It came to pass that Emperor Augustus decreed that there should be a census taken of the entire Roman empire. We received this news in the same way we received all our news—one morning a small band of armored Romans on horseback rode into the village and shouted at us in Latin. Then a smaller, darker-skinned Syrian translated for us.
"You are all to appear in Bethlehem before the end of the week," said the interpreter in Aramaic. "Bring with you the worth of one one-hundredth of your household’s wealth."
At this announcement, many spoke up with complaints and questions, but the Romans turned their horses around and galloped away.
I was not outside when the Romans came, but I heard them yelling from within the house. I was kneeling in front of a young woman as she squatted over a birthing stool, her mother and sister holding her on either side. The girl was screaming in pain and in fear as all first-time mothers do. I let her cry out as I did my work, and her mother wiped the sweat from her face.
"On the next one," I said, "push hard. Take a deep breath."
Her name was Chasida, and so far hers was one of the easiest births I had helped with, but that was impossible to guess by her screaming.
The baby arrived, small and steaming in the early spring morning. I cleared its throat with my finger and patted it on the back. It coughed and cried, and I wrapped it in a blanket as Chasida’s mother and sister moved her from the stool to the bed.
"A girl," I said. "Congratulations." I handed the baby over, and Chasida took her with an exhausted grin. "You did very well."
"Thank you, savta," Chasida said, not taking her eyes from her new daughter.
Savta. Grandmother. That’s what they all called me, ever since I took up the role of the village’s midwife. My husband Aharon and I lost our only son in childbirth, so I was never even an immah, much less a savta.
I washed myself and left the women alone as Chasida began to nurse. Outside the house sat Chasida’s husband Tzafi and his father Biran.
"You have a beautiful new daughter," I told him, and Tzafi smiled, though he looked disappointed. The smile would have been larger if the child had been a boy. "What will you name her?" I asked him.
"Ohad," said Tzafi. "After my mother."
Biran clapped his son on the shoulder and said, "Thank you, Tzafi."
I bid them a good rest of the day and returned home.

Aharon was in the house, sitting against the wall with a bowl of dates.
"Tzafi and Chasida have a daughter," I said, taking a seat beside him. "It seems only yesterday I helped their own mothers deliver them. They promised us three chickens."
"I will tell them to wait to pay," Aharon said, passing me the dates. "The Romans came while you were with Chasida."
"I heard. What did they want?" I took a date. They were dried, came all the way from Anatolia, and were not very good.
"We are to travel to Bethlehem for a census," said Aharon. "And to be taxed one percent of our wealth. If they base our tax on this year's earnings, I'd rather Tzafi give us the chickens after we return."
"And why could the soldiers not have done this while they were here?" I asked.
Aharon laughed. "One thing I have learned about Romans is that you never tell them a better way they could be doing things."

Bethlehem was a day's journey from the village. We loaded our donkey with travel gear and a few silver coins—more than one percent of our wealth, but we knew we would need an inn when we reached the city.
The next morning we set out with most of the others in the village. We walked together down the rocky desert road for a few miles until it met with the paved Roman road that went north to Bethlehem and onward to Syria. More Jews and Romans, Assyrians and Persians arrived on the road, and soon Aharon and I were in a sea of men, women, children, horses, oxen, and donkeys.
I wasn't prepared for the crowd when we reached the walled city of Bethlehem. It wasn't just a crowd, it was chaos. Outside the walls, dozens of Roman soldiers directed traffic into a single-file line through the gate, which then split into several lines inside the city. It took several hours for Aharon and I to reach the gate, and there a soldier with a bronze breastplate embossed with an eagle asked us where we were from.
"Yarokot," my husband told him. "A small village south of Khabir."
The soldier pointed to a line of people behind him and to our left. "Follow this line. Have your payment ready."

We stood in line for the rest of the day. Street performers entertained us and vendors sold bread and wine, which we passed on. We had no extra money with us and still needed to pay for an inn. One small boy sang and played a drum, and when he was finished we all applauded as his master passed around a hat. I wanted to give them something but Aharon took the hat and passed it on.
The sun had set by the time we reached the end of the line. The Roman soldiers sat behind tables and looked very tired. Their tables were covered with papers, stamps, and ink. An almost-empty barrel sat beside each of them, and behind them were chests of coins, cages filled with chickens, and farther back was a large pen with oxen, donkeys, pigs, and sheep. Everything was guarded by Roman soldiers with swords and spears.
"Next!" barked a Roman, and Aharon and I led our donkey to his table. "Names?" he asked us.
"I am Aharon ben Nevat, and this is my wife Revaya bat Mikhail." My husband sounded nervous, and I couldn't blame him. All of this was rather intimidating.
"Your trade?" the soldier asked as he wrote down our names with Latin letters.
"I am a teacher," said Aharon. "Revaya is a midwife."
"Where do you live?"
"The village Yarokot, south of Khabir." Aharon's knuckles were white as he held onto our donkey's lead.
"How much did you earn last year?" the Roman asked.
Aharon bit his lip, and I could almost hear his thoughts. He wanted to lie, but I knew he was better than that.
"One hundred and twenty shekels," he said. I wanted to pat his hand, proud that he was honest.
"Your tax is set at one silver shekel and one denarius," said the Roman as he scribbled.
Aharon took two coins from his purse. "Can you make change, Romi?"
The soldier looked up at Aharon, at the two silver shekels, then at the chests filled with money. He laughed and gave us change—two denari. He also reached into his almost-empty barrel and brought out a tile with some Latin writing on it, and gave it to Aharon.
"Keep this," he said. "It's proof that you've paid the tax. Give it to any soldier that asks for it when you return home. You can go now. Next!"
We stepped out of line, unsure what to do next. After waiting for so long, the census was over so quickly and I was disoriented.
"I suppose we should find an inn," said Aharon. "It's already dark."
"I hope we can find one with room for us," I said. He squeezed my hand reassuringly.

The closest inn was only a few buildings down the road, and we had to squeeze through a thick crowd to reach the door. I held onto the donkey's lead as Aharon shouted into the noisy crowded inn for the innkeeper.
A small bald man came through the crowd, waving both his hands over his head. "No, no no!" he shouted as he came closer. "Go away!"
"We need a place just for the night," Aharon told him, still unable to fully step into the inn because of the crowd. "We don't take up much room, and we can pay with silver."
"I don't care if you're the kaiser himself!" the innkeeper said. "I'm telling you the same thing I've told the last twenty families—there is no room here! Can't you see that?"
Aharon frowned. "Could you tell us where there might be room?"
"I promise they'll all be full," said the man. "There are seventy-seven times the amount of people in Bethlehem than the city is meant to keep. Those Romans...don't they think about the logistics of issuing such a decree?"
"What would you suggest?" asked my husband.
The bald man shrugged. "Do what everyone else is doing and find a nice dry stable to sleep in."
"A stable! Sleep with the animals?" Aharon let out a frustrated chuckle. "I'd rather cross the desert at night."
"Do what you want," said the innkeeper. "But goodbye!" He turned away and disappeared into the crowd.
Aharon returned to me and I pulled the donkey back to the street. The city was swarming with people from all corners of Judea. I knew we would never find an inn with room for us.
"It's just one night," I told Aharon. "A stable is better than sleeping in the gutter."
My husband let out a sigh. I could tell he was upset that we hadn't left for Bethlehem earlier. We both should have had more foresight. Aharon took the donkey's lead from me and together we walked down the road to find the nearest stable.

The first stable that wasn't as crowded as the inns was several streets from where we paid our tax. At least a dozen men, women, and children sat in the stable with the animals—a few sheep, a horse, and several donkeys. As we approached the stable, we paused, hesitant. Then someone waved.
"Come in, there's room," he called to us. "You can tie your donkey here at the post."
We did as he said and crouched to enter the stable. There were three children, all under the age of ten, all three asleep on the same woman's lap. She smiled at me. The man who waved us inside gestured to a small area covered in straw. Aharon took a blanket from our donkey's pack and spread it over the place, and the two of us sat down.
The man said, "I am Mardokh. This is my family."
"You are Persian," said Aharon. "You've come a long way?"
"Not far," said Mardokh. "A few days' journey. And you?"
"Not far. I am Aharon. This is my wife Revaya."
If Mardokh gave me the same smile he gave Aharon, I didn't see it. My attention was elsewhere, to a young couple to our left. At least, the girl was young, fourteen or fifteen years old. Her husband was older, perhaps twenty-five, though his beard made it hard to judge. She was pregnant, and she did not look comfortable.
"Are you alright?" I asked her. A dozen pairs of eyes looked up at me from all parts of the stable. There was no privacy here.
The girl looked up at me. Her eyes were blue, very rare for a Jew, but her olive skin and curly hair gave away her lineage. Without smiling she said, "I am fine, thank you."
Her husband was holding her hand and petting her brown hair with the other. He was whispering in her ear, and I couldn't hear his words but I imagined they were meant to comfort her.
"How far along are you?" I asked her, still not looking away.
"Too far." This time she did smile, as if she'd told a joke. "We tried so hard to find an inn, but…" She let out a groan of pain, and I rushed over to her.
"I am a midwife," I said. "Will you permit me?"
The girl looked up at her husband, and the man nodded.
I put my hands on her belly and felt around. The girl moaned in pain as I pressed against her, feeling the position of the baby.
"Child, the baby is practically here," I told her. "Why on earth did the two of you travel here?" I glared at the husband. "Why didn't you have her stay home?"
The man gaped at me in surprise, and for a moment he appeared no older than his teenage wife. "I...I would have preferred that she stay home, but there was no one to...I thought it would be better if, when the baby came, if we were...there was no one to take care of her, you understand?"
I sighed in exasperation and looked around. Twelve or thirteen men and women stared at me and the couple. "Listen, all of you," I announced. "This young woman is about to become a mother. Within the hour, in fact. Will someone boil some water?"
No one spoke for a few seconds, then Mardokh said, "I'll go and fetch some. Do you need anything else?"
"I need any linens or blankets that can be spared from all of you." I looked around at the animals, at the dirt and dung on the ground, the spider-webs in the roof. "And if someone could begin praying, that might help. I've never delivered a baby in a filthy stable before."

Twenty minutes later, the baby was well on the way. The husband surprised me by not leaving his wife's side. In my experience, men never wanted to be present during the birth. But this man held onto his wife's hand and continued whispering loving messages into her ear.
I had hung up a blanket between us and the others, though it was only for a bit of privacy as I knew that wouldn't stop them from hearing the sounds of pain and fear from the mother. But once again I was surprised. She did not scream out in pain, not a single time. She was strained, and she sweated and groaned a bit as if she were merely lifting something heavy, but if I didn't know any better I'd have thought she was feeling no pain at all.
"What is your name?" I asked her. "I'm sorry, I forgot to ask."
"Maria," she said with a heavy breath.
"And you, father?"
The man almost blushed. "Yosef. But I am not…" He stopped himself. I knew what he was about to say, but to save him a bit of pride I didn't question him further. Such circumstances were not unheard of, but to bring attention to them would only dishonor and embarrass the step-father.
"I am Revaya. And your baby is almost here." I prepared myself and looked up at Maria. "On your next contraction, you need to push. Are you ready?"
Maria took in a deep breath and let it out as steady as a summer breeze. "I am ready, Revaya."
"Tell me when," I said.
She nodded, and a few seconds later she gasped. "Now," she said.
"Then push."
Yosef gripped Maria's hand with such force that it might have been him having the baby. He looked so frightened, a strange contrast to Maria's expression of pure courage and confidence.
It was over sooner than any birth I had witnessed, as a midwife or otherwise. It was a boy, and I went to clear his throat but found that there was nothing there. The baby was breathing on his own, without a cough or a single cry. I frowned, confused, and then took a small blanket and wrapped him in it. 
I did not hand him over to Maria, not immediately. Something stayed my hand, and I kept the babe in my arms as if he were my own, the one that I lost. He cooed and his big eyes opened up just a bit. His wide pupils locked onto mine, and for a moment we stared at each other. The world was silent as I looked at him, and a strange shiver passed over me. Then, a soft voice as if from a dream came into my mind.
Thank you, Revaya.
Suddenly I realized that my eyes had tears in them, and as the baby closed his eyes I cleared my throat and gave him to Maria. She took him with such reverence, caution, and grace that I had never seen in a mother. At her side, Yosef grinned and let out a short laugh, and I noticed that he too was crying. The baby let out a small gurgle and wrapped a tiny hand around Maria's finger.
"What will you name him?" I asked, and was surprised to hear my voice come out in a reverent whisper.
Maria and Yosef looked at me and both smiled. Yosef said, "He has already been named. Yeshua."
The sound of that name lit a fire in my bosom, and then the tears came freely. The couple looked at me with concern, so I composed myself and wiped my eyes before offering a word of explanation. 
"Yeshua," I told them, "was my son's name."
They smiled at me, and Maria said, "Thank you, Revaya. It was a miracle that you were here with us tonight."
I looked at the baby in her arms, and for the first time in many years I felt that child-shaped hole in my heart fill with love. 
"Yes," I said to Maria. "A miracle."