through miracles if he so pleases, or he can use physicians as his instruments of grace. Either way, the power belongs to the Lord.

What does it mean when he withholds healing, Master Gamaliel? I asked.

Who can understand the mind of G.o.d? I know some Pharisees act as though they do. They say sickness is an indication of G.o.ds displeasure. A sign pointing to the stricken mans sin. A portent of faithlessness and unrepentance. He shrugged. It is not so much that these are not valid possibilities. But I think we underestimate G.o.d if we believe we can comprehend in full measure his every action. Although sometimes sin can cause sickness in the body, it is not always the case. Nor is lack of faith the only reason the sick are not healed.