by Angela Hunt
He shook his head again. “I . . . have them sometimes. I see things, sometimes horrible things, and . . . they are real.”
I leaned back as my stomach clenched. Was my husband losing his mind?
“Judah, dreams are meaningless visions.”
“You think so?” His wide eyes moved into mine. “I dreamed of Eleazar. He was carrying a sword and spear, and a monster appeared as he walked through a field. It walked on four legs that looked like tree trunks, and it shrieked, scattering every bird in the sky. Eleazar ran toward it, as bold as ever.”
I rubbed Judah’s arm, hoping my touch could bring him back to reality. “Monsters do not exist, Judah. You are thinking about the behemoth Job described. Your father mentioned that beast at dinner the other day.”
Judah stared at me for a moment, then he smiled. “You must think me a mere child, to wake in such a panic.”
“You are not a child.” I rose and crawled into his lap and raked my fingers through his thick hair. “And you are not a coward. I have had terrifying dreams myself and know how real they can seem.”
He drew in a deep breath, exhaling it slowly, as if breathing out the last lingering shadows of his disturbing nightmare.
“Sleep,” I whispered, and pressed my lips to his eyelids. “Lie back and sleep until morning.”
He nodded, put his arms around me, and fell backward, making me laugh as I fell on top of him.
As I pulled the blanket over us, I smiled, reassured to know that my perfect husband had at least one vulnerability. If he ever had another bad dream, he would depend on me to bring him back to reality.
Judah rose before daybreak. I heard him step outside to relieve himself, then the quiet rub of the door as he came back into the house. Opening one eye, I watched my handsome husband go about his morning routine. Standing bare-chested in the shadows of dawn, he drew water from the bucket with a ladle, then drank deeply, his throat working as he swallowed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to peer out the open window.
Judah was the tallest of his brothers, well formed and broad in the chest, with a slim waist and long limbs. His dark hair flowed over his shoulders, and his beard covered his jawline in a smooth shadow.
Watching him, I wished I knew what thoughts filled my husband’s head. If he remembered his nightmare, he gave no sign of it. I sighed in relief and hoped that pleasant dreams had erased every trace of the vision that had awakened him.
Judah was kind to me, and gentle, but he was also ten years older and a man of the world. I kept waiting for him to display some sign of temper or cruelty, but thus far I had seen nothing but goodness from him.
Perhaps he was gentle with me because of my youth. When I watched him talk to his brothers or cover his head for prayer, I often felt like a sheltered child. From the way he and his brothers occasionally fell silent when I approached, I knew he did not tell me everything.
But though I had attained only sixteen summers, I desired to understand my husband. I wanted to know what moved him when he prayed, and what he dreamed of when he considered our future. When his eyes clouded with dark thoughts, I wanted to know the source of the problem, yet he steadfastly refused to tell me anything that might, as he said, “trouble such a sweet face.”
An unexpected sound from outside the house interrupted my reverie. I looked up to see Judah leaning against the wall and watching me with a soft smile on his face. “She wakes,” he said, folding his arms. “What were you thinking? You looked pensive.”
I propped my head on my hand. “You share your nightmares with me, but you do not share all your thoughts.”
“I don’t want to worry you.” He pulled himself off the wall and came over to kiss the top of my head. “At the Shabbat service today, Father will address the community. Will you meet me there?”
“Won’t we go together?”
“First I have to see my brothers.” He lifted his tunic from a stool and drew it over his head. “I expect we will talk until everyone has gathered.”
“Then yes, I will meet you there.”
He kissed me again and left the house.
I rolled onto my back and pressed my palm over the concave landscape of my belly. Had God quickened my womb? Was today the first day in our child’s existence, or had our night been fruitless?
I closed my eyes, searching for some new sensation, but my belly had not changed in appearance and my flesh had not warmed with joy.
Sighing, I threw off the blanket and prepared to dress.
Nearly everyone had taken a seat by the time I arrived. Several benches had been arranged in front of the village well; the men sat on the right and the women on the left. I smiled first at my mother and Rosana, then nodded to each of my sisters-in-law.
I sat next to Morit, then looked at Mattathias, who had stood and turned to face those who had gathered for the Shabbat service.
“Shema Yisra’el,” he began. “Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.” Hear, O Israel: Adonai is our God, Adonai is One.
He led us in prayers, and we recited a psalm of David. Everything proceeded as usual for a Shabbat service, then Mattathias halted. At the place where he would normally present a lesson from the Torah, he lifted his hands and looked at us.
“My people, my kinsmen,” he began, placing one hand across his heart, “you know that a foreign king holds power over our holy land. You know Jerusalem is filled with the pious Hasidim and the Hellenes, who have adopted the ideas and laws of Gentiles rather than the laws of HaShem.”
A murmur rippled through the assembly as Mattathias reminded us of matters that seemed far removed from our lives. Though we could travel to Jerusalem within the span of a single day, when we plowed our fields and tended our animals, most of us tended not to think about the Temple, the king, or the authorities who enforced the royal edicts.
“Jason, the former high priest,” Mattathias said, “desired to turn Jerusalem into a Greek dominion. He built a gymnasium and encouraged the priests to train their bodies there. He wanted to establish Antiochus as the ultimate authority in Jerusalem, and not Torah, which is the government and law HaShem gave us. But that is not all.”
The atmosphere surrounding us seemed to swell with silence as we braced ourselves for the latest report.
“You have heard that Antiochus Epiphanes led his army into Jerusalem on the Sabbath, when the righteous would not resist him. He ordered the destruction of the walls of the city. Next he went to the Temple and knocked down the inner wall of the sanctuary, the wall beyond which no Gentile could pass. The king declared that sacrifice at the Temple would be open to all, and he replaced the sacred altar with a Greek altar, upon which he sacrificed a pig.”
We gasped, repulsed once again by horror.
“Afterward, the king ordered a statue of Zeus to be placed in the holy of holies, the sacred space that once housed the Ark of the Covenant. And he declared that every year on the king’s birthday, special sacrifices are to be held throughout the empire, a way to offer obeisance to the king, the supposed son of Zeus. And when we who are pious said we could not sacrifice to or worship anyone but our God, the king proclaimed that our faith should be abolished. Pagan altars have been built in the villages and towns of Judea, and the king’s overseers have been charged with forcing the people to worship the king and not Adonai.”
Morit and I looked at each other with grim faces. Our little town had no heathen altar, nor would Mattathias allow one. Thus far, no one from the king’s government had appeared in Modein to insist otherwise.
“I now have news you have not heard,” Mattathias went on, pulling a parchment from his robe. “I have received an account from Jerusalem that I find most troubling.” He swallowed hard, the veins in his throat standing out like ropes. “Johanan, Simon, Judah—do you remember our neighbor, the widow with seven sons? She was called Miriam.”
I glanced up at Judah as he nodded.
Mattathias cleared his throat as a cold, congested expression settled over his face.
“One of the Hellenes informed on her and her sons, apparently because she refused to buy swine at the marketplace. I received this account of what happened to them after they were arrested and taken before the king. I shall read it to you.”
He unfurled the scroll, scanned the writing at the top of the parchment, and began to read:
“One by one the king’s men commanded the woman’s sons to taste swine’s flesh. When a torturer put the eldest son under the lash, the son said, ‘What would you ask or learn of us? We are ready to die rather than to transgress the laws of our father.’
“Then the king, being in a rage, commanded pans and cauldrons to be made hot. And when they were hot, he commanded his men to cut out the tongue of the eldest son, and then to cut off his fingers and toes and place them in the pans and cauldrons. This they did while his brothers and mother looked on.”
A horrified hush fell over our gathering. Was this the news Judah would not share with me? I had never heard anything so reprehensible. My father always said the Greeks were great thinkers, noble, and lovers of reason, but why would any man torture a woman and her sons this way?
“Now when the eldest son had been maimed in all his members,” Mattathias continued, his voice growing hoarser with the reading, “the king commanded his men to put the eldest son in the fire alive and to fry him in the pan. And while the odor of burning flesh filled the room, the remaining brothers exhorted one another to die manfully. They said, ‘The Lord God looks upon us, and in truth has comfort in us, as Moses in his song said, ‘And He shall be comforted in His servants.’
“During all these torments, the mother was marvelous above all and worthy of honorable memory. When she saw her sons slain within the space of a single day, she bore it with good courage because of the hope she had in the Lord. She exhorted every one of them in her own language, filled with courageous spirit, and stirring up her womanish thoughts with a manly stomach, she said to them, ‘I cannot tell how you came into my womb: for I neither gave you breath nor life, neither was it I who formed the members of every one of you. But doubtless the creator of this world, who formed the generations of man, and found out the beginning of all things, will also of His own mercy give you breath and life again, as you now regard not your own selves for the sake of His laws.’
“And when all seven of Miriam’s sons had been tortured for Adonai’s sake,” Mattathias said, “last of all, the mother died.” He lowered the parchment as a silence settled over us, a dense absence of sound that threatened to choke those who could still breathe.
Then, sharp as a dagger, the sound of keening ripped the silence as Rosana tore at her veil and lifted her voice in mourning. Other women did likewise as the men began to pray, rocking back and forth on their knees as they beseeched the God of heaven to look down in mercy.
After several minutes of communal mourning, Mattathias lifted his prayer shawl and covered his head. “Adonai, we beg you,” he prayed, turning his face toward the gray and foreboding sky, “look down on your people who have been trodden underfoot and have pity on our profaned Temple. Have compassion on the City of David, which has been sorely defaced, and hear the blood that cries to you from the ground. Remember the wicked slaughter of harmless infants and the blasphemies committed against your name. Show your hatred, O Lord, of the wicked, for we know you always hate what you hate even as you always love what you love.”
Later it would be said that when Mattathias stood praying in the midst of righteous men and women, he could not be conquered, for his cries turned the wrath of the Lord into mercy.
But instead of weeping for my sins or for Israel on that day, my thoughts centered on thankfulness. Because the situation in Jerusalem was beyond endurance, HaShem had been good to send my mother and me to safety in Modein. If HaShem continued to shower us with His goodness, we would all remain safe and protected—me, Mother, Judah, and everyone in my precious new family.
I looked across the crowd and saw a serious, dark look on my husband’s face. Like Rosana, he must have been greatly distressed by hearing about the horrible deaths of Miriam and her sons, and I could understand the depth of his compassion for them. But we no longer lived in Jerusalem, and we were safe. HaShem had blessed us.
As Mattathias closed the service by leading us to recite a passage of Scripture, I pitched my voice slightly above the others in an overflow of gratitude: “Give thanks to Adonai for He is good, for His mercy endures forever.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Judah
Two weeks after that emotional Shabbat service, the mournful blast of a shofar interrupted my work. I left the goats in the field and hurried to the village center, where I saw three horses tied to a post at the well. The animals were too fine for this region, and for an instant I hoped that Philander had paid me a visit.
But I did not know the three men drinking water from the well. Each of them wore fine embroidered garments and the infamous Greek hats. Behind them, watching from the shadows, Johanan stood with the shofar in his hand.
Though I had been perspiring all day, I suddenly felt slick with the cold, rancid sweat of fear.
I avoided the strangers and hurried home where I found Leah peeking out the window. “Cover your head,” I told her, “and come with me.”
“What do those men want?” she asked, a quaver in her voice.
“I hope they’re only stopping for water,” I said, glancing out the window again. “But they may be here to enforce the king’s edict. If so, it is our turn to face the tests so many others have endured.”
“Do we have to go out there?”
“You don’t. But I am going to stand with my father.”
“I—I’ll go, too.” Leah’s hands trembled as she fastened her sandals and pulled on her veil. We stepped outside and walked slowly toward the well, watching as other family members came from several directions. Simon and Morit, who carried their toddling son in her arms. Eleazar and Ona, Johanan and Neta, and Jonathan. Behind them came my mother and father, both of whom walked with stately dignity and unhurried steps. Leah’s mother, I noticed, did not come outside.
Other villagers also moved toward the village square—Uncle Ehud and his family, as well as several people who were not related to us.
I led Leah to a bench, then sat beside her and held her hand. While we waited, the three strangers conferred with each other in low voices. Dread snaked down my spine when I noticed a pile of stones next to the well. The uppermost stone was flat, the perfect surface for an altar of sacrifice.
If the three men had piled those rocks, my worst fears were about to be realized.
When the benches had filled with the residents of Modein, the three men turned to address us. The man in the most extravagant robe lifted his head like a dog scenting the breeze. “Is the priest called Mattathias with us?”
I was not surprised to hear him call Father’s name. Mattathias of the Hasmons was a man of some renown and still commanded respect in Jerusalem.
Father stepped forward, leaning heavily on his staff. “I am here.”
The man smiled. “Mattathias,” he said, his voice warm as he extended his hands. “I am Appelles, an officer of Antiochus Epiphanes, and I bring you greetings from the king. You may have heard about the king’s order requiring every Jew to sacrifice to the king’s gods instead of Yahweh. The king wants all the people in his dominions to lead happy, contented lives, so we have been sent to make certain all the king’s subjects understand what is required of them. No more will you have to travel to Jerusalem in order to make your sacrifices—you can perform all the necessary rituals right here in Modein.”
A strangled sound came from my father’s throat, but the king’s envoy continued as if he had not heard. “We are aware, Mattathias,” he said, “that the people of this village look to you with great respect. Therefore, if today you will be the first to offer a sacrifice to Zeus, you will be greatly rewarded and honored by the king. If you and your fine sons will set the example, the entir
e village will be blessed with the king’s favor.”
Appelles gestured to the pile of rocks, silently inviting Father to approach the makeshift altar. The second man lit a stick of incense and set it on the stone, releasing a pungent aroma into the air. The third man uncovered a crate of turtledoves and brought it forward, the birds obviously intended for sacrifice. He set a pair of blades on the edge of the well, next to the turtledoves.
“Knives?” Leah whispered.
“Tools necessary for sacrifice,” I replied, my tone wooden in my own ears.
Father looked around, taking in the altar, the birds, and the blades. He turned to face the crowd. “I will not sacrifice to the king’s god,” he replied, calmly resting his hands atop his staff. He looked at the king’s men. “You may tell Antiochus that in Modein we worship Adonai, the invisible God who does not tolerate idol worship. Why should we commit the sins for which our ancestors were judged? We will not. As for me and my family, we serve Adonai alone.”
An unnatural silence prevailed. Even nature itself seemed to wait for the envoys’ response.
“By all the gods, what does it matter? This priest does not speak for all of Modein.” A stout farmer, a distant kinsman of Ehud, stood and waddled toward the altar, smiling at the king’s men. “Let Mattathias and his sons remain at odds with the king—I and my house are willing to serve him. I will freely and happily sacrifice to his gods, and I pray the king’s favor will shine on me and my family.”
Appelles smiled and watched as the farmer plucked a dove from the crate and expertly twisted its neck. He placed the limp body on the stone, then took one of the blades in order to open its chest—
My heart leapt into the back of my throat when Father caught the farmer’s free arm. “Jael, you do not want to do this.”
Jael cursed. “Out of my way, old man.”
Father shook his head. “We have been a faithful village and faithful people. How could you betray the truths you have known from childhood?”
Jael’s lip curled. “I am leaving the old ways behind. Now get out of my way, priest, or I’ll—” The farmer lifted the blade as if to strike at Father’s chest, a move Father must have anticipated. He released the farmer’s free arm and grabbed the arm with the knife, holding it firmly and turning it toward his assailant. Jael lost his balance and toppled backward, taking our father with him. The man’s falling body upset the crate, creating a jumble of flying feathers, fluttering wings, and spattered blood.
