Rebekah's Treasure (9 page)

He talks for hours, until it grows dark, then he tells us we must stay the night. Oh, how this barrel-chested man can talk! And oh, how he made us laugh. Yes, we actually laughed, at least Aaron and I did. Esther didn’t utter a peep. She didn’t even smile.

“There. There it is! The house I’ve picked for you and your family—a fine dwelling, don’t you think?”

I try to hide my disappointment as Zechariah points to a mudbrick house with a collapsed roof. He hops, first on one foot then another, almost as if dancing. The man can’t contain himself for joy.

Aaron’s face tightens. “It’s nearly destroyed. How can my mother live here?”

“No, no,” Zechariah bellows, “the damage is only superficial. I’ve inspected the dwelling myself. It is strong. True, some stones are charred from fire. And the door is off its hinges, and of course there’s the roof. But the rest of the structure is sound. As sound as the Antonia fortress in Jerusalem.” He slaps Aaron good naturedly on the back. “And the believers have promised to help you fix what needs fixing . . . that is, when they’re not tending the fields or their animals, or maintaining the terraces, or cleaning the cisterns, or doing a dozen other chores.” He laughs merrily, completely undaunted by the many obstacles.

Esther makes a clucking noise with her tongue, then wrinkles her face and mumbles something beneath her breath about going back to Jerusalem.

I ignore her.

Zechariah grins at us both, revealing a mouthful of teeth that look like yellowing ivory. “While you women gather branches for the new roof, Aaron and I will fell trees for hewing beams. And I promise you this—I’ll over-lay it all with mud plaster. It will not be the crude roof that sits over my head. But what does an old man living alone care about such things? That’s not for you, though. You’ll have a fine roof. You’ll see. In no time the house will be beautiful.”

Though he means well, Zechariah’s words are not helpful. I don’t despise God’s provision. The truth is, I’m most grateful, especially considering what I’ve seen in my travels here. This dwelling was proof of God’s continued goodness toward me. I’ll not deny that. But no, I won’t
say this house that stands in ruins before me is beautiful. I’ll not speak a falsehood.

“Esther and I will see to the branches after we’ve unloaded the cart,” I say, signaling Esther to come help. Since Zechariah knows where to make purchases without being cheated, I gave him some coins from my
semadi
. And before bringing us here, he crossed the wadi and spent them all. But he has not disappointed. In the laden donkey cart behind us are fine woven baskets filled with chickpeas and lentils and figs, and cooking pots, plus two oil lamps. There are also jars of oil and honey, empty jars for storage, and tools for farming, including the ax needed to fell the trees. “We’ll see to these things first,” I repeat.

Zechariah nods, pulls the ax and a handsaw from the cart, then gives the ax to Aaron. Before Esther and I even get started, he’s off, whistling some tune I’ve never heard, and heading for the forest. And Aaron has to sprint to catch up, as Esther and I begin unloading the wagon. She carries an empty jar while I carry the basket of lentils to the back of the house where we’ll store them, out of everyone’s way, until the house has been repaired.

While I walk, my mind is full of thoughts I’m determined to share. I must tell Esther what’s on my heart. It’s long overdue. “I miss my husband, too,” I say softly, as Esther positions the jar in front of me. “I know how you feel.”

At once, tears wet Esther’s face. “Then how can you bear it? How can you bear being away from Papa?”

It’s good to hear Esther speak, even in such a surly tone. “I bear it because I must,” I say, pouring lentils into the wide-mouth clay jar. “And so must you. If it’s God’s will, Papa and Daniel will survive. Let God strengthen you through this. He is more than able.”

She brushes away her tears with the edge of the cloth on her head. “The world is upside down. I don’t know if I can live . . . if I
want
to live in it without Daniel.”

“Don’t speak so! It’s God who gives the gift of life. Can you say to Him ‘I no longer want it’?”

Esther looks at me; her forehead is as furrowed as the fields behind our new house. “You’ve seen what the Romans do to the men who oppose them. How they’re nailed to trees.” Her eyes widen. “Suppose Daniel . . . suppose . . . .”

“Hush.” I brush my fingers lightly across her lips. “It’s not for us to suppose. It’s for us to go about the business of living. You’re young and strong. When the war is over we will need young and strong women to help rebuild, and to raise up Godly seed for the Lord.”

When I see that Esther has stopped her ears to my words, I close my mouth, and in silence we carry our new purchases and stack them neatly at the back of the house. After we finish, I inspect the grounds. The house, a good size, is surrounded by a low wall—important for containing our animals when we get them. In the corner is a large hole. I check it briefly, then wave for Esther to come see.

“Look, a stone-lined pit for storing grain. It needs to be replastered, but otherwise it’s in good condition.”

“But it’s
empty
.”

I pat Esther’s cheek good-naturedly. “Then we’ll fill it. And when we do we’ll bake our bread in there.” I point to the nearby domed oven, which also appears in good condition.

But Esther has lost interest. She stands gazing out over the wall. At first I think it’s because she longs for Jerusalem, but then I realize she’s looking at the beautiful limestone hills a little beyond our house. The hills are covered with rock-lined terraces, terraces that are full of gnarled olive trees and lush grape vines. Dotting the slopes are cisterns carved into bedrock. And tucked among them are olive and wine presses. Tall standing grain waves in fields near the hills, and closer to the house are fig trees and several pomegranates. And mingled among them all are well-tilled plots filled with vegetables.

“It’s a pleasant land,” Esther says wistfully. “We could have made a good life here, Daniel and I.”

Her words, mingled with the breeze that carries the scent of wild rosemary, suddenly unlock the secret in both our hearts. “I’m
angry with my husband, too, for not coming with us.” I put one arm around her thin shoulders. “For choosing to fight for Jerusalem while leaving us defenseless.” We stand together for a long time, staring off into the distance; two women who understand a common heartbreak.

As it turns out, the house
is
beautiful—at least I think it is. The roof is repaired, the door back on its hinges. And all the walls, inside and out, have been freshly plastered. There’s nothing left to do but pray a blessing over it and move in. Dozens of my neighbors have gathered to hear Zechariah’s prayer and to celebrate this happy day.

I glance at some of the people I’ve come to know during the past weeks: Mary, the wife of Simon the bottlemaker; Leah, the aging widow; Obadiah, the carpenter, and his wife, Tirzah. Hannah and her husband Amos, the cheesemaker. Rina, a young widow, and Ira, a carpenter who specialized in making plows and winnowing forks and other tools for farming. But many others have come too—all followers of The Way, and all have, in generosity of spirit, helped clean, plaster, repair. I’ve never experienced such love, such outpouring of goodness. They have so little yet give so much.

But my joy is marred by the distracted look on Aaron’s face. He’ll not be with us long. More and more he looks to the hills. It’s only his love for me and his kindness that has kept him here this long. He has not said it, but I fear he’ll leave soon.

And Esther, my sweet Esther, burdens my heart, too. Sadness stoops her like an old woman. And she takes no delight in the company of others. Nothing I say helps. I know it’s for God to heal, but still I try, with words of encouragement and little acts of kindness. She nods, she smiles—if you can call that stiff upturn of her mouth a smile—then looks at me with dead eyes. Oh, how those eyes haunt me. I see them even in my dreams.

What would I do if there was no Zechariah to cheer me? Or these precious saints, these fellow believers who have gathered in front of my house today? I’ve prepared a small feast to show my gratitude—a simple fare of leavened bread and cheese and watered wine. But there’s another reason, too. Perhaps God will open Esther’s eyes. Perhaps He’ll cause her to see.
Look, Esther, look
.
These people have suffered, too
.

I leave Mary, the bottlemaker’s wife, who is examining a wine skin, and go in search of Zechariah. I’m anxious for him to say the blessing so the festivities can begin. Suddenly, I hear a voice coming from the side of the house.

“Soon I must leave, for I have sworn an oath.” It’s my son’s voice.

I slip closer and see Zechariah and Aaron standing together. Concealing myself behind a tower of willow baskets, I watch. Zechariah appears to study Aaron. He rubs a finger over his sizable nose and frowns as if making a discovery.

“Then, you haven’t come to settle here?” He finally says.

“I made an oath.”

“Yes, yes, an oath. To fight in Jerusalem, I suppose.”

My heart thumps like a drum as I watch my son. His face is tense.

“I’ve only stayed these past three weeks to see that my mother and sister are properly settled.”

“Of course, of course. And now that they are, you’ll be leaving?”

“Yes, tomorrow, at first light.”

My breath catches. I had hoped for a few more days. Just a few more days.

“But what I need to know, Zechariah, is that they’ll be safe from those Greeks on the other side of the wadi; those Greeks who have no Torah to govern them. Is there justice here for a Jew?”

Zechariah smiles. “Safety? Justice? For a Jew? You don’t ask for much, young Aaron.” He shrugs. “Still, we can praise
Hashem
for one thing. There will be little interference from Rome. Pella, like the rest of the Decapolis, governs herself. All the leaders are chosen from within. But ever since the Gischalites wiped out the last bunch, Argos has been running things. I
guess you could call him the
head
troublemaker.” Zechariah holds his large barrel-chest and laughs at his own joke.

Aaron doesn’t seem amused. “Argos, the little idol maker?”

Zechariah nods. “Don’t let his size fool you. He wields great influence. Many Gentiles believe he has supernatural powers; powers to heal, to interpret dreams and to control the weather. He’s forever braiding and unbraiding his hair. Like all his sect, he believes knots have magical powers.”

I see Aaron’s hand move to the dagger that he carries hidden in his robe. “Then perhaps I should take care of him before I go.”

Zechariah appears horrified. “And bring Roman justice down on our heads? The man is a citizen. And so proud of it, too! His wooden
diptych
hangs on the wall of his shop where everyone can see it from the doorway. The hinged boards are always open to reveal the official record.” Zechariah rests his large hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “Be at peace, young Aaron. Aside from Argos and his sect, the other Gentiles are harmless enough. Oh, they think we’re strange, for they believe we eat our own God when we break the bread, but for the most part they leave us alone. They’re content to worship the little stone gods they’ve crammed into niches throughout their homes, honoring them with libations and wafers. But Argos . . . that worshipper of Isis . . . he
is
dangerous. He senses we believers have real power, and this frightens him. Only last month, Amos was badly beaten when Argos and some of his followers found him praying in the field. And the month before, Mary, Simon’s wife, was followed and harassed when she crossed the wadi. It made her so fearful, she stayed indoors for days.”

“How did that Egyptian abomination come to be worshiped here?” Aaron says.

Zechariah looks stunned. “Surely you know the cult of Isis is widespread. Since Caligula, it has greatly flourished.”

“In Jerusalem we don’t concern ourselves with idolatry.”

“To be sure. But in Ephesus it’s all around us. Tiberius tried to destroy this Isis cult that Mark Antony officially established, but Caligula
revived it. That mad man rebuilt the
Iseum Campense
and established the Festival of Isis, even donning the clothes of a woman in order to lead the rituals. Now shrines of Isis pepper the hills of Rome. And who has not heard how even Vespasian and his son, Titus, incubate in the
Iseum
to induce an inspired dream or vision?” Zechariah laughs, goodnaturedly. “Unless, of course, you are from Jerusalem.”