by Angela Hunt
Father closed his eyes. “Son, not many nights ago you came to me and asked me to arrange this marriage. I spoke to the cheesemaker. He is open to our offer.”
“A lot of young men go through this.” The teacher grinned at Father. “The misery of second thought.”
Father shook his head. “All these things work together, Judah,” he said in the calm tone he used whenever something frustrated him. “The Ruach Ha-kodesh, the spirit of holiness, guides us into knowing what is right. He introduced you to a woman who occupies your mind like no other. He made the cheesemaker agreeable. Is this not the work of HaShem?”
With great reluctance, I nodded.
“Do you not remember the words of Solomon?” the teacher asked. “‘There is a time to be born and a time to die.’ A time to pray, and a time to create a marriage contract.”
The teacher wrote more words on the parchment, then passed it to my father, who read it in the glow of a torch. He smiled as he handed the parchment to me.
I looked at the words. As usual, they seemed to arrange themselves in confusing order on the page, yet I could trust the Torah teacher.
I gave the contract back to him. “It is good.”
“I will prepare a formal copy,” the teacher said, tucking the parchment into his robe, “and bring it to you within two days. Prepare your gift, Judah, and make sure you have a clean tunic. You wouldn’t want to unnerve your bride by appearing in dusty clothes.”
I stood when he did, and swallowed the words that sprang to my lips. It is far more likely that my bride will unnerve me.
“Go ahead, I will find you later,” I told Jonathan, who was walking with me. He shot me a questioning look, then grinned when he saw I had veered toward the marketplace.
“Now I understand,” he said, still grinning. “Are you sure you want to see her now? The teacher has not yet returned with your contract, so nothing is yet official.”
I waved him away. “I need to see her.”
“Can’t stay away, eh?” Jonathan laughed and strode toward an inn, leaving me alone with my pounding heart.
In truth, it wasn’t love that drew me to the marketplace—anxiety spurred me to find Leah. I had promised to present her with a marriage contract, but before the betrothal became final I needed to be sure she wanted to commit to the challenge of being my wife.
I wandered throughout the marketplace, passing the baker’s booth, the sellers of olives and olive oil, the fig merchant, the man who sold sandals, and the women who sold woven fabrics. I walked past the stall where for two drachmas a man with iron pinchers would pull anything—a sore tooth, a nail, or a weapon—from a living body.
Finally I reached the cheesemaker’s stall, and there, looking at me, stood Leah.
I managed a trembling smile as I drew nearer. An idea had occurred to me, a notion that might make things easier. “The day is nearly done,” I said. “Will you close your booth?”
Her brow rose. “Why?”
“So I can walk with you. Escort you to your house.”
She tilted her head, then offered me a distracted nod. “All right. Let me tidy up.”
She took the few remaining cheeses, placed them in a handcart, and covered them with a cloth. Then she tugged on a rope that dropped a curtain between us. A moment later she came around the corner, expertly gripping the cart’s handles. She wheeled it into the alley, then turned to me. “Ready?”
“Yes.” We traveled a short distance before I realized she was breathing more quickly than I, probably because she was pushing the cart up a hill. “Let me do that.” I took the cart from her and bent to push it through the thinning crowd. I found the thing difficult to maneuver at first—I wasn’t accustomed to pushing in a stooped stance. But after a few strides I developed a rhythm and the task became easier.
Reluctantly, I drew a deep breath and shifted my attention to the girl at my side.
“I thought you should know,” I said, keeping my eyes on the rutted road, “that my father and I will be visiting your home tomorrow night. With the Torah teacher.”
Her eyes widened as a rush of pink stained her cheeks. “Oh!”
“I also want you to know that marriage—well, I was in no hurry to take a wife. But then I met you.”
She snapped her mouth shut and looked at me with a perplexed expression, as if she had a question in mind but lacked the courage to ask it.
“My father,” I went on, “wants me to marry before we leave Jerusalem. He has retired from Temple service and wishes to live in a place where we will not be pressured to give up our way of life.” I lowered my voice. “In truth, Father strongly opposes the king’s edicts. We will live in Modein, where we can follow the Torah and obey Adonai’s laws without persecution.”
A frown settled between her brows. “So . . . you are being pressured to marry.”
“Yes—and no. It was Father’s idea, but after speaking to you, the idea seemed good to me. Still, you may not wish to take me as a husband under these circumstances. We will have to move. You will have to leave Jerusalem. And I grew up with four brothers, so I know nothing about women.”
“Did you have a mother?”
I blinked. “Of course.”
“Then you know more than you realize.” She looked away, her gaze fixed on some distant point I could not see. “So . . . you are not coming to my house out of love. You are coming out of necessity.”
I hesitated—the truth sounded harsh when she put it into words. “I am coming . . . out of obedience. And . . . good nature.”
“Good nature?” She stopped in the road and stared at me, her back stiff and straight. “I have no idea what that means.”
“It means—your good nature—pleases me. I think we could be friends.”
“Friends.”
Heat scalded the back of my neck, but at least she couldn’t see my flaming flesh. “Yes.”
“I understand. And in the town of Modein, would your wife be required to sell cheese?”
I shrugged. “Only if she wanted to.”
Leah relaxed, her lips spreading in a thin smile. “You will be welcomed at my home tomorrow night, Judah Maccabaeus. I will have the wine ready.”
Chapter Seven
Leah
When Judah left me outside my house, I stood and watched until the crowd swallowed up his broad-shouldered form. Why had he bothered to seek me out? Our fathers could have arranged everything without a single word to me, yet with words from his own lips Judah Maccabaeus had wanted me to know what he was like.
That realization made my heart sing with delight. A man who cared what I thought. A man who looked into my eyes when he spoke to me, and even used my name.
No matter that he did not know women; I would teach him. No matter that he did not immediately take the heavy cart from me, at least he had taken it, which was more than Father ever did. No matter that he was marrying me only out of obedience to his father; most of my friends married for the same reason.
I wheeled my cart into the courtyard, closed the gate, and hurried inside.
Mother sat by the fire, stirring a pot on the coals. She shifted her attention to me, and the grim line of her mouth relaxed. “I have long wondered if I would ever see that look on your face,” she said. “And now I know you have found a way to escape this place.”
“What look?”
She smiled. “Nothing.”
I sank onto the bench near the door. “Judah Maccabaeus will come here tomorrow with his father and the teacher.”
“And this pleases you?”
“Yes. But he took care to tell me that he does not know anything about women. He is marrying only because his father requires it.”
Mother shrugged. “This is nothing to worry about; he will learn. Does he please you?”
I opened my hands and stared at the floor, superimposing Judah’s image on the packed earth. “I see nothing unpleasant in him. He is far taller than Father, with thick hair and eyes like pools of ink. His shoulde
rs are nearly as wide as our doorway, and he is kind—he wheeled the cart for me.” I smiled. “But only after he saw me struggling.”
Mother pressed her lips together. “I said nearly the same things to my mother when I first saw your father—except your father has never been tall. He has always been a small man.” A grim smile flickered over her face. “About a year after we were married, I realized he was not the man I wanted. He did not care for me as a husband should care for a wife. He was harsh when I needed softness, brutal when I needed kindness. He was not cruel when we married, but in time I began to see the real man.”
She turned her face to mine, her eyes softening with seriousness. “But here I am, and there you are, safe and as yet untouched by brutality. You, daughter, gave me a reason to live.”
I stared wordlessly, stunned by her transparency. She had never spoken of these things before.
She shifted her gaze to the glowing coals, then held her hands over them as if testing the heat. “I pray you will not experience my fate, and from what you have said, I do not believe you will. Ask HaShem to guard the man you marry, study him well, and serve him as best you can. Then, perhaps, you will be happy and blessed.”
I stood and impulsively kissed her forehead, then retreated to my bed where I could face the wall and ponder the upheaval about to enter my life.
How could one know a man before marriage? Most of my friends had been betrothed to men they’d only glimpsed across the synagogue. None of them had spent much time together, so none of my friends had really known their future husbands.
But though I had never met Judah before last week, on the afternoon he stopped to help Miriam and me I learned more about him than in a year of shy conversations. I saw him demonstrate his care for the helpless. I saw his strength. I saw his virtue in action, and I was unspeakably grateful. With Judah Maccabaeus, I told myself, I would finally feel safe. I would live in a home filled with peace.
My father came home late on the appointed night, a smile wreathing his round face. “I have spoken to Mattathias the Levite,” he told Mother, “and it is agreed. His son Judah will take our girl to be his wife, and they will move to Modein. I told him we would pine for the sight of our only daughter, and he promised to send one hundred drachmas to console us. I told him that would be consolation indeed.”
“I thought—” I glanced at Mother, wondering if I should speak—“I thought they were coming here.”
“Here?” Father snorted. “I would not have a priest enter this ill-kept house. No, we settled the matter at the inn. We lifted our cups and drank to the marriage, and everything is arranged. Oh.” From his belt he took out a small fabric bag, opened it, and pulled out a string of pearls. “Judah Maccabaeus gave this as the mohar. Nice pearls, I say.”
My fingers itched to touch the necklace, to feel the glowing orbs against my fingertips. I knew little about fine jewelry, but I knew pearls were rare and expensive, especially for those who did not live by the sea.
“They should bring a good price with Aaron the jeweler,” Father said, sliding the pearls back into their fabric bag. “I will take them to his shop tomorrow.”
I stood still and heard my heart break. The crisp sound echoed in my head, and in that moment I vowed that Father would never hurt me again. It would have been a small thing for him to pass on the gift Judah intended for me, especially since Father had also bargained for one hundred drachmas. But no, my father would not even allow me to enjoy a blessing from my future husband.
I crossed the room to my pallet, lay down, and faced the wall. The pillow felt cool against my flaming cheek, and my fisted hands went pale as I squeezed the color out of them.
Father had undoubtedly behaved badly during the meeting, dangling his only daughter like some kind of rare prize. Mattathias must be a generous and loving parent, for any other man would have been repulsed by my father’s naked greed. But kindness had prevailed, or perhaps Judah had spoken up for me. The betrothal was accomplished and the marriage arranged. If all went as planned, I would soon be traveling to a new home with the new man in my life. My husband.
I lifted my blanket to my shoulders and chewed on my thumbnail. Did Judah know the sort of woman he had bargained for? Despite what my father had implied, I was no great prize. I was like my mother, neither beautiful, smart, nor particularly skilled. I knew how to make cheese only because I had watched Mother make hundreds, but she had taught me no other skills. She had not been a great beauty in her youth, and she had never been clever enough to answer Father’s insults with her own. But by far her worst fault was her lack of strength—she had never been able to stand up to Father, nor had she tried.
But I was not weak. If Judah ever laid a hand on me, I would rise up with fists ready and arms curled, determined to show him how strong I was.
Judah Maccabaeus did not seem the sort of man who would beat his wife. Yet if he was, I would not be like my mother and take his violence.
I would sleep with a dagger.
Chapter Eight
Judah
The sun had begun to lower in the west by the time I entered an inn near the city gates. I knew I would find Simon inside.
He sat by himself, a bowl of porridge and a stone cup on the table. I slid into the seat across from him and breathed in the scents of boiled meat, spilled wine, and unwashed bodies. I smiled at my bleary-eyed brother. “Does your wife no longer cook for you?”
He shook his head. “Morit doesn’t cook when she’s expecting. Says the smells make her sick.”
“So this is what you eat?” I nodded at the thin gruel in the bowl. “You could do better at Father’s house.”
Simon swatted away the suggestion. “Sometimes I don’t want to listen to Father’s complaints and Mother’s questions. You and Jonathan are usually at the table, too, and sometimes a man prefers quiet.”
“You call this quiet?” I gestured to the dozens of men around us.
He grinned. “You’ll understand soon enough, now that you’re betrothed. When’s the big day?”
I shrugged. “Father says the wedding can take place anytime before we leave for Modein. So I think I’ll wait until the day before.”
Simon blinked. “Dreading it that much?”
“I’m in no hurry.”
“I will never understand you, brother. And that reminds me.” Simon leaned across the table. “Tell me, why did you pick that one? Out of all the beautiful girls in Jerusalem—”
“I didn’t want a girl. I wanted a woman.”
Simon snorted. “What is she, thirteen? She’s barely—”
“Fourteen, and she seems older. Around the eyes.”
My brother blew out a breath and leaned back in his chair. “You’ll learn that girls turn into women soon enough. Give them a baby and a cook fire, and the next thing you know they are shouting orders and yelling about what they need you to do. Bedding a wife is pleasurable for the first year or so, but as soon as the babies come, the wife has no time for you.”
“I’ll get a wet nurse,” I said, remembering what I’d once overheard Morit telling Johanan’s wife. “Someone to give my wife a rest from the child.”
“Women never take a rest from their children, only their husbands.” Simon picked up his bowl and slurped the gruel, then looked at me over the rim. “Your girl sells cheese, right?”
I nodded.
“That trade brings a good income. Maybe you’re smarter than I realized.”
“She may not want to make cheese,” I said. “And that would be all right.”
Simon gaped, giving me a good look at his back teeth. “She may not want to?”
“That’s what I said.”
“By heaven and earth, brother, are you mad? She will do what you tell her so your family can survive. Do you think Morit wants to bake all day, especially with a baby at her knee? She doesn’t, but she does it because we must. Just as Ona weaves and Mother makes baskets—”
“I’m sure my wife will do something,” I
interrupted. “But I would rather not make her do anything she doesn’t want to do.”
Simon pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “You are an odd one, brother. I wish you well, but I will never understand you.”
He slurped in silence while a servant brought wine. I sipped from my cup, lowered my head, and looked around.
Two strangers sat at a nearby table. Their curled beards and fancy caps marked them as Seleucids, and from their colorful robes and jeweled fingers I surmised they were government officials, perhaps even royal retainers. The tavern servant brought them a platter of venison, which they began to devour as soon as the dish hit the table.
“Hey.” I caught Simon’s attention, cutting a glance to the foreigners behind him. “Wouldn’t it be nice to eat like that?”
Simon lowered his bowl and turned. When he looked at me again, a muscle quivered at his jaw.
Neither of us had forgotten what happened the last time Seleucid soldiers invaded Jerusalem. A year earlier, King Antiochus Epiphanes had taken his revenge on Jason, the high priest who seized his position from Menelaus, the king’s choice, while Antiochus fought in Egypt. When the king learned what Jason had done, the people of Jerusalem paid the price. Supporters of Menelaus opened the gates of the city, allowing Seleucid soldiers to enter and massacre over forty thousand men, women, and children. Many of those who did not leave ahead of the king’s army, as we had, were rounded up and sold into slavery. Menelaus was reinstalled as high priest while Jason fled to Egypt. To further compound his atrocities, Antiochus entered the Temple and ransacked the sacred space, stealing the golden candlestick, the altar of incense, the sacred vessels, and other priceless treasures.
Our family had been devastated by the king’s actions, and those of us who survived the slaughter mourned for months after we returned to our homes. Antiochus had departed by that time, taking the sacred Temple treasures with him to Antioch, his capital city. To remind us of his displeasure and to pay for his luxuries, delegates, and expensive wars, he initiated new taxes for the Jews of Judea: a poll tax, a crown tax, and a temple tax. The king claimed up to a third of our grain harvest and half of the fruit harvest. The occupying Seleucid army frequently helped themselves to the livestock of Judea, and the poor in rural villages became even poorer beneath the king’s grasping hand.
