Yoseph waved his hand. “So be it,” he said. He no longer wished to speak of the matter. It was true that he had deferred to the old woman in this one respect. Though despising her beliefs and her ways, he and the other villagers relied on Zahra’s expertise in childbirth—and her uncanny ability to predict the sex of their children—just as they relied on her healing abilities.

But their dependence on the healer—and the heresy of it—only made Yoseph’s hatred burn hotter.

He lifted the milk pitcher and found it empty. Mari spotted the white mustache above Anna’s lip and motioned to her. Anna turned from her father and brushed a sleeve across her face.

“I will bring more,” Mari told her husband, taking the pitcher from his hands. “But know that you have pleased me.” She allowed a radiant smile that no man could refuse to blossom across her face.

When she returned, Yoseph held his wife’s gaze and felt the pounding in his chest. “Have Anna put the milk in a goatskin,” he told her. “I will travel to Sepphoris today.”

Anna sat up at the mention of her favorite village. Sepphoris lay an hour’s walk to the north and was a place of spice traders, musicians, and exotic foods.

“May I come with you, Father? May I?” she blurted.

Yoseph frowned. “Daughter, do not disappoint me,” he said, standing.

“Please!” Anna begged. “I will carry your tools for you. Both ways!”

Mari cringed. Over the years, she had come to dread her daughter’s yearning for her father’s attention, knowing how battered it would become.

All the more reason, Mari thought, for Anna to leave home.

Yoseph scowled down at his daughter. “Your place is to stay and help your mother,” he said, an edge coming into his voice. “Do not make me tell you again.”

CHAPTER 2

A village on the outskirts of ancient Palestine—7 A.D.

Anna sat in the shade outside her house grinding barley into meal for the evening’s bread. Between her knees sat a long, boatlike vessel. Inside its hollow, she dragged a stone back and forth over the grain. Though she performed this task almost every day, it was her least favorite. Sometimes, when she grew bored of the repetition, she felt the urge to roam, to see what she might discover.

Fortunately, a thunderous rain the night before had brought out clouds of orange and blue butterflies. Hurrying about, they painted crooked and colorful trails in the sky. Watching them with delight, Anna soon found her morning chore less wearisome.

With steady hands, she poured the ground meal into a clay bowl. She had just tossed another fistful of grain into the grinding vessel when the sound of shouting made her freeze. Out of nowhere, a pack of boys appeared. They were stomping and swatting at the butterflies with long sticks.