We sleep under the stars more often now.
Once the sun is asleep and if the moon does not shine its happy face, obstacles on the road jump out and grab unsuspecting ankles. Already Benjamin limps with a stick. On these dark nights we seek shelter. We pass through a sparse settlement with huts clinging to each side of the road. Their shadows stretch out to each other, blanketing the path. It is eery and Mama keeps her head down, setting a rapid pace through its sentry line. On the outskirts a small hut sits alone. Goats are herded into a cramped enclosure attached to the dwelling. I feel Mama’s hesitation.
The hut comprises palm leaves, thinned and dried out to create an intricate woven roof and walls. The door is a thin strip of palm bark with parts of the palm trunk tied together to make a solid structure. There is a small bronze bell hanging from a string. Mama shakes it and a soft tinkle responds, inciting a series of shushes and hushes from within. Mice scurry as the door opens, slow and cautious. A woman dark as night with wary eyes, peers at us. Her glance stops at me and her wariness blossoms into fear. She shakes her head. Mama sighs. No words are spoken but I feel a weaving of tension, at times escalating then wavering, as the two women weigh up who they are in this situation. The dark woman struggles; she sees death trying to sneak in and fears we will open the door too wide. Mama is calm but tightened by a pain in her heart. She is an intruder bearing a message of anguish. Without a word, the woman’s daemons win, and she closes the door. Mama shakes the bell again, but no one is home. As we walk away, the door creaks and a jug of water is placed on the ground. The dark woman’s face glistens with tears and she turns back into the hut. Mama gulps down the warm bore water. What she doesn’t drink she pours onto our skin.
Dohd Joseph catches up with us. The others have found shelter for the night and will meet us in the morning outside the village surrounds. Mama looks down at me. I try to be brave, but I am so tired, and a whimper escapes. Her hug squeezes out another.
She is distracted and lifts her head, straining to identify something in the night air. I don’t know what has her attention until I feel the rumbling.
“Horses,” she confirms. Thundering from faraway but coming closer. The ripple of earth sends waves pulsing across the plains. We need to hide.
A tangle of bush down the track provides cover with its dappled light and dark and welcomes our dirty clothes as kin. It is a good bush to hide in. It is full of thorns, but if you crawl on your stomach, you can get into the middle. Mama holds me tight as she wriggles in following Dohd Joseph. Once inside we lie very still. Sometimes the best hiding places are the most dangerous.
The rumble becomes pounding as row upon row of horses plough the earth. We must have hidden well for the men on horses do not stop. Their passing is relentless. I do not cry for fear has me by the throat and Mama has stuffed a cloth in my mouth.
Peering through layers of Mama and horse dust, I watch the grim parade. Men’s faces fixed as stone. They sit astride proud beasts. Their purple and white robes flow in self-proclaimed importance. They wear moulded breastplates defining their bodies with muscular outlines. All for show. All to frighten us. The legionary cohorts of infantry and cavalry lead the way before the camp followers. Shackled baggage carriers are slower as they pull wagons and carts filled with food and weapons. They are followed by slaves: women and children mainly, who are herded like animals with whips cracking to maintain their pace.
I squeeze my eyes tight to block out their deafening sound. It is a roar of brute force. Rank upon rank of disdain. I feel Mama swallowing a gulp. I wriggle and she strokes me, trying to calm us both.
Horses stop at the hut. “Where are the Jewish cockroaches?” demands a soldier. The dark woman shakes her head, but he pushes past and goes inside. A man is thrown onto the street and soldiers start to beat him. The woman is screaming and crying and points down the road towards our bush. The Roman strikes her and she falls, pouring blood. Other soldiers enter her house. The screaming is silenced. A hungry fire growls into the unoccupied soundscape and devours the hut. There is a bark of orders and several men on horses come flying past us heading down the road. We stay in the bushes. I am surprised they do not hear my heartbeat.
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