“Rebekah’s Treasure by Sylvia Bambola is a tale that will capture your attention and heart. Set in war-torn Israel when zealots fought for the honor of the Temple and Jerusalem, when the majesty and might of Rome became a terror and a scourge, one Jewish family’s story twists and turns with passion, action, and love. This novel will not only entertain, but satisfy the most avid reader. Well done, Bambola. Well done.”
Barbara C. Nelson, author of Women on a Mission
“Sylvia Bambola, in her historical novel, Rebekah’s Treasure, surrounds actual events with an intriguing fictional story and skillfully draws in the reader. Normally not a reader of fiction, myself, I found I was unable to put down this fascinating book until it was finished!”
Cindy Miller, author of The Home That God Built
“To read Rebekah’s Treasure, by Sylvia Bambola, is to become engulfed in an intricate work of art. As your mind joins itself to the story, it will absorb the fibers and finely crafted strands of its tapestry until you are completely captivated. Rich in detail, reading this book is nearly like watching a movie. Bambola has done a remarkable job of deliberately weaving each carefully chosen thread into a story that will alter the way you view the past and the future . . . forever.”
Christina Cook Lee, music/media producer and author of A Quest for Virtue
“Rebekah’s Treasure, a love story that unfolds in the midst of impossible circumstances, captivates the reader from the first page to the last. Drama, suspense, passion, faith—all the elements of a riveting read are found in this novel which follows a family torn apart by Jerusalem’s struggle for survival in 70 A.D. The author’s exquisite gift for storytelling combined with historically-accurate backdrops, make this book a treasure. I couldn’t put it down!”
Joanne Derstine Curphey, Director of Communications at Christian Retreat, columnist for Today’s Seniors of America, free-lance editor and writer.
“For everyone who enjoys historical fiction, Rebekah’s Treasure will be right up your alley. Sylvia Bambola has written an extremely well researched story of the fall of Jerusalem. For you who love love-stories, you’ll also find this book is for you. If you like mysteries, again this book is for you. I heartily recommend it.”
Joe Fouraker, Florida State Faith Fund Coordinator for Gideons International, on Board of Directors of Gospel Crusade, Northwest airlines 747 captain—retired, and history buff
SYLVIA BAMBOLA
Heritage Publishing House
Bradenton, Florida
Also by Sylvia Bambola
Return to Appleton
Waters of Marah
Tears in a Bottle
Refiner’s Fire
A Vessel of Honor
__________________________
REBEKAH’S TREASURE
Published by Heritage Publishing House
Copyright © 2013 by Sylvia Bambola
ISBN 13: 978-0-9899707-4-7
ISBN: 0989970744
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013950475
Maps copyright © 2013 by Gina White
Scriptures taken from Holy Bible, King James Version, Cambridge, 1769
The story and main characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is strictly coincidental. However, all historical novels must, of necessity, be based on fact, and I have tried to accurately portray the times and historical events that provide the novel’s backdrop.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.
For information:
Heritage Publishing House
1767 Lakewood Ranch Blvd.
Bradenton, FL 34211
dedicated to
VINCENT
in loving memory
I can’t think of anything more important than family and I thank God for mine. They are surely among the best in the world.
A big “thank you” to my daughter, Gina, for her help in routing out those pesky misspelled words that neither I nor spell-check were able to discover; and also for researching, then creating her maps of ancient Jerusalem, Herod’s Temple and the Land of Israel; and this while recovering from major surgery.
Also, “thank you, thank you, thank you” to my son, Cord, who is forever helping me with my computer problems, and never complains or makes me feel I’m an intrusion no matter what hour of the day or night I call and cry “help!”.
Appreciation also goes to my church family and friends for their encouragement and help.
You are all such blessings!
“For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” Luke 12:34
CONTENTS
Prologue
Rebekah Chapter 1
Ethan Chapter 2
Rebekah Chapter 3
Ethan Chapter 4
Rebekah Chapter 5
Ethan Chapter 6
Rebekah Chapter 7
Ethan Chapter 8
Rebekah Chapter 9
Ethan Chapter 10
Rebekah Chapter 11
Ethan Chapter 12
Author's Note
FYI for Readers
Glossary
Rebekah's Treasure Readers Group Question
JERUSALEM 33 A.D.
“You’re not going to be a pest, are you, Rebekah?”
I hug the white limestone cup as I walk toward the long, low table without answering my sister. All the while my small fingers tighten around the plain bowl-like cup that has no handle or stem. “Where will the Master sit?”
“How should I know?” Judith says, stepping around one of our good damask-covered couches and placing bowls of herbs on the table.
“Because no one but the Master can use my cup.”
“Oh, stop being a nuisance and just give it to me!”
I hug the cup tighter to my chest. “You needn’t be cross. It’s not my fault that Anna dropped the tray of goblets this morning. Even Mama called her a clumsy servant.”
Judith turns to look at me, “Well . . . forget about Anna.”
Her long black hair falls over her face that everyone calls “pretty” and says looks like Mama’s. Even so, I see it. That small, rose-shaped birthmark on her right cheek. I know she hates it. She’s always fingering it as if wishing she could wipe it away like a spot of dirt. Mama says it’s Judith’s only flaw. Maybe that’s why I like looking at it.
“You know we now only have twelve goblets, and Mama said you must share since there will be thirteen around the table tonight. It’s not my idea, so stop fussing.” Judith tucks one hand under her chin, the way Mama does when telling me the matter is settled. “Stop acting like a baby.”
“I’m not. It’s just that . . . well . . . my cup is pure. Uncle Abner said so. You know he made it just for me in his cave workshop on Mt. Scopus. He said now that I’m six I should have a special cup for Passover and . . . I wanted to be the first to use it, that’s all.” I glare at my sister. It wasn’t easy being the youngest and always having to defend myself.
“So, it’s pure, is it? Do you even know what that means?” Judith’s look is mocking.
“Yes! It means . . . it means . . . it’s good.” Papa and Uncle Abner were always talking about ritual purity. Gifts or sacrifices to God were korban—Holy unto the Lord. How many times had I heard that? Papa, a priest, often bathed in the mikvah to “purify” himself. And Uncle Abner, a Pharisee, made “pure” vessels out of stone when he wasn’t teaching Torah in the Temple. If anyone knew about purity and what was good, they did.
Judith forces air through the small space between her upper fron
t teeth, making a hissing sound. “Stone doesn’t absorb impurities. That’s why it stays ritually clean.”
I walk past her trying to look as though I know what she’s talking about, when in truth I don’t. I only know ritual purity had something to do with our gleaming gold and stone Temple, and with pleasing the One True God. I wish I understood more because I was sure I never pleased God. I was always getting into trouble, always making Mama or Judith angry. Always dropping things or getting in the way or making messes. But if I were to use a brand new stone cup at Passover, now that would please God. And maybe it would make me pure, too. Make me good and acceptable to all of them—Mama, Papa, Judith, and the Holy One.
“Enough talk.” Judith’s forehead crinkles like a dried fig. “Hand it over.”
I swing the cup behind my back and try to keep my chin from quivering.
“You’re not going to cry, are you?”
I shake my head, but already I feel tears cluster, like Mama’s lentils, across my cheeks. And instead of obeying Judith, I go to the grillwork covering the doorway where a warm breeze carries the sweet smell of linden that Mama said had blossomed early this year. Oh, how I love this big upper room built on our roof; a room used for overnight guests or celebrations or sometimes, like tonight, by people Mama and Papa loved.
Sometimes Mama would even allow me to play here. And sometimes when I got tired of playing and tired of looking out over the huge Upper City, I’d sneak down the outer steps on the wall and run like the wind to the Gate of the Essenes just inside the Lower City. And then . . . as the bad child I am . . . I’d exit the gate into the Hinnom Valley. I don’t know why I go to that awful place; why I always disobey Mama by doing it. Way before I was born, or even before Judith was born, children were burned as sacrifices to Molech there. Now it’s the place where garbage and animals were burned.
It was the dead animals that drew me, or rather the bits and pieces of those sacrificed as sin offerings—crops of birds, entrails, and those butchered carcasses that could not be burned on the Temple altar but had to be burned outside the city gate. Why some animals could not be burned in the Temple and others could, I don’t know. But I do know, because Uncle Abner told me, that these animals were punished by men so I and my people would not be punished by God. And though I don’t really understand it, sometimes, amid the flies and horrible smell, and the heat that feels as hot as Mama’s ovens, and the smoke that makes my eyes water and that covers me with soot, I watch as basketsful of animal parts are thrown into the ravine. And oh, how frightened I get, trying to spot, by some sign from Heaven, the animal that had been sacrificed for me. And I’d stand there, my eyes burning, my mind remembering Uncle Abner’s stern warning to keep myself “pure.” If I didn’t . . . God could do this to me.
“Well! Give it here!” Judith barks, making me nearly jump out of my skin.
I wipe my eyes with the back of one hand, while clutching the cup with the other. All right . . . if I wasn’t to be the first to use it, there was only one who could. The Master was kind; always made time for me, even when his disciples tried to shoo me away. And oh, how tenderly he kissed my forehead! And how he made me laugh when he tousled my hair! And I can’t count the times he held me in his arms and called me his “little chick” as though he were a mama hen. Yes . . . I could give up my cup for the Master . . . but it wasn’t easy.
“I don’t have all day.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Judith impatiently beckoning with her hand. I turn the cup over and stare at the large t carved into its bottom and wonder why Judith couldn’t be more like our older brother, Asher. He was never impatient, never unkind. He even had spent hours teaching me to write the Hebrew alphabet; patiently guiding my hand with his over my wax tablet. But it was the last letter in the alphabet that I loved best—the tav or rather what Asher called its ancient symbol, the way Moses had written it, as a t and not as an x like the scribes do today.
Asher said all the letters had meaning, too. And he had taken time to explain them one by one. He had learned all this from the rabbis; things I’d never learn, being a mere girl. But he had been so proud of me when I was finally able to form the letters, and even called me a “scribe” when I began carving the tav on all my possessions.
“If you don’t give it to me now, I’m going to tell Mama!” Judith snarls, planting herself in front of me like a wall.
It was clear. This time, if I didn’t obey, Judith would make good her threat and then I’d be in real trouble. Slowly, I extend the cup. No, it wasn’t easy being the youngest or having a sister like “Judith the Perfect.” Judith would never think of going to the Hinnom Valley. Judith wasn’t “impossible” or “headstrong.” Judith didn’t need to drink from stone cups to please God. Though I try not to, though I even hold my breath until I’m sure I’ve turned blue, I let out a sob as I give her my treasure.
“I can’t be sure where Jesus will sit,” Judith says, her voice kind for the first time. “But I suspect he’ll take the position of host, and sit in the center.”
Through my tears I watch her place the cup on the table and know that later I’ll sneak up the wall steps and peek in, just to be sure that it really was Jesus who used it.
JERUSALEM 70 A.D.
CHAPTER 1
“You can’t stay. It’s just too dangerous now.”
My husband, Ethan, stands firm, like David before Goliath, and I know I’ve lost the battle. Maybe if I had phrased it differently. Maybe if I hadn’t said those words—“we are all going to die”—maybe then he wouldn’t be standing before me now with his hand on the hilt of his dagger as though drawing courage. But too late. My tongue has already betrayed me.
“Any day now, that jackal will be here with his siege works, for what’s left for him to conquer but Jerusalem?”
“Vespasian? I thought he was in Alexandria.”
“Yes, but his son, Titus, continues his push through Judea.”
This time the words drive me to the bear of a man I have loved for twenty-six springs. My head finds its familiar resting place on his chest. He smells of sweat and Temple incense. His beating heart thunders in my ear. And amid this thunder, I hear shuffling, and know, without seeing, that the footfalls are made by our sons.
I pull away and glance at the four young men behind Ethan. All are tall and strong and handsome. Any mother would be proud. But when my eyes drift to the blue tassels that trim their tunics, my stomach clenches. I have come to hate that trim. It’s the same trim that hangs from Ethan’s tunic, “to remind him of the commandments,” he says. Does he think I’m simpleminded? Does he think I don’t know that Zealots wear blue fringe?
When I look at my sons, I see my little boys in those faces, faces I have kissed and scrubbed and tended. But I also see the fire. Ethan says it can’t be helped, this fire which leaps from their eyes, for the blood of the Maccabees runs through their veins.
Ethan is a priest of Hasmonean lineage.
He has told me I should understand this fire, being the daughter of a priest myself, for Rome’s authority is in conflict with the Law of God. But I don’t understand. To me it’s madness. Yes, madness. I will call it by name. For what else would compel men to hurl themselves into a fight they cannot win? My voice has cried out against this fire. God is my witness, it has. I’ve told Ethan it’s one thing to revolt against that dog, Antiochus, King of Syria, as the Maccabees did nearly two hundred years ago, and quite another to disrupt Pax Romana.
Oh, why can’t he see it’s folly to fight the Roman Empire?
“Come now. Get ready,” Ethan says with discernable tenderness in his voice.
“No! I won’t go!” a voice wails behind me.
Without turning, I know it’s Esther. “You’ll do as your father says,” I respond, forcing my voice to sound stern, for my heart is not in my words.
“I won’t leave my husband. I won’t leave Daniel! He’s already paid the bride price and we have drunk from the same cup. He has only
to prepare the bridal chamber. Once it’s finished and we . . . well . . . maybe after that if . . .”
I glance at Ethan, and though I try not to, I know my eyes plead. Can’t we stay?
“There is no ‘after’ or ‘if’,” Ethan says, ignoring me, but answering my question too. His strong muscular legs erase the distance between himself and Esther. “You know what Vespasian has done to every Jewish settlement from Galilee to Judea. The man is a beast. Can we expect any better from his son?”
My daughter does not cower beneath the shadow of his massive frame. “It’s you who claim that God will deliver Rome into your hands. That your army will destroy Vespasian’s legions. What are you saying now, Papa? That Vespasian will win? That God has abandoned you?” Esther comes alongside me, her hair, soft as flax, frames a flushed face.
Sweet Esther. So headstrong. But she’s right. Ethan cannot have it both ways. All these months of blustering in the face of certain Roman retaliation, and now this? My arm encircles Esther’s shoulder which quivers, I think, with disappointment and anticipation both. But I say nothing. It is for Ethan to say. It is for Ethan to make his case for sending us away.
Ethan knots his broad forehead. “Nothing has changed. God is still on our side. But it remains to us, to us Zealots, to defend Temple and Torah. To return holiness to unholy Jerusalem. Will you make that task more difficult by staying? Must we worry about you and Mama?”
“Oh, this is too much,” I blurt. “Are we not living stones, living stones, temples of living stones?”
Ethan avoids my eyes. This is the argument he knows all too well, the words he has heard me say over and over. They are Paul the Apostle’s words. Words that used to burn in Ethan’s heart before this new strange fire took hold. Are not living stones more important than quarried stones? Are not living stones worth fighting for? Worth protecting? I love the Temple. The Shekinah once dwelled there. Though the Temple still stands on the mount like a giant pearl, it is a pearl without luster. The Presence . . . the Divine Presence is gone. And the Temple is not alive. It’s not made of living stones. It does not breathe. Well . . . yes . . . once, once I did see it breathe. I actually saw it shudder, as if in a sigh. Though no one believes me. But that was long ago, the day they say the great curtain covering the entrance to the Holy of Holies was torn from top to bottom.
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