Rebekah's Treasure Page 2

  The day Messiah died.

  “Maybe Daniel can come for me early?” Esther says, plaintively. “Maybe he doesn’t need to complete the bridal chamber.” Her face is a swirl of emotions. Like the young, she lives both as if there’s no tomorrow and as if she were never going to die.

  Oh, Esther, Esther! Can’t you see the city is perishing? Can’t you see there’s no time for building bridal chambers? Even so, my heart aches for her. I know what it is to yearn for my bridegroom. Wasn’t I even younger than Esther when Ethan’s father chose me to be Ethan’s bride? And hadn’t I eagerly counted the days after the mohar, the bride price, was paid for Ethan to come and claim me?

  “Ask him, just ask Daniel to come for me today.” Esther’s eyes are large, imploring. “Tell him it’s time to take his lawful bride.”

  But when Ethan shakes his head without even glancing at either of us, and without uttering one kind word of understanding, I feel compelled to intervene. “Ever since Nero cut his own throat, confusion has riddled the Empire. Even Vespasian ordered his army to stand down for a time. Perhaps he’ll do so again since Rome still riots and tears herself apart while searching for her new Caesar. Who has not heard how even their shrine of Jupiter on Capitoline Hill lies in ruins? ‘The Deliverance of Zion!’ How many of our coins have you seen with that inscription? Everyone believes God has stayed the hand of Rome on our behalf. In light of that, what difference can a few more days make? Or perhaps seven days? Enough time for Esther and Daniel to complete their marriage week.”

  Ethan’s eyes narrow. “This is unworthy of you, Rebekah, you who don’t believe Zion will be delivered at all. You who have been telling me that God has forsaken Jerusalem and our Temple. That our sin and corruption have forced Him to lift His hand of protection from us. And now when I wish to send you to safety, you want to remain?”

  I look away. I can’t have it both ways either. “The armies of Simon and John, and even your precious Eleazar have carved up our city like cheese,” I say in a near whisper. “All this in an effort to gain control. And now they fight to take each other’s slices. Every day our streets run red with their blood, as well as the blood of the innocent citizens they kill. Inside Jerusalem or outside? What is the difference? There’s no safety anywhere, except perhaps Masada. If only we had all left with Josiah.”

  “It’s too late to think about what we should have done. Titus’s legions camp only twenty miles away. They’ve finally cut Jerusalem off from the north and utterly destroyed Hebron in the south. Time is running out. While Jerusalem tears herself apart, that jackal is slowly flanking us. You must get out while you can.”

  This is so far from what I want. In spite of a tongue ever quick to speak my mind, I’ve failed to say what is really on my heart. I don’t fear death—and the stories of rape and pillage and slaughter coming from Galilee, Peraea, Idumaea and, now, Judea, makes me understand how horrible it can be. But what I fear is that I may now have to face it alone. All these months I’ve believed that when death came, we would face it together. My husband, my sons, my daughter, and I.

  “But a new Caesar, once chosen, may call off the war. There’s always that chance.” I throw my final argument into the air as if winnowing wheat to see where the wind takes it.

  “A new Caesar has been chosen. Our spy has just brought the news. And, no, Rebekah, he’ll not call it off.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because Legate Vespasian is the new Caesar.”

  They say he’s crazy, this oracle, this son of Ananias. Demon possessed. And though they have flogged him more times than I can count, he still shouts his dark words to every passerby.

  But I don’t think he’s crazy, for I believe him to be a true oracle. Even now his words echo in my ears, the words he has been shouting since Sukkot nearly four years ago.

  Woe! Woe to thee, Jerusalem!

  It’s because I don’t think he’s crazy or demon possessed that my heart is as heavy as lead. I must leave the home I love, the people I love. And I must do so knowing Jerusalem is doomed. But how can I leave my husband and sons? My beautiful Upper City? The Women’s Court and the Tyropoeon Valley? I cover my face and weep. And when I do, I think of Ethan and my sons, and how they risk their lives every time they slip through the long, dark tunnels beneath the Temple Mount, underground tunnels that snake the city, in order to visit me. I’m a danger to them. A millstone around their necks.

  And what of Esther? I picture her soft eyes, large and round as two flatbreads. And so trusting. The Upper City swarms with bandits and cutthroats; and sicarii—those fierce assassins—wander the streets, ever ready to plunge their daggers into any who speak of making peace with Rome. What if Esther should fall into one of their hands? I clutch my throat at the thought. No . . . I can no longer think of only what I want. It’s Ethan I must think of now; and my sons. My leaving would free them of worry. It would be a blessing to them. And Esther . . . she must be taken to safety. It is foolish to fight it any longer.

  Quickly, I slip out of my costly linen tunic and replace it with one of rough homespun, then gather a few things.

  I stand in the midst of our sleeping chamber—Ethan’s and mine. It’s large with walls of plastered Jerusalem limestone, and a floor paved with beautiful tile. It was my mother and father’s room when they were alive, and one of many rooms clustered around a paved central courtyard. This house has been in my family for generations, though enlarged over the years, and renovated in both Greek and Roman fashion, so popular since the time of Herod the Great. Aside from the many sleeping chambers and the courtyard, there’s a main reception room—with colorful panels, giant frescos and imitation marble borders—several bathrooms with mosaic tile floors, large underground cisterns, two ritual baths, numerous storage rooms, and of course the large upper room which we still use for guests and is still filled with colorful cushions and couches. It remains one of my favorite rooms, a place I often go to pray.

  I pray now as I lift my tunic to strap on a leather drawstring pouch. On the bed in front of me lay three of my most prized possessions: an alabaster box filled with costly spikenard from India, my semadi, and the cup Uncle Abner made me long ago.

  I pick up the semadi since it will be the most useful. The silver coins of the headdress jingle. They are pierced through the center and stitched together, then fastened to padding that covers the forehead and ears, reaching well beyond the shoulders. It is worth a great fortune, and has belonged to the women in my family for generations. Mama gave it to me, and her mother gave it to her. Someday I’ll give it to Esther, that is if I don’t need it to keep us alive.

  A semadi is the exclusive property of a woman. No man can ever lay claim to it, not even a husband or son. It should have gone to Judith, but “Judith the Perfect” married a Gentile, a Gentile who raised pigs, of all things, and now lives somewhere in the Decapolis. So, pronouncing her dead, Mama sat shiva, despite knowing that the Master taught us there is no longer Greek or Jew, free or slave. We are all one in Him. One.

  I still miss my sister, and think of her now as I wrap the semadi in rough homespun and stuff it into the pouch.

  Next I pick up the stone cup, turn it over, and run a finger across the rough carving of the ancient symbol of tav. Years ago, the Master drank from it. I saw it with my own eyes, crouched on the steps of the wall. When I think of that night, that’s what I remember, that’s what stands out. Never what followed. Never the trial, the terrible scourging, the public ridicule, the crucifixion. No. What I remember is the Master in our upper room lifting my cup, my cup, and making a covenant. I didn’t know then the scope of that covenant. No one did.

  My finger lingers on the crude t as I think of my brother, Asher, one of the first of my loved ones to fall during the infighting in Jerusalem. But there were others; neighbors, friends, people I’ve known all my life. I wrap the cup and slip it into my pouch. It can hold only one thing more. Everything else must remain. I reach for the alabaster box, b
ut stop when I detect a faint scent of spikenard seeping through the porous alabaster. It would be unwise to smell of costly spikenard when passing the sentries. If Ethan’s gift had been less precious, saffron or aloe perhaps, I would take it. My heart tumbles at the thought of leaving it behind. Ethan had been so proud of it. And when he gave it to me, oh . . . I can still remember his eyes, liquid and deep—an open well of emotion. And that look was worth more to me than the costly spikenard. Still . . . spikenard fetches even more now, since few were brave enough to enter Jerusalem with such costly cargo. It would surely fetch enough to keep Esther and me in food for months. But no . . . it would be too dangerous.

  “Mama! Quickly! We must go!” my son, Aaron, shouts from the courtyard.

  In spite of my protest, Ethan has left our oldest son to travel with Esther and me until we reach safety. Safety. Is there such a place?

  But I do make haste, and tie up the pouch, then position it against my stomach, where it will be more difficult to detect. When I’m satisfied, I pull my rough brown tunic over the pouch, and watch the hem fall across my ankles. Over that, I slip on an outer garment of gray wool, then loosely belt it with a swatch of brown and gray homespun. Finally, I plait my long hair and cover it with a headscarf. From the small table in the corner I retrieve a black jar of burial spices.

  “Mama!”

  After one last look at the alabaster box on the bed, I dart out the door.

  “She tried to escape. To go to Daniel, no doubt,” Aaron whispers as we assemble by the door. “If I hadn’t been here to stop her, who knows what would have happened.”

  I squint at Esther who stands by Aaron with her head bowed, surely to avoid my eyes. “Are you crazy!” I say, almost spitting in her ear. “John’s men are everywhere, extorting taxes from shop owners and anyone else who looks like he has a shekel to his name. It’s dangerous on the streets, especially for a woman alone!”

  Aaron nods. “Only this morning, Lamech, one of John of Gischala’s generals, the general who’s been terrorizing the rich for weeks, beat Datan, the wool merchant, to death, trying to make him confess where he’d hidden his gold. And yesterday, John’s men and Simon bar Giora’s Idumaeans—those Edomites who call themselves Jews—battled for hours near King David’s Tomb. When it was over, hundreds lay dead. The Upper City is a battlefield with both sides fighting for control.”

  “And these brutes are always looking for ways to enrich themselves,” I add.

  “And what a prize you’d be,” Aaron says, looking at Esther. “They’d use you to squeeze every shekel from Daniel’s considerable fortune.”

  By the worry in Aaron’s eyes I understand how much he fears for our safety. I also understand the great burden that has been placed on his shoulders. I grab Esther and shake her, hoping to make her understand, too. “Give me your word you’ll not try to slip away again!”

  Esther turns her head.

  “Give me your word!”

  Silence.

  “Don’t you understand the danger? If you draw attention to us, if you try to bolt, we could all lose our lives.”

  For the first time Esther looks at me. “Then leave me behind. I’m not afraid. If anything happens . . . if Jerusalem should fall . . . I want to be with Daniel.”

  I’m at a loss. If Jerusalem falls, I too want to be with my husband. The thought of leaving him is more than I can bear. How, then, can I fault Esther? In the midst of my silence, Aaron steps forward and takes Esther’s chin between his fingers.

  “If you love Daniel, you must leave,” he says, gently pinching her like he used to when she was little. “Your husband’s mind must be clear. Can he fight John of Gischala, Simon bar Giora, the sicarii, Vespasian and Titus, and worry about you, all at the same time? Worry if you have food? If you’re safe? What if this worry causes him to become careless? And what if through carelessness, he gets wounded . . . or killed, how will you feel then?”

  “You are cruel to put it so.”

  “These are cruel times.” Aaron releases Esther’s chin, his eyes full of compassion.

  “You will . . . when you return to the city, tell Daniel how much I loathed leaving him?”

  Aaron nods.

  “And . . . you’ll . . . watch over him?”

  Aaron kisses Esther’s forehead. “Yes.”

  “Then it’s settled,” I say, ignoring my heart which breaks for my Aaron who must now take on another burden; for my Esther, the young bride who has yet to taste the sweetness of lying in her husband’s arms; for my beloved Ethan, strong and courageous and too willing to spill his life’s blood on a hopeless cause; for my other sons, so eager to be men and follow their father; and for my Jerusalem, the Holy City that has polluted herself. “I have your word, Esther? Your word that you’ll come quietly and not cause a disturbance?”

  She lowers her eyes, her long lashes cloaking any emotions. “You have my word,” she finally says, as though her mouth is full of bitter herbs.

  “Hush,” I say, but the donkey brays anyway, no doubt to protest carrying the heavy limestone ossuary strapped to its back. We have decided to take the long route through Jerusalem, and head for the Tower Gate. It’s safer.

  Aaron prods the reluctant donkey along the winding streets. He wears a short brown tunic belted loosely at the waist; over that, a rough homespun robe. Behind his ear is a chip of wood, the sign of a carpenter. It’s customary for craftsmen to wear emblems of their trade. Had he chosen to disguise himself as a dyer, he would have worn a strip of colored cloth tied around one arm.

  We pass the great stone-paved plaza that borders Herod’s palace. It was here crowds gathered while Pilate sat on a raised platform above them and condemned Messiah to death. No Romans are here now. They’ve long been driven from the city. Instead, the palace and plaza swarm with an assortment of odd-looking men, some in fine leather cuirasses and boots studded with nails, and carrying large swords; others in nothing more than torn tunics and bare feet. It’s dangerous here, though far less dangerous than taking the shorter route through the Valley Gate. To get there, one had to cross the Lower City, an area firmly in the hands of John Gischala’s men who freely rob whomever they please. At least in the still contested Upper City, John and Simon’s forces are too busy fighting each other to bother with us. At least that’s what we hope.

  When a group of ill-clad rowdies armed with daggers push through a throng of people and head toward us, I question our judgment. A surly-looking man of large proportions leads them. Gischalites. John’s men. Only Gischalites could look this beastly.

  “Now where would you be heading?” asks the leader, his hair a mass of tangles, his metal-trimmed leather cuirass slashed and blood stained. “You’re not planning to abandon our fair city now, are you?” He smells of spoiled mutton.

  We all tense. The three rebel factions were always on the lookout for Jews fleeing the city. A traitorous act in their view, and punishable by death. Even so, Jerusalem could not be sealed. Many inhabitants had obligations outside her gates. Their shops and fields and vineyards were there. This made the rebels even more watchful for those appearing fearful or too laden with goods. Many an innocent citizen has met his death at the hand of an overly suspicious rebel.

  “So where are you going?” the leader presses.

  When I see Aaron’s hand move beneath his robe to where he conceals a dagger, I thrust the black jar of spices I’m holding into the air, the kind of perfume jug used in burial caves to overcome odor. My chin juts toward the ossuary strapped to the donkey’s back. “We’re going to my uncle’s kokh. The year has passed. It’s time to place his bones in the ossuary.”

  The brutish man fingers the delicate rosette carvings that run the length of the stone box, then the lettering beneath them. “‘Bones of Abner, son of Eliakim, Pharisee and Servant of the Most High God,’” he reads. “That your uncle? Abner the Pharisee?”

  I nod, marveling that this brute can read.

  He studies us carefully, noting what is in
our hands, how we are dressed. “Why do you bother to advertise your trade? Being so occupied with your dead?” the Gischalite says, gesturing toward the wood tucked behind Aaron’s ear.

  “A man must make a living. Perhaps Hashem will smile on me and cause some passerby to offer me employment for a future day.”

  The Gischalite pokes the small goatskin flagon strapped across Aaron’s shoulder while his eyes sweep over Esther and me to see what else we carry. When he’s satisfied we’re not taking a long journey, his face becomes thoughtful. “It’s wise to gather the bones of one already dead in order to make room for others. These days, people are dying like flies. Who knows when a niche in the family burial cave will be needed?”

  The brute rests his hand on the ossuary. “Abner the Pharisee. I’ve heard of him. A good man. Still . . . you need to open the box.”

  “Why?” The muscles of Aaron’s face tighten as he steps closer to the Gischalite.

  The brute smiles, showing a mass of rotten teeth. “A brave lad for a carpenter. But save your courage.” He gestures with his hand to where a motley group of men stand watching. “There are too many of us to resist. I will see the box. Either open it or my friends will.” He chuckles. “But then . . . they’ll have to thrash you for their trouble.”

  When Aaron leans even further, I push the black jar between them, forcing them apart. “There’s nothing of value in the box, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  The brute feigns offense. “What? Am I a thief? Would I despoil my own people? You dishonor me. No, no. I’m only looking for ’ contributions, contributions for the cause. If we fighters are to keep you citizens safe from the Romans, shouldn’t we be compensated? It’s only fair.”