Rebekah's Treasure

by Sylvia Bambola

The Market Manager frowns. “I’ve heard of this man-God of yours, the one crucified by Pontius Pilate. A strange religion. But I won’t quarrel with you. If you say your God healed my leg, so be it. I’ll honor him by making sacrifices in our temple.”

  “Oh . . . you mustn’t do that.”

  “Doesn’t this God of yours like sacrifices?”

  “Only if it’s your own heart.”

  The Manager smiles. “Ah, you play with words. It’s not my heart he would have as a bloody offering on the altar, is it?”

  I shake my head. “No, my lord, it’s your love He wants.”

  “Love a god? You don’t love the gods. You fear them, honor them, pay homage to them with the obligatory sacrifices, but love them? Such an idea! I’ll hear no more of it.” He returns to the table and sits down, then quickly reaches for a honey cake and takes a bite. He chews awhile, knotting his brow as though in thought. “Still . . . I feel obligated to do something.” He shoves the last of the cake into his mouth. “And so I’ll reward you directly. Name what you wish and you shall have it.”

  “Whatever I wish?”

  The Manager brushes crumbs off his toga and laughs. “Can a simple woman like you desire much? Let us see. Name the desire, and allow me the pleasure of fulfilling it.”

  “I desire one of your kitchen slaves, Esther the wood carrier. She’s nothing in your household.”

  “But something to you?” The Manager eyes me curiously.

  “Yes, a great deal.” Perhaps I shouldn’t have answered truthfully, for I see him hesitate. Will he change his mind? But my fear is groundless, for suddenly he slaps the table and laughs.

  “I’m glad this wood carrier is important to you, for it makes my gift all the greater. Take her, she’s yours.” He calls the steward of his house and tells him to give me a scroll, stamped with his seal, freeing the slave girl, Esther. And with a wave of his hand dismisses us both.

  My heart pounds as I follow the steward into the kitchen, carrying the stamped scroll in my hand. The kitchen is a large, bright space with two wooden tables in the center and assorted metal spoons and pots hanging on one wall. And the stone cooking area is three times the size of Hannah’s. A fire crackles in the curved hearth, and a pot bubbles on the stone counter above it. A man stands alongside it, holding a large wooden spoon in his hand.

  “Call the slave, Esther,” the steward says to the cook. And without a word, Joanna’s cousin, Quintus, leaves his pot and disappears. I hear his raspy voice call my daughter’s name. Within minutes he returns, followed by a thin, dirt-smudged young woman with stringy hair, her tunic covered in wood shavings.

  “Go with this Jewess. You are hers now,” the steward barks. “But see that you take nothing but the tunic on your back! For all else belongs to the master.”

  The thin woman nods, then looks shyly at me. And when she does, I nearly burst into tears. Her face is drawn but pretty. Her eyes are indeed as large as flat breads, and her eyelashes as long as rushes, but she is not my Esther.

  “Come,” I say, trying to swallow the lump in my throat as I lead the stranger out of the Market Manager’s house.

  CAESAREA MARITIMA TO JUDEAN DESERT 70 A.D.

  CHAPTER 10

  Fear is a strange thing. It always finds you out. And what I’ve feared has finally come to pass. Someone has recognized us. Even now, that little weasel Rebekah calls “Argos” stalks us as we walk through the marketplace. Though he walks along the shops—his shadow clinging to the walls like mold—I’ve seen him. He’s been hanging around for days, especially around Demas. I know Argos recognizes him; perhaps Aaron, too, though without his beard Argos may yet be fooled. I’m only glad Rebekah has kept her promise and stayed away, for if Argos were to see any of us together it would end our charade, and perhaps our lives, for that weasel would surely inform the Romans.

  He still bears the scratches my normally gentle Rebekah gave him. Benjamin says we should give him more than scratches. He has suggested we kill the Greek since so much is at stake. But I’ve cautioned against it. Now I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

  “Demas! Is that you?” Argos suddenly cries, breaking his silence and stepping from the shadows of the shop walls then scurrying, like a rodent, among the crowd. The knots on his head blow in the breeze making him look like he wears a cluster of writhing serpents. Now he moves with the boldness and determination of a legionnaire; the pride, too, for he walks as if expecting people to make way. Surprisingly, several do; frightened by the knots, perhaps, since Isis has many followers in Caesarea.

  My hand moves to the dagger hidden beneath my robe as I look around for his companions. Hashem has blessed us for he is alone. It will be easier to take him down, if it comes to that.

  “Demas!” he shouts again, darting and weaving among the crowd.

  Demas continues walking alongside the block as though he doesn’t hear. I know that Demas, too, has feared this encounter for we have discussed it. Demas has walked the block for weeks looking for Esther, and in the process buys several slaves every day to avoid suspicion. Even now, he’s inspecting a strong, broad man with a thick crop of silky brown hair that hangs across his forehead like a stallion’s mane. And judging by the defiant look on the slave’s face, he’s just as wild. But the muscular slave looks oddly out of place among the emaciated men on either side of him.

  “Demas?” Argos calls out yet again.

  Demas continues to pretend he doesn’t hear.

  But my sons hear. Aaron draws his kaffia across his face. Then he and Benjamin push forward. With a wave of my hand, I caution them to stay back, while I myself bob and weave through the crowd hoping to head Argos off. This man can undo us all.

  And then it happens. Argos breaks free of the crowd and heads for Demas. When he reaches him, he yanks Demas’s arm, making him turn. “Eeeew! It is you! Oh, I knew it! But . . . what are you doing here!” Argos’s voice is loud, angry, as though he bears Demas a grudge.

  Demas’s face is the color of ash. His lips part, but before he can say a word, I’m beside him. “Is this the cook you promised?” I say. “Judging from his size, he knows how to keep his belly full.” Demas’s eyes widen in confusion, for I’m talking nonsense, trying to throw Argos off. And though it seems I’ve thrown off Demas instead, there are too many watching to stop now.

  “He seems a good match for a gaggle of squawking women,” I bellow, “someone who can handle them from here to Damascus. And I must have someone to handle them for the sake of peace. You know two women over one fire is a recipe for strife unless there is a man to oversee them. And don’t we have twenty such contentious women in our camp?”

  “I cook,” the broad man on the block says suddenly, as if I were talking to him. “And I can handle women.”

  “Oh?” I say, relieved I don’t have to continue my babbling. Then I eye the silky-haired slave, wondering why such a fine specimen of manhood has not been purchased already. I gesture for him to bend down so I can read the wooden placard that hangs around his neck. “It says you’re a runner. That you’ve run from your previous master. But he didn’t brand you. Why?”

  The broad-shouldered slave smiles. “He tried. When I knocked the teeth out of four of his best men and flattened the noses of three others, he stopped trying, and sold me to this one.” The large man gestures with his chin to a thin slaver who has been standing nearby, listening.

  “So you’re a brawler.” My interest is peaked.

  “I’ve had my share of fights in the minor circuses, before being purchased by a fat magistrate as his bodyguard.”

  In spite of myself, I chuckle. “And then the magistrate found himself in need of protection from you?”

  The slave’s smile deepens. “He would have had me killed if he hadn’t wanted to recover at least part of the large sum he laid out for me.”

  “Enough talk, Thracian,” the slaver says with a quivering voice, as though fearful of both the large man and the possibility I’ll lose interest.

>   I brush the dealer away with the wave of my hand, my eyes still on the slave. “I’m not a gambler. I’ve no desire to risk my money either. How do I know you won’t run?”

  “You don’t.” The Thracian’s hands are bound together in front. He brings them up and pushes his flowing hair away from his eyes. “But you see my worth. I’m strong. I can work hard.”

  “I’ll make you a bargain of him,” the nervous slaver blurts. He steps in front of Argos who has, all the while, been listening with a perplexed expression. “You can purchase him cheap. He’s an ill mannered Thracian, but with a firm hand, he can be tamed, I’m sure of it.”

  “Offer eight-hundred drachmas,” I say to Demas without looking at the slave or the dealer, “and not one drachma more.”

  “Done!” the slaver says quickly. “The Thracian is worth three . . . maybe four times that, but yes, I’ll let you rob me. It is done.”

  I turn and push past Argos. The little Greek is now beside himself, having been so ignored. He waves his arms, then jumps up and down. “Something is wrong here. There is mischief afoot. I sense mischief afoot!” He looks at me and points to Demas. “This man is not what he seems!”

  I draw my dagger. “Go away,” I hiss. “Can’t you see we are conducting business?”

  “I won’t be dismissed,” Argos says, white with rage. “You can’t dismiss me! I know this man. He’s a beekeeper! Something’s wrong here.”

  Now we are drawing an even larger crowd. People stare and whisper. The owner of the Thracian wrings his hands. Several other slavers eye Demas suspiciously. And despite my orders, Aaron and Benjamin move closer.

  When Demas twists around to count out the eight-hundred drachmas, Argos shrieks, “Don’t turn your back on me! I know who you are. Don’t think I don’t know!” It’s evident Argos is bent on making trouble—Argos, who is used to having his way; Argos, who is used to people listening when he speaks.

  I’m about to shove the little Greek aside when someone shouts, “Make way, make way.” And when I see two lictors with their birch rods coming toward us, I quickly sheathe my dagger.

  The lictors look fierce and greatly agitated as they move along the path cleared for them. When they get closer I see, for the first time, that the jewel-bedecked Market Manager is walking behind them.

  The Market Manager’s flabby face quivers with displeasure as he clutches his ivory baton. “What is the meaning of . . . .” He stops when he sees Argos. “Oh, it’s you. Is it your intent to make a habit of disrupting my market? Well! What do you have to say for yourself this time?” The Manager doesn’t even try to hide his contempt. His face is a storm as he waves his baton in the air, and for an instant I think he’s actually going to crack Argos over the head with it. Was he thinking of Rebekah? Was he remembering how his leg was healed?

  Argos’s silence is like a spark that sets the Manager’s face on fire; his cheeks burn like coals. “Are you deaf?” he shrieks. “Answer me, or by Jupiter I’ll send you straight to prison.”

  Argos takes a deep breath as though gathering courage. “I know this man,” he says, pointing to Demas. “A beekeeper for Isis, posing as a slave dealer. I tell you, something is wrong.”

  The Market Manager’s eyebrows, looking like feathers, arch upward. “A beekeeper? Hardly. I’ve done business with him. A keen eye, he has, for flesh; and a shrewd negotiator, too. I see no fault in him.”

  “I tell you he’s a fraud, and up to no good!”

  “You tell me? Who are you to tell me anything?” The Manager’s doughy cheeks shake as he pinches his lips together. “This is my market. I do the telling. Now for the last time, state your grievance.”

  “Perhaps . . . I’ve overstepped,” Argos says, dropping his voice as well as his chin as though finally sensing the Manager’s ill will. “Perhaps I’ve been too zealous. But as a good citizen of Rome, I merely wanted to point out that something could be wrong here.” Oh, how contrite and submissive he is now! The man could be a play actor in the court of Caesar.

  The Market Manager looks at him sideways, studies him a moment, then nods, as though taking him more seriously. Whether it’s because of Argos’s tone or because he has revealed himself to be a Roman citizen I cannot say, but Argos has the Manager’s attention now. I tense. If he is believed, we are all doomed.

  “You claim he’s a fraud,” the Manager says, turning his gaze to Demas. “Very well. We shall see. I will test him.”

  “But sir, his father was . . . .”

  “Silence!” The Manager waves his eagle-topped baton in the air, causing the many rings on his chubby fingers to glint in the harsh sun light. “You, slave dealer, tell me, what can a master do if a slave is injured or killed by another?”

  Demas, tall and broad, with one soft hand cupped beneath his chin, smiles. “Under lex aquilia, he could sue for damages or charge the killer with a capital offense.”

  “And if the slave is despoiled by another? And falls into evil ways? What then?”

  “The master has a praetorian action in duplo against the offender, and the offender must pay twice the assessed damage.”

  “And what if the slave incurs a naturalis obligation? What is the master’s responsibility?”

  “None sir, unless the slave was employed as his representative, in which case the master could be liable to an actio institoria.”

  The Manager throws up his hands. “Enough! This man is no fraud!”

  “Yes . . . he knows the law,” Argos says, looking wild, desperate. “I tried to tell you his father was a slaver. But he is a beekeeper.” Argos is so bent on proving his point that he again seems heedless of the Manager’s growing impatience. His enmity toward Demas must be great, indeed, for him to be so reckless. “He would never return to the trade of a slaver,” Argos stammers. “He told me so himself! I know something’s not right here!”

  “First you accuse someone of stealing a cup without proof. Now you proclaim this man a fraud when it’s obviously not so, as my testing proved.” He signals his lictors. “Take this madman away.” Then he adds, “For my part I’d throw you straight into prison. But since you are a citizen, you are entitled to a trial. The Procurator will deal with you.”

  “No!” Argos shrieks. “I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  One of the lictors grabs his arm, but Argos pulls away, then narrowly dodges the second lictor. And then he does something foolish. He bolts. He actually tries to run away, but he doesn’t get far for his path is littered with people.

  “Stop him!” The Market Managers shouts. With that, one of the lictors takes his long bundle of white birch rods and swings it at Argos’s head. But it hits him in the neck instead and drops him in his tracks, but not before I hear the sound of bones cracking.

  Even before Argos hits the ground I know he’s dead, that his neck has been broken. He lands face down on the paving stones, his knotted hair fanning out around his head.

  “Look what this worthless goat has made me do!” the Manager says, hardly glancing at the prone body. “Now I’ll have to waste endless hours explaining this to the Procurator.” He waves his hand in disgust. “Remove him.” Then turning to Demas he says, “Now, what was your offer for this slave? Eight-hundred drachmas, I believe you said?” He points to the broad man on the block. “Of course you know he’s an import, which means you’ll have to pay me an extra tax.”

  That jackal, Titus, has begun gladiatorial games in the amphitheater, forcing many of the unsold captives into the arena to be slaughtered for sport. He claims it is in honor of his brother Domitian’s birthday. They say so far two thousand captives have been killed in the games. The city has gone mad for blood. It’s too dangerous to stay. Soldiers and even citizens swarm the streets looking for sport, and for trouble. I fear they’ll find both if they meet up with Aaron or Benjamin.

  And we’ve been here too long as it is. Some of the slave dealers have begun whispering, wondering among themselves why such wealthy Syrians stay; wondering why such an exp
ert slaver as Demas stays. Do we know something they don’t? Have we heard some news they haven’t? Others have begun asking Demas outright why we’re still here. After all, hasn’t all the good flesh been purchased? Even the lowest, most disreputable of the slavers have begun leaving. But can we tell them we are still hoping to find Esther? Or that the longer our captives rest, the more likely they will survive the harsh journey to Masada?

  Even so, we have done more than just search for Esther. Demas has discharged the quaestor’s slaves. And my sons have been busy organizing our captives according to their home towns, then dividing them into groups of fifty with a captain over each group. Only the captains know of our true plans, plans to either free the captives near their villages or take those who wish, on to Masada.

  The captains also oversee the camp, which includes keeping order and seeing everyone is fed, as well as seeing that the sick are tended. This leaves Demas free to purchase camels, wagons, tunics, food, and all the other supplies needed to relocate our large entourage.

  But in light of the current mood of the city, we can no longer delay the inevitable. My sons and I agree, in two days we must depart. By then, Demas will be finished making his purchases. Now all I have to do is tell Rebekah. I dread it for I know she’ll resist. She still holds out hope that Esther will be found. I, myself, have no such hope.

  “I’m only glad the lictor killed Argos before we had to,” I say, dipping my bread into a bowl of lamb stew. “He was bent on making trouble.”

  Benjamin, sitting on a nearby couch, chuckles. Demas only nods. But there’s something sad about Demas’s face, the way his eyebrows fold together, the way his eyes mist.

  “It was his hatred for me. That’s what got the better of him. He just couldn’t let it go, couldn’t forgive me for forsaking Isis. I tried to explain. I even hoped that he, too, would follow Jesus some day, but . . . .” Demas’s voice trails off.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” Judith says, her face soft as lamb’s wool. “I, too, have many friends who follow other gods. I talk to them, I pray for them, but in the end they must decide for themselves who they will serve.”