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in response to everyone’s anxieties, “that means they won’t crucify him straightaway.”
    â€œTomorrow or the day after tomorrow, what difference does it make?” Lysanias muttered. “Joachim will have longer to suffer, that’s all.”
    They could all picture the fortress. A stone monster dating back to the blessed days of David, which Herod had enlarged and strengthened, ostensibly to defend the people of Israel against the Nabateans, their enemies from the eastern desert.
    In fact, its real purpose for some time now had been as a prison for hundreds of innocent people, rich and poor, learned and illiterate alike. Anyone who displeased the king. A rumor, a malevolent piece of gossip, a personal vendetta—anything could lead to a man being thrown in there. Most never came out again, or else ended up on the forest of crosses that surrounded it.
    A visit to Tarichea was a grim experience, despite the great beauty of the shores of the Lake of Gennesaret. No one could escape the sight of the crucified. Some said that at night their moans echoed across the waters like screams from the depths of hell. It was enough to make your hair stand on end. Even the fishermen did not dare go near, despite the fact that the waters closest to the fortress were especially rich in fish.
    They were all struck dumb with terror, but Miriam said in a clear, unwavering voice, “I’m going to Tarichea. I won’t let my father rot in that fortress.”
    Everyone looked up. The deep silence of a moment earlier was replaced by a cacophony of protests.
    Miriam was raving. She mustn’t let herself be carried away by her grief. How could she get her father out of the fortress of Tarichea? Had she forgotten that she was only a girl? Barely fifteen, still so young she had not yet been married off. It was true that she looked older, and her father had the unfortunate habit of considering her a woman of reason and wisdom, but she was only a girl, not a miracle worker.
    â€œI’m not planning to go to Tarichea alone,” she said, when calm had returned. “I’m going to ask Barabbas for help.”
    â€œBarabbas the thief?”
    Again, there was a chorus of protests.
    This time, Halva, the young wife of Yossef, a carpenter friend of Joachim’s, looked at Miriam and shouted over the din, “In Sepphoris, they say he doesn’t steal for himself but only to give to those in need. They say he does more good than bad, and that the people he robs have deserved it.”
    Two men interrupted her. How could she say such things? A thief was a thief.
    â€œThe fact is, these wicked thieves draw Herod’s mercenaries to our village like flies to a wound!”
    Miriam shrugged. “Just as you claim the mercenaries will attack Nazareth in revenge for what my father did!” she said, harshly. “What matters is that however hard they pursue Barabbas, they never catch him. If anyone can save my father, he can.”
    Lysanias shook his head. “Why would he do it? We have no gold to pay him!”
    â€œHe’ll do it because he owes it to me.”
    They all stared at her wide-eyed.
    â€œHe owes his life to my father and me. He’ll listen to me, I’m sure of it.”
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    T HE debate went on endlessly, until late in the night.
    Hannah moaned that she did not want to let her daughter leave. Did Miriam plan to leave her completely alone, to deprive her of her child as well as her husband? For just as surely as Joachim was already as good as dead, Miriam would be taken by the thieves or by the mercenaries. She would be violated, then murdered. That was what awaited her.
    The rabbi supported Hannah. Miriam was talking with the recklessness of youth as well as the forgetfulness of her sex. It was inconceivable that a young girl could throw herself into the mouth of a wild beast, a rebel, a thief like this Barabbas. And to what purpose?