by Angela Hunt
The possibility of death did not disturb me overmuch. I had heard stories of women who endured far more suffering than I had, so I would not complain. I would not exchange my life, as bleak as it seemed in that moment, for that of a peaceful country wife.
But when I looked at Judah, who had poured his heart, soul, and strength into the fight for Israel’s freedom, the heaviness in my chest felt like a millstone.
I lifted my gaze to the silent sky above us. “Where are you, HaShem? How can you abandon the lion of Israel?”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Judah
We gathered in the fortress tower to share a meager meal and determine our next move.
“Don’t fret, brother.” Simon dropped into the empty chair at my side and grinned. “Have you forgotten the story of the widow’s stores of oil and flour? She fed Elisha every day, and her supplies did not diminish until the famine was over.”
I blew out a breath, not willing to argue with my brother. He had a point, but this was not a famine, and we had no prophet with us. What we did have were hundreds of hungry people, including children, wounded men, more than a dozen priests, and the residents of Beth-zur who had come to us for protection.
Our scant stores would not last the day. Though we had been rationing the bread, oil, and dried meat carefully, the women informed me that we were down to the last handfuls of grain. Tomorrow we would have nothing left but water and whatever we could obtain from the families who kept goats and chickens within the city walls.
I sat in Father’s place at the head of the table and glumly considered the family members who were not with us. Johanan and Neta were present, and for once Johanan’s wife did not complain about the skimpy ration before her. Simon sat at my right hand, as well he should, while Morit hovered over him, refilling his cup and reassuring him with occasional caresses of his shoulder. Jonathan sat at the opposite end of the table, occasionally reaching out to tousle the hair of Morit’s little boys.
Try though I might, I couldn’t help staring at the space we had left empty—the spot Eleazar should have filled. Ona worked with Leah, refilling our cups with water and making small talk to lift our spirits. Eleazar’s widow worked with her usual energy, but her eyes were red and her chin had a tendency to quiver. From the corner of my eye I saw Leah slip her arm around Ona’s waist, then she gave the woman a piece of bread, quietly suggesting that she eat something.
I caught Simon’s gaze and saw understanding in his eyes. He missed Eleazar, too, but he didn’t have to feel responsible for our brother’s death. I had encouraged Eleazar to attack that beast, and the burning rock of guilt in my gut wasn’t going anywhere.
I closed my eyes, my heart aching. I had imagined myself HaShem’s choice to lead Israel, but what good had I done Israel lately? We were hours away from losing our Temple, our holy city, and our freedom to worship HaShem. My efforts this time had accomplished nothing of lasting value.
Our morning conversation had not been encouraging. Jonathan asked about chickens—did we know how to increase egg production?—and Johanan reported on the number of men guarding the sanctuary. The number was even smaller than it had been yesterday, but I was not surprised.
“He was the first of us to die,” Simon said suddenly, looking at the place where Eleazar should have been sitting. “And yet he was the bravest.”
“He was trying to kill the king,” I added.
“He was attempting to show our men that elephants are not indestructible,” Simon said. “He accomplished that. Now we know where to strike—and we know to get out of the way before they fall.”
Jonathan stared into the candle flame. “He won a perpetual name for himself. He will always be remembered.”
“But he should be here. And it’s my fault he’s not.” I looked away and pressed my lips together. Thinking about Eleazar always brought a boulder to my throat, and I didn’t want my brothers to see weakness in me.
Simon shook his head. “Our lives are in HaShem’s hands. This struggle may require all our lives before it is done.”
I lifted my head. “Then I will pray I am the next to die. Because I cannot stand the thought of losing another brother.”
I turned at the sound of scuffling outside. The guard at the door spoke sharply to someone, then thrust his head into the room. “He says it’s urgent.”
A young man stepped in, his eyes wide.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Emissaries from the enemy are approaching the Fish Gate,” he said, his voice quaking. “What shall we do?”
I looked at Simon and lifted a brow. “Do you think they’ll offer to surrender?”
Simon’s smile deepened into laugher. “One can always hope, but I have to say it’s not likely. But we should at least go down and see what they want.”
“I know what they want,” I answered. “If Lysias wants to avenge his former king, he wants us dead. If not everyone in Jerusalem, then at least the sons of Mattathias.”
Simon shrugged. “He showed mercy to the people at Beth-zur. Perhaps he will show the same mercy to the people of Jerusalem.”
I glanced at Leah, who had halted in place with a basket in her arms. She was staring at the messenger and probably sharing my thoughts. The sons of Mattathias had reached the end. Perhaps we all had.
If this was to be our last day on earth, I prayed silently, then let it be only the men who must die.
“Leah.” I steeled my voice. “Take the other women and the children to one of the rooms upstairs. Go now, please.”
A ripple of despair moved across her face, but she did not argue. “Come,” she told the other women, setting her basket on the table as she reached for the children. “I think we will go to the very highest room. Would you like to count all the stairs? Perhaps we can look out the window while we are up there.”
When the women and children had gone, I stood and turned toward the doorway. “Brothers, we have guests. Let us greet them as warriors of Israel.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Leah
Though I kept my voice light and casual, my kneecaps trembled beneath my tunic, and more than once I felt faint as I led the children up the stairs. When we were all safe in the highest room, I released young Johanan’s hand and hurried to the northwest window. Looking out, I could see the north-facing stone wall that snaked around Solomon’s quarries, and the large gate in the wall. The gate had been raised, and two groups of men stood outside it—Judah and his brothers, along with a few of their best captains, and a group of soldiers from the Seleucid camp. The Seleucids flew their king’s banner and rode on fine horses; Judah and his men stood alone.
I could hear nothing from my window, nor could I see any man’s face. But from the way the men gestured I could tell when each one spoke. Simon said something, moving his hands, then one of the king’s men replied. Then Judah said something, then the king’s man, then Judah turned and looked up and my heart nearly stopped. Was he looking at me? Before I could wave or signal him, he returned his gaze to the enemy.
“What are they doing?” Morit leaned over my shoulder. “Can you tell?”
I shook my head.
“Where’s Johanan?” Neta leaned over my other shoulder. “I can’t tell which one is—”
“Shhh!” I leaned closer to the window. “I can’t think.”
“What is there to think about?” Neta asked, her tone cross. “They’re only talking.”
But then several of the king’s guards stepped forward and our husbands thrust out their arms. While I watched in horror, the king’s men put chains around Judah’s and the others’ wrists—
“What are they doing?” Morit cried, her hand going to her throat.
She didn’t require an answer; the truth was obvious to anyone. While we stared, the air around us heavy with foreboding, our husbands followed the king’s men to a wagon, where they climbed in and were taken away.
“What is happening?” Neta shrieked, pushing me away from the
window so she could have a better view. “Where are they taking them?”
I drew a shuddering breath. “To the king, most likely.”
Morit shook her head. “That can’t be right. Simon would never meekly submit like that, and neither would Judah. They are fighters, but did you see them struggle at all? Perhaps they are only going to talk to him.”
“Judah looked back,” I whispered, the image focusing in my memory. “He looked back because he was thinking of us, so maybe that’s why they went meekly.”
Neta sank to the ground beside me. “Explain yourself.”
I gulped a breath. “How do you bind a strong man without a fight? You threaten his loved ones. Judah, Simon, Johanan, and Jonathan went quietly because the Seleucids must have promised not to hurt us. Or the people inside the wall.”
Morit sat, too, as thought worked in her eyes. “That makes sense. Simon would have agreed to go without a struggle if they promised not to attack the city. He remembers what the Seleucids did the last time they came to Jerusalem. He’d agree to almost anything to prevent that from happening again.”
We pondered this as the tower remained absolutely silent, as if it, too, were waiting to learn what had happened.
Morit lifted her head. “There were other men with our husbands, men who didn’t get into that wagon. They’ll know what happened.”
“I’ll go.” Neta rose and hurried toward the stairs. “While I’m gone, you all remain here and keep the children safe. I will return as soon as I can.”
She unbolted the door and slipped away, leaving Ona to replace the bar. And while Morit, Ona, and I pasted on smiles for the children’s sake, I slid back to the window and rose to my knees so I could scan the landscape. I could not search the enemy camp because it was located to the south, but at least I could memorize the last place I had seen my husband alive.
The sun had moved only a slight distance when Ona returned with a full report. “It is as you said,” she told us. “The king’s men said Antiochus wanted Judah and the leaders of his army, and Judah said they would surrender only if the king promised not to harm anyone else in his family, the army of Israel, or the city of Jerusalem. When the king’s delegate agreed, our husbands were bound and taken to the king.”
Grief struck me like a punch to the stomach. I had to close my eyes and swallow several times to choke down the sour taste that had risen at the back of my throat.
“I am sorry,” Ona said, her lovely eyes filling with fresh tears. “To lose all of our men within a few days—it is too much.”
Morit went immediately to her children, drawing them close while her tears dampened their hair. Neta stood in a corner with her face to the wall, probably contemplating whatever future she could imagine without Johanan.
Ona had already lost her husband, but her wound was still fresh. How would she face her empty house, which had been so enlivened by Eleazar’s colorful personality?
As for me, it was easier to speculate about my sisters-in-law than to imagine a life without Judah. When I told the story of the army of Israel, how could I bear to end on such a note of defeat?
As the three women wept, I slipped through the doorway and walked slowly down the steps, stopping in a private chamber along the way. The small room had probably been intended for storage, but it made a perfect place for me to sink to my knees. I thought I should be crying like the others, but my eyes remained dry as my thoughts whirled.
“HaShem?” I looked out a high window, through which I could see only a sliver of sky. “My husband says you have ordained every day of our lives even before they come to pass, so is this what you had planned for Judah?” I felt a lopsided smile twist my face. “This does not feel right. That you should ask his giant spirit to submit to a boy king is . . . beyond unexpected. This is not the death he would want.”
I lowered my gaze to the wall, where so many stones had remained fitted together for so many years. I ran my finger over the rough surface and felt where the mortar had worn thin in some spots. But though the mortar was no longer doing its work, the stones continued to hold because they had become attached to one another, shaping themselves for duty, cooperating to protect and shelter. . . .
Feeling light-headed, I lay back on the floor and stared up at the wooden ceiling. Isn’t that what my marriage had done? When Adonai called Judah to be a warrior, when I feared that war would unleash the violence I had known in my father, Judah demonstrated his love for me. And though he bore a scar from my unwillingness to trust him, he remained faithful. And so we held together, learning how to fit with each other, how to protect and shelter one another.
Even now, as Judah stood before the boy king and his general, I knew my husband’s final thoughts would be of me, his family, and his people.
I felt a tear run toward my temple. I wiped it away, only to discover that two more had welled up and overflowed. I swiped at them as well, but others followed, a veritable flood, spilling full and round over my lashes and into my hair.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Judah
When my brothers and I were led into the ornate tent belonging to King Antiochus Eupator, I was taken aback to find myself standing before a pale, thin child on a golden throne. Next to the throne, dressed in robes as ornate as the king’s, stood Lysias, the general we had met—and defeated—at Beth-zur a year before. Lysias, I noticed, had not dressed for war, but for court, and he bowed deeply before the child as we entered the tent.
“My king,” he said, bending until his face was only inches from the floor, “these are the Hebrew brothers I told you about. The leader is called Judah Maccabaeus.”
The child lifted his head. “Which of you is this Judah?”
I stepped forward, oddly embarrassed by the chains on my wrists. “I am.”
“Oh.” The child pursed his lips, his eyes lighting with pleasure. “I have heard you are a mighty fighter.”
I bowed my head. “Not by choice, king. When I am home with my wife, I am happy to mind the goats and help my brothers with the crops. Ours is a simple life.”
The boy tilted his head as his eyes widened. “Did you say goats?”
“I did.”
The boy clapped both hands over his mouth and giggled. I glanced at Simon, whose brows had drawn together in a display of befuddlement.
I had not come to entertain a child. “My king,” I said, bowing my head, “my brothers and I have come here because your delegate said you would not attack the people in the city or take your revenge on our families. That is the reason we stand here in your custody.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “I do not take revenge. I enact justice.”
I lifted my hands. “I apologize for my inappropriate words.”
“What is a king to do, Judah Maccabaeus, when a man insists on attacking other people in the kingdom? When that same man attacks and kills hundreds of the king’s men?”
Unwilling to argue with a child, I bit my lip. His tutor had taught him well.
I glanced over my shoulder at Johanan, Simon, and Jonathan. I would at least try to obtain their freedom.
“My king,” I said, clearing my throat, “I would like to offer myself to you in exchange for my brothers. If you would—”
“Silence, Judah Maccabaeus. I am the one who offers terms. I have had my scribe prepare a treaty that will allow peace between our people. If you sign it, my army and I will depart this land and return to Antioch. We will leave behind one squadron of my army and they will be stationed in your citadel. Agreed?”
I frowned as a scribe walked over and placed a parchment on a table, where a sharpened twig and ink waited. “My brother Simon always acts as my counselor—may he read this with me?”
The boy king nodded.
Simon stepped forward, picked up the parchment, and read the Aramaic text aloud. “‘The king, Antiochus Eupator, desires peace with you and all the Jews. He seeks no prisoners and will allow Judah Maccabaeus a full pardon if—’”
�
�A full pardon?” I stared at Simon. “Did you read that right?”
“Yes, yes, here it is—a full pardon. Now, if you will stop interrupting—”
“Go on, please.”
“‘The king will agree to let the Jews live by their laws as they did before, for it was on account of their laws being abolished that they became angry and committed acts against the king. In return for the king’s kindness, the Jews will allow a squadron of the king’s soldiers to occupy the citadel in Jerusalem.’”
Behind me, Jonathan muttered an oath.
“‘They will also remember that they are still under the king’s authority. Furthermore, the current high priest will be replaced by one called Jakim, more commonly known by his Greek name, Alcimus.’”
“I know of him,” Simon whispered. “He is an ungodly Hellene, a renegade.”
The thought of a Greek-loving high priest did not cheer me, but we had not been fighting for the high priest. We had been fighting for the right to live and worship as we pleased.
But the king and his general had trapped us. This boy and Lysias had to know our supplies were low, because the people at Beth-zur would have told them about the sabbatical year. Even at this moment, the king could command his men to execute us, and we would have no chance to resist. He had come all the way from Antioch with one hundred and twenty thousand men, we were firmly in his custody, and he was offering to let us go?
I studied the young ruler. “Let me understand—you desire peace with the army of Israel?”
The boy looked at Lysias and nodded. “I do.”
“May I ask why you desire peace?”
The boy’s mouth shifted awkwardly, then Lysias came forward. “The king does not have to explain his reasons to you. He has written up this treaty, which you may accept or reject. Will you sign it?”
Astonishment threatened to drain the blood from my head. I turned to my brothers. “Will we accept?”
“I think we should accept,” Simon said calmly, as if we all were not stupefied by the treaty. “As long as the men in the citadel do not harass our people as they worship at the Temple.”
