Tomb : A Novel of Martha (9781451689136)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  Was he dead? He tried to rise, but pain suffused his head. His hands searched his body. His bag . . . gone. His belt and the silver . . . gone. He shivered in the wind. Even the new tunic and coat had been stripped from him.

  He’d lost everything. A wave of despair washed over him like a flood. He closed his eyes and gave in to the pain that coursed through him. With it, unbidden, came the memory of another night of agony.

  He and Zerubabbel. On a boat. In a storm.

  The wind had come up just after they’d left shore in Capernaum. Zerubabbel was terrified, but Isa, for once, had insisted. It would be an easy ride to the Greek side of the lake, where they could make plenty of silver playing for the pagans. Isa’s thoughts were on Martha . . . how he needed the silver. He hadn’t seen the storm coming.

  Brutal gusts whipped at the sail. The waves rose, tossing the boat and its two passengers from side to side. Isa clutched at their pack with the flute and kinnor inside and pushed it into the prow. They couldn’t lose their livelihood, not now.

  “Help me!” Zerubabbel cried, grabbing at Isa as the boat listed to one side, water pouring in and pooling around their ankles. Isa struggled with the oars, trying to turn the boat into the waves.

  Zerubabbel’s eyes rolled in terror. “Don’t let me fall in.” His long fingers wrapped like shackles around Isa’s wrists.

  Isa pried him loose. “Grab the other oar.” If Zerubabbel could balance the other side of the boat, they could use the oars to face the waves. Then they wouldn’t take on more water.

  But Zerubabbel clung to him like a terrified child.

  A massive wave broke over the boat, tipping it sideways. As they tumbled into the water, Isa held his breath. He stroked upward, breaking the surface to find the boat out of his reach and Zerubabbel thrashing beside him. The pack—his kinnor! It was sinking under the waves.

  “Help us!” the old man screamed, grabbing at Isa, pushing them both under. Isa struggled against Zerubabbel, coughing out water. His kinnor—it was gone.

  Isa opened his eyes to the burning sky. His heart hammered, his breath lodged in his chest. Only the breeze and rustle of grass assured him that he was, indeed, no longer in the water. But it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory. A memory as clear as if it had happened yesterday.

  He groaned and tried to stop the images that followed.

  Zerubabbel was strong, unnaturally strong. Shrieks like a thousand tortured souls spewed from his mouth. Isa wrapped one arm around his guardian’s neck and swam with the other. He reached the listing boat and pulled himself onto the hull. “Grab the side!” he shouted. But Zerubabbel was consumed by a terror so deep, he was blind and deaf.

  Zerubabbel slipped from Isa’s grasp, disappearing under the churning water. Isa grabbed his hair and pulled him up, but it was no longer the face of his lifelong guardian that he saw rising from the water. Zerubabbel’s eyes rolled back to show just the gleaming white orbs; his mouth stretched open—too wide, as though pulled by invisible hands.

  An inhuman voice howled from Zerubabbel’s cavernous mouth: “Save us.”

  Fear coursed through Isa, but he didn’t release his hold on Zerubabbel. What was happening? Then a mist, like breath on a cold day, snaked out of Zerubabbel’s open mouth. It slipped upward, coiling around Isa’s hand. His grip on Zerubabbel faltered, and the man’s lifeless body was pulled down, into the dark depths.

  But the mist didn’t follow Zerubabbel. It slithered up Isa’s arm, then higher—over his chest and neck. Tendrils slipped into his nostrils like smoke. Taking hold.

  The frigid presence filled his mind, laughing like a pack of jackals. His last thought—the one he clung to like a drowning man—was of Martha. Her face. Her voice. Until even her memory was swallowed by the unrelenting terror.

  Isa stirred. The wind was cold, but his body was on fire, melting on a bed of agony. His throat felt like a cauterized wound. He cracked open his eyes. The sun burned above the horizon.

  How long had Zerubabbel been infested with demons before that storm on Galilee? And then, when his body was slipping under the waters of Galilee, the demons had found a new host. Him.

  He choked and felt hot tears on his face. Zerubabbel was gone, drowned in the waters that he feared so much. His guardian had been unkind and even cruel. But he was the only father Isa had ever known. Now he was indeed all alone. And he would die alone on this road if he didn’t find the strength to get to Bethany.

  The shadows of the cypress trees stretched toward him—reaching out as if to pull him into their depths. Fear seized him.

  When they reach me, I know I’ll die.

  He called out to the only God he knew. The God who had sent his son to him. The God of the Messiah, the God of the songs he’d sung since he was a boy. Please, God of Abraham and Isaac, God of Jacob . . . give me strength.

  He pushed himself up, the sun swinging wildly in the sky as his head swam with pain. To his knees, then to his feet. He found his stick lying in the ditch next to his trampled traveling bag. Inside, his kinnor was broken into a pile of kindling.

  He clutched it to his chest and shuffled onto the road. At his back, the sun blazed. In front of him, the shadows stretched over the western hills.

  Martha, I’m coming back to you.

  One step, then another, and another . . . toward Bethany.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  LAZARUS STRAIGHTENED AND stepped back, putting enough space between himself and Penina for his mind to start working again. Yes. He loved her. And not as a sister.

  But he couldn’t tell her. Not now. To tell her, to show her how he felt with the kiss he wanted, would be cruel. He would be leaving soon, and forever. He’d be no better than the heartless musician who had abandoned Martha.

  He cleared his throat and looked at her tiny feet. “You’ll see, Penina.” He smoothed his tunic. “This is best for all of us.”

  He caught the glint of tears on her cheeks as she turned away, and Lazarus’s heart wrenched. She disappeared around the bend, and his legs buckled. He collapsed onto the bench and closed his eyes.

  Please, Lord of All, take this away. But was his plea to be rid of his affliction or his love for Penina? Both were too painful to bear. At least he could make sure his household would be protected when he left them. He staggered to his feet and started down the mountain.

  Lord, give me time. Time to make sure they would be cared for. Time to say good-bye.

  By the time he reached Simon’s home, his chest burned and his tunic was damp with sweat. The courtyard door swung open at his first knock, and Micah led him to Simon’s workroom in the cool stone house.

  Simon sat at the same table where they had first spoken, with an unrolled parchment, a reed quill, and a jar of ink at his elbow. A scribe stood beside him—not the usual scribe from Bethany, whom Sirach had used for many years. This man was thin and sallow-faced, with sharp teeth and sharper eyes.

  Simon stood and embraced him. “Shalom, Lazarus. You honor me and the memory of your father, may his name ever be remembered among his descendants.” Simon nodded to the chair opposite his table. “Where is your sister?”

  Lazarus sat, trying to keep his breathing even. Martha had asked only one favor of him, that she not be present at the betrothal. He hadn’t been able to say no. “She asked me to act on her behalf.”

  Simon’s brows went high. “It is not the usual way.”

  Lazarus nodded. “But within the law.”

  “Yes,” Simon agreed with a small smile. “And we can allow her some leeway, to save her from embarrassment.”

  Lazarus gripped the arm of the chair. Simon’s tone held a note of disrespect that made the back of his neck prickle. “Who is this?” Lazarus jerked his head to the unfamiliar scribe.

  “This scribe shall record the details of the ketubah. He is”—Simon cleared his throat—“aware of our needs and has been well paid to stay silent. No one in the village will know the details of this document.”

  Lazar
us’s hands were damp, and he resisted the urge to wipe them on his tunic. Simon was right to bring in an outsider. The Bethany scribes would gossip—they all did—and the details of this ketubah must be kept secret. But the shifty scribe and Simon’s disrespect toward Martha grated on him.

  Simon poured wine into an etched silver goblet. “Let us begin.” He passed the cup to Lazarus and motioned for him to drink. Lazarus took a long gulp. It was strong and sweet and made him wish for cold water. He gave it back, and Simon drank.

  With the cup passed, the scribe read from the parchment. “On this, the first day of the week, the nineteenth day of the month of Adar, in the city of Bethany, Simon son of Elezar is betrothed to a woman, Martha, daughter of Sirach, may his light ever shine.”

  Lazarus tensed. To a woman. The ketubah should say to a virgin. Just a small word, but it made all the difference. If Simon had used one of the village scribes, Martha’s reputation would be ruined before she could walk across the garden.

  The room was suddenly hot, the air too heavy to breathe. Was he doing what was best for Martha? Was this what he had promised Abba?

  The scribe droned on, “Be thou my wife by the law of Moses and Israel, and I will work for thee, honor and support thee . . .”

  Lazarus glanced at Simon. His eyes were on the scroll, his mouth moving along with the scribe’s words. Would he honor her? Or would he forever remember that she was not a virgin bride?

  “. . . thy food, clothing, and necessaries, and live with thee in conjugal relations according to the laws of Israel.” The scribe took a breath and shuffled the scroll upward.

  A flush of heat swept over Lazarus, along with a wave of dizziness that made the room spin. He clutched the arms of the chair and pulled in a careful breath. This was the part that he needed to hear.

  “I, Simon of Bethany, forgive all the debt of Sirach’s household, and at the time of the marriage, will take into my home the servant Penina, the boy Zakai, and grandmother of the bride to support and care for them as my own family.”

  Lazarus felt some tension leave his cramped chest. Simon would take care of them. But the scribe continued, his voice scraping in Lazarus’s ears.

  “This ketubah shall be forfeited and all rights within it revoked if the bride is found guilty of adultery, or accused of any impropriety, or if she is accused of any transgression to the laws of decency.” The scribe paused for a moment and glanced at Lazarus warily. “And she shall be punished under the laws of our rabbis and sages, may their memory be a blessing.”

  Lazarus straightened. Accused of impropriety? Since when was an accusation reason for divorce? His head ached with the effort to stay upright as the pain in his side sharpened. He swayed in his chair. Was this what Penina had been trying to tell him?

  Simon caught his frown. “I can have not a whisper of disgrace on my household, you understand, my friend.” He glanced at the scribe. “Of course, Martha is the holiest woman in Bethany. This is just a formality.” His eyes were flat and hard.

  The scribe finished with, “The betrothal period shall be for one month.”

  Lazarus’s heart pounded. Accusations of impropriety. The scribe’s smug expression. And now just a month’s betrothal? This felt wrong. Very wrong.

  Simon strode to the door, barking a command, then returned with a look of satisfaction on his face. A parade of servants entered, each bearing an armful of gifts. The thin woman he’d seen earlier held out fine linen, dyed in all the colors of a rainbow. A man with a patch on his eye brought a tray filled with small clay pots, each marked with the name of an exotic spice. A third servant, the Egyptian girl, held an array of silver bangles and gold chains, enough to charm a dozen women.

  The servants looked at the floor, their faces drawn as if even they knew this marriage was a bad idea. Simon was talking. Something about sending the gifts to Martha this afternoon. About the plans for the announcement.

  Lazarus moved his head up and down and swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. On the outside, all was as it should be. The gifts, the contract, the forgiveness of their debt. He just had to sign, and his duty would be done.

  Lazarus took a shallow breath. He couldn’t do this. Martha deserved a better man than Isa. And she deserved a better man than Simon.

  The scribe gave the quill to Simon, who dipped it in the ink jar and signed the bottom of the scroll. Simon held out the quill to Lazarus, his face expectant.

  Lazarus pushed himself up from the chair. Hear me, oh Lord, and be my help. He waited for the room to settle. It made sense now. Martha’s silence, Penina’s appeal at the mikvah. They had known what Simon was like, and Lazarus had been too set on his own needs—first following Jesus, then hiding his illness—to listen. “Forgive me, Simon. I can’t do this.”

  Simon’s brows rose to the top of his domed forehead. “It is done. Everything is prepared.” His voice rose with each word.

  Lazarus staggered toward the door. “No. I won’t sign this. I will not allow Martha to marry you.” He just needed to get to the orchard. To rest under the trees, alone.

  He stumbled through the courtyard, ignoring the stares of the servants and Simon’s shouts behind him. He would talk to Martha, tell her about his sickness. He’d tell her everything. They would find another way. His breath rasped in his ears as he rushed past the gardens, through the stream, and up the bank, finally reaching the shade of the blossoming apricot trees. He stopped, gasping for breath. Somehow, he’d provide for her and Penina and Zakai. Some way that didn’t include marriage to Simon.

  Pain stabbed through his chest. He swayed and reached for a tree to steady himself but clutched nothing but air. He hit the ground, his breath left his body, and he knew nothing more.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs at the days to come.

  —Proverbs 31:25

  MARTHA SCRAPED HER feet on the path through the village, kicking up dust that clung to the hem of her tunic. She’d lain awake all night, worry choking her mind. Her eyes were gritty, and her head felt like it was stuffed with wool.

  Lazarus had been gone since dawn. He’d left early to immerse, then to go to Simon’s. Now the sun was well above the horizon. Her betrothal was no doubt complete and the ketubah signed. In almost every way she was a married woman. Simon could talk to her, touch her, even kiss her if he desired. She shuddered at the thought of his thick lips. And when the betrothal period was over, she would share his home and his bed.

  Halfway to the village, she’d met Penina coming back from the mikvah. Penina had fallen into step beside her, as if she knew Martha couldn’t face the well on her own. Not today. Jael was back from Jerusalem and surely would be there, catching up on the scandal of Purim. How Mary had embarrassed her family in Jael’s own home.

  But Jael’s horror at what happened while she was gone would pale compared to the news of Martha and Simon’s betrothal. Simon would have told her immediately on her return, but had Jael told her friends—the inner circle of Silva and Devorah—even though it was her son’s privilege to make the announcement? Could Martha have one more day before the news swept through Bethany like a brush fire?

  At least Simon wouldn’t tell Jael about Zakai. His pride wouldn’t let him, Martha was sure. But Jael would find plenty of other transgressions to hold against her new daughter-in-law, now and for years to come. As Martha came in sight of the well, her heart sank. At least ten women gathered around the low casement, squawking like a pack of buzzards. As she and Penina approached, Devorah and Jael turned to watch her. Her heart sped up, and her hands dampened.

  Jael sauntered close and linked her arm through Martha’s. “You’ve been busy, my dear.” She smirked. “It’s too bad your sister was so foolish. She ruined a perfect meal, from what my son says.”

  Martha tried to pull away. She didn’t want to hear again about how Mary had shamed the family. They didn’t know the real story.

  Jael’s hand closed over her ar
m like a claw. She pulled Martha along the low watering trough where shepherds brought their sheep to drink. “I want you to know,” she whispered, “Simon tells me everything.” She raised her brows in a knowing look.

  Martha sealed her lips shut before she could speak words she would regret. Not everything. If he had, Jael would hardly be acting like they were best friends going for a stroll.

  Jael continued walking around the sheep trough to the other side of the well. “You are a fortunate woman, Martha, that my son wants you as his wife.” Her fingers dug into Martha’s arm. “There are many women—younger women—who could give him a houseful of sons. But he has chosen you, my dear.” Jael’s face looked like she was having a tooth pulled.

  Martha didn’t answer, but she could imagine how Jael had reacted to Simon’s news when she returned from Jerusalem. It’s a wonder they hadn’t heard from across the meadow.

  “I’m sure by this time next year you’ll have a grandchild for me.” Her words sounded more like a threat than a blessing. “And when you are my daughter-in-law, you will learn how to please my son as well as be respectful to me.” Jael ran a hand over her oiled braids. “And don’t worry”—she nodded to Martha—“I won’t say a word about the betrothal until Simon makes the announcement.”

  Martha turned to the well. Now that Jael had made it clear that life would be miserable under her roof, perhaps she could get her water and go. But as she lowered the gourd into the well, she saw Mary approaching with her water jar. Martha’s mouth dried; she hadn’t spoken to Mary since the debacle at Simon’s. She just didn’t know what to say. Especially about Simon. Anxiety tightened at her neck as Jael intercepted Mary and whispered in her ear.

  Mary looked from Jael to Martha, her brow furrowed.

  Jael covered her mouth with her hand, but a hint of glee was in her voice. “Forgive me, my dear Martha. I just assumed your sister, of all people, would know.”