Rebekah's Treasure

by Sylvia Bambola

  I shriek when at last I recognize Aaron and Benjamin. Then it all begins anew, this time with the four of us hugging and kissing and weeping on each other’s necks. Oh, I could have stayed in my family’s arms the whole night long—this family which I thought was lost. I feel such joy. Oh, yes! For me morning has come and joy washes over me—wave after wave of pure joy.

  Until . . . .

  I notice the patch over Aaron’s eye. See that two sons are missing. “Abner and Joseph?” My voice is a vapor.

  “Gone,” Ethan says, pulling me closer to him; encircling me with his strong arms that infuse me with strength. I can do nothing but lay my head on his chest and weep. Sorrow pours from me like an overflowing cistern. And as we had just come together in joy, so now we all embrace in grief, and mourn our great loss. We nearly wear ourselves out with crying, but at last we part. And when I look into their faces, I feel a new wave of joy. Yes, I’ve lost two sons, but God has spared two others as well as my husband. I am blessed, and I’ll not take this great blessing lightly. I think my sons and Ethan feel the same way, for they smile as though reading my thoughts.

  Then Ethan tucks me under one arm. “I’ve prepared a feast. Come, let’s eat.” He glances at Zachariah who, like Demas, has been standing quietly behind us. I’m surprised to see his eyes and mouth harden when I introduce Zachariah. And as Demas leads us into a large room, I quickly tell Ethan and my sons all Zechariah has done for me. By the time we enter the area where a long, low table sits, surrounded by elegant pillowed couches, Ethan is smiling.

  The table is laden with roasted lamb, fish, quail, figs and bread, and so many other good things I can scarcely believe it. I haven’t seen such food in years.

  Ethan points to a couch at the end, and I take my seat, then he beside me. Everyone else settles on one of the other couches. And after Ethan offers thanks and praise to God for this feast and the miracle of our reunion, we begin dipping bread into the many bowls before us.

  We are all mouths now, and talk for hours. Ethan, Aaron and Benjamin speak about Jerusalem. How they lived. What they saw. The final battle for the Temple. The copper scroll. They save, for last, the details of how Abner and Joseph died, and even how Aaron lost his eye trying to save Daniel. And then they tell me why they’re here, in Caesarea. It’s hard to hear, to take it all in. Even so, I’m sure they haven’t told me the worst of it. It’s in their eyes, especially Aaron’s. I know there are things seen and done which they’ll never share with me.

  When they finish, Zechariah and I tell our stories. We talk and laugh and cry for hours on end. And when it seems we stop and take our first breath, I notice the oil lamps are lit, and from where I sit, see that the roofless atrium is as black as onyx.

  I jump to my feet. “Judah! I’ve forgotten about Judah!”

  “Have they left the city, do you think?”

  Zechariah, who holds my elbow, doesn’t answer. We are nearing the Jewish Quarter. I want to run, but fear of drawing unwanted attention stops me; that, and Zechariah’s tight grip.

  “How could I have been so selfish? To while away the hours in feasting and talking? Oh, how frightened Hannah and Judah must be!”

  “It’s useless to flog yourself with words,” Zechariah says softly. “What’s done, is done. And I’m as much to blame. All thoughts of Judah flew from my head, as well.”

  “But Zechariah, he’s so weak. So . . . .”

  “Hush.” Zechariah’s voice is stern. “Someone might hear. You never know who lurks in the shadows.”

  And so we continue in silence until we reach Hannah’s. My hand is on the latch first. When I discover it’s unlocked, I burst through the door. Zechariah’s heavy breathing tells me he’s close behind. And as he comes alongside me, he unsheathes his dagger.

  The house is quiet, and except for a small flickering light coming from the kitchen, it’s dark as well. We head toward the light. And there, sitting on a stool holding her own dagger with two hands, is Hannah. She flashes it wildly in the air, then stops when she recognizes us.

  “The way you burst through the door, I thought you were the Romans.” Her hands shake as she places the dagger on the table. “I left it unlocked so those beasts wouldn’t break it down and destroy the house. I was afraid . . . I thought . . . .”

  “I know.” I bend and kiss her head, and notice she’s trying to stop her hands from shaking by clutching the sides of her tunic. Her eyes are still wide with panic. “It’s my fault. My fault,” I say, feeling downcast and sorrowful at causing Hannah such anxiety. “I should have come sooner. Only . . . the most wonderful thing has happened.” I quickly tell her about the events of the evening. Suddenly, she is our Hannah again, laughing and clapping and wiggling on her stool like a girl.

  “But oh, how worried I was when I realized I had forgotten about Judah! I imagined all sorts of terrible things. He’s so weak. Any journey now would be difficult for him. I’m so glad you and Judah didn’t leave.”

  “But Judah did leave. I made him go to the Greek Quarter to hide with the followers of the Way. A rich couple there leads the Gentile church; a couple known for their kindness. Judah didn’t want to go, but I cried and fussed until he did.”

  “And you stayed behind?” Zechariah says. “Why?”

  “I thought if the Romans came and found me, it would satisfy them, and they wouldn’t bother looking for Judah. What’s one more sick captive to them?”

  “You’re very brave,” I whisper.

  Hannah shrugs. “I’m old. Too old to leave my home. What better way to use what’s left of my life than in trying to save my son?”

  I laugh and cover her face with kisses, then pull a wooden tablet from my robe. “Here. It’s official. The bill of sale for Judah. Now you have nothing to worry about. And tomorrow, we’ll bring him home.”

  Vendors hawking their wares sound like squawking birds as Zechariah and I enter the marketplace. We head for the long, large block of stone that serves as a platform. Even from this distance and over the throng of bodies, I see that as yet there are no slaves on the block for auction. The marketplace is so crowded I must squeeze between two portly women to keep up with Zechariah. We stop when the wall of bodies becomes too tight to breach. I stand on my toes in hopes of glimpsing Ethan and my sons. For safety’s sake, we cannot be seen together. But oh, how difficult that is! To be forced apart after only just being reunited.

  My heart catches when I see Ethan’s broad frame. He stands in front, well positioned to see the entire stone block which runs along one section of the market. I envision the enterprising Demas securing Ethan’s place with a bribe to the aediles, the Market Manager, who oversees the public auctions. My sons flank Ethan, and talk with heads together. How strange they look with their shaven faces, their elaborate robes and silk head coverings, their long gold chains that gleam around their necks. If I didn’t know who they were I’d never recognize them.

  Zechariah leans closer to me. “We should have been at Hannah’s by now with Judah. She’s sure to worry.”

  “Yes. But I must stay. You go and fetch him. After last night, it would be too cruel to make her worry again.”

  “I won’t leave you. Suppose there’s trouble? Then Ethan and your sons would be forced to expose themselves by coming to your rescue.”

  “Oh, Zechariah, please. You go. I cannot. Surely it was God’s mercy that brought me here. If I hadn’t overheard those two men talking about coming to buy women for their brothels, I wouldn’t know about this slave dealer from Jerusalem and his auction today.”

  “I won’t leave,” Zechariah repeats. And by his firm expression I know it’s pointless to argue, so I sigh and pull him by the arm hoping to get closer to the block. But it’s no use. People press us on all sides. Most are Greeks or Romans. Only a handful of Jews are peppered among them, and I wonder if they’re also searching for loved ones.

  Suddenly, the Market Manager appears. He’s a stout man. Even from my vantage point his double chin is clear
ly visible. He wears a toga, the symbol of Roman citizenship. Its purple stripe along the edge, and the eagle-capped ivory baton in his hand, testify to his office as Curule Aedile. So do his two accompanying lictors, who each carry a thick bundle of leather-bound birch rods symbolizing their authority to arrest and punish.

  The massive folds of the white linen toga make the Manager look like a draped barrel. He carries his baton upright, while the stubby fingers of his other hand hold a tablet, no doubt for calculating the taxes due him from the sales. He sits on a tufted litter shouldered by eight slaves. They carry him to a curved backless chair beneath a canopy. After he’s settled, he signals for the auction to begin.

  The crowd stirs as a dozen young women are forced to mount the block and walk its length. They are freshly bathed and scented, with hair cascading over their shoulders. For clothing, they wear only a loosely draped cloak. Around each of their necks hangs the customary scroll prescribed by law that describes any sickness or defects. Though they look in need of nourishment, they are all pretty.

  The Market Manager sends one of his lictors to examine the feet of each woman. Two have chalked soles. One is a Nubian from Egypt, the other, with hair the color of gold, is perhaps from Germania. The rest, judging from their complexion, hair, and eyes, appear to be Judeans. The Manager notates this on his tablet, obviously to tally the import taxes, for all imported slaves must have their feet chalked, a practice common in Rome but not here in the East. I suspect it is merely a way for the Market Manager to enrich himself.

  That done, the slaver invites all interested parties to inspect the women. At once, men rush the block and pull off the women’s cloaks. Now they stand naked and at the mercy of prying eyes and probing hands. I look away. Esther is not among them, and it breaks my heart to think she had or will have to endure this.

  Bids are shouted into the air. Men push against each other. Everyone talks at once. I’m on my toes searching for Ethan. He stands away from the block. The look on his face, the jut of his chin, the way he cocks his head to the left tells me he’s appalled by what he sees. Only Demas is walking the line, or trying to. He roughly pushes aside those in his way. Men curse him and wave their fists. I know Demas is only playing his part, for we’ve all had time to see that Esther is not here.

  When the bidding ends, the crowd thins. Some people wander toward the nearby docks. There were always new ships arriving with goods from all over the Empire being unloaded on the quays running along the edge of Herod’s magnificent semicircle harbor: cargos of hippopotamus teeth or elephant tusks for inlaying furniture or making combs or knife handles, spices and perfumes, silks, expensive cedar wood, and exotic foods.

  Zechariah and I remain where we are. Ethan, too, for I see him more easily now. But soon more people will pour into the plaza, for we’ve heard that women will be forced to walk the block throughout the day. It’s useless for Zechariah to stay, and cruel to leave Hannah needlessly worrying for hours. I’m about to insist that Zechariah go for Judah, when suddenly there’s the most awful shriek behind me.

  “Eeeee! By the gods! There she is! The idolater. The defamer of Isis! The one who stole the sacred cup from her temple!”

  I turn around and see Argos, the scratches, the ones I made with my fingernails, still visible on his face.

  “Who will help me obtain justice for the Queen of Heaven, the Mother of the Gods, the one who gave birth to both heaven and earth?”

  People gather around. Many eye me with raised brows, not certain if I’m the offender Argos describes. Zechariah rises up like a bear, spreading his large frame, arms and all, between Argos and me.

  “We must leave,” I whisper, “before Ethan exposes himself to danger.” But I’m also thinking of Zechariah. Nothing good can come of a Jew fighting a Greek.

  Before I can make my escape, Argos darts around Zechariah and grabs my arm. “Look how the thief seeks to flee! Good citizens of Caesarea, what’s to be done? Have you no laws to protect your gods? In this, the seat of Roman justice, should such a malicious act go unpunished?”

  I jerk free of Argos, but three men, the same men I encountered on the road, bar my way. My heart catches when I see Ethan’s broad frame making his way toward us.

  Stay back, my love. Oh, please stay back.

  Zechariah’s fists are clenched as though ready to hurl them squarely at Argos’s face. Are we all to be undone by this mad follower of Isis? My mouth forms a disjointed prayer while Zechariah raises his arm as though ready to strike. We’re all doomed now. I close my eyes.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” says a shrill voice that seems to come from overhead.

  I open my eyes, and there to the side is the Market Manager, his double chin quivering, his eagle-headed baton waving, his tablet balancing on his amply draped lap as he sits on his raised, tufted litter held aloft by glistening slaves. But his two lictors stand between Argos and me, just as if God had plucked them out of the air and placed them there Himself.

  “Well, speak up!” the Market Manager bellows. When no one utters a word, he shakes his head sternly. “I won’t have my market disrupted by troublemakers. We’re here to conduct commerce. And you,” he points a jeweled, sausage-like finger at me, “are obstructing it.” He gestures for his bearers to lower the litter, then pulls his squat body upright, nearly dropping his tablet. The crowd has already moved aside for the lowering of the litter, then to make a path for the Manager to walk through. Though he’s as round as a barrel, he’s hardly as sturdy, for he leans on one of the bearers as he walks. He takes several steps, then stops in front of me. “Well! What have you to say for yourself?”

  “I . . . have done nothing wrong, my lord. This man lies.” I glance at Argos, and when I do I see Ethan and my sons rapidly closing the distance between us. They are near. Too near. My head throbs.

  The Market Manager turns to Argos. “Can you prove your claim?”

  “Well . . . that is . . . .” Argos’s face turns as purple as the stripe on the Market Manager’s toga.

  “Can neither of you speak without stammering? Tell me plain and true what goes on here.” The Manager looks at me for an answer as he signals for his litter. Strain and fatigue mar his face as if he’s thoroughly wearied by the whole affair.

  “My lord,” I say, “I’ve never stepped foot in the Temple of Isis. I am a Jewess and as I’m sure you know, a Jew would never, could never do such a thing.”

  “A Jew? Ah, yes. I’m well aware of your aversion for other gods.”

  The litter is brought closer, then lowered. And when the Manager hikes up the great folds of his tunic to take his seat on it, I see his shriveled leg.

  “Oh, yes, I know how it is with you Jews,” he says. “But that is hardly proof you don’t have his cup.” The round puffy face frowns. “Perhaps I should bring this matter before the Procurator and let him decide who is right and who is wrong.”

  “I do have a cup,” I quickly say. “But the cup is mine. And Argos desires it because he believes it can heal.” I see the Manager’s eyes flash and know I have pricked something inside him. “But it is God who heals, not the cup. I’ve tried telling Argos that.”

  “A god who heals? There are many gods. Surely they all heal? But I suppose you are referring to only yours?” The Manager’s eyes fasten on me. His tablet lies discarded among the folds on his lap as he fingers the ivory baton. “That’s it, isn’t it? You mean only your god can heal.”

  A murmur spreads throughout the crowd as people wait expectantly for something to happen. I’m surrounded by those who worship all manner of gods, and who appear ready to fiercely defend their worship. Many press closer to hear my answer.

  “If you wish, I will pray and ask my God to heal you,” I say in a near whisper.

  “Heal me? Of what?” The Manager raises his baton, and I fear he is about to order my arrest.

  I lower my eyes, waiting for his command, but all I hear is laughter. When I look up, that double chin is heaving up and down, th
e baton is on his lap alongside the tablet, and his hands are pressing against his round, quivering belly. Surely, he means to mock my God. But when his laughter subsides, his eyes tell me something altogether different, and I see how desperately he wants to believe.

  “I have no wish to offend the gods, not even yours,” he says, with a smirk on his face. “Pray if you like, but make it quick. I’ve business to conduct.”

  And so I place my trembling hands on the hem of his toga and ask the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob to heal him in the name of Jesus. It’s over before anyone knows what’s happened. I see the Manager move his leg this way and that beneath the folds of his garment, then see the look of disdain on his face. “I am as I always was,” he says, ordering his slaves, with a flick of a hand, to hoist the litter. “It seems your god is as deaf as ours.” He takes up his baton as the slaves carry him away. “You’ll cause no more disturbances in my market,” he shouts back at me. “If you do, I’ll have you arrested.” With that, his bearers carry him back to his curved seat beneath the canopy.

  As soon as the Manager is settled in his chair, Argos and his thugs waste no time surrounding Zechariah and me. Two of them hold daggers. Now our predicament is worse than before. The Manager’s disappointment over my seemingly fruitless prayer has embittered him towards me. He’ll surely make good his threat if any trouble begins.

  “No one will help you now,” Argos says, grinning like a madman. “We will all go to your house, and there you’ll hand over your cup.”

  What happens next occurs to fast I can hardly comprehend it. But suddenly, five Galatians with blond hair and sky-blue eyes, and as quiet as death, appear in our midst; large men, and fierce, too, with bodies like gladiators. Without raising a sweat or their voices, they knock Argos’s three men to the ground. Then two Galatians take Argos by each arm and pull him to the side to make way for an elegant looking woman to enter our midst. Her white muslin stola nearly touches the ground and is richly bordered in red. Over one shoulder is draped a red palla, fastened by a large emerald pin. Her wrists and fingers are covered with gold and precious gems. Three necklaces ring her throat: two gold; one, a mix of pearls and emeralds. Her elaborately braided hair is piled high atop her head and covered with a thin gold-spun net. And over that is draped a sheer white silk veil. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone so wonderfully arrayed.