by Bodie Thoene
Stalking around it with his hands on his hips, Joseph confronted them. “Why did you do this? Don’t you know that a man like me learns things in dreams?”
Judah replied, “We have no way to prove our innocence. We are your slaves.”
“No, only the one with the cup shall be my slave. The rest of you, go home in peace.”
Judah approached Joseph and spoke quietly to him. In my dream I felt myself lean forward to hear better. “Even though you are the second in command to Pharaoh himself,” Judah said, “I must tell you something. Do you remember when, on the other trip to Egypt, you asked us if we had a father or a brother, and we answered that we had an aged father and a younger brother?”
Joseph admitted that he recalled the conversation.
“Even though we said Benjamin was the only surviving son of his mother, and our father’s favorite, and that it would kill our father to be parted from him, you insisted we bring him with us this trip . . . which we did.”
Joseph listened but said nothing. Judah continued, “If we go home without Benjamin, our father will die. The shock will kill him. Now I, myself, pledged to bring Benjamin back safely. Please, I beg you. Let me stay here as your slave in place of my brother, and let him go home.”
I saw Joseph trembling. His brothers may have mistaken it for anger, but I knew better.
The Prince of Egypt, unable to control himself any longer, burst out crying. “I am Joseph, your brother. Is my father still living?”
The brothers shouted in amazement, babbling questions and comments.
“Listen,” Joseph said, when he could speak again. “Don’t be afraid because you sold me into slavery in Egypt. God used all of that to save our whole family from starvation. You must go home and bring my father back here with you. Bring all your families! There will be land for you in Goshen.”2
Something like mist swirled around my vision then, until all the people were obscured. Only the silver cup, shining like a brilliant star, remained in my view, before it too faded.
Chapter 7
On the frosty morning after the Purim celebration, remembering the warning, I tiptoed out of the house. Almost immediately I encountered Rabbi Kagba. He blew on his hands to warm them and greeted me.
I asked, “About the cup in the sky? I thought of another cup in Scripture. The one Joseph the Dreamer hid in Benjamin’s sack. What happened to it?”
“What a penetrating question,” the scholar murmured. “One I have never been asked in all these years. It is said that the cup remained with Joseph all his days, passing to his children and grandchildren, even down to the times when our fathers were slaves in Egypt.”
“What happened to it then?” I demanded.
Kagba spread his hands. “No one knows. It was hidden so it would not be stolen by the Egyptians. Some say it left Egypt with Joseph’s body in the time of the Deliverer and was later in the great Temple in Jerusalem. Then, still later, it was carried away from there to be saved from the Babylonian invaders.” The rabbi shrugged. “Who can say? What is also known is that it is said the cup will reappear in the Day of Messiah. So, perhaps soon, eh?”
The following night the rabbi and I were again on the roof of my home.
“Aren’t you cold?” Kagba asked.
“Yes, but I want to know more. Once you showed me a great hart in the sky. Where is it?”
Grasping my shoulders, Kagba turned me completely around to face west. “Just there. See it? The form the Greeks call Andromeda and we call the Hart is setting behind that peak. In fact,” he mused, “this is the only time of year when the Cup and the Hart can both be seen in the sky . . . and only a short while.”
“Does that mean something too?”
“You are full of questions again tonight, young son of Lamsa. Yes, I think it does. You see, we didn’t talk about it, but I believe the cup also represents the suffering that is required before redemption can take place. When the cup is full, it is as if the hart has laid down his life and so he departs for a season.” Then more cheerfully he added, “But he will rise again, when the cup of suffering is poured out.”
Chapter 8
When the Passover before my eighth birthday came, I was out in the fields at night, tending the sheep with my father. Rabbi Kagba had joined us, as he often did when the starry host was on display.
“If we were shepherds in Bethlehem,” Father said, “this would be our busiest time of year. The herdsmen of Migdal Eder supply most of the lambs for the Passover pilgrims, except for families that have raised their own.”
“How many lambs?” I asked.
“One for every ten people.” The rabbi paused. “Half a million people in the Holy City for this holiday. Fifty thousand lambs.”
I shook my head and whistled softly. A night bird answered from the rushes by the pond. “I’ve never seen more than five hundred in one place, and only then when we bring all the flocks together for shearing.”
Rabbi Kagba squinted at the sky, judging the progress of the waxing moon, then setting in the west. “Nine days more till this year’s Passover. Look where Jupiter, the Righteous King, hangs beside the moon. I saw such a sight three decades and more ago now, when I met the shepherds of Bethlehem and the child in the manger.”
“What child?” I demanded.
My father shushed me. “Just listen,” he corrected.
The rabbi continued, “I mentioned him before. He is more than thirty now, in his prime, and no doubt going about his work. In fact, I hear that he has caused quite a stir.”
“Who?” My curiosity did not allow me to remain silent.
“The one I believe to be the Messiah,” Kagba said. “The one born of the virgin, born in Bethlehem, as it is written by the prophet Micah. You remember. His name is Jesus of Nazareth, called son of Joseph. I followed the stars to worship him, those thirty-some years ago. Thirty years,” he repeated. “I hope I have the strength to seek him again.”
“Are there still signs in the heavens about him?” I peered at Jupiter. Sometimes I thought I saw fragments of light swirling very near the Righteous King, like moths around a flame, but I could never be certain.
“Signs still? Of course,” Kagba replied. “And they are there before you. What is that bright star?”
“Spica,” I replied. “Some say it’s a wheat sheaf, but others see a baby—”
“Held by his virgin mother,” the rabbi interrupted. “Just like the prophecy in Isaiah.”
“Oh!” I responded. “More?”
“What is that outline to the west of the virgin?”
“Easy,” I answered. “The lion.”
“The lion of the tribe of Judah. You see, there is the beginning and the conclusion of the life of Messiah, all recorded in the stars: both his virgin birth and his destiny to reign as David’s heir and the King of Judah.”
“And right there,” I said, pointing, “the one just below the Atonement star. The one you called the Virgin’s Heart. That’s the cup you showed us on Purim. Kohs, yes?”
Kagba nodded thoughtfully. “In Bethlehem we met the rabbi who was present at Jesus’ circumcision. He told me a story about the baby’s dedication and redemption in the Temple. Jesus is a firstborn son, after all. The rabbi told me that Mary, the baby’s mother, encountered an old prophet, a true man of God. He prophesied over the child and then he said: ‘And a sword will pierce your heart too.’ ”1
“Too?” Father rumbled. “Whose is the other heart to be pierced?”
Kagba said grimly, “That thought has always bothered me as well.”
My attention had partly drifted away from the discussion of Jesus of Nazareth but had remained focused on the stars. “Look at where the cup is in the sky. If the virgin’s heart were bleeding, it would fill the cup,” I said.
Father and Rabbi Kagba exchanged a look, but neither commented on my observation.
The snows melted and the rivers swelled. The foothills were carpeted with red poppies, purple lupines, and frolic
king lambs.
Summer arrived, the time of moving the flocks around the meadows and pastures, and the celebration of my eighth birthday. After the shearing season was complete, my three older brothers set out with a caravan to Jerusalem. They would stay with my mother’s parents on the Street of the Weavers.
In their cargo was the output of my mother’s winter and spring labor over her loom: prayer shawls of the finest cloth in the most eye-catching designs. They were custom orders for the wealthy worshippers of the Holy City. One of which she was especially proud had a wavy edge, bordered with a band of azure blue. The Hebrew letters around its fringes proclaimed the Shema: “Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God, the LORD is one.”2
Limping painfully as she came out of the tent to display it in the sunlight, she remarked, “The man who ordered it has waited an entire year for it. I hope he likes it!”
Every year Mama dispatched such custom work with the caravan to Jerusalem, along with a carefully wrapped special parcel to her sister in Joppa.
“It’s beautiful, Mama,” I said.
Then it was the autumn again. I found it lonely and quiet around camp with my brothers and most of the other shepherds away on the caravan to Jerusalem. The intense labor of the shearing season was over, and the excitement of lambing was still months away.
The flock was slowly transitioning back toward winter life near Amadiya but had not yet arrived there. The sheep were moved a short distance every morning to fresh pasture. Every third day the encampment itself had to be uprooted and relocated. I spent as much time helping my mother pack and unpack as I did tending the sheep.
The route we traveled from the high mountain pastures back to the Sapna Valley west of Amadiya was not through pleasant scenery. There had been so much snow the previous winter that the rivers still flowed swiftly despite the lateness of the season. The frequent bends, twists, and turns of the main watercourse meant too many difficult crossings with too few men to assist.
Instead of the usual track, Father directed our herdsmen to follow a smaller tributary. Our descent from the mountains was along a series of small, gorse-choked meadows separated from each other by narrow, precipitous, rocky gorges.
It was a late afternoon between the High Holy Days and the Feast of Tabernacles. The sheep were two days’ journey farther downstream. Tomorrow it would be time to reposition our camp again. Tonight, my parents and I would have supper with a handful of herders who had returned for a load of supplies to take to their fellows.
The night was chilly in the high country. I was grateful for the heavy, fleece-lined coat and fleece-lined leather boots my mother had made for me.
My chores completed for the moment, I sat on a boulder on a ledge facing the upstream bend of the canyon. Beni was beside me. Even before we heard the dog growl, I felt the animal stiffen and watched his ears prick up. The fur on the back of Beni’s neck stood erect. The dog stared intently up the trail along which the flock had been driven three days before.
Snatching up my shepherd’s staff, I leapt upright. Twisting side canyons led into remote and trackless wilderness, home to Armenian leopards and even wolf packs. I glanced down at my friend to make certain Beni was not going to dash off and get hurt, but the dog was plastered beside me.
What had the animal sensed?
Some dust rose over the rock wall separating this pasture from the one upstream. I studied the swirling cloud of grit. It seemed to be moving closer.
The clatter of horses’ hooves announced the true nature of the disturbance. A band of riders swept into view around the bend.
As the lead horseman caught sight of our camp, he threw his right hand into the air, signaling a halt.
“Papa!” I waved and called to my father, standing at the entry to our tent. “Riders! Riders coming!”
I saw Father turn in the direction I pointed.
With cupped hands, Father called the four shepherds away from the creek and back to camp. The five men formed a protective barrier in front of the tent. “How many?” Father’s voice boomed up to me.
I counted, then pantomimed two handfuls and two left over: twelve. The troop of horsemen remained motionless for a time. They clustered around the one who appeared to be their chief. When they moved forward again, it was at a measured, walking pace.
Rabbi Kagba emerged from his own tent and stood some distance apart from the other men.
The cavalcade approached the camp and drew rein on a sandy shelf across the creek. The leader halted his men again, then rode forward into the water. “Shalom to the camp!” he called out.
My shoulders relaxed. They were Jewish travelers. Father stepped forward. “Shalom to you. Who are you, with your fine mounts in this lonely place? And what do you want?”
“My name is Zimri,” the captain of the troop responded. “We are going to the Holy City to serve the one who will liberate us from the Romans.”
My pulse quickened at the words. A band of Jewish warriors going to serve the Messiah! Zimri’s words could mean nothing else.
“We planned to reprovision in Amadiya,” Zimri continued, “but we have been riding for three days and are short of food. Can we buy some from you?”
“No,” my father replied curtly. “We won’t sell to you. But we will welcome you to our cook fire and feed you. Turn your horses out to graze and join us. We have plenty of bread and roast meat.”
There was ample food. A roasted haunch of mutton was soon sliced and handed round to the newcomers by Mother and Hepzibah, along with stacks of unleavened bread. “Will this leave your other men short of food,” Zimri questioned, “when they get back to camp?”
Father waved dismissively. “We have plenty for them.”
I knew no one else was expected tonight. My father’s motive for the lie must be to make the number of attendants seem larger than it really was.
“For me and my men,” Zimri said, “I thank you. It’s a long ride from Ecbatana.”
As darkness fell, small knots of Zimri’s men coalesced around our herdsmen, exchanging stories, but mostly eating in silence. Over my shoulder I toted a goatskin wine bag from which I filled their cups. One rider wiped grease from his face on a sleeve while catching me with the other hand. “Not so fast, boy,” he said, draining the cup at a single swallow. “A refill before you move on. I’ve been thirsty all the way from Shirak.”
I nodded and poured more wine. I was puzzled but kept quiet. Zimri had said the group came from Ecbatana, which was to the east over the mountains. Shirak was due north.
Another rider called out and waved a cup for me to fill, so soon I forgot my question.
“You have a fine camp, brother Lamsa,” Zimri praised. “Your tent is draped with fine cloth, and your dress announces your good fortune as well.”
“I am just a shepherd,” Father returned. “My good fortune is my family.” He nodded toward me and toward Mother, who was carrying around another platter of meat.
My mother’s face showed pain. The weight of the serving tray and the uneven ground made it difficult for her to walk, yet she did not complain.
“My skillful wife has taught the weavers of Amadiya,” Father continued. “Now we ship bolts of cloth to Jerusalem instead of only sending the raw wool.”
“So you go to seek the Messiah?” Kagba questioned Zimri.
“Aye!” Zimri agreed. “And we won’t be alone either. But I hope we get there soon enough to share in the spoils. I hear he’s been catching small Roman patrols in the hills of the Galil and east of Jordan and cutting Roman throats. Soon enough of us will gather to take Tiberias and the armory there, and after that, Jerusalem herself.”
Rabbi Kagba’s eyes narrowed, and his face twisted into a frown. “Surely you don’t mean Jesus of Nazareth? He preaches peace and offers healing and reconciliation with the Almighty. I hope to seek him myself.”
“That one?” Zimri said loudly. “I’ve heard of him, but I wonder if he’s still alive.” He laughed coarsely. “If you want to fin
d him anywhere but on a cross, you better get there soon! Preach peace to the Romans? Might as well cut his own throat, eh, boys?”
There was a round of laughter amongst all the riders in which our men shared uneasily.
“If the Romans haven’t already killed him,” Zimri continued, “Bar Abba will. Death to all traitors, I say. Death to all who would offer their backs to the Roman lash.”
Leaning toward his guest, Father said firmly, “I will not challenge you about this, but neither will I allow you to insult my good friend, the rabbi. I don’t know about such things as messiahs, but Kagba is a learned man and must be respected.”
Zimri’s sneer was broad, fueled by the wine he had consumed. He clapped his hand to his right thigh, where a short sword hung. “Religion and learning are all well in their place, but not when it comes to getting the Roman boot off Judea’s neck! No, bar Abba has it right. And now that I think of it, I must ask you for your contribution to our cause.”
“What are you talking about?” Father demanded coldly. “You have been fed. Be on your way.”
Zimri shook his head. “Those who cannot or will not fight always hide behind some pretext or other while the real patriots spill their blood. You who are well off must share the load in some way.”
Holding the now-empty wineskin, I witnessed Zimri stretch his left arm high above his head. It was an awkward, unnatural movement, as if the Jewish horseman were reaching toward the waxing moon that hung in the sky to the south.
Then Zimri dropped his hand abruptly, and pandemonium broke loose. All of Zimri’s rebels drew their swords. The shepherds, wary men at all times, jumped up, staffs in hand, and the battle was on.
Rabbi Kagba was too old to fight and, besides, was unarmed. There were twelve bandits against Father and four shepherds.
“Grab the boy!” Zimri yelled as he slashed with his blade and Father parried with his six-foot-long staff. “Grab him! Then they’ll throw down their weapons.”
The greasy ruffian lunged toward me but missed when I tripped and fell backward over a heap of firewood.
