My eyes tear. “Oh, Zechariah! You good, kind, beautiful man. See how God is already preparing my path! Oh, blessings on your head. Blessings! Blessings on that hoary head of yours!”
“Yes, yes, yes,” he chuckles. “Only . . . there is one thing I must ask. Bring the cup.”
“Take the cup? And not leave it here with Mary and Simon? But why?”
“Since Ira’s and Rina’s wedding I’ve known you were right. Our brethren rely too much on it. I fear it may become an idol. Let them focus on Jesus, as they should. Let Him be the object of their devotion.”
I nod. “I’ll do as you ask,” I say, leading Zechariah to the door. “But now you must go and pack. We leave this morning.”
All the arrangements have been made. Tirzah will tend the animals; Mary, my gardens. And each will share in the products of both, as will Hannah and Naomi who have promised to keep an eye on the house, and tend it from time to time. The food which can’t be carried has been given away: a basket of grain, several melons, leeks, a half dozen chicken eggs. The two bells I’ve given to Mary. She says she’ll use them not only to sound the alarm in times of danger but to call the believers to the weekly meetings.
My semadi is safely hidden beneath my tunic, and my two large bags with handles are already tied onto the donkey. I glance one last time around the house, then head for the door. My heart jumps when I see a shadowed figure barring the way. It takes me a second to recognize Kyra, Argos’s servant girl. A large bundle, slung over her shoulder, makes her list to one side.
“News has crossed the wadi that you’re leaving,” Kyra says, standing as still as a plastered statue, though her bundle must be heavy. “I wish to come with you.”
No words could have startled me more. She’s been attending the meetings at Zechariah’s for weeks now, and never expressed any desire to leave Pella. Why would she want to go now? And with a Jewess?
“You must take me with you,” she repeats. “Please.”
“Impossible.” I’m standing next to her now. She’s a wisp, barely coming to my shoulder. Her clouded eyes, her thin, sad lips reveal how hard life has been. Even so, determination firms her jaw. “You belong ’ to Argos,” I say, trying to look stern. “You wear his collar, the collar of one who’s run away before.”
“No, it’s not true. My parents sold me when I was ten. I was only to serve Argos five years. I’ve been with him for eight and still he refuses to free me. Last year I tried going home but he caught me, and put this on.” Kyra clutches the collar with her free hand. Its rounded strip of fused metal rims her throat like a necklace. From it hangs a metal tag telling all she has once run from her master, Argos.
“If you run again, he’ll have the slave hunters track you down. And if they find you, this time he’ll surely brand your forehead with an ‘F’, the mark of a fugitivus,”
“I don’t care. He’s cruel, vicious. If I don’t get free of him, he’ll kill me for sure.”
“He . . . beats you?”
Kyra puts down the bundle then rolls up the long sleeves of her tunic. Large bruises cover both arms; some brownish-yellow and almost healed; others, purple and fresh. “This Jesus Zechariah speaks of is more powerful than Argos. I’ve seen the miracles. I’ll put myself under His protection.”
My mind, warring against my heart, scrambles for arguments to dissuade her. She’ll make the trip more dangerous. Slave hunters, perhaps even Argos, himself, will pursue us. Yet . . . can I leave her? Can I allow her to suffer more abuse?
Kyra’s eyes harden. “Argos doesn’t know I’m here, if that’s what you’re worried about. He’s incubating in the Temple of Isis. He’ll be there for days, trying to enhance his powers so he can defeat you. He doesn’t know you’re leaving. By the time he finds out, we’ll be far away.”
My insides are in an uproar, the war still raging. Even so, I pick up the heavy bundle at her feet, take it outside where the donkey is tied beneath a shade tree, then hoist it upon his back atop the other burdens.
“I can come?” Kyra’s large, green eyes widen. “Oh, you won’t be sorry. I will cook for you . . . I’ll wash your clothes . . . I’ll serve you like no other has ever served you before. You’ll see. You won’t be sorry.”
But I’m already sorry as I tie down Kyra’s bundle then clasp the donkey’s bridle in my hand and motion for her to follow. And all the way to Zechariah’s my discomfort builds as I wonder, what have I done?
QUMRAN 70 A.D.
CHAPTER 6
“We’ve been here for weeks,” Joseph says, in that gravelly, complaining voice of his as he sits on his rush mat and tosses pebbles against the cave wall. “We know every line of the scrolls, every line, as well as we know our own names. Why do we wait?” He turns abruptly to his brothers and points to me. “Tell him it’s time we go. I’ve already tried.”
Aaron, who is busy sharpening his dagger on a stone, looks up. “It’s time, Father.”
Benjamin, slumped against the far wall with eyes closed, nods.
I go and squat by the mouth of our large cave. Eleazar did not deceive us. The hewn passageway did lead to a Qumran cave, high in the mountains, though there were moments during our long trek when I doubted him. And here we’ve stayed, studying the scrolls, committing them to memory, as well as discussing each of the sixty-four treasure locations they mention.
I gaze past the vast expanse of barren cliffs and dusty lowlands to where the Salt Sea shimmers in varying shades of blue. A hot breeze tousles my hair as I revel in the scene before me. There’s healing in these cliffs, in this desert wilderness. And I’m loath to leave it. More than my injured wrist and arm have mended. But my sons are restless. It will be impossible to keep them here much longer.
“I had hoped to stay another week,” I say, not bothering to turn my head. I’m watching sunlight skip across the sapphire waters. “We could use the rest.”
Rebellion erupts behind me.
“Father! We’re not children! We’re not here to rest.”
“Who are we to live in comfort and safety while the Romans ravage our land?”
“We must be quick about finding the treasure, and aid Masada. Who knows when Titus will turn his attention southward?”
And on it goes.
I let them have their say. They’re not fathers. How can they understand my father’s heart? We’ve killed many these past four years. Our hands have shed much blood, and such bloodletting takes its toll. Our hearts need healing, though Aaron’s the most. Along with his eye, something inside him is damaged. He carries a great inner sadness. Can it be otherwise with such a tender nature?
“It’s not right that we shirk our duty,” Aaron drones.
His brothers shout their agreement, then talk endlessly about how they are soldiers and men of honor, and how they’ve made a solemn pledge.
“Peace,” I finally say, waving one hand in the air. “It will be as you wish. But first we must find a suitable place for the scrolls.” Since the tunnel from Jerusalem leads to this cave, we’ve decided not to hide the scrolls here. If Eleazar found this passage, others can too. “We’ll examine the Essene Yahad again.”
“I don’t think that’s wise, Father,” Aaron says, coming over and squatting beside me. Benjamin and Joseph follow.
We’re all looking down at the once thriving community of the Essenes which sits on a marl terrace above the wadi. It’s a desolate place now. Ruins mostly, and sparse vegetation; a wasteland of crumbling mudbrick. We’ve visited it many times during the cool of the day. And when I’ve been there and stood very still and watched the dust swirl through blank windows and open doorways and listened to the wind, I could almost see the community as it once was, alive and thriving with its vast sleeping quarters, its kitchens, potter’s kiln, laundry, scriptorium, and large assembly hall. I could almost hear the whirl of a potter’s wheel, hear the clinking of pottery, hear the sound of water gurgling along the massive aqueduct after a rainfall—water that came from the hills and was suffici
ent to fill both cisterns and ritual baths. Now the aqueduct and baths are nothing more than stagnant ponds; the compound, decaying rubble.
“It would be too risky to hide our scrolls in that deserted place,” Aaron says. “The Romans could return.” Three years ago, during his Judean campaign, Vespasian destroyed Qumran then kept a small force camped here. But the Romans are gone now. Even so, Aaron was right to be cautious.
“I say we put the scrolls in one of the many caves around here,” Benjamin offers.
“Yes, one of the caves,” Joseph chimes.
“It’s the best place, Father.” Aaron looks at me thoughtfully as though I’ve suddenly become the child, and he the parent.
I shrug. “So be it. But let the day cool before you begin your search.” I don’t delight in the thought of my sons scrambling among the jagged limestone rocks where stones skitter and footing is unsure. “Once we’ve hidden the scrolls, we’ll gather food for our journey. Roots, perhaps, or a quail or two; maybe a hare.” Aaron’s face contorts. Hares are unclean according to the Law of Moses, and even after all our privations Aaron still concerned himself with ritual purity.
“Will we leave tomorrow?” Aaron says, still frowning.
“If we’re ready by then.”
“I’ve found the perfect place,” Aaron says breathlessly, appearing suddenly from around a boulder. We’ve been searching for a suitable cave for hours. “It’s a hard climb, but serves our purpose well. Come see.”
Benjamin and Joseph scramble behind him, while I try to catch up. Aaron is already far ahead. The climb is steep, and leads us around jagged boulders and along footpaths barely large enough for one. Loose rocks roll beneath our feet and clatter down the cliff side. Here and there, clumps of grass sprout from crevices. Their blades are as sharp as pot shards and nick our ankles as we pass. We breathe grit and dust, while the sun bakes our heads. Despite my warning, my sons have chosen to conduct their search in the heat of the day. It tells me how impatient they are to leave.
Aaron leads us northward, high into the limestone cliffs. We’ve explored most of the lower marl caves, many of which are manmade, some hewn into the marl terrace as living quarters long ago, others newer, made perhaps by nomads, or rebels fleeing the Romans. Already we’re a good distance from the Essene community.
“Here it is,” Aaron shouts before lowering himself through a sloping entrance.
We all follow, scrambling into the opening and dropping onto the floor. Loose rocks and dirt follow us in. The musty cave is large, and contains several passageways.
“Look there.” Benjamin points to several clay jars clustered near the entrance of a smaller cave. We gather around the jars and watch him remove one of the lids and slip in his hand.
“Is it something to eat?” Joseph says, just as Benjamin pulls out two parchments.
“Do you think only of your stomach?” Benjamin hands one scroll to Aaron, then quickly unrolls the other. “The Psalms.” His face shows surprise and pleasure.
Aaron unrolls his. “The Book of the prophet Ezekiel.” He glows like a freshly trimmed lamp, and I’m reminded of how much he loved reading scripture with the rabbis.
“This means someone else knows of this cave. It’s not a suitable place for our scrolls,” I say.
“It is, Father. For you saw how difficult it was to reach,” Aaron says. “And you know that Eleazar moved much of the Temple library to Qumran. Surely, this is part of it. He must have scattered the library ’ throughout the many caves here, the same way he scattered the Temple treasure throughout the land of Israel.”
Not convinced, I look around and seeing no suitable hiding place I enter the smaller cave that sprouts like a boil along one side. It’s darker here. When my eyes finally adjust to the dimness, I notice a ledge at the back.
“Yes, Father, that’s where I’d hide it,” Aaron says, standing beside me. He’s the only one who has followed me in.
And so I pull the scrolls from my tunic, carefully remove the leather covering to keep the rats from eating it and damaging the scrolls, then place them on the stone shelf. “Tomorrow we leave for the Valley of Achor,” I say, feeling strangely weary of our mission, a mission we haven’t even begun.
“This is a place for madmen and prophets,” Joseph says, as we head southwest. “Not soldiers.” His skin glistens with sweat, and large wet circles stain his tunic beneath his arms and across his chest. We removed our robes long ago and placed them in one of the bags we carry. Though we left Qumran at first light, the sun is already high overhead. It feels like we are walking in a furnace. More than once we’ve had to stop and wet our heads.
“Why is there no breeze to comfort us?” Joseph wails. “The wind blows plentifully enough atop the mountains, but down here in the wadi it’s as still as death. I feel like I’m breathing through wool.”
“This complainer sounds like a girl,” Aaron says, winking at Benjamin.
“Perhaps our sister needs to be carried.” Benjamin suddenly scoops Joseph up, bundles and all, then throws him over his shoulder. He’s the only one who could do this, being a head taller and stronger than his brothers. He lets Joseph yelp and thrash awhile before putting him down.
It’s good to see my sons jesting together like they used to. It gives me hope that perhaps someday normal life awaits us. And I dare to ponder this life with Rebekah as we continue along the well-worn path through the wilderness of Judea, the path traveled from Qumran to Hyrcania for centuries.
We can’t go to the treasure sites around Jerusalem since they’re within the watchful eyes of Titus’s legions. Instead, we’ve decided to concentrate on those sites located between the Holy City and Qumran. It’s here that the scrolls promise we’ll find gold, silver, oil flasks, sprinkling bowls, priestly garments, sacred vessels and texts—a treasure so vast no one man could ever use it, or even transport it safely. The task before us is so daunting that I’m beginning to think it’s impossible. But I keep this to myself.
Our first stop will be the Valley of Achor, at the summit of the Hyrcania Fortress—a former palace and military headquarters for both John Hyrcania, the Hasmonean king, and Herod the Great. Now long abandoned and lying in ruins, it will be a safe place to search. According to the scrolls, it is in this remote place that we are to find—in three separate locations—a chest of silver weighing seventeen talents, a hundred gold ingots, and a mix of gold and silver weighing several hundred talents.
Achor was the site of enormous wealth.
To tell the truth, I have no heart for the task. It yearns for Rebekah, instead. How long has it been since I’ve seen her? I can’t remember. But too long. I feel like a pining suitor. Her sweet face fills my nightly dreams. I’ve even begun smelling spikenard whenever I think of her, at least I imagine I do. And in my mind’s eye I see her shimmering auburn hair cascade like silk over her soft, round shoulders.
I love Rebekah’s hair, the way it feels between my fingers. I wish I could feel it now. It was her hair that first attracted me to her. She was but ten when its beauty caught my eye. We had been friends for years, playing children’s games together, running through the countryside free as the wind. Being three years older I had always imagined myself her brother, the one to protect her from her wild spirit . . . until that day. Even now, I can see her as she was, laughing and challenging me to a race, then laughing as she swiftly left me in the dust, her head scarf slipping to her shoulders, her hair shimmering like copper in the sun. And I still remember the way she looked when I finally caught her, the wind tousling her hair and making it float around her beautiful wide eyes that were so full of life and joy. That was the day I was no longer her brother. That was the day I fell in love.
If only I could go to Pella now. Those weeks inside the cave have blunted my lust for Roman blood, though I’ve not shared this with my sons. I haven’t shared it because it seems disloyal to Abner; and because, though blunted, my lust remains. Thoughts of Abner’s crucified body can still rekindle my hatred
for the Romans and the desire for revenge, though it’s not as easy as it once was. And then there’s my promise. Was I rash? Should I have made that oath to Eleazar? I wonder.
“I’ve never liked this wilderness.” It’s Joseph again. His head hangs limp against his chest as he trudges over the hard-mud ground. His shoulders sag beneath his bundles.
“Once, I heard the Baptist preach repentance here,” I say, stopping to wipe my sweaty brow with the sleeve of my tunic. “It was so crowded I could hardly see him over all the heads, but his voice, how it thundered! He was a storm, speaking words that vibrated, and struck like lightening the hearts of priest and king alike. And oh, how fearless he was! But in the end, it cost him his head.” I adjust my wineskin when I feel its strap digging into my shoulder.
“And on the mountain behind us, it’s said Messiah withstood the temptations of the Evil One,” Aaron adds. “We should bless Hashem for this place, for many holy men have been forged here.”
“But we’re not holy men; merely soldiers,” my practical Benjamin says.
“We were . . . to become priests.” Aaron’s voice is softly, wistful. “But that was long ago . . . long . . . .”
“Long? Did somebody say, ‘long’?” Joseph, who walks ahead, turns to look at Aaron and me. “Our food will not last a long journey. I only pray our bones will not end up bleaching in this desert.”
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