Harvest - 02 - Harvest of Gold

by Tessa Afshar

“My lord, I live to the north of Judah, near Sanballat’s territory. I am begging you to stop this work. Just yesterday we heard the news that he had made a promise to come and kill you all while you slept. Whatever you do, they will attack you. Your paltry defenses shall avail you nothing! You’ll be murdered, and then what good will your wall be?”

  If Nehemiah had heard this warning once, he had heard it ten times. It was becoming like an irritating toothache. It would not relent. At first, he had been annoyed. Now, he was beginning to grow concerned. Many of his leaders were already falling under its repetitious spell. If you hit the same patch of skin often enough, you would eventually form a tender bruise. Touch it again, and your victim would cry out from the pain. After so many warnings of impending disaster, the residents of Jerusalem were beginning to act like a bruised man.

  Physical threat was the city’s greatest fear. Though Babylon’s invasion had occurred long before any of them had been born, the hearts of the people continued to bear the scars of that savage captivity. Over one hundred years of fear rose up at the threat of Sanballat’s attack. It was a generational terror. To heal one man of the fear of invasion and violent death, God had to go three generations deep.

  Repeated reports of imminent doom were taking their toll on the morale of the occupants of Jerusalem. The men who insisted on spreading their disheartening news had the best of intentions. They considered themselves faithful Judeans who were helping their countrymen. Instead, they were as effective as Sanballat in the proliferation of discouragement.

  All around him, men were losing their heads. Nehemiah intended to keep his. It wasn’t so much that he was immune to pressure. Far from it. He just knew that if he clung to God, he could push through this time of hardship. And if he persevered, he might be able to inspire others to do the same.

  “Look,” Nehemiah said to his uninvited companion, and pointed. Not far from them, Azariah and his servants were working on the wall beside Azariah’s own house. “What do you see?”

  “They are building the wall.”

  Nehemiah almost called the man a genius, before managing to clamp down on the sarcasm that wanted to boil over. That might bring him a moment’s relief, but it would turn the heart of a man away. And he knew which had more value.

  “Note those who are fetching and carrying. Do you see how with one hand they carry the instruments of their work—buckets, stones, spades—and in the other, they carry swords and daggers and spears?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now the builders. Observe how each one has a sword buckled to his side.”

  “I see.”

  “Try to understand, my friend. We are ready for whatever may come. Stop being terrorized by a few menacing words. Put your hope in the Lord. Instead of bringing alarming news, make yourself useful and give Azariah a hand.”

  The man’s jaw grew slack.

  “Go on,” Nehemiah said. “We’re shorthanded. Your help would be welcome.”

  The man seemed dazed by the governor’s response. Nehemiah imagined that he had expected weak-kneed dismay, not steely resolve. It seemed to have made an impression, for he obeyed Nehemiah’s command and approached Azariah.

  Darius gave a thin smile. “He looks like he can’t figure out how he went from being the bearer of crucial news to helping in the very project he was disparaging moments ago.”

  Nehemiah ran an exasperated hand over his head. “With friends like this, Jerusalem doesn’t need any enemies. They don’t seem to understand that there are times in life when you must be both a builder and a warrior. One hand on a bucket and the other on a sword.”

  “Aren’t you concerned about slowing down? With this strategy, you’ve lost a good part of your work force.”

  Nehemiah paused. “Sometimes you have to do less in order to achieve more. There are seasons in life when you have to slow down your productivity. I must use part of my strength to resist the foe, and part for the work of God. I can’t bury my head in the sand and pretend that Judah has no enemies. My time and resources must reflect that fact, or I have already lost.

  “God has asked me to build up Jerusalem. But He has also asked me to protect what He has already built. With one hand we will hold on to the instruments of building, with the other, we will grasp the weapons of protection.”

  Roxanna left for Egypt the following morning. Sarah went to the courtyard to bid her fare well. She found Lysander already there, leaning against a wall, his arms crossed against his massive chest. His blond hair, newly washed, sparkled in the sunlight. His face bore such a thunderous expression that Sarah, intending to approach him with a hearty greeting, made a hasty retreat.

  “I wished you didn’t have to leave,” Sarah said as Roxanna checked her horse’s saddle. To her surprise, Sarah had grown to like the Persian girl. In spite of her barbed tongue, Roxanna’s genuine interest in those around her made her a lively companion. Sarah suspected that if she had remained in Jerusalem, they would have formed the kind of deep friendship that her heart longed to have.

  Roxanna played with the leather bridle of her horse, a massive creature that towered over her, though she did not seem to mind its menacing strength, or the danger it posed. “We Persians are slaves to our duty.” She threw a quick look toward Lysander before returning her attention to Sarah. “I wish I didn’t have to leave either.” With disconcerting abandon, she threw her arms around Sarah and gave her an enveloping hug. “I’ll miss you.”

  Sarah laughed. “I’ll miss you too. Now, are you going to walk over there and say goodbye to him?”

  Roxanna’s fair skin suffused with color. “Why should I? He can come and take his leave of me as any polite man would do.”

  “Oh, if it was politeness you were expecting, then perhaps you shouldn’t have been so rude to him for days on end.”

  Roxanna stiffened. “He deserved it.” She signaled her servant, a lanky man with swarthy complexion, before jumping into the saddle. “Keep well, sweet scribe. And shield that husband of yours from trouble. He seems to have a liking for it.”

  She pressed her feet to the sides of her giant horse, and it sprung to life. It had barely taken three steps when Lysander threw himself in the path of the creature like a madman with no concern for his safety. Sarah gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth to keep a scream from escaping.

  In the last moment, Roxanna managed to bring her horse under control before it crushed the Spartan under its prancing hooves. “Are you insane?” she shouted at the top of her lungs, her usually deep voice sounding squeaky.

  Lysander pulled her off her horse with one fluid movement. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

  Roxanna sputtered. “You’ve lost what little wit you had. I could have killed you!”

  Lysander studied the tall woman through narrowed eyes, not bothering to explain his actions. Sarah didn’t know whether to be outraged or delighted when, without warning, Lysander grabbed Roxanna and pulled her roughly into his arms and gave her a sound kiss that lasted far too long for decency. Sarah noted with interest that the Persian girl didn’t exactly seem to fight the embrace. When he was done, Lysander walked away without a word. He couldn’t speak; he was laughing too hard. Sarah found herself rooted to the spot. She had never heard him laugh out loud. It had a pleasant ring. One could grow accustomed to the sound of it. Observing Roxanna’s expression, she worried for a moment that he might find a dagger buried in his back.

  “Donkey,” she screamed at him. “Spartan peasant!”

  “See you back in Persia, shrew,” he said, still laughing.

  Sarah had a feeling that Lysander and Roxanna’s story was far from over. The Greek’s words held a firm promise. She felt certain that he would follow Roxanna, and that more adventures awaited them. A hint of pity for the Persian girl caused a wave of anxiety to shoot through Sarah. Being pursued by Lysander would be a little like being a besieged city.

  Darius found himself alone with Nehemiah. He had sat through a protracted meeting while Nehemia
h dealt with one complaint after another from his leaders. Darius knew he could have left at any point. These were not his problems. But he had found the governor’s tactics fascinating and had lingered out of curiosity.

  When everyone left, he asked, “Why do you think you have to spend so much of your time dealing with the difficulties that your own people are creating?”

  Nehemiah stretched his legs and expelled a sigh that seemed to come from his depths. “Our men have grown accustomed to defeat. Remember that not long ago, they lost everything. Now, they measure every circumstance in life against that possibility. Even a small threat sends them scurrying for cover because they expect to lose. They expect the worst to come to pass. When we first started rebuilding the walls, they didn’t believe they had the fortitude to be builders. Experience has taught them a different lesson. It is time they learn they can be warriors too.

  “It’s like in the days of Gideon. Did your mother ever tell you his story, my lord?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “It was during the time of the judges. In those days, Israel did not have kings like other nations. The Lord was our King.”

  “I do remember my mother speaking of that time.”

  “It was an unusual period. Israel had enjoyed forty years of peace. In that season of prosperity, rather than drawing closer to God, we wandered. We worshiped the Lord. But we also worshiped the idols of Canaan. As a result, God allowed the Midianites to rule over our nation for seven cruel years. We became impoverished and were reduced to starvation by constant attacks.

  “A young man from the tribe of Manasseh, named Gideon, grew up during those hard times. One day, the angel of the Lord came to visit him. Gideon was hiding at the bottom of a winepress, threshing wheat.”

  “Why would he thresh wheat in a winepress? Surely that must have been too confined a space?”

  “Yes, but the Midianites intimidated him. They often swooped down on the people of Israel and plundered their food and cattle. Experience had taught Gideon to grow timid. To be afraid. So he hid at the bottom of a winepress. And God came to him there, at the height of his weakness, his indignity, his insecurity.

  “And what do you think the angel of the Lord called Gideon, there, hiding in his winepress, clutching his bit of wheat?”

  Darius shook his head. “Idiot? Coward?”

  Nehemiah threw his head back and gave a deep laugh. “You would think so. But no. He called Gideon a mighty warrior. A man of valor.”

  “What for? He sounds like a fainthearted weakling.”

  “That is how he had learned to live. His circumstances had caused him to see himself in those terms. He didn’t accept the angel’s words any more than you did, my lord. He said, My clan is the weakest in Manasseh, and I am the least in my family. In other words, he thought he was a nobody. A far cry from a man of valor.

  “But God saw the real man. Not the person the circumstances had produced. Beneath all that, He perceived the man He had created. Someone strong and capable. A courageous champion. He saw a man who could be a judge over Israel during an arduous period. A man with strength enough to set Israel free from her enemies.”

  Darius raised his brows. “Did Gideon become a judge?”

  “Yes. One of our greatest. And he went on to save Israel from the terror of Midian.”

  “Are you saying that the men of Judah have become like Gideon? They perceive themselves as less than they are?”

  “Indeed, that is what I mean. We have grown timid and negative. Our enemies foster these lies. And so, like Gideon, we live our lives at the bottom of a winepress of our own making.

  “But I don’t think that is how God sees us, because that is not how He created us. He is calling us forth, calling us to walk into our true nature. To be stouthearted. To become men and women of valor, like Gideon. He is calling us to crawl out of hiding and face our enemies, especially the ones that torment our mind. Enemies like fear and insecurity.”

  Darius bent to pick up a small clay tablet, which had rolled on the floor. He twirled it in the air before catching it with ease. “You’ve changed, cupbearer.”

  Nehemiah combed a hand through his beard. It had grown scruffy. “I dare say. Neither I nor my men have taken off our clothes in days. If I came before His Majesty in this state, he would place the heel of his leather-shod foot on the seat of my trousers and cast me out of his presence.”

  “I don’t mean your appearance, though I own, I never thought to see you in such a state.” Darius flipped the tablet higher this time, caught it again, and threw it back up. “You have become less of a courtier. More of a commander. You govern and lead your people as if you were born to it.”

  Nehemiah caught the tablet mid-twirl in the air. “I hope you are right, my lord. Most days, I feel I don’t know what I’m doing. If it weren’t for my faith in God and His guidance, I might have given up long ago.”

  As a military commander, Darius had seen his fair share of masterful leaders who pushed through difficult circumstances and accomplished the work, no matter how harrowing. He was accustomed to stubborn courage. As an aristocrat, he had spent years in the company of men and women whose autocratic confidence led the way out of many tangles—and sometimes into them. What had started to impress Darius about Nehemiah, however, was that alongside these qualities, he showed a profound understanding of the people under his care. He recognized their weakness, and yet instead of judging it, he sought ways to dissolve it.

  What was more, Darius found Nehemiah’s consideration for the suffering of the poor humbling. The first time he had visited the governor in his chamber he had been shocked by its diminutive modesty.

  “These are your private quarters?” he had asked. He had been assigned a room twice as large.

  Nehemiah had waved a hand. “I’m rarely here. No sense in taking the best room for myself.”

  “Sarah says you are paying the expenses of the household from your personal purse in order to spare the people.”

  “What else can I do? Bleed them dry? Someone has to take care of them.”

  The most shocking aspect of Nehemiah’s character proved to be his openness. Darius had almost choked when he heard Judea’s governor admit that he didn’t know what he was doing. As the scion of one of the most important families in the Persian world, Darius had been raised never to confess his insecurity. Something in him had cringed with distaste when Nehemiah had said those words. Another part of him—something deeper and hidden—had leapt like a hungry lion toward that revelation. That level of transparency had appealed to a part of him he had not known existed.

  He scratched his chin, which had begun to itch. Normally, in the summer months he adopted a clean-shaven look, like the Egyptians. It felt more comfortable in the heat. In Jerusalem, however, everything that required extra time had become untenable and he had stopped shaving.

  The past few days had been tense, and everyone in Jerusalem lived as though under siege. In the urgency of constant danger, they kept their weapons strapped to their sides, even when they went for water.

  Darius had volunteered to take guard duty at one of the sectors. No one could be spared anymore, neither the highest leader nor the lowest servant. Nehemiah had even asked the people who lived outside Jerusalem to move into the city at nights so that they and their men could help with the evening watch.

  Darius made his way to the spot Nehemiah had assigned to him on the eastern wall, not far from the palace ruins. The location covered a residential area. Its proximity to the old part of Jerusalem, which the residents referred to as the City of David, made it a strategic portion. Darius had been stationed opposite a worker named Hanun, the sixth son of Zalaph.

  “Good morning,” he said as he took his position.

  Hanun must have been close in age to Darius. His modest clothes and lack of servants marked him a poor man, but Hanun had a sparkle to his manner that seemed undimmed by poverty.

  “Lord Darius! How blessed I am to have the flower
of Persian aristocracy guard my back! The Lord has smiled upon me indeed. I doubt even the high priest himself has been honored with such grand protection.” The wide mouth split into a guileless smile.

  Darius returned the smile. “Perhaps the king has sent me to keep an eye on you. I hear you are a troublemaker.”

  “Ah, you must have me mixed up with this one over here.” He pulled forward a little boy, no more than six or seven years old. “This is Benjamin, my son. He is the prince of troublemakers.”

  The boy had sturdy arms and legs and eyes the color of the night. He swatted Hanun on the thigh. “Father!” Turning to Darius, he said, “I am not a troublemaker. My father has taught me to be a good builder, because I’m strong. See?” He picked up a large piece of masonry. His face turned red with the effort.

  “Impressive,” Darius said. He meant it.

  “Thank you! Just what I needed. Better give that to me in case I run out of stones, son.” Hanun took the masonry from Benjamin before he could hurt himself and winked at Darius.

  “I’m going to be a soldier, like you.” Benjamin approached Darius, his manner confident. Before Darius could respond, a woman strolled over. She had the same dark eyes as Benjamin. Her pleasingly plump figure was encased in a simple woolen tunic cinched at the waist by a striped fabric sash he had noticed Judean women favored. Her scarf matched the wool of her dress. Neither one had been dyed. Dye cost money.

  “Is my son making a pest of himself, my lord?”

  “He’s fine. He was sharing his plans for the future.”

  Hanun left the wall to join them. “Tirzah, my love.” He kissed his wife with open tenderness. “Have you come to help?”

  “I have. My chores at the house are done. I can lend you a hand the rest of the day.”

  Hanun addressed Darius. “This is my wife, Tirzah, my lord. Do you see my portion of the wall? These delicate, ivory hands have raised half of it.”

  Tirzah cuffed her husband on the shoulder and held out her hands. They were callused and work roughened. Where mud and dirt didn’t cover the skin, it peeked through brown as wood from a walnut tree. “Neither delicate nor ivory, you foolish man. Now come and work, both of you, and leave the Persian lord to do his job.”