Scroll One
The Brothel in Sepphoris
“Miriam...”
My mother’s voice drifted through the darkness.
“Wake up, my darling ….” she said, softly shaking me.
I kept my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep.
“Miriam”, she said again, in a slightly louder voice, patting my cheek.
I stayed very still.
“Miriam” she shook me lightly, again waiting for a response.
“MIRIAM!” She slapped my leg, her silver bracelets jangling. My mother had only so much patience and then the blows fell. Even with my eyes closed, I could tell a man was in the room by the sweaty smell of him. My mother wanted me out of her warm bed, so she could let him in. I began to protest but she pulled me into a sitting position by one arm and ordered, “Get up. Wrap this around yourself and go.” She draped her woolen cloak over my shoulders.
“But I’m sleepy!”
“Then go back to sleep in the Girl’s Room.”
“But it’s cold…” I whined, going limp. I only wanted to stay with her, to bury my face in her fragrant, dark hair and listen to her breathing until I drifted back off to sleep.
The man standing there fondled his crotch and said in a husky voice, “She can stay too. I’ll pay extra.”
“Go on” my mother hissed. She pushed me out onto the balcony that ran along the second floor of the inn. The fabric of her gown rustled like dried leaves. Turning, she put her hand on the man’s chest.
“She’s far too young for you, Gaius. You’d split her like a cedar rail.”
And Gaius, the great oaf, made that pleased, grunting sound that men make when complemented on the size of their member ... never mind that it’s seldom true.
I was just able to snatch my sandals from the floor as she pushed me out of her room. The scent of her rose perfume lingered in the air and I could hear her murmuring softly to the Great Gaius, distracting his attentions from me.
The tile floor was freezing. It was a bitterly cold night. I scuffled my feet into my sandals, not bothering to tie them properly and pulled the robe around my shoulders. Shivering, I made my way downstairs to the windowless room at the back of the brothel where we girls slept, my sandal lacings flopping back and forth like an angry cat’s tail.
As I walked down the dark hallway, oil lamps cast pools of yellow light. A woolen curtain hung across the door to the Girl’s Room. I pushed it aside and let it fall back in place, scowling at the odor. The room smelled like a jar of fattening dormice. Three beds were pushed together to form a lumpy landscape that took up almost all the space in the little room. Dirty feet and tousled heads stuck out here and there from under the blankets.
“Rachael?”, I called to my little sister. She was somewhere in the pile, but was fast asleep. I lifted up a corner of the coverlet, trying to push my way under it, shoving with one knee, hoping whoever was there would move over. But Maia, one of the older girls, gave me a shove back, growling possessively, and tucked the blanket tightly beneath her.
I tried another side of the bed, again lifting the covers, hoping to burrow into the tangle of bodies.
“Rachael, wake up” I called out, in a whining voice, “Let me in”.
But this time it was Hana who sat up and snapped at me.
“There’s no room for you!”
“Hey! It’s cold! Let go of the blanket”, demanded a girl named Sanyel, snatching the cover from my hand. She gave me a shove. I was ready to pinch, scratch and fight the next person who refused to let me under the covers. I rushed at the bed like an angry little animal. In the dim light, I could tell it was Jopata who now sat up pulling all the blankets with her. The other girls wailed in complaint as the cold air hit their warm bodies.
She was the oldest among us and these were the last few nights she would sleep in the girl’s room. Her virginity had been sold to a Captain of the Guard for a pile of silver coins a few days earlier. She was still sore from the experience, and the old Greek woman who ran the brothel had allowed her a few days rest before she joined the other women and began her working life.
“Go away, you little brat!” she snapped.
“But I’m sleepy – it’s cold”, I said reasonably.
“Too bad”.
“No. Too bad for you”, I growled. “Let me in”.
“There’s no room!” she said sharply.
“MOVE OVER!” I insisted pushing at her.
She reached out and slapped me so hard across the face I stumbled.
I burst into tears.
“It’s not fair” I insisted, stomping my feet. “I’m COLD!” I shouted, hoping louder would work.
“Get the hell out of here” she snapped and flounced back down into the bed, “and if you come back I’ll tear your nipples off.”
“You …you ...you … Gall-Worm!” I screamed. It was all I could think of for the moment to call her, though I’m not sure even now what it meant. The epitaph fell uselessly in the cold air.
I flung the woolen curtain aside as hard as I could, hoping it would tear loose as I stomped out. But it didn’t. It fell back across the doorway and I stood in the hall listening to the sleepy sounds as the girls settled back to sleep.
“Rachael? Wake up!” I whined, but my warm, sleeping sibling didn’t answer.
Dragging the robe over my shoulders and feeling quite sorry for myself, I shuffled back to my mother’s room hoping the ‘massive’ Gaius would have finished his business and left. But her door was still closed. I pulled at the handle but it wouldn’t open. I leaned my forehead against the wooden panel, and began kicking, thumping the door with the ball of my foot, whining like a bawling calf, “Ma, Maaaa, let me in”.
I put my ear against the door and could hear Gaius grunting along with her cries urging him on. I’m sure she heard me. With my forehead pressed against the wooden door, I weighed my options. I could continue what I was doing, calling and kicking at the door, and maybe she’d feel sorry for me and let me crawl back into her warm bed. Or I could continue what I was doing and she might actually get up, open the door and knock me silly. Weighing the two, my foot slowed and I moved away from the door. Like I said, when her patience left, the blows came.
Along the balcony where I stood was a carved railing featuring a design of grape vines, birds and flying cherubs. It was painted in bright colors, and each cherub had a different expression. Sniffling, I slumped down on the floor across from her door, poking at a fat Eros with my finger. Above me, the open atrium revealed stars breaking through the clouds in the frosty sky.
In the atrium the once beautiful garden looked quite bedraggled. The roses and other flowers were ruined, bent over like old men under their burdens of snow. The snow on the roof had briefly thawed during the day and washed the dirt out of the flower beds onto the tiled pathways making a muddy mess. In the center of the garden, where the mosaic paths joined, was a fountain with a statue of a grinning satyr, endlessly urinating. Now an icicle had formed on the end of his giant phallus and under the circumstances, his leering grin looked quite ridiculous.
On the far side of the garden was the large triclinium, the inn’s main dinning room. This room was large enough to accommodate couches for up to two dozen diners at a time, tables for food and drink and still have enough room for entertainers and musicians. At this late hour only a few diners remained, drunkenly carousing, trying to stay warm. The charcoal braziers had been lit for warmth, but as usual they were very smoky and only roasted one’s head while leaving the feet to freeze. Through the half-open doors a woman’s shrill laughter carried into the night followed by the sound of crockery shattering. A chorus of male voices followed, drunkenly guffawing, drowning out the sounds of the musician’s harp, pipes and drum.
My nose was running in the cold and I wiped the snot on my bare arm - something my mother would have slapped me for doing. Standing up, I gave the door one small final defiant kick, pulled the robe over my head, and dolefully walked downstairs to try and find someplace to sleep.
I slunk along the edge of the garden, peering into the partly open door of the triclinium. I knew better than to draw attention to myself at this time of night, when the customers were drunk and unpredictable. Bad things could happen. I darted past the dining room door, and down the narrow hallway leading to the rear of the house. There were bedrooms on either side of this hall, if one could call them that, for they had just enough space for a wooden or stone platform and the stuffed mattress upon which the occupant plied their trade. Oil lamps hung by each door illuminating the painted pictures of the various services a customer might request from the cubicle’s occupant.
I stepped over a pile of dirty linens, dishes and spilled food, and deftly avoided a pool of vomit cooling on the cold tile floor. A little mouse ran across the floor in front of me and disappeared through a crack in the wall. It was very late.
At the end of the hallway, connected by an open-air cause-way, was the brothel’s kitchen. The heat from the cooking and baking was in this way kept from the main house. At this hour the fire in the great fireplace had died down to a bed of fading coals. An oil lamp still sputtered on a shelf, but did little to dispel the gloom. The cold wind blew it’s feeble, flickering flame, making wavering shadows from the strings of dried fruits and herbs that looped across the ceiling rafters. These shadows danced like ghosts and I gave an involuntary shudder, crossing the fingers of both my hands to ward off any lurking evil. I stood next to the dying fire for a moment, taking in the remaining warmth that emanated from the tiles.
On the large wooden table in the center of the room lay the fat cook, drunk as usual and snoring heavily. A spilled cup of wine dripped slowly onto the floor. Wrapped in the tattered red blanket with his bald head protruding, he reminded me of nothing so much as a giant white fig wrapped in a slice of ham. This made me giggle out loud. The cook stirred, letting out an explosive fart. A black shape leapt down from a shelf and raced towards me. I gasped a frightened squeak, drawing back. The shape froze, glaring at me with yellow eyes and arched back, then hissed at me and ran off.
“Stupid cat”, I exhaled, whispering to myself, my breath making little clouds in the cold air.
I took up the sputtering oil lamp from the shelf, and quietly pushed open the storeroom door, hoping to curl up on sacks of olives and onions and such – at least they’d be softer than the stone floor. But the idiot twin kitchen boys, Natto and Ratto, were already sleeping there, arms wrapped around the other’s skinny torso for warmth. I didn’t wish to disturb these two, for they had little to say to anyone of my sex beyond lewdly mumbled comments through their rotten, mossy teeth. We younger girls were careful to not to be caught alone by them, for they would try and push us down, stiff pricks poking and prodding. And of course, like little sneaks everywhere, when confronted by the Madame or one of the whores, or the Cook for ruining the beans, they’d pee down their legs like a whipped bitch.
I was pretty sure they buggered each other, too.
I quietly closed the door, sleepy and frustrated. I was about to go back up to my mother’s room and demand she let me in, no matter how angry she might get, when I heard footsteps approaching. As I mentioned I knew better than to attract attention late at night, but there was no where to hide in the kitchen, so I slipped out the back door into the dark garden.
Built against the wall of the house was a covered lean-to. During good weather we ate and entertained there and enjoyed the little garden. It had a thatched roof and wide padded ledges upon which to recline. These were covered with cushions and rugs. They should have been taken in during the inclement weather, but the lazy servants had overlooked them. They were dry and out of the wind and I scrambled into the far corner pulling them around me to make a little nest and hide.
The dark figure of a man not wishing to be seen, silently left by the back gate into the alley - hinges creaking and the gate’s little bell tinkling in the night.
A sudden wind blew the branches of the olive tree, causing a rattle of old olives to fall to the ground. In the dark, the shapes of the statuary and bushes that were familiar by day now seemed threatening and sinister. Shivering , I burrowed under the pillows for warmth and pulled the woolen robe over my head.
Curled up in a warm little ball, I was almost asleep, when someone pulled at my robe.
I thought it was my mother. I was so tired. Why was she waking me again? I just wanted to sleep. I made a fierce noise to be left alone.
But she made a noise back, and the pulling continued.
“I’m sleepy!” I shouted at her, throwing open the robe and kicking out with my foot. My sandal flew off and landed a short ways away on the ground.
Only it wasn’t my Ma at all. It was the black puppy we’d found in the market place the week past. We children all loved pets, as children do, and the house had an ever-changing menagerie. Old Parthenia, the Madame of the house, tolerated them until they bit, chewed, squawked, shrieked, threw dung, howled, snapped, or generally became to much of a nuisance to tolerate. Then they disappeared – or sometimes re-appeared on the dinner-table the following night.
I reasoned this puppy was on borrowed time, since he’d already chewed a hole in a cloak belonging to Lucia’s mother. She’d chased the yelping puppy through the house screaming that she would beat it to death, despite our pleas for mercy. The only reason it was still alive was that we’d hidden it. He was wide awake and ready to play.
The puppy loped over, grabbed my sandal and began shaking it back and forth.
“Hey! Give that back to me!” I demanded, sitting up. These sandals were new, and my mother had paid the leatherworker extra to have them stamped with a pretty design. If he chewed it, I would get a beating, and the puppy would be a goner. But he wagged his tail and darted a little ways away.
I called him in my sweetest voice, “Come… come here, puppy”, while slapping my leg. He wagged his tail happily, dropped the sandal and barked at me.
But didn’t come any closer.
I got up and lunged at him but he was too fast. Seeing what a good game this was, he grabbed the sandal, ran a little ways and stopped. He looked back at me, shaking the sandal again, as if to say, ‘Catch me if you can’.
“Com’on, puppy, please?”, I called earnestly, but my sincerity was wasted on him. I could see that the rear garden gate hadn’t closed completely and he was trotting towards it, sandal slapping on either side of his head. I panicked and made another grab at him. Enjoying the game, he darted out into the street. An almost full moon hung in the starry sky, and there was more than enough light to follow. I chased after him, calling and cajoling, hobbling and hopping, my bare foot tender on the white gravel of the road.
My warm, wool robe slipped off into the street, but I couldn’t stop to pick it up. The puppy was running towards the lower market, stopping every now and then to shake the shoe back and forth. Suddenly, out of the shadows, a second, larger dog rushed up and sank it’s teeth into the sandal, tugging and growling at the black puppy. They began a tug-of-war.
It was the distraction I needed. I ran up, took hold of my slipper, and kicked that big dog right in the ribs. It was pretty brave of me, since many of the town dogs that were let loose at night were half wild, and it was not uncommon for them to bite people. The bigger dog yelped, and let go. I bent down to pick up a stone to throw at them. They understood that, all right, and ran off into the night, tails between their legs.
“Bad dogs”, I shouted after them, huffing and puffing in the cold air. My sandal was none the worse for wear, so I wiped off the slobber and slipped it on, not bothering to lace it properly as my mother always insisted I do, lest I trip and fall.
The night sky was crystalline in the cold. The clouds had disappeared and the sky was so full of stars I caught my breath to see the splendor of them. The wind had picked up too, and with it came sounds. I could hear men shouting, but I didn’t think much of that at first. There were always late night carousers, the braying of a lonesome donkey at
Until the silent starry night was broken by a man’s bloodcurdling scream. This was not the shout of a merchant bellowing at a stubborn camel, it was a scream that made the hair rise on my arms.
Tracing my steps to find my robe, I ran down the wide cardo, the main north-
As I sat there, I realized these streets that would normally have been deserted at the late hour, were now filling with people. A cart rumbled by, drawn by two snorting oxen, the driver shouting curses, snapping his whip for them to hurry. A man on horse back cantered past, causing pedestrians to jump out of the way. I got up and turned into a side street.
Now wet from the fall and the damp curb, I tried to remember exactly where I’d dropped my robe. The sky seemed oddly alight with a glow, even though it was hours before dawn. The streets were filling with people. Many carried bundles and now I began to hear people crying for help, and shouts of “Fire!”. The wind shifted. Something was burning. It was not the light scent of smoke from our hearths, but a heavy choking smell. I broke into a run, my heart pounding.
As I ran, the laces on my sandals that I hadn’t bothered to tie properly, worked loose, and I stepped on one, breaking it in two. I snatched the broken piece from the wet ground, thinking maybe I could tie them together and my mother wouldn’t notice. Oh, she was right, I was such a naughty little girl, never listening to her.
Turning a corner, a rush of people flooding through the narrow street ran past me. I jumped out of the way, flattening myself on the wall to avoid being knocked down.
“Akbar!”, a familiar voice shouted.
I could not see above the crowd of people passing. A familiar figure darted across the street through the crowd to my side. It was my friend, Aryeh. This was not his true name, but as his adolescent beard had grown in so thin and wispy, I had taken to teasing him, calling him “The Lion”. In turn he called me “Akbar”, The Mouse.
“Aryeh, what’s happening?”
“They’re Roman soldiers! They’re burning the city.”
“What?” I didn’t understand what he meant. It was incomprehensible to me. I thought of my mother and sister back at the brothel. Had they heard the screaming?
“I have to get home…” I said suddenly, turning to go. He grabbed my arm.
“Don’t go that way, the soldiers are arresting everyone they see!”
A woman ran past us, wild-eyed, her hair streaming around her. Her robes were torn and streaked with blood. I re-coiled and turned to run.
“Akbar, wait ...”
“My Mother, …Rachel… I’ve got to get back…” I shook off his hand and ran in the direction of the brothel.
Screams pierced the smoky night people were shouting to each other in Aramaic and Greek. I ran through the streets. A palanquin carried by four slaves jogged past, the lead servant nearly burning me with the torch he thrust in front of him to move people out of his way. I darted around a corner and ran into another crowd of frightened people elbowing and pushing their way up the street, made even more narrow by the stalls and awnings. A great fat woman, dragging two frightened children behind her collided with me and her massive belly sent me spinning to the street. I fell and instinctively curled up into a ball, arms shielding my head. A foot kicked me in the ribs and someone stumbled over me, then another stepped on my arm. “Watch out!” I screamed in fear and pain - I was going to be trampled to death!
A hand yanked me up by the arm. I grabbed on tight to whoever it was, and we were swept along with the crowd.
Aryeh ducked into a side street, and we crouched behind a tall, water jar that stood beside a doorway.
“Akbar, are you hurt?” Aryeh asked me, gently dusting me off. “Good thing I followed you, Mousie.” He brushed the hair from my face, wiping at my tears with his rough thumb. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, I,… I,…I, think so”, I stammered, sniffing and rubbing my arm. He pushed up my sleeve and gently felt along my arm.
“You were almost squashed.”
He was so tender and kind. I wanted to be with him forever. How I could have had such a thought in the midst of that chaos I do not know, but back then my mind hopped around just like a bird in the desert.
Sounds of people screaming brought me back to the moment.
“Com’on, we’ve got to get out of here” he said pulling me up.
Ominous shadows fell across the length of the alleyway. Peeking around the moss-covered jar, we saw two legionnaires silhouetted by the light from a burning building opposite the alleyway. They carried short swords and shields. The light reflected off the metal surfaces of their armor and their drawn weapons glittered menacingly. Aryeh drew me close to him, pressing hard against the wall. The soldiers began walking in our direction. We caught our breath, preparing to bolt and run for it, when we heard more shouts. A group of soldiers ran up and the two legionnaires joined them and ran off in the other direction. Aryeh exhaled deeply, breathing into my uncovered hair.
Despite my fear, a part of me was acutely aware that Aryeh’s arms were encircling me tightly. His cheek was pressed against my head and we crouched there, holding each other, trying to quiet our fear. I wondered if he could hear my heart pounding. He exhaled quick, warm puffs of air in my hair, and I could feel the heat radiating from his wiry body. He gave off a pleasant, manly smell of sweat and wood smoke.
In my country, Jewish men did not, as a rule, touch women who were not related to them. A woman might be unclean and her touch could contaminate a man’s purity. And of course, for a woman to allow a man to touch her meant shame and dishonor for her family - something that could only be cured with blood.
But Aryeh and I were also aware that we were outside of these conventions. Young as I was, I understand that we were not like the good people of Sepphoris. Areyh was a mamzar, a bastard. And I, the daughter of a brothel whore. We were the lowest of the low. It was completely plausible that unless it was my destiny to become a whore like my mother, Aryeh and I would marry. These disconnected thoughts raced through my mind, even as the violence raged around us. We could hear the cries of men fighting, women wailing and children screaming with fear. Smoke billowed into the night sky as a burning shed across from the alley collapsed, sending a rash of sparks flying into the night sky.
Aryeh took me by the hand and pulled me up. He placed his hand against my lips to indicate that I should be silent. For once I did as I was told and followed him.
We darted into the next street, and ran through a paved courtyard littered with bundles of rags. But they were not rags, they were dead men and women. There was no time to think of this horror, we had to find a place to hide.
At the edge of the town, in an open space of stick sheds and houses of the poor was a donkey pasture fenced by a low stone wall. Down the road we could see a crowd of Legionnaires armed with spears and shields pushing some people into circle, using their tall shields as a fence to prevent escape. We had to get away before they saw us. We made a dash for cover and scrambled over the wall, landing amidst piles of sodden donkey dung. Crouching behind the wall, quaking like rabbits we watched the glow from the burning houses and the sparks flying up to God.
“Aryeh, I want my mother …” I squeaked.
“Shhhh” he hushed me, “Stay quiet, Mousie. Let me think for a minute”.
I held his hand in a tight grip.
“What’s happening? Why is this happening?” I whispered, babbling in my fear. “Aryeh, I’m so afraid ....”
“Shhh. Keep your head down and hold onto my cloak” he whispered. “I’ll protect you, Mousie, I promise. There’s a path down into the valley the herders use. From there we can go to
We crept along to the rear of the corral and crawled over a low spot where the rocks had tumbled down. Ducking under the snow covered bushes, we crept downhill and away from the burning City.
The path led us to a farmer’s shed, erected against a rock wall and covered with palm fronds, now covered in drifts of white snow. We ducked inside breathing heavily, and listened for the footsteps of anyone following us. There was nothing but the distant sounds of chaos coming from the city. I held his cloak in a death grip and with the other wiped at my running nose. I was still clutching the broken sandal lace.
Above us, high in the rafters of the shed, a shepherd had hung sheep-skins to dry away from the wolves and jackals. Aryeh shinnied up one of the pole supports and threw two skins down to me. They were stiff for they were not yet cured, and didn’t smell that great, but such was the bad weather that they’d offer some comfort and protection. It was bad to steal them, for most people had very little and the theft would be sorely felt - assuming their owner survived. I let out a great sneeze from the cold and dust and sheep smell of them.
Aryeh took off his cloak. “Here, you take this, you’re blue with cold.” He wrapped it around me, then took one of the sheep skins and draped it around his own shoulders. Realizing he would have to use both hands to keep it in place, I thrust out my hand, “Here! Use this” and handed him my broken sandal lace. He tied two of the legs with the lacing. We rolled the other skin into a bundle and set off down the hill, following the course of a rocky canyon. We had not gone far, when Aryeh whispered “Look, on the hill. The synagogue is on fire!”
Somehow we found our way down the steep path in the dark. As dawn paled the sky we reached the
I awoke to find Aryeh gone from my side. Panicked I jumped up and ran outside the shelter. Aryeh was some ways off, talking with a man who I took to be a peasant from his rough dress. The man gestured with his arm in the direction of Sepphoris. I could not make out what he was saying but his words were angry. I instinctively drew back under the shelter, covering my head with the cloak. In a little while the man went off down the road and Aryeh returned. He sat down heavily beside me.
“He says they’ve burned the city and are killing any men left alive.”
“Who?” I asked, mouth hanging open.
“Varus. He marched down from the north to take back the palace.”
A shiver passed through me and I felt I was going to be ill. I leaned into Aryeh’s arms and he held me closely, stroking my hair. We were just two children, lost and alone.
“He says the Romans are capturing anyone else left alive.”
With the cold weather,
But now I understood the price of this bold act. When Commander Publius Quintilius Varus, appointed legate of
We had been foolish to believe we could free ourselves and rid the land of the polluting foreigners. We were little people living our small lives. In the great scheme of
“There are soldiers everywhere, but if we can get to
I had no time to reflect on this. Shadows fell across the entrance to the hut.
“στάση"!” a voice shouted in Greek, “Halt!”.
“Aryeh!” my voice strangled with fear.
He stood up and pushed me behind him, squashing me against the rough poles of the shed. I could not see around him. I heard men rushing up and the sound of a fist smacking flesh. He cried out in pain, and then slumped to the ground. I screamed his name and tried to reach him, but the strong hands of a large man grabbed me.
“Aryeh, Aryeh, help me!” I cried, as a rough woolen cloth was pulled over my head. My arms were pinned to my body, and a cloth wound around me like a shroud. I struggled to get free but someone lifted me up and slung me over his shoulder like a sack. I kicked with all my might. My sandals, that I hadn’t bothered to properly tie on, flew off. I couldn’t breathe! I was suffocating. I kicked and squirmed, but couldn’t get free from my bonds. I was going to die from lack of breath! The last thing I remember was my consciousness circling inward to blackness.
