The Child Madonna, Chapter 34 'Condemnation'

We have arrived safely at Nazareth. I ought to be relieved in view of the stories you hear of the dangers of travelling in small groups through Samaria. But of course, I’m not. As we walk through the narrow streets at the bottom of the village, I’m half hiding behind Clopas, for fear of being seen by the villagers. If they see me, they will want to stop me and ask about Elizabeth and my stay in the south - it is only natural after over two months’ absence. And I’m sure that if they really look at me, my pregnancy will be obvious. I have taken off my girdle so that my shift hangs more loosely in the hope that it will disguise my shape, but I have to lean slightly forward when I’m standing even so, to avoid showing. A couple of men greet Clopas but ignore me, and a group of small children recognise me and wave, but they are too young to be embarrassing. My real worry though is the imminent meeting with my family again. I want the first shock and fear and disappointment over quickly, that moment will be worse than the tearful recriminations that will follow.

We enter the courtyard. Even outside I can hear the whoops and shrieks of the children playing, and as soon as the gate is opened, they come running in excitement. I am mobbed by Mo and Benji and Rebecca. Salome and the boys crowd round as well, all laughing and talking at once. In the midst of all the chatter, Jude’s voice suddenly cuts piercingly through the cacophony of noise:

“Mari, why are you so fat?”

There is an awkward hushed pause as they sense I am confused by the direct almost insolent question. Salome looks at me knowingly, then glares at poor Mo and Ben, willing them not to give the answer they’re not meant to be aware of. Clopas tries to make a joke of it.

“It’s all that rich food they’ve given her in the south, and a life of luxury, being waited on by servants. Now get back to your home, boys, and let Mari go to her mother!”

He hustles me away from the children and whispers as we go:

“I don’t think you’ll find your mother surprised at your condition; she may be a bit tearful, but I’m sure she’ll support you.”

He is right. I look straight at my mother’s familiar face and see the pain in her eyes, masked by the smile of welcome with which she greets me. She has appraised me at a glance, and as we embrace, she holds me against her own body, feeling confirmation of her fears with her own belly where I was carried fourteen years ago. Some of the children burst in through the door behind me, but mother sends them packing.

“Leave us alone for a while. You’ll have your time with Mari soon.”

Then all she says is “Tell me.”

I do, as simply as I can. She does not interrupt. I include the birth of John and Zechariah’s experience. I relate Elizabeth’s belief. I say that Clopas has a letter from Zechariah as my advocate, which he will give to Eli. I finish.

“Has Uncle Eli softened? Will he show me mercy? What will Joseph think?”

I had not realised how old my mother looks although she is but twice my age. Her face seems more deeply lined than I remember, her skin more coarsened, her voice more worn. She adjusts her veil and puts her hand on my shoulder, uncovering as she does the amulet she gave me hanging round my neck.

“I think Joseph loves you, Mari, and is capable of persuasion. But I fear your uncle. You will have a hard time with him. He feels genuinely outraged at your condition and even more so at your defence of it. He is acutely embarrassed at the shame to his position, and is committed to judging you impartially for fear of accusation of family bias. I’m afraid that means that in fact he will deal with you more harshly, that notions of pity and mercy will not be entertained by him to demonstrate those virtues, which admittedly, lie fairly deeply hidden within him.”

“What will happen, mother?”

Her eyes well with tears, and, after a struggle to rein in her emotion, she gives way and clutches me in seeming desperation, sobbing loudly as she hangs around my neck. This answer grips my entrails like ice and the cold sweat of fear envelopes me. I start to tremble, cold in the stifling room.

“Try not to let the others see that we’ve been crying.”

“Have you told them anything?”

“No, I dread now what I’ll be forced to say.”

“They know that I’m pregnant and why.“

“When did you tell them that?”

“In the fields before I left for Ein-Karem.”

“They’ve not said a thing. I’d never have guessed that they had the remotest idea.”

“They believe me. The only thing that they do not know is that I am still under threat of death. They saw my stripes.”

“I hardly know what to say.”

“Do you believe me, mother?”

There is a tell-tale pause, a hesitation, before she dares reply. It betrays her; whatever she says now, I know that doubt will remain.

“Don’t say what you think I want to hear. I am big enough to take the truth.”

“I want to believe you, Mariam. At times, I think I can, then I am assailed by doubts, it seems so extraordinary, I cannot comprehend it.”

“Do you believe I would have come back here, still with the baby inside me, if I did not trust God’s promises?”

“I think you believe it, Mari. I am now sure of that. At first I thought it was an extreme example of your obstinacy, your forwardness, pushed to the limit by Eli’s equal strength of character. I thought how like him you were, both digging in to repulse the other.”

A little face peers inside the door.

“Can we come in yet?”

“Alright, Benjamin. You and the girls.”

At this, the door is flung wide and all three charge in and swarm all over me. When they settle, Ben on my knee, the other two leaning either side of me, our mother says to them:

“I gather Mari told you her news before she went away. You need not keep it secret from me any longer.” She smiles at them. “You’re a very loyal lot, but you could have trusted me, you know.”

We all talk now of babies and the signs. They ask lots of questions about John and his parents, then want to know how much my son is growing. I don’t mind their avid curiosity, it is natural, but I do dread their reaction when they realise the consequences of this event whose shadows they cannot contemplate.

Eventually mother sees the danger and decides that she must quell the excitement.

“Children, you know already that Mari has been punished because having a baby before she is married is against the law. It will still be difficult for her, people might be angry.”

“What will happen then, will anyone hurt her?” Salome asks thoughtfully in a subdued voice.

“I don’t know, really, I don’t. Will you pray for her, as you have each day she’s been away?”

“If anyone tries to hurt her, I’ll stop them!” exclaims Benjamin belligerently and everyone bursts out laughing. He has pricked the tension and the future fears are banished in a rough and tumble that reaches near the edge of hysteria.

Suddenly there is a knocking at the door. Mother and I look at one another in alarm, and Rebecca and Ben cease their antics. It is Clopas looking grim and flustered.

“I’m sorry, Anna, Eli wants Mariam at once. I’ve pleaded with him to give her time with you, to eat and rest, but he will not have it.”

“We’d better come then.”

“Not you, Anna, he stressed just Mariam.”

“But I can’t leave her alone with him, especially if he intends her harm.”

“He told me I was to forbid you to come.”

“Let me go, mother, it won’t make any difference in the end. If he is angry over a little thing it will not help my cause.”

Mother clings to me as though she is bidding me farewell. I am alerted and alarmed by this, and give her a lingering glance, before accompanying Clopas across the yard.

“I’m sorry, Mari, he won’t even let me stay with you. I’ve done my best, he’s had Zechariah’s letter.”

I knock timidly on Eli’s door and enter.

He is standing on the raised floor of his living room, pacing agitatedly up and down, and scarcely looks at me where I stand, trembling, in front of him. I am really scared now. He turns to look at me and I see that he is angry, so much so that he is choking over his first words.

“You, you…..malevolent fornicating whore, you Jezebel, you insolent heathen prostitute, you’ve brought down shame and disgrace upon your whole household! I’ve done everything I can to bring you up as a credit to your faith and us, and look how you repay me!”

I am stunned and speechless. I am groping in panic, am I meant to reply to this? No, he is merely gasping for breath amid his diatribe.

“Explicit instructions I gave you! I warned you! I warned you before
witnesses! You cannot plead ignorance. I spent hours talking the other elders out of instant retribution when you were found to be pregnant and then blasphemed instead of accepting the way out I offered you. They agreed reluctantly when I made promises on your behalf. And now look at you! You’ve not even tried to put my orders into effect! You’re even proud of disobeying me, so much so that you’ve persuaded Elizabeth and Zechariah of all people to excuse you, instead of carrying out my wishes.”

He waves what I recognise as Zechariah’s letter in front of me in fury, only inches from my nose. I flinch and cower, fearing that he is going to strike me.

“Aren’t you going to say anything in your defence, girl? Are you struck dumb too like Zechariah professes to have been?”

“What can I say?”

“Well may you ask! Isn’t it a bit late to think of that now?”

“Would you listen if I tried to defend myself?”

Before I can react, I receive a vicious stinging blow to the side of my face and am knocked off balance. I stumble up again, hand clasped against my burning cheek, only peering to see if another blow is coming. He has said something, but I’ve no idea what. My eyes are blinded with salty tears and I grope in darkness to recover my thread. I am not given the chance.

“Enough of this tomfoolery! Why should I show you mercy, or your wretched family? You’ve done nothing but sponge on me since you sought refuge in my household, your father put all of us at risk, your mother hasn’t a bean to support her multiplying brood, and now you overtop the lot!”

“Sir, what will you do to us?”

“We’ll release poor Joseph from his bonds to you for a start. That is the least we can do for him. And you can face your accusers now at public trial, I’ll not stop it. And if you’re condemned, I’ll be there, casting the first stone. Afterwards your family can be gone from my house and from this town and good riddance to them!”

“Sir, please, no, it’s not my mother’s or my sisters’ fault.”

“You should have thought of that earlier. What’s more, I know your mother; I’ve no doubt she’s encouraged you in these airy-fairy notions. As far as I am concerned, she can sell your sisters in bondage to the Romans or to a heathen temple, I couldn’t care less; then go on the streets and beg, as long as she doesn’t do it here.”

“Oh, my God, have mercy on us, have mercy on us,” I beg in tears, falling to my knees in front of Eli’s pulsating form.

An iron grip seizes me by the shoulder and yanks me to my feet, propelling me at the same time towards the door of the house. I can feel the seething rage pent up in his fist, blindly forcing me to go in front of him. I am rammed against the wooden door, so that I hurt my arm and shoulder as it swings open under my weight, and I stumble into the dazzling sunlight. I am half-pushed, half-dragged into the street, and feel the stares of startled passers-by and cringe at my public humiliation. I stagger awkwardly in front of him, unsure which way to go, until he hisses in my ear:

“The synagogue, you trollop, and if you dare blaspheme again in your defence…..”

He says no more, but what he has said is not disguised in tone, so everyone around must have heard it. I avert my eyes, looking only at my stumbling feet and try to will myself into invisibility. The nightmare spectacle through the busy street ends abruptly when we reach the synagogue and I am pushed into the sudden calm where the noise of our movement is magnified. Across the Women’s Court my bare feet slap the coolness of the flagstones; I sense the building is deserted. I think he is going to put me inside the little cell where I was held before the whipping, but he unbolts the adjacent door which leads to the room where the animals and birds for sacrifice are kept until the time for killing comes. Inside I see movement in the straw, and a couple of pigeons flutter at the glimpse of daylight. Before I can assimilate this sight properly, I feel myself hurled into the room and I stagger forward, falling on my face amid the straw, the squawking birds and larger beasts which panic at my sudden intrusion. Whilst I am still trying to recover and regain my balance, my uncle, still in foul mood, shouts at me:

“You can stay there where you belong until we’ve decided what to do with you. You’re unclean, give me your clothes or you’ll contaminate the very beasts about you!”

I don’t grasp his meaning at first, then, when his words sink in, I understand he means to have me locked in here, naked, and left among the animals. There is really no way I can disobey him. If I resist, he’ll seize me and rip my clothes off, such is his present temper. Ashamed, I try to hide from him as I pull off my shift and loincloth, and turn my back to shield my naked belly from his eyes. I hold out my garments tentatively, and they are snatched from my hand with a violence that almost rips them before I can let go. In the next movement the door is slammed in my face and the bolts drive home, as I adjust to the dim light which percolates through the tiny slit high on one wall, and nearly choke on the overpowering odour of animal dung and droppings which impregnates the filthy straw.

I find, to my surprise, that my overwhelming emotion is one of relief. He is gone, I am left in peace; I can gather my confused senses which are still shocked by the rapidity of developments within the last few minutes. The movement of the animals around me is comforting, I am not frightened by their presence. I am aware now of the bleating of a lamb, and a couple of kids, as well as the strutting and fluttering of at least half a dozen doves, and I try to make soothing noises to calm them. I squat, talk softly and hold out my open palm to one of the cowering goats, and my patience is eventually rewarded, as both larger animals lose their fear and start to investigate by sniffing inquisitively at my outstretched arm. In the end, they let me stroke their noses and nuzzle against me, searching me for food, in vain alas.

I find a clean patch of straw in the centre of the little room, and kneel, sinking back to rest upon my calves. I contemplate my nakedness and think that Eli meant to humiliate me in the way most shocking to his imagination. He and the other rabbis detest nakedness in any form except when they are intentionally stripping all dignity from their victim. It is associated with idolatry and heathen practices; the hated Roman games which flagrantly offend my compatriots’ prudishness. It is synonymous with impurity and lewdness; ritual uncleanness; the ultimate in contempt.

Yet strangely, I find their attitude rather silly and certainly unnecessarily causative of such virulent offence. No-one worries when little children run around with nothing on, the sun streaming on their bronzed bodies. No-one bats an eyelid when a child of ten or eleven bathes naked in the river or goes over his father’s knee for a sound spanking. Yet but a year later, modesty is affronted when too much bare limb is glimpsed beneath the flowing veils and shifts when you try to raise water from the well. I actually like the feel of no restricting cloth pulling at my limbs; I sense a freedom that infects my mind, that symbolises a closeness that I feel with God’s world around me. Don’t tell anyone, certainly not my uncle, that I have always felt it easiest to pray with nothing on - he would be horribly shocked and think it most impious of me.

Does he think that God would be so easily embarrassed? That I would tempt him by my nakedness? Can’t God see right through me to my very soul - surely that I should be so transparent is far more shocking?

Perhaps you’re thinking now that at this moment the last thing I can put my mind to is prayer. Funnily enough, my head is filled with clarity. Everything is gone, the confusion, the humiliation, the fear, the obstinacy; replaced by a pervading sense of calm, precision, a need to be articulate. Should I share my prayers with you? They are very personal; I have always been taught to be private, they are for God’s ears alone, not to impress others, not even my own mother. Perhaps just a clue; I am nothing now, totally vulnerable, totally in God’s hands. I pray for mother, for Benjamin, for Rebecca, for Salome. I pray for Joseph and Clopas; Miriam, Mo and the boys. I pray for Elizabeth, John and Zechariah; for Rachel; for my father. I pray for my sheep and goats who will be missing me, for the animals here around me awaiting the sacrificial knife. I even pray for Uncle Eli, though it is hard. Above all I pray for my child, nestling within my bloated body; I press him, encircle him with my loving arms. He is why I’m here. He is the one I must protect. He is the one I expect God to shelter and sustain, or else his promises are impotent, and that cannot be.

I do not know how long I take. When I surface to myself again, the light has faded, so that I can hardly make out any more than the outline of the beasts around me. It is not cold and I am quite comfortable although the straw scratches and irritates when I shift position to ease my aching thighs and arching back. I begin to wonder what my family is doing now. Do they know where Eli has taken me? Would they have been watching through the shuttered windows, seen my undignified departure? Does Mum know of Eli’s threat to throw us out, what has she told the children? The more I think about them, the more I feel guilty; I have no right to condemn them for my vision. I have the right to accept the consequences of my own behaviour, but not the right to impose on them. A few minutes ago, it seemed so beautifully simple; and prayer, I thought, would calm me even further, not sow seeds of doubt and guilt.

When will mother come to see me? Will they let her? What if Joseph comes - will he condemn me too? Will he be angry, not let me explain, or will he allow me at least to furnish justification to my claim? It is dark now. The stable is a dank stinking blackness; I cannot even see my hands groping before my face. My legs are stiff and I stand and stretch, then try to move to exercise a little. In my blindness I stand in excreta from one of the animals, and slip causing my thighs to stretch taut, tearing the muscles. A streak of pain shoots through my back and stomach nerves and I scrabble about on all fours, kneeling oblivious to the filth whilst I panic that I have harmed my baby. I roll over and lie on my back, clutching my stomach, and gradually the ache drifts away into the darkness. I realise with thankfulness that I have not done any lasting damage, just scared myself a little. I feel dirt adhering to my body and grasp a handful of straw and try to clean myself without really knowing if I have smeared it further. All my anxiety and fear has returned. No-one is going to come tonight, it is too late. My mother is lying in her bed, crying, I’m sure of it. Perhaps they’ll never give me a chance, I shall be dragged out of here, naked and filthy, in the morning to be laughed at by the mob and stoned to death, without ever seeing anyone I love again.

My fear courses through my body, my palms sweat, my tongue is dry, my bowels are gurgling with nervous diarrhoea which I can keep back no longer. I try, ashamed, to find a black corner and squat, apologising to the sleeping animals. And now I suffer my own stench as well as theirs. I crawl as far as possible away from my miserable territory, and bury myself beside the dormant goats, feeling their rough warmth on the smoothness of my back. The earthy contact restores some of my former lassitude, perhaps I have no option but to resign myself here to share the animals’ fate. I slumber, waking numerous times; I do not know, there is no way of telling, how long since I last stirred. At length a tinge of the dullest light allows ghostly shadows to be seen. The day is breaking.

Once I can see properly, I try to clean myself as best I can with the only handful of fresh straw that I can find. I am about to give up, when I hear footsteps outside, then the harsh sound of the bolts being drawn back on my door. I kneel in a ball protecting my shame as the stable floods with brilliant sunlight and notice only that it is one of the rabbis silhouetted in the doorway. The figure stands rooted to the spot, then a voice, not unkindly, says:

“Goodness me, girl, is that you Mariam? Why are you naked, where are your clothes?”

“Uncle Eli took them away, sir.”

It is Joel, Hannah’s father.

“I will bring you water and a cloth so that you can wash yourself. When you are ready I’ll bring you some bread and water while I fetch your mother with a change of clothes. You cannot remain naked in this place, it is indecent and against the law.”

That makes me feel a little better.

They brought my mother to me two hours later. Just before she came, I was led into the cell where I had been kept prisoner once before. We embraced and she gave me a fresh loincloth and a tunic to put on. Eli had not given back my own clothes. The tunic was an old one of mine, too small, especially tight around the waist. I had to leave the girdle off. Even so, it exposed the fact that I was pregnant to anyone who would see me.

My mother had been crying. Her eyes are bloodshot and puffy; I doubt if she has had much sleep. I feel guilty that I have not been so distressed or disturbed.

“What about the children? Do they know?”

“Yes, Mari. I left them now sobbing their hearts out. I have been up all night with one or other of them. They saw Eli drag you off and I had to tell them something. I think Salome has a fair idea of what might happen to you. She is very withdrawn this morning, won’t talk to anyone.”

Her words affect me so much, that for the first time since my imprisonment here in the synagogue tears come to my eyes and I cannot stop them. I can’t forget that I am doing this to them.

I look up at the whip and rods hanging on the wall.

“What are they going to do to me? Am I going to be beaten again, or will it be worse this time?” I can’t make myself actually spell out the ultimate punishment to her.

“Eli has summoned the men of the village to a judgement here at noon. They will hear you briefly, then condemn you.”

“Are their minds already made up? Can’t I say anything to persuade them?”

“As far as Eli is concerned, you are already judged. Your sentence was only suspended at your previous hearing because of his pleas for you - at least, that’s what he says. He promised his colleagues that you would take certain actions that would enable them to show mercy. His attitude now is simple. You did not carry out your side of the bargain, nor did you intend to. He has no way now of seeking special treatment for you without exercising favour just because you are of his family. He will not do that; you know his overriding sense of duty, to a fault. I am sorry to be so bleak, my love, but to let you have any hope would be to mislead you totally.”

“When will they carry out the sentence?”

My mother looks at me in great anguish.

“Immediately.”

“Today? In just three or four hours’ time?”

“I’m sorry, Mari, I’m truly sorry, yes.”

I can’t take it in. I cannot believe it has really come to this. Our conversation seems remote as though it has absolutely nothing to do with this flesh and blood beneath my flimsy garment. All the exhilaration, the relief as my friends and relatives have begun to believe is to be dashed to nothing, just because Eli will not change his mind, will not even listen. A great wave of despair pours over me, crushes me, makes me want to give up, let them do whatever they want, without challenge.

“Can I see Salome, Rebecca and Benji first?”

“Mari, what would you say to them? Think. Is it really fair? They are already very upset. Is it not easiest to let them be? Let them remember you in happier moments.”

“Mum, you talk as though I’m already gone.”

This sentence breaks her up. She wails and flings her arms around me and we rock each other until we are exhausted.

“Can I see Joseph then?”

“I’ll try, Mari. Even at this moment he is trying to talk Eli into showing mercy to you. If he gets nowhere with him, he’s vowed to come down here to tackle Joel and Jethro also. He is doing his best, Mari.”

At that moment there is a clattering at the door and Joel is there, beckoning mother to follow him.

“Joseph has come. I’d like you present in our discussions.”

“Mum, will you come back?”

“I don’t know, Mari; if I can, I will.”

“Don’t go, please. I don’t want to say goodbye.”

“Don’t panic, Mariam. If you are condemned, your mother will be permitted to bid you farewell if she wants to before you are led out to execution.”

The door closes. I am alone. I prostrate myself upon the floor.

“You promised, Lord, you promised. ‘My father and mother may abandon me, but the Lord will take care of me’ - that’s what the scripture says. Please, Lord, please fulfil your promise.”

I say it again and again as I beat my fists against the hard floor. But my mind keeps drifting to my other text, ‘my devoted servant, with whom I am pleased, will bear the punishment of many’. What does this mean? Does it refer to now? If I am to be sacrificed, what good will come of it? Will not my son, my Messiah, die also?