The Child Madonna Chapter 27 "Do not bring me to the trial"

Chapter 27 Do Not Bring Me to the Trial

“Why, oh why, did you do it, Mari? After all our conversation, how could you? You must have been possessed!”

I scarcely hear what she is saying. Since mid-morning I have been consumed by nerves whilst Eli, Clopas and my mother have been closeted in Eli’s room discussing my confession.

“Are you listening? Thanks to your obstinacy I’ve just endured over an hour of arguing on your behalf. Eli wanted to wash his hands of you; he is bitter that you’ve repaid his interest and support with shame and disgrace that will reflect on his position in the community. He thought you’d be sensible enough to learn from your caning, not to mention your presence at Rachel’s stoning.”

Tears are blurring my eyes; what I can’t bear is my mother’s hurt, Uncle Eli’s anger is much easier to ride. I can’t answer, I stand mute before her painful accusations. Eventually I mumble:

“What is to happen to me then?”

“After much dissention, your uncle has reluctantly agreed to seek a private examination of your case by the elders of the synagogue alone. He is risking his own position by asking this favour for you. A public hearing would be far more unpredictable, and, if it condemned you, almost impossible to countermand. I have only obtained this limited support for you, however, by pressing the culpability of the stranger and asking them to consider what happened implicitly as rape. That will be hard enough to defend since it has taken all this time for you to admit it.”

“But mother, we’ve been through all this before. I cannot blame God’s messenger. And having gone this far in accepting God’s will for me, must I throw everything away by denying what’s happened?”

“Mari, Mari, don’t you understand the seriousness of the charges against you? Don’t you understand you’re fighting for your life?

My mother then bursts into tears and sinks to the bed in front of me, leaving me standing horrified. I am numbed, shaking like a leaf. She turns her tear-stained face to mine:

“Are you so full of pride, Mariam? Would you kill yourself and fill my life and that of your sisters and brother with so much sorrow, because you cannot admit that you may be wrong? If ever I lay my hands on that man, I’ll wring his neck that he should have so turned your head!”

“When, mother, when have I to answer them?”

“I don’t know, Mari, Eli is at the synagogue now trying to fix things. You’ll have to wait until word is sent back.”

I feel despair now for the first time. I thought it would be easier than this. I had even convinced myself that at least some of the rabbis would be excited at my news, after all it is what they’ve been praying for all their lives. When Salome, Rebecca and Benjamin went out, they knew something serious was wrong; I could see Rebecca had been crying. They had probably been told to say nothing to me. The pain of those I love is undermining all my resolve. I am tempted to give in. While I am thinking these desperate thoughts, I hear the door open and am vaguely aware that Clopas is talking quietly to my mother.

“Put on your shawl, Mari. It is time to go. Eli has persuaded the elders to hear you in private. Pray that you answer them humbly, seeking their compassion!”

I am led into the Women’s Court, and the door is shut and locked behind me. The school lessons have apparently been abandoned for the day and the boys sent home, for all the rabbis – Jethro, Joel, Simon and my uncle – are seated behind a table on which rest scrolls of the law. My mother is taken to one side by Clopas, within earshot and he stays with her, out of my direct line of vision. I am made to stand in front of the rabbis.

I have known all of them from my childhood. Joel in particular has been like a friend, encouraging my searching and learning of the scriptures. Yet as I look at them, seeking a softening, some response of friendship or goodwill, I see set cold faces, steeled to feel nothing. I cannot fathom their expressions. It is going to be very formal, very difficult to make them understand.

Rabbi Jethro is the spokesman. He coughs and clears his throat, and looking straight past my shoulder, declares:

“Mariam, daughter of Joachim, ward of Eli, we are here to perform a very painful duty, following your confession this morning under Eli’s questioning. As a measure of our respect for him, and your late father, we are agreed that you should be examined in private, to hear your explanation. Afterwards we are empowered to carry out the requirements of the law, according to our judgement. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yes, sir,” I answer very nervously.

“This morning you confessed to Eli that you believed the cause of your sickness to be that you were pregnant. I ask you formally before all here present if you confirm this. Is it your belief, Mariam , that you are pregnant?”

I hang my head and reply very softly:

“Yes, I do believe that.”

“What causes you to think so?”

“My sickness and my soreness, sir, and the fact that I have not had my normal period for over two months. I have talked with my mother and she is sure that my symptoms are those of pregnancy.”

“You are betrothed to Joseph of Bethlehem?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could he have made you pregnant?”

“No, that is not possible. He has not been with me in that way. Also, he has been away in Capernaum for nearly three months.”

“I wish to make quite sure of that statement, child. I am not asking you to accuse your betrothed falsely, but do not deny any relationship out of modesty or loyalty. If he has made you pregnant, it is reprehensible and some punishment will be appropriate. But the matter could be solved by accelerating your marriage plans without accusation of adultery.”

“No, sir, Joseph is innocent of any offence towards me.”

“Your honesty on that point does you credit, even if it does not help your situation.”

I begin to relax a little. Perhaps they will be sympathetic after all.

“I am advised that you hold the stranger that lodged at the house of Althaeus the tax-collector responsible.”

“He advised me that I would become pregnant, sir.”

“He told you that you would have a baby?! Before he had intercourse with
you?”

“He told me I would have a son.”

“And despite this extraordinary statement, you allowed him to go ahead?”

“At first he did not say when I would have the son, sir.”

“He forced you then, by tricking you in some way?”

This is the crucial question. Now is the time I have to bend, to compromise, to save my family and my honour. All I have to do, is mutter ‘yes’, and they will search for him, and fail to find him. Surely I can make that small step?

Yet, try as I might, nothing comes out. It is as if I’ve been struck dumb, I cannot move my lips; my tongue is parched and cleaves to the back of my throat. I am sweating and blushing furiously. Helplessly I answer:

“No, sir.”

The silence is painful. Vaguely I hear my mother gasp, then she makes choking sounds into the folds of Clopas’ cloak. I look fearfully towards Uncle Eli, and see that he can scarcely contain his fury at my answer. I suppose he has made some deal with the others that will salve their consciences and mitigate the disgrace to his own family, and my answers are not going according to plan. Even in my desperate situation I can’t help feeling a glimmer of satisfaction at his discomfiture, as though what I was saying had nothing to do with my fate. Then, even as I say the words, my mother’s cry of despair comes back to my ears – ‘don’t you understand, you’re fighting for your life’!

“Where did you meet this stranger?”

“By the well.”

“Did you have an arrangement with him?”

“No, sir. My mother sent me to fetch water. The man came while I was drawing and asked me for a drink.”

“Did he assault you at the well?”

“No, sir, he quoted scripture to me and told me that I had been chosen for a special task.”

“And you believed him?”

“I wasn’t sure at first, sir. But he had seen me in Nazareth before and told me that I had been chosen by God for something special.”

“What were these passages of scripture that he spoke to you about?”

I explain as best I can. The quotations are etched into my memory. When I say them aloud, the elders react in a most shocked manner and start arguing amongst themselves. When they have finished their private disputation, Jethro turns back to me, glares at me in a manner that I have never seen him adopt before and thunders:

“Mariam , daughter of Joachim, are you telling me in all seriousness that you claim to be carrying the long promised Messiah ?”

“That is what the stranger told me, sir, and I believed him.”

There is total uproar. Uncle Eli stands up and tears his robe in anger and distress. Jethro stands over me as though he is going to hit me, then he turns abruptly and goes into a huddle with the others.

They hurl questions at me without restraint now, so fast and furious that I can scarce answer before the next question. I cannot think carefully any longer; I just abandon all attempts at weighing my words, I tell of our previous contacts, everything. When they have drained me of all the import of our conversations, they press me further for the intimate details of what happened in the Tabor stream. They will spare me nothing, I must tell them in explicit humiliating words how I felt the urge to strip and obeyed this without compulsion, how I closed my eyes, my feelings, everything.

I try to protect the mystery, plead that I didn’t know the means by which I had conceived my son. I am dismissed in scorn, they tie me up in argument until I find I am admitting knowledge of a physical union because they give me no other option.

“And you still say that the outcome of this lewd coupling is to be our Messiah, the pure and royal king that must come from David’s lineage and will lead this country to freedom?”

It is horrible. They are twisting my words, making them seem like filth when what happened was beautiful and full of meaning. I am crying, I can’t answer their hateful questions, I can only fling myself on God’s mercy:

“Please God, help me! Do not abandon me! Have pity on me and on your
son!”

There is a sudden shocked silence. They all seem to shrink from me. Jethro eventually summons strength and says with menace:

“What did you say then, girl?”

When I have recovered sufficiently to realise what I have said, I am shocked. The words just seemed to escape, naturally, without any conscious thought on my part. I cannot explain my cry for help. I cannot add anything. I do not answer.

“We have heard enough. Anna, take this girl into the robing room and keep her secure there while we pass judgement on her.”

I am led into the tiny room off the synagogue court and the door is shut and barred behind us. What is my mother going to say to me now? I am more afraid of her angry words than the sentence that the elders will pass upon me. I know she is crying. I can feel her body shaking against mine. I feel strangely calm, unreal; I ought to be petrified, but it all seems to be happening to someone else, not me. My mother starts to say something, but breaks down in further floods of tears. In the end I can bear this no longer. I hear myself saying:

“Mother, please. Do not cry for me. You are making me more upset.”

“Mari, how can you be so calm? You condemned yourself from your own lips. Oh Mari, why, why? I thought we could save you. Don’t you value your own life?”

“God will protect me.”

“Child, I wish I had your faith. I pray that you will not be disillusioned, but I fear the worst.”

“If the child within me is special, God will not let me die.”

“Mari, if, when we return, they condemn you to death, as I fear they will, do not remain proud and arrogant to the end. Plead with them, beg for mercy, admit that you may have been mistaken. They will surely not kill you for being too naïve and credulous. And it is still private, they will not have to explain themselves to the men of the village.”

“Mother, I do not know what I will do or say. I am trusting myself to God’s will. He will decide.”

“Mari, whatever happens, let me say this to you. I do not know if I believe your stranger’s message, I think he tricked you. But I admire and respect your belief and your steadfastness to what you think is right. However, child, my mother’s instinct wants you back in my arms, mistaken, cheated, abused maybe, but still my darling girl. Oh Mari, I love you, I cannot bear to see you like this.”

We fall once more into each other’s arms and cling tightly for mutual support. It seems an eternity.

At last we hear the latches being unfastened, we are being fetched. Suddenly all my strength seems to disappear, doubts flood my mind. I am going to die. I cannot comprehend what I am thinking. I am made to stand in front of the elders. Their faces give nothing away.

“Mariam, daughter of Joachim, listen to our judgement.”

Rabbi Jethro touches his forehead and then pauses while I fidget in my nervousness.

“From your own admission you have had intercourse with a man who is not your betrothed. At best you are guilty of fornication, but according to the consecration vows you made to your betrothed, you are technically guilty of adultery. On top of this, before us this morning, you have heaped further ignominy on your head, making fantastic and blasphemous claims to excuse your sin. By all the statutes of our law you must be condemned, and death by stoning is your just desert.”

I hear the fateful words and begin to black out, Jethro is fading from my sight, my legs are crumbling. I vaguely hear voices, hurried, urgent, in the background, and find suddenly that I am being lifted. Clopas has clamped me round the waist. I am told to take deep breaths. Then to listen, Jethro still has more to say.

“Mariam, I have told you what the law demands. But it is within our power to temper justice with mercy. It would be a day of great sorrow and shame to us to have to condemn you to the same death as the whore Rachel, the daughter of the martyr Joachim and ward of respected colleague. We are therefore minded on a compromise. Your execution shall be stayed for a while. A search will be made for the stranger and he will be questioned to corroborate your testimony. If he admits to misleading you as you describe, providing you concede your error, your sentence will be set aside. Your child, too, must be aborted and arrangements for your future renegotiated between your guardian and your betrothed, who may be expected to wish to divorce you. Rabbi Eli will discuss with your mother what arrangements he has in mind to save the reputation of your family. Therefore instead of a public stoning as the law decrees, we are minded to have you whipped here in private before these witnesses alone. In that way no-one need know your disgrace and we shall not be accused of applying the law in a discriminatory way, because of Eli’s relationship with you. Do you understand what I am saying?”

I am not to die. God has protected me, that is all I can think, the rest has not sunk in. I nod in silence.

“Your punishment even so is not a light one. You are of age, your sentence is the full adult chastisement of thirteen lashes of the three tailed whip, thirty nine stripes upon the bare flesh of your back and thighs. The shock of the pain itself is likely to cause your body to reject the foetus within you. If this is the case, it will save you further suffering, although you will be much weakened through loss of blood from your womb as well as from your stripes.”

Jethro turns from me and has a whispered conversation with the other elders, then he adds:
“There is insufficient time to inflict your punishment before the midday gathering here in the synagogue. You will therefore await your penalty until the hour of worship is over and all people are dispersed. Your mother may remain with you if you wish and help you prepare yourself.”

Jethro and Joel lead me across the Women’s Court to a locked door in the far corner. Although of course I have taken my place here each Sabbath since my majority alongside Miriam and my mother, I have never really taken any notice of it before. Joel inserts a heavy key and releases the lock, so that the door creaks open to reveal a bare room, lit only by a narrow slit open to the air high above the eyeline and out of reach. The walls are whitewashed, the floor is stone. There is no furniture of any description.

We wait at the entrance until my mother has caught up with us. Then Joel slips into the room, and re-emerges from behind the door holding something in his hand. He shows a piece of cloth and a rope to my mother, then throws them across the floor, saying:

“Get her ready immediately. Undress her and tie the triangle of cloth round her waist so that her genitals are covered, seeing that she does not offend the law. Then bind her wrists together with the rope in front of her body, leaving a length of cord on either side so that she can be secured during the whipping. We will come for you when we are ready.”

Mother steps into the room and I am shoved after her by a push against my shoulder so that I am caught off balance and stumble against her. The door is slammed behind us and we hear the key turn gratingly in the lock. Neither of us says a word; we even avoid looking at one another. To break the tension, I whisper:

“How soon will it be?”

“Perhaps an hour, Mari. I have lost track of time. We shall hear the chanting when the hour of worship begins, then perhaps half an hour until the synagogue is empty again.”

I stare vacantly round the bare cell. Then in the shadows behind the wooden door, I see the whip hanging from the nail and next to it, cane rods of different lengths and thicknesses. I cannot take my eyes off the whip. There is a smooth wooden handle with a metal ring at its base which is balanced on the nail. Trailing from this grip are three leather thongs of different lengths, the longest nearly reaching to the floor. I look in trepidation to my mother.

“Is this what they will use?”

Mother does not need to answer. Her eyes say it all, brimming with tears. She nods and bites her lip. I put out a hand tentatively and touch the leather. I begin to gasp for breath, it is so clammy and oppressive in here despite the winter season which is drawing to its close.

“Leave me for a moment. I want to pray.”

I shut my eyes and try to concentrate, but the words won’t come. All I can see is that whip, my imagination is tearing me apart, I cannot think of God. I do not want mother to see my difficulty, so I pretend, standing rigidly, sweating in the effort to make the words flow. Nothing; I am blocked with fear.

I am still straining when I hear the key squealing in the lock. Surely they have not come for me already, it can’t be ten minutes since we were left. It is Joel again, standing silhouetted by the bright light of the Court.

“I’ve come for your clothes.”

My mother explains that we have not yet prepared ourselves, we thought we had more time.

“Give me your clothes now.”

“Are you taking Mariam already? I did not think the midday service had even started.”

“It will be sometime yet before she is fetched. But I have come for her clothes. She should be prepared.”

“I will bring them out to you when I have prepared her.”

“Do not argue, woman. I want them now. You!” He turns abruptly to me. “Strip and hand me your clothes.”

I try to shield myself behind my mother as I hand him my shawl and loincloth, then untie my girdle and pull the tunic over my head.

“Now bind her and cover her and be ready next time I come.”

He is gone and we are again locked in. I am shocked that the person I always thought my friend seems so cold and angry. Mother has picked up the skimpy cloth apron from the stone floor and is untangling the twine. She places the cloth in front of my belly and pulls the twine taut until it cuts into my hips and knots it securely. I pull it down so that the tapering material hangs loose in front of my groin.

“I’m sorry, Mari, in view of what has just been said, I think I ought to tie your wrists together now. I do not want to give them any excuse to increase your punishment.”

I offer her both arms stretched forward together and hold them where she can bind them without difficulty. At first she pulls the cords too tightly so that the rope cuts into my wrists, then she tries again, leaving an inch or two of play.

It is done. I am prepared; trussed and offered, as if in sacrifice. For some strange reason, I feel liberated. I have ceased to sweat in fear; I accept what is to come is inevitable, the price I have to bear for the privilege of obeying God’s will.

“Let me be in peace now, mother. Before I found it hard to pray. Now my mind is full.”

She bends forward and kisses me. Thanks.

I am now totally vulnerable, Lord. This I think, in silence. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. I cannot even move my hands, I am bound and in your hands. I have dared everything, I have risked everything. Often I didn’t want to; I have feared this moment, feared this consequence. And now it has happened, I find that I can accept it as your will. Your messenger asked if I could bear the pain; is this what he meant, literally? He said that I would be protected from shame and disgrace. It would be shame and disgrace to have denied your call.

Aloud I pray:

“Lord God, protect your servant now. Put your arms around your unborn child so that no harm comes to him. And help me to bear the agony as I accept your will for me. I am ready now. So be it.”

The time is come. Of course I am afraid, but I am under control. I try not to think of my soft smooth skin; I concentrate on the tiny creature growing deep within me and pray with all my heart that he will be cushioned by my flesh and blood. I am afraid for him. My mother gives me a last squeeze and hug:

“Be brave, my child. I shall pray for your prayers to be answered.”

I am brought into the Court where punishments are carried out when screened from the populace. The cold rough floor and the silent watchfulness of the rabbis bring back a certain reality to my circumstance that I had nearly banished. It is not going to be so easy after all. Rabbi Joel has laid his outer robe to one side and has picked up the whip that was hanging in my cell. So he is to be my chastiser, my tutor and my best friend’s father. Will he let that influence him? Will he hold back from striking with his full strength? I guess not from his attitude so far and his expression which is hard and devoid of contact with me.

My palms are placed flat against one of the pillars and the cords are tied round the column so that I am leaning forward, arms outstretched. My legs are positioned slightly apart so that I am balanced, offering my bare body to their will. My apron hangs loosely from my waist. It will cover the letter of the law, and nothing else. All this, as if in slow motion, sensitive to every movement, touch or implied command. Jethro stands immediately in front of me, so that I can see him if I lift my head.

“Mariam, when I give the word, your punishment will commence with stripes to your back and shoulders. Keep your head high, for the longest lash will wrap around your body cutting into your breasts. If you drop your head, you could be caught by the lash across your face causing severe and possibly permanent injury. Before the rabbi moves on to flog your buttocks you will be given time to recover and be offered a sip of water. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then hold still, and be ready. Let the punishment commence!”

There is a fearful silence. I push with all my might on my palms and try to keep my head high, my eyes tightly closed.

The shrieking wail of the lashes and the burning agony that encircles me are instantaneous. I find I am howling in pain, scarcely aware that the voice is mine, disembodied, echoing in the chamber. All I sense is the ring of excruciating throbbing flesh. My eyes open wide and my head hangs forward searching for the weal.

“Hold your head up!”

I cannot continue in this wretched present tense. To relive this hour of agony cannot be justified. It would be repetition, and fake at that, for how could I think clearly enough to describe each vicious stripe. It is one long confused indescribable pain sensed tenuously by that part of my mind which somehow forced me to hang on, keep my head high.

Need I tell you of this whipping at all, you may ask? Should it not be my secret, does it not seem like boasting in hindsight? On balance, I think, to understand me, you have to know the whole truth. It is easy to gloss over the implications of my decisions, choices. I have known the risk; I know the barbarous practices of my generation. You have to know how vulnerable I was. Perhaps the full trappings of a judicial flogging were unknown to me; but I had seen, for just this cause I suppose, poor Rachel’s brutal death. And it is important that you are aware of this scarring when you struggle with me to weigh the consequences of possible future threats and behaviour. I am no longer an innocent child. I grew up during this awful hour and its immediate aftermath; you must convince yourself of that reality. And to believe, you must experience.

You will have plenty of time to piece together what happened. In days to come, you’ll see my scars, there will be no hiding them.

In retrospect then, looking back from some further point in time, let me just admit to one further incident in the litany of pain. They had finished the first part of my punishment and had waited a while for me to rest and recover a little of my composure. I was particularly fearful of the next stage, perhaps erroneously, for I saw the assault of the lash upon my flanks and belly as a direct threat to the existence of my promised son. When therefore the long leather descended for the first time across my buttocks, before it could encircle me, I gave a superhuman burst of energy which must have loosened the rope around the column, allowing me instantaneously to double up to protect my child. The whip wrapped itself around my forearms and I shrieked in pain. The sudden violent movement snapped the twine around my waist, and as I was dragged upright and re-secured to the pillar, tightly, the covering fell to the floor leaving me totally exposed. My chastiser ignored this flouting of the law and repeated the stroke, to which I now had no defence at all. I learned one further vital lesson; my fate and that of my unborn son were left to God, and God alone. No human agency or endeavour would help us now.

I was carried afterwards to the cell, where my mother attempted to comfort me and ease my limbs into prone positions that would be bearable. During the flogging I had twice fainted from the pain, and I continued to drift in and out of consciousness whilst she applied balm, as tenderly as she could, to my weals and broken flesh. Not until nightfall could I be taken home. In order to maintain secrecy, I was carried by Eli or Clopas, I know not which, under the cloak of darkness back to my house and laid face down upon my mattress. All night she sat up with me, stroking my hair, sobbing quietly, holding my hand while I struggled to control the pain.