Rebekah's Treasure (4 page)

“You are cruel to put it so.”

“These are cruel times.” Aaron releases Esther’s chin, his eyes full of compassion.

“You will . . . when you return to the city, tell Daniel how much I loathed leaving him?”

Aaron nods.

“And . . . you’ll . . . watch over him?”

Aaron kisses Esther’s forehead. “Yes.”

“Then it’s settled,” I say, ignoring my heart which breaks for my Aaron who must now take on another burden; for my Esther, the young bride who has yet to taste the sweetness of lying in her husband’s arms; for my beloved Ethan, strong and courageous and too willing to spill his life’s blood on a hopeless cause; for my other sons, so eager to be men and follow their father; and for my Jerusalem, the Holy City that has polluted herself. “I have your word, Esther? Your word that you’ll come quietly and not cause a disturbance?”

She lowers her eyes, her long lashes cloaking any emotions. “You have my word,” she finally says, as though her mouth is full of bitter herbs.

“Hush,” I say, but the donkey brays anyway, no doubt to protest carrying the heavy limestone ossuary strapped to its back. We have decided to take the long route through Jerusalem, and head for the Tower Gate. It’s safer.

Aaron prods the reluctant donkey along the winding streets. He wears a short brown tunic belted loosely at the waist; over that, a rough homespun robe. Behind his ear is a chip of wood, the sign of a carpenter. It’s customary for craftsmen to wear emblems of their trade. Had he chosen to disguise himself as a dyer, he would have worn a strip of colored cloth tied around one arm.

We pass the great stone-paved plaza that borders Herod’s palace. It was here crowds gathered while Pilate sat on a raised platform above
them and condemned Messiah to death. No Romans are here now. They’ve long been driven from the city. Instead, the palace and plaza swarm with an assortment of odd-looking men, some in fine leather cuirasses and boots studded with nails, and carrying large swords; others in nothing more than torn tunics and bare feet. It’s dangerous here, though far less dangerous than taking the shorter route through the Valley Gate. To get there, one had to cross the Lower City, an area firmly in the hands of John Gischala’s men who freely rob whomever they please. At least in the still contested Upper City, John and Simon’s forces are too busy fighting each other to bother with us. At least that’s what we hope.

When a group of ill-clad rowdies armed with daggers push through a throng of people and head toward us, I question our judgment. A surly-looking man of large proportions leads them.
Gischalites
. John’s men. Only Gischalites could look this beastly.

“Now where would you be heading?” asks the leader, his hair a mass of tangles, his metal-trimmed leather cuirass slashed and blood stained. “You’re not planning to abandon our fair city now, are you?” He smells of spoiled mutton.

We all tense. The three rebel factions were always on the lookout for Jews fleeing the city. A traitorous act in their view, and punishable by death. Even so, Jerusalem could not be sealed. Many inhabitants had obligations outside her gates. Their shops and fields and vineyards were there. This made the rebels even more watchful for those appearing fearful or too laden with goods. Many an innocent citizen has met his death at the hand of an overly suspicious rebel.

“So where are you going?” the leader presses.

When I see Aaron’s hand move beneath his robe to where he conceals a dagger, I thrust the black jar of spices I’m holding into the air, the kind of perfume jug used in burial caves to overcome odor. My chin juts toward the ossuary strapped to the donkey’s back. “We’re going to my uncle’s
kokh
. The year has passed. It’s time to place his bones in the ossuary.”

The brutish man fingers the delicate rosette carvings that run the length of the stone box, then the lettering beneath them. “‘Bones of Abner, son of Eliakim, Pharisee and Servant of the Most High God,’” he reads. “That your uncle? Abner the Pharisee?”

I nod, marveling that this brute can read.

He studies us carefully, noting what is in our hands, how we are dressed. “Why do you bother to advertise your trade? Being so occupied with your dead?” the Gischalite says, gesturing toward the wood tucked behind Aaron’s ear.

“A man must make a living. Perhaps
Hashem
will smile on me and cause some passerby to offer me employment for a future day.”

The Gischalite pokes the small goatskin flagon strapped across Aaron’s shoulder while his eyes sweep over Esther and me to see what else we carry. When he’s satisfied we’re not taking a long journey, his face becomes thoughtful. “It’s wise to gather the bones of one already dead in order to make room for others. These days, people are dying like flies. Who knows when a niche in the family burial cave will be needed?”

The brute rests his hand on the ossuary. “Abner the Pharisee. I’ve heard of him. A good man. Still . . . you need to open the box.”

“Why?” The muscles of Aaron’s face tighten as he steps closer to the Gischalite.

The brute smiles, showing a mass of rotten teeth. “A brave lad for a carpenter. But save your courage.” He gestures with his hand to where a motley group of men stand watching. “There are too many of us to resist. I
will
see the box. Either open it or my friends will.” He chuckles. “But then . . . they’ll have to thrash you for their trouble.”

When Aaron leans even further, I push the black jar between them, forcing them apart. “There’s nothing of value in the box, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

The brute feigns offense. “What? Am I a thief? Would I despoil my own people? You dishonor me. No, no. I’m only looking for
’ contributions, contributions for the cause. If we fighters are to keep you citizens safe from the Romans, shouldn’t we be compensated? It’s only fair.”

I push against Aaron’s chest and indicate with the jerk of my head for him to open the ossuary. While he unties it and lowers the box to the ground, I hover near Esther. I’m still afraid she may bolt. If she does, she could disappear into the crowd and not be found. I think Aaron feels as I do, for in no time he has the box open, allows the Gischalite to examine its empty state, then hauls it back onto the donkey where he ties it up in rapid order.

“You were needlessly aggressive,” I whisper to Aaron as we head toward the Antonia fortress and Tower Gate. “Must you take such chances?”

Aaron shakes his head. “It wasn’t as you think, Mama. If I had shown weakness, the Gischalite would have slit my throat, and most likely yours and Esther’s as well. I had to convince him that if he tried anything, it would cost.”

It pricks my heart that Aaron should understand such things. It’s foolish, to be sure, when such knowledge can save his life. But during all the years of his growing up, he was the son whose heart was most tender toward God, and to Messiah Jesus. And I had hoped he’d become a disciple of John the Apostle in Ephesus. But the war changed everything.

I lament this as we wind through the dusty streets of the Second Quarter. We mingle with a few bleating sheep and cursing men. The sheep are thin, the men shabby. Ragged veiled women and dirty children hover in mud brick doorways. No one smiles. I can feel the fear. Its teeth have sunk deep here. Even those men whose mouths are full of oaths and blasphemies, and whose shoulders are broader than most, lower their eyes when jostled.

No one looks you in the face.

Esther is as sullen as they are. She hasn’t formed two words since we began. And more than once I’ve had to stop because of her lagging. Will
she violate her word? The question nags me. She’s normally trustworthy. But a woman in love can be foolish.

I fall in beside her, slowing my pace to hers. And I’m so close, our shoulders touch. No matter how much she tries, I won’t allow her to break this slender thread, this shackle of the senses that tell me she’s still safely beside me.

We walk this way until at last I see the four towers of the Antonia looming ahead. It sits on solid rock, the face of which is covered with smooth flagstone. They say it’s like a city inside, full of baths and courtyards and sleeping quarters, but I have no wish to see. It frightens me, even after all this time. Before Herod the Great enlarged it and changed it into an imposing fortress, it was a Hasmonean palace. Perhaps it was a happier place then. But I still think of it as the fortress that housed the Roman garrison and . . . the place where Messiah was scourged and crowned with thorns. A chill runs through me as we pass its double casement walls.

There are more fringed tunics now, for the Antonia is next to the Temple—Eleazar ben Simon’s territory; Eleazar, the priest and turncoat aristocrat; Eleazar, the head of the Zealots; Eleazar, the man who now commands my husband’s loyalty.

Even here, we must exercise caution. I’m not certain who controls the Tower Gate—Simon’s men, I think, for he controls more and more of the city. But whoever does will think nothing of slitting our throats if they believe we’re abandoning Jerusalem.

Suddenly, I see Esther walking on tiptoes, straining to see over the tops of the heads around her. And then I know.
Daniel
. She’s looking for Daniel! My mouth goes dry. So . . . this is what she’s been waiting for. To reach Zealot territory and find her husband. And if she does, she’ll bolt.

The area by the Tower Gate is mobbed with people passing in and out. A caravan of ten camels forces us to one side. The noise is deafening. People, animals, all mix together. Ethan told me how it was here. But even seeing it now for myself, it’s hard to believe. The change is so great. The city is swollen with refugees who have fled the scourge of the Roman
legions. Dirty and ragged, with few possessions, most have settled in the New City where the cloth market and wool-shops are—Simon bar Giora’s territory. But there are plenty of refugees here, too, living in flimsy leantos and make-shift hovels of canvas or rush mats or twigs. They cram every open space, even between houses—including those clustered along the wall. The stone seats near the gate, where the elders once sat to hear grievances or gossip or news coming from outside, are also taken by refugees who have nowhere else to go. And bordering the streets are the blind and lame holding wooden bowls and begging alms. And the stench! I can hardly breathe.

“We must watch Esther,” I whisper to Aaron as we stand beneath the shadow of the Antonia waiting to be inspected by the guards. From outside the nearby gate come the loud cries of lepers who cannot enter the city. “Unclean! Unclean!” they shout from the hovels attached to the massive outside-wall.

The guards at the Tower Gate seem indifferent to the noise, the stench, the sea of ragged, hungry people as they interrogate us. They take their time, pinching and poking, though they stopped short of running their hands over our bodies. Finally, they examine the ossuary and seem disappointed in not finding any contraband. Reluctantly, they pass us through with the wave of a hand. But I think if Aaron were not with us, and if he were not so tall and looked so strong, they would have charged us a “fee.”

Just as we are about to step through the gate, Esther shouts, “Daniel! Daniel!”

“Hush!” I say, in a stern voice.

Aaron’s head jerks upward. He scans the cluster of rebels peering down at us from one of the four towers. The Antonia is John’s territory. Daniel would not be standing on its walls.

“Daniel!” she shouts again.

I yank her hard by the arm. And when a suspicious look clouds the face of one of the guards, I secure my jar in one hand, and opening the other to make a flat palm, I slap Esther’s face as hard as I can.
“Shameful behavior! A priest’s daughter chasing after a man like a common strumpet!”

“Be gentle, Mother,” the guard says with a wink, as we pass through the gate. “She is young.”

I don’t bother to answer or look back. And God forgive me, I don’t even bother to stop and drop a few coins when I see a leaper push his wooden bowl toward me with the stump of what once was a foot. All my might, all my strength, all my attention is focused on two things—getting Esther away from Jerusalem, and getting her away as quickly as possible. I move at a furious pace, my fear pulling me faster and faster into the Kidron Valley while I pull my reluctant daughter, and Aaron pulls the reluctant donkey. Despite the cool breeze, we are all wet with sweat.

“You never had any intention of keeping your word, did you?” I hiss, when we have gone a good distance, my hand still locked onto Esther’s arm.

Drops of perspiration run down the sides of Esther’s ears, and she strains backward, away from my grasp. “Can’t we stop and rest?” she says in a weary voice, the red mark from my hand still visible on her face.

“What did you expect Daniel to do?” Aaron scolds, coming alongside us with the donkey. “Rescue you? Give you refuge? Go against Father and me?” His face is a knot.

“I need to rest,” Esther says defiantly, but her chin quivers and tears streak her dust-coated face.

“We’ll rest by Absolom’s Tomb.” I finally let go of her arm, and brush back the stray wisps of hair that stick to my forehead. And though Esther makes a sound with her tongue to tell me she’s irritated, she obeys. I push relentlessly, ignoring my daughter’s soft whimper when she cuts herself on a jagged rock, ignoring the sob that escapes her lips the further from the city we go, ignoring the breaking of my own heart over the terrible price we are all forced to pay. We trudge along in silent resignation, except for the donkey. He continues his braying, but not so often now. It’s as if he, too, is beginning to resign himself. And I allow no more stops until we reach the other side of the Kidron where
Absolom’s Tomb rises from the brook bed at the foot of the Mount of Olives.