Rebekah's Treasure

by Sylvia Bambola

  When Aaron signals me to walk in the middle of the street and closer to the donkey, I ignore him, then look backward, still thinking of the chickpeas and how I should buy some. We desperately need food.

  “Mama! Look out!” Esther suddenly shouts.

  But too late. I bump into a table set outside the doorway of a shop, causing dozens of clay statues to tumble to the ground. The shop owner shrieks amid the sound of breaking pottery. “Clumsy Jew! Look what you’ve done!”

  At once a crowd gathers.

  I look in horror at all the broken statues lying in a heap on the table. Others lie in pieces on the ground. “I’m . . . I’m sorry . . .”

  “You disrespect Isis—the one who gives birth to heaven and earth!” the owner screams. He’s a small man with gray eyes that pierce like the tip of a blade. His blond hair, of medium length, is oddly braided. His long aquiline nose looks like the beak of an eagle, while his lips are thin, like the mouth of a fish. On a chain around his neck, he wears the Knot of Isis. His eyes flare as he points to the shattered statues of his goddess.

  “Stone her!” someone shouts.

  “Stone the abuser of the Queen of Heaven!” says another.

  “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  Aaron shoves the donkey between us and the gathering mob. Our backs are against the table of idols. Only the shop owner is behind us. But his hands, like the talons of a hawk, clamp my shoulder.

  “How will you atone to the Mother of the Gods for your insult?”

  Aaron pulls the dagger from beneath his robe. The look on his face tells me he’s about to use it. But before he can, a large, barrelchested man breaks through the crowd and steps into our midst. He’s not dressed like the others, but wears rough homespun, clean though patched in places. There’s the most delightful expression on his face, like he’s just swallowed a mouthful of prized Jericho dates. His head and face sprout great quantities of bushy gray hair, as do his arms. The man looks ancient. But his eyes . . . oh, my, those eyes are young. They twinkle and dance like sun skidding across a lake, and send sparks wherever they look. When they rest on me—I know all will be well.

  “Peace, Argos. Peace,” the man says, as bold as you please. He’s certainly brave. He carries no weapon, and his size, though great, is not enough to scare such a crowd. But nevertheless, I see fear in Argos’ eyes, the kind of fear a lesser man has for a greater.

  “I’m sure these strangers meant no harm. No disrespect was intended.”

  “Leave it alone, Zechariah,” Argos warns.

  Zechariah laughs, making his whole chest heave up and down. Then he points to someone in the crowd. “Demas, wasn’t it you who, only last month, knocked over Argos’ table? How many statues did you break then. Eh?”

  Demas appears confused. He stammers, turns red, then looks away.

  Zechariah’s big fingers dip into a pouch belted at his waist. After a moment of fumbling, he pulls out several coins and holds them in the air. “Four denarii. Four days wages. Surely, it will take you no more than four days to replace these broken statues.”

  People murmur and nod. A consensus is building. Clearly, Zechariah’s terms meet with approval.”

  “Take the money, Argos,” someone shouts.

  “There’s a profit in it,” says another, “Everyone knows it will take you only two days.”

  “And just think, only two-hundred and fifty thousand denarii more and you can buy yourself a seat in the Roman Senate!” yells someone else.

  Now everyone laughs, and the tension is broken.

  Though Argos’ face shows displeasure, he has little choice but to back down. Reluctantly, he holds out his hand. The coins jingle as Zechariah drops them into his palm. Slowly Argosy closes his fingers around them, his cold gray eyes piercing mine.

  “Pay no attention to him,” Zechariah says when the people disburse and Argos enters his shop. From where we stand, we hear Argos yelling at some poor soul. Moments later, a young woman, no older than Esther, emerges, carrying a basket. She smiles shyly at me then begins gathering the fragments.

  “How can I ever thank you?” I say to Zechariah as I watch the woman work.

  “No need.”

  “Then at least let me repay the denarii.”

  “Maranatha,” Zechariah says, shaking his head, but I don’t know if he’s speaking to me or to the young woman by the table. “Maranatha,” he says again, and this time he’s so close his bushy gray beard almost touches my shoulder. At once, Aaron is between us, leaving both the donkey and Esther to walk alone.

  “I need no protection from the man who saved our lives,” I say, smiling at my son. But Aaron doesn’t relinquish his spot.

  “Maranatha!” Zechariah says, leaning toward Aaron, and laughing. “He is risen.”

  “You follow The Way?” I whisper, not wishing for those long-faced men who still linger along the street to hear.

  “I do. I’m Zechariah, servant of Jesus, the Messiah. I was told of your coming. I’ve been watching for you all day.”

  My throat tightens from fear. “How could that be? No one knows our whereabouts.”

  This time Zechariah laughs so hard his big barrel-chest heaves up and down like a boat caught in a wave. “No one? Surely you don’t mean that. Surely you believe Hashem knows.” He rubs his bulbous nose, then laughs again. “You’ll come to my house and eat, and rest. You must be tired.”

  The man draws me like a moth to flame. But he scares me, too. There’s something too free about him, something that makes him take no heed of danger. And that in itself is dangerous.

  “I have plenty of food. I’ve already set a table for us.”

  Food. The word makes my dry mouth water. It makes my stomach ache and churn. Its promise overcomes my reservation. I look at Aaron, and he nods. Clearly, the promise of food has overcome his as well. And then there’s Esther to consider. She limps slowly behind us. She won’t last much longer on the streets.

  And so we follow this strange, burly man who looks like a bear but walks as nimbly as a cat.

  “Is it much further?” I glance anxiously at Zachariah who is carrying Esther now. He’s too old for such things, but I won’t insult him by saying so. Besides, who else is there to do it? Aaron and I are too weak. We barely carry ourselves.

  “We’re nearly there,” Zachariah says, smiling.

  That smile! That perpetual smile. It stays and stays. All through the hostile winding streets of the Gentile sector, then through the wadi, it held, like a melon wedge on the platter of his face. He’s been carrying Esther since her collapse near the Roman bathhouse. She looks like a bundle of rags in his large arms.

  “And do not trouble yourself about me,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “She’s as light as flax.”

  “God will bless you for your kindness.” I huff and puff, and lag behind Aaron and the donkey, both of which breathe heavily, too. It’s taken what little strength we had left to cross the wadi into this section of Pella where Zechariah says most of the believers live. Aaron and I are drenched with sweat. I see a few strands of moist hair on Zechariah’s forehead, and more around the edges of his beard just above his mouth, but that’s all. The man is amazing.

  We stumble past house after house. Some are little more than hovels and are clustered together—five or six around a single dirt courtyard sprinkled with animal pens. There are many abandoned houses, too, laying in ruins. Even so, the place throbs with life. Women are cooking over fires or grinding grain for bread. Others tend small herb gardens or children who run and giggle as they herd sheep into pens. Though we are strangers, we are greeted with smiles, while Zechariah is greeted with kind words or blessings shouted into the air.

  Finally, Zechariah stops in front of a well-built house. It’s unlike many of the others, for it stands alone and has its own courtyard. He tells Aaron to tether the donkey to a nearby tree, and waits by the door, holding Esther. When Aaron is finished, Zechariah bids us enter, but both my son and I he
sitate.

  “No danger lurks inside,” he says with a chuckle, his eyes twinkling.

  So we enter. And, oh, how unlike our beautiful house in the Upper City it is! The ceiling is made of massive wooden beams. Stuffed between them are bundles of dried branches, all raw and exposed. Only a small portion is plastered. And the house . . . it has only two rooms. The one by the door is the smallest with a stamped-earth floor. Jars and baskets of various sizes fill the shelves. The second room is nothing but a raised stone platform, full of rush mats, and obviously used for eating and sleeping. A large round tray has been set out with four cups filled with wine. Also there are bowls of figs and goat cheese and almonds. Zechariah was telling the truth. He had been expecting us.

  Zechariah carries Esther up the three narrow stone steps, then carefully lowers her onto a mat before propping her against the stone wall. She moans and opens her eyes. A glass of wine and a few figs will revive her. After Zechariah says the blessing in a voice that thunders like a Roman kettledrum, I bring the wine to Esther’s lips, and holding her head forward, force her to drink. By her second fig, Esther is holding her own head.

  Now I turn to my needs and gulp a great mouthful of wine, then bite off a large chunk of cheese, too large, I fear, for propriety’s sake. But hunger has no manners. As I eat I wonder at Zechariah. His prayer seems to still linger around us. And when he prayed, I almost felt . . . well, I felt like the heavens had opened and God had inclined His ear toward this house.

  No one speaks. We, the three of us, Aaron, Esther and I, all push food down our throats as if we’re Philistines. And all the while, Zechariah, his back braced against the whitewashed mudbrick, nibbles a fig and grins at us as if he were the village idiot.

  “Tell me how you knew we were coming,” I say, when my stomach can’t hold another morsel. “Who told you?”

  One eyebrow arches upward, like a pigeon’s beak. His eyes—large and round rest—on each of us in turn, dispensing love like a baker dispensing warm loaves of bread. “It was the Comforter. He told me.”

  Of course I know who the Comforter is. He’s a tongue of fire, a mighty rushing wind. The One Jesus sent to empower us, to enable us to live as He lived. Who following The Way doesn’t know this? But speak? To an ordinary man, not an Apostle? This I wasn’t so sure of.

  My face must reveal my doubt, for Zechariah laughs, then dismisses the entire matter with a wave of his hand. “You’ll find peace here. We’re a poor lot, to be sure. Made poorer by John of Gischala, I’m sorry to say. But God provides. We manage to grow enough food to feed ourselves and our guests.”

  “Then you were here when the rebels came?” Aaron sips his wine and studies Zechariah as though trying to measure the man.

  “Oh, no. But I’ve heard the stories. Part of me understands what that Galilean did. How could anyone not know that the slaughter of the Jews of Caesarea Maritima by the Gentiles would ignite the already smoldering hatred and resentment of our people toward Rome and toward the Gentiles in the Decapolis? It’s no surprise then that Jewish rebels retaliated by sweeping through their cities: Philadelphia, Gerasa, Scythopolis, Gadara, Hippos, and of course, Pella. And there was no way to stop them from venting their rage, either. Too many wrongs, too many years, too much hatred. Only . . . in the process they killed many of their own people. Some who survived are still bitter. I’ve preached the importance of forgiveness, but it’s easier to say than do, isn’t it? Still, the slaughter of the Gentiles of Pella had one unexpected effect. It provided housing for those of our people who have fled Jerusalem. You see how God can bring good out of any evil?” Zechariah’s eyes twinkle as he rubs his bulbous nose.

  “You come from Jerusalem?” For the first time Esther sits upright.

  “No, Ephesus.”

  “Why . . . that’s where John the Apostle lives!” At once my heart is stirred. “Do you know him?”

  Zechariah leans on one arm as he reclines on his mat. “Yes, it’s with his blessing that I came here nine months ago to encourage the saints. John and I heard of their many struggles, and we reasoned they were in sore need of God’s word. That’s why I’ve brought John’s codex with me—so full of the good news, so full of the wondrous deeds of our Jesus.”

  “His codex. Then . . . you’re a follower of John?” I glance at Aaron. Oh, how I wish Aaron could have followed the Beloved Apostle. But John was getting on in years. By the looks of things it was doubtful that Aaron would ever get that chance now. “John was a guest at our house, staying many times in our upper room, especially after the Master died. I was young and only spoke to him once. But you actually know him.”

  Zechariah plucks another fig from the bowl. It looks so puny between his large square fingernails. “Yes, yes, and the rest of them, too. I was among the three thousand who fell under Peter’s teaching. Oh, how the Spirit moved that day! There he was, the big clumsy fisherman, speaking to us with such power! And there we were, the lot of us, weeping and wailing and crying out to be saved. I tell you, it’s a day I’ll never forget.”

  “What has happened to them? We heard that Peter and Paul died in Rome. What of the rest? Do they still live?”

  “Some. Jude is in Edessa, Simon in Africa. Matthias, in Cappadocia, or . . . is it Egypt? Philip is reportedly in Hieropolis. The others are dead. Martyred for the faith. Andrew was crucified in Patras in Achaia. They say he was bound to an X-shaped cross rather than nailed, in order to increase his suffering. He hung for two days before death claimed him. I was told Thomas died at the hands of an enraged heathen priest, somewhere in the Far East. A spear, they say, killed him. Nathanael—guileless Nathanael—the reports claim he was beaten, then beheaded by King Astyages in Armenia. And Matthew was martyred in Ethiopia. How? I don’t remember.”

  “And what of John? Is he well?”

  Zechariah pours out more wine. “He’s well, but aging like us all.” He plucks at the hairs of his gray beard and chuckles. “Ephesus has grayed John’s hair, too, what there is left of it. The man is nearly bald. I think he’s lost one hair for every convert he’s made. It has been a struggle, and Satan has put up many obstacles. Oh, how fiercely loyal the Ephesians are to their goddess, Diana! How they love her sacred oak groves. But the slaves love her best, for any one of them can claim sanctuary in her temple.” He moves his heavy bulk as though trying to get comfortable, then begins telling us stories of John’s efforts to reach these follows of Diana, goddess of the hunt, and of the moon, too.

  He talks for hours, until it grows dark, then he tells us we must stay the night. Oh, how this barrel-chested man can talk! And oh, how he made us laugh. Yes, we actually laughed, at least Aaron and I did. Esther didn’t utter a peep. She didn’t even smile.

  “There. There it is! The house I’ve picked for you and your family—a fine dwelling, don’t you think?”

  I try to hide my disappointment as Zechariah points to a mudbrick house with a collapsed roof. He hops, first on one foot then another, almost as if dancing. The man can’t contain himself for joy.

  Aaron’s face tightens. “It’s nearly destroyed. How can my mother live here?”

  “No, no,” Zechariah bellows, “the damage is only superficial. I’ve inspected the dwelling myself. It is strong. True, some stones are charred from fire. And the door is off its hinges, and of course there’s the roof. But the rest of the structure is sound. As sound as the Antonia fortress in Jerusalem.” He slaps Aaron good naturedly on the back. “And the believers have promised to help you fix what needs fixing . . . that is, when they’re not tending the fields or their animals, or maintaining the terraces, or cleaning the cisterns, or doing a dozen other chores.” He laughs merrily, completely undaunted by the many obstacles.

  Esther makes a clucking noise with her tongue, then wrinkles her face and mumbles something beneath her breath about going back to Jerusalem.

  I ignore her.

  Zechariah grins at us both, revealing a mouthful of teeth that look like yellowing ivory. “While you wome
n gather branches for the new roof, Aaron and I will fell trees for hewing beams. And I promise you this—I’ll over-lay it all with mud plaster. It will not be the crude roof that sits over my head. But what does an old man living alone care about such things? That’s not for you, though. You’ll have a fine roof. You’ll see. In no time the house will be beautiful.”

  Though he means well, Zechariah’s words are not helpful. I don’t despise God’s provision. The truth is, I’m most grateful, especially considering what I’ve seen in my travels here. This dwelling was proof of God’s continued goodness toward me. I’ll not deny that. But no, I won’t say this house that stands in ruins before me is beautiful. I’ll not speak a falsehood.

  “Esther and I will see to the branches after we’ve unloaded the cart,” I say, signaling Esther to come help. Since Zechariah knows where to make purchases without being cheated, I gave him some coins from my semadi. And before bringing us here, he crossed the wadi and spent them all. But he has not disappointed. In the laden donkey cart behind us are fine woven baskets filled with chickpeas and lentils and figs, and cooking pots, plus two oil lamps. There are also jars of oil and honey, empty jars for storage, and tools for farming, including the ax needed to fell the trees. “We’ll see to these things first,” I repeat.