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Miriam had not tried to hide from Halva the fact that she was worried; she quite simply had no idea where he was hiding. She had confidently declared to the people of Nazareth that he would listen to her. Indeed he might. But first she had to get to him.
    â€œIf the Romans and Herod’s mercenaries can’t find him, how will I?”
    Halva, always practical and trusting, had dismissed her anxieties. “That’s the reason you’ll find him—because you’re not a Roman or a mercenary. You know the way things are. There must be people in Sepphoris who know where Barabbas is hiding. He has his followers, people who are indebted to him. They’ll tell you.”
    â€œIf I ask too many questions, they’ll be suspicious. I’ll only have to walk the streets of Sepphoris, and people will start asking who I am and where I’m going.”
    â€œPeople there may be curious, as they are here, but who’d go running to Herod’s mercenaries to report you? You just have to say you’re visiting your aunt. Say you’re there to help your aunt Judith, who’s expecting a child. It’s not such a big lie. In fact, it’s almost true, since she did have a baby last autumn. And when you see a likely looking person, tell them the truth. Someone is sure to have the answer.”
    â€œAnd how will I recognize a ‘likely looking person’?”
    â€œYou can rule out the rich,” Halva replied, impishly, “and the artisans are too serious! You must have confidence. You’re perfectly capable of distinguishing a treacherous person from an honest man and a vicious shrew from a good mother.”
    Halva might be right. When she spoke, everything seemed simple, obvious. But now that she was nearing the gates of the town, Miriam doubted more than ever that she could extricate Barabbas from his hiding place and ask for his help.
    But time was short. In two or three days, four at the most, it would be too late. Her father would die on the cross, charred by the sun, eaten by crows, jeered at by the mercenaries.
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    I N the early morning light, Sepphoris was waking up. The shops were opening, the hangings in the doors of the houses were being drawn aside. Women were hailing each other with shrill cries, inquiring about one another’s nights. Clusters of children were setting off to get water from the wells, squabbling as they went. Men with faces still creased with sleep were leaving for the fields, pushing their donkeys and mules ahead of them.
    As Miriam had predicted, people cast curious glances at her, this stranger entering their town so early in the morning. Perhaps they guessed, from the slow, cautious way she was walking, that she did not know the way but did not dare ask. Nevertheless, she did not arouse as much curiosity as she had feared. People sized her up, noted that her cloak was of good quality, then looked away.
    After going down several streets, she remembered Halva’s advice, and began walking with a firmer stride. She turned left here, right there, as if she knew the town and had a clear idea of where she was going. She was looking for a face that inspired confidence.
    In this way, she went from one quarter to another, past the stinking workshops of the furriers, and the stalls of the weavers who were spreading draperies, carpets, and tapestries over long poles, dazzling the street with a riot of color. Then came the quarter of the basket makers, the tent weavers, the moneychangers….
    On every face she saw, she looked for a sign that would give her the courage to utter the name of Barabbas. But, each time, she found a reason to lower her eyes and not linger. Besides the fact that she did not dare to stare at them, for fear of appearing impudent, no one looked as if they might have any idea of the whereabouts of a bandit sought by the Romans and the king’s mercenaries.
    There was nothing for it but to