Joanna, come in, she said, opening her arms to me.
I followed her like a curious child.
She greeted my servants as if they, too, were guests. I took my place on the small couch built into the wall where she had motioned me to sit. They stood near the door. She offered me a cup of warm water flavored with citrus and honey, then she offered the same to my servants. I nodded at them to accept it, although I was as confused as they were by the offer. They drank quickly, not moving from their places. When they were finished, I sent them to the inn at the north edge of town to wait for me as we had planned.
Mary went to her worktable, a clutter made from clay bowls, a jug of oil, a sack of flour and small linen pouches filled with expensive spices. I wondered if they had been a gift to her. They were an extravagance in such a modest home.
She brought me a taste of one of her cakes and began to wrap the other in fig leaves. My brother-in-law likes these, she said, as if I knew her family. I only knew that her husband was a carpenter and builder who had died not many years ago. And of course I knew of her extraordinary son.
I moved to a small wooden stool near her table. My warm drink soothed my rough throat. My servants are not accustomed to being received like guests, I said, allowing a hint of confusion.
She went on sweeping the table with a small fir branch. Once, we were slaves in Egypt, she said. Now it is our turn to be good to strangers.
The scent of almond oil wafted from my hair, threatening to overpower us. When I lifted my hand to remove my costly gold earrings, my charm bracelet clanked like cowbells.
Mary paid no attention. She admired the full sack of barley and the clay jug. You are very generous, she said.
We have more than enough at home. Tears suddenly sprang to my eyes. Plenty does not always bring peace, I burbled. The powerless feeling that illness brings came back to me.
Mary went on clearing the table in silence. When she spoke, it seemed at first that she had changed the subject. My father owned orchards and wheat fields, she said. He offered twenty sheep at the temple when I was born. But he only wanted sons, not a daughter. I know that the rich can also suffer.
I encouraged her, and listened as she told me about our younger years. I imagined the life we might have shared as cousins, if it had been allowed.
My mother admired you, I said. She told me how good you were to your parents when they were old. I wish I had known you then.
When I was still young everything changed for my family, Mary said. My father lost his land to Herod. We left Sepphoris for Nazareth and he seemed to age overnight.
My father cut our family off from yours, I said. It troubled me, now that I understood it. We followed the Roman powers and made enemies of our own relatives. A sense of loss had been building in me as I listened to Mary. I might have been raised as she was, according to the holy customs.
Marys stories about her childhood filled me with fantasies about how I might have fit in. She was twelve years old when her family fled Sepphoris, and at the time I was three. Her father refused to live quietly under Roman domination. My father made friends with our conquerors and said that only rebellious Jews fought the Caesars ways. He called them Jews, as the Romans did, not Hebrews as they call themselves. He avoided my eyes when he told me these things. I knew he felt shame.