by Angela Hunt
Simon lowered his bowl and stared blankly as we eavesdropped on the king’s men. They spoke Aramaic, which we understood well.
“The Egyptians chased the king out,” one man said, grease dripping down his fingers as he tore a piece of meat. “Their governor appealed to Rome, and that was the end of it. Rome sent an ambassador, who promised that Rome’s armies would follow if Antiochus didn’t leave. So he did.”
“Kicked out of Egypt,” the other man replied. “The royal temper will be hotter than the fire of Hephaestus. If he sends for you, better think of a reason to be indisposed.”
“Like what?” the other countered. “You’d have to be on your deathbed to avoid a royal summons.”
“Better to be dead, then.” The second man wiped his hands on a towel and leaned back in his chair. “I can almost pity the poor Jews camped on the border. The king will have to cross their lands to get home, and they’re certain to feel the sting of his temper.”
I lowered my fist to the table and leaned forward, staring into my brother’s eyes. Would that cursed king come to Jerusalem again?
“Father,” Simon said, speaking Hebrew and carefully choosing his words, “is wise to leave Jerusalem. The lunatic king may well return.”
“But why?” I opened my hand. “He has already stolen our treasures and murdered thousands. Why would he come back?”
“Because he is king,” Simon said. “Because he can.”
After Sukkot, we dismantled our tent shelters and began the process of moving. As we emptied our houses, we said farewell to our neighbors and gave them the furnishings we could obtain or make in Modein. Father’s house was to go to a friend, and the man’s wife had already slipped into our home twice, apparently trying to measure the windows and imagine her furniture against our walls.
“Only one more thing to do,” Father said, slipping his arm around my shoulders. “We have to pick up your bride and have a proper wedding. Then we can be off to Modein.”
When the last of our possessions had been strapped to the wagons, my brothers and I changed into festive clothing. They followed me as I went to get my wife. Freshly bathed and wearing my best tunic, I led the parade of friends and family through the valley of the cheesemakers. I stood outside Leah’s house and called her name. After a minute, a lone figure appeared in the doorway—my bride, wearing a linen tunic and an embroidered veil as a head covering. Though my heart threatened to pound its way out of my chest, I took her hand and led her to my father’s house. Amid cheering, jangling tambourines, and the ululation of the women, we ate a small wedding supper, then crossed the threshold of the decorated bridal bedchamber.
The door closed, muffling the noisy celebrants. With trembling fingers I lifted the veil and looked at the young woman with whom I would spend the rest of my life.
I had asked Simon, who never lacked for words, what I should say to Leah when we were alone together for the first time. He gave me a cocky grin and remarked that words would not be necessary, but in the silence of that moment, my moment, I yearned for something to say.
And thanks be to Adonai, words sprang to my lips.
“‘Three things are too amazing for me,’” I said, quoting from Solomon’s proverbs in a voice that scarcely seemed my own, “‘four I do not understand: the way of an eagle in the sky, the way of a serpent upon a rock, the way of a ship in the heart of the sea, and the way of a man with a maiden.’”
Her eyes, which had been wide with apparent anxiety, creased slightly, turning up at the corners as she smiled.
I too smiled, thrilled by the small but satisfying victory. And now—what?
I was not completely ignorant of women—no man who had spent a lifetime living in close quarters with family members could remain ignorant of what the act of love entailed. Yet I did not know this woman, and she did not know how something deep within my chest trembled at the thought of being alone with her.
She stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed, her hands in her lap as her liquid eyes explored my face. I unbelted my tunic and pulled it off; she did not speak or move as I approached and dropped my hands to her slender shoulders, then tugged the veil from her hair.
I thought I should say something else, but I had no other words to give her.
Our coupling was brief, embarrassing, and awkward, and when it was over I rolled onto my side and stared at the wall, shuddering with humiliation. Had I injured her? Did she find me repulsive? She was so quiet, surely I had failed in some way.
I startled when her hand brushed my arm. “Husband,” she said, and in her voice I heard a note halfway between entreaty and gratitude, “I have to thank you . . . for setting me free.”
Chapter Nine
Leah
I did not sleep with my husband on the first night of our marriage—none of us slept that night. When Judah and I emerged from the bridal chamber, blushing and embarrassed, the family cheered, his brothers slapped him on the back, and my new sisters gathered around to look me over. Judah’s mother, who told me to call her Rosana, introduced them quickly: Ona, married to Eleazar; Morit, married to Simon; and Neta, married to Johanan.
I smiled at each of them, and Rosana placed a wrapped parcel in my hand. “Run along outside until you find Judah, then climb in his wagon. We want to be out of Jerusalem before they close the gates.”
I blinked, surprised to hear we were leaving so quickly. The gates closed at sunset, so if my parents were going to show up at my wedding, they would have to come soon.
I went outside where neighbors and friends were embracing Mattathias and his sons. I saw Judah hitching a mule to a wagon at the end of the line. I walked to the corner and peered down the street, afraid I would see my parents approaching. I had said farewell to my mother when Judah arrived at the house, but Father had been out, only Adonai knew where.
When a quick survey revealed no sign of my family, I walked down the line of wagons, remaining close to the buildings to avoid being drawn into a conversation. After just being married, what did I have to say? I still had a thousand emotions to sort through, a hundred feelings to decipher and interpret.
“There you are.” Judah’s eyes lit when he saw me, and before I could respond, he had placed his hands around my waist and lifted me onto the wagon seat. I thanked him and slid over, leaving room for him to join me, but he turned and said something to his brothers.
I opened the parcel Rosana had pressed into my hands. Inside the parchment wrapper I found a honey cake that proved to be delicious. The light texture rested easily on my nervous stomach, and its sweetness brought tears to my eyes . . . or had my tears sprung from something else?
Judah reappeared, yelled instructions to one of his brothers, and climbed into the wagon with me. He gave me a quick smile, then hesitated. “Is something wrong?” he asked, concern in his eyes.
I shook my head and blinked away the tears. “I was . . . feeling grateful. Your mother is so kind.”
“Oh, that she is.” He gave me a curious look, then glanced down the street. “I do not see your people. Should we ride by your house on the way out?”
I shook my head. “You are my family now, so I will go where—when—you go.”
“All right.”
He clucked his tongue against his teeth and picked up the reins. Ahead of us, the caravan of wagons began to move. Neighbors waved and said noisy farewells. Some even threw wedding flowers and called, “Blessings to the bride!” and “May you be as fruitful as Rachel and Leah!”
I gritted my teeth as we traveled the crowded streets, for I could have walked faster than the wagon. I wanted nothing more than to be through the gate, away from Jerusalem, before—
“Daughter! Wait!”
I cringed at the sound of a familiar voice, then slowly turned my head. My father was coming down the street, wobbling on his unsteady feet as he waved at our wagon. When Judah pulled on the reins and stopped the mule, my heart stopped, too.
“S-son.” Father gripped the side of t
he wagon and gave Judah a drunken smile. “Let me be-be the first to congratulate you, Son.” He blinked up at my new husband. “If sh-she gives you any trouble, do not be afraid to take a switch to her. That will bring her right around.”
I turned away, unable to look at my father or my husband. Was this some kind of punishment from HaShem? I was supposed to honor my father, but for years I had feared and dreaded him. Perhaps this was what I deserved.
“Good to see you, sir,” Judah said, and I heard the chink of the reins as he lifted them. “Be well and prosper. Shalom.”
Then we were moving again, though I kept my eyes averted as we pulled away.
“He is gone,” Judah said after a while. “You need not be afraid.”
I studied my husband’s face as he guided the mule through the streets. I had never discussed my father with Judah, but apparently he understood without being told.
Perhaps this understanding was part of marriage. If so, I was grateful for it.
I finished the honey cake and wiped the sweet stickiness from my fingers with the parchment wrapper. We passed through another round of farewells as we rode out of Jerusalem’s western gate, then I settled back and rested my hands in my lap.
Thus far, marriage pleased me well. Judah had proven himself kind and thoughtful, and he was attractive to my eyes. His brothers seemed pleasant enough, and their wives, while not exactly welcoming, had not been unkind. His mother was sweet and his father pious. My father had been pious in public and apathetic toward godly matters at home, so perhaps HaShem would look on me more favorably now that I had aligned myself with holier people.
One thing seemed clear—I did not believe Judah would behave like my father, but I did not plan to test him. My mother angered my father nearly every day, but I would obey Judah completely and do whatever he asked. I would not prod him to anger, and he would not beat me. Our home would be a place of peace and safety, and I would not become a withdrawn, cowardly woman like my mother.
“Leah?” Judah’s voice interrupted my reverie.
“Yes?”
“Are you all right? I thought you might be tired.”
I nodded. “I am . . . a little. But if you want me to stay awake, I will.”
“No need for that. The sun will set soon, so if you want to climb in the back and sleep, go ahead. I put blankets in the corner, in case you wanted to rest.”
My heart warmed to know he cared about such a small thing. “Thank you,” I said. And then, because he seemed to want me to rest, I climbed into the back, found the blankets amid the bundles and chests, and lay down next to a crate of nesting hens.
I smiled as I closed my eyes. My friends and I had harbored a rosy view of marriage in our younger days. We would giggle as the Torah teacher read from the Song of Songs, and we would sigh when he said that love was better than wine. Though I had never been taught to read, I had memorized many of the words, and they seemed to echo in the darkness around the creaking wagon: “I belong to the man I love, and he belongs to me.”
I exhaled a long sigh. Despite the uncertainty of the future, I had escaped my father’s house. I did not know Judah Maccabaeus well enough to sigh over him, but if love could be built on a foundation of gratitude, I was halfway to loving him already.
Chapter Ten
Judah
At some misty hour before dawn, a sudden surge of happiness startled me from sleep. I lay motionless in the gray gloom, glorying in an odd cocoon of exhilaration, yet not remembering its origin. I blinked rapidly, batting away the cobwebs of sleep, and lifted my head. Then I saw a woman next to me in the wagon, and I remembered.
Leah. Woman. Wife. Eve to my Adam, light to my darkness, soil to my seed.
I propped my head on my hand, letting my eyes adjust to the semidarkness. She slept on her side, a bundle of fabrics for her pillow, a trunk jutting into the bend of her legs. I stroked the air over her wide forehead, high cheekbones, and pointed chin, then traced the long neck down to the flat plane of her belly.
I had never seen anything as breathtakingly beautiful. With four brothers, I had only glimpsed women from a distance. Like delicate treasures, they were carefully hidden beneath tunics and veils that disguised their lovely curves. I lifted my hand again, yearning to touch my bride, and gasped when she opened her eyes. I glimpsed a flash of alarm in those dark orbs, then something else took hold. She smiled at me, her expressive eyes assuring me of her contentment.
“Judah Maccabaeus,” she whispered. “Judah Hammerhead. Do you not wish to cast off that name?”
I drew a deep breath but kept my voice low lest I disturb the others sleeping in wagons around us. “All of us have names. They call Johanan Gaddi, Simon Thassi, Eleazar Avaran, and Jonathan Apphus.”
“I can understand why the firstborn might be called fortune,” she said, “and I hear that Simon is wise, so perhaps he is a good guide. But hammerhead! You are now a married man, not a street brawler.”
I shrugged. “It is only a name. And I have had it a long time, so I cannot imagine being without it. Besides, if my brothers and I encounter trouble, I am always the first in line.”
“Like the day you came to my defense.” I glimpsed the shimmer of white teeth as she smiled. “Or have you forgotten?”
“I will never forget.” I touched the slope of her forehead and let my finger trail across her rounded cheek. “A man would have to be blind not to notice you. After that day, I kept experiencing the oddest yearnings for cheese.”
I drew her close as she laughed, and before I knew it, her arms had slipped around my neck and her lips were against mine. And this time, with no waiting celebrants and only the lovely sounds of birdsong to accompany us, we experienced the fullness of what Adonai designed to create one out of two.
And, as the Torah says, it was very good.
Part II
In those days Mattathias the son of Johanan, son of Simeon, a priest of the sons of Joarib, moved from Jerusalem and settled in Modein.
1 Maccabees 2:1
Chapter Eleven
Judah
After Morit’s rooster broke free of his crate and woke everyone with his crowing, my mother walked from wagon to wagon, giving each family a portion of bread, cheese, and fruit to break our fast. As we climbed down and stretched the stiffness from our muscles, Father called everyone to gather around. He stood in his wagon as we gathered to listen.
“My children,” he said, lifting his hands once everyone had settled. “I know your hearts have been heavy over the past year. We have watched an enemy invade Jerusalem, an enemy that came not only with swords and spears but also with evil ideas, blasphemies, and bribes. The last two men who held the title of high priest have been from the line of Aaron, but their hearts were false, more focused on power and treasure than on Adonai.”
A wind rose, sending flurries of dry leaves skittering past us with a sound like the pattering of small feet.
“Like the wind”—Father waved to acknowledge the breeze—“false ideas have scattered our people, drawing their hearts and minds away from the worship of HaShem and obedience to His Law. Nowhere is this blasphemy more evident than in Jerusalem, where the holy Temple stands looted and profaned. Some of you have lamented moving away from the Temple, but that edifice is now only a building. Our holy place stands debased and ruined, and we do well to avoid entering it.
“You may have wondered if we alone worship Adonai and observe His laws. You may have feared, like me, that only a remnant of obedient Hebrews remain in the land. Like me, you may have begged HaShem to spare us, to save us from a king who seems intent on wiping us and our Law from the face of the earth.”
A glow rose in Father’s lined face, for Adonai had sparked a fire within him. “Do not despair, my children, for today we stand before the Lord as a family who will worship Him and honor His Law. No matter what edict the king proclaims against us, no matter what armies he sends to cut us down, we will worship the Almighty One. We go to Modein in search of safety
, but even if the forces of blasphemy come against us there, we will persevere in obedience to the Torah. Are you with me, my sons?”
With my brothers, I lifted my head and shouted, “Yes!”
“Are you with me, daughters?”
I stole a look at Leah, who stood wide-eyed by my side. I was not certain how she felt about Greek ideas, but she did not shout her agreement with my sisters-in-law. Perhaps my father’s speech had confused or overwhelmed her. One thing I knew—her father had never held family meetings like this one.
Father extended his hand to Mother; she took it and gave him a confident smile.
“Let us now finish the journey to Modein,” Father said, “and may the Lord prepare our way, so we can worship and obey Him in peace.”
After this benediction, our entire family—Mother and Father, Johanan and Neta, Simon, Morit, and their small son, Leah and me, Eleazar and Ona, and Jonathan—took the road that led into the region of Lydda.
My new bride barely spoke as we traveled through territory she had probably never seen. The trip took us down the rocky hill called Beth-horon, and when her eyes widened, I guessed that she had never visited the barren plains.
I leaned forward and turned to better see her face. When I was convinced she did not hate me for moving her into the wilderness, I broke the silence. “Have you traveled in this part of Judea?”
A quick smile, then she shook her head. “Father did not travel outside Jerusalem. And if he had, he would not have allowed us to go with him.”
