Rebekah's Treasure (25 page)

Lamech raises one hand in the air. “Ethan, Ethan. Is this the way friends behave? All this talk of killing. Such a waste. But surely you don’t suggest I leave empty-handed? As you said, I’ve lost two men. Perhaps they were worthless dogs who fought like women,” he spits on the ground, “but they were
my
dogs. You have so much.” He eyes the mound of silver. “You can afford to be generous.”

“Perhaps,” I say, lowering my dagger. “But not too generous. Your dogs injured my son. Give us your scrips of food and your water skins, then descend the summit. For that, and your two lost men, I’ll allow you to leave with a small bag of coins and your lives.”

“Even now the sun hangs red in the sky. You expect me to travel that steep, winding path at night? Without food or water? All the way back to my wadi? You take me for a fool?” Lamech growls.

“Then come,” I gesture with my dagger, “and I’ll send you to Hades instead.” My sons have fanned out. Even Joseph is back on his feet. Blood covers his leg.

Lamech’s men don’t move. They fear us. Lamech, too, for I see it in his eyes. My sons are known for their bravery. Their exploits are numerous and renowned. They’ve often vanquished forces far greater than themselves.

“Well, speak up. What will it be? A bag of silver to share with your men or . . . this?” I hold up my dagger. “Come. It grows dark. Let’s conclude our business, one way or the other.”

For a moment the only sound I hear is the wind blowing atop the summit. Finally, Lamech laughs and slips his dagger into his belted waist. “A good bargain, if I say so myself. I accept your terms, Ethan. Two worthless men, five bags of food, five skins of water, for one bag of silver. Yes, a good bargain.” He points to the scrips and water skins on the ground behind him, then tosses me a small empty leather pouch.
I give the bag to Aaron who quickly fills it with coins. And when I toss it back, Lamech signals for his men to leave.

“One more thing,” I say, causing Lamech to stop. “If you follow us again I’ll kill you.”

Lamech shakes his head. “Such unfriendly talk. So unnecessary among friends.” He raises the bag of coins into the air. “I will think of you often, my friend,” he says, smiling with his mouth, but his eyes are hard as pebbles. “I’ll not forget you.”

If only Joseph would complain instead of lying listless on his rush mat, unable even to lift his head, it would give me hope. But his life is draining away. Though Aaron has dressed the wound—a deep gash the length of my hand—the bleeding continues and there’s no way to stop it since the wound is by the groin. I’ve seen injuries like this on the battlefield where men have bled out. I feel helpless and angry, and sick with fear that Joseph will die. And how can my heart bear that?

“They’re nearly down the summit,” Benjamin says, looking out a window. We are in the north tower, which gives us a good view of Lamech and his men as they make their descent down the winding sloping path. “They’ve stopped by the old aqueduct . . . oh . . . they are beginning again . . . now . . . now they’re mere shadows in the distance. They’ll not return tonight.”

“But sooner or later they will,” I say, watching Joseph drift into sleep or unconsciousness, I know not which. “Perhaps Lamech will recruit more men. Either way, he’ll be back. And he must not find us here.”

“What of the rest of the coins still in the chest? Joseph has covered it over with dirt, but if Lamech comes back, surely he’ll search out this cistern where he knows we have been working. He and his men may even dig throughout the ruins. What if he finds the gold ingots under the monument or the talents buried in the courtyard cistern?”
It’s Aaron, Aaron the son who is always mindful of his duty even when his own heart is heavy with grief, for I see on his face that his fear for Joseph mirrors mine.

“We must leave them, and hope some of the men of Masada will return with us before Lamech does. But now, we must see to Joseph.”

“And have my brothers call me a girl?” Joseph says, as if waking from the dead. His voice is but a vapor in my ears. “You must not take me into account, Father.” He lifts his hand but when he can’t reach mine he lets his drop. Even in the fading light I see him grimace from the effort. And I see the look in his eyes, too, though I wish I hadn’t. Because he
knows
. He tries to tell me but I’m a coward and look away. “Do not consider me, Father,” he repeats. “Do your duty.”

“My duty is to get you to Masada.” I bend over Joseph and touch his bandaged thigh with my finger tips. Already the newly wound rag is soaked with blood. “When you are safe and properly tended, your brothers and I will come back here with more men. But rest now.” Joseph closes his eyes. “Rest while we prepare your litter, for soon we leave.”

“Tonight, Father?” Benjamin says, turning from the window. “It’s dangerous to make the descent in the dark.”

“But more dangerous to stay,” I say.

And when Benjamin glances past my shoulder to where Joseph is lying and sees the great quantity of blood covering the fresh bandage, he nods in understanding.

“Let me carry him,” I say, squinting down at the prone body on the pallet. A bed of rush mats atop Aaron’s spread robe provides support for Joseph’s back. But already the robe, which is knotted at the four corners for ease of carrying, is beginning to wear. Aaron holds the end by Joseph’s head. Benjamin carries the other, only the robe isn’t long enough and one of Joseph’s legs folds at the knee and dangles off the
edge. The other leg, the injured one, juts straight out like a log, being tightly wrapped in one of the rush mats. In addition, I’ve folded my robe under his thigh to lift the leg. I’m praying to
Hashem
that these efforts will keep the wound from spurting blood.

“Come, it’s my turn,” I repeat. “Let me do my share.”

“We can switch after we reach the wadi and the road is better,” Aaron answers in a labored voice.

“When we reach the wadi we’ll
all
stop for a rest,” I say. “There’s no need for you to bear so much of the load.” But Aaron ignores me and continues the descent.

The trek downhill is treacherous. We don’t travel the path that Lamech and his men took for fear they may still be close by. Rather, we descend the opposite side of the summit where the path is less defined, the terrain more inhospitable. And only moonlight guides us. Everything seems to conspire to make our journey maddeningly slow. And this eats at my gut. I’m desperate to get Joseph to Masada, for surely there must be at least one physician there to help him.

Throughout all the jostling and stumbling over rocks, Joseph has not uttered a word. Only an occasional groan tells me he’s still alive. But he’s heavy. So are our bundles and the bags of silver we carry, and they all take their toll, sapping our strength as we try to safely maneuver the steep incline. I’ve already relieved Benjamin. But Aaron has yet to rest. He pants like a dog beside me.

“Let me take him,” I say again, and to my surprise Aaron tells Benjamin to stop, and amid a level spot near a jagged limestone protrusion, he gives me first one knotted end of the litter, then the other.

“An unencumbered man can walk to Masada from Hyrcania in a day,” Aaron whispers beside me, then takes great gulps of air as though trying to catch his breath. “With Joseph injured we’ll be fortunate to do it in two.”

“Yes, that’s what I calculate.”

“But in another day, he’ll bleed out. His wound is grievous, Father, and even if we travel day and night, I fear it will be too late.”

I’m silent for a moment. “Scout ahead and find a better patch of level ground,” I finally tell Aaron. “I’ll stop the bleeding.”

“How?”

“By packing the wound.”

“But we have nothing, Father. No oil or wine, no clean wool,” Aaron’s voice shakes, “only our filthy rags. You’ll poison what blood he has left.”

“Find me the ground!” I hiss. And so Aaron, my obedient Aaron, disappears into the night amid the sound of skittering rocks. And before long, I hear his voice say, “Over here.”

After Benjamin and I rest the litter on the level ground that Aaron has found, I feel Joseph’s leg. The rag around his wound is sticky and wet. “Give me your robe, Benjamin.” Without a word, Benjamin pulls his robe from his sack and hands it to me.

“Uncover his wound.” Again, Benjamin obeys, while I tear his dirty robe into strips. “Hold him down, both of you.” I kneel beside Joseph and reach toward the bloody gash. My hand stops in mid air and trembles in the moonlight as I pray to
Hashem
. Then I force open Joseph’s wound and begin jamming in the dirty strips of cloth, one by one, until I can fit no more. Throughout it all, Joseph screams—piercing, anguished, pleading screams. And between the screams, he begs us to let him die. I’ll never forget those screams or his words, or that they came because of my hand. He tries to roll off the litter, but his efforts are feeble and easily restrained by Aaron and Benjamin. By the time I’m done, Joseph is unconscious and my cheeks are streaked with tears.

The sun has risen. I feel its fingers poking my eyelids, forcing them to open against my will, and when they do, everything is a blur. I know we’re in the wadi, cradled in the arms of a limestone niche, one of many along the base of the bordering mountains. The climb down the summit
took everything we had. And because Joseph’s bleeding has stopped, I ordered a brief rest just before sunrise. I think we all would have collapsed if I hadn’t.

My open eyes burn and feel as though they’re filled with grit the size of boulders. I squeeze my lids then wipe the corners with dirty fingers. Now they are more painful than ever. I’m covered in dirt. It coats my hair, lines my nostrils and mouth; powders my torso and limbs. In desperation, I sit up and feel for my water skin. And when I find it I use some of the precious water to wash my hands, then my eyes until I can finally see the outlines of my sons sleeping beside me, and see that it is Benjamin who snores so loudly.

“Aaron, wake up.” I shake him, for he’s the closest. “We must be on our way.” Aaron opens his sleepy eyes and yawns. Benjamin stops snoring and sits upright. Joseph doesn’t move. His head is turned away. I struggle to my feet and go to his litter.

“Joseph.” I bend to examine his leg. His dressing is nearly dry, and for that I praise
Hashem
. Then I probe a little harder, to make sure.

“Don’t press, Father, it hurts too much,” Joseph says, in a thin, tired voice as he turns and squints up at me.

“Next time don’t be in such a rush to pick a fight.” I smile, trying to keep the worry from my face. He’s as white as lime dust, even his lips. Only his eyes have any color at all. And they look more like black stones pressed deep into a lump of dough.

“I only followed . . . Aaron’s lead.” His voice is so low I bend closer and put my ear near his mouth in order to hear. “He was ready to strike, only I . . . beat him to it.”

“Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

He takes my hand which is resting on his hip. His fingers are cold. “I want you . . . to know that no matter what happens . . . it’s alright.”

“We’ll follow the wadi along the Salt Sea until we reach Masada,” I say, trying to gather courage. “There’ll be plenty of mountain goats near the springs. If time permits, perhaps Benjamin will kill one for you. The fresh meat and hot broth will do you good.”