Tomb : A Novel of Martha (9781451689136)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  Still, her heart cried out for Isa even as her head told her that the boy she’d loved since she was a child would never be worthy of Abba’s treasure.

  Chapter Two

  When I was my father’s child, frail, yet the darling of my mother, He taught me, and said to me: “Let your heart hold fast to my words: keep my commands, that you may live!”

  —Proverbs 4:3–4

  MARTHA TURNED HER back on the men and began to stack her father’s costly stoneware bowls on the tray. She had only herself to blame. Perhaps if she hadn’t been a perfect daughter—if she hadn’t tried so hard to fulfill Mama’s dying wish—perhaps then Abba wouldn’t be determined to choose the perfect husband for her.

  Mama was gone, but her last words to Martha echoed in her mind each day. Take care of them, my daughter. And she did. She cooked Abba’s favorite dishes, worked in the gardens, was a mother to Lazarus, and kept Abba’s household running smoothly. Everything Mama would have wanted.

  Martha balanced yet another bowl on top of the stack. Of course Abba loved her—all the women said they’d never seen such a devoted father. And he would find a man worthy of his treasure.

  She hoisted the tray, bowls shifting and teetering. Wasn’t a righteous husband what any good Jewish woman wished for? A respectable husband who owned land and had plenty of servants? Her own household to run and—if the Most High was kind and willed it—children to love and care for? That was what a sensible woman—a woman who didn’t let her heart rule her head—wished for. She’d always known she couldn’t marry Isa, since they’d first spoken of it years ago. It was hopeless.

  She rounded the table and caught sight of her brother. He’d snuck beside the men, sitting as close to them as he dared, listening in on their talk of messiahs and the law and whatever else men spoke of. She peered over the dirty dishes. “Lazarus, go find your friends.”

  “But I would rather—”

  She raised her brows at him. “Go play. You’ll have plenty of time to talk with the men when you’re older.” Her tone brooked no argument. He was only ten years old. Young enough to still be running with the village boys, sneaking food and climbing trees.

  “I saved you some honey cakes.” She held out the tray. “Share them with Simcha.” The shepherd boy who was Lazarus’s best friend loved her honey cakes.

  Lazarus took the cakes, stretching up to kiss her proffered cheek. “Thanks, Marmar,” he said before running off, shouting for Simcha.

  Martha lugged her burden down the grassy incline, her sadness lightened as it often did with her little brother’s affection. She’d had to grow up fast when Mama died, but Lazarus deserved plenty of time to be a child and she’d make sure he had it.

  She arrived at her father’s walled courtyard, her arms aching. The poorer residents of Bethany lived in houses of clay and mud in the village, but among the rolling green hills and verdant pastures surrounding Bethany were the houses of the Pharisees—men rich enough to afford land and devout enough to live close to the Temple. Most of them, like her father, made plenty of silver supplying the people of Jerusalem with grain for bread and animals for sacrifice.

  Sirach of Bethany lived in a timber-and-brick home with an imposing arched entry guarded by a door of oak and iron. She pushed through it to the spacious courtyard. Smoke and the sharp scent of cumin drifted from three smoldering cooking fires. Baskets half-filled with onions, cucumbers, and figs littered the ground, along with dirty dishes and a mountain of empty wine amphorae. Servants crouching near the fire jumped to attention when they saw her.

  She let out a long breath. Was she the only one who could see what needed to be done? Abba had agreed to pay the extra servants a ridiculous wage. He could afford it, but it was up to her to make sure they earned it. She set her tray down with a clatter. “Clear the dishes and get water for washing. And you”—she motioned to two guilty-looking servants—“bring the rest of the bread to the women and children, please.”

  Safta, her grandmother on her father’s side, sat in the corner, her chin doubled into her chest and her eyes half-closed against the smoke. She liked to call herself the oldest woman in Bethany, and she was probably right. She was as thin and frail as a reed, with a frizz of silver hair perched on the top of her head like a bird’s nest. Deep grooves outlined a toothless mouth that could speak words as sharp as arrows.

  Safta opened an eye. “Are they gone yet?”

  “Some of them,” Martha answered. “Tomorrow the rest will leave.”

  Safta blew air out her nose. “I suppose we’ll be holding your feast next, if my son decides which of his friends is worthy to be your husband.”

  “Safta,” Martha whispered, looking at the servants. She didn’t need more gossip in the village.

  Safta cackled, her laugh as dry as parchment. “We all know what kind of man your abba wants you to marry, even the servants.”

  Martha tore a round of soft bread into bite-sized pieces and shoved them in an earthen cup. Yes, a righteous one. She poured warm goat’s milk over the bread and put the cup in her grandmother’s hands. That should keep Safta’s mouth busy. Now, with the servants working and Abba and his friends sated, she could talk to Isa.

  If she was careful.

  Martha scooped the last of the roasted lamb into two rounds of bread and added a generous spoonful of seared onions, garlic, and chickpeas. She pinched off a sprig of fresh rosemary, rubbed it between her palms to release the scent, and sprinkled the needlelike leaves over the lamb. Three honey cakes were left, two for Isa—he was too thin—and one for Zerubabbel, the flute player. She broke open a pomegranate and scattered a handful of juicy seeds over the cakes. Isa would eat like a king tonight if she had anything to do with it.

  As she balanced the rounds of bread in each hand and turned to the door, her heart dropped. Jael, Simon’s mother and their closest neighbor, entered her courtyard like the queen of Sheba entering a palace.

  Not her. And not now. Martha glanced at the sky. The sun was setting, casting a pink light over the stone walls. In a few minutes it would be dark.

  Jael sauntered toward Martha, a smile pinned to her mouth like a faded flower, and her hair, blackened with expensive dye, swept up into braids so tight they pulled her eyebrows into questioning arches over her critical eyes.

  “And just who are you bringing such a fine meal to, hmm?” The older woman’s voice scraped on her nerves like a rusty knife.

  A response sprung to Martha’s lips—to my sister’s marriage tent, in case she and her husband get hungry during their long night of making grandchildren for my abba. She’d love to see how high Jael’s eyebrows would stretch. “Just to the musicians,” she said instead.

  “That half Jew and the pagan abomination he drags around the countryside with him?” Jael puckered her lips in a disapproving circle. “A good woman does not cast pearls before swine, my dear.”

  Heat rose in Martha’s face. Isa isn’t swine. “And a worthy woman reaches out her hands to the poor and extends her arms to the needy.” She raised her chin, daring—wishing—Jael to respond.

  But Jael only narrowed her eyes and harrumphed like a constipated camel.

  Martha edged toward the door. Of course Jael would tell Simon of her rudeness, and Simon would surely tell Abba. Abba would be disappointed with her, but by then Isa would be gone with a full belly. He might not eat well again for weeks.

  Almost at the door, Jael’s mumble reached her. “You’ll learn better manners if you are to live in my household and be respected in Bethany.”

  Martha jerked, and the food teetered in her hands. Her household? Does she mean what I think she means? Marriage to Simon? And Martha didn’t want to be respected by the women Jael called friends. They kept their homes pure but gossiped with spiteful words about anyone who wasn’t the wife of a Pharisee.

  Martha pushed through the door without a word, her stomach curdling like sour milk. If Jael meant what she said, Abba must be considering an offer from Simon. How l
ong before a betrothal? How long until even the tiniest hope for her and Isa would be snuffed out like a flame in the wind?

  With feet as heavy as stones, Martha carried the laden bowls toward the meadow where Isa and his guardian, Zerubabbel, were finishing a haunting melody. Isa’s eyes were closed, his fingers sure on the strings of his kinnor. The last rays of the sun gave his olive skin a burnished glow. His hair was as black as soot, straight as a donkey’s mane, and almost as shaggy. Dark, untamed brows curved over slate-gray eyes, and his chin showed the beginnings of a beard.

  Each day of Mary’s wedding feast had been both sweetness and suffering as she’d dashed between the cooking fires and the wedding guests, knowing his gaze was on her. Knowing they could never be together, not like Mary and Josiah.

  They’d met when Martha was just six years old. Isa was taller and a few years older, but back then his voice was still high and clear—the most beautiful voice in Judea, his guardian had bragged.

  She’d found him sneaking food from the storage room. He’d run away, but that night after dusk Martha had gone to the orchard with bread and olives. She’d watched him eat, but he hadn’t said a word. The next year, not long after Mama died, they came again to play for Purim. He didn’t speak when he found her crying in the orchard that night, but sat beside her, as if he understood her sorrow could not be soothed by words.

  The next year at Tabernacles, they met again in the orchard. “Question or command?” were the first words he said to her, his voice a hesitant squeak.

  She stared at him, more in shock that he spoke than in wonder at his words.

  “It’s a game. Choose one.”

  If it got him talking, she was willing to play. “Question.”

  He fidgeted with a fallen twig, peeling the bark from the wood. “What’s it like to have a real father?”

  She stared at him. What kind of question was that?

  “If you don’t answer, you have to do my command.” His gray eyes were serious. “That’s the rule.”

  She chewed on her fingernail. What did he mean? Abba was Abba. “He takes care of us,” she said slowly, “but he misses Mama.”

  Isa nodded solemnly. “Does he beat you?”

  “Of course not.” What a question! Abba would never do that.

  “Does he . . . love you?”

  “He’s our Abba. Why wouldn’t he?” She looked sideways at the strange boy who didn’t seem to understand family. “Now it’s my turn. Question or command?”

  After that, they played the game each time he and Zerubabbel visited Bethany. For feasts, for weddings, whenever the rich Pharisees needed the best musicians silver could buy.

  Martha always chose questions; Isa chose commands. He asked her about her sister, her brother, living in Bethany. She made him climb trees, hang upside down from branches, and carry her on his back across the stream, their laughter drifting through the dark orchard like petals carried on the wind. She didn’t know that he wasn’t a Jew. Not until later, and by then it was too late.

  As the years passed and her responsibilities weighed heavier on her shoulders, she needed his calm presence like parched land needed rain. And as they grew older, their unlikely friendship went from a spark to a flame, as though they weren’t a pagan musician and the daughter of a rich Pharisee. This year, when he strode into town for Mary’s wedding, she’d felt its heat like never before.

  Martha watched the men and women gather around Isa as he played the last song of the evening, their faces rapt, their bodies swaying to the melody. Isa was taller and broader than he’d been last year, and handsome in the way that made the rabbis nervous. The village girls elbowed each other to dance closest to him and bickered about whom he rested his gaze on. Eliana was the worst. She was bold, too bold—her father should keep a better eye on her. The first night, Eliana had brought an extra cloak to Isa’s tent in the meadow. Martha sniffed. She probably wanted to help him keep warm under it.

  Abba had called Martha beautiful, but Eliana with her almond-shaped eyes and generous mouth was surely the most beautiful girl in the village. Did Isa think Eliana pretty? Martha blew at a strand of hair tickling her face. What does Isa see when he looks at me?

  Her clothing was finely woven and dyed. The tunic she wore today, deep green with pink embroidery, was made from the best linen Abba could buy. Her hair was thick and fell in plentiful curls almost to her waist. Unless she was working—and there was always much work to be done—then it was pulled in a thick braid under her head covering. She was taller than Mary and not as plump, but she had curves in the right places and her face was said to be pretty. But was she beautiful, as Abba said? As beautiful as Eliana?

  It didn’t matter. Isa loved her. She knew that like she knew when the bread was perfectly baked, like she knew when her cumin sauce was just right.

  The song ended. Guests began packing their cups and knives, getting ready to return to the village. Others laid their cloaks on the grass to sleep their last night in Bethany before journeying home in the morning.

  Tomorrow, the meadow would be empty again. No more Isa, no more Mary. Just Martha and Lazarus and Abba. She’d have enough work to keep her busy from sunup to sundown, and plenty of time to worry that she’d be wed to Simon by this time next year.

  Zerubabbel laid down his flute and took his food without a word of thanks. She shivered when his hands brushed hers. He was tall, taller than any man she’d ever seen, and his sharp eyes and beaky nose reminded Martha of a hawk looking for its next meal.

  She’d heard enough from Isa to fear him. Isa’s guardian might act like a Jew in Jerusalem and Bethany, but he was as pagan as the Greeks they sang for in the cities across the Jordan. In the Decapolis, Zerubabbel told fortunes and sold amulets while Isa sang and played his music. If Abba knew that, he’d never let them return to Bethany.

  Some of the women talked about what a good man Zerubabbel was, how he’d taken in a boy—a pagan boy abandoned by his own parents—and raised him like a son.

  Raised him like a son. Yes, if raising him like a son meant beating him. If it meant not feeding him enough to keep a mouse alive. Martha wished she’d laced the flute player’s stew with something that would make his stomach ache. Isa didn’t talk about Zerubabbel anymore, not like when they were children, but he didn’t have to. She saw the bruises, the way he cowered when his master was angry. She knew how Zerubabbel treated him, and it wasn’t like a son.

  Isa laid his kinnor carefully on the grass. Without the strings under his fingers and the curved wood between him and the rest of the world, he stood awkwardly. A few of the village men gathered around. “He has the voice of King David,” they said to Zerubabbel.

  Isa shuffled and looked at his feet as his guardian accepted all the praise. When would he realize he deserved more than Zerubabbel’s abuse?

  The men wandered off, and Martha approached. Isa, with relief written on his face, took the food from her hand and bent his head toward the other side of the meadow, out of earshot of his guardian and partially hidden by a screen of junipers.

  Martha followed him, glancing sideways to see if anyone watched. She whispered to his back. “It’s almost dark. Abba will miss me.”

  He slipped behind the junipers. “Meet me tonight. In the orchard.” His words were quick and quiet. His long, calloused fingers curved around her hand.

  Her body warmed, as though she stood too close to the cooking fire. Meet alone, in the orchard, at night? When they were young, they’d met at night. They’d talked, looked at the heavens full of stars, and played their favorite game. But since Martha had become a woman, they had found each other only in daylight. If Abba knew that Martha spoke to Isa—even in the day—he would lock her in the courtyard and never let Zerubabbel or Isa near Bethany again. But if he found her in the orchard at night, with a pagan boy . . . she didn’t want to think about it.

  He turned his serious gray eyes on her. “Please, Martha.”

  Across the meadow, Zerubabbel st
ood and wiped his hands on his tunic. “Boy,” he barked. “Get our things packed. We leave at first light.”

  Isa tensed, and his grip on her hand tightened.

  “Boy!”

  Isa jumped as if he’d been hit by a flying spark. “I’ll wait for you,” he mouthed as he backed away, his dinner forgotten in his hand.

  Martha knew he would. He would wait all night under the apricot trees for her, shivering in his thin cloak. Hoping. Heat crept up her neck at the thought of being alone with him in the night. She couldn’t take the chance. But could she bear to let him leave without saying good-bye?

  She gazed back over the meadow at the village women, busy with their gossip, at Mary’s empty place. At Simon and Abel arguing with the other Pharisees. Tonight might be their last chance to be together before Abba betrothed her to Simon and then . . . it would be too late.

  Chapter Three

  Get wisdom, get understanding! Do not forget or turn aside from the words I utter.

  —Proverbs 4:5

  MARTHA TURNED RESTLESSLY, rustling her straw-stuffed pallet. Abba’s deep voice and the murmurs of his friends drifted through the window that opened on the courtyard. It was late, at least halfway through the night. If they didn’t go to sleep soon she’d never be able to get to the orchard to see Isa.

  The bed she’d shared with Mary felt too big; the space where Mary had warmed her back stretched empty and cold. For six nights, Martha had slept alone—when she slept at all. Lazarus was a good brother and she loved him, but a boy couldn’t be the friend that Mary was. That Mary had been.

  Since Mama died, Martha had shared everything with her sister. They’d grumbled about their father, cared for their baby brother and ancient grandmother. They were different—two sisters couldn’t be more different—but they belonged together. Since the wedding night, when Mary had left her family to join Josiah’s, Martha had been alone. Bereft. Like a pot without a spoon. Like a mortar without a pestle.