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404 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1964
“Where am I?” “In the House of Hillel, under the terebinth tree.” “That’s a good place to be,” she agreed, as simply and gently as a child. “I am tired now, and I want to sleep.” That night Berenice Basagrippa died—in her fifty-fourth year. They buried her on the hillside next to her husband, Shimeon Bengamaliel, the grandson of the sage who is remembered as Hillel the Good. In time the gravestone was carried away or sank into the ground, and so the grave was unmarked and became one with the ancient soil of Galilee in Israel.
“That, Imperator, is of concern only to myself and to Titus. And further, do not address me as woman. My ancestors were priests at Jerusalem and kings at Megiddo when Rome was a circle of mud huts inhabited by brutes who had not yet learned to weave cloth or even to smelt copper. And as for this meeting, I think that I at least have had sufficient of it—and if you will permit me, I should like to go.”