Mary of Nazareth by Marek Halter

and off they went across the torn surface of the lake.
    Barabbas was standing beneath the sail, holding on to the mast. The stem of the boat pointed toward a vast inlet to the east of Tarichea. “For as long as they can still see us,” the fisherman said to Miriam with a smile, “we’ll pretend we’re on our way home.”
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    U NTIL it was completely dark, they had sailed southward, lowering the sail little by little in order not to be taken too far from the fortress. There was a little moonlight, but all they could make out were the nearest boats, nothing more. The lights of the palaces of Tarichea and the torches on the parapets of the fortress shone on the shore.
    They sailed in silence, but the boats were so close together that the sound of the water against the hulls, the flapping of the sails, and the creaking of the masts seemed to make an almighty din that must surely have been audible from the shore.
    The wind was steady, and the fishermen knew their boats as a rider knows his horse. But Miriam could sense how nervous Barabbas was. He kept looking up to make sure the sails were still swelling, clearly finding it hard to gauge their speed, fearing they would reach the fortress either too early or too late.
    Suddenly, they were so close to the huge towering mass that the mercenaries could clearly be seen by the light of the torches. Almost immediately, a whistle was heard, to be answered by another. Barabbas held out his arm. “There!” he exclaimed with relief.
    Miriam peered at the shore without seeing anything unusual. All at once, at the foot of the wall, a fire sprang up, so intensely that it could only have been started by a torch or an oil lamp. With each passing second, the flames grew. The fire was spreading. Cries rang out on the rampart walk, and the guards quickly left their posts.
    â€œThis is it!” Barabbas roared in delight. “They did it!”
    â€œThey” were a dozen members of his band. Their mission had been to light fires in the guards’ camp and grain stores close to the market adjoining to the fortress, on the opposite side from the field of crosses. The carts they had brought from Sepphoris had been left there during the day, laden with old wood and innocent-looking fodder. The false bottoms, emptied of weapons, had been filled with pots of bitumen and jars of terebinth oil, making the vehicles highly inflammable. Barabbas’s men had been ordered to set fire to them at a specific time and then escape from the town.
    Clearly, they had succeeded. As if to confirm this, a muted roar echoed across the lake, and the walls of the fortress were lit up by the flames. Some distance from the first fire, more flames suddenly shot up. This second fire would confuse the mercenaries and send the villagers running from their houses.
    Cries of joy rose from the boats. The flames, ever more intense, were reflected in the waters of the harbor. At last, trumpets sounded, calling the legionnaires and mercenaries to the rescue.
    Barabbas turned to the fisherman. “This is the moment!” he cried, trying hard to contain his excitement. “We must charge while they’re busy putting out the fires!”
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    H IS plan worked perfectly.
    Thanks to the diversion caused by the fires, there would be fewer—if any—guards watching the field of crosses and the rampart walk.
    Silently, the boats drew alongside a gravel beach, and everyone came ashore. It was still pitch dark here, but in the distance the sky and the lake glowed red, and they could hear the yells of those fighting the fire.
    Barabbas and his companions ran forward like shadows in the shadows, their unsheathed knives in their hands, ready to deal with any guard who might still be in the vicinity before he could raise the alarm.
    A hand slipped into Miriam’s. It was Obadiah.
    â€œThis way,” he said, drawing