Rebekah's Treasure (14 page)

“You sent for us?” My weary body tenses as I brace for Eleazar’s answer and the reason he has summoned us to the Court of the Lepers, the only place not filled to overflowing with exhausted rebels. Many wrongly fear the stain of leprosy is upon it. It is one of four roofless chambers nestled in each corner of the Women’s Court. The others, once used for storing wood and oil, are now packed with our men.

It’s nearly sunset, and both sides have ceased fighting to seek their own places of refuge. Our men are everywhere, resting, dressing wounds. A few have morsels of food they try to eat without being seen.

My sons stand near me, dirty, blood-stained. Their young faces are drawn; their once strong bodies lean and weak from hunger. I avoid their eyes, for in them I see how much they have aged.
Why did Eleazar want my sons to come, too?
It makes me uneasy.

Eleazar hovers by the large pool once used by lepers as a
mikvah
before presenting themselves to the priests for examination. “You summoned us?” I repeat.

Eleazar puts a claw-like finger to his lips indicating we are to remain silent. The lamp in his hand casts an eerie glow across his face. The glow, his hollow cheeks, his wide, dark eyes, his matted white hair and beard, all make him look mad.

“Follow me,” he says softly.

And we do, out the court and up the steps to the Nicanor Gate, then through the court of Men, the Court of Levites, past the Chamber of Hewn Stone where the Sanhedrin once met, past the Altar of Sacrifice which no longer sends the smoke of its offerings to
Hashem
. Instead, it is surrounded by priests who wear armor and carry swords, priests who are prepared to defend the altar with their lives. They take no notice of us.

“I’d like to be among their number when the time comes,” Aaron says, lingering by the giant brass laver as he looks back at them. “I will pledge myself to the defense of the altar.”

“You
will
pledge yourself to whatever Eleazar instructs,” I say, putting an end to the matter. Aaron has more zeal than all of us. Rebekah faults me for this, but I’m blameless. I have only followed Torah’s instruction to diligently instruct my children in the ways of God. As Torah commands, I’ve spoken to them about our great Creator. And I’ve done this when sitting and walking, when lying down and rising up. I’ve spoken the holy words of scripture; imparted its wisdom and instruction and admonitions, but not its fire. That came from
Hashem
—a holy fire I dare not quench.

We step into the colonnaded enclosure which contains the living quarters for priests. Slowly, we make our way down its long corridor, careful not to trample any of the hundred reclining bodies that cover the paving stones. They are what’s left of John’s and Simon’s and Eleazar’s men; dirty, ragged, hungry, many wounded, many restless in anticipation of tomorrow’s battle, but some actually sleep.

I wonder if Eleazar is taking us to one of the thirty-eight rooms built into the three-story walls of the temple and used by the priests. But no, he stops at a room in the corridor, unlatches the door, and bids us enter. We step inside, then Eleazar bars the door. It’s difficult to see with only the light from the small oil lamp in Eleazar’s hand, but even so, it takes only a second to realize we’re in a storeroom. Tables, laden with willow baskets of all sizes, cram the room. The baskets are filled with clay oil lamps, tunics, robes, sandals, and such. One table holds rush mats for sleeping, as well as pots, jars and other sundries. Eleazar’s
possessions? Or gifts for the Temple priests? Who can say, and I have no desire to ask.

Eleazar walks over to a table containing four finely woven bags, four bulging scrips, and four water skins, which appear full. He quickly lights four oil lamps and indicates we are to take one. “Each bag contains a good tunic and robe and sandals, a hammer, chisel, and small hand shovel. You’ll need them. And the scrips are filled with raisins and hard cheese and almonds. You can travel many days on that.”

My sons grow restless and whisper among themselves. Aaron actually flits from one end of the table to the other like a nervous sparrow.

“I fear the priest will not take his golden pitcher to the Kidron Valley and fill it with the waters of Siloam during the Feast of Tabernacles this year.” Eleazar’s dark mad eyes shimmer as he looks around the dim, cramped room. “
Hashem
cannot be pleased with us for stopping the Continual Sacrifice. Ever since the last lamb was slaughtered and the fires died, the battle has not gone well for us. But where are we to find a lamb . . . or even a dove? Our people are starving. Starving people do not bring animal sacrifices to the Temple. They stuff them into their own bellies.”

“What is this about, my friend?” I ask, watching Eleazar rake his white hair with spindly fingers.

“One thousand priests were trained as masons in order to build the Holy Place without defilement. And when it was finished, Herod the Great sacrificed three hundred oxen to
Hashem
. Even that dog understood the holiness of our Temple. Now, the Romans will swarm over these sacred grounds and trample its holiness beneath their feet.”

“Eleazar. . .” I reach for his shoulder, but he pushes me away.
Has he really gone mad?

“I give you and your sons one last command,” Eleazar says, holding up his lamp to study our faces. “If . . . the Temple falls . . . you must leave Jerusalem so our fight, so our cause can . . .
will
continue.”

“If the Temple falls there are still The Upper and Lower City to defend. How can we leave? How can you ask us to desert you and the
others?” I say, hardly believing my ears. My sons, too, shake their head in disbelief and mumble their displeasure under their breath.

“It’s an order!” Eleazar barks. “You must obey.
Swear
to me you’ll do as I’ve asked.”

I look at my sons. They all shake their heads.

“I’ll stay here and fight till the end,” Aaron says.

Benjamin, taller than his brothers, and the one most resembling Rebekah, clasps Aaron’s shoulder. “As will I.”

I know my furled forehead reveals my anger at their refusing Eleazar, but I’m proud, too.

“And I’ll stay as well,” adds Joseph, the follower who always went along with the others.

“You are soldiers,” I finally bellow. “You will obey your commander.” At once, Joseph hangs his head. Benjamin, in quiet anarchy, pinches his lips and studies one of the bags on the table. Only Aaron remains openly defiant.

“John is our commander,” he says, but the words are flat, and ring false. Our loyalty has always been with Eleazar, not John. I stare at Aaron, beating him down with my eyes. Oh how much he reminds me of myself! Foolish, strong headed, and stubbornly faithful. At last he bows his head, and in a shaky voice gives Eleazar his promise, as do each of us.

When the last oath is uttered, Eleazar removes the bags, scrips, and water skins from the table, exposing an object that was hidden beneath them. In the poor light I can’t make it out. Eleazar beckons us closer, and as we cluster around the table, the light from our collective lamps reveals a thin flat copper scroll nearly five cubits long. The Temple housed a vast library of scrolls—the Torah, the Psalms, the writings of the prophets— all written with ink on papyrus or animal skins. None was hammered on costly copper. In Roman-Egypt, copper scrolls were used to inventory temple treasures. But I’ve never heard of us doing so.

I squint down at the scroll and see three sheets of copper riveted together as one. Odd, ill-formed lettering—ancient Hebrew from the
looks of it—comprise the hammered text. I bend closer and begin reading, “In Har . . . Harubah . . . in . . . Valley of Achor . . .” It’s difficult to read. Some words I can’t make out at all. Still I continue, “be . . . beneath the steps . . . east . . . 40 . . . cubits . . . silver and . . . vessels, 17 talents.” I frown and look up at Eleazar. “What is this? A treasure map?”

“Yes.” Eleazar taps the scroll with a claw-like finger. “Temple treasure. A vast fortune that has, over the years, been dedicated to our God and His Holy Temple. More gold even than the eight-thousand talents Herod used to overlay and decorate the Holy Place. With it you can buy supplies and weapons for a new army.”

I blink in disbelief.
Temple treasure?
Even if it were true, what army could I raise? Galilee and Judea were in shambles. The population decimated—slaughtered or taken as slaves. And those who weren’t, were demoralized and barely able to eke out an existence in their ruined villages, or as exiles. Who was left to fight Rome?

“There are rebels at Masada,” Eleazar says, as if reading my thoughts. “You must take the treasure there. Once it is known you have resources, others will join you. The fight
must
continue!”

This was a fool’s errand. But can I tell Eleazar that? I close my eyes. And when I do, I see my son, Abner, hanging on the cross, and my heart is suddenly filled with rage. I have not had time to grieve him as I should. The fighting has kept me from it. Now, I am a swirling caldron of emotions: sorrow, longing, hatred, rage, the craving for revenge. But it is
revenge
that bubbles to the top, like dross over molten metal. It sears, it burns. I’ve never known its like. Not even my zeal for the Temple compares. I try to fight it. I squeeze my lids closed hoping to drive it back, but I can’t. Dark thoughts fill my mind. Bloodshed, pain, dashed hopes, despair, death—these are what shape me now. I never thought it possible to feel such hatred; never thought it possible to want to do such violence. Will I leave Abner unavenged? Surely Rome must pay. Surely Romans must be made to grieve for their sons, too. Eleazar was right. There can be no living in peace with Rome now. No living under Roman rule. My hate gathers strength. It steams
and boils, twisting me into a new creature, one sliding down toward its own destruction; sliding toward the burning world of Hades itself.

“I’ll continue the fight.” My voice is the voice of a stranger. “Yes, I’ll continue the fight, but I’ll not speak for my sons.”

At once my sons surround me and bellow their support. They pledge their weapons. They make oaths. They thump my back and clasp my shoulder. And my heart breaks at the thought that I may be leading them into a pit.

But Eleazar appears pleased. He places his lamp on the table and begins rolling the scroll. When he does, the metal snaps. Without meaning to, he has broken the scroll in two. “No matter,” he says, after examining it. “The break is at a rivet line and will not prevent you from reading the words. Guard it well. With your lives, if need be. It cannot fall into the hands of our enemies.” He carefully wraps the scrolls in leather, ties them with a leather strap, then tucks the scrolls into his tunic. “Now, I’ll show you the hidden passage. Commit it to memory.
All of you
. If one falls in battle, the others will still know the way.”

He takes his lamp, ducks into the far corner of the room and pushes against one of the large wall stones. And then, right before our eyes, a section of wall opens revealing a narrow stairway cut into bedrock. He beckons us to enter. When we do, he follows and closes the wall behind him, then inches past us on the narrow steps so he can lead the way.

The steps are steep and many, and empty into a cramped, highceiling passageway. It, too, is cut from solid rock. Chisel marks scar the white limestone, and black smudged niches show were workers once placed their oil lamps along the wall. The air is stale. But surprisingly, the tunnel is dry.

We walk a long way. More than once the passage forks. I have the sensation we are traveling downward. As we go, Eleazar points out the variations in the walls—where white limestone gives way to red; the curvature of the floor, the rising or lowering of the ceiling. And he admonishes us to commit them all to memory. Finally, he stops at a spot where the passageway bulges on one side, creating a large landing.

“We are outside the city walls now,” Eleazar says, pulling the scrolls from his tunic. He then stands on his toes and tucks the two leather-wrapped rolls into a niche high up on the bulging wall. “If the Temple falls, you must go to the storeroom, change clothes, take your scrips and water and whatever else you need, and come here for the scrolls.”

He holds his lamp up to the tunnel opening that yawns before us like a grave and that stretches far beyond the flickering light’s reach. “Continue through that passageway. Follow it to the end,” he says, leaning against the cold limestone wall. Even in the dim light I see the strain and fatigue on his face. “It leads to the hills of Qumran and empties into one of the caves.”

“Such a tunnel exists?” I squint at the long, black passageway in front of me. Jerusalem abounds with tunnels that honeycomb its underbelly: the well known Hezekiah’s Tunnel and Solomon’s quarries, also cisterns, waterways, plastered ashlar stone drainage channels. Many I’ve used myself to move about, undetected, especially when Rebekah was still in Jerusalem, but I never knew of this passageway. When I say this out loud, Eleazar nods.

“It is most secret,” he says. “Only a few know of it. It was the passage we’ve been using for the past four years to take the Temple treasure and much of our library out of Jerusalem for safe keeping. We’ve hidden the sacred scrolls in the Qumran caves. The treasure, we’ve scattered in over sixty locations.”

Eleazar’s head slumps against his chest. At first I think he’s ill, then realize he’s eaten little today, having given his small ration to one of the priests guarding the altar.

“Come, let us go.” Eleazar pulls himself upright to begin the long trek back. “Remember,” he says, turning to look at us, “you have all sworn an oath. Dying will not be so unwelcome now that I know the fight will continue.”