will sadden me to see you go. If your place is in Galilee, Ana, so be it. I only wish you to know that this place will be here if you desire to return.”
She left. I looked down at the codex, this thing of wonder.
xxv.
Then came a day balmy with spring. I had just finished turning the last of my scrolls into books, a task I’d worked on for weeks with an exigency I couldn’t explain. Now, alone in the house, I surveyed the stack of codices with relief, then amazement. Perhaps my words would endure now.
Yaltha had left the house to visit the library, and Diodora was off caring for Theano, who lay at death’s threshold. Skepsis had already ordered his coffin to be constructed—a simple box of acacia wood. Earlier, while watering the animals, I’d heard the insistent hammering in the woodworking shop.
Eager to show Diodora and Yaltha my collection of codices, I hurried to complete one last task before they returned. I filled the palette with ink and inscribed a title onto the empty page in each book, blowing the ink gently to dry it.
The Matriarchs
The Tales of Terror
Phasaelis and Herod Antipas
My Life in Nazareth
Lamentations for Susanna
Jesus, Beloved
Yaltha of Alexandria
Chaya: Lost Daughter
The Ways of the Therapeutae
Thunder: Perfect Mind
Remembering Enheduanna, who signed her name to her writing, I reopened the books and signed mine: Ana. Not Ana, daughter of Matthias, or Ana, wife of Jesus. Just Ana.
There was only one codex I didn’t sign. When I lifted my pen to Thunder: Perfect Mind, my hand would not move. The words in the book had come from me, but also from beyond me. I closed the leather cover.
Awe took hold of me as I arranged the books inside the wall niche, then placed my incantation bowl on top. As I stepped back and took them in, Yaltha entered the room.
Pamphile was at her side.
xxvi.
My eyes flashed to the goatskin pouch in Pamphile’s hand. She held it out to me without a word, her face tense.
I took the pouch and fumbled with the knot on the leather tie, my fingers fat as cucumbers. Prying open the drawstring, I peered inside at a scrolled parchment. I wanted to snatch it out and read it that moment, but I loosely retied the pouch. Yaltha looked at me, understanding, it seemed, that I wished to be alone when I read it, away even from her.
“A courier arrived with it three days ago,” Pamphile said. “I hired a wagon with a donkey as soon as I could. Apion thinks I’m visiting my family in Dionysias. I led him to believe my father had fallen ill.”
“Thank you, Pamphile. You have done well.”
“It’s Lavi you should thank,” she replied, her face hardening. “He’s the one who insisted I remain at Haran’s all these months and wait for your letter. If it’d been left to me, I would’ve departed there long ago. I think my husband is more loyal to you than to me.”
I didn’t know how to respond to this—I thought she might be right. “Is Lavi well?” I asked, hoping to divert her.
“He’s happy with his work at the library. His superiors heap praise on him. I go to him whenever I can—he rents a small apartment now.”
Every moment the letter remained unopened was an agony, but I owed it to her to listen.
“Did you see a colony of soldiers on the road near the gatehouse?” Yaltha asked.
“Yes. I’ve seen these same kind of soldiers in Haran’s house. One comes each week to see him.”
“Do you know what they speak about?” I asked.
She glared at me. “Do you expect me to listen at the door?”
“I wish you to do nothing that puts you in danger.”
“You should be prepared when you pass back by the soldiers,” Yaltha said. “There’s no danger to you, but they inspect