But Kyra’s words haunt me. They remind me that somewhere along the Via Maris, the highway that runs along the coastline of the Mediterranean Sea, my Esther is among strangers, and frightened, too. And I’m crushed by the thought.
Strange rustling sounds awaken me. They’re so close I’m sure a thief has entered out midst. Kyra and I sleep under Zechariah’s tent. Zechariah, himself, is nearby. I see his great bulk curled on the ground just outside. But I see another form further away, bending over our bundles. I resist the urge to cry out. Instead, I prop myself up on one elbow, and when I do, I notice Kyra is not beside me. Where could she be?
I squint into the darkness at the moving shadow. It’s smaller that I first thought; merely a wisp. Something drops to the ground and the thief turns slightly to pick it up. And then, by moonlight, I see Kyra’s face.
I rise to my feet and, quiet as a cat, tip-toe to where my bags and baskets sit in a heap, then lunge for her arm. “What are you doing! Those are my bags.”
She shrieks like an owl, waking up those around us. At once, curses fill the air, and for a moment I fear one of the camel drivers will come over, for I see him rise to his feet. But when Zechariah hurries to my side the moment passes.
“What is this? What’s happening?” Zechariah looks at my overturned bag, then how I grip Kyra’s arm, and he pulls her from me. “Tell me what you are searching for!” he says, shaking her fiercely. “Don’t lie, or so help me I’ll leave you to these camel drivers.”
Kyra begins to whimper. Again, curses fill the air. And then Zechariah does something unexpected. The big ox actually lifts Kyra into the air by cupping his hands beneath her arms, and after carrying her to a spot a good distance from all the sleepy drivers, puts her down. I follow behind, carrying my bag with me.
“Speak!” he hisses. “And I want the truth.”
Kyra sobs into her hands, and I see Zechariah falter. That heart of his, that big tender heart that loves the world and everyone in it, is unraveling before my eyes, undone by a young woman’s tears.
So I step forward and place my palm beneath Kyra’s chin to lift her face. “Why were you going through my things?” My own heart is greatly moved, and gentles my voice, perhaps because I’m remembering how Esther used to cry this way. “What were you looking for?”
Does she sense my love? I think not, because when she tilts her tear-smudged face towards me, she trembles with fear. “What were you looking for?” I repeat.
“Your cup,” she says, jutting her chin defiantly, but expecting me to strike her, too, for she flinches when I move my hand.
“Tell us what mischief you’re up to.” Zechariah crowds closer, having collected himself, but my fingers, which brush his shoulder lightly, keep him in check.
“Here,” I say, fumbling in my striped rush bag and pulling out the stone cup. “Here it is.” Zechariah gasps. So does Kyra. “Now what do you want to do with it?”
Kyra is clearly frightened by the cup for she steps backward. “I . . . wanted to pray to it . . . for healing . . . for the healing of my foot.”
Zechariah shakes his head. “Why do you persist in lying? Tell us the truth and we will help you. Has Argos put you up to this? Were you to steal the cup for him?”
“No! I swear!” Kyra drops to her knees in front of us. “I only wanted to heal my foot . . . so I wouldn’t slow you down. I know you speak against me, Zechariah. I’ve heard you. But you speak falsely. I mean no harm. I’m just a worthless slave trying to reclaim her life . . . just a worthless slave.”
I kneel in the dirt beside Kyra, the cup in my hand.
“You don’t believe me. Do you?” Kyra says, looking at me imploringly. “Even by moonlight I see how your lips are tightly pinched. Like Zechariah, you think I’m lying.” She begins weeping again.
“Be still,” I say, placing the cup and my bag on the ground beside me. After making her sit, I take her injured foot between my hands. And then I pray, softly, fervently. I pray prayers I know Kyra doesn’t understand, prayers for the healing of her spirit and soul, as well as her body. As I pray, heat flows from my palms into Kyra’s foot, and startles her. She stops crying. Her breathing becomes heavy, almost like the panting of a frightened animal. Behind me, Zechariah prays, too.
When I’m finished, I release Kyra, scoop the cup from the ground and rise to my feet. As I do, I hear her shout, “It’s gone! My wound is gone!” I feel her hand tug on mine. “You didn’t believe me, yet you prayed. You still asked your cup to heal me.”
“No. I asked my God to heal you.”
“But . . . why?”
“Because my God wishes you to be healed. In every way.”
“I don’t understand this, but I do understand why Argos wants your cup. It’s more powerful than his knots or incantations. But he would never use it as you do. He would not be kind or generous. He would only use it to enhance his own power; to increase his reputation and wealth.”
“It’s not the cup, Kyra. The cup is only stone.” But by the way she shakes her head, I know she doesn’t believe me.
We’re nearing the edge of the rocky Samarian hills. To the right is the Carmel Ridge; ahead, the Plain of Sharon with its lovely flowers, oak forests, and swamps. We still trail the same caravans we’ve been following since passing Scythopolis. The noisy chatter of the drivers and the steady plodding of their camels give me comfort.
Since Kyra’s healing, Zechariah, too, seems more at ease. I won’t say he trusts her any more than before. But he’s at peace. I think he believes God has some purpose for her being here since He took the trouble to heal her. In any event, I welcome the peace. Though we still fear the slave hunters, the presence of such a large caravan gives us a feeling of protection, however false that might be.
“I’ve decided to stay in Caesarea until you’ve found your daughter.” Zechariah’s bushy gray beard flutters in the meager breeze. “Once you two are reunited and safely joined to a caravan heading for the Decapolis, I’ll push on to Ephesus.”
My heart swells with gratitude. Dear sweet, faithful Zechariah. “Thank you,” I mumble. I’m so grateful, not only for his continued protection but for his absolute faith that I’ll find Esther.
“I’ll be better company, now that my mind is no longer troubled about Kyra.” He speaks freely for Kyra trails far behind. She’s been trailing behind all day, though her foot is healed. The one consolation is she doesn’t stop beside the road anymore.
“Perhaps we’ve both let our thoughts run wild,” I say with a chuckle.
Before he can answer, I hear Kyra scream. When I turn, I see a man, his back toward me, beating her with his fists.
“Why didn’t you do as I said?” the man shouts, striking her again and again. “I told you to meet me in Megiddo!”
It’s Argos’s voice. No mistaking it. I drop the donkey’s bridle and race toward Kyra. Argos has her on the ground now, kicking her in the chest and ribs, while three large men, unknown to me but obviously companions of Argos, stand nearby, watching.
“Stop!” I scream. “Stop! You’ll kill her.”
One of Argos’s friends grabs me and holds me in place. “This is not your affair,” he growls. “Argos has every right to chastise his slave.”
“Zechariah!” I scream. But there’s no need to yell. Zechariah is already by my side, facing the man who has me by my wrists. And with one good thump of his fist, he knocks the man backward. The other two approach, but when they see Zechariah’s great size and fierce expression, they back away.
“I waited all night for you to bring the cup! While you spent the time resting, I wore myself out pacing!” The veins on Argos’s neck look like squirming asps, as his fists and feet rain blow after blow. I hear the sickening sound of bones snapping.
Kyra offers no struggle. It’s as if she’s been expecting this, waiting for it; as though it was her fate to be here on this dusty road and abused in such a manner. A crowd has gathered. Two of the camel drivers have pulled daggers from so
meplace inside their robes, but their faces show confusion, and they stand idly by holding their weapons as though not knowing what to do.
“What’s happening?” people murmur all around us.
I hear Kyra whimper; see Argos raise his sandaled foot for one final blow. But before he can slam his foot into her neck I jump on his back and claw his face with my nails. Zechariah, who has been busy keeping the three men at bay, shouts for me to stop. But I don’t. And after Argos finally casts me, like a bag of grain, onto the dirt next to Kyra’s motionless body, he turns to the crowd. Then leaning over Kyra, he pulls her limp body up by the metal band around her neck and shows them the tag.
“My runaway slave. Worthless slime. I’m done with her!” He lets her drop backward onto the dirt with a thud, then points to me. “I could have you arrested for your interference!”
But the sight of the small, battered body with blood oozing from lips and ears and eyes, has horrified the throng of onlookers. And even Argos, in his rage, sees this and understands that the crowd is against him. He lowers his trembling finger, and throwing back his chin adds, “Yes, I could arrest you. But I choose to let the matter drop.” With his hands, he wipes the blood from his cheeks, the blood drawn by my nails, and glares at me. Then he and his three companions head toward the Plain of Sharon.
I kneel by Kyra’s side and cradle her head in my arms. Blood streaks her face and tunic. She looks so small, so helpless, so broken.
“The ferryman . . . comes . . . but I have no coin,” Kyra says in a ragged voice. Her lips are swollen. “How will I cross the River Styx?”
“Hush. Don’t speak.” I take the rag from Zechariah, the one he has wet from his water skin. But when I begin washing the blood from Kyra’s face, she winces so pitifully I stop.
“Please,” Kyra peers at me through eyes nearly swollen shut, “one last kindness. When I die . . . place a coin in my mouth . . . for the ferryman . . . for Charon.”
It’s useless to tell Kyra she’s not going to die. The lie would be an offense. Her breath is fitful and shallow. Most of her ribs are surely broken. Blood still trickles from her nose and mouth. She’s like a mist evaporating before my eyes. Over my shoulder I hear Zechariah praying.
“You don’t need the ferryman,” I say, softly. “You can fly to the afterworld. Zechariah has told you many times before, if you commit yourself to Jesus, if you put your hand in His, He will take you.”
“But I . . . lied. I betrayed you. Argos promised . . . he promised me freedom. I came only to steal your cup. That was my one purpose.” Kyra sinks deeper into my arms. “Forgive me. You . . . have been so kind. But Argos, he . . . . ” Her hand slides limply onto the dirt. “If only . . . Jesus would forgive . . . if only it could be His hand that takes me . . . .”
“Jesus will forgive you if you ask Him. He will forgive you everything if you ask.”
She raises her bloody hand to touch mine. Where she gets the strength, I know not. “You mustn’t . . . say that . . . if it’s not true. Please . . . don’t deceive me.”
“I’m not deceiving you.” I stroke her head softly. I think Kyra smiles, though her lips are so swollen it’s hard to know for sure. She mumbles something I don’t understand, but I hear the words “forgive me, Jesus”. And then I hear her say, “Argos . . . beware of Argos . . . he will try . . . oh, yes, I see Him now.” I turn, thinking Argos is behind me, and see only Zechariah and a few lingering camel drivers, and realize it’s not Argos she sees, but Jesus. And this time I’m sure there’s a smile on her poor swollen lips as she takes her last breath, and I imagine that I see her spirit fly into Jesus’ arms like a little caged bird that has been set free.
Caesarea has been described to me many times. It is the capital of Judea, the seat of the Roman praefecti, and the abode of the Roman governor. But looking upon it now for the first time makes my heart race and my throat become as dry as linen. It’s the largest city in Judea. But it wasn’t always this imposing. When it was called Strato’s Tower and controlled by the Phoenicians, it was barely a mud puddle. But leave it to Herod to change everything in a grand way. He loved all things Greek and Roman, and his lust for power was legendary. That was his downfall. It made the Jews hate him. I doubt he was ever content with who he was: an Edomite who tried to pass as a Jew; a king never anointed with holy oil.
Many call Herod the Great a master builder, for he built lavish cities all across our land. I call him a demon. His intent was always to Romanize us Jews. Just look at what he did to Strato’s Tower. Made it mirror decadent Rome with its massive harbor, its marketplace, palaces, theatre, amphitheatre, its public baths, its temple to Augustus Caesar. For good measure, he even changed the name to Caesarea in order to ingratiate himself to the Emperor. But for all his accomplishments, I don’t think he ever obtained peace. How could he with so much blood on his hands, having murdered the babies of Bethlehem as well as so many of his own relatives, including two sons and a wife. Emperor Augustus once said it was better to be Herod’s pig than a member of his family. Still, many of his accomplishments live on, and most are huge and impressive, like Caesarea.
“It’s . . . daunting, isn’t it?” I say to Zechariah in a near whisper as I look at Caesarea’s famous grain fields and orchards that stretch before us. Behind them, and on this side of Caesarea’s massive walls, I see the white stone top of the giant amphitheatre through a clump of trees. It’s a massive structure said to seat fifteen-thousand people. And its floor of crushed chalk has hosted chariot races, wrestling matches, gymnastic tournaments, and even gladiatorial events.
I can’t imagine such contemptible activities. Though to be honest, the entire city is contemptible to me—a byword for violence and cruelty, for it was here that the rebellion against Rome began several years ago after its Gentiles massacred a good portion of the Jewish population, then desecrated their synagogue.
“It’s a fearful place,” I say, still reluctant to continue my journey. “We must pray for God’s protection and favor, for how else are we ever to find Esther in such a place?”
Zechariah places his hand on my shoulder. “For days we’ve prayed without ceasing. Now it’s time to trust God.”
Zechariah knows the city. For that I’m grateful. He also knows some in the Jewish Quarter, at least what’s left of it. The man we seek is Achim, the tentmaker. He’s a Jew who follows the Messiah. His house is in the northern part of the city near the aqueduct. That is, if he’s still there. Zechariah isn’t sure. It’s been almost a year since Zechariah has been here.
Amid the city noises I hear our donkey’s hooves clatter along the giant paving stones of the busy street. I’m told all the streets in Caesarea are paved with stone slabs and are laid out in the Roman grid system with major roads running north and south, and east and west, and with the forum or Public Square in the center; useful information for navigating those parts of the city Zechariah knows least.
We are in the Jewish quarter now, having entered Caesarea by the north gate, and are moving south along the aqueduct. Surprisingly, the quarter teems with life. Merchants hawk their wares in croaking voices. Children laugh and chase each other into alleys. Men argue in doorways. And women, or their servants, rush home with fresh fish or sacks of ground grain and other foodstuffs in anticipation of preparing their evening meal. It hardly looks like a street that once ran red with the blood of twenty-thousand Jews.
Our first stop is Achim’s house. We quickly learn he’s no longer there, and the new tenant doesn’t know his whereabouts. And so we begin stopping at every open doorway we encounter.
“I can tell you about Achim,” an old woman says before we even approach her door. She’s sitting on a small wooden stool, dressed in a fine striped linen tunic. A similar fabric loosely covers her plaited gray hair. Her face crinkles in a wide grin, revealing few teeth. She points to a basket of grain by her feet. “Come, I’ll tell you of Achim, and feed your donkey as well.” Without waiting for an answer, she tosses a handful of oats o
utside her door. And so we oblige her and unbridle the donkey, then refresh ourselves by drinking from our water skins.
“Last time I was here, Achim lived in that house over there.” Zechariah wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before pointing to a modest mudbrick house further up the street.
“Yes, that was his house. But he’s gone now.” The old woman studies us as she tosses another handful of oats onto the street. “You from Jerusalem?”
“From Pella,” Zechariah answers. I know him well enough to sense his caution rising, and some impatience, too. “But about Achim. Is he still in the city?”
“No. He’s been gone about six months now. And I say, ‘good riddance.’ He spent too much time talking about a dead Messiah. No one wants to hear about another Messiah. We’ve grown a bushel full of them lately. Like weeds, they’ve popped up all over our land. The Romans don’t like that. And who wants any more trouble with the Romans, or the other Gentiles here, for that matter?” She dabs her perspiring forehead with the edge of her headscarf. “You’re not one of them, are you? A follower of this Jesus Achim talked about?”
“We are,” Zechariah says, without flinching.
“Did you hear what they’ve been doing with your kind in Rome? They’re covering them with pitch and using them as torches to light the arena for the gladiatorial games.” Her smile is gone and her eyes probe us.
I want to tell her “yes, under Claudius and Nero, not Vespasian,” but why defend Vespasian? His Judean campaign proved him to be just as cruel. So, instead, I bridle the donkey. “Thank you for your kindness,” I say, pulling my animal forward.
“You’ll need a place to stay the night,” the old woman says with a crooked smile, “and I have rooms . . . for a price.”
Rebekah's Treasure Page 19
