“Rebekah!” I shout, racing ahead of Benjamin.
When the two men see me, they turn and run, but I follow. Benjamin is soon beside me, and in no time the last of Lamech’s men lay dead at our feet. Then I race back to Rebekah. She’s kneeling beside one of the bodies and whispering softly. Aaron? Is that Aaron lying in the dirt? I stop. I just stop. Nothing moves, not my feet, my legs, my arms, my hands. I’m as stiff as marble. Even so, from where I stand I can see the blood covering Aaron’s tunic. I groan, but it sounds more like the growl of a frightened dog. Is my son dead? I fear so. Oh, how can my heart take it? How can I bear any more loss? At that moment I was tempted to curse God and die. It seemed preferable than stepping closer and seeing if what I fear is true.
Benjamin, too, hangs back, breathing heavily and shaking his head in disbelief. I muster all my courage and go to my son. Aaron’s face is as white as lime dust. His chest is motionless, his lips look like wax. I hear Rebekah whispering. Prayers? I think so. Slowly, she removes the patch over Aaron’s useless eye, then places one hand on the badly scarred lid, the other on his blood-stained tunic. She drops her head, while I drop to my knees and pant silently beside her. She remains like this for a long time then finally lifts her face and smiles.
“Our son is brave. He fights like a lion. But he sustained a grievous wound at the cave, and lost much blood. Even so, he managed to bring down this one before collapsing.” She gestures with her chin to the body lying nearby. “But he’ll live. Not to fight, Ethan. Not to fight. God has heard my clanging, and healed Aaron; healed him for His service.”
As I look at my son’s lifeless body, a new fear comes over me. Has Rebekah lost her mind from grief? “Rebekah . . . surely you see that life has gone from . . . .”
Suddenly, Aaron’s fingers move, then his hand. A sigh escapes his lips. His head turns, his eyes open. Yes, two eyes open. Two perfectly normal eyes; for the eye that was white with scarring is now clear and bright and staring at me! My body trembles. Can this really be true? I bend over my son and lay a shaking hand on his shoulder as I stare into his face.
“Praise Hashem!” I say in a quivering voice. “He has restored your sight!” My own eyes fill with tears of gratitude until I look at the blood on his tunic. What good is the healing of an eye when the heart has been ripped in two by a dagger? Yet . . . he breathes normally. Could it be . . . could Hashem have healed his chest wound, too? And for the first time in a very long while I dare hope for a miracle.
Aaron looks dazed. His forehead crinkles in confusion as he brings both hands up to his face. He holds them there for some time before blurting, “I can see!” He laughs and turns his hands this way and that, as though viewing them for the first time. Finally, he sits up. “I feel no pain,” he says, answering my silent question as he runs his hands over his blood soaked tunic. Then he pokes his chest. “It’s gone! The wound is gone!”
When Benjamin and I help him to his feet I notice the joy on Aaron’s face, in his eyes. He has the face of an angel, with peace covering him like a talith. And he is smiling.
Has God healed the wounds in Aaron’s soul as well?
“I can’t remember when I’ve felt so good!” Aaron says, his voice full of wonder and joy. Then he spots the dead men lying on the ground. “Praise God that you came in time, Father. Is Mama hurt?” He looks at Rebekah anxiously.
“Be at peace. No harm has come to me,” she says, not looking at Aaron but at me. I see gratitude in her eyes. She fingers her headscarf nervously. “Your father is still formidable.”
“You are well, then?” I say, going to her, still dazed and not knowing what to make of all that has happened to Aaron. I try to put my arms around her but she pulls away.
“The only thing hurt is my pride. You might as well see for yourself.” Her face reddens with shame as she pulls the scarf from her head revealing short chopped hair. “You might as well see how abhorrent your wife is!”
I take her chin and tilt her face upward as I search her eyes. They will tell me just how much Lamech has taken from her. When I see that unmistakable sparkle I laugh and hug her to my chest. “Oh, Rebekah, you are still as beautiful as ever!”
“As usual, you’ve left a wake of dead bodies behind,” Josiah says with a grin as he walks toward me in full leather armor and a belted sword, and looking disappointed he won’t need to use it. A string of over fifty men follow behind, including Skaris. I’ve been watching their approach for several minutes.
“And you, as usual, are late, arriving only after all the hard work is done.” I clasp his arm in friendship, glad to see him. “What delayed you?”
“That Thracian, Skaris, and the ragged group of men you sent have never been to Masada, and lost their way. They only arrived late yesterday. We marched part of the night and all morning to get here. I should have known that you and your sons were more than able to handle things. I only pray your enemy, Lamech, is among those scattered in the dirt.”
“He is.”
Josiah cocks his head and frowns. “But you do not rejoice?”
“I have better things to rejoice over.” I glance at Aaron who is talking to Rebekah and Benjamin. Was it only moments ago that he rose from the dead? I still don’t know what to make of it, though years ago I witnessed many of Jesus’ miracles, including the raising of Lazarus.
“Yes, I see your wife is safe and well,” Josiah says, misunderstanding. “Skaris has told me all. These men,” he says, spitting on the ground and gesturing toward the lifeless bodies still sprawled in the dirt, “died too easily. Their clean wounds tell me they suffered little.” He signals for his men to collect them. “Robbers and thieves, a disgrace to our race, just like the sicarii, those dagger men who live among us and behave like wild beasts. But never mind. I rejoice over your good fortune. Hashem has been kind to you. ”
I nod. He didn’t know the half of it. But how can I explain? Though Josiah saw Jesus’ miracles, too, he considers Him a charlatan.
“And Hashem has been kind to us as well. I passed the broken jar of silver. Even now my men are preparing it for transport back to Masada.”
“There’s another like it. I’ll show you.”
Josiah slaps my back good naturedly. “What luck! If you keep providing us with treasure like this, our fight can go on forever.”
His words are like a blade in my heart. Go on forever . . . on forever . . . forever.
“And I’ve heard about Esther. You are twice blessed, my friend. Hashem has safely delivered both your wife and daughter into your hands.” Josiah frowns. “Still, you cannot be pleased that a Greek has caught Esther’s eye.” He laughs when he sees the surprise on my face. “I told you Skaris has revealed all. But fear not, once you and your family have moved to Masada, we’ll take care of that. There are many worthy young men who would look kindly on your daughter, and they are all Jews.”
An uneasiness creeps over me. Is it really wise to separate Esther from Demas now? Especially since he has been the instrument of her healing—at least the beginning of her healing—he and Hashem, both? Demas had a way with Esther, and at times was the only one she would talk to. She was still struggling over losing Daniel and over what happened to her at the hands of those two drunken Romans. Demas could draw her out like no other. And he was more than a Greek. He was a follower of The Way. Esther could do worse.
“What is it, my friend?” Josiah says, placing his hand on my shoulder. “With all your blessings why do you look so troubled?”
“I have much to think about,” I say, walking away without further explanation.
“I’ll not be going to Masada,” Aaron says. We’re standing by the En Gedi pool where we first made our camp with Titus’s captives, and where the women and a small group of men still remain, having been too feeble to make the forced march with Skaris to Masada when he went for help. The dust of Hyrcania has been washed away and we have regained much of our strength, having done little more than sleep and eat for two days. But unlike wh
en we first camped here, we are overcrowded, for Josiah and his men are here too—resting briefly before journeying on to Masada with their heavy bags of silver.
The faithful waterfall still tumbles from the limestone cliffs above and splashes into the large shimmering pool. Some of Josiah’s men are in the water, making splashes of their own. The rest are lounging on the rock ledge.
“I’m not going to Masada,” Aaron repeats, as if the noise of the water and men had drowned out his original proclamation. “I came to En Gedi only to say goodbye to Esther.”
“I know,” I hear myself saying. The truth is I’ve known since the day Aaron rose from the dead. Still . . . I had hoped I was wrong, for his words pain me. Will I ever see him again? “Where will you go?” I say, picking at the large fern by my side.
“To Ephesus, to study under John the Beloved Apostle, and our friend, Zechariah.”
At the mention of Zechariah’s name, my teeth grind. So . . . that irritant, that man of God, will best me again, this time with my son. Was Zechariah, then, to have the joy and privilege of training Aaron? But training him for what? “I . . . don’t understand.”
“I was dead, Father. Truly dead! You saw . . . you know it’s true.” Aaron is almost breathless as if experiencing his death for the second time. “And I saw Him—yes I saw Jesus. And He spoke to me, He spoke! He said I must fulfill my destiny; that I was to be His warrior and fight for His kingdom, and that my weapons were not to be sword or dagger, but His Word. His Word! He showed me that the road will be difficult. That bitter persecution was coming to the followers of The Way, and that I was to help prepare them.” His face is tender and eager, but determined, too.
“What of your pledge to Eleazar?” I say, still hoping to deter him. Still hoping to keep him close. “Would you toss it aside as if it were nothing?”
“Little treasure remains hidden that is not under the nose of the Romans. You and I well know that it would take an army to retrieve it. My conscience is clear.”
My lips purse. I suddenly feel weary of life, where all is suffering and loss. How could I bear losing Aaron? “And your people? Are you content to leave them under Roman bondage? To be sold in the slave markets of the world? Our women raped? Our men crucified? Are you content to live life in Ephesus while such things go on here?” I glance at Aaron. His eyes are so full of tenderness I have to look away or I won’t be able to deliver my final blow. “Are you willing to forget how they crucified your brother, Abner? How they raped your sister?”
Aaron sighs and leans against the rock wall. The large fern partially shades his face. “I haven’t forgotten, Father. I pray continually for Esther. She is in God’s hands. Even now, He is healing her. I see a great change, and even joy. And Abner? I know how hard his death was on you. But the specter of death has always been a soldier’s constant companion, and we all knew that the Romans would punish their captured rebels with crucifixion. But what of that other crucifixion? The one you saw long ago, where One who was innocent was crucified for our rebellion. Don’t you think His Father looked down and wept, too? Don’t you think it broke His heart? I’m going to Ephesus, Father, and nothing you say will change my mind. Please don’t try. Rather, give me your blessing.”
I shake my head. “I cannot. I’m sorry, Aaron, but I cannot.”
“Aaron leaves tomorrow,” Rebekah says, dangling her hand in the water beside me.
I notice, with some irritation, that she’s the picture of tranquility itself.
“Demas will travel with him as far as Pella,” she adds. “It’s a comfort to know Aaron will have a companion on the road, at least for part of the way.”
I sit glumly by the small pool of our trysting place. This time I know the area is secure having had it thoroughly searched by Josiah’s men. Still, I’m ill at ease, restless, and my heart is as heavy as the stone in my hand. I suppose I should take comfort in the fact that Rebekah does not chide me about separating Esther and Demas, even though Esther has done nothing but cry, and Demas walks around like a man lost in a sandstorm.
A soft breeze plays with the strands of Rebekah’s cropped hair. She no longer tries to hide it from me, perhaps because it’s growing as fast as tamarisk sprouts, and because she knows she’s still beautiful, despite professing otherwise. She’s lying by the pool’s edge and periodically scoops a handful of water, then watches it leak between her fingers. My irritation mounts. How can she be so peaceful?
“You must know that Esther blames you for making Demas return to Pella, even though it was Josiah who told him he was not welcome at Masada.” Rebekah rolls onto her back and gazes up at the large reeds that surround us. “But you could remedy that by allowing her to go with him to Pella.”
I remain silent. So, I’m to be chided after all.
“I worry about her. She’s still fragile. Do you think it wise to separate them?” Rebekah’s eyes are on me now.
“I don’t know.” My mouth is full of agitation and annoyance. “Our world is crumbling, Rebekah. Am I to worry about a young woman’s infatuation? In time she’ll forget Demas. Someone else will come along. Josiah says there are many eligible men at Masada. And all Jews! Surely, you don’t want her to align herself with a Greek!” My voice has become loud and defensive.
“He’s a believer, Ethan. He follows Messiah. I could wish nothing better for her than to find a man who loves and honors the Lord.”
I glare at her. “I suppose you blame me for her unhappiness. As I suppose you blame me for Aaron leaving, and perhaps even for the . . . death of Abner and Joseph? But why stop there? Why not blame me for the destruction of the Temple? Or Jerusalem? And to that, add the slaughter of our people.”
She sits up, sweet faced and full of tenderness, looking much like Aaron when he told me he was leaving. Would she leave me too? And go to that irritant, Zachariah? I recoil, fearing her words, then brace myself, not knowing what to expect.
“I love you,” she says softly. “And I will accept your decision. If you think Demas is unsuitable for Esther, so be it. I’ll not argue for it. But you’ll not change Aaron’s course. It has been set by God.”
I rise to my feet and toss the stone I’m holding into the pond, wishing I could toss my heavy heart in as well. “And Masada? Will you still follow me to Masada?”
She gathers another handful of water and lets it dribble between her fingers. “I’ll follow you wherever God leads.”
Without another word, I turn and walk away. I find no peace in her answer, for it’s really no answer at all, but a question of its own. And what Rebekah was asking was this: where is God leading you?
I’ve been tossing and turning on my pallet for hours. Tomorrow we journey to Masada. I need rest, but the truth is, I’m afraid to sleep. As soon as I drift off, I hear those sounds—the lashing of the whip, the hammer pounding nails, the soft groaning. It’s always the same. Even now those sounds seem to fill the night air, like whispers carried on a breeze. Do others hear it? I look over to where my sons lay sleeping nearby. Their snoring tells me they hear nothing.
And Rebekah? I see her slender frame resting peacefully next to our troubled Esther. Oh, to have such peace! I envy my wife. She’s told me how God protected her throughout those days and nights in the cave with Lamech, and sustained her with His peace in a new and deeper way. I don’t understand it. My heart has not been at peace for years. And I’m weary. So weary . . . I close my eyes, but even before I drift to sleep I hear that whip, that hammer, and jerk myself awake. And for what seems like hours I lay there fighting sleep, not wanting to close my eyes for fear of seeing that blood and hearing those sounds. “Oh, Jesus,” I whisper, as I finally roll from my pallet onto my knees, “how far my heart has wandered from you! Help me. Please help me. Tell me what to do. And bring me back to you.”
I watch Rebekah and Esther shove the last of the food supplies into several rush baskets, then watch Skaris hoist one onto his broad shoulder. I have never felt such uneasiness. It pricks and pulls an
d tears at my very soul.
“I’ll miss you,” Skaris says, coming over to me in long, easy strides, his crop of silky brown hair blowing in the breeze. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done.”
“Take care of them,” I say, looking at the two men who have joined my wife and daughter. “Demas is useless with a sword, and I fear Aaron is now loath to use one.” I still can’t believe Skaris has decided to go to Pella and make his home there with the believers. Pella. That name pulsates in my mind. “You should have enough supplies to get you through the worst of the desert.” I gesture toward the basket on his shoulder.
“More than enough. I bless God for your generosity.”
I clasp his shoulder, trying to ignore the sight of Aaron and Rebekah saying their goodbyes, or Esther, who weeps openly as she clings to Demas. My uneasiness mounts. When I can bear it no more, I leave Skaris and go to their side. Then the three of us watch Aaron, Demas and Skaris descend the path down the mountain. I can hardly breathe. It’s as if there’s an invisible hand on my throat.
“Be at peace,” I hear Rebekah say. And when I look at her sweet, gentle face I realize she’s not speaking to Esther, as I supposed, but to me. And I know not how to respond.
“Are you ready?” Josiah says, coming along side me and saving me the trouble of trying. His men are already gathering together to make their descent. He leans closer. “Don’t worry, she’ll forget,” he says, gesturing toward Esther. “They all forget in time. And both she and Rebekah will be proud when they understand that your mission is to gather the rest of the Temple treasure so that we can go on resisting the Romans.”
Rebekah's Treasure Page 32
