Tomb : A Novel of Martha (9781451689136)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  But it was. At least lepers could think. Could remember.

  His hands slipped over the delicate curves of the kinnor, so familiar, so comforting. He sat down beside the fire and stroked the wood. He plucked a string, then twisted a knob on top. He strummed a chord.

  Melech’s face was expectant. Waiting. The servants watched him.

  His heart sped up, and a cold sweat chilled his back. If he told them, they’d drive him away into the night just like the others. Or threaten him, like the old Greeks. He couldn’t chance it. Not when he’d just found a friend.

  Melech’s eyes were kind, and his face showed understanding. “Whatever it was, my boy, I can tell that you met him and he changed you, like he healed me. I could see it on your face when I said his name.”

  Isa’s shoulders relaxed, and his grip on the kinnor loosened.

  The servants crouched down beside the fire. Melech settled himself, his smile flashing in the dim light. “Let us sing. Perhaps you can tell us in song what you can’t put into words.”

  And with that, the melodies came to him, brimming in his mind.

  His fingers found their places and strummed a chord that filled the night air. Melech grinned, and the two servants leaned close. Isa’s voice swelled from his chest, no longer tentative, but sure and strong.

  Sing to the Lord a new song; sing to the Lord, all the earth. Sing to the Lord, bless his name; announce his salvation day after day.

  The words of the Jews he’d sung so many times, always with Martha in his mind’s eye. This time, a new feeling stirred in his heart. As the music rang through the night and Melech’s deep voice joined his, he saw the face of Jesus.

  The man who had power over demons.

  The son of the Most High God.

  The Messiah who had given him a new life.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Turn away your face from my sins; blot out all my guilt. A clean heart create for me, God; renew in me a steadfast spirit.

  —Psalm 51:11

  ISA LET THE old servant pour another jar of icy springwater over his head and shoulders, wetting his thin tunic. The sun was already well over the horizon, glinting down on the green grass and sparkling waters of the spring.

  The boy pulled the stakes from around the tent and began to roll it. Melech tossed Isa a round of warm bread. “Stay with us, my friend,” he said for the tenth time that morning. “Come to Bethabara. We will give Jesus homage together.”

  Isa tore the bread and stuffed it in his mouth.

  They’d stayed awake long into the night. He played song after song on the kinnor while Melech told him of Jesus.

  “All that he requires is faith, my brother,” Melech said again. “Come with us, and see him.”

  It would be good to travel with them, to play the kinnor and have companions. And how he longed to see Jesus again. But he shook his head at Melech’s hopeful face. “I must go to Bethany.” Even if it meant facing Martha’s anger and her father’s hatred.

  Melech sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.” He winked at Isa. “I’m guessing there’s a woman.”

  Isa looked at the ground, and his face heated.

  Melech laughed and signaled to the old servant. “At least I can send you to her looking better than that.” The servant brought a clean tunic, creamy white and embroidered with gold thread, and a coat of deep brown wool, finer than anything he’d ever seen. Isa looked at Melech in confusion and fingered the new tunic, the soft wool smelling of lye and cedar.

  Melech elbowed him. “Put it on.”

  Isa pulled it over the thin rag Nikius had given him. Then the coat, thick and heavy.

  The old man ran an ivory comb through his tangled hair and beard, then Melech pulled him toward the pool at the base of the spring. Isa stared at the man reflected back in the rippling water. Was that really him? That man with wide shoulders covered in fine clothing? Would Martha even recognize him from the ragged, beaten boy he had been the day he left her? Hope trickled through him. Surely Sirach would give him a chance to explain when he looked less like a poor musician and more like a rich merchant.

  Melech smiled like a proud father. “Your hair and beard need cutting, son. But that can wait for your woman to do.”

  The young servant came to him, shyly holding out the kinnor.

  “Take it, my boy,” Melech prodded him. “He wants you to have it.”

  “But I have nothing to give him.”

  Melech grinned. “He thinks you’re a hero, the way you took care of those vermin.” Melech pulled a silver drachma from his belt. “And take this. Go back to your home, and your woman, as a prince.”

  Isa stepped back, shaking his head at the silver. “I can’t.”

  Melech smiled. “You can and you will.”

  It was too much. Melech didn’t even know him—didn’t know what he had been—and treated him like a son. “Why are you doing this?”

  Melech pressed the coin into Isa’s hand. “Let’s just say someone helped me once, and I’m passing it on.” His smile faded. “And a girl told me this: Do not be afraid. He is the Messiah.” He looked into Isa’s eyes, his own full of wonder. “Just a girl I didn’t know, and I never saw her again, but she changed my life.” Melech threw his arms around him and slapped his back. “Now, go. May we meet again someday.”

  Isa’s throat ached with words he couldn’t say.

  Melech gripped his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Whatever Jesus did for you, my friend, know this: he made you a new man.”

  Isa’s chest warmed, as if a spark had been fanned to a flame. He’d turned away from his pagan gods for Martha. But he hadn’t believed—not really—in the God of the Jews. Now he had met their Messiah and been healed by him. Could he be a new man? Do not be afraid, Melech said. He would try.

  After a lifetime spent in fear and what seemed like eternity with the demons, he was free. Free to do what Jesus had asked of him and to return to Martha as he’d promised. And this time, perhaps he would be worthy of her.

  After Melech and his servants headed east to Bethabara, Isa faced the ford across the Jordan. Not much farther now.

  Mustard bushes with bright yellow blossoms dotted the banks. The cypress trees were green, as were the leaves of the mighty oaks that lined the riverbed, but the marsh grasses were brown and defeated. Dried-up myrtle and broom bush rattled in the wind, and the Jordan was reduced to a sluggish channel.

  He checked that the kinnor was secure in his bag and his silver tucked into his belt, then lifted his new tunic and coat and tied them around his waist. Memories surfaced as the cool water swirled over his legs, both sending a shiver up his spine. When they’d left Bethany that last time, Zerubabbel had feared the water here at the ford. He’d clutched Isa like an old woman as the water had risen almost to their waists. What had happened to his guardian after that? Where was Zerubabbel now?

  He reached the other side and scrambled up the steep bank, pulling himself up on the dried grass and thorny bushes. Bethany was just two hours’ journey from here, uphill all the way, on a path that wound through the rocky hills filled with caves.

  He’d see Martha by the time the sun reached its peak. His pulse quickened, and he started out, swinging his walking stick at a fast pace. He’d left her for seven years. He wouldn’t waste another moment. He’d walk into Sirach’s home dressed like a prince, with silver in his pocket and his kinnor in his hands to sing to her. Surely Martha would forgive him. And Sirach might take a moment to listen to him.

  But he wouldn’t tell them about the demons. Not right away. He couldn’t bear to have Martha fear him or for Sirach to call him defiled. But what could he say to her? How would she react when he walked into Bethany? She would be angry, that he knew. And she’d want to know where he’d been for so many years.

  But perhaps—worse than her anger—she was already married to a good man, someone her father had chosen. She could already have a child. His stomach twisted in a knot.

  His str
ong legs hardly felt the steep climb. His breath didn’t falter. His thoughts drifted to Martha’s childhood laughter as they’d eaten half-ripe apricots. As they’d hidden and found each other under the light of the moon. Then, to the last night in the orchard. She’d been so sad. He’d watched her all seven days of the feast. He’d seen her sadness in her bowed shoulders, in her slow steps. How she’d watched Mary and had blinked away tears. She would miss her sister.

  When she had come to him in the garden, he’d had nothing to say to ease her loneliness, and her tears had broken his heart. It had been so natural to pull her into his arms to comfort her. To heal her heartache with a kiss.

  But comfort had turned into something more . . . and he hadn’t been strong enough to stop what happened next.

  His heart sped up as he remembered her lips on his, her soft body as they’d lain on the carpet of blossoms. What they had done was wrong, and it was his fault. He had failed her, but now he would make it up to her.

  Isa quickened his steps, his eyes on the horizon, his thoughts on Martha. He didn’t hear them approach. Didn’t see them until he was surrounded. Three of them. Two from the front, appearing out of the cypress trees like spirits. One coming up behind him, a man with a scarred face he recognized.

  The scarred man held a heavy club wrapped in iron bands. “He’s the one,” he called out to the others. “And this time, he’s getting the surprise.”

  Fear froze Isa’s limbs for a moment; then a surge of anger went through him like a brush fire. These men stood between him and Bethany, and he wouldn’t let anyone separate him from Martha again.

  The scarred one ran at Isa and swung the club.

  Isa jumped back, avoiding the blow. He turned to see the other two almost on him. He lashed out with his stick, landing it on the side of one attacker’s head. A hit in the throat sent the third man reeling and coughing.

  Isa backed away. He heard a shuffle behind him and turned, but too late. The man behind him landed the club in his middle. His breath left him in a great gust. The faces around him blurred, his vision darkening as the road rose up to meet him.

  Hands ripped his bag from his shoulder and searched his belt. His kinnor, the silver. He needed that for Martha, for Sirach. He pushed them away and staggered to his feet. He swayed, the trees and road tipping wildly as he tried to suck in air.

  The scarred man’s ugly face came close, but his guttural curse sounded far away. Isa saw the club arcing toward his head but was helpless to stop it. Pain burst through his temple, and the sun exploded into a thousand stars . . . then, there was nothing but darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  He has counsel in store for the upright, he is the shield of those who walk honestly, guarding the paths of justice, protecting the way of his pious ones.

  —Proverbs 2:7–8

  LAZARUS STEPPED DOWN the stone stairs into the dark, cold waters of the mikvah.

  Blessed are you, Lord our God. Be my strength.

  He’d hardly been able to drag himself from his sleeping mat as the sun rose on the day of Martha’s betrothal. Since Jesus had sent him away, he’d felt his strength—his very life—draining away like water from a cracked jar.

  There was no denying it. The swelling in his side had grown and now was hot to the touch. He’d begun waking up at night drenched in sweat, dreaming he was drowning. Penina already knew there was something wrong. She didn’t tease him, and he caught her worried eyes on him more than once. Soon Martha would know as well.

  Today he would go to Simon’s and sign the ketubah. Simon would announce the betrothal to the village this afternoon, and Lazarus’s vow would be fulfilled. He would be free to leave them, and not to follow the Messiah.

  He took a breath and immersed, letting the cool water flow over his head. Is this what death would feel like? Would it be cool and peaceful like slipping underwater? Or would it come for him like the terrifying demons of his childhood nightmares, wrapping around him and stealing the breath from his body?

  He came up gasping for air. The hour is coming when the dead will hear the voice of the son of God. He’d thought that Jesus’ words were a riddle—but now he was beginning to understand.

  He was dying.

  He staggered up the steps and out into the thin light of dawn, pulled on his tunic, and slumped on the stone bench. Slowly, he breathed in and out while the pain in his side ebbed and turned into a dull ache.

  I don’t want to die.

  Lazarus rubbed his hands over his eyes. He wouldn’t live long enough to see Jesus come into his glory, when all would believe in him and know that the Messiah had come. He wouldn’t see Martha marry and have more children or Zakai grow into a man. And he would never see Penina’s smile again. The pain under his ribs turned into an ache in his heart. Who would she tease when he was gone? Who would carry water for her and bring her lavender?

  At least, with the ketubah signed, his family would be safely under Simon’s protection.

  Martha had been pale when she and Penina returned from Simon’s home. She’d said little, just told him Simon knew about Zakai—knew she wasn’t a virgin—and still would marry her. She hadn’t met his eyes, and Lazarus saw what her admission to Simon had cost her in the tightness around her mouth, in the jerky movement of her hands as she set about her tasks.

  “Did he ask about . . . his father?” Lazarus whispered, although only Safta was near, sleeping in her corner, Zakai’s rabbit curled on her lap.

  Martha shook her head.

  Lazarus had embraced his sister, pulling her close as relief eased the pain in his chest. “We were right to believe that he would give you a second chance, just as he has received. He is an honorable man.” But he’d felt her tremble against him, and she’d said no more about Simon or the upcoming betrothal. He didn’t tell her that he would not be following Jesus. He couldn’t speak of it, just as he couldn’t tell her about the sickness that weakened him more each day.

  For two days, the courtyard had been heavy with silence. Martha worked—scouring every pot, immersing every vessel, sweeping the house until not a speck of dirt dared show itself. Even Zakai was subdued. When he wasn’t doing his chores, he sat in the corner with his animals or curled up next to Safta.

  Anyone would think they were preparing for a burial instead of a betrothal.

  Penina worked beside Martha, her usual smile when she served Lazarus replaced with a frown, her dimple absent. How he would miss that smile, the dimple that was his daily bread.

  A scrambling of sandals on the pathway brought him to his feet, and the object of his thoughts hurried around the bend in the path. Penina’s hair was woven into a braid that shone blue-black, and her rich skin glowed in the morning light. She didn’t look surprised to find him.

  She came to a stop in front of him and bowed, like a slave to a master.

  What was she doing? He reached for her hands and pulled her up. “What do you want, Nina?” He’d give her whatever he could. She didn’t have to beg him.

  She began to make her signs, slowly and carefully. Lazarus’s eyes went from her hands to her expressive face.

  Martha, marriage, no.

  “You don’t want Martha to marry?” Is that what she’d said?

  She nodded, relief brightening her face.

  Lazarus leaned back. “Why? It’s a good marriage, Nina. It’s what Martha wants.”

  Penina shook her head violently. She leaned forward, her expressive hands moving quickly.

  Please. No marriage.

  Lazarus rubbed his eyes. Penina didn’t understand this was how it had to be. “Penina, I won’t be here much longer. Martha needs to be married to someone who can take care of you and Zakai. You know this.”

  Penina signed furiously, fast and jerky, her dark eyes flashing. He caught some of what she was trying to say, but he must be wrong. Simon. And then a sign he didn’t understand, but her face told the meaning.

  “You don’t like Simon?”

  She cle
nched her jaw, her hands closed into fists, and she nodded.

  Lazarus relaxed. That’s all it was. “Don’t worry. I know he’s not . . . well, he can be fussy.”

  Penina raised her brows. Fussy? she seemed to say.

  Lazarus blew out a breath. “All right. He’s arrogant. And difficult. And his mother is worse.” He set his hands on her soft shoulders. “But Martha can handle him and Jael. She’ll take care of you.”

  Penina shook her head and looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears.

  His heart lurched. His Nina—always so full of vinegar—crying? “Nina. What is it?” He ran his hands down her arms and captured her hands in his, so small and soft. If only he could make her understand. “Please. I know you don’t believe in God’s goodness; I wish you did. But trust me if you can’t trust in him.”

  She leaned closer. Her eyes pleaded with him; her mouth trembled.

  He’d touched her many times like this, as a sister. But this time, his heart beat faster and a warm flush crept up his neck. She was so sad. And so close. He could bend his head and kiss her—comfort her—so easily.

  She leaned forward until her warm curves pressed against him. She tipped her face up. Her lips parted, and her eyes met his. The look she gave him was not that of a sister, and the feelings he’d denied for too long were hardly brotherly. One kiss. Her body, her face, her eyes said it as clearly as if she’d spoken.

  He breathed in her scent of lavender and rainwater. Didn’t he deserve as much—one kiss from the woman he loved—before he left this world?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Do not drive me from your presence, nor take from me your holy spirit. Restore my joy in your salvation; sustain in me a willing spirit.

  —Psalm 51:12–13

  ISA DRIFTED IN a sea of darkness and pain.

  He breathed in the scent of earth and the sweet, metallic tang of blood. Dry grass rustled in a cold wind, and the chant of insects throbbed in his ears. He pried open his eyes and glimpsed the amber sky, the sun rising like a flame on the horizon.