Tomb : A Novel of Martha (9781451689136)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  Jesus pressed a kiss to his cheek, the kiss of peace. When he pulled back, Lazarus felt bereft, more alone than when Abba had died. Jesus looked into his eyes, speaking clearly and slowly, as though he needed Lazarus to understand not only his words but the meaning behind them. “You have faith in my Father; have faith in me also, my friend.” His eyes were bright with tears. “The hour is coming when the dead will hear the voice of the son of God.”

  Lazarus tried to understand, but Jesus’ words made no sense. “But, Jesus . . .” What did he mean by that? When would the hour come?

  Jesus gazed at him. “Lazarus, do you love me?”

  Lazarus straightened. This he understood. This was the important question. “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”

  “If you love me, do as I ask. Go back to your home and your sisters. You will understand when the time comes.”

  Lazarus’s heart sank, and a burden settled on his shoulders like a yoke of lead. When the time for what comes? But Jesus had spoken, and he nodded, unable to speak.

  Jesus embraced Lazarus again—fiercely, tightly—as though willing him a strength that Lazarus would need. And then Jesus was gone, through the black trees and into the night.

  The gloom closed around Lazarus, and the cold wind bit through his cloak. Jesus didn’t want him. He accepted Judas, a man no one trusted, and Peter, an uneducated fisherman. Even Matthew, a tax collector. But not me.

  The dead will hear the voice of the son of God. What did that mean? His breath caught, and the pain in his side matched the pain in his heart. If you love me, do as I ask. He did love Jesus—more than he loved his sisters, more than Zakai or Penina—and Jesus had told him to stay in Bethany. He sank down on a rock and put his head in his hands. Whatever Jesus meant, Lazarus knew one thing. He would not be a part of the coming of the Kingdom.

  Yes, Lord, I love you. Even as his heart was breaking.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Cleanse me with hyssop, that I may be pure; wash me, make me whiter than snow.

  —Psalm 51:9

  LIKE DIVING INTO the cold waters of Galilee, the memories flooded through Isa. Her name was Martha, and she lived in Bethany.

  Joy surged within his chest even as something else—something akin to panic—pricked at the edges of his mind. There was more, and it was something he didn’t want to remember. Something terrible.

  Alexa sat up, her tunic gaping low. He had to get away from her. He clambered down the ladder, jumped the last rungs, and pushed through the courtyard door. Then he started to run.

  He tried not to think, tried not to let the memories flow through his mind like a river breaking through a dam, choking off his breath, immersing him under a tide of shame and regret.

  What have I done? The question drummed through his head as his feet pounded on the dirt. He sprinted through the town and out into the dark wasteland. Only one place could shut out the memories that threatened to drown him.

  He reached the tombs and ducked into the mouth of the cave where he’d spent so many anguished nights. He fell to his knees inside, laying his head on the stone bench. But the smell of death and the darkness pressing down on him did not shut out his memories. They attacked him, piercing him like a thousand arrows.

  Martha. A smiling girl, the only good thing in his life. Her laughter as they climbed the trees in the orchard, the taste of warm apricots in his mouth . . . How his heart broke for her when she lost her mother . . . Walking into Bethany with a rush of joy when he saw her again. Then the memory that made his heart writhe in regret. Those same trees, this time in full bloom. A carpet of blossoms and Martha, older and even more beautiful, giving herself to him.

  Not like Alexa, with brazen hands and a greedy mouth. Not to trap him. But out of love and desperation. She’d asked him—begged him—to go to her father. But he’d been too afraid.

  I’ll make you the happiest woman in all of Judea. He heard his own voice, saw the trust in her eyes. But he hadn’t. Martha had given him—a pagan, despised by everyone in Bethany—her most precious gift. He’d taken what she’d given him and left her. He squeezed his eyes shut . . . Left her seven years ago.

  The cool air of the cave wrapped around Isa like a shroud. What had happened after he left Martha in Bethany?

  He remembered leaving the orchard at first light with the memory of Martha’s love and a joy in his chest that even Zerubabbel’s stick couldn’t beat out of him. He’d told himself he’d return in glory—with silver enough to satisfy Sirach—and they would marry amid the music of the kinnor and feasting. He put his hand over his face. I was such a child. Such a fool.

  After that, his memories blurred. Isa knocked his head against the cold stone.

  Why hadn’t he returned to Bethany for Martha? His head thrummed with a dull ache. And where was Zerubabbel?

  He crawled to the farthest recess of the tomb. Even the torment of demons couldn’t be worse than facing what he’d done. He groaned and rolled into a miserable ball.

  For seven years, a corner of his tortured mind had tried to turn him back to Martha, told him that she was waiting for him. Surely by now, Sirach had made her marry. But after he had taken her purity, how would she find a husband who would accept her?

  The ache in his head turned to throbbing, then pounding. A chill eddied through the cave, a whisper that fed his despair. He couldn’t go back to her now. He couldn’t face her. If she had married another, she wouldn’t want him. And if she wasn’t married . . . she wouldn’t want the man who had deserted her. A man polluted by demons.

  He closed his eyes. He’d be better off here, in this place of darkness.

  But the words that Jesus had said to him whispered even in that hidden corner. Go to your family. Announce to them all that the Lord in his pity has done for you.

  A weak shaft of the morning sun pierced the gloom of the cave.

  Martha was his home. She was his family. Go home.

  He pushed himself up and crawled toward the mouth of the cave. His body felt heavy, like it was filled with sand. He reached the doorway as the sun rose in the east. He breathed deeply of the breeze that brought the scent of water. Jesus, son of the Most High God—the God of the Jews—had come to save him. Jesus had commanded the demons, and they had obeyed. And he had given Isa a command as well.

  He stepped out into the lightening day. He would go to her, even as his heart quaked at what he would find in Bethany. He could be there in three days. Not long, compared to seven years, but it seemed like a lifetime.

  He longed to see her face. He dreaded seeing her face.

  He hoped he wasn’t too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  She makes her own coverlets; fine linen and purple are her clothing.

  —Proverbs 31:22

  MARTHA SMOOTHED HER damp hands down her best tunic and arranged her pink linen head covering for the tenth time. Her stomach curdled like spoiled milk, and her mouth tasted of vinegar. No sense putting it off any longer. It was time to go to Simon.

  As she’d tossed on her bed during the long, sleepless night, she’d heard Lazarus stumble in close to dawn. He’d probably spent the night praying with Jesus and making plans to follow him as soon as her betrothal was in place. No sense waking him before she went; she knew what she had to do.

  Martha nodded to Penina. “Let’s go.” At least she’d have Penina to strengthen her.

  How she wished to have Mary’s blessing, Mary’s support as she faced Simon. But she knew Mary would be against a marriage to Simon. Mary would never understand, especially after last night. And how could she? Mary didn’t know what Martha had done to Abba . . . And she didn’t know about Zakai.

  Martha brought Zakai’s face to her mind. She loved Zakai more than she ever thought she could love. He would have a father and security if Simon was as forgiving as Lazarus believed. And if Lazarus was wrong—she took Penina’s hand in hers—she wouldn’t think of what might happen.

  Martha shook her head at Peni
na’s unvoiced dispute. “Lazarus is right. Simon is the answer to our prayers.” If she said it enough, perhaps she, too, would believe it.

  They walked the path along the ravaged garden, the wilted brown stalks trampled down in the dirt. Farther on, the thin light of morning lit Simon’s flourishing plots of wheat and barley, untouched by the curse of the locusts.

  Prosperity rewards the righteous, the Pharisees said. Clearly, the Lord had blessed Simon, who followed the law. Just look at his fields, at his home and wealth. How much clearer did the Lord of All need to be?

  Penina made a small noise.

  Martha stopped and faced her. The sun shone down on Penina’s smooth cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. “You want him to be free to follow his heart, Penina, just like I do. And this is the only way he will be.”

  Penina lowered her eyes, but Martha had seen her pain. Yes, Penina wanted Lazarus to be free, but when he followed his heart, he would break hers.

  “Simon will take in you and Zakai, and Safta, too.” He’d even offer protection for Jesus if Lazarus was right. And protection for Jesus meant protection for Lazarus. She’d be a fool to reject what he was offering. She’d been a fool once already. Now the Almighty was giving her a second chance.

  Again Penina shook her head and added a stamp of her foot.

  Martha took a deep breath. “Lazarus says not to worry.” She looked around, but they were alone. Still, she lowered her voice. “He says this is for the best . . . everyone’s best.”

  Penina’s look said she didn’t believe it. Her hands went to her heart.

  Martha snorted. “Love?” But her heart softened toward her friend. Penina was only trying to help. “I chose love once. And look what happened.” She needed more than that now. “Simon is a good man. He will be merciful, just as the Lord showed him mercy.” But would a man who turned away the hungry on Purim show mercy on her? Especially after Mary had made such a spectacle of herself last night?

  Martha continued down the path, but as they reached the door of Simon’s courtyard, her feet slowed and her hand tightened in Penina’s. The thin servant woman opened the door, her brows arching high as she saw Martha. Simon’s ever-present guards lounged against the wall of the house but straightened when they saw her and rested their hands on the daggers in their belts.

  Martha glanced sideways at Penina. What did the guards think they were here to do, steal the spices from Simon’s storeroom? Martha steadied her breathing. This would be her household soon. The servants and the dim-witted guards needed to respect her. “I would speak to your master.” Her voice came out sure and strong.

  The woman nodded and hurried away. Martha glanced at Penina, who was scowling again. She nudged her. “Penina, try to look . . .” She blew out a breath.

  Penina rolled her eyes and held up her hands as if she didn’t know what Martha meant. Penina had never acted like a slave, or even a servant. She probably wouldn’t start now.

  Martha stepped in front of her friend. “Just stay behind me.”

  Simon appeared behind the scurrying servant. His brows lifted, and his fishlike eyes widened. “You honor me with your presence, Martha.” He clasped his hands over his loose tunic.

  How thin Simon was. Martha prayed his habit of fasting twice a week had made him more merciful. She took a deep breath. “Peace be within the walls of your home and upon you and your servants.”

  He inclined his head, a question still in his eyes. “And may the Lord bless you and yours.”

  Martha waited. She hadn’t come to speak to him in the presence of the nosy servant or his guards. She glanced toward the double doors of his home.

  He started, finally understanding. “Please, Martha. Follow me.” Simon turned and walked swiftly through the wide arches. Martha followed without a word. At least he wouldn’t bring up her disgrace last night in front of Jesus. A man of importance left the gossip to the women, and they were surely gossiping at the well this morning.

  After saying the prayer beside the mezuzahs, Simon led her to his workroom and settled behind a teak desk. He nodded her to a chair with ornately carved arms and curving legs. She perched on the edge. Penina took a post just inside the doorway, her arms folded over her chest, to make sure that no one would lurk close enough to overhear them.

  Martha ran her tongue over her dry mouth. It was surely unusual for a woman to visit a man, but at least he was giving her a chance to speak. Lord of all, give me the words I need to say. She stilled her hands in her lap, took a gulp of air, and looked up at Simon.

  He watched her, his hands toying with a wax tablet.

  She’d rehearsed the words in her mind, but still they sounded forced in the quiet room. “Lazarus has spoken to me about your offer of marriage. My father would be pleased.”

  Simon’s face was unreadable. “Your father was a good and holy man. May his memory be forever honored and his name be spoken on the lips of his grandchildren.”

  A proper response. But the next part was going to be harder. Much harder. “Simon—” No words came to her, and the silence lengthened.

  “Martha.” Simon leaned forward. “Do you know why I want to marry you?”

  Martha blinked. Because he liked her cooking? Because he needed a wife?

  His jaw twitched. “Everyone in Bethany calls me Simon the Leper.” He looked down at the stylus in his hand. “Except you.”

  Martha relaxed her grip on the arms of the chair. Lazarus had been right. Simon knew what it was to have a shameful past. He knew how a village never forgets. He would understand. “Simon, I must tell you something. Before the betrothal. And then you can decide if you still want me.”

  Simon’s mouth pulled down in a grimace. “Martha. I already know.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Her husband is prominent at the city gates as he sits with the elders of the land.

  —Proverbs 31:23

  ALARM SURGED THROUGH Martha. How could he know?

  Simon rubbed his neck. “You are marrying me because you are in debt and your brother wants to follow Jesus. Jesus.” He rolled his eyes. “A poor Galilean whom Lazarus thinks is the Messiah. Once you, your servants, and your grandmother are taken care of, he can get himself nailed to a—”

  Martha pulled in a sharp breath.

  “Forgive me,” Simon said quickly. “Believe me, I’ll do all I can to make sure he is safe.” He leaned forward. “Martha, I will be a good husband. And you will be the perfect wife for me.”

  The perfect wife. Martha’s mouth was as dry as an abandoned well. If that’s what he wanted, he would be disappointed. She gripped the arms of her chair hard. “Simon. There is something—something else—you must know about me. And then”—she dared a look at him—“if you still want me, we will be married.”

  Simon sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his lap. “I do, Martha. I will.” He smiled at her as if she were a silly child. “But please, say what you need to say.”

  Martha took a deep breath. “My father . . .” No. She was to blame. Not Abba. “I have kept a secret for many years. A secret that I must tell you now, before we are betrothed.”

  Simon’s brows came together, and he opened his mouth as if to speak. Martha stumbled on; she couldn’t stop now. “Do you remember when my father took me to care for a kinswoman in Galilee? I was gone for half a year.”

  “Yes.”

  She rushed on. “When I returned, it was with Penina and her infant son, Zakai.”

  “Yes.” His brow furrowed deeper.

  Martha ran her tongue over her lips. Just say it. She looked down at her hands. “Simon. Zakai is not Penina’s son.”

  “Not her son?” He glanced at Penina, then at her. “I don’t understand.”

  She stared at her hands, unable to look at his face. The nicks from her cooking knives and scars from long-ago burns held her eyes as though they were the words of scripture. “My father made Penina swear to tell no one. But you must know . . .” She clenched her hands on the chair.
“You will know if we marry. Zakai is my son.”

  Martha slowly raised her eyes from her lap to his hands, lying flat on the polished wood. To his shoulders. To his face. Simon’s mouth worked as if he were choking on an olive pit.

  Now that she’d started, she couldn’t stop more words leaking from her mouth. “I have not married . . . my father did not let me marry . . . because I am not a virgin.”

  She should have felt better, confessing to Simon. Should have felt the weight of the lie lessen on her shoulders. Instead, she felt the burden grow. Penina’s breath sounded loud in the doorway; the talk of the servants and the bray of a donkey in the courtyard drifted through the room.

  Simon found his voice. “Zakai—the boy—is your son?” He frowned, as though learning a difficult lesson. “Sirach took you away to have the baby. He bought you a slave woman and said the child was hers.”

  Martha didn’t speak.

  Simon pushed himself away from the table and stood. “Such a pious man, your father.” His lips curled, and his voice was as bitter as willow bark. He paced to the window.

  Martha peeked at Penina. She was standing like a statue in the doorway, tense, her hands tight as if ready to protect Martha with her fists if needed.

  Simon snorted. “A pious man.” He turned to face them. “So pious that after I came back from the leper colony, after I”—he jammed his finger into his chest and his voice rose—“paid for my sin, he turned his back on me. I live with my shame every day in this unforgiving village. But not Sirach’s daughter.”

  Martha’s heart sped up. She hadn’t realized how much Abba’s rejection had hurt Simon. Now, would she pay for Abba’s sins as well as her own?

  Simon stared out the window as though he’d forgotten Martha’s presence. He ran a hand over his neck, again and again until Martha thought he might rub the skin off.

  “What a good man, taking in a slave and her infant,” he muttered in a voice barely above a whisper. “A holy man. A man who told me his daughter—his sinful, defiled daughter—was too good for me.”