Rebekah's Treasure (28 page)

So we use the remainder of the day to stuff bags with treasure, bags without number and small enough to be carried back to Masada by Josiah’s men tomorrow, though it is evident they will have to make many trips back and forth to carry it all. But four bags, larger and more bulbous than the rest, are set aside for me. I don’t take inventory of their contents. Is it exactly the tithe Eleazar promised? Or just Josiah fitting what he can into this number of bags and claiming it a tenth? It doesn’t matter. They hold a king’s ransom. Enough to buy thousands of slaves in the marketplace.

Now it’s nearing sunset, and my sons and I are just settling down for the meal of herb-cheese and raisins provided for us when one of the sentries shouts, “A runner comes!” and my heart stops.
Joseph!
He must have worsened!

I jump to my feet and dash to where the sentry stands peering northward at the shadowed path, and see a cloud of dust and a small figure sprinting towards us. He’s a speck, this runner, insignificant-looking amid the great expanse of the Judean wilderness. Behind him, mountains tower toward heaven, mountains almost white in the sunlight. Surely, someone so inconsequential can bring no harm.

How difficult it is to wait! I would run to meet him but years of living the disciplined life of a soldier prevent me. My sons have gathered by my side. Josiah, too. We all wait, and silently watch the runner. Finally, the nameless man reaches the summit. His tunic is drawn between his legs and tied at the waist to enhance his speed. His sandaled feet are encrusted with blood and dirt. His sweat makes his skin glisten like an oiled wrestler.

“As ordered, I bring you news of a change.” The runner doesn’t look at me but speaks directly to Josiah. “Joseph, son of Ethan, has died of his wound.”

He speaks like I’m not even here! I suppose it’s an unfortunate occupation to be a messenger of bad news, but right now I could break his teeth or bloody his face. “Tell me . . . was he conscious before he died?” I say between tight lips. “Did he speak?”

The runner looks confused. Obviously this was not part of his duty, to commit to memory the words of a dying man. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “I only know the midwife said his blood was too poisoned, and she couldn’t save him.”

Josiah dismisses him, and at once my sons and I fall on each other’s necks and weep. The pain in my heart is unbearable. It’s as though a thousand daggers thrust and cut. It will kill me, this grief. Even with the arms of my sons around me, I cannot bear it. The daggers carve a hole, making my heart an empty basin that must be filled or I’ll die. And so I fill it with every morsel of rancor and enmity my mind can conjure. I’m a man who hates the world. A man filled with loathing and hostility; no longer my brother’s keeper. Oh, how my hand desires to shed blood! To see the blood of my enemies pooled at my feet.

“He was a fine man. A good son. A brave soldier.” I hear Josiah say.

“It would be better if the Romans had killed him,” I finally respond, almost in a croak. “There’s honor in that. It would ease the pain. But to be killed by one of our own people! How can I bear that, Josiah? It makes me want to slice the world into pieces.”

“I understand. But consider this: today we killed two of those bandits. Two paid for the life of one.”

“But not
Lamech
,” I spit. “Lamech, who beats wool merchants to death for their money. Lamech, who robs his own starving countrymen. Lamech, who cared nothing for our Holy City, our Holy Temple. Lamech, who killed my son for
gain
.” I wipe my wet cheeks with the back of my hand. “All the wealth in the world is not worth Joseph’s life.”

Josiah’s strong hand grasps my arm. “Whatever you ask, I’ll do. My men are at your command. What is it you wish?”

“Lamech’s blood on my dagger.” And even as I say it, I see Aaron’s face fall, and Benjamin’s too.

“Shedding his blood will not bring Joseph back. What of your oath to Eleazar? What of Esther?” Aaron says.

I stare at him, my eyes hard. “I haven’t forgotten either. But first I must kill this snake.”

It takes most of the next day to catch up with the snake who has made his way back to his hole. From my place of concealment I watch him lounge at the mouth of his cave alongside his men. Our overwhelming strength at Hyrcania obviously made him abandon all hope of despoiling us. Josiah, and fifty of his men, have come with me and my sons. The rest have gone to Masada with some of the treasure. So we have fifty to subdue Lamech’s ten or twelve. I don’t feel shame or pity that my enemy is so outnumbered. I feel only hate.

Without waiting to formulate a battle plan, I let out a loud cry and charge toward the cave, surprising Lamech’s men and mine. The bandits
drop bread and cups and rush inside, and I right behind them with my dagger waving. I slash and thrust like a wild man, plunging my blade into one rogue after another. When Josiah’s men finally join me, they make a quick end to the rest, and within minutes the floor is littered with bodies, though not one is ours. How many I killed, I cannot say. It’s all a blur. I only know I feel profound disappointment that my dagger, dripping with blood, has no other foe to strike.

I stand in the middle of the cave, my chest heaving for want of air, and watch Josiah’s men collect bodies, then lay them in a row for the diggers. They are, after all, Jews, reason enough to honor them with a burial.

“Ten dead, in all,” reports one of the men when at last all the bodies have been collected.

“That’s it then,” Josiah says, clasping my shoulder. “You have avenged your son.”

I nod, and am about to leave, then I stop. “I will see him. I will see this jackal before I go.” And so I walk down the line of bodies, examining each face until at last I reach the end and realize Lamech is not among them. “He’s not here!” I shout, hardly believing my own words. “He’s not among the dead!”

At once a dozen men scour the cave, my sons among them.

“There’s an opening in the back, Father,” Aaron says, coming up to me, his face strained. “It was concealed by baskets and rush mats.” Aaron holds his dagger in his hand. “I’ll go in.”

“It’s for me to go . . . for me to . . . .”

“No Father.” Aaron bars my way, and the look in his one good eye stops me. There’s no hatred in it. Only a wistful sadness that makes me feel diminished somehow. I watch him and Benjamin disappear into the opening. And then I wait. And for the first time in many months I think of Jesus. He promised us a kingdom. Why, then, didn’t He drive out the Romans and set it up? Why has He allowed His people, the Jews, to suffer so? Was it all a lie? That promise of His? No . . . not a lie. I was only
a boy but I heard Him speak. I saw Him die, saw the sky blacken, felt the earth shake. And I saw His wounds, too, after He came out of the tomb. After he rose from the dead. Yes . . . I
saw
them. So it wasn’t a lie. But oh, how far we are from that kingdom now, that kingdom of love and forgiveness and peace and joy that He spoke so much about.
Where was it?
For one fleeting second I yearn for Jesus and His peace. Then I remember Lamech, and the Master fades from my thoughts.

“Let me see his blood on your dagger,” I say, when at long last my sons reappear.

“You’ll not find it, Father,” Aaron says, looking at me with pity. “The opening leads to a narrow tunnel which ends as a small cave on the north side of the mountain, a cave with an egress. The coward has escaped; deserted his men in order to save himself.”

“Give me the word, my friend, and I’ll order my men to scour the hills,” Josiah says, his eyes blazing.

I look at my Aaron. His face, even after all these years of fighting and bloodshed, is still like the face of an angel with its delicate contours framed by soft matted curls. His one damaged eye attests to his ferocity as a warrior; but the other, the eye that probes and pierces me so deeply, is hopeful and kind, but sorrowful, too. And I know he is praying that I’ll rise to the higher calling. And though my heart desires to shed more blood, I bow to his better instincts.

“We’ll not waste time looking for one rogue.” I wipe my dagger on the sleeve of my tunic and slip it into the belt at my waist. “We’ll return to Hyrcania, and in the morning, you, Josiah, must go to Masada with the rest of the treasure, with wealth enough to supply your army for years to come, while I and my sons must head north.”

“We search for Esther?” Benjamin asks.

“We search for Esther,” I say, watching Aaron offer prayers of thanksgiving to
Hashem
.

O
N THE ROAD TO
C
AESAREA
70 A.D.

CHAPTER 7

“She didn’t even know murex snails were found in Dor.”

“Yes, Zechariah, you told me . . . a dozen times.”

“But wouldn’t she know that? Coming from Dor as she claims? After all, it’s big business there, and the Tyrian dye from these snails is famous. All the imperial families of the Empire have worn its purple.” Zechariah glances back at Kyra who trails behind. “And when I mentioned Dor’s temples to Zeus and Astarte, and purposely described them wrong, she didn’t correct me. I’m telling you, I have a bad feeling, Rebekah. It’s like an anchor in my chest. It always lodges there just before trouble comes. And I’m never wrong.”

“What could I do? Leave her behind at the mercy of Argos? She asked . . . she
pleaded
. What could I do?” I say this for the hundredth time. Oh, how Zechariah frets when he suspects an ill omen is looming. He’s been complaining about Kyra since we left Pella and we’re already far from the Decapolis, having passed Scythopolis nearly three days ago.

“And why did she want to take us out of our way and spend the night in Megiddo? Can you answer me that? She was so insistent, too. Getting all red-faced; looking like she was going to burst into tears. It’s almost as if she were meeting someone there. But would she tell me when I asked? No. She wouldn’t even tell you, but only talked about having a sore foot as if neither of us had sore feet from this journey. And what does that have to do with Megiddo, anyway? So what am I to think? Can my thoughts of her be good? I’m telling you, she’s trouble. Mark my words, Argos will come for her. He’s not one to give up anything easily.”

I sigh, but don’t answer. In a way I feel guilty. I know Zechariah doesn’t speak out of a spiteful nature, for his heart of love is as big as Mount Carmel. The truth is, he’s burdened for my safety. I’ve heard him praying far into the night while I was busy with my own prayers for Esther. Soon we must stop and make camp, and that adds to his worry for I know his concern is greatest during the dark hours. But now that we’re west of Megiddo, having passed it without stopping and without incident and with only a mild complaint from Kyra, I hope his mind will be more at ease.