Lazarus leaned back on his heels. She didn’t sound happy now; she sounded like she was crying. And it was Isa’s fault, he knew that much. A flurry of blossoms moved by the wind brushed over his nose like a pigeon feather. He tried to stop what was coming, but it was too late. “Ah-ah-choo!”
Martha cried out, branches rustled, and a strong hand grabbed him by the neck of his tunic and pulled him around the tree.
“Lazarus!” Martha’s whisper was low and fierce even as tears shone on her face. “What are you doing here?”
He knew that tone of voice. He was in trouble. “I was just . . .” He looked to Isa, and his fear turned to anger. “What are you doing with my sister?”
Isa didn’t answer, but Lazarus could tell Isa was afraid. He was afraid of Abba, and he was running away. And he was making Martha sad.
Anger as he’d never known swelled in his chest. Lazarus launched himself at Isa, swinging wildly. His fist connected with a bony rib, and Isa grunted. Before Lazarus could get in another swing, Isa caught his arms and held them. His grip didn’t hurt; it only stoked the fury burning inside Lazarus. If he were just bigger . . . older. He’d be able to fight for his sister.
But there was one thing he could do. “I’m telling Abba.” Abba always knew what was best.
Martha bent close to him, her face a breath away from his. “You can’t tell anyone. Not Abba. And not Mary or Safta.” Her breath was rapid and shallow, her face pale in the moonlight. There was something he’d never seen on Martha’s face: fear.
A kindred fear rose in his chest, pushing out the heat of anger. What would happen if he told? A shout from across the stream made them all jump and turn to the east, where the sunrise painted the sky with magenta and gold.
Isa tensed. “Zerubabbel. He’s looking for me.”
Martha took Lazarus from Isa’s grasp, her fingers like iron claws on his shoulders. “Don’t make a sound.” She turned to Isa. “Go now. I’ll take him home and make sure he doesn’t say anything.”
Isa glanced down at Lazarus, then pulled Martha close and kissed her for a long time. Lazarus turned his face away. How could they even breathe? Finally, they pulled away from each other, and Isa ran his hand down Martha’s cheek.
Martha looked like she might cry again. “Question or command?” she whispered.
Isa stared at her for a long moment. “Command.”
She smoothed a finger over his dark brow. “Come back to me.”
He leaned his forehead on hers. “I promise,” he whispered, before disappearing into the shadows of the trees.
Martha knelt in front of Lazarus. Tears stood out in her eyes, and her voice was soft and broken. “Lazarus. Swear to me that you won’t tell Abba, or anyone. Swear an oath to me right now.”
Lazarus looked at his big sister. If he told, Abba could hunt down Isa. Isn’t that what he deserved? And then what would happen to Martha? But to swear an oath by the Lord not to tell? That was serious.
“Please, Lazarus,” she whispered. “If you love me, swear to me that you will never speak of this to anyone, ever.”
Of course he loved Martha; she was his sister. She would do anything for him. He’d swear, then he’d pray that Isa came back soon to make things right with Martha and Abba. “I swear it, Martha. On the name of the Most High, I won’t tell anyone, ever.” He threw his arms around her neck. “I’ll take your secret to my grave.”
Seven Years Later
Chapter Five
When one finds a worthy wife, her value is far beyond pearls.
—Proverbs 31:10
MARTHA SCOOPED YOGURT from the goat-hide bag into a bowl and drizzled it with deep red pomegranate syrup, then added a round of bread, warm and fragrant.
She glanced at the weak winter sun, already well above the horizon, and frowned. There was much to do today. The cooking pots and utensils must be purified and the prayers sung. Then she and the rest of the household would immerse in the mikvah. Every letter of the law would be followed in preparation for the Sabbath. Abba would surely approve.
Of course, Abba had been dead for almost a year, but his voice still whispered in her mind. His sorrowful eyes watched over her every task.
He who honors his father atones for sins.
A boy shuffled across the courtyard, his arms full of sticks. He was tall for just over six years. His limbs were as angled and bony as a lamb’s, and his face had lost the roundness of babyhood. His eyes, the gray of a stormy sky, were outlined with such thick, black lashes they looked to be rimmed with kohl.
He dumped the sticks beside a petite, dark-haired woman stirring the coals of the second cooking fire. “Mama, I’m done with my chores.” She nodded without looking up, and he skipped in the other direction toward Martha, his eyes on the bowl in her hand.
Martha smiled and ran a hand over his ebony curls. “Not until you’ve immersed your hands and prayed, Zakai.”
As Zakai hurried to the tall clay jar that held water for purifying their hands, the woman beside the fire made a tiny noise, hardly more than a chirp, but Martha knew what it meant. “He’s not too young to follow the law, Penina.”
Penina looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. Although she was mute—she hadn’t spoken a word since she’d come to their family as a slave six years before—Penina made herself abundantly clear.
“She’s right, Nina.” Lazarus shouldered his way through the courtyard door, his tunic stripped to his waist and a bundle of kindling in his arms. At seventeen, Lazarus was taller than Martha by a head, but still as skinny as a boy. His hair was curly, just like both his sisters’, but the dark gold of polished oak instead of their deep brown. Over the past year, his shoulders had broadened, and his suntanned skin stretched tight over bony ribs and a flat belly.
“Zakai will be a man soon.” Lazarus winked at the boy. “And when he is, he won’t have Martha around to remind him of the law.”
Penina said nothing, of course, but the deep dimple on her cheek flashed. She made a sign with her small, expressive hands that sent Lazarus’s brows shooting up. He put down the kindling and stood, pushing out his chest. “I am a man, Nina. And the head of this household, which you seem to forget.” He looked down his nose at her, but a smile lurked on his mouth as he flexed an arm to show his muscle.
Penina blew out a breath, clearly unimpressed.
Martha shook her head, but a smile threatened. “Stop it, you two. You’re both too old for bickering.”
Penina might resist following the many precepts of the Pharisees, but she had never been able to resist tormenting Lazarus. She was just a year or two older than he, but seemed younger because of her small frame and petite face. Her high cheekbones and slanted eyes hinted at a heritage far from the hills and valleys of Judea, but her skin, the color of dark honey, was only a shade darker than most Israelites’.
Martha was glad Lazarus had taken on the responsibilities of the man of the family after Abba died, but the household decisions were still her domain. And they would be until Lazarus found a wife. If he ever did.
She rested her eyes on Penina. Perhaps someday, Penina would love the God of Israel as much as she loved to tease Lazarus. And then, perhaps Lazarus would let himself think of Penina as more than another sister.
Martha watched Zakai as he immersed his hands and mumbled the prayer. He came back to her with a smile, and she kissed his soft cheek, resisting the urge to smooth his eyebrows into a tidier line before she handed him his food. She wished she had time today to pull him into her lap for a few minutes, but she had much to do.
Martha filled another dish with yogurt and pomegranate syrup, two rounds of bread, and two handfuls of roasted almonds. That should put some meat on Lazarus’s bones. Safta snored in the corner. She would need breakfast, too. And perhaps today she would let Martha brush her hair. It looked like the birds had been nesting in it.
But first, something—other than Penina’s taunts—was bothering Lazarus. Her baby brother had never been
able to fool her. She handed him his food, sat down on the packed dirt beside him, and waited. She didn’t have to wait long.
“Do you know what tomorrow is?” Lazarus asked, ignoring the food in his hands.
“Yes.” How could she not know? Tomorrow would be one year since Abba died.
“Avelut is done, Martha.” His face was serious.
“So it is.” The twelve months of mourning for Abba was finished, but she would never stop atoning for her sin against him.
“Abba asked me . . .” Lazarus stopped suddenly and took a bite of bread.
Martha watched her brother fidget with his food. Why was he so uneasy?
Lazarus swallowed. “Abba made me promise to find you a husband. Now that the mourning period is over, I can abide—”
“A husband?” Martha lurched to her feet. How could he even think it?
Lazarus set his bowl aside and pushed himself to standing. “I’m the head of the family now, Martha. It’s my duty.”
“No.” Her brother might be taller than she, but she could still use the voice that had made him jump as a boy. “That is not going to happen.”
Penina stopped grinding grain and sat back on her heels. Her eyes flicked between Martha and Lazarus. This time, she wasn’t smiling.
“He spoke of it, when he was dying.” But Lazarus didn’t look her in the eye.
Martha shook her head. This was ridiculous. “Abba said a lot of things when he was dying.” Most important, that she must keep her secret. But how could she keep her secret if Lazarus wanted her married?
“This is one that he meant.” Lazarus’s mouth was firm. “You need a husband. I might not always be here to take care of you.”
Anxiety knotted under Martha’s heart. “What do you mean?” But she knew what foolishness Lazarus meant. How could Lazarus do this to her, to Penina and Zakai?
“The Messiah has come, Martha. I must be ready to follow him.”
“That doesn’t change—”
“Martha.” Lazarus’s eyes widened as if he were seeing the coming of the Kingdom already. “It changes everything.”
She blew out a breath of frustration. Their cousin Jesus had visited their home often in the years since he’d started teaching among the people. She was always glad to welcome him into Bethany and feed him and his followers. She loved him as much as Lazarus did. But Jesus of Nazareth, the Messiah?
Yes, there’d been talk—and in the past year Jesus’ name had been on everyone’s lips. But there was always talk of messiahs. That’s what Abba said. Besides, Lazarus was too young to be a disciple, no matter what he thought.
Penina came to Martha’s side, slipping her warm hand into Martha’s cold one. Martha gripped it as if it were keeping her from falling from a cliff. Penina might be mute, but she understood. Messiah or not, I can’t marry.
Lazarus knew enough about women and men, enough about the marriage laws. He couldn’t ask this of her. At the very least, she’d be humiliated in the eyes of her husband. At worst . . . she refused to think of it.
Lazarus set his hands on her shoulders, his eyes gentle as if she were a frightened animal. “Don’t worry, Martha. I’ve been praying about this. The Lord will provide a husband who—”
The gate squealed open, and Jael swept into the courtyard. Martha’s back stiffened. How did that woman always know the worst time to come visit? They couldn’t speak of this in front of her, of all people. Martha glared at Lazarus and shrugged out of his grip.
Lazarus eyed Jael and lowered his voice. “Martha, Abba wanted you to marry. It’s for the best.” He nodded to Jael and ducked out the door, leaving his food untouched.
For whose best? Not hers. She wouldn’t be getting married, no matter what Lazarus had promised Abba. She smoothed a hand over her eyes and hair and fixed a smile on her trembling lips.
Jael embraced her as if she hadn’t seen her for weeks, instead of just yesterday. “Peace be to you and your house, Martha. And upon all that you have.”
“And peace be to you,” she answered.
Jael’s hair was still as black as a he-goat although she was well past her fifth decade, but her tight braids couldn’t smooth the deep furrows on her brow. She cast a critical eye on Zakai, scooping up the last of his breakfast. “Has the household of Sirach become wealthy again, that you can feed the children of your slaves so well?”
Martha didn’t have to look at Penina to know she was bristling. She pulled Jael toward the other side of the courtyard and offered her a seat under the fig tree beside her dozing grandmother. Safta, I beg you, try to hold your tongue today. “Jael, you know that I gave Penina her freedom almost a year ago. She’s not a slave, and neither is her son. They are family.” As if she hadn’t told Jael a dozen times.
Jael sniffed. “Family?” She sat down heavily on the bench and brought out a tuft of wool and her spindle and distaff. “As my son always says, once a slave, always a slave.”
Safta opened her eyes and wet her withered lips with her tongue. “Your son, the leper, says that, eh?”
Jael reared back. “My son is no longer a leper.”
“Just as Penina is no longer a slave.” Safta put her lips together and blew, making a rude sound that told Jael exactly what she thought.
Martha tapped her temple and shook her head. “Safta,” she whispered to Jael. They owed too much to Simon to let Safta insult his mother.
“My mind is as good as it ever was, little girl, and so is my hearing,” Safta said sharply.
Jael’s eyes narrowed. “At least I still have a child”—she gave Safta a pointed look—“in Bethany.”
Safta stared at her for a moment, then settled lower and closed her eyes as if she was going back to sleep. Today’s battle was over, and Jael had won.
No one in Bethany spoke of Safta’s daughter. At least if they had any kindness in them. When Martha was just a child, Safta’s only daughter had forsaken her family to marry a poor man from the lower town in Jerusalem. They’d heard rumors that her husband gambled, that they had stopped worshipping at the Temple—even talk that she herself had sunk into drunkenness. It had broken Safta’s heart to lose her only daughter . . . to never know her grandchildren.
Martha turned away, wishing she could tell Jael what she thought of her cruelty to an old woman. Instead, she gathered the rest of the bread into a basket. “Zakai, take this to Mary.” She set it in his arms with a warning look. “And come back with news. Don’t run off onto the mountain.” Perhaps by then Jael would be gone.
Zakai sidled toward the door, a suspicious twitch under his tunic.
“Zakai?”
He stopped and gave her an innocent face.
“What is it?”
He hung his head, tramped back to her, and set down the basket. He dug into the neck of his tunic and pulled out a long green-and-black lizard. “I just wanted to show it to the girls.”
Martha heard Jael’s sharp breath across the courtyard and tensed. Zakai was just being a little boy. Why did the meddling woman have to act like he’d broken the first commandment?
“Zakai.” Martha crouched down to see his face. “You know the lizards are unclean.”
He kicked at a stone with his toe. “I know. He was just so pretty.”
Martha wished she could lean in and kiss his disappointed face. But not in front of Jael. Instead, she gave him a nudge and a smile. “Let him go outside the walls. And don’t forget to immerse your hands again.”
Zakai bounded out the door. Martha returned to Jael, passing the corner of the courtyard that held Zakai’s collection of cages and discarded baskets. One cage held a desert hare Zakai had rescued last winter, another an assortment of birds that twittered and flapped. A lamb, born too early and with a deformed leg, munched a pile of grass in the corner. Zakai couldn’t resist taking care of every animal he found.
Jael looked down her nose at the animal menagerie. “You are far too lenient with your former slaves, Martha. I can’t believe what you allow.�
�� She pursed her lips. “And especially considering your”—she lowered her voice—“reduced circumstances.”
Martha bit back a retort and picked up her distaff. Didn’t Jael have anything else to do today? Harass her servants, mend Simon’s fine garments, or even look over the land that used to be Abba’s and now belonged to her son?
She should be used to Jael’s comments about the decline of Abba’s household. Even before the illness that took his life, there was talk that Abba had lost his senses. He let his fields lie fallow and took no interest in his herds or orchards. Martha knew her father hadn’t lost his wits; he’d lost his will to live. Her sin had eaten away at him, until finally, he gave up his spirit.
Jael continued, her own work forgotten in her hands. “Of course, you have no children of your own to consider. Not like Mary, hmm? Perhaps your sister will have a son this time. It is a shame your father, blessed be his memory forever, didn’t live to see a grandson.”
Martha’s fingers fumbled on the distaff, and her throat closed. She waited until she could give an appropriate response without a hitch in her voice. “Let us pray that Mary’s child is a boy, to bless my father’s memory as your son blesses his father’s memory and all those who came before.”
Jael nodded, satisfied at the compliment. “You, my dear, are a blessing on your father’s memory. The holiest, most devout woman in Bethany, everyone says it.”
Martha settled into her work. Jael’s feelings were soothed, but hers were in turmoil. The holiest woman in Bethany. The people of Bethany may think her holy, but they only saw what they wanted to see. What she let them see. A perfect woman, her value far beyond pearls. A blessing to her father’s memory.
But would a holy woman have so many worries? Would she worry about how to keep her household fed and clothed, or if her garden would produce enough for the winter? Would a holy woman wait seven years for a pagan who had abandoned her? Martha quickened her fingers at turning the wool into fine thread. Don’t think of Isa. Don’t remember that night in the orchard.
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