—Proverbs 31:14
MARTHA GAVE THE young goat another turn on the spit. The meat was beginning to brown and crisp, and her cumin sauce bubbled nearby. Two more cooking fires crackled and smoked in the courtyard. Over one, lentils flavored with garlic and onions simmered; on the other, a pot of water heated.
Jesus was coming for dinner, and everything would be perfect.
The goat had been butchered and bled according to the law, the wine touched only by Jewish hands. The first fruits of all the foodstuffs in her larder, from the grain to the eggs, from the mint to the rue, had been given to the priests as an offering. Even her vessels and bowls were made right in Judea, not in Rome, as was the fashion among some of the wealthier families of Bethany. Families not as strict as Abba’s.
The purity of Martha’s home was second to none in the village, except perhaps Jael’s. Just as Abba would have wanted. A twinge of guilt reminded her that the Pharisees grumbled against Jesus’ unorthodox teachings, and Abba may have disapproved of him as well. Still, Abba would never deny a hungry man a meal. And Jesus would come hungry. He always did.
Penina bent to sniff the cumin sauce and nodded.
“This will be done just in time,” Martha said. The goat wasn’t as young as she’d like—there had been few kids this year—but the spicy sauce would mask the stronger flavor. “We’ll eat our fill, Penina. There won’t be meat again until after the garden comes in.” Thanks to the Roman taxes and the Temple tithe, she had nothing left in her purse but a few brass coins.
Martha glanced at the sky, stretching from the Mount of Olives to the valley of the Jordan River. Not a cloud to be seen. She couldn’t remember a drought like this in all her life in Bethany.
They’d need to water the garden again soon if the Almighty didn’t bless them with rain. She’d see to it, even if she had to carry the water on her own back. The artichokes and asparagus would be ready in two weeks, and the rich Greeks and Romans who shopped in Jerusalem’s upper market would pay a ridiculous price for them. Thank the Lord for their expensive tastes.
The rest of the spring vegetables—cucumbers, chickpeas, and herbs—would bring in enough to reduce their debt to Simon. By Passover, just six weeks away, they would be doing better. And after the apricots ripened in late summer, they would be out of danger, perhaps even able to afford some spices and eat meat again.
Martha checked the lentils. If the Lord smiled on them with a good harvest, they would prosper this year. Well, perhaps not prosper, but they would get by.
Lazarus trooped into the courtyard, Zakai at his heels. “Martha. I spoke to Josiah. They will come for the feast. Mary asked if you needed help.” They both dumped armloads of dried sheep’s dung near the fires. “Shall I tell her to come early?”
Safta, who had been dozing in the corner, opened an eye. “Mary? Early?”
Martha frowned, but her grandmother was right. Mary had good intentions—she always did—but she was always late. And her help usually involved burning the bread, chasing the children, and wandering off instead of watching the meat. But that wasn’t why she hadn’t called on Mary to help.
“No. You know she’s still impure from Natanel’s birth.” Abba would never have allowed her to serve his guests so soon after childbirth. Martha blew on a bite of lentils and tasted, then added a pinch of salt. She and Penina could manage, and everything would be perfect.
Martha glanced up and caught a rare smile and the flash of a dimple on Penina’s cheek as she cleaned a basket of leeks. Penina nodded toward Lazarus and winked at Martha. Martha suppressed a laugh. Her brother was staggering under an armful of colorful rugs piled higher than his head, whistling a tune through his teeth. He dropped the pile and started arranging the rugs under the fig tree.
Lazarus sometimes forgot that he was the man of the house now and no longer required to help with the women’s work. Martha and Penina didn’t remind him.
He finished with the rugs and flopped down on a bench under the fig tree, his breathing labored. “His time is coming, Martha,” he panted. “I tell you, it won’t be long now before everyone knows he is the Messiah.”
Martha sprinkled a handful of crushed rosemary over the bubbling lentils. Despite the heat of the cooking fires, a shiver of worry went through her. That kind of talk could be dangerous.
She’d heard of Jesus’ miracles, that he healed the sick, cured lepers. There had even been a rumor that he’d given sight to a man born blind. But she’d never actually seen anyone who had been cured. No one agreed: some said he was the Messiah, others a prophet, some even called him a fraud. And now—most worrisome of all—the Sanhedrin called for his arrest. How could Lazarus be so sure that Jesus was the Anointed One?
Martha pulled her knife from her belt and sliced the green top off a radish. Many had claimed the baptizer was the Messiah, and everyone knew what had happened to him. Dead. Killed by Herod and his traitorous wife.
Abba had warned of false messiahs. What had he always said? We must doubt, until his power is proven to us. She’d known Jesus all her life. If anyone was a prophet or a healer, it would be him. But he hadn’t proven that he was the Promised One.
Prophet or not, he was in danger. Her worry grew, and she frowned at Lazarus. “Is he safe here? So close to Jerusalem?” There were plenty of Pharisees in Bethany who would be glad to curry favor with the Sanhedrin.
Lazarus waved away her concern. “Don’t worry. Jesus knows what he is about.”
Martha wasn’t so sure. Jesus had never been careful about what he said or who he said it to. She’d have to make sure his visit to Bethany was known only to the family.
Lazarus moved to crouch in front of Penina. “Have you thought about what I said, Nina?”
Penina frowned at the leeks.
Martha sliced another radish into the bowl. Her brother would not give up. Penina wouldn’t change her mind. Martha loved her friend, but Penina was as stubborn as a blind donkey.
“Nina.” Lazarus put his hands on her shoulders. “He’s cured the blind, healed the lame, even brought a boy back from death. He could give you your voice.”
She made a sign with her hands, along with a roll of her eyes that made her meaning clear.
Lazarus’s back stiffened, and his voice hardened. “He’s not a magician; he’s the Messiah.”
Penina shrugged and turned away. Lazarus stomped back to the ladder.
Martha couldn’t blame her. Of course she wished Penina could speak. She could tell them of her life before Damascus, of what happened to her family. Yes, Penina would have to learn to guard her tongue around the women of Bethany—what disrespectful thoughts would her bold friend voice if she could?—but she didn’t blame Penina for not putting her trust in a man she hardly knew.
Zakai snuck a slice of radish from the bowl. Martha gave him another one, and he crunched it, his cheek bulging. She pulled him into her arms and rested her cheek on the top of his warm head.
What if Penina asked Jesus to cure her, and he said no? What if he couldn’t? Or worse, what if he could? Lazarus always thought the best of everyone, even the smug wives of the Pharisees. But they already mistrusted Penina for her foreign face and mute voice. What would happen if they thought she was part of a ruse by a man who called himself the Messiah? They would tell their husbands, and their husbands would turn against Penina. And against Zakai.
She kissed Zakai’s head as he squirmed away, then went back to her radishes. Besides, the Messiah would come in glory, with power to conquer the Romans and restore their land. Everyone knew that. Not like a friend with a hungry belly, clothes that needed mending, and news from his mother.
Penina touched her arm. She pointed to the rooftop, where Lazarus had gone, and then made a sign for sickness.
Martha frowned. “I didn’t notice.” Lazarus hadn’t been sick a day in his life, even when he was a baby. But he hadn’t been eating well. And he was too skinny. “I’ll ask him after Jesus comes.”
Lazarus cam
e down the ladder with another bundle of mats. He did look pale. And just how many mats did he think they needed for a few men and Jesus’ mother? “How many are coming with Jesus?”
“He says at least twenty.”
Martha fumbled with her knife. “Twenty people? With Jesus?”
“That’s what the messenger said. His twelve disciples, some women, others who follow him.”
“And you’re just telling me now?” Martha jumped up. “That means . . .” She calculated quickly. “With Josiah and Mary and the children—we need food for twenty-eight or even thirty.”
She’d cooked feasts for that many—even more when Abba was alive—but never with so little in her storeroom. And how would they keep Jesus’ visit a secret from the Pharisees of Bethany if he was bringing such a crowd?
“Penina, add another scoop of lentils to that pot. And more rosemary.”
Penina hurried to the storeroom, while Lazarus and Zakai stood in the middle of the courtyard, their arms hanging idle at their sides. What were they waiting for? A voice from the heavens? “Don’t just stand there. Get some more water for the jars inside.” Lazarus and Zakai jumped and made for the courtyard gate as if they were being chased by Beelzebub himself.
Martha frowned at the goat. The meat would stretch if they only served it to the men. The rest could eat lentils and bread, and she should have just enough wheat.
She knelt at the grinding kern. Thirty people. Why hadn’t Lazarus told her sooner? With all his talk about a Messiah . . . she could use some help with the here and now. She lifted the wheat jar but found it far too light in her hand. She looked inside. Just a few handfuls covered the bottom, hardly enough for two rounds of bread. “Safta!”
The old woman opened her drooping eyes.
“Where is the wheat?”
Safta rubbed her whiskery chin. “You gave some to Mary yesterday.”
“I know, but there was plenty left.” At least enough for tonight.
Safta closed her eyes again. “You might ask the boy.”
Zakai? “But what would he know of the wheat?”
Safta jerked her head toward the animals in the corner.
Martha’s heart sank. He wouldn’t have. He couldn’t have. She rushed to the corner of the courtyard where his collection of animals scratched and twittered. Kernels of wheat lay scattered among the birdcages.
“He gave my best wheat to his birds?”
“And to the rest of them, I’d guess.” Safta settled back on her stool as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Martha checked a cage made of a bushel basket and some bent willow switches, where Zakai’s rabbit stared at her with alarmed eyes beside a heaping pile of the golden wheat. The lamb stood on his three good legs, a kernel dangling from his velvety chin.
Martha stomped to the house. Zakai was in deep trouble. She’d have a few things to say to him when he returned, but right now she had an empty storeroom, no bread, and very little time.
Dinner for Jesus was turning into a perfect disaster.
Chapter Twelve
She rises while it is still night, and distributes food to her household.
—Proverbs 31:15
MARTHA FLEW THROUGH the house as if a whirlwind were on her heels. Lord of all, give me patience. And wheat.
She passed by her own room, with baskets holding carded wool, spools of yarn, and clothes in need of mending, then spared a quick glance into the formal dining room, where Abba had entertained so often. Tonight, it would seat Jesus, his disciples, and Lazarus. And they would be hungry.
No bread was unthinkable. Abba would be so disappointed in her.
She darted into the storage room at the back of the house. Please, there must be something. The shelves were sparsely stocked with her dwindling supplies of oil, olives, and dried fruit. Goat skins full of curdling milk hung from hooks in the wall. There was plenty of yogurt and cheese, but Abba always said, Better to starve than serve meat and milk on the same table. No. Grain was what they needed. Even barley would do.
Lazarus entered through the back door, a dripping water jar in his arms. But instead of bringing it to the dining room, where it would be available for their guests to immerse their hands, he set the jar down and stood in the doorway of the storage room. “Martha.” His voice was low and hopeful. “Have you thought about what I asked you?”
“Not now, Lazarus.” Had her brother decided to nag all the women of his household today? The last thing she needed to think about was finding a husband. She pulled the corks from the nearest jars. Empty, all of them. She pointed to a jar on the top shelf. “Reach that for me.”
Lazarus was as used to taking orders as she was to giving them. He snagged it from the shelf and handed it to her. “Tomorrow then,” he relented, “but we will talk about it.”
Couldn’t Lazarus see she was busy? And why the hurry? She needed to consider his ridiculous idea for a few weeks. Or a few years. She pointed to the last jar. “That one.” Please, there must be something.
He pulled it down.
She peeked inside, and her heart sank. Nothing but chaff. “What are we going to do?”
Lazarus put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, his wispy beard tickling her. “Don’t worry so much, Martha. The Lord will provide.”
The Lord will provide? It was easy for him to say; feeding their guests wasn’t his responsibility. When and what, exactly, would the Lord provide? And how was she supposed to stop worrying?
Lazarus hoisted the water jar and clumped toward the dining room. “He made the Temple lamps burn for eight days, Martha. He’ll provide food for our guests.”
Martha pressed her lips together. She didn’t have time to wait around and see if her trusting brother was right. She’d have to provide, and soon.
She veered into her own room and shed her everyday mantle. The cedar trunk beside her bed had once been full of fine linen in her favorite colors of dark green and soft blue. Now, just one length of linen, dyed pink with pomegranate rinds, remained, and it was far from new. Under it lay the only other item of value left in her father’s house. An alabaster jar half-filled with the nard they’d used for Abba’s burial. She could sell it in Jerusalem for enough silver to buy oil and wheat for months. She ran a hand over the smooth jar. Only if she had no other choice. If something happened to Safta, they would need it.
For now, she had one option left. She’d go to the market and ask for credit. She draped the pink linen over her hair and around her shoulders. If she was going to beg, at least she’d do it with dignity.
She reached the village as the sun began its descent toward the western horizon. If she could get enough wheat, she’d have bread made when Jesus and his people arrived. Just in time.
At the synagogue, a cluster of men sat on the steps. So Lazarus wanted to find her a husband? She looked sideways at the men as she passed by. Well, brother, these are my choices.
They were arguing, of course. Did they have nothing else to do with their days?
“He is a disgrace,” Yonah griped. Old Yonah had lived in Bethany as long as Martha could remember. The beautiful Eliana, who had caught the eye of half the village men in her youth, was his much-younger wife and the proud mother of two sons.
“He is the Messiah,” argued Simcha, a shepherd who lived on the eastern side of town. He was a good friend of Lazarus’s, years younger than Martha, and had a little brother and an old mother to care for. Definitely not marriage material.
“What about Nazareth? He couldn’t even work his cures there, they say, in his own town,” Yonah said.
Simcha shrugged. “They had no faith in him, that’s what I heard. So he couldn’t cure them.”
Martha dawdled for a moment at the corner. No faith meant no cure from Jesus? If that was true, then Lazarus could stop badgering Penina to ask Jesus for her voice. She had little faith in God, and certainly none in a man.
The debate continued. Was Jesus the Messiah or a fraud? A
prophet or a charlatan? As the men voiced their opinions of her cousin, Martha considered each one. Married. Too young. Too poor. She turned her back on the arguing men. Lazarus would just have to admit it. There was no one in Bethany for her to marry.
The marketplace near the northern wall of Bethany was busier than usual. As she strode past stalls and brightly colored awnings, the spice merchant called out to her. “Good day to you. I have saffron from the eastern caravans.” She shook her head. Today she couldn’t linger at her favorite stall.
The olive seller blocked her path. “The olives stuffed with pistachios that you love.” She shook her head. Perhaps after the harvest she’d be able to buy some of the delicacies that they offered.
She reached the awning where mounds of wheat, barley, and spelt shone in the sun. Old Micah measured grain onto a scale. He’d been old when he’d worked for Abba, when Sirach had owned the wheat fields surrounding Bethany. Now he was even older and Simon’s steward. His face was as furrowed as the fields he oversaw, his eyes shadowed by brows as thick as hedges.
He put down his scoop and rushed to her side. Like every other merchant in Bethany, he knew she expected the best quality and she bargained well. And she always paid with Jewish coins, never Greek or Roman. He didn’t know that today she had no coins at all.
He dipped a hand in a mound of wheat and let it run through his fingers like liquid gold. “The finest wheat in Judea.”
Yes, and the most expensive. She nodded to a bin of lesser quality. “I’ll take two ephah of the other.” Her mouth was dry as chaff. “And I’ll have to pay you next week, Micah.”
Micah’s heavy brows lowered. “Next week? But you know that Simon doesn’t allow—”
A curt voice cut him off. “Simon doesn’t allow what?”
She turned, her stomach dropping at the familiar tone. Simon stood behind her. His two burly guards, companions he was rarely without, stood at his side, their eyes shifting over the crowds. Did Simon think he was going to be attacked in his own city? Or were his guards there to announce he had something to protect?
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