Rebekah's Treasure (37 page)

“What’s wrong? What has happened?” My arm encircles her shoulder.

Instead of answering, she hands me the tablet inscribed with a crudely drawn map of the Cardo Maximus, the main street of the city running north and south, and directions to a house in the Greek Sector. “I don’t understand,” I say, squinting down at the tablet.

Hannah takes Zechariah’s arm, no doubt to steady herself. “That . . . accursed slave dealer! His master is displeased, he said. Displeased with the price I paid for Judah. Said his master claims I cheated him, and demands I bring Judah back to his house, along with five-hundred
drachmas
. Or face arrest.” She pauses, and looks at me strangely. “He said I was to bring you as witness to the sale. He was very insistent about it, too. ‘Bring the other woman who lives in this house, as witness. And don’t bother coming without her.’ Those were his words. But why? Why would he say that?” She presses a gnarled palm against her cheek. “It makes no sense.”

“It could be a trick.” Zechariah rubs the side of his bulbous nose. “Perhaps the Romans have found out that you and your son are from the House of David.”

“Then why insist I come, too?” I shake my head. “No. There’s something more to this.”

“I’ve told no one who you are,” Hannah says. “The Romans have spies everywhere, even in our poor little Quarter. I didn’t want anyone knowing that you, Rebekah, are . . . were the wife of a priest and rebel. Or that you, Zechariah, are a friend of that menace in Ephesus, the one you call John the Apostle. I didn’t want to bring trouble down on your
heads. But perhaps they’ve found out. Or perhaps they think you are my relatives, making you descendants of the House of David, as well.”

Without a word, Zechariah leaves the room then returns with his dagger strapped to his waist. “We’ll smuggle Judah out of the city. It will be easy enough with your house so close to the North Gate. By the time that slave dealer knows we’re gone, it will be too late.’

Hannah shakes her head. “Judah can’t survive such an ordeal. He’s too weak. Oh, I don’t know what to do! Am I to lose him again?”

“Lose who?” a voice says behind us.

I turn, and there is Judah, bathed and smiling. He’s a handsome young man with brown wavy hair and dimpled chin. But the way he wears the new linen tunic Hannah purchased—belted at the waist— reveals how thin he truly is, though his broad shoulders testify he was once a powerful man and makes me understand why a slaver would purchase him. And there, there in Judah’s eyes is a shimmering light.

We all stare without saying a word, forcing Judah to repeat his question. “Who will you lose again?”

It’s foolish to keep such a thing from him so I quickly tell what happened. Judah says nothing. But that light dims a bit.

“Go to your friends in the Greek sector, those followers of Jesus,” Hannah says, her voice desperate. “You’ll be safe there until you’re well enough to travel. Then we’ll smuggle you out of the city. Oh,
please
you must go.”

“And leave you to face the Romans alone? What kind of son would do that?” His voice is laced with fatigue, but there’s resolve in it, too.

“We’re like chickens running around without heads,” I say, frowning. “We say, ‘maybe it’s this, maybe it’s that,’ but we don’t know anything. Before we act foolishly, we must understand the trouble.”

Zechariah leans forward in his stool. “Surely you don’t mean for us to surrender? Like sheep to wolves?” He fingers the hilt of his dagger.

“What will your one blade do against the Roman army? For it’s a simple matter for Titus to send the full weight of his forces against us if he chooses. No. Let’s use our heads.”

“What do you propose?” There’s reluctance in Zechariah’s voice.

“You and I will go alone.” My eyebrows arch as I look at Zechariah. “If you’re willing, that is.” When he nods, I turn to Hannah. “We’ll act as your agents. I have enough gold from my
semadi
to turn the head or heart of the most jaded slaver. If we’re not back in two hours, then Hannah, you and Judah must either seek refuge among the followers of the Way or escape through the North Gate. I see no alternative. Fortify yourselves with food, then pack in case you must leave.”

Hannah’s gnarled fingers clasp her throat. “What you propose is too dangerous. I can’t ask you to do it.”

“You didn’t ask. And my mind is made up. Perhaps Esther is beyond our saving, but Judah isn’t. Zechariah and I will tell this slave master that Judah is too ill to come; that already he appears a defective slave and we have a good mind to return him for our money.” When I see the look of horror on Hannah’s face I laugh. “Don’t worry, after I give this jackal a piece of my mind and a few of my coins he’ll be happy to be rid of us.”

I wear a costly white wool tunic the hem of which reaches my ankles and is decorated with thin black stripes. The same fabric covers my plaited hair. Over the tunic I wear a belted black robe edged in red. Tucked inside is a bag of gold coins. These are my best clothes. I wear them for a reason—to appear before the slaver as a woman not easily dismissed. And nothing accomplishes that so effortlessly as a show of wealth.

Zechariah has not bothered to change, but wears his dusty, worn clothing. He says it will make him look more intimidating. He’s right, for in his rough homespun he appears almost as wild as I remember the desert prophet, John the Baptist, to have looked.

We walk the stone-slab sidewalks of Caesarea’s wealthy sector as we head for the slave dealer’s house. We’ve passed this way before on the way to the auction of Titus’s captives so I’m unimpressed by the large gleaming stone houses, and hardly look at them as we pass. Neither
Zechariah nor I speak. He’s praying, for he has that far away look he always gets. I’m praying, too. And considering I don’t know what danger awaits, I’m surprisingly calm.

Zechariah carries the wax tablet, the one with the crude directions, and from time to time indicates we are to turn here or go there. At last we come to an imposing house whose doorway is trimmed in ornately carved marble. In the middle of the lintel is a large face of some unknown goddess surrounded by clusters of grapes and curling vines. Already, I don’t like the place, and by the look on Zechariah’s face, he doesn’t either. Without saying a word, Zechariah knocks.

A tall, broad, finely-dressed man opens the massive wooden door.

“
Demas
?” I say in disbelief, for the resemblance is striking.

At once the man smiles. “Your eyes do not deceive you. I am Demas from Pella.” He quickly ushers us in.

“But . . . but . . . .” My thoughts are as jumbled as stew, and words will not form.

Demas laughs as he closes the door behind us, then greets Zechariah and me with a kiss. “Don’t ask questions. Soon you will know all.” His eyebrows arch when he sees our strained faces. “Fear not, for it’s a happy business. But brace yourself, Rebekah.”

My mind is whirling now, like the winds off the Judean mountain tops.
What can this mean?
A pebble, caught in the sole of one of my sandals, makes a scraping noise as I cross the beautiful mosaic floor. I stay close to Zechariah. Without a word we follow Demas down the hall to a large sun-streaked atrium. Everywhere I look there is marble: on the floors, over doorways, around the ceilings. And columns—columns too numerous to count. The walls themselves are plastered, and brightly painted with birds and flowers. With so much wealth, have I any hope of impressing the slaver with mine? I begin to fear he’ll be unreasonable. And when I see the outline of three men standing in the shadow of a large column, my heart pounds. Even so, there’s something familiar about them: their stance, their build, the shape of their heads.

When we reach the marble fountain, Demas stops and points. That’s all, just points. I grasp Zechariah’s arm as my eyes follow Demas’s finger to the shadowed men, and when one steps into the shaft of light pouring through the open roof, my knees buckle. Had I not been holding onto Zechariah I would have surely crashed to the floor.

“I’m sorry I had to bring you here like this. Without warning,” the man says. “Forgive me. But it would have been dangerous to expose ourselves at the house where you are staying, or dangerous even to send you word that I was here. I’m told there are Roman spies everywhere.”

“
Ethan?
” I blink. Surely I’m seeing things. This can’t be my Ethan. His face is clean shaven and looks strange to me, but that voice . . . . The man steps closer, then stops. His eyes rest on my hand, the one clutching Zechariah’s arm. Oh, I know those eyes, those shoulders, those arms!

At once I release Zechariah and rush to my husband. “
Oh, Ethan
! I thought you were dead!” Then I wrap him in my arms and kiss his face. There’s no end to my kisses. I’m laughing and crying, all at the same time, and praising God. “
Oh, Ethan
,” I say again, when I pull away. “I never thought . . . I never thought I’d see you again.” I can barely speak I’m so overcome. “Oh, my love, it’s really you.” I struggle to get the words out as my arms encircle his neck and my kissing begins anew. Now he’s laughing and crying, too, and holding me close and kissing my cheeks, my neck, my lips.

“Then you still love me,” he whispers in my ear, as if there was ever any doubt; as if I could ever love another. “I wasn’t sure . . . I only hoped . . . .”

I don’t know how long we go on like this. Time has stopped, and for me there’s no one else in the room. We just hold each other and kiss and laugh and cry. Finally, when I’m fully convinced my husband is flesh and blood, and really here in my arms, my eyes drift to the two men still hovering beside the marble column.

I shriek when at last I recognize Aaron and Benjamin. Then it all begins anew, this time with the four of us hugging and kissing and weeping on each other’s necks. Oh, I could have stayed in my family’s
arms the whole night long—this family which I thought was lost. I feel such joy. Oh, yes! For me morning has come and joy washes over me—wave after wave of pure joy.

Until . . . .

I notice the patch over Aaron’s eye. See that two sons are missing. “Abner and Joseph?” My voice is a vapor.

“Gone,” Ethan says, pulling me closer to him; encircling me with his strong arms that infuse me with strength. I can do nothing but lay my head on his chest and weep. Sorrow pours from me like an overflowing cistern. And as we had just come together in joy, so now we all embrace in grief, and mourn our great loss. We nearly wear ourselves out with crying, but at last we part. And when I look into their faces, I feel a new wave of joy. Yes, I’ve lost two sons, but God has spared two others as well as my husband. I am blessed, and I’ll not take this great blessing lightly. I think my sons and Ethan feel the same way, for they smile as though reading my thoughts.

Then Ethan tucks me under one arm. “I’ve prepared a feast. Come, let’s eat.” He glances at Zachariah who, like Demas, has been standing quietly behind us. I’m surprised to see his eyes and mouth harden when I introduce Zachariah. And as Demas leads us into a large room, I quickly tell Ethan and my sons all Zechariah has done for me. By the time we enter the area where a long, low table sits, surrounded by elegant pillowed couches, Ethan is smiling.

The table is laden with roasted lamb, fish, quail, figs and bread, and so many other good things I can scarcely believe it. I haven’t seen such food in years.

Ethan points to a couch at the end, and I take my seat, then he beside me. Everyone else settles on one of the other couches. And after Ethan offers thanks and praise to God for this feast and the miracle of our reunion, we begin dipping bread into the many bowls before us.

We are all mouths now, and talk for hours. Ethan, Aaron and Benjamin speak about Jerusalem. How they lived. What they saw. The final battle for the Temple. The copper scroll. They save, for last, the
details of how Abner and Joseph died, and even how Aaron lost his eye trying to save Daniel. And then they tell me why they’re here, in Caesarea. It’s hard to hear, to take it all in. Even so, I’m sure they haven’t told me the worst of it. It’s in their eyes, especially Aaron’s. I know there are things seen and done which they’ll never share with me.

When they finish, Zechariah and I tell our stories. We talk and laugh and cry for hours on end. And when it seems we stop and take our first breath, I notice the oil lamps are lit, and from where I sit, see that the roofless atrium is as black as onyx.

I jump to my feet. “Judah! I’ve forgotten about Judah!”