Rebekah's Treasure

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Who? Who do I have?” My voice was a shout; loud and rancorous and full of self-pity. And for a time it drowned out the whisper. I felt as if I was the only one in the world who had suffered. As if I was the only one in the world who cried herself to sleep.

  As if I was the only one in the world . . . .

  And then it was clear. Like the giant statue of Agrippa’s daughter that dominated the public square of Caesarea, so I dominated my thoughts; an idol of my own making. Oh, the tears that flowed then! Tears as briny as the Sea of Salt. But amid the tears, I heard that gentle voice.

  “I will never leave you or forsake you. I love you with an everlasting love.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” I whispered, falling on my knees. “Forgive me for not remembering.”

  Now, entering Hannah’s house—the fresh disappointment of not finding Esther still stinging my heart—I fall on my knees once more. I am heartbroken. The prospect of rescuing Esther is as dim as the caves of Mount Carmel, and there is only One who can comfort me. I bow in deep agony, and when I do, there comes that voice, soft as a sparrow’s breath.

  “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”

  We’re going to feast like kings! Lamb stew bubbles on Hannah’s stove, pluming aromas I’ve not smelled in a very long time. It’s in honor of her son’s homecoming that I’m making it, for meat is rarely eaten except during the feasts of the Lord or on special occasions such as weddings or the entertaining of important guests. I’ve also prepared shefot, a cream poured into tube-like wooden vessels and sprinkled with sugar. And two large barley loaves seasoned with cumin and fennel are baking in the oven. In addition, I’ve purchased fig cakes and cheese and pistachio nuts from the nearby shops. I’m nearly overcome with anticipation of seeing the happy look on Hannah’s face when she arrives.

  As I wait, I busy myself washing leeks and radishes, and wonder how long before Hannah walks in the door with her son. All this preparation helps diminish my sorrow over Esther. Though I have received no promises, no assurances from the Lord regarding my daughter, I’m determined to walk by faith. God has promised me joy. When the joy is to come, well, I must leave that to Him. So instead, I picture Hannah’s happy face, feel her joy at finding her son. But I grow impatient. I’ve been cooking for hours. When will they come?

  I scamper around the kitchen making final preparations by setting four wooden bowls on the polished table. And just as I place the last one, I hear a commotion outside and rush to the door to open it. The street is full of people weeping, shouting, laughing. Arms wave like wheat in the air, and bodies press around a central figure. The house is raised a good hand’s length higher than the street and I’m able to make out the top of Zechariah’s wiry, gray head. Surely Hannah is with him; her son, too, though I can see neither. Everyone is talking at once.

  “Welcome home, Judah!”

  “God has been merciful!”

  “Blessed be the name of the Lord!”

  “Hashem has answered our prayers!”

  I lean against the doorpost, my heart filled with gratitude as I listen to all the well- wishes. They seem to go on forever, but I don’t grow weary of hearing them, for I’m caught up in the moment, this sublime moment when good has triumphed over evil, proving it’s possible, even in these dark days. And I’m overcome with joy.

  The crowd slowly dissipates. I hear a young man, surely Judah’s friend by the way he is greeted, offer to prepare the mikvah, then see him head toward the back of the house where the entrance to the lower level and baths are located. Finally, only Hannah and her son and Zechariah are left standing outside the door.

  When Hannah sees me, when her eyes light upon me for the first time, she giggles like a girl, then beckons me to come. I do, and she introduces me to Judah. She’s right to worry. I see rags and bones and little else. And his face? Oh, how gaunt it is, and the color of sifted flour! And all the while his body smells like an open sore. But what I see in his eyes makes me take heart. Mini goblets of horror, yes. Judah surely has seen terrible things. It colors him with darkness. But there’s strength, too, and determination, and gratitude, and a light, a small stubborn light that refuses to be extinguished.

  I enfold him in my arms as if he were my own son, and weep at his neck. But when we part, my fingers feel the deep hollows around his protruding ribs. Be Merciful, Lord. Heal him. Do not let Hannah lose him now.

  “Such a wonderful smell!” Judah says when we enter the house. Then he closes his eyes and sniffs. “Can it really be lamb stew?”

  “It is! And in your honor. There are other good things, too: flat bread and cheese and shefot, and fig cakes and . . . .”

  “First he must bathe, then dress in his new tunic.” Hannah’s eyes are full of love, and they are looking at me. “Then he’ll have some of your fine supper. But only a little. You can’t bring back a shriveled stomach all at once. Judah must eat only a small portion at a time until he’s used to real food again.”

  Her son laughs and pushes oily, matted hair from his forehead. “For weeks I’ve been ordered about by the Romans. Now that I’m home, it appears I’m to be ordered about by my mother!”

  “I like your Judah,” I say to Hannah when he leaves and heads for the stairs to the lower rooms of the mikvah. “He has a sense of humor.”

  “At least the Romans haven’t taken that from him.” Hannah rubs her face with her gnarled hands. “But he’s thin and weak. You see. You have eyes. He pretends he’s well, but if it hadn’t been for Zechariah’s strong arms to gird him . . . well, we might not have gotten here.”

  I lead Hannah to the table. “Sit,” I say, pulling out a stool and gently helping her onto it. “And be at peace. God will surely restore your son. Would He bring him so far otherwise?” I take a fig cake and place it in her hand. “You haven’t eaten since this morning. This will strengthen you until Judah is ready to join us.” Then I go and pull the two loaves of bread from the oven, and at once fill the room with a pleasing yeasty aroma. Finally, I dip two cups into the large clay water jar by the door and give one to Hannah, the other to Zechariah, who up to now has done nothing but stand nearby and grin from ear to ear. “Now tell me how it went with the slave dealer.”

  Hannah takes a bite of her cake, chews for a moment, then swallows. It seems to revive her for she sits straighter on her stool. “That jackal made me wait for hours. And after he finished his business with the quaestor he disappeared. No one knew where he went. He just vanished. Finally, he sent one of the quaestor’s slaves to me. He didn’t even come himself. In fact, I never saw him again.

  “And the slave he sent! What a slovenly lout! With green eyes like a cat, and so much hair on his arms he looked as though he was covered in fleece. He took little interest in me or his task. Just told me to pick out anyone I wanted, and then, without examining Judah, fixed the price at one hundred drachmas. One hundred drachmas! I expected him to demand six times that amount. I could hardly believe my good fortune.

  “But when I paid him, he asked me where I lived. Said he needed it for his records. I thought it strange. But I was frightened and didn’t want anything to go wrong, so I told him. But after I left him, I began to worry. Suppose he went back and the slave dealer was dissatisfied with the price? Suppose he sends his men to my house? And takes Judah away? Those were my thoughts. Are my thoughts still.”

  “Perhaps it was the sight of Zechariah that made him so generous,” I say, handing my large friend, who has finally taken a nearby stool, his own fig cake. His brow is crinkled. “What troubles you, Zechariah?”

  “I don’t know . . . an aging man’s imagination, perhaps. But just before the dealer disappeared, I got a good look at him and . . . well, he looked like Demas!”

  “Demas? You mean Demas from Pella? That Demas?”

  Zechariah shrugs. “I know. It sounds mad. Forget my saying it. I’m sure I was mistaken. Demas is a beekeeper, not a slaver.”

  “Let’s not indulge in worry,” I sa
y, taking a bite of my own cake and sitting on the stool next to Hannah. “God has been good to us. He has returned Hannah’s son. Let’s rejoice in that.” And just as we all begin to relax, there’s a knock on the door.

  “Ah, another well-wisher no doubt.” Hannah rises from her stool.

  I listen to Hannah’s sandals scrape across the stone floor, hear the door open, hear her strained voice say, “What . . . do you want? Why have you come?” I hear a man’s voice, low and gruff, but not his words. When Hannah begins to cry, Zechariah and I leap from our stools. By the time we get to the door, Hannah has already closed it. Her face is drained, and in her hand she holds a wax tablet.

  “What’s wrong? What has happened?” My arm encircles her shoulder.

  Instead of answering, she hands me the tablet inscribed with a crudely drawn map of the Cardo Maximus, the main street of the city running north and south, and directions to a house in the Greek Sector. “I don’t understand,” I say, squinting down at the tablet.

  Hannah takes Zechariah’s arm, no doubt to steady herself. “That . . . accursed slave dealer! His master is displeased, he said. Displeased with the price I paid for Judah. Said his master claims I cheated him, and demands I bring Judah back to his house, along with five-hundred drachmas. Or face arrest.” She pauses, and looks at me strangely. “He said I was to bring you as witness to the sale. He was very insistent about it, too. ‘Bring the other woman who lives in this house, as witness. And don’t bother coming without her.’ Those were his words. But why? Why would he say that?” She presses a gnarled palm against her cheek. “It makes no sense.”

  “It could be a trick.” Zechariah rubs the side of his bulbous nose. “Perhaps the Romans have found out that you and your son are from the House of David.”

  “Then why insist I come, too?” I shake my head. “No. There’s something more to this.”

  “I’ve told no one who you are,” Hannah says. “The Romans have spies everywhere, even in our poor little Quarter. I didn’t want anyone knowing that you, Rebekah, are . . . were the wife of a priest and rebel. Or that you, Zechariah, are a friend of that menace in Ephesus, the one you call John the Apostle. I didn’t want to bring trouble down on your heads. But perhaps they’ve found out. Or perhaps they think you are my relatives, making you descendants of the House of David, as well.”

  Without a word, Zechariah leaves the room then returns with his dagger strapped to his waist. “We’ll smuggle Judah out of the city. It will be easy enough with your house so close to the North Gate. By the time that slave dealer knows we’re gone, it will be too late.’

  Hannah shakes her head. “Judah can’t survive such an ordeal. He’s too weak. Oh, I don’t know what to do! Am I to lose him again?”

  “Lose who?” a voice says behind us.

  I turn, and there is Judah, bathed and smiling. He’s a handsome young man with brown wavy hair and dimpled chin. But the way he wears the new linen tunic Hannah purchased—belted at the waist— reveals how thin he truly is, though his broad shoulders testify he was once a powerful man and makes me understand why a slaver would purchase him. And there, there in Judah’s eyes is a shimmering light.

  We all stare without saying a word, forcing Judah to repeat his question. “Who will you lose again?”

  It’s foolish to keep such a thing from him so I quickly tell what happened. Judah says nothing. But that light dims a bit.

  “Go to your friends in the Greek sector, those followers of Jesus,” Hannah says, her voice desperate. “You’ll be safe there until you’re well enough to travel. Then we’ll smuggle you out of the city. Oh, please you must go.”

  “And leave you to face the Romans alone? What kind of son would do that?” His voice is laced with fatigue, but there’s resolve in it, too.

  “We’re like chickens running around without heads,” I say, frowning. “We say, ‘maybe it’s this, maybe it’s that,’ but we don’t know anything. Before we act foolishly, we must understand the trouble.”

  Zechariah leans forward in his stool. “Surely you don’t mean for us to surrender? Like sheep to wolves?” He fingers the hilt of his dagger.

  “What will your one blade do against the Roman army? For it’s a simple matter for Titus to send the full weight of his forces against us if he chooses. No. Let’s use our heads.”

  “What do you propose?” There’s reluctance in Zechariah’s voice.

  “You and I will go alone.” My eyebrows arch as I look at Zechariah. “If you’re willing, that is.” When he nods, I turn to Hannah. “We’ll act as your agents. I have enough gold from my semadi to turn the head or heart of the most jaded slaver. If we’re not back in two hours, then Hannah, you and Judah must either seek refuge among the followers of the Way or escape through the North Gate. I see no alternative. Fortify yourselves with food, then pack in case you must leave.”

  Hannah’s gnarled fingers clasp her throat. “What you propose is too dangerous. I can’t ask you to do it.”

  “You didn’t ask. And my mind is made up. Perhaps Esther is beyond our saving, but Judah isn’t. Zechariah and I will tell this slave master that Judah is too ill to come; that already he appears a defective slave and we have a good mind to return him for our money.” When I see the look of horror on Hannah’s face I laugh. “Don’t worry, after I give this jackal a piece of my mind and a few of my coins he’ll be happy to be rid of us.”

  I wear a costly white wool tunic the hem of which reaches my ankles and is decorated with thin black stripes. The same fabric covers my plaited hair. Over the tunic I wear a belted black robe edged in red. Tucked inside is a bag of gold coins. These are my best clothes. I wear them for a reason—to appear before the slaver as a woman not easily dismissed. And nothing accomplishes that so effortlessly as a show of wealth.

  Zechariah has not bothered to change, but wears his dusty, worn clothing. He says it will make him look more intimidating. He’s right, for in his rough homespun he appears almost as wild as I remember the desert prophet, John the Baptist, to have looked.

  We walk the stone-slab sidewalks of Caesarea’s wealthy sector as we head for the slave dealer’s house. We’ve passed this way before on the way to the auction of Titus’s captives so I’m unimpressed by the large gleaming stone houses, and hardly look at them as we pass. Neither Zechariah nor I speak. He’s praying, for he has that far away look he always gets. I’m praying, too. And considering I don’t know what danger awaits, I’m surprisingly calm.

  Zechariah carries the wax tablet, the one with the crude directions, and from time to time indicates we are to turn here or go there. At last we come to an imposing house whose doorway is trimmed in ornately carved marble. In the middle of the lintel is a large face of some unknown goddess surrounded by clusters of grapes and curling vines. Already, I don’t like the place, and by the look on Zechariah’s face, he doesn’t either. Without saying a word, Zechariah knocks.

  A tall, broad, finely-dressed man opens the massive wooden door.

  “Demas?” I say in disbelief, for the resemblance is striking.

  At once the man smiles. “Your eyes do not deceive you. I am Demas from Pella.” He quickly ushers us in.

  “But . . . but . . . .” My thoughts are as jumbled as stew, and words will not form.

  Demas laughs as he closes the door behind us, then greets Zechariah and me with a kiss. “Don’t ask questions. Soon you will know all.” His eyebrows arch when he sees our strained faces. “Fear not, for it’s a happy business. But brace yourself, Rebekah.”

  My mind is whirling now, like the winds off the Judean mountain tops. What can this mean? A pebble, caught in the sole of one of my sandals, makes a scraping noise as I cross the beautiful mosaic floor. I stay close to Zechariah. Without a word we follow Demas down the hall to a large sun-streaked atrium. Everywhere I look there is marble: on the floors, over doorways, around the ceilings. And columns—columns too numerous to count. The walls themselves are plastered, and brightly painted with birds
and flowers. With so much wealth, have I any hope of impressing the slaver with mine? I begin to fear he’ll be unreasonable. And when I see the outline of three men standing in the shadow of a large column, my heart pounds. Even so, there’s something familiar about them: their stance, their build, the shape of their heads.

  When we reach the marble fountain, Demas stops and points. That’s all, just points. I grasp Zechariah’s arm as my eyes follow Demas’s finger to the shadowed men, and when one steps into the shaft of light pouring through the open roof, my knees buckle. Had I not been holding onto Zechariah I would have surely crashed to the floor.

  “I’m sorry I had to bring you here like this. Without warning,” the man says. “Forgive me. But it would have been dangerous to expose ourselves at the house where you are staying, or dangerous even to send you word that I was here. I’m told there are Roman spies everywhere.”

  “Ethan?” I blink. Surely I’m seeing things. This can’t be my Ethan. His face is clean shaven and looks strange to me, but that voice . . . . The man steps closer, then stops. His eyes rest on my hand, the one clutching Zechariah’s arm. Oh, I know those eyes, those shoulders, those arms!

  At once I release Zechariah and rush to my husband. “Oh, Ethan! I thought you were dead!” Then I wrap him in my arms and kiss his face. There’s no end to my kisses. I’m laughing and crying, all at the same time, and praising God. “Oh, Ethan,” I say again, when I pull away. “I never thought . . . I never thought I’d see you again.” I can barely speak I’m so overcome. “Oh, my love, it’s really you.” I struggle to get the words out as my arms encircle his neck and my kissing begins anew. Now he’s laughing and crying, too, and holding me close and kissing my cheeks, my neck, my lips.

  “Then you still love me,” he whispers in my ear, as if there was ever any doubt; as if I could ever love another. “I wasn’t sure . . . I only hoped . . . .”

  I don’t know how long we go on like this. Time has stopped, and for me there’s no one else in the room. We just hold each other and kiss and laugh and cry. Finally, when I’m fully convinced my husband is flesh and blood, and really here in my arms, my eyes drift to the two men still hovering beside the marble column.