by Lynn Austin
“But she’ll thrive in your hands, Dinah, and she’ll grow to live up to her name.”
Iddo would accept this child as his own, love her. Dinah had never doubted for a moment that he would. She took his arm and pulled him outside the courtyard where they could talk alone. “Iddo . . .” she began. She was afraid to look up at him, afraid to face him, but she knew she had to. Her throat swelled with emotion as she spoke. “Iddo, I know you saw Joel embracing me, but I want you to know that we never committed adultery . . . not in a physical way.” He closed his eyes for a moment and she saw his relief, his pain. “But I was still wrong to be with him, to turn to him for comfort instead of to you. And Joel and I were both wrong to blame you for what happened to Shoshanna. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I already have.”
“And . . . and can God ever forgive me?”
“That’s why we have an altar and daily sacrifices, so we’ll have a way to come to the Holy One and ask for forgiveness. That’s why our word for sacrifice also means to come near—to have a close relationship with someone. It’s a lesson I’m just beginning to learn.” Again, she saw lines of pain creasing his eyes and knew how very much she had hurt him.
“Iddo, I’m so sorry. Will you show me what I need to do to make things right? And . . . and will you make the offering for me?”
“I’ll be the priest on duty in two days.”
When that morning came, Dinah stood in the women’s courtyard and watched Iddo take his place in front of the altar, his hair and beard as white as the turban and robe he wore. A scarlet sash was tied around his waist, and like the other priests, he worked barefooted. The daily morning sacrifice was a lamb, and Dinah watched Iddo expertly slit the animal’s throat, watched the life, the blood, drain out of it. So much blood. She realized how close the two were—life and death. And knew she had come close to throwing something priceless away, just as the Samaritans had with Raisa’s child.
Two priests assisted Iddo as he quickly removed the lamb’s skin and inner parts.
Afterward, he walked up the ramp to the top of the altar and laid the offering on the fire. A cry of joy went up from the assembled men as smoke and fire ascended toward heaven. Dinah closed her eyes and wept as she prayed for forgiveness.
Iddo returned home much later than she did, after he’d completed his duties and changed out of his priestly robes. He came to where Dinah was kneeling, tending the fire, and crouched beside her, staring at the ground. She saw tiny crimson flecks of blood on his forehead that he had missed when he’d washed after the sacrifice.
“Has God forgiven me?” she asked.
“Yes. We’re both free to start all over again.”
This was the Holy One’s way, substituting a life for a life, with priests like Iddo acting as His servants. There had been no sacrifices for forgiveness in Babylon.
“And you, Iddo? Can you forgive me?” She needed to hear him say it again to believe it was really true. She saw tears spring to his eyes.
“Of course, Dinah. I love you.”
“And I love you,” she whispered. She wanted to say she was sorry over and over again, to hold him, kiss him, but she feared that she had forfeited the right.
Iddo cleared his throat. “I was talking to some of the other men today, and I found out that we can take the main road north to Samaria and Damascus, then make our way to Babylon by joining up with local caravans each leg of the way. It might mean staying in one town for a few days while we wait for a trader who has room for us. But the road from Damascus to Babylon is a major trade route, so we’ll get there eventually.” He looked up as if to see if she was listening before continuing. “I have the names of reliable merchants and traders who can be trusted. Our return journey may take longer than three months, but we’ll get there. Before winter, certainly.”
Dinah thought of little Hodaya’s birth and of the many births she had witnessed over the years. When mothers like Raisa struggled in pain, especially during the last hours of labor when the exhaustion and agony were unbearable, many of them wanted to give up. She always urged them to persevere because the most difficult and painful times were in the last moments just before birth. What if their struggles here in Jerusalem were the same? What if their tiny nation was just moments from being reborn? She and her people couldn’t turn back now. They couldn’t go back to the gods of Babylon. Not when the sacrifices were finally being offered again. Not when men like Iddo had just begun to serve the Almighty One in worship. Not before the temple was rebuilt and God could dwell among them again. If she returned to Babylon, she would soon make her family into idols all over again. She would find her joy and purpose in them instead of in God.
“Iddo,” she said softly. “Iddo, we’re not going back to Babylon.”
He looked at her in disbelief. “What?”
She touched his cheek, stroked his white beard. “I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here and serve our God.”
Chapter
27
Yael sat in the courtyard in a patch of morning sunlight, rocking Hodaya in her arms. This tiny baby who had entered the world so dramatically two weeks ago had shaken Yael’s world. She felt a fierce protectiveness and love for Hodaya that she’d never experienced before. Safta Dinah and Iddo had taken Hodaya to the mikveh and adopted her as their own daughter, but Yael loved her as much as they did.
“There, now . . . go to sleep, little one,” she soothed, shifting Hodaya from her arms to her shoulder, patting her warm, narrow back.
“You’re very good with that baby,” Zaki said. “You always get her to sleep when nobody else can.” He was about to leave for guard duty but she gestured for him to sit down on the low wall beside her for a moment.
“I watched her come into the world. It was so amazing. . . .” The memory still brought tears to Yael’s eyes.
“Safta said that the Samaritans were going to kill her?”
“It’s true. I was there.” She hugged Hodaya a little tighter. “They told Raisa that her baby was dead, and they put Hodaya outside in a basket to suffocate.”
“Because she was born with a crooked foot?”
Yael nodded and kissed her dark hair. “I don’t know how anyone could kill a defenseless baby.”
“Pagan people do it all the time, Yael. They sacrifice their children in the fire to idols. When our people began doing it, too—and even our kings did it—the Holy One punished us and sent us into exile.”
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t been there,” Yael said. “I would have thought Safta was making it up.”
“I never wanted to believe those stories in the Torah, either. How could people do such terrible things? But the stories aren’t made up. And these Samaritans are our neighbors.”
Hodaya’s eyes were closed. She was asleep. Yael should lay her down and help Safta with the work, but she loved holding her, loved feeling the baby’s warmth and life. “Hodaya has the same father as my friend Leyla,” she said. “Yet Leyla didn’t fight for her sister’s life. I keep hoping it was because she didn’t know about it. She was asleep when Hodaya was born. But Leyla’s grandmother knew. She was the one who tried to suffocate her. I don’t think I can ever face her again.”
“Is that why you don’t go to visit Leyla anymore?”
“No . . . I don’t know . . . I mean, Leyla isn’t cruel and she could never kill anyone, but she just accepts the way her people do things—like her father marrying a girl as young as Raisa. Leyla doesn’t know any better.”
“But we do. We know better. I’m starting to see why our people could never partner with the Samaritans to build the temple.”
Yael didn’t care about the temple. She simply was trying to understand her friend’s family, people she cared for. “Leyla has been sickly ever since she was a child, but they didn’t throw her away. Why was this baby different?”
“Maybe because Hodaya’s defect is visible?” Zaki replied with a shrug. “I don’t know, but Saba is always saying that we
’re different from the Gentiles. That we have the Torah to teach us right from wrong. And the Torah says that life is precious, every life, because we’re made in God’s image. Does your moon goddess say that you’re made in her image?”
“Don’t start preaching to me, Zaki.”
“I’m worried about you, Yael. You need to worship the Almighty One, not the stars.”
Yael no longer had her star charts. She had left them at Leyla’s house the night Hodaya was born. She had felt lost without them at first, and longed to use them to look into Hodaya’s future. She knew the day and hour of her birth and wished she knew which heavenly bodies had influence over her. And yet she didn’t want to know. Part of her wasn’t sure she still believed in the stars.
Yael heard footsteps and looked up, surprised to see Abba hurrying through the gate. He had just left for his farm a short while ago and now he was back. “Did you forget something, Abba?” she asked.
He shook his head, wiping sweat from his brow. “Leyla’s brother just came to see me. His sister is sick and he asked you to come.”
Yael shot to her feet, waking the baby. “Don’t go,” Zaki said, grabbing her arm. “Please.”
“I have to. Leyla is still my friend. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to her and I didn’t go to see her.” She carried the baby inside and gave her to Safta, explaining where she was going.
“You can’t go back there, Yael!” Dinah said.
“I need to face them. And I need to see Leyla.” She turned away before anyone else tried to stop her and told her father she was ready. He took another long swig of water, and they left.
A mixture of emotions swirled inside Yael as she hurried down to the valley. Anger at Zabad and his village, at their heartlessness. Dread at the thought of facing Leyla’s grandmother. But mostly fear for her friend who was ill enough to ask her to come. The moon hovered above the mountain, reminding her of Zaki’s haunting question: “Does your moon goddess say that you’re made in her image?”
Abba walked with Yael as far as the village entrance, and Rafi brought her the rest of the way to the house. All of her misgivings vanished as she knelt beside Leyla’s bed and her friend looked up at her and smiled. “I was afraid you weren’t my friend anymore.”
“Of course I am. We’re best friends.”
“Why did you stop coming?”
So. Leyla didn’t know about the baby. She wasn’t to blame for her family’s cruelty. “It was hard to get away. . . .” Yael said vaguely. “There’s trouble between our people and yours.”
“The last time I saw you was the night that Raisa nearly died. It was so sad that her baby died, wasn’t it?”
Yael couldn’t reply. The memory of the child’s warmth and softness, her sweet smell, was still fresh. She longed to tell Leyla that her baby sister was alive, but she didn’t dare. Instead, she changed the subject, and they talked as they always had until Leyla grew tired and drifted to sleep. Yael touched Leyla’s burning forehead, gazed at her pale, blue-white skin, and wished she could pour some of her own life and vitality into her friend.
She heard someone come into the room. Leyla’s grandmother. Yael’s anger sprang to life. She looked away, refusing to face her, hoping she would leave. “I can see that Leyla already is better now that you’re here,” the old woman said. She fussed around the bed for a few minutes, plumping pillows and tucking covers before asking, “Are you hungry, Yael? Would you like something to eat?”
She shook her head, determined not to speak to her. But her rage finally got the best of her and she said, “Aren’t you even going to ask about Raisa’s baby?”
“I already know about her,” she replied, unruffled. “She died at birth. It was very unfortunate.”
“She didn’t die! She’s alive and thriving. Her name is Hodaya.”
“Raisa mourned for her daughter, of course,” she continued in a soft, sad voice. “We all did. Now Raisa is asking the moon goddess for another child. Raisa is strong and well again, thanks to your friend. We will always be grateful to her—and to you for bringing her here.”
“Hodaya is a beautiful, healthy baby,” Yael said stubbornly, “with dark hair and the most amazing brown eyes—” Tears choked her words. She couldn’t finish. Leyla’s grandmother turned away, and Yael hoped she would leave. Instead, she opened a little chest at the foot of Leyla’s bed and took something out. Yael’s star charts.
“These are yours, Yael. You left them here the last time you came.”
Yael crossed her arms, refusing to reach for them. “They’re worthless,” she said. “They predicted that Raisa and her baby would both die. You and I read their stars together that night.”
The old woman smiled. “My dear child, sometimes the stars show only what might happen if we fail to intervene. I offered sacrifices that night on Raisa’s behalf once you showed us which heavenly bodies needed to be influenced. That’s why she lived. Why are you upset over an answer to prayer?”
Yael stared at her. Could that be true? She knew the gods could be influenced, but Yael had never seen it happen so dramatically. Mother and child had both lived. If the people back in Babylon had this much faith, maybe Mama would have lived, too.
“I would be very grateful if you would look at Leyla’s stars with me now,” the old woman continued. “As you can see, she is very ill. I believe I know which powers are holding her in bed, but I would like your opinion.” She held the scrolls out to Yael. “And there are others in the village who are waiting for you, too. We have missed our seer these past few weeks.”
Yael couldn’t let Leyla die any more than she could have let Hodaya die. Zaki was right; every life was precious. She took the scrolls from the old woman and carried them to the window where the light was better, then slowly unrolled them.
Chapter
28
From his post on the watchtower, Zechariah saw the soldiers marching up the road to Jerusalem. The dark forms of men on horseback had emerged from a cloud of dust, their swords glinting in the sunlight. They carried the colorful banners of the governor of Trans-Euphrates Province. He counted at least a dozen men.
Zechariah had stood watch on this crumbling tower for so long, seeing nothing unusual on the roads day after day, that now he could scarcely believe his eyes. But as a chorus of shofars began to blow, he knew that the other sentries saw them, too.
His first impulse was to climb down and join the men in challenging these invaders. If only he had a sword. If only he knew how to fight. But his community had been warned of their arrival, and now his job was to stay here and continue watching for more trouble, or for a threat from another direction. He worried about the soldiers all day as he sat at his lonely post, and when someone came to relieve him from watch duty, he begged for news about the armed strangers.
“I was told that the delegation came from the provincial capital, from the governor of Trans-Euphrates,” his replacement said. “The foreigners were escorted to the governor’s residence to meet with Prince Sheshbazzar. That’s all I know.”
Zechariah ran all the way across the temple mount and found his grandfather waiting for him to watch the evening sacrifice. “What are those Samaritans doing here, Saba? Do you know why they’ve come?” he asked, still panting.
“I have no idea. They met with the prince in a closed meeting. Let’s hope they’re coming to help us get justice for Shoshanna and to restore peace.”
When the sacrifice ended, the younger prince, Zerubbabel, came forward to speak to the congregation. “Governor Sheshbazzar and I are calling for a convocation here on the temple mount in two days’ time, immediately after the morning sacrifice. We’re sending messengers to our brethren in all the surrounding villages, asking them to come, as well. I know you’ve all seen the emissaries and are wondering what’s going on, but the Samaritan governor has requested that we wait until everyone has assembled before making the announcement, so that rumors won’t spread and cause even more trouble.” He
paused, and Zechariah saw him glance at the soldiers standing outside the courtyard. “The request comes at Governor Rehum’s insistence.”
“What do you suppose it’s about?” Zechariah asked again as they walked home.
“Believe me, I wish I knew,” Saba said. “It must be serious if they’re asking men to leave their land and their crops and come to Jerusalem at this time of year, so close to the grape harvest. Two days will be a long time to wait.”
A huge crowd filled the temple courtyards two days later, as large as on one of the feast days. Men from all over Judah stood beneath the burning sun, waiting to hear the provincial governor’s announcement. The Samaritan emissaries and soldiers watched from the Court of the Gentiles as if standing guard. Zechariah stood with his grandmother and the other women while Saba stood with the chief priests to listen. “Depending on what the announcement is,” Saba had told Zechariah, “I may need to meet with the priests afterwards. I need you to make sure the women get home safely.”
The crowd quieted as Judah’s two princes climbed onto the platform where Saba usually stood to blow the trumpet. Prince Zerubbabel stepped forward to act as spokesman. The elderly Sheshbazzar looked too weary and defeated for the task, which could only mean that the news must be bad. Zechariah remembered the night in Babylon when Saba had talked about the power of words and wondered what power these words would unleash.
“Thank you for coming,” Zerubbabel began. “Governor Rehum of Samaria has asked me to read a copy of the letter he sent to King Artaxerxes in Persia. I’ve been told that Artaxerxes is the son of King Cyrus and as of a few months ago he now reigns as co-regent with his father.” He paused to look across the plaza at the leader of the Samaritan delegation, and Zechariah saw the controlled fury on Zerubbabel’s face, heard it in his voice. “Rehum shrewdly chose not to address his letter to King Cyrus himself but to his young son—for reasons that will soon become obvious. This is what Rehum’s letter said:
“‘To King Artaxerxes, from your servants, the men of Trans-Euphrates: