No. She wasn’t as holy as they believed. And now, with Lazarus and his ridiculous idea of marriage, she had even more to worry about.
Chapter Six
Her husband, entrusting his heart to her, has an unfailing prize.
—Proverbs 31:11
MARTHA CUT ACROSS the terraced meadow that sloped from the upper reaches of the Mount of Olives to the wide arches of the Bethany gate. She passed by the two city judges who sat on benches outside the gate, waiting to resolve disagreements between bickering shepherds or disputes between merchants. Both were dozing, their backs resting against the wall, their gray-bearded chins propped on their chests.
She kept her head down. Perhaps this morning, the day after a peaceful Sabbath, she’d make it to the well without having to speak to anyone—without having to listen to gossip about who was betrothed, who was pregnant, or who had breached one of the many laws of the Pharisees.
She hadn’t taken ten steps into the city when she saw Elishiva. The old woman struggled to climb down from her rooftop, a basket of clothes under her arm. Martha let herself into Elishiva’s tiny courtyard, set down her jar, and hurried to the base of the ladder. “Elishiva, please, let me help you.”
Elishiva looked down from the highest rung. She was a tiny woman, made even smaller by a hunched back that bent her almost double and made every movement look painful. Furrows creased her forehead, and channels cut down her mottled cheeks like dry riverbeds. “Martha, child, you are too kind.” She lowered the basket to Martha’s waiting hands.
Elishiva tottered as she descended each rung. Safta’s closest friend had been blessed with three sons. One had gone to Damascus and rarely sent word to his mother; another had died before he reached twenty. Elishiva’s youngest son still lived in his mother’s house. He worked for Simon, and most of the village thought him an idiot. His speech was so slow he could hardly be understood, and his mind was that of a child. Still, he worked as hard as any man to bring his meager pay home to his mother.
Martha let out a breath of relief when both Elishiva’s feet were firmly on the ground.
“Thank you, sweet girl.” Elishiva caught her breath and smiled up at Martha. “You are looking as beautiful as your mother, Martha.”
Martha carried the basket to the shade of a scrawny fig tree in the courtyard. “Thank you, Elishiva. Next time, send for me. I’ll have Zakai spread your laundry to dry.” She’d hate to have Elishiva fall; she looked as frail as a twig.
“You are busy enough, what with your brother to take care of and your sister so close to giving birth.” She put her gnarled hand on Martha’s arm. “Tell Mary I pray for her.”
“As do we all,” a strident voice added.
Martha’s stomach rolled.
Devorah, the wife of Abel, stood in the courtyard entrance, her ample body blocking Martha’s only way out. There would be no avoiding gossip today. “Your sister won’t be gathering flowers or giving away bread to the beggars at the city wall, not with three little mouths to feed.” Devorah smoothed her hair. “Mary would do well to watch over her own before worrying about others.”
And you could do the same. Martha clamped her teeth together. Abel was a city judge; it wouldn’t do to anger his wife.
“Mary is a good girl.” Elishiva lifted her chin at Devorah. “She’s always so kind to my boy.”
“And we all know what a blessing your boy is.” Devorah’s words were like arrows.
Elishiva’s face fell, and her shoulders hunched even lower.
Martha picked up her water jar. She could at least spare Elishiva any more of Devorah’s insults. “Are you on your way to the well, Devorah? Let us go together. You can tell me how your daughters are faring with their cooking.”
Devorah glowed as if she’d been asked to visit Herod’s palace. “Of course, my dear, although no one can compete with your skill.”
Martha bent her lips in a smile.
“Lazarus is indeed blessed to have you for a sister,” Devorah gushed, and without a word of good-bye to Elishiva, flounced back into the street.
Martha touched Elishiva’s bent back. “I mean it, next time send for me. You shouldn’t be up on the roof.”
Elishiva nodded, but her eyes blinked back tears of hurt from Devorah’s words.
Martha listened halfheartedly to Devorah talk about her perfect children as they walked through the village, wishing she could tell the rude matron just what she thought of her. But what would be the use of angering Devorah? She’d tell her husband, and that wouldn’t help any of them.
They reached the well, a wide opening ringed by a low wall of rock. The city walls might unite Bethany, but at the well there was an unspoken division. The wives of the Pharisees, those who followed the law with precision and made their vessels pure, gathered on one side. The village women kept to themselves on the other.
Silva, on the Pharisee side of the well, was pouring water into her jar. She smiled and stood to embrace Martha as if she’d journeyed from Damascus instead of just outside the walls. “Martha. Did you have a blessed Sabbath?”
Martha breathed shallowly. Silva’s husband, Tobias, had made an offer for Martha before she had turned thirteen, but Abba hadn’t thought him worthy of her. Now Tobias owned half the olive groves in Bethany, and his wife wore linen and smelled strongly of rose oil. Very strongly.
Without waiting for her answer, Silva went on. “And good wishes to your sister. May she be blessed with a son.”
“Thank you, Silva.” Martha’s eyes watered. Silva meant well, most of the time, but she was easily swayed by the opinions of Devorah and Jael. “I will tell her of your goodwill.”
Silva lowered her voice. “I do hope that she will manage with a new baby.” Her brows lowered in a show of concern. “She can barely keep those two girls fed and clothed.” She glanced at Devorah as if they’d spoken often of the subject. “But, of course, she has you. She is blessed to have such a sister, all the women say it.”
“We often wonder what she’d do without you, my dear,” Devorah added with an abrasive laugh.
Martha’s hand itched to wipe the smirk off Devorah’s face. Instead, she threw the gourd down the well and pulled it up from the cool depths. Didn’t these women have anything better to do than gossip about Mary? And Mary . . . how angry she’d be if she knew how they talked of her. Her sister made no secret of what she thought of these proud women married to rich Pharisees, of their strict adherence to the law and the lack of love in their hearts.
Mary was a good mother and a good wife. Yes, she sometimes had no bread to feed her family, but no matter how little they had, Mary didn’t worry. Trust in the Lord, she would say with a smile. And somehow, the Lord—or more often, Martha herself—provided the bread. But Martha didn’t dare defend her sister.
Instead, she feigned surprise at the position of the sun. “Look how late it is. Blessings on you and your family, Silva, Devorah.”
They called out their good-byes as Martha fled, her jar half-full of water, but her belly brimming with bitterness. They didn’t know her, these women who called her the holy one, the good sister. These women who received her into their midst with honor she didn’t deserve.
Yes, she followed the laws and kept her home pure. She immersed her vessels and kept the Sabbath holy. But she stood by in silence as proud peahens like Devorah and Jael pecked at Elishiva and Mary.
Martha couldn’t afford to ruffle feathers in Bethany.
She’d spent years building a wall to protect the ones she loved. Each brick—the purity of her food, their tithes to the priests, the daily immersions—made it stronger. Without her fortifications the women of Bethany might guess the truth about her. That she wasn’t the good and holy sister. That she had once followed her heart instead of the law. And that she hid a secret that could shake Bethany like an earthquake.
Chapter Seven
She obtains wool and flax and makes cloth with skillful hands.
—Proverbs 31:13
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br /> MARTHA SUPPRESSED A yawn and fed more wool from her distaff to the whirling spindle as Jael droned on.
What would it take to get this woman to go home?
If only she could nap through the mid-morning litany, as Safta was doing. She’d sent Penina to water the garden as soon as Jael arrived for her daily visit. Penina had given her a relieved look and the sign for thank you. Even carting water from the stream was better than listening to Jael crowing about her son.
Martha had heard it all before. Hadn’t every woman in Bethany? Simon’s fields, his business in Jerusalem, his visits to the Temple, and how he would soon be declared a doctor of the law. Jael loved to tell of her son’s blessings. Yet everyone still called him Simon the Leper and probably always would.
He’d contracted the grim disease around the time Mary’s first child had been born and Simon was sent away in shame. Less than a year later, he returned to Bethany, declared clean by the Temple priests. It wasn’t unusual; many lepers came back to their families after their skin had cleared. Some physicians even believed that the white, flaky skin that had afflicted Simon wasn’t the same putrid disease that killed other lepers. No one knew for sure, but it didn’t matter to the people of Bethany. They never forgot that Simon had once been defiled. Perhaps that’s why Jael had to sing her son’s praises so loudly.
Martha started from her stupor at the slam of the courtyard gate and Zakai’s urgent call. “Marmar!”
She dropped her spindle in the dirt as Zakai ran to her and pulled her to her feet. “It’s Mary. Come quick.”
A twist of apprehension spiraled through her. “Is it the baby? Already?”
He nodded, his eyes wide.
“Where is Penina?” They’d need her. Mary’s births were always so difficult.
Zakai dragged her toward the gate. “She’s already there.”
Jael darted to her side. “I’ll come to help you, Martha. You’ll need someone other than that slave.”
Martha closed her eyes for a moment. Penina was the best midwife in Bethany. And Jael in the birthing room? Mary would hate it, Penina would never allow it, and Martha would surely lose whatever patience she had left.
Safta pushed herself up with a groan. “Go home, Jael. We’ll take care of her ourselves. And that slave is better with birthing than you ever will be.”
Jael’s mouth shriveled like a rotten fig.
Thank the Almighty for Safta, even if she was rude. “I’m sorry, Jael.” Martha took the woman’s arm and showed her out of the courtyard. “We’ll send word as soon as the baby’s born.” She smiled. “You’ll be the first to know.” And the first to share the news at the well, which would soothe Jael’s feelings more than anything else.
Jael accepted her compromise with a glare at Safta before she strutted out of the courtyard.
Martha turned on her grandmother with a reproving look.
Safta ignored her and hobbled toward the door. “Let’s go see to your sister. This isn’t gonna be easy.”
Martha followed Zakai as quickly as Safta’s shuffling steps allowed. They reached her sister’s tiny home on the other side of the village. Mary’s courtyard was hardly big enough for the three of them. An overgrown riot of flowers choked out the rosemary and garlic in the corner garden. The mint patch had overtaken the vegetables, and the cooking fire was black and cold.
The door was open, and the one-room house was crowded. Mary sat on a bench, her breathing quick, her knuckles white as she clutched her husband’s hand. Josiah watched his wife with worried eyes. His hair and beard were wild, as if he’d been pulling at them. Penina crouched close to Mary.
Mary’s younger daughter, Sarah, ran to Martha and wrapped her arms around Martha’s legs. At two years old, Sarah was usually as chatty as a magpie and twice as naughty. Today, she buried her face in Martha’s tunic with a sob. Martha crouched down and untangled the little girl. “Shh, Sarah. Don’t worry. We’ll get your new brother or sister here soon.” She folded the little girl in her arms.
“Adina.” Martha held her hand out to Mary’s other girl, a waif of five years who stood in the corner with her thumb in her mouth. “Don’t worry, sweet one.” Adina burrowed into her embrace without a word. Adina rarely spoke, but did the work of a girl twice her age. She could be counted on to take care of her sister.
Martha pushed her fingers through Adina’s tangled hair. Mary never had been good with scissors, and her daughters badly needed their curls trimmed. Baths and clean clothes wouldn’t hurt them either.
Josiah’s mother, Chana, stood behind her son and wrung her hands. She was a thin, nervous woman with a high forehead. Her long face was crisscrossed with lines and as dry as parchment. “Thank the Almighty you’re here, Martha. You are so much better at caring for Mary than I am.”
Penina snorted. Martha gave her a warning look. Josiah’s mother was good at one thing: talking. She knew every tidbit of gossip in the village and spread it like a sower scattering seed. But Mary didn’t need gossip right now. She needed space to breathe.
Penina looked up at Martha. With deft hands and a firm expression, she silently said what Martha already knew. Everyone out. When it came to birthing a baby, her mute friend made her wishes clear.
“I know,” Martha answered. Martha urged Josiah and the children out the door and turned to Chana. “Please, Chana, take the girls to my house and give them something to eat. We’ll let you know as soon as the baby is born.”
Josiah clutched at Martha’s hand, his grip mirroring the worry in his face. “Send word to me as soon as you can.”
Martha nodded. Her sympathy rose at the pain in Josiah’s eyes. Mary’s girls hadn’t come easily. When she’d become pregnant a third time, Josiah had been joyful at the prospect of a son. But as she grew large with his child—and then even larger—he spent more time in prayer and even less at work. She patted her brother-in-law’s hand and gave him a push. “Pray, Josiah. Pray for your wife and baby.”
Mary groaned in pain as her husband ducked out the door.
With the room cleared of everyone but Mary, Penina, and Safta, Martha took a deep breath. There was much to do. Keep busy. Don’t think.
Penina brought a stool and settled close to Mary.
Mary reached out a shaking hand. “I want Martha,” she whimpered, sounding like the little girl she had been when they had lost their mother.
Penina gave up her place to Martha, her face showing a worry that made Martha’s stomach clench. Safta crouched in the corner, her eyes closed, her lips moving in prayer.
When the pain waned, Martha helped Mary to her sleeping pallet on the floor. She rubbed Mary’s back while Penina rummaged through the disarray of the house. Penina returned, handing Martha a scrap of linen and a bowl of cool water scented with lavender. Penina set her hand on Mary’s distended belly, then made the sign for night.
Martha stroked her sister’s face with the damp cloth. If Penina was right—and she always was about birthing—it would be a long, hard day for Mary. “Sleep, my sister, for a little while,” Martha murmured.
Mary’s eyes fluttered closed, and her body relaxed.
Penina nodded in satisfaction, then made the sign for food. She took up watch on Mary as Martha checked Mary’s grain and oil jars, both almost empty. Martha might be low on wheat and spices in her home, but Mary was hardly getting by on what Josiah earned working for Simon. And she had two children and a mother-in-law to care for.
Martha scraped the last kernels of barley from the jar. Why hadn’t she come earlier, to help with the girls and prepare for the baby instead of sending Zakai with their leftovers? She knew why. There was more than a meadow and the walls of Bethany separating her and her sister. There was Josiah. Mary had a husband to turn to now, a husband she loved. She didn’t need Martha.
She found a jar half-filled with lentils. Guilt twisted through her. If she were honest, she couldn’t blame Josiah. Mary often asked Martha to go on walks with the children or to share a meal at he
r home, but Martha found excuses. She was busy—cooking, caring for the garden, getting the vegetables ready for market—always busy.
The real reason she stayed away was more than she could admit to her sister. She couldn’t bear to see Mary’s beautiful children, or watch her sister’s face glow with joy when Josiah came home from his work. Even after seven years, it hurt too much.
Still, a good sister would have taken care of Mary during the last weeks of her pregnancy. A good sister would have stood up for Mary when they talked about her at the well.
Mary should see to her own family before helping strangers.
Josiah should put his foot down.
Martha slammed the top onto the lentil jar. They should all mind their own business. She went outside to the cooking fire and tumbled a handful of kindling into the ashes. Mint tea would soothe Mary, and a thick lentil soup would give them all strength for the long labor ahead. She gathered the lentils, a few dried-up onions, and the rest of the garlic, and got to work.
There was much to do.
• • •
AS THE SUN sank in the west, Martha walked with her sister inside the walls of the little house. The pains were closer now, and harder, but Penina’s face was grim. As they’d waited through the long afternoon, Martha had purified her sister’s cooking vessels and prepared the soup and bread. She’d cleaned the house, stitched the girls’ ragged tunics, and swept out the courtyard. There was nothing left to do but wait.
Safta had fallen asleep on the bench in the corner. How could she sleep through Mary’s groans?
Zakai poked his head into the house and looked for Martha in the dim light. “Marmar. Lazarus wants you.”
Martha stuck her head out the door to find Lazarus leaning against the wall. His chest and long legs were bare, and a pruning hook hung from his hand.
“How is she?” His eyes were worried. “Tell the truth.”
Martha let out her breath. “She’s weakening.”
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