I gazed at him impassively and thought of the night she locked me in my room, shouting, “Your shame falls on me. You will remain confined here until you offer your consent to the betrothal.”
Why was I remembering these terrible things now?
“Do you know the last thing she said to me?” I asked. “She told me I would live out my days as a peasant in a wretched backwater village, that it was what I deserved. She said this a month before I left Sepphoris and wed Jesus, and she never uttered another thing to me. On the day I climbed into the cart and Lavi led the horse away, she didn’t leave her room to see me off.”
“She could be cruel to you,” Judas said. “But she was our mother. Who will mourn her if not us?”
“Let Shipra mourn her,” I said.
Judas gave me a reproachful look. “Your grief will come. Let it be sooner, than later.”
I didn’t think he was right about this, but I said, “I’ll try, brother.” Then, unable to help myself, I asked, “Why did you never come back to see me? You left me with Mother and Father and never returned. I married and you were not there. You were married and you didn’t think to tell me. I didn’t know if you were dead or alive. All these years, Judas.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry, little sister. I couldn’t return to Sepphoris for fear of being caught, and it would’ve been dangerous for you to have me about. After you married, I didn’t know your whereabouts—I only began obtaining information from Lavi not long ago. But you’re right—I could’ve tried sooner to find you. I’ve been too wrapped up in my war on the Romans.” He gave me a repentant smile. “But I’m here now.”
“Come home and stay the night with us. Jesus is there. You must meet him. He, too, is a radical. Not in the same way as you, but in his own way. You will find him worth meeting. You’ll see.”
“I’ll gladly come and meet him, but I can’t stay the night. My men and I must leave Nazareth well before dawn.”
We walked side by side, the jar on my shoulder and the men trailing at a distance. I’d not returned to Sepphoris once in all these years, not even to attend the market, and I was eager for news. I said, “Jesus says Father is once again Antipas’s chief scribe and counselor. It’s hard to imagine him in Tiberias now. Harder still to imagine Mother buried there.”
“You don’t know, do you? When Antipas moved his government to Tiberias, your father went with him, but our mother refused. These past five years, she has lived in Sepphoris with no one but Shipra.”
The revelation startled me, but only for a moment. It would’ve elated Mother to finally be rid of Father. I doubted he minded leaving her behind either.
“What of Lavi?” I asked.
“Your father took him to Tiberias to be his personal servant. It has worked out well for me.”
“My father. Twice you’ve called him that. Do you no longer claim him?”
“Do you forget? He disowned me—it was written in a contract and signed by a rabbi.”
I had forgotten. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Father could be as cruel to you as Mother was to me.”
“I’m glad to have no association to him. My only regret is that I won’t inherit the house in Sepphoris. With Mother gone, it lies empty now. When your father dies, it will go to his brother, Haran. They’ve exchanged letters about it. Lavi slipped them to me. Haran wrote that when the time came, he would send an emissary from Alexandria to sell the house and its contents.” It would happen as Mother had predicted: the house would belong to Haran, Yaltha’s old adversary.
I said, “If Father is writing to his brother about such things as this . . . is he unwell?”
“According to Lavi, he suffers with a cough and sometimes sleeps sitting up