He would have said a little more, attempted to improve his standing, if Musa had not cried out suddenly, and slapped his hands across his stomach. ‘This pain. . is more than I can tolerate,’ he said. He closed his eyes and blew out air. He put his hand into his hair. ‘I’m burning hot. My head.’

‘Shall I bring more water?’ Aphas said.

‘No, no. Just let me rest.’

Musa opened halfan eye, and looked around. Shim, he noticed, was almost smiling. Marta had stood up and looked alarmed. His wife had put her hand up to her face. He could not see her mouth. She’d be concerned, he thought, that the devil had come back to him and that she’d soon be widowed by a second onslaught of the fever. On a rock, beyond the furthest of the caves, he saw the badu balancing on one leg like an egret, one foot resting on his other knee.

‘No, no,’ Musa said again. ‘I must lie down. It’s here.’ He pointed to his side — a sharp pain in his liver — and ran his hands across his abdomen — an area of general suffering.

‘Something you’ve eaten,’ said Aphas helpfully, although he could not imagine that anybody’s liver pains were worse than his. He’d defer to Shim for cleverness and to Musa for a blinding tongue, but he’d counted general suffering to be his own reserve.

‘That meat,’ said Musa, in his most boyish voice, ‘it was bad.

Your honey hid the taste.’ He’d let his tenants think they’d poisoned him. ‘I’m hot.’ And then, once Miri had come up to fan him with her scarf, ‘I’m cold. This is bad. . They steal my meat, and now they poison me.’ Musa would have doubled up with pain ifhe could. He was too big to bend. Instead he rolled over on his side, and spread out in the dust, a wounded animal, its great head cushioned only by some stones. He’d seen Aphas acting out his cancer in the last thirty days, and had not been impressed. Musa could do better. Winces and deep breathing weren’t enough. He experimented with some uncontroiled spasms in his leg. He clutched his ear. He looked as frightened and as baffled as he could. This was not low cunning. Musa did not like to be accused of that. His cunning was the highest kind; it was his version of a miracle.

The wind had lifted. The afternoon was cold and coming to an end. The clouds had brought the darkness early. He had no time to waste. ‘I need to sleep,’ he said.

The women lifted up a leg apiece, while Aphas, Shim and the badu dragged their landlord by his shoulders to the nearest empty cave — the one a few steps along from Marta’s which opened on to the sloping terrace, screened only by a few salt bushes and the coppery debris of the cliff. They laid him on the soil with only Marta’s shawl as his cot-clothes. They put his head on it. He put his nose in it. He liked the warmth of Marta and her smell.

His wife and his tenants stood in the entrance of the cave, blocking out the light, whispering. What should they do with him? Not one of them had said, ‘Be well again,’ or stroked his brow. Everybody knew of people who had died as suddenly as this — the same unheralded pain, the cry, the fingers stretched across the chest, the grey-red face, the final, chortling breath. The world might lose some stories if Musa died, but not much else worth keeping. The prospect ofhis death was tolerable. His death was overdue. Miri did not even dare to pray. Her prayers had let her down before. Would there be a second chance of roliing Musa down the slope into the cistern she had dug for him? Why waste good water on the man? They’d only have to block his cave with stones to make a sepulchre and mark the stones with chalk to warn future quarantiners and any passing Jews that there was a corrupting body inside.

‘Miri, Miri, come to me,’ he said at last, his voice more vulnerable than she had ever heard it before, his face invisible. He made her kneel and put her ear against his lips. His breath was warm and dry. No eggy smells, this time. ‘Go to the tent for me, take care of everything,’ he said. ‘I cannot walk. I must sleep here. Bring back a flask of date spirit in the morning as soon as it’s light. Bring rugs and blankets, some pillows for my head. Collect some herbs. Bake something sweet for me tonight. The honey’s there. And don’t forget to fili the water-bags. Tell him to come.’ He pointed at Aphas.

Aphas knelt as best he could, and strained to listen to his landlord’s slowly fading words. ‘Go with my Miri, uncle. Keep her safe, for there are brigands in these hills. And wolves, bad wolves. A woman should not be alone out here. Call him and her.’ Now Shim and Marta were summoned. She knelt a little distance from Musa’s side, her head cocked to hear what he wanted from her. Shim, though, was reluctant to kneel down at al. He worried for his ankles and his little toe, despite his landlord’s sudden, devastating illness. But Musa found the strength to raise his voice: ‘I beg you, one of you, it doesn’t matter which. . Stay in your cave tonight, and bring me water if I call. Say prayers for me ifl should die. Take care ofMiri and the goats. .’ He struggled for some breath. ‘The other one of you. This is my final wish. The Gaily saved my life before. Go down to him while there is any light. Stand on our rock where we have stood so many times. Call out until your voice has gone. Stay through the night and pray to him. Say that I’ll die unless

he comes. Have pity on a man. . Which one of you will go?’

He meant, of course, which one ofyou will stay. He knew it would be Marta, naturally. An unattended woman could not stand out on a rock, past midnight, praying to a madman in a cave. There was a risk, of course, that Shim would be the one to stay behind. Then Musa would go to his cave at night and smash his yellow head in with a rock. A secondary pleasure.

Everybody gladly did as they were told. Aphas and Shim would rather go down to the tent and to the promontory than stay with Musa. Let him die or let him recover on his own. They did not want to witness either. Aphas thought how comfortable he’d be, sleeping on rugs for a change. Miri thought of the hours she could spend, in candlelight, tying knots on to her mat. Shim had reclaimed his curly staff, almost as soon as Musa had fallen to the ground. He liked the idea of a private vigil on the promontory, wrapped in his thickest cloak, alone at last with Musa’s very stupid boy — although, of course, he’d not call out too loudly to the Galilean or press too hard for him to come and minister to Musa. He had no faith in shepherd boys. He did not want a miracle.

They hurried off, the three of them. They ran away.

Marta shrugged. She didn’t really care that she was left behind. Another night ofquarantine, so what? She was the least resentful of them all. Musa’s stories softened her. She couldn’t really fear a man who was so captivating, and so sick, and who had fathered Miri’s child. If only Thaniel had been able to tell a tale like that. If only he were not so dull. Perhaps she would be pregnant, too.

Musa kept away from Marta. He played with time and let the woman go about her evening tasks. He heard her footsteps, smelled her fire, heard her coughing in the smoke. He did not bother her. He was at peace. The cave was warm enough. Its floor was soft. He slept. He’d wait till night. They were alone at last, or only separated by the earth between their caves.

There was the badu left, of course. An easy person to forget. After everyone else had received their whispered instructions from Musa, he had come and knelt inside the cave. He’d felt his landlord’s forehead and shaken his head as if to say, This ^ness is bad. You stand no chance; or, This is Nothing. I’m not fooled. Get up and go back to your tent. He’d pressed his cheeks, his hair into Musa’s face. Musa could have bitten him. He could have smashed his hennaed head in with a rock. Instead, he whispered in his ear, ‘Enjoy your run, you monkey boy. . Keep out ofsight.’ But, really, Musa didn’t care about a madman such as him. He was too small to intervene between such large adversaries.