Babes in Toyland II

by Aspen Mountain Press Authors

  "Your father is a good man,” he clasped Jacob's thin shoulder, “devout in his prayers and he shares his wealth within our community as is right and proper.” The Rabbi paused, weighing his words. “But for a man blessed with many fine and healthy sons, he shows the scholar unseemly favor."

  Also as usual, Jacob was at a loss for words, dropping his head in shame. His father was a spice merchant and spent many months on the caravan trails, trading in the most hostile battle-torn lands. Before following their father in trade, his two elder brothers trained with the Hellene soldiers to better protect their aging patriarch. Their mother, Naomi, remained home weeping, certain she was destined to become a childless widow, until the men returned home to celebrate the turning of each Rosh Shoshanna or New Year. That was, until Jacob expressed a desire to join the ranks of the priesthood and become a Rabbi.

  Not long after Jacob's celebrated decision, the Hellenistic rulers outlawed the practice of their faith. In response, the religious leader, Mattathias of Hasmonean, slew a Jew who broke faith to appease the Seleucids with a pagan offering. Mattathias fled into the wilds of Judea with his warrior sons, promising a triumphant return. Before he could fulfill his pledge, Mattathias was killed. In retaliation his sons began assembling an army of dissidents.

  Now Jacob's poor mother was back to bemoaning a fate of loneliness—if caught, Jacob faced death as surely as his siblings who worked the caravan routes.

  "Greetings Rabbi Pathai,” Jacob's father paused at the entrance and bowed in respect.

  "Greetings, Moshe! It is a good sign you returned in time for the Sukkot! Perhaps now your wife can rest easy,” Naomi's lamentations were well known and affably tolerated.

  "I returned early for my own selfish reasons, Rabbi. Naomi is due to deliver another child and my prayer is for her to discover true joy in a daughter to teach the women's ways to.” With a wry smile he admitted, “I think she mourns that loss more than any other. In truth, come the dry months she chases us from the house with her broom, heartily sick of us all."

  The men shared a chuckle and Jacob slowly released his pent-up breath with a silent prayer. He'd hoped that his father's largesse would be forgotten with conversation.

  Those hopes were dashed by the dark, shining eyes of his impatient younger brother, Simi. “Father,” he whined dragging each syllable out in a pained manner, “please hurry Jacob to see his new gift.” Tugging at his father's robe, the boy shifted impatiently from foot to foot.

  Jacob was surprised, instead of smiling indulgently, Moshe sharply reprimanded Simi, sending the child to wait outside. He watched as his father listened for the sound of bare feet on stone to fade from hearing, before turning back. With a weary shake of his head, Moshe gestured, asking permission to enter and sit.

  The study was unremarkable, formulated of the adobe brick materials the Jews labored to make while slaves, a lone window let in late afternoon sun, covering a spare wooden table and a curtained alcove where the religious scrolls were kept.

  Quickly, Rabbi Pathai returned the scrolls behind the draped alcove and gestured for Moshe to join himself and Jacob, his lone remaining student, at the table. “Is there a problem with Naomi and the babe?"

  "No, I wish that it were so simple a problem, though I will not make light of the dangers of childbirth. I know you look with disfavor on the gifts I provide my third son.” He favored Jacob with a smile. “You remind me so much of your mother, with your lighter hair and eyes, the northern Egyptian influence I suppose.” Shaking his head, Moshe changed the topic. “This gift is not typical and not a luxury, not anymore."

  He looked at the Rabbi, begging for understanding. “You know the aversion I have to buying slaves. I have so few, choosing to hire youths from the community over trading in flesh ... but war is whispered in the winds. A war to take back our lands. I cannot, in good stead, not provide a measure of security for our leader,” he bowed his head to Pathai, “and its future.” At this point Moshe studiously avoided looking at his middle child.

  The room resonated with the quiet of the stunned. Jacob was accustomed to being rendered speechless, he had a suspicion from the way his teacher's mouth was working without noise that it was a new experience for his elder.

  "I cannot...” Raphael Pathai cleared his throat, “we cannot have a soldier baring weapons in the room with us, Moshe. Our laws are clear on the subject of killing. Your offer is gracious but..."

  "Hear me, please Rabbi,” Moshe begged. “In my travels I have heard of the new type of battle the Maccabeus are bringing to bear on the Seleucids. To this end, I sought long and hard at the slave markets and found a warrior who will go unseen, even in our community.” Intrigued, the elderly religious man rose and gestured for father and son to lead him to this new, unusual measure of protection.

  Chapter Two

  Jacob followed his father and teacher, saddened by the reminder of what made his transition into adulthood so miserable. It wasn't his sparse home; he was proud of having his own home, maintained by his non-secular job, working the family shop while his brothers and father traveled. What made his life hard was his resemblance to his mother. As a child he marveled at her exotic beauty: a willowy petite form, golden hair and tawny eyes. All without knowing he would grow to resemble her more than was appealing in his sex.

  He learned of his shortcomings in a painful way. One beautiful morning, as the sun crested the sandy colored homes ringing the well, Jacob plucked up his nerve and approached a pretty young woman who had caught his eye. He wasn't wealthy, but being a religious leader is a position of prestige and honor without measure. He'd hoped it would balance so they could get to know one another, to see if the attraction was mutual. The only downside he envisioned was his mother. Naomi could be trying, but she was a gifted weaver who possessed the knowledge of how to make the blue dye for the tzitzits, the fringe that were a mitzvoh for all corners of their garments.

  "Good morning Devash bat Uma.” The words managed to come without the customary embarrassed squeak Simi laughed at so often.

  For a moment he could have sworn a look of irritation crossed her pretty features. “Good morning to you Jacob bar Moshe,” her reply seemed distracted.

  Feeling a little more at ease, believing she was as nervous as he, Jacob relaxed. “I've been thinking,” he began eagerly, missing the way her dark brown eyes strayed as he went tongue-tied. “I mean ... I have wanted ... been meaning to ask ... would do me the honor of taking dinner with my family Shabbat eve."

  He winced. Inviting her to Shabbat was a fairly big hint that he was seriously interested in Devash as it meant asking her to stay with his family for the entire period of rest from the lighting of the sundown candles to the rekindling of the cook fires. Normally, only couples that had walked hand-in-hand or shared romantic conversation and meals along the river banks considered such a serious step.

  Startled, Devash turned so fast she knocked her pitchers from the ledge. Lunging forward, Jacob caught them, dousing the front of his clothes for his efforts.

  "Let me tell you plainly Jacob, you interest me not at all.” Her sleek aquiline nose lifted haughtily. “Look at you! Thin as a shepherd's pole and pretty as a woman.” Her voice was sharp and mean. “Your brothers have the strength of men. You look more a creature for the abnormal tastes of the Persians lurking in the wastes."

  Stunned, he set her jars on the ground as she continued, “Moreover, you have no wealth or trade. Yes, you maintain the shop for your father but earn only a pittance! As for being a priest,” she tossed her hair in disgust. “I get lectures enough on prayer and proper behavior from my parents—I do not wish more of the same from a husband.” She lifted her hands impatiently, shooing him away like an annoying child.

  Returning home, he slumped at his table in shock. Was this the reason all the young, marriageable women avoided his eye? Two of his brothers married women from the northern part of Judah and a third from the lands beyond Egypt. Perhaps he should follow their lead and t
ravel. But recalling his brothers’ strength, daring and traditional handsome looks salted the wound. Sitting at his table he vowed not to give in to despair but sought solace, as he always did, in prayer.

  Later that night he had a dream, one he held close to his heart as a message from Elokim. There was a desert of curious white, bitterly harsh and unyielding. Yet everywhere he walked the ground changed, awoke and became pliable to the plow. Despite his fear of animals there had been a horse, strong and proud, dancing in distant sand dunes. When he lifted his hand, the animal slowly neared then sidled close, allowing him to rest a hand on its back. Turning, he looked and instead of his familiar barren single-floored bachelor dwelling he saw a true home. Out front he sat on a stone bench with children at his feet listening to him talk of past Kings and Queens. In his heart he knew the children were his ... but where was his wife?

  The shrill blast of the shofar called him from the dream to Yom Kippur, a day of atonement for transgressions. Holding his dream close, Jacob vowed that he would beg forgiveness for vanity in desiring a woman for her beauty alone, for despairing in not finding a wife and for acting the fool with Devash.

  Chapter Three

  Walking into the harsh midday sun, Jacob blinked back the troubling memory as well as the glare. To his left, his teacher gasped. From the angle Jacob couldn't tell if it was in shock or awe.

  Striding forward, the Rabbi approached a hooded figure standing next to a stout, unusually hairy pony.

  "Can you tell me your name?” There was no reply. The aged man then tried a number of other languages: that of the Hellenes, the Syrians, and another language Jacob didn't recognize. He made a mental note to ask what tongue the older man spoke—foreign languages fascinated him, when the bony hand of his teacher latched onto his elbow, dragging him near.

  Standing close, he saw a woman hidden under the tall point of the bulky, fur-trimmed hood and garishly ornate robe. She had the most amazing eyes, the color of the sky on a cold winter's day. Her body was deeply tanned and lithe, corded with muscles under the brilliantly beaded vest and shocking pants, and her hair had an odd assortment of braids ending in small animal fetishes made of bone, gold and silver accented with the occasional feather.

  He even found himself marveling at the short boots she wore, also trimmed in fur. She had to be uncommonly hot but no emotion, let alone discomfort, crossed her remarkable face. High cheekbones, an uncompromising mouth, a softly rounded chin, and the cat-tilted eyes of the people of the Far Eastern lands ... but her eye color was her treasure, setting her apart from any other woman. He found her compelling, his body stirred in a painful manner, but also vaguely repugnant. The creature stank.

  "You speak the Thracian tongue, Jacob. Try asking this woman her name."

  He had no idea why his mentor was so excited, he had a wife and children and grandchildren. To what end could the Rabbi have for a female servant let alone one so malodorous? Looking at the odd equine and the woman's startling eyes, he felt smacked by an incredible realization, as if he were falling within himself. She couldn't be, could she?

  "What do you call yourself?” The dialect of the northern steppe-dwellers, called the Kimmeroi by the Hellenes, was that of race he'd studied in scrolls but he'd never practiced their language with another living person. The tribes of the region above the Black Sea, by the Dneiper, were dangerous even in times of peace.

  * * * *

  Saka startled, she had been watching and appraising the wiry male, appreciating his lean musculature. He would make a good archer, she decided as the others gibbered in unfamiliar tongues. Then he spoke. While the way he formed the words was awkward, she understood his question. Looking to the heavens, she made a salute of thanks to the sky, the god that ruled the horse clan, before replying.

  "I am called Saka Ishkuzi,” she replied. Sweeping off the hooded cloak with a coldly calculated bow, her eyes never left his until she offered the back of her neck in submission. It had been her shame to have fallen in battle, branded like cattle by the Syrian, then sold to these odd people who bathed too much to be healthy. Every night on the drive, they stopped and poured bowls to wash in, lamenting all the while it wasn't enough.

  If she was to be given to this male, it would be in her interest to never take her eyes off of him, notably since his body bespoke the potential to rival her in battle skill. Frowning, he returned to the others, speaking gibberish again.

  * * * *

  "She calls herself Saka Ishkuzi, but I don't understand. Is it her name or her clan and ability?” Jacob removed his tallis and yarmulke, folding them carefully before handing the cloths to his father so he could more closely approach the begrimed woman.

  "What do you mean Jacob?” His father had a familiar, speculative gleam in his eye—as if he finally realized a potential use for his bookish son on the caravan trails—interpreter. Jacob dropped his gaze. Before, his family celebrated his choice of the priesthood teasing him for being ill-suited to the rigors of the caravan. Now his father would be impossible to deal with.

  "Saka is a word that means Scythian.” He looked at the shaggy horse behind her. “The horse is hers?"

  "None other could touch the creature,” Moshe grudgingly admitted. Both he and the Syrian had tried to sell the animal to increase profits but it wasn't to be.

  Lost in thought, Jacob nodded. It made sense. The Scythian people were ferocious in battle and trained from adolescence onwards with the mount that would carry them into battle. “Her family name ‘Ishkuzi,’ it means archer. Does she have a bow as well?"

  Moshe shifted uncomfortably. The woman had been unarmed when he purchased her. That was when the real dealing began. In the end, for a painful price, the Syrian had provided a wealth of weapons that made the Hebrew trader wonder if what he had purchased had been the horse and the weaponry and not the girl at all. His intention had been to divide the items among his sons to keep their families safe. He still planned it.

  "Father!” Jacob straightened and stared hard at his father, noticing with a jolt that the older man was a bit shorter in stature. “A warrior is no good to us if she does not have her weapons.” It wasn't hard to intuit his father's intentions, but if the Scythian woman was intended to protect the priest and himself, she needed more than an underfed fuzzy horse.

  Turning back to the young woman, he bowed respectfully. “Saka Ishkuzi, welcome to Israel, the land of the Hebrew.” He paused trying to puzzle out the words needed.

  * * * *

  Saka blinked in astonishment. She'd heard of the nomadic tribes of the one-god and of their strange treatment of the slaves they purchased. Some supposedly became family and part of their closed, close-knit community while others suffered unspeakably, toiling until they dropped dead of work. Which was real—the dream or the late-night whispered tales of cowards? He treated her with respect giving her a small measure of reassurance.

  "My name is Jacob bar Moshe.” He waved at his father. “That means my name is Jacob, son of Moshe. This man is my father."

  She spared a cool look at the man who had bought her. She bore the humiliation of his brand like a common cow.

  "And the elder is my teacher, our tribal ... shaman."

  She noted the way he faltered over the word. So, the old man was a religious leader and Jacob only knew the one word. Saka nodded her understanding and was rewarded with a smile of unparalleled male beauty.

  He had white, straight teeth and the soft expression eased his bearing, reaching his golden cat's eyes. The others spoke and another round of arguing ensued. Well, Saka credited it as arguing given the harsh guttural tones and the way the words flew harder and faster as the men spit them at one another. Respectfully, Jacob bowed and addressed her again.

  "I have a small stable for your horse. Hopefully, it will not harm my donkey,” he muttered.

  She grinned and he stared at her teeth in horror, flinching back. Stammering to a stop, he cleared his throat. “The shaman has many who live in his home. There is no
room for you there, you will live with me. But,” he cleared his throat and stared at a point past her shoulder, “during certain hours of the day you will assist my mother. She needs extra hands as she is expecting a babe."

  Damn the sky-god, Saka inwardly raged. By becoming a warrior she had left the demeaning work of women to others. Through sheer daunt of will she kept calm. You are no longer a person of caste, you are worthless cattle and live at their amusement.

  Jacob left her side to study the line of camels. Saka watched as he poked, prodded and opened canvas sacks here and there. When he came to the bag containing her possessions, it was all she could do to restrain the urge to stop him and take back her things. He poked his face in and startled back, gagging, his nose wrinkled as the scent of the raw leather was carried on the wind.

  Her mood soured. What does he think? I only had a few days to air the leather before I was felled. He removed the bag and grunted under its weight, astounding Saka. The sack only contained her bow case, segmented spear, dagger, and sagaris, a type of double-bladed battle axe. He should have hefted it easily. A small tinkling noise reminded her of the assortment of headbands her mother had hidden with her with before dying, before the fateful day that led to Saka leaving the only home she'd ever known to be trained in the arts of war.

  Some of the trinkets were traditional for warriors, like the festishes that tipped her braids, others were frivolous female things meant to enhance beauty. As a child, she had rolled the smaller male adornments on the tent floor, wondering if they truly belonged to her father. As for the rest, Saka was no fool, warrior or not, she was not beautiful, not even with a bounty of gold. It amazed her that the greedy Syrian slave trader missed using those items for a tidy sale.

  Sweat ran in rivulets down her back making her shift. More than anything, Saka wished to be out from under the thrice damned sun. As a god, the glowing orb demanded her obedience, but did it have to sap her strength so? Her arm ached where the brand had been applied, and though it was bound tight with cloth, the odor didn't bode well. If it turned putrid, she could lose the arm and her value.