Rebekah's Treasure (29 page)

We’re still south of the Mount Carmel ridge, on the Caesarea-Scythopolis highway, scattering pebbles with our sandals, causing them to skitter across the dusty road. The large stone markers that tell us the distance we’ve traveled also tell us they were built by the 10
^th
legion under the command of Marcus Ulpius Traianus only a year ago. It’s hardly the Via Appia, the main thoroughfare of Rome, and one, they say, that’s built of smooth, tightly-fitting paving stones. Rather, our road is lined with kerb stones and paved with pebbles and sand and little else.

Though trees and shrubs have been cleared on both sides of the road to deter any ambush by rebels, I’m happy to see that Roman axes have not decimated the hills. Lush trees still flourish there, nourished by the rains carried to these parts on the pinions of the westerly Mediterranean winds.

I glance around at the many caravans that clog the dirt path running parallel to our road. The path is made of smooth earth; built by the Romans for their horses since it is kinder to hooves than the pebbled road. The path is heavily traveled by caravans coming from the Decapolis with their wares.

“It’s more crowded than usual,” Zechariah says, mopping his sweaty brow. “Merchants everywhere must have heard that Titus is marching his army back to Caesarea; an army with booty enough to spend on the most lavish goods.”

Two Midianites push by, each wearing an undergarment belted by a wide leather strap, and over that a sheepskin cloak, loose and ill-fitting,
with the wool facing outward. They’re wild looking and rough, like most Midianites, and I wonder if they could be slave hunters. I’m relieved when they pass without glancing our way. But it’s evident that Zechariah’s fears have become mine.

We travel slowly. Kyra holds us back. She meanders like a mindless child while one traveler after another passes us by. Another large caravan overtakes us, all laden with goods. For Titus? Or for shipment to other parts of the Empire out of Sebastos, Caesarea’s man-made harbor?

As the camel drivers laugh and talk and encourage their animals to move faster, I leave the road and follow behind on the dirt path gathering camel chips for my cooking fires. And while I do, I study the men, searching for any who might be the slave hunters we fear. Finally, I laugh at myself for allowing Zechariah’s words to disquiet me, then praise God that in two days we’ll be in Caesarea.

“She’s left the road again,” Zechariah grumbles, as he glances over his shoulder.

I turn and see Kyra seated a good distance away, near an oak; not a great oak of Bashan with an impressive trunk and full, rounded top, but a small bushy, prickly-looking tree that hardly invites company. At once I’m irritated by this delay until I see her metal collar glinting in the sun. We’ve yet to find a way to remove it without injuring her. Now it reminds me of her sad, dangerous state, and I feel pity.

“That makes a dozen times she’s stopped today. If I had a more suspicious nature, I’d say she’s deliberately trying to slow us down.”

“
More
suspicious? Zechariah, you’re a bundle of suspicion. You’ve not stopped speaking of Kyra since we left Pella. Though I understand your concern, I must confess you weary me with your words.”

Zechariah thumps his chest with a fist, causing the dust on his tunic to float upward. “In here, I’m uneasy. I tell you, when God stirs me this way, I know trouble is coming.” He looks at me sideways, pulling at his beard. “I feel sorry for her, too, Rebekah, but I must be cautious, for both our sakes. And though I hate speaking of this for fear of worrying you, I must tell you that last night I caught Kyra going through one of
your bags. When I confronted her she mumbled something about mistaking your bag for hers in the dark. But how was that possible? When yours is made from rushes, and hers from homespun?”

I pull the donkey off the path, allowing the remainder of the caravan to pass, then double back and head for Kyra. Zechariah follows, his face as soft as cheese, and so sweet I feel sorry for being cross. “Forgive my impatience. You’re right to be cautious,” I say as we walk. And he just smiles.

“Why have you stopped?” I ask Kyra when we reach her.

“Ooooh,” she moans, rubbing her bare foot, her dusty sandal lying beside her.

She lifts her leg slightly to show me her sole, while her large green eyes avoid looking at my face. “A pebble was lodged in my sandal, and cut my flesh.”

I see only blood-tinged dirt. Without a word, I hand the donkey’s bridle to Zechariah, take up one of the water skins, wet a clean rag, then squat in the dirt.

Kyra recoils when I touch the rag to her wound. “No . . . you mustn’t. I can do it myself.”

I ignore her, and holding her foot firmly by the heel, carefully wipe away the grit. Oh, the faces she makes! First a frown, then a soft bewildered look, and finally her cheeks turn the color of pomegranates before her chin juts out defiantly. I think it odd, all this emotion, until I see that the wound has not been made by the grinding of a pebble. Rather, it’s long and thin, with clean edges like the cut from a blade or other sharp object.

Has Kyra inflicted this wound upon herself?

She looks at me as though reading my thoughts. And the longer I take, the more uneasy she becomes, until finally, before I can even apply the olive oil, she pulls her foot from my hands.

“This is unseemly. I’m a slave and should tend myself.” With that, she replaces her sandal and springs to her feet.

And we’re off again, with Zechariah leading the donkey back to the path while Kyra and I follow. And as we trudge along the gritty hills heading for the Plain of Sharon, I feel a heaviness in my chest. Weighed down by an anchor like Zechariah? Hardly. But though I’m still not convinced Zechariah is right about Kyra, I’ve decided to watch her more closely.

I stir the bubbling pot of barley as Zechariah pounds three posts into the ground then stretches and secures his robe over them as a tent for Kyra and me. He’ll sleep under the stars. The air is still hot and sticky, though it’s nearly sunset, and I wonder if I might be better off sleeping beneath the stars as well. I’m grimy from the dust of the road and my own sweat. It will be uncomfortable beneath an airless canopy.

Kyra is close by, rubbing oil into the bottom of her foot. Her limping brought us to a stop earlier than we intended. That foot of hers is more swollen than the first time I saw it. Redder, too. Without proper tending, it could become a problem.

When she sees me watching, she smiles. “You’ve been so kind all through the trip. You and Zechariah, both. You haven’t even let me wash your clothes or cook. And now you insist on
serving
me. And who am I but a worthless slave?” She replaces her sandal, then rises to her feet and limps to where my pot is simmering over a slow-burning dung fire. “At least let me tend the barley while you refresh yourself. I’ve had worse injuries than this and still managed my chores.” She holds out her hand, and reluctantly I give her my wooden spoon.

“It’s nearly ready,” I say, then go to the tent, and using water from my water bottle and a rag, I wash my face and hands.

“Soon there will be an end to these hills.” Zechariah comes over and sits beside me on the rush mat. “I won’t lie. I dislike traveling. It will be nice sleeping beneath a roof again.”

I nod as I watch Kyra. “Her wound, Zechariah . . . is not a wound one gets from a pebble. She might have . . . she could have . . . .”

“Inflicted it herself? Yes, I suspected as much. But why? Why would she deliberately want to slow us down? Unless she’s waiting for someone to catch up. Argos perhaps?”

“It can’t be Argos. You should have seen the fear in her eyes when she begged me to let her come. She’s terrified of him. This is her chance to be free. It hardly seems reasonable that she would deliberately ruin it. There must be some other explanation.”

Kyra’s shadow suddenly falls over me. I look up and see her holding two steaming wooden bowls. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve added raisins and a bit of cinnamon to conceal the blandness of the barley. I think you’ll like it.”

I thank her and take the bowl, along with a piece of flatbread. Did she overhear? Her face, blank as parchment, tells me nothing. When she returns to the barley pot I ask Zechariah what he thinks. But before he can answer, she’s back with her own bowl and takes a seat beside me on the mat.

“I’ll miss you both when we part in Caesarea,” Kyra says, blowing on her steaming pottage. “I can’t remember when I was treated with such kindness.”

I actually believe her. I actually think there are tears in her eyes. I actually feel sorry for thinking ill of her. “Are there any in Dor you still call ‘friend?’” I say hopefully, for the thought of this desolate, young woman all alone fills me with sadness.

“Dor? Yes . . . there should still be a cousin or two.”

“No parents?” Zechariah asks.

I think he feels sorry, too.

Kyra scoops barley with her flatbread. Her movements are slow, deliberate, as though she’s thinking of an answer.

“Have you no parents still living?” I repeat Zechariah’s question.

“Why should I speak of those who sold me as if I were one of their goats?” Kyra shrugs as though trying to convey contempt but all she
conveys is a wounded spirit, for her eyes rim with tears. “To me they are dead.”

“You’re angry,” I say, “without even knowing their reasons? Perhaps they were poor, and in debt?”

Kyra wipes the tears from her cheeks and looks away.

“Will you not try to forgive them? As Jesus taught? You’ve heard Zechariah speak of this many times.” Without thinking, I brush the stray wisps of her hair from one of her damp cheeks, then let my fingers linger. “Begin your new life now, by extending this forgiveness. What better way to celebrate your freedom?”

Oh, those green eyes! How they stare at me. Full of sadness and anger both. But her cheek remains turned toward my caress, like a starving little bird grateful for any meager kernel a cruel world was willing to dispense.

“For some there is no freedom, there is no forgiveness, there is only suffering,” she finally says, pulling away.

Camels groan behind us. And donkeys bray. All around, in little pockets, are other travelers who have stopped for the night and set up camp. Laughter and voices fill the air. But we are silent, Zechariah and I. What can we say to Kyra’s sad comment? Can we say “Come to Jesus and He will heal you? He’ll take your heart of stone and plow it with His love, creating deep, rich furrows in which He’ll plant a beautiful new garden?” No. She has heard all this before at Zechariah’s house. So, instead, we sit close to one another, quietly eating our barley, and watching the great orange and red sun slip behind the horizon.

But Kyra’s words haunt me. They remind me that somewhere along the Via Maris, the highway that runs along the coastline of the Mediterranean Sea, my Esther is among strangers, and frightened, too. And I’m crushed by the thought.

Strange rustling sounds awaken me. They’re so close I’m sure a thief has entered out midst. Kyra and I sleep under Zechariah’s tent. Zechariah, himself, is nearby. I see his great bulk curled on the ground just outside. But I see another form further away, bending over our bundles. I resist the urge to cry out. Instead, I prop myself up on one elbow, and when I do, I notice Kyra is not beside me. Where could she be?

I squint into the darkness at the moving shadow. It’s smaller that I first thought; merely a wisp. Something drops to the ground and the thief turns slightly to pick it up. And then, by moonlight, I see Kyra’s face.

I rise to my feet and, quiet as a cat, tip-toe to where my bags and baskets sit in a heap, then lunge for her arm. “What are you doing! Those are
my
bags.”

She shrieks like an owl, waking up those around us. At once, curses fill the air, and for a moment I fear one of the camel drivers will come over, for I see him rise to his feet. But when Zechariah hurries to my side the moment passes.

“What is this? What’s happening?” Zechariah looks at my overturned bag, then how I grip Kyra’s arm, and he pulls her from me. “Tell me what you are searching for!” he says, shaking her fiercely. “Don’t lie, or so help me I’ll leave you to these camel drivers.”