Rebekah's Treasure (35 page)

From where I stand I see the nearby theater built by Herod the Great whose construction greatly offended the Jews. It is said that inside are depictions of Roman victories and all manner of pagan trophies. But who knows for sure? I only repeat what I’ve heard. But this I know, it was here Herod Agrippa died nearly forty years ago, when dressed in a shimmering silver robe, he was hailed a god then struck down by the angel of the Lord for this blasphemy. If only that angel would strike Titus’s camp now, a camp that is so close by!

I’m uncomfortable here among so many Romans. “Vale” I hear them say to each other—their customary word of departure or benediction for strength and health. But I wish them no such good will. They swarm like repulsive flies. My sons, too, appear distressed, but we do what we must. It’s Esther and Rebekah we think of now, and the many poor souls we hope to snatch from Titus’s hand. The great Titus himself is not to be seen. Word is, he’s already entered Caesarea and is living in Herod’s palace in comfort and luxury.

“Look, the spear,” Demas says, pointing to the Roman lance stuck into the ground, marking the place where the captives will be sold. Already soldiers are herding the men, strung together at the neck by a coarse rope, to a spot near us.

The stench is unbearable. I resist the urge to cover my face. And oh, how wretched they look! Their once virile young bodies are now wasted and filthy, and covered in rags. Many, so weakened by their ordeal they can barely stand upright, are prodded by spear tips every time the
quaestor
, Titus’s paymaster, barks an order.

At once, Demas goes to work, quickly walking the line and discreetly marking the arms of many he passes. Meanwhile, the dozen other slavers busily mark their wax tablets as they inspect the captives. Those who stop and ask questions are obviously seeking captives with education or skills. Others, looking to purchase slaves for the silver
mines near Cartagena or the copper mines of Cyprus, eye the strongest, the healthiest.

But all are unaware of Demas who carries a leather pouch of limestone powder open at the neck, or that he’s been dipping his finger into the pouch and marking the upper arms of his choices. It was his father’s own system.

The line of captives stretches endlessly like a long tattered ribbon swaying in the breeze. Even my untrained eye can tell many of them are sick, some near death. I watch Demas move quickly until he is so far away he disappears from view. I wait for what seems like hours, then suddenly he appears out of nowhere and stands before the
quaestor
, announcing he has marked his choices and is ready to make an offer.

This causes a great stir among the other buyers, for they have yet to complete their own inspection. At once their curses and shouts fill the air as they run from their place along the line to bring their formal protest to the ears of the
quaestor
. Angry shouts soon turn into pushing and shoving. The dealer from Cyprus pulls a dagger, but immediately two of the
quaestor’s
slaves, both broad, savage-looking men, subdue him. It’s apparent to the dealers that they’ve been outsmarted.

“I’ll give you seventy-five
drachmas
apiece,” Demas says to the
quaestor
who seems barely able to conceal his admiration for Demas’s craftiness. “It’s a good price. I’m sure these thieves,” he indicates with a flick of his head that he means the other buyers, “weren’t even going to offer you fifty.”

“Done,” the
quaestor
says quickly as if confirming Demas’s accusation. He then orders several of his many personal slaves to go and cull the men from the line.

The other buyers are still cursing and complaining when Demas comes over to us. His face is wedged with a smile, his eyes sparkle with mischief. “We’ve done well. I’ve purchased the strongest. But when they bring the women, it won’t be so easy. The dealers will be ready for me.”

“Remember, don’t look too eager. When you see Esther, don’t go to her at once.” I lean close to Demas in order to whisper in his ear. “But don’t lose her, either. You must not let another slaver get her. You
can’t
let that happen.”

“Peace, Ethan, peace,” Demas says, looking at me with compassion. “We’ve gone over this a dozen times. I know what to do. My father taught me well. If Esther is here, I’ll get her.”

I compress my lips to keep from speaking further. All this waiting makes it difficult to keep my fears contained. And Demas knows his business. He has proven it all morning, first by his keen eyes at picking those who appear strong, then in his agility in making his purchase before the others, and finally in paying some of the
quaestor’s
slaves to billet and feed the newly acquired captives. We’re fortunate that Titus’s
quaestor
allows his slaves
peculium
, so they can hire themselves out, though Demas tells me they give their master a portion. Demas has hired thirty such slaves to oversee our new acquisitions—nine hundred and thirty seven males.

Even so, I’ve sent Aaron and Benjamin with them, to watch that the
quaestor’s
slaves don’t pocket the gold meant to feed the captives. I’ve also asked my sons to determine the true condition of these captives, as well as to identify any capable of leading the others and becoming captains over them.

Now, to the next task. Word has come that soon the women will be here. My palms sweat while my mouth feels dry as flax. The waiting taxes me so greatly I begin to pace. At once, Demas pulls my arm and brings me to a stop.

“It’s unseemly for a rich man to appear so nervous,” he whispers.

And so I force myself to stand in place beneath the boughs of an oak. The only consolation is that it shelters me from the hot noonday sun. Then I close my eyes and pray.
Oh, Lord, please let Esther be among the women
.

“I’d like to buy one of your slaves.”

I blink, and there standing in front of me is an elderly woman dressed in a fine striped linen tunic that falls to her ankles. Her head is
covered by an equally fine shawl, though her gray hair is still partially visible along the edges. The cloth and style of her garment tell me she’s a Jewess. In her hand she carries a small sack that jingles when she moves.

“What . . . did you say?” I ask, squinting at her in surprise.

“I said I want to buy one of your slaves.” I hear a gulping sound when she swallows. “A widow needs a strong young man for the heavy work around her house.” Her eyes dart from side to side as she wets her lips with her tongue. She is clearly nervous. “I’m not as strong as I used to be.” She pushes her dark leathery-looking lips upward forcing a smile, and when she does she reveals few teeth.

“Talk to my slave dealer,” I say gruffly, not wanting to appear sympathetic to a Jewess and compromise my mission. “Demas!” I shout. Just then, the women are marched forward, and the
quaestor
orders the sale to begin. When I try to step closer, the old woman bars my way.

“I have money.” She jingles the pouch. “I know what you paid and I can promise you a good profit.”

“Not now!” I dismiss her with a wave of my hand, then move around her so I can get to the captives. Like the men, the women are roped together at the neck. None look older than twenty. All the other females, the old and the very young, have been slaughtered long ago. I watch the women fold their arms around themselves like shields; see their heads droop forward. Filthy rags cover their thin, frail bodies, bodies that huddle together like sheep trying to hide from the eyes around them. Some weep softly. But most are silent, like sad little statues. Several thrusts of a Roman spear separates them, and soon they form a long continuous line that seems to stretch forever.

Demas is already walking the line. But as he predicted, the dealers are prepared. Two have purchased kohl from one of the shops to mark their choices. Another carries a basket of mud and a rag-covered stick for the same purpose. Others carry bags of henna. But Demas has outsmarted them again. He has given the
quaestor
a handful of coins to blind his eyes, then hired another two dozen of his slaves to impede the dealers. As Demas makes his way down the line, the
quaestor’s
slaves
bump and jostle the other dealers, ask them questions or simply bar their way. After nearly an hour of this, one frustrated dealer points to Demas and shrieks, “You have no honor!”

Without turning his head, Demas laughs and continues walking. Finally, when he’s done, he brushes past me on the way to settle with the
quaestor
. “She’s not among them,” he whispers.

His words are like a blade in my heart. I can hardly breathe.

“I ask your pardon.”

I turn to the voice and see the old Jewess by my side with her bag of coins.

“Now that your dealer has finished his business, will you allow me to see him?”

Her face is so pleading, so tender and sad, I don’t have the heart to turn her away. Was she searching for a loved one, too? I dare not ask. I throw out my chest and point a jeweled finger at Demas. “Can’t you see my man is still busy with the
quaestor
? And he has yet to separate and quarter our slaves. Come back in three hours. You may see him then and make your purchase.”

She grabs my hand and kisses it with her leathery-looking lips that are actually surprisingly soft. “May the God of Heaven bless you! You won’t be sorry. I promise you a generous profit.”

I watch her as she scurries to a large oak behind me. Then watch her speak excitedly to a waiting couple: a burly man with gray hair and a gray bushy beard, and a younger woman, trim of figure and whose face is partially covered by a veil. The two women hug, and when they do the younger woman’s veil falls away and my heart catches.
Rebekah!
Can it be? It looks so like her. The same high cheeks and dark eyes, the same height and build. I quickly draw my
kaffia
across my face and look again. Yes, it
is
Rebekah!

Oh, how I long to go to her, to declare myself. I don’t even care that she’s with another man; a man old enough to be her father, and a weeper besides, for he’s crying large glistening tears. It’s enough that she’s alive and well. I take a step toward her, then stop. No. Too dangerous. I must
wait for a safer opportunity. I head for Demas and pull him aside. Then I instruct him to sell the old Jewess any slave she wants. When I point her out as she stands beneath the oak with the others, his eyes grow wide.

“Yes,” I say in acknowledgement. “It’s Rebekah. You must avoid her at all cost, but find out where the old woman lives.”

C
AESAREA
70 A.D.