What would we have done without Demas? I see Hashem’s hand in this for Demas is the only one who has ever been to Caesarea, and being a Greek he’ll know just how to glean information here. I glance at Aaron. For the first time since leaving Pella I see no rancor on his face. Perhaps he’s come to appreciate Demas, too.
When we pass the square near the idolatrous temple of Augustus Caesar and enter the teeming market place, Demas instructs us to stay with the camels while he makes inquires. Then he disappears into the crowd. An hour later he returns, proving his worth yet again.
“I’ve secured a house. I learned of a man who is fond of gambling and whose luck has not been good lately. He needs money to pay his creditors and is willing to rent to us.”
“Well done,” I say. And to my surprise even Aaron mumbles his praise. “And Titus? What of him?”
Demas strokes his clean shaven chin and studies me. “He and his men and the Jerusalem captives are camped just outside the southern wall of the city. The paymaster has told the slave dealers to assemble tomorrow.” He shakes his head when he sees my excitement. “Steady, Ethan. Remember, Titus has lost many captives along the way. Thousands have been purchased by those slave dealers who make it their practice to follow the army and buy up the best of the lot. The remaining prisoners have been culled even further: some to the arenas, some through starvation and the rigors of the journey, others by their own hand.”
Demas grips my shoulder when he sees the look on my face. “Yes, it is so. Many unwilling to face their unhappy future take their own lives. I’ve seen it so often. But those who are left will be put up for sale tomorrow.” He looks at me and sighs. “You must understand that it will be a miracle if your daughter is among them.”
The gentle trickling of the large marble fountain is a restful backdrop to my prayers. So is the peaceful atrium. I’ve been praying here for hours, waiting for the sun to rise. Who can sleep? Not even my pleasant shuttered quarters with its array of colored silk pillows, and couch of imported swan’s down could stop my mind from twisting and turning. Would I find Esther? Has she been sold? Is she dead? And Rebekah? What if . . . .
Even now my mind buzzes like a hive of bees. And I have no answers, only more tormenting questions. I’ve tried losing myself in prayer, and found a measure of peace. It’s from this womb I now pull myself.
Through the open roof of the atrium come the first pale streaks of daybreak. Rising from my seat built against the low stone wall, I walk across the polished marble floor to the shallow fountain pool. Bending, I wet my hands, then splash my face to freshen my eyes.
I’m fully dressed and wearing my splendid gold-embroidered cloak. Aaron says we look like peacocks in these Syrian garments, and he says it with great disdain. I allow him his grumblings, for I know he too carries the same fears for his sister and mother that I do. My heart has grown even more tender towards him for he looks like a boy with his shaven face. We are all clean shaven now. We scraped away our beards when we first began this charade. I miss mine. Will Esther recognize me? Will Rebekah?
The house is quiet, and I assume everyone is still asleep. So when I rise from the pool I’m surprised to see Aaron standing beside one of the nearby marble columns. He, too, is dressed for the day.
“Father,” he says, in a steady voice. Though he’s boyishly handsome in his elegant flowing cloak and fine silk kaffia, his voice is the voice of a man. “Whatever happens today, you must accept it as the will of God.”
I nod, trying to appear calm. But inside, my heart flogs itself against my chest, and my dry mouth resumes its silent prayers.
The smell of vomit, human waste and filthy bodies fills the air, alerting me that the captives are being assembled somewhere nearby. Legionaries stroll among us. Some keep order. Others look as if they’re waiting to claim, when the slave dealers are finished, their gift from Titus—two or three captives apiece. A dozen slave dealers and their minions have gathered, and stand in clusters, laughing and talking. A few of the more enterprising are craning their necks to glimpse the flesh about to be peddled.
Demas has his orders. He’s to purchase up to a thousand males and another thousand females. I can afford five times that many, but how can we get them all safely to Masada? The care and feeding of that amount would be an impossible task so I must restrain myself. It has already been announced that the males are to be sold first. This will delay finding Esther, and I have difficulty remaining patient. I glance around anxiously.
From where I stand I see the nearby theater built by Herod the Great whose construction greatly offended the Jews. It is said that inside are depictions of Roman victories and all manner of pagan trophies. But who knows for sure? I only repeat what I’ve heard. But this I know, it was here Herod Agrippa died nearly forty years ago, when dressed in a shimmering silver robe, he was hailed a god then struck down by the angel of the Lord for this blasphemy. If only that angel would strike Titus’s camp now, a camp that is so close by!
I’m uncomfortable here among so many Romans. “Vale” I hear them say to each other—their customary word of departure or benediction for strength and health. But I wish them no such good will. They swarm like repulsive flies. My sons, too, appear distressed, but we do what we must. It’s Esther and Rebekah we think of now, and the many poor souls we hope to snatch from Titus’s hand. The great Titus himself is not to be seen. Word is, he’s already entered Caesarea and is living in Herod’s palace in comfort and luxury.
“Look, the spear,” Demas says, pointing to the Roman lance stuck into the ground, marking the place where the captives will be sold. Already soldiers are herding the men, strung together at the neck by a coarse rope, to a spot near us.
The stench is unbearable. I resist the urge to cover my face. And oh, how wretched they look! Their once virile young bodies are now wasted and filthy, and covered in rags. Many, so weakened by their ordeal they can barely stand upright, are prodded by spear tips every time the quaestor, Titus’s paymaster, barks an order.
At once, Demas goes to work, quickly walking the line and discreetly marking the arms of many he passes. Meanwhile, the dozen other slavers busily mark their wax tablets as they inspect the captives. Those who stop and ask questions are obviously seeking captives with education or skills. Others, looking to purchase slaves for the silver mines near Cartagena or the copper mines of Cyprus, eye the strongest, the healthiest.
But all are unaware of Demas who carries a leather pouch of limestone powder open at the neck, or that he’s been dipping his finger into the pouch and marking the upper arms of his choices. It was his father’s own system.
The line of captives stretches endlessly like a long tattered ribbon swaying in the breeze. Even my untrained eye can tell many of them are sick, some near death. I watch Demas move quickly until he is so far away he disappears from view. I wait for what seems like hours, then suddenly he appears out of nowhere and stands before the quaestor, announcing he has marked his choices and is ready to make an offer.
This causes a great stir among the other buyers, for they have yet to complete their own inspection. At once their curses and shouts fill the air as they run from their place along the line to bring their formal protest to the ears of the quaestor. Angry shouts soon turn into pushing and shoving. The dealer from Cyprus pulls a dagger, but immediately two of the quaestor’s slaves, both broad, savage-looking men, subdue him. It’s apparent to the dealers that they’ve been outsmarted.
“I’ll give you seventy-five drachmas apiece,” Demas says to the quaestor who seems barely able to conceal his admiration for Demas’s craftiness. “It’s a good price. I’m sure these thieves,” he indicates with a flick of his head that he means the other buyers, “weren’t even going to offer you fifty.”
“Done,” the quaestor says quickly as if confirming Demas’s accusation. He then orders several of his many personal slaves to go and cull the men from the line.
The other buyers are still cursing and complaining when Demas
comes over to us. His face is wedged with a smile, his eyes sparkle with mischief. “We’ve done well. I’ve purchased the strongest. But when they bring the women, it won’t be so easy. The dealers will be ready for me.”
“Remember, don’t look too eager. When you see Esther, don’t go to her at once.” I lean close to Demas in order to whisper in his ear. “But don’t lose her, either. You must not let another slaver get her. You can’t let that happen.”
“Peace, Ethan, peace,” Demas says, looking at me with compassion. “We’ve gone over this a dozen times. I know what to do. My father taught me well. If Esther is here, I’ll get her.”
I compress my lips to keep from speaking further. All this waiting makes it difficult to keep my fears contained. And Demas knows his business. He has proven it all morning, first by his keen eyes at picking those who appear strong, then in his agility in making his purchase before the others, and finally in paying some of the quaestor’s slaves to billet and feed the newly acquired captives. We’re fortunate that Titus’s quaestor allows his slaves peculium, so they can hire themselves out, though Demas tells me they give their master a portion. Demas has hired thirty such slaves to oversee our new acquisitions—nine hundred and thirty seven males.
Even so, I’ve sent Aaron and Benjamin with them, to watch that the quaestor’s slaves don’t pocket the gold meant to feed the captives. I’ve also asked my sons to determine the true condition of these captives, as well as to identify any capable of leading the others and becoming captains over them.
Now, to the next task. Word has come that soon the women will be here. My palms sweat while my mouth feels dry as flax. The waiting taxes me so greatly I begin to pace. At once, Demas pulls my arm and brings me to a stop.
“It’s unseemly for a rich man to appear so nervous,” he whispers.
And so I force myself to stand in place beneath the boughs of an oak. The only consolation is that it shelters me from the hot noonday sun. Then I close my eyes and pray. Oh, Lord, please let Esther be among the women.
“I’d like to buy one of your slaves.”
I blink, and there standing in front of me is an elderly woman dressed in a fine striped linen tunic that falls to her ankles. Her head is covered by an equally fine shawl, though her gray hair is still partially visible along the edges. The cloth and style of her garment tell me she’s a Jewess. In her hand she carries a small sack that jingles when she moves.
“What . . . did you say?” I ask, squinting at her in surprise.
“I said I want to buy one of your slaves.” I hear a gulping sound when she swallows. “A widow needs a strong young man for the heavy work around her house.” Her eyes dart from side to side as she wets her lips with her tongue. She is clearly nervous. “I’m not as strong as I used to be.” She pushes her dark leathery-looking lips upward forcing a smile, and when she does she reveals few teeth.
“Talk to my slave dealer,” I say gruffly, not wanting to appear sympathetic to a Jewess and compromise my mission. “Demas!” I shout. Just then, the women are marched forward, and the quaestor orders the sale to begin. When I try to step closer, the old woman bars my way.
“I have money.” She jingles the pouch. “I know what you paid and I can promise you a good profit.”
“Not now!” I dismiss her with a wave of my hand, then move around her so I can get to the captives. Like the men, the women are roped together at the neck. None look older than twenty. All the other females, the old and the very young, have been slaughtered long ago. I watch the women fold their arms around themselves like shields; see their heads droop forward. Filthy rags cover their thin, frail bodies, bodies that huddle together like sheep trying to hide from the eyes around them. Some weep softly. But most are silent, like sad little statues. Several thrusts of a Roman spear separates them, and soon they form a long continuous line that seems to stretch forever.
Demas is already walking the line. But as he predicted, the dealers are prepared. Two have purchased kohl from one of the shops to mark their choices. Another carries a basket of mud and a rag-covered stick for the same purpose. Others carry bags of henna. But Demas has outsmarted them again. He has given the quaestor a handful of coins to blind his eyes, then hired another two dozen of his slaves to impede the dealers. As Demas makes his way down the line, the quaestor’s slaves bump and jostle the other dealers, ask them questions or simply bar their way. After nearly an hour of this, one frustrated dealer points to Demas and shrieks, “You have no honor!”
Without turning his head, Demas laughs and continues walking. Finally, when he’s done, he brushes past me on the way to settle with the quaestor. “She’s not among them,” he whispers.
His words are like a blade in my heart. I can hardly breathe.
“I ask your pardon.”
I turn to the voice and see the old Jewess by my side with her bag of coins.
“Now that your dealer has finished his business, will you allow me to see him?”
Her face is so pleading, so tender and sad, I don’t have the heart to turn her away. Was she searching for a loved one, too? I dare not ask. I throw out my chest and point a jeweled finger at Demas. “Can’t you see my man is still busy with the quaestor? And he has yet to separate and quarter our slaves. Come back in three hours. You may see him then and make your purchase.”
She grabs my hand and kisses it with her leathery-looking lips that are actually surprisingly soft. “May the God of Heaven bless you! You won’t be sorry. I promise you a generous profit.”
I watch her as she scurries to a large oak behind me. Then watch her speak excitedly to a waiting couple: a burly man with gray hair and a gray bushy beard, and a younger woman, trim of figure and whose face is partially covered by a veil. The two women hug, and when they do the younger woman’s veil falls away and my heart catches. Rebekah! Can it be? It looks so like her. The same high cheeks and dark eyes, the same height and build. I quickly draw my kaffia across my face and look again. Yes, it is Rebekah!
Oh, how I long to go to her, to declare myself. I don’t even care that she’s with another man; a man old enough to be her father, and a weeper besides, for he’s crying large glistening tears. It’s enough that she’s alive and well. I take a step toward her, then stop. No. Too dangerous. I must wait for a safer opportunity. I head for Demas and pull him aside. Then I instruct him to sell the old Jewess any slave she wants. When I point her out as she stands beneath the oak with the others, his eyes grow wide.
“Yes,” I say in acknowledgement. “It’s Rebekah. You must avoid her at all cost, but find out where the old woman lives.”
CAESAREA 70 A.D.
CHAPTER 9
“In three hours my son will be free!” Hannah’s hand shakes as it clutches mine. Her eyes brim with tears as we praise God together. But our rejoicing is cut short when Hannah’s face darkens, or is that the shadow of the oak tree falling across her brow? “He wouldn’t deceive me, would he? This slave dealer? But no, he said, ‘come back in three hours.’ He wouldn’t lie?”
“No. Why would he?” I draw the old woman closer, allowing her to lean into me as though she could extract strength from my lesser age. “It must be true.” Oh let it be, Lord. Let it be true.
“But Rebekah, he’s so thin, my son. Walking bones. Oh, I mustn’t think of that now. He’s alive. What more can I ask? But so thin.” A breeze flutters her scarf and the three of us, Hannah, Zechariah, and I huddle together, for courage I think, because all around us are Roman soldiers who swear and shout and laugh as they inspect the remainder of the women slaves who have not been sold and will now be divided among them.
“Ah, well, three hours,” Hannah says nervously. “Only three hours. What is three hours after all this time?” She stiffens. “Suppose the dealer wants more than I have?”
I wrap Hannah in my arms and slip several coins into her hand. “He will be glad for the profit, and glad he has one less slave to feed.”
A mother’s love makes Hannah slide
the money into her leather pouch. Pride colors her face and makes her look away. “Oh, what a selfish creature I am!” she says, suddenly throwing back her head. “I’ve been going on and on, never once thinking of you. What news of your daughter? Did you see her?”
My arms drop and I shake my head. When I do, I notice Zechariah silently weeping beside me.
“Tomorrow, we’ll visit the marketplace,” Zechariah says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “The more enterprising slavers purchase captives nearer the battlefield for almost nothing, then sell them for a handsome profit on the slave block.”
Hannah nods. “Don’t give up. We’ll go to the block every day if we have to.” Her eyes are filled with pity.
“You mustn’t think of me now. You’ve found your son. Let him fill your thoughts. And when it’s time to claim him, you must go with her, Zechariah.” I smile at the large, rugged man whose heart breaks so easily for others. And rejoices, too. “That gold bedecked slaver will think twice about cheating Hannah if you’re there.”
Zechariah nods, then leans closer as he looks around at the milling soldiers. “Return to the house. It’s senseless for you to wait here with all these Romans about. I’ll care for Hannah. But it will ease me to know you are safely away.” His large fingers brush my shoulder. “And fear not. You’ll find Esther.” He thumps his chest. “I know. I know it in here.”
All the days I’ve spent at Hannah’s waiting for Titus to reach Caesarea has given me time to think. At first my thoughts were full of Esther—dark, despairing thoughts. She is, after all, the last of my family—all I have left. Was she dead, too? That was the question my mind asked over and over again. And this: Was I to be left alone, with no one? Then I heard it, the answer, soft like a whisper, as though it were carried by the wind. “But you have Me.” That’s all. Just those words, “But you have Me.”
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