I push against Aaron’s chest and indicate with the jerk of my head for him to open the ossuary. While he unties it and lowers the box to the ground, I hover near Esther. I’m still afraid she may bolt. If she does, she could disappear into the crowd and not be found. I think Aaron feels as I do, for in no time he has the box open, allows the Gischalite to examine its empty state, then hauls it back onto the donkey where he ties it up in rapid order.
“You were needlessly aggressive,” I whisper to Aaron as we head toward the Antonia fortress and Tower Gate. “Must you take such chances?”
Aaron shakes his head. “It wasn’t as you think, Mama. If I had shown weakness, the Gischalite would have slit my throat, and most likely yours and Esther’s as well. I had to convince him that if he tried anything, it would cost.”
It pricks my heart that Aaron should understand such things. It’s foolish, to be sure, when such knowledge can save his life. But during all the years of his growing up, he was the son whose heart was most tender toward God, and to Messiah Jesus. And I had hoped he’d become a disciple of John the Apostle in Ephesus. But the war changed everything.
I lament this as we wind through the dusty streets of the Second Quarter. We mingle with a few bleating sheep and cursing men. The sheep are thin, the men shabby. Ragged veiled women and dirty children hover in mud brick doorways. No one smiles. I can feel the fear. Its teeth have sunk deep here. Even those men whose mouths are full of oaths and blasphemies, and whose shoulders are broader than most, lower their eyes when jostled.
No one looks you in the face.
Esther is as sullen as they are. She hasn’t formed two words since we began. And more than once I’ve had to stop because of her lagging. Will she violate her word? The question nags me. She’s normally trustworthy. But a woman in love can be foolish.
I fall in beside her, slowing my pace to hers. And I’m so close, our shoulders touch. No matter how much she tries, I won’t allow her to break this slender thread, this shackle of the senses that tell me she’s still safely beside me.
We walk this way until at last I see the four towers of the Antonia looming ahead. It sits on solid rock, the face of which is covered with smooth flagstone. They say it’s like a city inside, full of baths and courtyards and sleeping quarters, but I have no wish to see. It frightens me, even after all this time. Before Herod the Great enlarged it and changed it into an imposing fortress, it was a Hasmonean palace. Perhaps it was a happier place then. But I still think of it as the fortress that housed the Roman garrison and . . . the place where Messiah was scourged and crowned with thorns. A chill runs through me as we pass its double casement walls.
There are more fringed tunics now, for the Antonia is next to the Temple—Eleazar ben Simon’s territory; Eleazar, the priest and turncoat aristocrat; Eleazar, the head of the Zealots; Eleazar, the man who now commands my husband’s loyalty.
Even here, we must exercise caution. I’m not certain who controls the Tower Gate—Simon’s men, I think, for he controls more and more of the city. But whoever does will think nothing of slitting our throats if they believe we’re abandoning Jerusalem.
Suddenly, I see Esther walking on tiptoes, straining to see over the tops of the heads around her. And then I know. Daniel. She’s looking for Daniel! My mouth goes dry. So . . . this is what she’s been waiting for. To reach Zealot territory and find her husband. And if she does, she’ll bolt.
The area by the Tower Gate is mobbed with people passing in and out. A caravan of ten camels forces us to one side. The noise is deafening. People, animals, all mix together. Ethan told me how it was here. But even seeing it now for myself, it’s hard to believe. The change is so great. The city is swollen with refugees who have fled the scourge of the Roman legions. Dirty and ragged, with few possessions, most have settled in the New City where the cloth market and wool-shops are—Simon bar Giora’s territory. But there are plenty of refugees here, too, living in flimsy leantos and make-shift hovels of canvas or rush mats or twigs. They cram every open space, even between houses—including those clustered along the wall. The stone seats near the gate, where the elders once sat to hear grievances or gossip or news coming from outside, are also taken by refugees who have nowhere else to go. And bordering the streets are the blind and lame holding wooden bowls and begging alms. And the stench! I can hardly breathe.
“We must watch Esther,” I whisper to Aaron as we stand beneath the shadow of the Antonia waiting to be inspected by the guards. From outside the nearby gate come the loud cries of lepers who cannot enter the city. “Unclean! Unclean!” they shout from the hovels attached to the massive outside-wall.
The guards at the Tower Gate seem indifferent to the noise, the stench, the sea of ragged, hungry people as they interrogate us. They take their time, pinching and poking, though they stopped short of running their hands over our bodies. Finally, they examine the ossuary and seem disappointed in not finding any contraband. Reluctantly, they pass us through with the wave of a hand. But I think if Aaron were not with us, and if he were not so tall and looked so strong, they would have charged us a “fee.”
Just as we are about to step through the gate, Esther shouts, “Daniel! Daniel!”
“Hush!” I say, in a stern voice.
Aaron’s head jerks upward. He scans the cluster of rebels peering down at us from one of the four towers. The Antonia is John’s territory. Daniel would not be standing on its walls.
“Daniel!” she shouts again.
I yank her hard by the arm. And when a suspicious look clouds the face of one of the guards, I secure my jar in one hand, and opening the other to make a flat palm, I slap Esther’s face as hard as I can. “Shameful behavior! A priest’s daughter chasing after a man like a common strumpet!”
“Be gentle, Mother,” the guard says with a wink, as we pass through the gate. “She is young.”
I don’t bother to answer or look back. And God forgive me, I don’t even bother to stop and drop a few coins when I see a leaper push his wooden bowl toward me with the stump of what once was a foot. All my might, all my strength, all my attention is focused on two things—getting Esther away from Jerusalem, and getting her away as quickly as possible. I move at a furious pace, my fear pulling me faster and faster into the Kidron Valley while I pull my reluctant daughter, and Aaron pulls the reluctant donkey. Despite the cool breeze, we are all wet with sweat.
“You never had any intention of keeping your word, did you?” I hiss, when we have gone a good distance, my hand still locked onto Esther’s arm.
Drops of perspiration run down the sides of Esther’s ears, and she strains backward, away from my grasp. “Can’t we stop and rest?” she says in a weary voice, the red mark from my hand still visible on her face.
“What did you expect Daniel to do?” Aaron scolds, coming alongside us with the donkey. “Rescue you? Give you refuge? Go against Father and me?” His face is a knot.
“I need to rest,” Esther says defiantly, but her chin quivers and tears streak her dust-coated face.
“We’ll rest by Absolom’s Tomb.” I finally let go of her arm, and brush back the stray wisps of hair that stick to my forehead. And though Esther makes a sound with her tongue to tell me she’s irritated, she obeys. I push relentlessly, ignoring my daughter’s soft whimper when she cuts herself on a jagged rock, ignoring the sob that escapes her lips the further from the city we go, ignoring the breaking of my own heart over the terrible price we are all forced to pay. We trudge along in silent resignation, except for the donkey. He continues his braying, but not so often now. It’s as if he, too, is beginning to resign himself. And I allow no more stops until we reach the other side of the Kidron where Absolom’s Tomb rises from the brook bed at the foot of the Mount of Olives.
Esther is the first to find shade and a place to sit. It’s a good enough distance from Absolom’s ornate tomb and away from the many passing travelers, so Aaron and I follow. While Esther and I sit, Aaron slips the goatskin flagon from
his shoulder. It’s full of wine mixed with honey and water. It’s the only thing he carries that’s visible. Under his robe he conceals at least two weapons that I know of, plus food. Esther also carries hidden food. After we drink, Aaron passes out a handful of raisins and a piece of flatbread. So I sit quietly and eat, and watch passersby pile stones against the side of Absolom’s tomb in scorn as they curse the traitorous son of David.
I tear large chunks of bread with my teeth and nearly swallow them whole. My haste is not due to hunger as much as my desire to put more distance between us and Jerusalem. In no time only crumbs fill my hand, and after taking a few more sips of our watered wine, I turn to Esther. “Come, it’s time to go.”
“Oh, Mama, this is hardly the rest you promised!” Esther wails in frustration. But there’s a rebuke in her voice, too, as if implying she was not the only one who broke a promise today.
“Mama’s right,” Aaron says, tucking his half-eaten bread back into the scrip hidden inside his robe. “We must continue. Our journey is long.”
In one of the hills north of Absolom’s Tomb lies the family burial cave. We’ll place Uncle Abner’s bones in the ossuary, as we’ve said. But at dusk, we’ll leave the cave and go out under the cover of night to begin our real journey. Our destination is far—nearly as far as the Sea of Galilee. It’s to a place I’ve never desired to go. A place where blended Roman-Greeks study the entrails and livers of birds to determine the will of their gods, and pour libations to Charon, ferryman of the dead. It is the Gentile city of Pella.
It was Ethan who said it must be Pella, and not Ashdod or Jabne—both refuge cities, declared so by Vespasian for those Jews refusing to fight him, and who seek the protection of his Roman army. I think Ethan insisted on Pella because many followers of the Way have gone there, and he knows their presence will be a comfort to me. But his insistence has a ring of foreboding, too. Didn’t the oracle tell Christians to flee the coming destruction of Jerusalem? And didn’t he tell them to go to Pella?
Has Ethan come to believe destruction will come?
I gather my thoughts like crumbs and sweep them aside. “Come, up on your feet,” I say, looking down at Esther.
“My feet are as bruised as crushed grapes,” she groans. “Have pity and let me rest awhile longer.”
I shake my head. We’re still too close to Jerusalem. Close enough for Esther to make her escape. Close enough to be overtaken by rebels. “You can rest when we get to Pella.” I pull at her arm to force her to rise. How had it come to this? When had the world turned upside down? My heart is like kneaded dough as I look back at my beloved city one last time.
Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who slew the prophets, will you now slay my husband and sons?
JERUSALEM 70 A.D.
CHAPTER 2
“Ethan? What’s the trouble?” Eleazar shouts, rushing to where I stand gazing down upon the body of a lifeless child.
“I never thought it would come to this,” I say. Near the small crumpled form lies a woman, the child’s mother by the looks of their matching tunics. The woman’s face is caked with blood; so is her seamless garment of dyed purple. Her neck is badly bruised, and amid the bruises are numerous cuts. I’ve seen this before, on other dead bodies of the wealthy, bodies where jewelry had been ripped off necks or arms. What I haven’t seen is this happening in the Temple. “Have we sunk so low?”
Eleazar ben Simon watches as I stoop and close the little girl’s eyelids. “Did you think it would come without cost? Our freedom from Rome?” He stands to the side as though not wanting his garments to touch the dead bodies and make him unclean. It’s out of habit, I think, for neither of us has been ritually clean for a very long time.
“Is this how we win freedom? By robbing and killing women and children? And in the Court of Women? The Court of Women!” I point to the Corinthian brass gate, so glorious in scope and detail, the gate named Beautiful. “There was a time when a worshiper could pass through that and be safe. Have we become barbarians?”
“Surely the days are evil,” Eleazar says, tugging at his beard. He’s a strange sight in his white priestly robe and battered leather cuirass, and with a sword belted to his waist. “Men’s hearts have turned to stone. Can we neglect the Law of Moses and it be otherwise? It’s not only Romans we must fight, but wickedness among our own people.”
“I’m weary of this bloodletting.” I brush my fingertips lightly across the child’s cheek. I’ve been fighting at Eleazar’s side for four years. Together, we have driven the corrupt priests from the Temple. Priests who enriched themselves by stealing the tithes. Priests who performed daily sacrifices for the Roman Emperor and allowed Roman soldiers to expose themselves in the Temple courts. And then we replaced those corrupt priests by the casting of lots.
“We’re all weary, but we must see it through. There’s still much to do. As we have restored holiness to the Temple, so we will restore it to Jerusalem,” Eleazar says.
“Holiness?” My arm sweeps over the two lifeless bodies. “Is this holiness?” Then gesturing beyond the Temple walls, I add, “And how will Jerusalem be restored? The city has been cut into threes with each warring faction surrounding its territory like a girdle around a bloated belly. And in those bellies people are murdered for gain. For filthy lucre, Jews kill Jews. Where is the holiness in that? Surely, this grieves the heart of God.”
“Not all. Not all are killing for gain. There is still the righteous remnant. Like always, Hashem has preserved the faithful.” Eleazar rests his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Many rightly administer His judgment. Those who are called to it, must obey. Didn’t Moses, at God’s command, order the sons of Levi to slay those who repented not their worship of the golden calf? And didn’t three thousand fall in the camp of Israel that day? Slain by the sword? We, too, will cleanse Jerusalem with the sword.”
I peer again at the pale, wax-like face of the little girl. Was Eleazar right? Was Jerusalem to be purged by the sword? Was Jew to slaughter Jew? Or . . . was Rebekah right? Had God abandoned His Holy City? Was this slaughter just a sign of His curse upon us?
When I glance up, Eleazar is already walking away. His white robe flaps around him as he shuffles stooped-shouldered. He’s nearly swallowed by the throng of incoming worshipers now streaming past me. The faithful remnant? If they are, they’re a sorry lot, tattered and dirty. Some carry small wicker cages with a pigeon or turtledove inside. Others carry small containers of wheat—hardly the required omer. None have brought animals. Fewer and fewer animals were available for sacrifice. And more bronze leptas than silver shekels were being placed in the collection receptacles rimming the Women’s Court. Now, amid the sound of leptas dropping into one of the thirteen trumpet-shaped containers, I hear Eleazar’s voice. He’s looking back at me. “There’ll be an inquiry. Let your heart be at peace. The guilty will be punished. Oh, yes, the guilty will be punished.” Then he heads for the large rounded steps leading up to the Nicanor Gate, the same fifteen steps where, not so long ago, Levites sang the fifteen Songs of Degrees, one on each step. Beyond the Nicanor stands the gold trimmed Temple; so white one can hardly look at it when the sun strikes its stones. Before it, now, plumes the smoke of the morning sacrifice.
With a heavy heart, I gaze at the spot where Eleazar disappeared. I love the man. I’ve pledged him my sword. And my life, too, if need be. But no inquiry will be held. What are two deaths among so many? And death’s hand has yet to exceed its grasp. New refugees flood the city daily. And now pilgrims come, too, for Passover. How will we feed them all with Simon and John’s men burning the grain storehouses, and more and more caravans fearing to enter Jerusalem with fresh supplies? How long before hunger becomes the new enemy? And on its heels—panic and more violence? The whole city is in peril.
Eleazar knows it, too. He well understands the problems we face. They burden him and make him close his eyes to the atrocities committed by our fighters. And like the sicarii, he punishes, with imprisonment, those who speak out
against the rebellion or those who try to escape the city. And he calls these actions “necessary.”
I wonder what he’d say if he knew about Rebekah’s escape? And about my hand in it? But what was I to do? Is it right that she pay for my fire? And I do burn. My zeal for Jerusalem and the Temple is like molten wax that seeps into the very marrow of my bones. It’s this zeal that has forged a bond between Eleazar and me. It’s this zeal that has allowed me to fight at his side, even though others who follow The Way have been denied. It’s curious that we never speak of Jesus. Curious because, though we fall on opposite sides of the matter, Jesus consumes us both. To Eleazar, He’s a “false prophet.” But unlike the false prophets who have come before or since, Jesus of Nazareth was the only one who unrolled the sacred scroll of Isaiah in the synagogue and uttered that mouthful of blasphemies, declaring himself Messiah and then making himself equal with God; the only one who healed the blind and lame, raised the dead. For Eleazar, such a man had to be discredited, his memory destroyed.
While I do not side with Eleazar in this, I do understand him in part. Many followers of The Way have shown disrespect for our Temple and Law. “Grace, grace,” they say. “We live under grace, not the Law.” What? Are we to throw out the Law? Are we to pull down the Temple? How can Eleazar abide this? How can any Jew who doesn’t understand this grace, abide it? At times, it’s even difficult for me.
This “grace” has split our people. It has caused a split in my own heart. I signal two guards, then watch them remove the bodies of the mother and child. Surely, holiness must be restored to our city, to our Temple. In that, Eleazar is right. And Roman rule must be broken. And that meant spilling blood, and, unavoidably, even innocent blood. But I see no alternative. To live outside the law of God is death. To live under Roman rule is slavery. I’ll not live as one dead. Nor will I live as a slave.
Rebekah's Treasure Page 3
