Rebekah's Treasure (2 page)

“So, it’s pure, is it? Do you even know what that means?” Judith’s look is mocking.

“Yes! It means . . . it means . . . it’s
good
.” Papa and Uncle Abner were always talking about ritual purity. Gifts or sacrifices to God were
korban
—Holy unto the Lord. How many times had I heard that? Papa, a priest, often bathed in the
mikvah
to “purify” himself. And Uncle Abner, a Pharisee, made “pure” vessels out of stone when he wasn’t teaching Torah in the Temple. If anyone knew about purity and what was good, they did.

Judith forces air through the small space between her upper front teeth, making a hissing sound. “Stone doesn’t absorb impurities.
That’s why
it stays ritually clean.”

I walk past her trying to look as though I know what she’s talking about, when in truth I don’t. I only know ritual purity had something to do with our gleaming gold and stone Temple, and with pleasing the One True God. I wish I understood more because I was sure I never pleased God. I was always getting into trouble, always making Mama or Judith angry. Always dropping things or getting in the way or making messes. But if I were to use a brand new
stone
cup at Passover, now that would please God. And maybe it would make me pure, too. Make me good and acceptable to all of them—Mama, Papa, Judith, and the Holy One.

“Enough talk.” Judith’s forehead crinkles like a dried fig. “Hand it over.”

I swing the cup behind my back and try to keep my chin from quivering.

“You’re not going to cry, are you?”

I shake my head, but already I feel tears cluster, like Mama’s lentils, across my cheeks. And instead of obeying Judith, I go to the grillwork covering the doorway where a warm breeze carries the sweet smell of linden that Mama said had blossomed early this year. Oh, how I love this big upper room built on our roof; a room used for overnight guests or celebrations or sometimes, like tonight, by people Mama and Papa loved.

Sometimes Mama would even allow me to play here. And sometimes when I got tired of playing and tired of looking out over the huge Upper City, I’d sneak down the outer steps on the wall and run like the wind to the Gate of the Essenes just inside the Lower City. And then . . . as the bad child I am . . . I’d exit the gate into the Hinnom Valley. I don’t know why I go to that awful place; why I always disobey Mama by doing it. Way before I was born, or even before Judith was born, children were burned as sacrifices to Molech there. Now it’s the place where garbage and animals were burned.

It was the dead animals that drew me, or rather the bits and pieces of those sacrificed as
sin
offerings—crops of birds, entrails, and those butchered carcasses that could not be burned on the Temple altar but had to be burned outside the city gate. Why some animals could not be burned in the Temple and others could, I don’t know. But I do know, because Uncle Abner told me, that these animals were punished by men so I and my people would not be punished by God. And though I don’t really understand it, sometimes, amid the flies and horrible smell, and the heat that feels as hot as Mama’s ovens, and the smoke that makes my eyes water and that covers me with soot, I watch as basketsful of animal parts are thrown into the ravine. And oh, how frightened I get, trying to spot, by some sign from Heaven, the animal that had been sacrificed for
me
. And I’d stand there, my eyes burning, my mind remembering Uncle Abner’s stern warning to keep myself “pure.” If I didn’t . . .
God could do this to me
.

“Well! Give it here!” Judith barks, making me nearly jump out of my skin.

I wipe my eyes with the back of one hand, while clutching the cup with the other. All right . . . if I wasn’t to be the first to use it, there was only one who could. The Master was kind; always made time for me, even when his disciples tried to shoo me away. And oh, how tenderly he kissed my forehead! And how he made me laugh when he tousled my hair! And I can’t count the times he held me in his arms and called me
his “little chick” as though he were a mama hen. Yes . . . I could give up my cup for the Master . . . but it wasn’t easy.

“I don’t have all day.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Judith impatiently beckoning with her hand. I turn the cup over and stare at the large t carved into its bottom and wonder why Judith couldn’t be more like our older brother, Asher. He was never impatient, never unkind. He even had spent hours teaching me to write the Hebrew alphabet; patiently guiding my hand with his over my wax tablet. But it was the last letter in the alphabet that I loved best—the
tav
or rather what Asher called its ancient symbol, the way Moses had written it, as a t and not as an x like the scribes do today.

Asher said all the letters had meaning, too. And he had taken time to explain them one by one. He had learned all this from the rabbis; things I’d never learn, being a mere girl. But he had been so proud of me when I was finally able to form the letters, and even called me a “scribe” when I began carving the
tav
on all my possessions.

“If you don’t give it to me now, I’m going to tell Mama!” Judith snarls, planting herself in front of me like a wall.

It was clear. This time, if I didn’t obey, Judith would make good her threat and then I’d be in real trouble. Slowly, I extend the cup. No, it wasn’t easy being the youngest or having a sister like “Judith the Perfect.” Judith would never think of going to the Hinnom Valley. Judith wasn’t “impossible” or “headstrong.” Judith didn’t need to drink from stone cups to please God. Though I try not to, though I even hold my breath until I’m sure I’ve turned blue, I let out a sob as I give her my treasure.

“I can’t be sure where Jesus will sit,” Judith says, her voice kind for the first time. “But I suspect he’ll take the position of host, and sit in the center.”

Through my tears I watch her place the cup on the table and know that later I’ll sneak up the wall steps and peek in, just to be sure that it really was Jesus who used it.

J
ERUSALEM
70 A.D.

CHAPTER 1

“You can’t stay. It’s just too dangerous now.”

My husband, Ethan, stands firm, like David before Goliath, and I know I’ve lost the battle. Maybe if I had phrased it differently. Maybe if I hadn’t said those words
—“we are all going to die”
—maybe then he wouldn’t be standing before me now with his hand on the hilt of his dagger as though drawing courage. But too late. My tongue has already betrayed me.

“Any day now, that jackal will be here with his siege works, for what’s left for him to conquer but Jerusalem?”

“Vespasian? I thought he was in Alexandria.”

“Yes, but his son, Titus, continues his push through Judea.”

This time the words drive me to the bear of a man I have loved for twenty-six springs. My head finds its familiar resting place on his chest. He smells of sweat and Temple incense. His beating heart thunders in my ear. And amid this thunder, I hear shuffling, and know, without seeing, that the footfalls are made by our sons.

I pull away and glance at the four young men behind Ethan. All are tall and strong and handsome. Any mother would be proud. But when my eyes drift to the blue tassels that trim their tunics, my stomach clenches. I have come to hate that trim. It’s the same trim that hangs from Ethan’s tunic, “to remind him of the commandments,” he says. Does he think I’m simpleminded? Does he think I don’t know that Zealots wear blue fringe?

When I look at my sons, I see my little boys in those faces, faces I have kissed and scrubbed and tended. But I also see the fire. Ethan says it can’t be helped, this fire which leaps from their eyes, for the blood of the Maccabees runs through their veins.

Ethan is a priest of Hasmonean lineage.

He has told me I should understand this fire, being the daughter of a priest myself, for Rome’s authority is in conflict with the Law of God. But I don’t understand. To me it’s madness. Yes, madness. I will call it by name. For what else would compel men to hurl themselves into a fight they cannot win? My voice has cried out against this fire. God is my witness, it has. I’ve told Ethan it’s one thing to revolt against that dog, Antiochus, King of Syria, as the Maccabees did nearly two hundred years ago, and quite another to disrupt
Pax Romana
.

Oh, why can’t he see it’s folly to fight the Roman Empire?

“Come now. Get ready,” Ethan says with discernable tenderness in his voice.

“No! I won’t go!” a voice wails behind me.

Without turning, I know it’s Esther. “You’ll do as your father says,” I respond, forcing my voice to sound stern, for my heart is not in my words.

“I won’t leave my husband. I won’t leave Daniel! He’s already paid the bride price and we have drunk from the same cup. He has only to prepare the bridal chamber. Once it’s finished and we . . . well . . . maybe after that if . . .”

I glance at Ethan, and though I try not to, I know my eyes plead.
Can’t we stay?

“There is no ‘after’ or ‘if’,” Ethan says, ignoring me, but answering my question too. His strong muscular legs erase the distance between himself and Esther. “You know what Vespasian has done to every Jewish settlement from Galilee to Judea. The man is a beast. Can we expect any better from his son?”

My daughter does not cower beneath the shadow of his massive frame. “It’s you who claim that God will deliver Rome into your hands.
That your army will destroy Vespasian’s legions. What are you saying now, Papa? That Vespasian will win? That God has abandoned you?” Esther comes alongside me, her hair, soft as flax, frames a flushed face.

Sweet Esther. So headstrong
. But she’s right. Ethan cannot have it both ways. All these months of blustering in the face of certain Roman retaliation, and now
this
? My arm encircles Esther’s shoulder which quivers, I think, with disappointment and anticipation both. But I say nothing. It is for Ethan to say. It is for Ethan to make his case for sending us away.

Ethan knots his broad forehead. “Nothing has changed. God is still on our side. But it remains to us, to us Zealots, to defend Temple and Torah. To return holiness to unholy Jerusalem. Will you make that task more difficult by staying? Must we worry about you and Mama?”

“Oh, this is too much,” I blurt. “Are we not living stones,
living stones
, temples of living stones?”

Ethan avoids my eyes. This is the argument he knows all too well, the words he has heard me say over and over. They are Paul the Apostle’s words. Words that used to burn in Ethan’s heart before this new strange fire took hold. Are not living stones more important than quarried stones? Are not living stones worth fighting for? Worth protecting? I love the Temple. The
Shekinah
once dwelled there. Though the Temple still stands on the mount like a giant pearl, it is a pearl without luster. The Presence . . . the Divine Presence is gone. And the Temple is not alive. It’s not made of
living
stones. It does not breathe. Well . . . yes . . . once, once I did see it breathe. I actually saw it shudder, as if in a sigh. Though no one believes me. But that was long ago, the day they say the great curtain covering the entrance to the Holy of Holies was torn from top to bottom.