by Bodie Thoene
And this was the place where the aqueduct laborers were housed and where the Roman soldiers guarding the construction were bi vouacked. Rebel attacks and simmering revolt outside, evil spirits inside, and Marcus caught in the middle.
It was the grizzled Samaritan centurion Shomron who led Marcus to his luxurious quarters in the lower palace of Herodium. Shomron was drunk and uncharacteristically jolly. The grease from the stolen roast lamb clung to his beard. A single louse paraded boldly across his bald dome from the eastern thicket of fringe to the west.
There were many marble baths in Herodium, Marcus noted, yet Shomron had not found a use for them.
The two centurions, old and young, ascended a staircase to a dark, wide corridor paved in marble.
Shomron puffed, “You having the corona obsidionalis as your crown of honor and being the hero of Idistaviso and all. I suppose you won’t mind sleeping where the mighty have slept, eh?”
“I’ll sleep mightily, no matter where I lay my head tonight,” Marcus replied.
“There’s not much for a man of action as yourself to do here. But it’s a fine, easy duty. Quiet. No trouble.”
“I’ve been chasing rebels in the wilderness most of the last months.”
“Well. Yes, not much for us to do. But it’s cream of the quarters for officers.” He threw back a bronze door and thrust the torch forward to reveal an elaborate suite adorned with cobwebs and marble pillars surrounding a round canopied bed. Polished bronze mirrors on every wall caught Marcus’ dim reflection in the light. The floor was an intricate geometric mosaic. The entire room was overly feminine and rivaled the most elegant brothels in Rome.
“Not decorated for a soldier.” Marcus hung back.
Shomron guffawed. “I was garrisoned in this fortress as a lad forty-one years ago. While the old butcher king was on the throne slaughtering everyone he took a suspicion to. Fifty of us stinking up the barracks while he’s up here in luxury conjuring demons and murdering his relatives. I’m glad to have moved up in the world, I can tell you!” He winked. “I’m sleeping in the old butcher’s bed myself now!”
“And what is this?” Marcus sensed an eerie chill as he scanned the chamber.
“Mariamme’s room. The Hasmonaean queen. A true descendant of the Maccabee clan. Herod poisoned her in a fit of rage, and as long as I was around he regretted her dying. Wandered these corridors crying for her. Wailing her name in fits till he died.”
Marcus ached between his shoulder blades. He hadn’t slept in a proper bed in weeks. But this was not the place he wanted to start.
“Not for me.” Marcus could clearly picture the dying queen convulsing on the floor at his feet. “Officer’s quarters will do.”
Shomron’s face puckered in disappointment. “Suit yourself.”
He retreated back into surly silence as he led Marcus down the winding staircase to the dreary row of cells that served as bedrooms for servants and soldiers. He slapped the door with the flat of his hand, indicating this was the place.
Handing off the torch, Shomron padded away toward the wine cellar without another word.
Marcus entered the musty chamber. Four unadorned stone walls. A narrow bed. A rack of dowels for hanging spare gear. It had the safe, familiar feel of a barracks. He could have been in the military quarters of any fortress between Rome and Alexandria. Here he could close his eyes without thoughts of butcher kings, murder, and madmen roaming the halls of Herodium.
Carefully he untied his bedroll and took out a bronzed leafy crown. The corona obsidionalis was the highest award for bravery in the Roman army. It was all Marcus had left to prove he had once been a rising star in Rome. But when Marcus had impulsively offered this crown, along with his sword, to Yeshua of Nazareth, the Master had declined both. Instead he had promised Marcus that one day he would wear a crown in Jerusalem, and that Marcus would be at his feet in that hour.
Did Yeshua mean to claim the throne in Jerusalem next week? When the city was packed with citizens from all over the Roman empire? Not now, Marcus hoped. Not when every sword of Rome in Jerusalem would be ready to strike.
Marcus hung the corona on the wooden peg beside his sword. He groaned audibly as he threw himself across the sagging rope bed and closed his eyes.
One day perhaps he would again offer Yeshua the crown, as well as his sword and his loyalty. For the present there was an aqueduct to be built for Pilate and the Jewish Sanhedrin. There were also angry shepherds to placate. Not a difficult duty. No glory to be gained in the Valley of the Sheepfold. It was a well-known maxim that Rome continued to thrive by the execution of ordinary tasks, not in dreams of glory.
Tonight Marcus slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion.
ADADAV
Emet’s mind was as cluttered with weary thoughts as his muscles were full of aches. A day spent tending Old Girl and her flock in volved mucking out, sweeping up, hauling water and feed, and innumerable occasions of tying and retying the disguising fleece shawls and bonnets.
And Emet was in misery because he couldn’t tie properly
Avel and Ha-or Tov gabbed nonstop over their barley soup about what they had seen and done in the fields around Migdal Eder. Their talk was full of commentary in regard to the Roman water project and the Jewish workmen.
Emet was too downcast to take part in the discussion.
He replayed what he had seen in the stable. In particular, he thought about the black lamb named Bear. One day earlier the lamb was clearly in trouble: skinny, weak, and headed for death. Now he had energy enough to try to butt Emet, and to annoy his sisters and his adoptive mother with his antics. Bear ate almost nonstop too, indulged by Old Girl as he pushed in ahead of Lily, Rose, and Cornflower . . .
. . . as long as the cap stayed firmly secured, Emet reminded himself ruefully.
And those changes happened as a result of a scrap of bloody hide?
In the busy life of the sheepfold there had been no opportunity to talk to Zadok about the mystery. Lev was the other possible source of explanation, and he was too scornful for Emet to want to inquire of him about anything.
If only Emet were just as good at being an apprentice shepherd as Bear was at being a baby sheep. Emet dreaded the idea that he might yet be sent away. The vision of being forced from this place to tending someone’s turnips renewed the boy’s gloom.
Emet heard the tromp of Zadok’s feet as he approached and entered the house.
“So dinner is done? Clean up, then. Don’t wait to be told.”
After dishes and boys were both washed up, Emet gazed at the soft pile of bedding and decided his questions for Zadok could wait till the morning.
But in this he was wrong.
After a critical inspection of the supper utensils, Zadok lighted two more lamps. Taking down another clay jar from the shelf, he said, “Days for work and nights for study, eh? Gather around and pay attention.”
Emet saw Avel and Ha-or Tov exchange a weary look, but no one ventured to protest.
Unrolling a length of parchment scroll, Zadok staked the corners firmly in place with smooth white stones. Calling their attention to the title that headed the entry he challenged Avel to read it.
“Bet, resh, alef, sheen . . . ,” Avel recited, continuing to note the individual letters until he had spelled out the word. “B’resheet . . . beginnings . . .”
“It means,” Zadok explained, “that this is the book of the beginnings of all things.”
Ha-or Tov brightened. He pointed out the open door, which framed stars like a picture. “In the beginning Elohim created the heavens and the earth!”
“You know this then?” Zadok seemed impressed with Ha-or Tov’s response.
“In Galilee. Yeshua taught us. He gave us birthday stars, and taught us about the heavens,” Avel asserted quickly, as if not wanting Zadok to have a higher opinion of Ha-or Tov. “He said you’d teach us about the earth. What was. What is. And that then we would understand what will be.”
Zadok appe
ared struck by these words. Then doubt flickered across his face. “This rabbi of yours? Things of the earth he left to a shepherd to teach? Too much to learn in so short a span as one lifetime.” A long silence followed. The boys didn’t dare speak as the old man searched the writings before him. At last he asked in a whisper that sounded as if it were directed to someone other than the boys, “Who are they that they should know the secret? And I, that I should teach them?”
After a full minute Ha-or Tov cleared his throat and added, “He said the chief shepherd of Migdal Eder would unravel the mystery of the lamb . . . whatever that means.”
“He said that, did he?” Zadok asked.
Avel spoke up. “Yes. He told us Zadok and the flock would teach us.”
Emet’s face drooped further. He had nothing to add to this discussion.
“And did he say where,” Zadok pressed, “we would begin?” Rising from his chair he loomed above Emet. Was the boy about to be punished for knowing nothing of beginnings?
Emet stared at his clumsy fingers. He wished he could learn something practical tonight, like how to tie. He blurted the question that had been plaguing him all day: “What does it mean that my lambs wear the fleece of a dead lamb?”
Zadok tugged his beard. “So. A logical beginning, I suppose.” Scooping Emet up with one hand, Zadok held the boy aloft while he sat again and drew himself up to the scroll. Then he plopped Emet down on his lap. “Closer,” he insisted to Avel and Ha-or Tov. “Torah is a book about the sheep of Elohim’s pasture. In it is the WHY of all things. Listen, then, to what it means when Emet’s lambs wear the fleece of a lamb who died.”
For several minutes Zadok read aloud from the scroll of beginnings. This was a story none of the boys had heard before. It was a good story. Interesting. Yet it did not explain the skullcap on the head of the black lamb.
And then Zadok began to elaborate.
“After the Almighty created the heavens and the lights, in the time before time there was a terrible war in heaven. A rebellion of angels. The earth, beautiful and pristine, was engulfed in chaos. It became without form. Without life. And the spirit of Adonai Elohim brooded over it like a hen broods over the eggs in her nest. And he created the earth anew. The waters and the grass and trees and fishes and the birds and creatures of earth, and a special garden.” Zadok said, “Last of all, he made the man, Adam, from the dust of the earth, and he breathed into him life, making him a living soul. And the Lord told Adam that he was in charge of the garden and all the creatures. In fact, he brought the animals to Adam to name.”
“Just like I named the lambs?” Emet inquired with a start. “Lily and Cornflower, Rose and Bear?”
“Just like that,” Zadok agreed. “So, y’ see, the first man was by profession a herdsman, a shepherd, because he had the care of the sheep and the goats and the cattle.”
“And lions and wolves?” Avel interjected.
Nodding without pausing for the interruption, Zadok continued, “And he tended a bit of garden too, as I do. Adam was happy with his duties and not ashamed that he had much to learn.”
Emet grew warmer inside at that thought.
“And everything there was good to eat,” Zadok continued, “except one tree that bore fruit Adam was commanded not to eat.”
“Why not?” Emet wondered aloud. “Was it poison?”
“You might say so,” Zadok said. “It was in the center of the garden, and it was called the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The Almighty warned Adam that the very day he ate fruit from that tree, he would die.”
“Why didn’t the Almighty uproot such a dangerous tree?” Ha-or Tov inquired. “Adam might have eaten the bad fruit by mistake.”
The braids of Zadok’s beard moved from side to side as he disagreed. “No. Adam was smart. He knew where that one tree was and he knew not to eat its fruit. You see, in all the world there was just one thing Adam was not allowed to do. The Almighty had to leave that tree there to see if Adam would obey his instructions.”
“How tough could it be to not eat poison fruit?” Avel challenged.
“Watch and see,” Zadok replied. “Things went well for a time, but Adam was lonely because he had no mate.”
Zadok paused unaccountably. His eye searched the small room, as if he were looking for something. When his gaze turned back to them, there was a sadness in it. “Rams had their ewes,” he said as he resumed, “roosters their hens, but Adam had no mate. Adonai saw this and decided to do something about it. He made a woman for Adam from Adam’s rib.”
“From his rib?” Emet repeated incredulously.
“And from this flesh and bone and blood that was Adam’s very own the Almighty fashioned his bride, our first mother. Her name was Ishah. She was beautiful. And Adam and Ishah were happy together. They and the Lord God walked and talked together in the garden every day.”
“Did they have children?” Avel asked.
“You’re getting ahead of the story,” Zadok scolded, but he didn’t sound angry. “One morning Mother Ishah was walking through the center of the garden, near the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. When she stopped to look at it, she noticed that the fruit appeared especially ripe and juicy, plump and enticing.”
“Uh-oh,” Emet breathed.
“Mother Ishah heard a voice calling her name. But it wasn’t her husband, and it wasn’t the Lord God either. It was the Adversary, the Accuser. . . . Do y’ know who I mean?”
The boys bobbed their heads in rapt attention. So ominous was Zadok’s tone about what was coming in the story that none of them wanted to speak Satan’s name.
“He who had been the Angel of Light had become the Prince of Darkness. The Father of all lies and liars! I speak of Lucifer, created by the Almighty. Much beloved by Adonai, Lucifer was the first being ever to rebel against the Lord. He said, ‘I will ascend to heaven, I will raise my throne above the stars of God!’ And that was why the Lord God cast Lucifer down to earth from heaven. So Lucifer appeared to Mother Ishah as a serpent.”
The flickering lamplight threw shadows into the corners of the little room. Emet’s eyes searched them for crawling snakes, and his ears investigated the air for hisses and slithers. Zadok caught the boy’s uneasiness. “In those days,” he explained, “the serpent was a beautiful, attractive creature, and very clever. Not like snakes nowadays.”
“Oh,” Emet said.
“Listen carefully to what the serpent said to the woman,” Zadok instructed with a warning finger tracing the letters on the expanse of scroll. He began to read aloud:
“ ‘Did God really say, You must not eat from any tree in the garden?’
“The woman replied to the serpent, ‘We may eat fruit from the trees in the garden, but God did say, You must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die.’”
“Wait a minute,” Ha-or Tov interrupted indignantly. “God didn’t say anything about not touching the tree, did he?”
“No,” Zadok said, smiling. “Well done, boy. Y’ see, the woman was changing God’s commands to suit herself. A little here. A little there. Speaking as if she had God’s own authority. And this opened her soul to what came next.”
The old man resumed reading from the text, “‘You will not surely die. . . . For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.’
“Y’ see,” Zadok continued, “the Adversary presented Mother Ishah with the same sin he himself fell into . . . wanting to be like God.”
Ha-or Tov covered his eyes, as if he didn’t want to see what followed, but Zadok nudged him with his elbow and pointed toward the writing again. “So Mother Ishah plucked a piece of fruit from the tree and ate some.”
“Oh, no!” Emet mourned.
“And she took some to her husband and Adam ate too. Suddenly they were ashamed! They knew they’d done wrong. They realized they were naked. They tried to cover themselves by making
fig leaf aprons.”
“Then what happened?” Avel asked.
“The sun was setting! Adam remembered what the Lord God said about how if they ate the fruit they’d die that very day! And they heard Adonai Elohim walking in the garden, calling for his friends, ‘Where are you?’ And even though Adam wanted God’s help so they wouldn’t die, Adam told the Lord he was hiding, because he was naked. Well, of course God knew what happened, but he asked anyway, ‘Have you eaten from the tree that I commanded you not to eat from?’”
Red Dog rose from beside the fire and padded toward the door, stopping on the threshold to stare out at the night.
Emet shivered.
Resuming his tale, Zadok said, “God asked Adam what happened, and Adam blamed Ishah. This woman that he loved more than life itself . . . he blamed her for what he did! And Ishah? She blamed the serpent. And people have been blaming others for their own sins ever since! But every person is responsible for his own soul. Everyone is given a free will to do right or wrong.”
“But did they die? What happened?” Emet worried aloud.
Zadok reached around Emet to unroll a bit more of the scroll. “Now we come to why I chose this lesson to begin our studies,” he said, picking up the story as it was written, “The Lord God made coats of skin for Adam and his wife, and he clothed them.”
“Where did the Lord get their coats?” Avel asked.
“From the flock. Lambs died instead of the man and his woman,” Zadok said. “Innocent lambs who had never done anything wrong. And the Lord wrapped the first man and the first woman in the bloody skins.”
Emet’s head snapped up. “Just like we did with the orphan lambs? Just like the little cap on Bear’s head?”
“Exactly,” Zadok said. The chief shepherd’s scarred and weathered face was gravely approving. “Emet, tell me what you saw in the lambing barn.”
The boy twirled his earlocks on his finger as he replied, “Old Girl took the orphans . . . because they wore the coat of her own lamb who died.”
