Chapter 19
We spent a drachma from Publius' money on a celebration meal - a fish dinner bought from a stall down by the lakeside, fish fresh from the lake and delicious. I ate every scrap of my portion and even sucked the bones.
"Now," I said, "Let's see how far we can walk before sunset."
I strode through the narrow streets of Capernaum with Antiope trying to keep up and when she lagged behind I took the bag from her and carried it myself, despite her protests. We stopped briefly at the home of the woman in Chorazin to thank her and show her that I had been healed - for I wanted to world to know of the wonderful thing that had happened to me, but of course it was not a story that could be told to any man.
By sunset we were out of sight of the lake and Antiope begged a place for us in the barn of a roadside farm.
"But Madam, I have nothing to give you to eat," she said as the farmer pulled the door shut on us, leaving us in darkness.
"Don't worry," I told her. "I feel as if I could go on walking forever and never need to eat again."
"I wish I'd been healed, Madam," Antiope said and I realised that she could not possibly be feeling the exultant joy I felt.
"I'm sorry," I reached out and patted her, and as I did so an idea occurred to me. "Listen, why don't we ask the God of the Jews to send us some food. If he is powerful enough to heal me when all the other gods failed, I'm sure he must be powerful enough to give us some food."
"Oh Madam!" Antiope laughed weakly. "Don't be silly. The gods don't worry themselves about such little matters. Why, they'd never get any rest if they concerned themselves with giving food to everyone."
"Well, I'm going to try anyway," I declared. "I have a feeling that the Jews' God is different." I hesitated. "Aren't you supposed to face towards Jerusalem or something?"
"I think so, Madam," Antiope said. "I think Jerusalem is that way, over towards the door."
I stood up and faced the door. "God of the Jews," I said, "we are hungry and thirsty. Please give us some food - er - and I will make an offering to you as soon as I can afford it."
I sat down again and waited, but nothing happened. After a long while Antiope sighed and I heard her lie down in the straw. Before I could follow her example, however, footsteps came towards the barn and the door was dragged open.
"My dears!" a woman's voice spoke. "My husband has just told me about you. You can't stay here in the barn. Please, come into the house. Have you eaten yet?"
That food was the best I have ever eaten, even though it was probably also the plainest. As we ate I told the woman and her husband about what had happened to me, though I didn't go into too many details in front of the man. He made no comment, but when the meal was over we women went out to the kitchen and the woman whispered to me that she believed my tale.
"He's too ready to listen to what the priest tells him," she said, nodding towards the dining room where her husband reclined on his couch, picking his teeth. "None of the priests like Rab Yeshua, but I think he's a good man - not just because of your story, but also because of what he did for my sister's son when he was sick."
In the morning the woman gave us several flat loaves of bread and a pile of greens cut fresh from the field to serve as lunch along the way. We bade her farewell and set off to walk as far as we could before the sun became too hot.
"Madam," Antiope said as soon as we were out of sight of the house, "the God of the Jews gave us food - and not just for last night. Look." She held up her head cloth in which she had wrapped the loaves and greens."
I smiled back at her. "From now on, Antiope, I am not going to pray to any other god. None of them bothered to listen to me when I needed them, so now they can do without me."
"Or perhaps they simply didn't have the power to help you, Madam," Antiope put into words the thought that had been in my mind, but piety had restrained me from uttering it.
I frowned at her. "It's not good to mock the gods," I reproved her. "Still, although I shall not blaspheme against the gods, I shall only worship one for the rest of my life."
We ate at midday and then walked less quickly through the heat of the afternoon, and by evening we were within sight of Paneas.
"Shall we go on?" I asked Antiope.
"Whatever you say, Madam," Antiope muttered, but when I looked closely at her I could see that she was almost exhausted, so once again we begged shelter at the nearest farm and ate the last of the bread and greens for our supper.
We left as soon as it was light enough in the morning and breakfasted at an inn.
"Eat up," I told Antiope. "You'll need your strength for the climb up the hill."
We reached home just after noon, when everyone was settling down for the siesta, so the streets were almost deserted as we passed through them. As soon as we were inside the house I insisted that Antiope go and have a good long rest, because she looked utterly tired and she complained that her feet were hurting. I, however, spent the afternoon giving the house a thorough cleaning, getting rid of all those spiders' webs that I had been too exhausted to bother about before and sweeping under the bed and behind the door, something Antiope never does.
In the morning I sent Antiope to the market to fetch a scribe.
"I want to send a message to Centurion Publius Cassius Varo who is travelling on army duty to Zeugma - or he may have arrived there already. He's of the Sixth Legion, but he's come to gain experience of the Parthian wars."
"Very good, lady," the scribe said, spitting on his ink block and mixing it vigorously with the brush. He dipped his pen into the ink and wrote something on a piece of papyrus. "What is the message, lady?"
"To Centurion Publius Cassius Varo of the Sixth Legion, now in the city of Zeugma, greetings." I dictated slowly, choosing my words with care. "I have seen Rabbi Yeshua and am healed. If your mind is not altered, come as soon as you can and receive your heart's desire. Secunda of Paneas."
"Secunda of Paneas," the scribe murmured as he wrote the words. He laid down his pen and blew gently on the papyrus to dry the ink. "Lady, my fee is an obol and the papyrus costs two obols. To have this taken by Imperial Post will cost at least one drachma and possibly two."
"Two and a half drachma, then," I said. "Antiope, give this man two and a half drachma."
