Tomb : A Novel of Martha (9781451689136)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  Martha’s stomach knotted.

  Simon spun around, facing her again. “I asked him again, a year after I’d been declared clean, for you. He said no.” His face twisted. “And all the while, you were the impure one. You. Not me.”

  Martha tried to breathe as fear rose in her chest. Simon had assumed Abba had rejected him because he had been a leper. Instead, Abba had been protecting her. Because Abba had known what Lazarus did not . . . Simon was not a merciful man.

  Simon crossed the room to tower over her. “I won’t bother to ask who the father was. If you didn’t tell Sirach, you won’t tell me.”

  She looked up at him, surprised.

  “I knew your father, Martha.” He answered her unspoken question with a flick of his hand. “He followed the law. He would have found the man and made him marry you. Or seen him punished.” Simon took a deep breath and blew it out through his nose. “Does Lazarus know?”

  She nodded.

  “And he expects me to take them in?” He motioned to Penina. “Your slave and your own bastard son. As well as your ill-natured grandmother?”

  Martha looked him in the face and straightened her back. Now was not the time to cower. “She’s not a slave. And Zakai knows nothing of this. I would expect you to treat them all with respect and”—she swallowed—“teach Zakai a trade.”

  Simon jerked again to the window, where he looked out at his courtyard. He rubbed his hands over his eyes and through his hair. Martha snuck a glance at Penina. Her friend’s face was pale.

  Simon turned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I could have you driven from Bethany. All of you.”

  Martha didn’t answer. They both knew it was the truth.

  “But I won’t.”

  She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

  Simon sat again at his desk, as if preparing to do business with a seed merchant or buy a yoke of oxen. “In three days, Lazarus will sign the ketubah, and our betrothal will be announced.”

  Martha leaned forward. He was accepting her? So easily?

  He picked up the stylus and made a note on the wax tablet. “Send Lazarus to me on the morning of the day after the Sabbath. Early.” His mouth twisted. “We will announce our happy news at the village gate that afternoon.”

  Three days. Three days until she was legally bound to Simon.

  He set down the stylus and stood, walking around the desk and coming to stand before her. He rested his hands on the carved arms of her chair and leaned forward, his face just a breath from hers.

  “Hear me, Martha. For this is the only time I will say this to you. You will never—never—dishonor me.” His voice was soft, but in it was the threat she understood. To her, her son, and everyone she loved. “In my home you will follow my laws. You will be hardworking, modest, and obedient to my every word. By the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, you will not speak to anyone of whom I do not approve.” Simon did not move, but watched as understanding flooded through her.

  Martha caught her breath. “Jesus?” she whispered. She’d never get to speak to him again?

  Simon nodded. “Jesus, his followers, including your brother if he is among them. Even your disgraceful sister if she doesn’t behave. You dishonored your father, but you will not make that mistake with me.”

  Martha couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. How could he ask this of her? Turn her back on Jesus? On Lazarus and Mary? “What if . . . ? What if I can’t agree to this?”

  Simon stared at her, his eyes flat and cold. “What is the punishment for having a child with no father?”

  Stoning, if the judges commanded it. If they were merciful, banishment for both her and Zakai, and probably Penina.

  Simon leaned even closer. “And the punishment for blasphemy?”

  Death. A flush of anger rose in her. “You can’t order the death of a man.” Could he?

  Simon’s mouth hardened. “If I see Jesus here again, I’ll have no choice but to report him to the Sanhedrin. They will take it up with the Romans.”

  She swallowed. “And Lazarus?”

  “If you do exactly as I say, I can protect him. But without me speaking for him, the Sanhedrin will arrest all Jesus’ followers, your gullible brother included.”

  Panic swelled in her. There was no going back. She’d thought telling Simon her secret might free her from her burden; instead she was bound even more tightly. And now, it wasn’t only Penina and Zakai who depended on her. Lazarus and Jesus—perhaps even Mary—would be in danger if she failed.

  Still, Simon wasn’t done with her. His next words, cold and precise, chilled her blood. “Martha, remember this. I am no longer a boy, running after the approval of your father. I am a man. And you will be the perfect wife in every way.”

  He leaned close enough for her to smell the sweat of his clothes and the clinging fragrance of myrrh in his hair. “In three days, we will be betrothed.” His breath brushed over her face. “And if I ever find out who the father of your child is, I’ll make sure he is punished exactly as the law commands.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Let me hear sounds of joy and gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice.

  —Psalm 51:10

  ISA FORCED HIS weary body up the hill. He’d pushed himself hard for two days, but it wasn’t much farther to the Jordan crossing. And then just a half day’s journey to Bethany. He could be there by midday tomorrow, perhaps even earlier.

  Nikius hadn’t been surprised when Isa had said good-bye. “Not sure whether to thank or curse you, boy.” Nikius had shoved a water skin and a bag of food into Isa’s hands. “You worked hard.” He jerked his head to where Alexa leaned sullenly against the door frame of the house. “But living with her now won’t be easy.”

  Isa ducked his head as he saw the disappointment in the old man’s eyes. Nikius had wanted a son. And Alexa . . . he’d seen her hurt when he’d come back from the tomb. If he was doing what he had to do—what Jesus had commanded—why did he feel like he was running away again?

  “May the gods go with you, boy.” Nikius’s words followed him down the road.

  Now sweat dampened his tunic and stung his eyes as he crested the hill. The dust-brown land stretched before him, cut through with the green furrow of the Jordan. Wool-colored clouds massed in the east while in the west the sun sank into a golden sky streaked with crimson.

  The bread and almonds that Nikius gave him when he left Gerasene two days ago were gone, his stomach as empty as the limp bag slung over his shoulder. His limbs trembled with a hollow weakness. He leaned heavily on the stout branch he’d picked up to use as a walking stick. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except that he’d soon be with Martha again.

  He could see her, more real than his feet on the dusty road, more vivid than the setting sun. The Purim after her mother died, he’d gone looking for the girl who had brought him food. He’d found her in the orchard, crying in the light of the moon. He knew the sound of loneliness, but he didn’t know how to help her except to sit beside her in the crook of the oldest apricot tree.

  At the next feast, he’d found her there again, as if she was waiting for him. He didn’t know what to say to a girl so pretty, a girl who smelled like fresh-baked bread and cinnamon. But he did know a game. Question or command, he’d asked, desperate to hear her voice.

  She chose question, as he’d hoped she would. He asked her about her abba, about Mary and the baby, Lazarus. About life with a family. She answered easily, as if she didn’t know how fortunate she was to have these people . . . to belong to a family.

  When it was his turn, he chose commands. He didn’t want to answer what she was sure to ask—about Zerubabbel, about their life of travel and homelessness . . . about his bruises. But he was happy to do whatever she asked of him. Especially if he could see her smile.

  When he couldn’t be with her in the orchard, he watched her as he sang his songs and played the kinnor. He saw how hard she worked. How she ne
ver strayed far from Mary, how she cared for Lazarus like a mother.

  Her family fascinated him. He watched how they laughed and smiled—and the way they touched each other! They embraced when they saw each other, and again as they said good-bye. Martha held Mary’s hand as they walked through the meadow and kissed her brother’s scraped knees and elbows. He’d even seen stern Sirach scoop up his young son in his arms and swing him onto his shoulder.

  What would it be like to feel something other than the back of Zerubabbel’s hand each day? What would it be like to know that so many people loved you?

  It was the Purim he was seventeen when he knew Martha had claimed his heart and soul. He and Zerubabbel had arrived in Bethany late in the night, and he’d slept in the orchard, waiting for her. She had come to him as dawn filtered through the new green leaves of the apricot trees, no longer a girl but a woman. She’d smiled at him . . . and he was lost. He’d known in an instant he would do anything for Martha—anything she commanded, anything to make her happy.

  That dawn in the orchard they spoke of marriage for the first time. Abba would never allow it—not to a pagan. That year, he buried his statues of the pagan gods and threw away his amulet. He listened to the teachers in the Jerusalem Temple and learned about the God of Abraham.

  He’d do anything for Martha. Even worship her God if it meant being with her.

  Every year he returned to Martha, yearning to see her face, terrified that she’d be betrothed. But that last time, when she begged him to speak to Abba, he had been too afraid. Afraid that Sirach would banish him from Bethany forever.

  Isa kicked at a loose stone on the road. Yes, he’d do anything for Martha . . . except face her father. Coward.

  Running away, that’s what he was good at.

  The first night out of Gerasene, Isa had found a shepherd’s hut. The man had offered him food and a place to sleep . . . until he’d told him about the demons, about Jesus. Then the frail old shepherd had brandished his staff and driven him out into the night.

  Today, he’d walked far without food but had hoped for a meal when he came to a village on the slopes of Mount Gilead. The people there had seemed good and kind. They’d given him water at the well, and one brave matron had offered a midday meal. But when they’d asked him who he was, he’d told his story. The woman’s husband had pulled a knife while his wife cowered with the children. Isa had made do with water and a few dried pods from a spindly carob tree.

  Is that what Martha would do? Would she be afraid of him or, worse—despise him and call him defiled? Did he dare tell her about the demons and how he’d become an animal under their power? Or would he be giving Sirach one more reason to drive him away?

  A wave of dizziness slowed his plodding feet. He remembered this road dimly, as if from a dream. The crossroad to the Jordan was close, just around the bend. There was a spring where he could fill his water skin, maybe even find a few green figs or wild onions to eat, and sleep another night beside the road. But tomorrow, he’d be in Bethany.

  He rounded the bend and stopped suddenly.

  A camp was pitched at the spring—a tent, a fire, a grazing camel. In front of the tent stood a tall man, two servants huddled close to him. Three other men, one holding a heavy club, advanced on the tall man, their backs to Isa. One snarled in thick Greek, “Give them over. Everything. And the camel.”

  Isa veered into the shadow of an oak tree. They hadn’t seen him. He could turn back or cut through the brush. He didn’t want any trouble, not now, so close to Bethany. And this looked like trouble.

  He eyed the tall man—a foreigner and clearly wealthy. His tunic was dyed a deep blue, embroidered along the hems and sleeves in gold thread. A finely woven head covering threw shadows over a long face and deep-set eyes.

  The foreigner held up his arms in front of his servants—an old man and a half-grown boy—as if to protect them. “Take what you will, nothoi, but leave my people alone.” His voice was deep and his bearing as stately as a king’s.

  The thief with the club advanced. He turned his head, and Isa could see his face was scarred, as if he’d lost a fight with a mountain cat. “We’ll do what we want with them, and you’ll be thankful if we don’t leave you bleeding to death on the road.”

  Isa’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t let this man fight off three thieves with just a boy and an old man to help him.

  He gripped his walking stick and slipped out of the shadows. One of the thieves was close, his back to Isa. Isa stepped quietly behind him and swung with all his strength at the back of his head. The man dropped to the ground. The second one charged. Isa pulled the stick back and jabbed the knobbed base straight at the oncoming man’s gut. With a grunt, his attacker doubled over and fell to the ground, clutching his belly.

  Isa spun toward the leader, but the tall foreigner had already yanked the club from the man’s hands and used it on his head. Isa faced the prostrate attackers, shoulder to shoulder with the tall man.

  The thieves scrambled to their feet, scowls on their faces and curses in their mouths. Their eyes widened when they saw Isa. He stepped toward them, his walking stick held high. They looked at each other and stumbled away, crashing through the brush toward the river.

  Isa watched the brush until he was sure the men were gone, then turned to the trio staring at him in silence. He could imagine what they saw. A hulking man, wild hair tangled down his back, in a thin scrap of a tunic. A man who had sent three men running. Of course they were afraid.

  But the foreigner bowed to him. “I thank you from my heart.”

  Isa nodded and backed toward the road. Any moment now, they would order him away.

  The stately man moved forward slowly, as though approaching a wild animal. “Where are you going, my friend, as the sun is setting?”

  My friend? Isa pointed across the Jordan.

  “It will be dark soon.” The man lifted a brow. His eyes were deep brown and looked almost . . . welcoming. “Are you hungry?”

  The smoke from the cooking fire brought Isa the smell of meat, and his mouth watered. Would they share their food with him? Perhaps. Unless he told them about the demons.

  A smile played on the man’s generous mouth. “Look.” He held out his empty hands. “You just saved my life and my servants’ lives. The least I can do is give you some food and a place to lay your head.”

  Within moments, Isa was served a stew of creamy red lentils and chunks of goat meat. The unfamiliar spices stung his tongue, but food filled the void in his belly and left him sleepy and satisfied.

  As he ate, he listened. The man’s name was Melech. He was a Jew from Caesarea, although he looked and sounded like someone from a farther land. Melech signaled to the boy servant for more stew. “We journey to find Jesus, the Nazarene.”

  Isa looked up from his bowl. “You know of Jesus?”

  “So you can speak? Good!” Melech clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. “Yes, I know of him. Who doesn’t in all of Judea?” He held out his hands. “I was a leper, almost dead, my flesh rotting from my bones.”

  Isa’s stomach turned as he peered at the man’s hands and face. His skin was smooth and unblemished.

  “I was driven from my home in Caesarea to Dotham, with the rest of the unclean. And then we heard about him.” He shook his head in wonder. “Finally, outside Jerusalem, we found him. He healed us all.”

  Jesus could do more than drive out demons? “What else has he done?”

  Melech’s teeth flashed white against skin the color of polished oak. “My boy, there is nothing he cannot do if you have faith. He has healed the sick, the mute, the deaf. He’s given sight to the blind. They say he even brought a dead boy back to life, the son of a Roman.”

  “But isn’t he a Jew?”

  Melech laughed. “Yes. And that’s the part no one understands. It seems he can cure all, Jews and gentiles alike. He asks only one thing.”

  Isa’s heart quickened. “One thing? And what is that?”

&nb
sp; “That you believe he is the one sent by God.”

  Sent by God? The demons had believed in him. The son of the Most High God, they’d called him. A rush of warmth poured through Isa that had nothing to do with the spicy stew.

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s the Messiah, my boy. The one the Jews have been waiting for.” Melech smiled.

  “The one in the old songs?” He’d sung about the Messiah many times, just as he’d sung of Zeus and Adonis to the pagans.

  “The very same. And he goes over the country, healing the sick and speaking of his father, the God of Abraham and Isaac.”

  Could it be true? The God of the Jews had sent the Anointed One that they sang of at every feast? The demons had known it, and they had obeyed him. Isa’s heart burned in his chest.

  “Some of the Jews in Jerusalem despise him.” Melech’s face twisted, and he spat on the dust. “The fools called for his arrest. He left, I found out, with his followers and is teaching in Bethabara, just a day’s journey from here.” Melech waved to the east. “I will go tomorrow, to give thanks to him. But tonight . . .” Melech slapped his thighs and signaled to the old servant. “Tonight we celebrate. We were strangers, and now we are brothers.”

  Brothers? Hope sparked within him. If he could be brothers with a Jew from Caesarea, perhaps there was hope for him in Bethany. As long as he didn’t speak about the past seven years.

  The boy servant appeared, and what he held in his arms made Isa’s breath catch in his throat. The firelight danced and flickered on its polished wood. The taut strings gleamed. He rose to his feet, his hands reaching out of their own accord.

  “Do you play the kinnor?” Melech asked.

  Isa stared at it. His fingers could already feel the strings beneath them. Melech nodded to the boy. “Give it to our new brother. Let us sing together. But first, my friend, you must tell us your story.”

  Isa took the kinnor in his arms and eyed Melech and the servants. Tell them of the demons? He couldn’t.

  Melech looked at him closely. “Come now. I told you I was once a leper. It couldn’t be worse than that.”