by Angela Hunt
Atticus crumpled as everything inside him went soft. What must Quinn have felt after being abandoned here? Did he call for Atticus? Did he cry? Did he suffer?
Imagined scenarios twisted and turned in Atticus’s imagination, and he knew his dead brother’s face would live in his memory forever. He pulled the boy close, anguish sweeping over him as he tried to rub warmth back into those pale, cold limbs. He had failed his brother, his father, and his mother. He was the eldest son, the firstborn, and he had been charged with protecting the family.
The shock of defeat paralyzed him for the better part of an hour. Then, wincing from an unexpected and unusual pain in his breast, Atticus lifted the boy in his arms and returned to the city, walking silently past the guards at the gates and the merchants in their stalls. His teeth chattered and his limbs trembled as he carried his baby brother past the Pantheon and the Baths of Agrippa. Finally, he lowered his burden on the steps at the temple of Jupiter.
The old priest was waiting for him, and something in his stony gaze softened as he regarded Quintus’s pale corpse. “Only the strong deserve to survive,” the priest said, not looking at Atticus. “The weak should be returned to the gods. You were blessed with strength, your brother was not. Learn to live with your blessing.”
Atticus had been struggling to live with it ever since.
Chapter Thirty-two
Not every city welcomed Yeshua and those who traveled with him. In Natzeret, the prophet’s home, we went to the synagogue on the Shabbat, where Yeshua read from the Scriptures: “The Spirit of ADONAI Elohim is upon me, because ADONAI has anointed me to announce good news to the poor. He has sent me to comfort the brokenhearted and to announce that captives will be released and prisoners will be freed. He has sent me to tell those who mourn that the time of ADONAI’s favor has come, and with it, the day of God’s anger against their enemies.”
Yeshua then lowered the scroll and told the people that the prophet Isaiah had been referring to him.
His statement caused a riot. The city elders grabbed him and dragged him to the edge of a nearby cliff. They planned to throw him over the edge as punishment for blasphemy, but somehow Yeshua managed to slip away.
When I heard that they had not been able to hold him, I rejoiced in his ability to outwit his enemies. When we marched against Rome, he might need to escape capture.
I had been thoroughly impressed by the prophet’s powers. I watched in awe as he cast demons out of men and children who suffered from the same demonic darkness I had known. I saw him restore people who had been born lame; I saw him open blind eyes, just as the prophet Isaiah had foretold. We celebrated these healings, for not only had Yeshua eased the suffering of individuals, but he had given the gift of shalom, or wholeness, to those who had been excluded from the synagogue because they were ritually unclean.
While we celebrated, another thought occurred to me: with Yeshua in command of our army, we would have a leader who could heal the wounded with only a touch. How good of HaShem to plan for this contingency!
Yet not everyone believed; not everyone wanted to listen. Skeptics tried to explain Yeshua’s works away, but even the Pharisees had to admit he possessed supernatural authority. Those who doubted were quick to say his power came from the devil, but I, who’d had first-hand experience with the forces of evil, saw no sign of that darkness in Yeshua. I saw nothing but light.
While not everyone was ready to hear the good news, I was eager to spread the word. All Isra’el, from the southern tribes to those scattered in the north, longed for the Holy One, blessed be He, to redeem his oppressed people. I wanted to stand on a mountaintop and shout that HaShem, who was committed to the children of Avraham, Yitzhak, and Yaakov by unbreakable covenant, would soon enact the plan he had ordained from the foundations of the earth. He would establish his kingdom, and he would keep his promises to Isra’el by punishing our enemies and reordering the world.
Oh, how I rejoiced in the prospect of Caesar being dethroned. When Yeshua reigned, Herod would be tossed out of Tiberias and his heathen palace destroyed. The cohanim—the high priests—who consorted with the enemy would be supplanted by righteous ministers. And the Romans who had murdered my family would be cast out of Eretz-Yisrael.
We knew the Romans despised us. Our customs such as observing the Sabbath, circumcision, and abstaining from pork and meat sacrificed to evil spirits, elicited amazement, contempt, and ridicule from the pagans. Their attitude was nothing new—every man in Isra’el knew the Romans thought us beneath contempt. We had a saying: whatever is sacred to the heathen is profane to the Hebrews.
But the Holy One of Isra’el, blessed be He, specialized in defeating pagan tyrants. Hadn’t he conquered Pharaoh, Balak, Og, and Sihon? Hadn’t he flattened Jericho and made Ai a mound of ruins? The Holy One of Isra’el could conquer Rome.
I believed that soon, through his prophet Yeshua, he would do it.
And then I would have my vengeance upon the evil empire and her sons, Gaius Cabilenus and the Goliath known as Atticus Aurelius.
* * *
In the marketplace of Capernaum, I saw an old woman wailing before a publican. She held her callused hands open, indicating that she had nothing else to give, yet the tax collector, a bearded Israelite who worked for the Romans, frowned at her and showed no mercy.
Like a bolt of lightning through my chest, a surge of rage took me by surprise. I clamped my mouth shut, hoarding my anger like coals in a hearth, and tugged on the woman’s sleeve. “Come with me.”
She followed, probably hoping I would give her money, but I took her to Yeshua. He and his disciples had gathered around the well, where several of the village elders had come to question him. I hated to interrupt and as a woman I had no right to approach, but I felt too tired and shopworn to worry about what strangers thought of me.
“Yeshua,” I called, feeling my stomach tighten as I sought his attention, “this woman is being badgered by the tax collector. She has no money and he will not grant her relief. Can you help?”
I had expected him to gesture to Judas, who’d have to hand over a coin or two. The thought of tormenting our tight-fisted treasurer brought me more than a little pleasure.
But Yeshua didn’t even look at Judas. Instead he smiled at the woman and stood. “Will you lead me to him?”
With long strides the old woman and I led our rabbi to the market square. The tax collector sat at a small table under a shady stand, where he could harass people in comfort.
Yeshua took the old woman’s hand, then walked up to the publican. I held my breath, expecting to hear a stream of condemnation, but Yeshua fixed his penetrating gaze on the man and said only two words: “Follow me.”
The tax collector looked from the old woman to me, then back to Yeshua. He squinched his face into a bewildered expression, then he stood and followed Yeshua, who led us back to the well.
He left the old woman in my keeping. The poor creature turned, her tear-streaked face marked with trails of dust. “What do I do now?”
I smiled. “Is anyone asking you to pay a tax?”
“No.”
“Do you have food in your house?”
“No.”
I pulled a handful of coins from my purse and pressed them into her hand. “Buy yourself some grain and oil and go in peace.”
The other women drew around her, offering words of encouragement and comfort, but I walked to the circle of men. The tax collector sat on the ground at Yeshua’s feet, his brow wrinkled in thought.
Why hadn’t Yeshua berated the publican? Everyone knew the tax collectors asked far more than Rome demanded, especially if they had something against the citizen standing before them. My Yaakov had frequently complained because the publican responsible for fleecing the people of Magdala had decided Yaakov and I were wealthy enough to subsidize his household as well as Caesar’s.
I leaned against a wall and crossed my arms. Perhaps Yeshua had a plan for this particular publican. Perhaps he would wai
t for the right moment, then castigate the scoundrel before the entire assembly.
I waited, but Yeshua continued to talk about a farmer scattering seed. I was about to rejoin the women when he finally stopped and asked the publican to stand. I halted in mid-step; the others watched with hooded eyes and suspicious smirks. The back of the man’s neck flushed, but he obeyed.
“Friends—” Yeshua dropped his broad hand to the publican’s shoulder—“this is Levi. Welcome him, for today he has become one of us.”
As Levi stammered out an invitation to dine at his house, I stared in silence, stunned that Yeshua would display so much mercy for one who had openly collaborated with our enemies. And dinner! To eat with someone meant you were at peace with him, and a covenant of peace made at a meal was binding.
When Yeshua accepted the publican’s dinner invitation, I realized his generosity proved he had come to seek and to save the lost sheep of Isra’el. He had brought Levi into our group; he had forgiven the man’s shameful sins.
For another child of Isra’el, I supposed I could do no less.
Chapter Thirty-three
One afternoon we made camp outside Bethsadia. The spot where we stopped was as lovely as any in Eretz-Yisrael, with the sapphire sea to the east, the city to the west, a silken sky overhead, and a benign warmth that rose from the ground to comfort our tired bodies.
At sunset we gathered in a clearing and waited for the onset of darkness. One of the men began to sing—I think it was Andrew, for he possessed the strongest voice. As he sang, I sat with the other women and watched Yeshua.After a few weeks of traveling with the prophet, my feelings for him had ripened beyond respect. I had begun to love him—not the way a wife loves her husband, nor the way a woman loves her rabbi.
I loved him in the gentle, tender way a mother loves a son.
I think I loved Yeshua because he reminded me of Avram. Like my firstborn, his eyes could flash with intellect and feeling, and his heart burned with a passion for Isra’el. He had a way of standing with his hands at his hips and his head thrown back in laughter—that, too, reminded me of Avram.
In that gathering darkness, where no one could see the hunger in my gaze, I looked at my rabboni and realized that if not for two Roman dogs, my son could be helping Yeshua usher in the kingdom of God. Avram had possessed enough heart for the task, enough passion and goodness and courage. But evil men had snuffed him out.
Earlier that day, when we had gritted our teeth and vacated the pavement so a Roman chariot could drive by, I looked at Yeshua’s mother and wondered if she appreciated having such a son. I knew she had suffered grief—she’d lost her husband the year before Yeshua began to teach—but she seemed to move through her days in a state of pensive wonder. When Yeshua laughed and celebrated with his disciples, she merely smiled; when he grew angry with the critical Pharisees, she lifted a brow without comment.
What would she do when Yeshua conquered Rome? Would she accept a position of honor in his new kingdom, or would she go back to Natzeret and live with her other children?
When I lifted my gaze to look at the prophet and his men again, I felt a swell of pain that went beyond tears.
I had buried and mourned my loved ones, but I had not forgotten them. My firstborn, my beautiful boy, had looked much like his father, but in temperament, he had been too much like me. Unlike my Yaakov, who’d been among the gentlest men in Magdala, Avram had been quick of temper and swift to act. Every morning he’d gone out to fish with his father, but in the afternoon, when the older men sat in the shade to mend their nets, Avram had drawn the young men around and ranted about Rome.
It was wrong, he’d said, for the children of Isra’el to remain silent under the bondage of foreign oppression. Would not the Judge of all the earth do right? If the Holy One, blessed be He, would have spared Sodom for the sake of ten, would he not free Isra’el for the sake of thousands?
Avram’s zealous arguments often made my heart tremble because I suspected that his fervor sprang from the stories of Hezekiah, Josiah, and Judas Maccabaeus I’d told him as a child. All three of those heroes had cleansed the temple and restored a proper worship of the Holy One, blessed be He, but when my son became a man, I regretted telling him of our heroes. In our time, nationalistic dreams could be dangerous; they invited suspicion and threatened our livelihoods.
When my son married, I warned him not to speak against Rome. When Rachel told us she was expecting a child, I asked Avram to swear he would keep his mind on fishing and leave the Romans alone.
He would not swear … and his actions killed him.
As much as Yeshua reminded me of Avram, I couldn’t help but notice a major difference in the two men. My Avram, of blessed memory, had been hot-headed, but Yeshua was thoughtful and clever. He would not be taken in a Roman trap. Day after day I’d been watching our rabbi tell cryptic stories that meant little to Romans, but resonated within Hebrew hearts.
Yes, Yeshua was wise. I was sure he would succeed where Avram had failed.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I forced my lips to part in a smile as I joined in Andrew’s song.
* * *
One afternoon Judas and I got into an argument. A messenger had come from Magdala, and Judas, fox that he was, had caught the scent of money. After a brief interval—during which I barely had time to greet the messenger, offer him food and drink, and accept a payment from Uriah—Judas stepped into our women’s circle and asked me for a contribution.
I stared as if I didn’t know what he meant. “A contribution?”
“Miryam.” Contempt laced his voice. “I know you receive payments from your village, so don’t make me ask again. It’s only right that I handle the money; I’m the treasurer.”
“And I’m no fool.”
Susanna gasped at my words, but Salome giggled.
Judas flushed. “I am the treasurer.”
I rose to face him. He was not a tall man and I am not a small woman, so we stood eye-to-eye, equal in stature if not in station.
“You are not good with money,” I told him. “How much did you pay for the chicken and bread in Nain? Ten denarii? That’s outrageous. I could have talked the merchant down to five.”
“I made a good bargain.”
“Any woman in this circle could have done better. You should stick to negotiating the price of cattle and sheep; leave the food to us women.”
Crimson patches appeared above his beard, as if I’d slapped him on both cheeks.
Joanna stepped to my side. “That’s a wonderful idea, don’t you agree, Judas? Leave the menial chores to us; you can help the rabbi with more important matters. You don’t need to be bothered with food—we’ll take care of that.”
Any child could have seen through her blatant appeal to his pride, but Judas swallowed and backed away. “So be it. Keep the money for food, but if you have need, know I’ll have other uses for the common purse.”
“Understood,” I called after him.
I forced a laugh as he walked away. “That one’s a snake. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t been dipping into the community purse for his own pleasure.”
“Why, Miryam!” Gentle Susanna’s mouth dipped in a frown. “I’m sure Judas would never even consider such a thing. He’s devoted to our rabboni.”
Yeshua’s mother came to stand by my side. “Sometimes I worry about you, Miryam.” Her eyes searched mine, as if she could reach into my thoughts. “You have given all your income for this work. Shouldn’t you hold something back? What will you do when our group disperses?”
I smiled at her in amused wonder. Hadn’t she been listening to her son? That afternoon Peter had reminded Yeshua that we had left our homes to follow him. Our rabboni replied that everyone who had given up a house or wife or brothers or parents or children for the sake of the Kingdom of God would be repaid many times over.
I had given up my home, my city, and a few earthly goods, but expected to be fully repaid when Yeshua reordered the kingdom.
“I would give every last coin in my purse to support Yeshua’s cause,” I told her. “But I’m not here because I want money.”
I want justice for my family.
I fell silent as a pair of Roman soldiers approached our resting place by the road. One of them jerked his chin at a traveler who’d stopped to meet Yeshua. The legionnaire pointed to the burden on his back, then shrugged out of the straps that held it in place.
That poor man would have to carry the soldier’s burden to the next mile marker.
I forced a smile. “Every last quadrans,” I repeated. “Nothing is too much to give for the cause.”
* * *
One mild night, after the group had broken apart to seek places to sleep, I wrapped my cloak about my head and shoulders and left the women’s circle for a walk along the shore. As grateful as I was to Yeshua for giving me a new chance at life, the sea would always fill me with a longing to turn back time.
I walked to the water’s edge, closed my eyes, and could almost hear Yaakov’s joyous greeting in the wind off the lake.
My smile faded as I stood with the breeze on my face. I had another life, another calling, and I loved the rabbi I served. I had never felt so close to HaShem, nor to his people Isra’el.
Still … I missed my family.
I walked along the reeds and watched the stars come out as I thought about my loved ones. Though the Law would say I should not continue to mourn them, during quiet moments I enjoyed opening the windows of my heart to memories of Yaakov, Rachel, Avram, and Binyamin. Sometimes I heard their laughter in the chittering of insects; sometimes I saw their smiles in the lights winking from villages across the lake.
I was thinking of Avram when I stumbled upon Judas and Shimon the Canaanite talking with three men from a nearby village. No properly behaved man would acknowledge a woman walking alone in the night; most would turn and leave me to find my own way. Shimon and Judas did turn away, but not before giving me a piercing look that unnerved me while it aroused my suspicions.