Rebekah's Treasure (49 page)

“Father, you can’t keep up this pace. It is time for you to rest in the tower and keep an eye on those rogues. That’s just as important as our digging.”

I ignore Benjamin and continue scraping dirt. We’ve changed our search. All afternoon we’ve dug between one chamber after another. There are so many. How are we ever to find the treasure before this time tomorrow? The thought of receiving another basket has made me dig at a furious pace. My sons, too. We have rested little today, having gone to the tower but twice.

“Benjamin is right, Father,” Aaron says, scooping dirt like a madman and flinging it over his shoulder, “you’re worn out.”

“I’ve worked no harder than the two of you. And I don’t need to go to the tower to know what that pig, Lamech, is doing. He’s sitting in
the cool of his cave, as usual, feeling pleased with himself, pleased and confident that because he has Rebekah, he has won the victory over us.”

“Still, you must rest,” Benjamin says. “You must spare yourself. It was you who said Lamech will not give up Mama without a fight. We will need your sword.”

I continue digging, not even bothering to look up or answer my son. All I can think about is that basket. The next one will be more malevolent. That thought drives me to distraction. How much more must my family suffer for this foolish treasure? And how much more must I lose before it all ends?

What’s that? That sound . . . it irritates . . . distresses me. What is it? I try to turn onto my side, but my body is weighted by fatigue and won’t move. I am bone weary. I can’t even open my eyes. Am I dreaming? I must be. Yes, surely it’s a dream. I feel my chest heaving up and down, feel my muscles quiver with pain, feel the fatigue that pins me to the ground like a helpless slug. But that sound! I must . . . make it stop. It is oddly familiar. Where have I heard it before? It almost sounds like . . . a whip . . . a whip being laid against a man’s back. I can’t bear it. It’s sickening. I try to bring my hands to my ears, to stop the sound from filling them, but I can’t move my arms.

“Stop . . . no more,” I hear myself whisper. But the lashing continues. Over and over. Whisht, wap, whisht, wap. And beneath that sound, I hear a man groan. Again and again the whip is laid to his back. Twelve . . . thirteen. Why am I counting? Sixteen . . . seventeen. I’m splattered with blood. It’s on my arms, face, neck. The man’s blood is all over me. I see him now bound to a post. The flagrum, with its ox-hide thongs and small knotted lead balls, flashes behind him. Twenty . . . twenty-one. Why doesn’t he cry out? Beg for mercy? Twenty-six . . . twenty-seven. My face is drenched. I want to wipe it . . . need to wipe
it, but my arms are dead things, useless dead things. Thirty-two . . . thirty-three. They’ll kill him for sure. How can any man withstand such scourging and live? I see the lead balls tear bits of his flesh and fling them into the air. And the blood . . . it’s everywhere. Why doesn’t he just curse his tormentors and die? Thirty-eight . . . thirty-nine . . . oh, at last, it’s stopped. That terrible sound has stopped. But the man? Is he still alive? I see him slumped against the post, blood pouring from his wounds. Yes. His chest moves in short, uneven breaths. If only I could wipe his blood from me. I’m drenched. Drenched.

I thrash around, trying to rouse myself, but stop when I hear weeping. Who weeps and wails? I can’t see. It’s so dark. All around me swirl black clouds. Then through the weeping I hear the sound of a hammer pounding, pounding, pounding. The clouds part slightly and I see that the hammer is pounding nails into the hands and feet of a man, and then into wood. I can watch no more, and with a jolt, force myself awake. My breathing is heavy and ragged. I can hardly pull air into my lungs. Sweat pours down my head and face and neck. Down my arms. My heart thunders. It’s been years. Why am I remembering now? I was only a boy, but I can recall every detail.

I glance at my sons who lay sleeping beside me. The night sky still hangs heavy over us and they snore peacefully beneath it. I’m exhausted but my heart is too troubled for sleep. I crave the solace of my sons but dare not wake them. They’ve worked hard all day, then spent much of the night discussing with me how we might defeat Lamech. We all need every minute of rest we can get.

I turn to my other side, trying to calm myself, trying to forget the dream. But it’s still so vivid. It haunts my thoughts. And after I lay there for a long time and can no longer keep my eyes from closing, I once again slip into the foggy world of sleep, and when I do, I hear that sound again: whisht, wap, whisht, wap . . . .

“Father are you sure? If we leave the summit now and dig where you propose . . . and find nothing . . . we won’t have time to return here and search among the chambers before Lamech’s men come again with another . . . .”

“Don’t you think I know that?” I say, clasping Benjamin’s shoulder, trying to bolster his confidence and mine. “But it came to me last night when I couldn’t sleep. I believe it’s where God would have me dig. Don’t you see? The two tunnels are two
chambers
. We must dig between them.”

Aaron’s face twists in thought. “If
Hashem
has favored you with wisdom, Father, let us waste no time. I say we go at once.”

Benjamin nods, but I see his agonized reluctance. It is a great risk we take. We have little time. If it’s wasted in futile pursuit, Rebekah will pay dearly. Oh, where are Josiah and his men? They should have been here by now. We know the location of Lamech’s cave but are too few to execute a rescue. At the first sight of us, Lamech will surely kill Rebekah. My sons and I agree our only option is to find the treasure so we can put our plan into effect, a plan involving only the three of us since we have no one else to count on.

And so, with heavy heart, I lead my sons down the summit, down the steep winding path. It’s barely sunrise as we head for the two tunnels located at the base of the mountain, tunnels that lie east of the crumbling aqueduct. We discovered them on our first trip to Hyrcania, and after a brief exploration, found they were nothing but rock-and-dirt littered shafts, and completely blocked within several cubits from their openings.

Aaron is the first to reach the tunnels, and at once paces the ground between them to determine the center, for the scroll tells us that the pots are located midway between the chambers. When he finishes, he begins digging without a word. Benjamin joins him. Then I.

We dig one hole, then another.
Nothing
. Nothing but hard-baked mud and rocks.

“Father, should we try another spot?” Benjamin says, already covered in grit and sweat.

“Yes, move to the right. That’s it! Dig there!” I shout. And so we begin digging another hole very near the ones we’ve already dug. No one speaks. All our energy is spent shifting dirt and rocks. Dust fills the air as we wield our large curved stones like madmen. It powders everything: our hair, our faces, our sweaty arms and legs, our damp tunics. Our hands are bleeding now. Still we dig. Two cubits . . . three cubits . . . and find nothing but more dirt.

“Another spot . . . try another spot!” I shout, unable to keep the desperation from my voice.

Benjamin shakes his head. “The winds are strong here. Look how it carries the dirt back to us. We must consider the possibility that the winds have raised the level of the ground. The scroll said three cubits. But if we assume the earth is thicker now, then we should dig another cubit before giving up.”

“We won’t have to,” Aaron suddenly cries. “I’ve hit something!”

In a flurry, Benjamin and I dig around the object Aaron has discovered. Our efforts are rewarded when we expose the lids of two clay pots. More digging reveals the pots to be large and round and taller than our waist. When we’ve completely unearthed one of them, I break Eleazar’s seal and remove the top. Though I can plainly see it’s full of silver, I plunge in my hand and laugh in jubilation as the coins jingle. Then I pull up a handful and show them to my sons. By then we are all praising
Hashem
.

“Now, to lay our trap,” I say, feeling my blood rush, my senses sharpen. “Come, we must hurry! The sun is already climbing.”

From the beginning we’ve known that Lamech and his men were hiding in a nearby cave west of the M-shaped path. For all that pig’s boasting about his skills as a general, he has proven himself lazy and careless; so have his men. They made a trail of dust a child could follow, and follow it we did, all the way from En Gedi. Lamech may be
competent enough to spy on a group of exhausted, ragged captives, but when it came to his new crop of cutthroats establishing a camp or a proper perimeter or even spying on experienced soldiers, they were hopeless; though the ache in my heart reminds me they were skilled enough to take Rebekah by surprise at the pool in En Gedi.

But we have been busy with our own strategy these past several days. While two of us were always busy digging, one would often rest, and during that time would monitor Lamech’s activities from the northwest tower on the Hyrcania summit. And this monitoring paid off. From it we gleaned that Lamech has less than a dozen men, and he has sent no one to spy on us. All his blustering by the pool in En Gedi when he tossed down the bell and said he would be watching, was just that, empty bluster. Not only are we not under his surveillance, Lamech has posted but two men west of here, midway between the aqueduct and his cave. Also, from our tower, we have noticed that Lamech and his men rarely leave the cool interior of their cave.

Even so, we know the danger is real, for surely one of Lamech’s men stays near Rebekah, ever ready to plunge his dagger into her throat. This was why we’ve been careful to follow Lamech’s instructions, or at least
appear
to follow it. Lamech had to know I would send to Masada for help. That’s why he gave me only four days to find the treasure. He meant to be far away by the time Josiah and his men arrived. It is obvious he wishes to avoid repeating the disaster of his last encounter with us on the summit, by avoiding the summit altogether and insisting Rebekah and the treasure be exchanged at the base of the mountain. It is also obvious that he is supremely confident that since he has Rebekah, we will not move against him. Both his laziness and his hubris we will now use to our advantage.

“Hurry!” I say to Aaron and Benjamin as they cover one of the clay pots with dirt. The other has already been removed from the pit, and stands nearby. We spend time pacing out the spot where the pot remains buried so we can return to it later, then spend more time smoothing the dirt and littering the ground with rocks. Finally, we carry the large pot
to the designated meeting place. It’s heavy and must be carried on its side and takes all three of us to do it.

By the time we reach the rendezvous point and position the jar in the shadow of the aqueduct, we are panting for air. All around us are the crumbling remains of the fifteen cisterns that once stored rain water. It’s a poor spot for a battle. Our backs are against the high walls of the aqueduct, and the ground is littered with trip hazards making aggressive warfare difficult. At least in naming this spot, Lamech has chosen wisely.

“May God go with you,” I say, embracing Aaron.

“I won’t fail you, Father,” Aaron returns, lingering against my chest for a moment before pulling away. His eye patch is caked with dirt, his face glistens with sweat. We are all weary from the morning’s labor, though it’s not fatigue that mars Aaron’s face but a fierceness that makes me shudder.