The gray-bearded priest in charge stepped forward and jabbed a finger at Ari’s face. “I suppose you know how to do better? What is your name called?”
“My name is called Ari Kazan, and yes, I know how to do better. What is your name?”
The priest looked surprised that anybody should not know his name.
Somebody said, “He is called Hanan ben Hanan, and he is sagan.”
The name meant nothing to Ari, but he knew that the sagan was the second in command of the Temple. This man Hanan ben Hanan was in line for the high priesthood. Ari looked around the circle of men. Hostility hardened in their eyes.
Hanan ben Hanan glowered at him. “And how does a man with the name of a beast know better than a priest of the living God?”
Hanan’s arrogance aroused rage in Ari’s heart. He stood up to his full height and stared down at Hanan. “Because I too am a priest of the living God. I come from a far country, and I have studied the secrets which are not permitted for an ordinary man to know. I know the secrets of the creation of the universe, and of the sun and the moon and the stars in the heavens. And if you permit me, I will reveal the secrets of the crane to you, so that no such accident will happen ever again.”
Around the circle, a murmur of excitement ran.
“A man who knows the secrets of HaShem!”
“Perhaps he is a magician from Babylon, or out of Egypt.”
“What sort of name is that for a man—Ari?”
Hanan ben Hanan studied him with narrowed eyes. “Very well, Ari called Kazan, magician from a far country. Show us these ... secrets.” He said the final word with a sneer that said plainly he did not believe Ari knew any secrets.
A shiver ran through Ari. He required time to redesign the crane. It was wrong—that was obvious. But finding the solution would take some thought. Ari shook his head. “I require one day to prepare the secret.”
Something like triumph flickered in Hanan’s eyes. Clearly, he thought Ari was lying, trying to save face. “Tomorrow at this hour, Ari called Kazan will show us the secrets of the crane. If this man Kazan is telling the truth, then it will be well. If he is lying, then it will not be so well.”
Ari held Hanan’s eyes without flinching. “Tomorrow.” He turned his back and began examining the crane. His heart hammered inside his chest.
Because the truth was ... he knew not the first thing about engineering a crane.
Excellent thinking, Ari Kazan. You have twenty-four hours to become an expert.
Hanan ben Hanan
* * *
Hanan ben Hanan watched in disbelief as the tall arrogant man turned his back on him. He had not dismissed Kazan, and yet the man turned his back. It was an intentional challenge to Hanan’s honor. A statement that he, Kazan, was of higher rank than Hanan, the sagan.
What sort of name was that for a man—Ari? And Kazan—what did that mean? It sounded Babylonish.
No matter. Kazan was a fraud, a liar, a wandering magician of some sort. Such men could not be trusted. It was men such as this who led the people astray, promising miracles from the heavens, a sign from the Great King of the Universe, victory over the Romans, a mashiach to end all troubles. Lies! Rage slicked Hanan’s hands with sweat. He would not permit such men to poison the hearts of the people.
Such men did not love the Temple. Because of such men, the Romans might come and destroy the Temple of the living God. Such men were evil.
Hanan loved the Temple of the living God. The Temple was in his blood. His father had served as High Priest, and his four older brothers also, and his sister’s husband. They were the caretakers, the true sons of the Temple. The others—the Pharisees, the false prophets, the messianics—they were wolves. They did not love the Temple, and therefore the Temple must be protected from them.
And that was Hanan’s job. That was why he had been appointed sagan, the captain of the Temple guards. His guards loved the Temple. They would die for the Temple—as Hanan would, because the Temple meant more to him than life.
Tomorrow, Kazan would attempt his foolish magic spells. He would perform his incantations and they would fail and then Hanan would have grounds to arrest him. One could not permit magicians to stir up the people before a feast. Such men were evil, dangerous. It was best to deal with them quickly.
The matter of the failed crane was more difficult. Problems like this fascinated Hanan. The Temple required the solution to all sorts of building problems. Lifting paving stones. Maintaining a flow of water through the aqueducts. Constructing gates of sufficient size for the festival foot traffic. Of such things, the Torah had little to say. And the solutions of the fathers were no longer adequate. Hanan was now old, already more than fifty years, and in his long life Jerusalem had nearly doubled in population. The Temple, expanded by King Herod a hundred years ago, was again too small.
So Hanan had taken it on himself to innovate. The others of chief priestly family were too cautious. They were conservatives for whom the old was good enough. It was not good enough for Hanan ben Hanan, head of the great and powerful House of Hanan. He would solve the many problems that threatened the peace of the Temple of the Great King.
But this mystery of the crane had so far proven too hard. The paving stones in this part of the court were broader than normal. For some reason, this caused the ropes to break sometimes, even though they were easily strong enough to support the weight. Hanan knew instinctively that the solution was to make the crane taller. This new crane was the tallest he had yet constructed, and now it had failed. A man’s leg was crushed and that was tragic, but it was not the fault of Hanan. Such things happened from time to time. It was necessary in order to do the holy work of perfecting the Temple of the living God.
Tomorrow or next week or next month, Hanan would solve the mystery of the crane. And he would do it without the magic incantations of wicked men such as Kazan.
Chapter Four
Rivka
* * *
DO NOT TURN FROM YOUR calling, be it ever so small. What had Yaakov meant by that? Rivka paced through the quiet street in the northern district of Jerusalem on her daily afternoon walk alone. This was a sparsely populated district, the New City—built outside the walls of the original city. The New City had walls, but they were incomplete and would be difficult to defend in the coming war.
A dozen years from now, Rome would breach these walls and destroy the city. Rivka shuddered. People paid fortunetellers to tell the future? It was torture to know the future—the evil that was coming—and be unable to prevent it.
Or so Ari said—that she could not prevent it. According to him, the best they could do would be to run before the fury of the coming storm. Before the troubles came, they would fade into the countryside, cross over to Transjordan, and live out their lives in peace.
And abandon our people.
Rivka knew what it was to be abandoned. No. She could not do that.
And yet, what difference could she and Ari make? One woman and one man against the stream of history? It was absurd. Crazy. Ari wouldn’t put up with such foolishness. He had told her that a hundred times already.
Fine then. She would have to do it—
A small boy raced out of a house and barreled into Rivka.
She staggered backwards, grabbing the boy to keep him from falling in the dirt.
He struggled in her grasp. “Let me go!”
“Little boy, aren’t you going to say you’re sorry first?” Then Rivka noticed the tear tracks on his grimy face.
“My Imma said not to stop for anything! Now let me go!”
Rivka tightened her grip. “What’s wrong? Is your mother in trouble?”
“I have to find the midwife and then fetch Abba. Imma said to run very fast.”
“Can I help your mother?”
He squinted up at her. “Are you a midwife? Imma fell down this afternoon, and the baby is coming untimely, and she needs the midwife now!”
Rivka didn’t know a thing abo
ut midwifing, but she could at least make the woman comfortable. “I can stay with your mother while you find the midwife.”
The boy led her into the house. Four young children sat on the flagstoned floor, playing with small carved balls of wood and ivory. Ivory toys! These people had a bit of money. A moan filtered through a doorway.
The boy pointed. “She is back there in the birthing room.”
Rivka strode forward. “Go find the midwife. I’ll take care of your imma.”
She heard the door slam behind her as she walked through a large room with no furniture except a one-legged stone table. A dining room? Receiving room?
The next room had to be the kitchen, judging by the cooking fireplace and the stone table covered with ceramic pots. Then another large room, with plaster walls, frescoed with geometric designs. Several rooms opened from this one. Another moan. Rivka followed her ears to the birthing room. It had a low wooden bed on one side. Empty.
“Blessed be HaShem, you’ve come!” A woman wearing a large, billowy tunic of excellent linen squatted in the corner of the room, clutching the hand of a very frightened-looking girl of about ten. Squatting? Why wasn’t she lying in the—
Pain slashed across the woman’s face. “Help me!”
Rivka rushed to kneel beside the woman. Her knee knocked against something hard. “Ouch!”
“Be careful of the birthstool, sister. I am so thankful you have come. I was afraid little Yoni would not find you in time. Sarah here does not know what to do.”
“I’m not a midwife,” Rivka said.
“You are a woman. That is what—” The woman caught her breath and gripped Rivka’s left hand. “Another ... birthpang,” she said through clenched teeth. For a long minute, she said nothing.
The girl Sarah’s eyes widened in terror.
“Is this your mother, Sarah?” Rivka said.
Sarah shook her head. “I live here and work for my keep.”
A servant then. Maybe an orphan, or maybe her family was too poor to keep her.
Slowly, the woman’s grip on Rivka eased. Her hair hung limp in her face.
Rivka tied it behind her head. “My name is called Rivka.”
“My name is called Yael.”
“I’ll stay with you until the midwife comes. Tell me what to do.”
Yael’s face tightened with determination. “The baby will be here before the midwife. The birthpangs are fast now.”
“How many babies have you had?”
“Six.”
And four of them were out in the front room. With Yoni, that made five. Rivka knelt beside her again. “And you lost one? I’m so sorry.”
“Only one.” Pride showed in Yael’s face.
Rivka wondered what the infant mortality numbers were here. High, she guessed. Not to mention that a lot of women died in childbirth. She shivered. Those risks were part of this world she had chosen, and it was scary, but ... even scarier was the horror coming to this city. In less than a decade, Jerusalem would be at war. Rabban Yeshua was right—in such times, it was better not to have children.
She had discussed the matter with Ari and they had reached a hard decision. They would try not to have children. At least not until Ari found work and they could move somewhere safer, out of the coming war zone. Babies were adorable and Rivka wanted one—someday. She had to fight back tears sometimes, seeing Hana’s swelling belly, knowing that she had to put off motherhood, maybe forever. And the decision was hard on Ari, too, because—
“Oh! Another birthpang coming.” Yael began squeezing the life out of Rivka’s hand again. She closed her eyes and moaned softly. The sinews stood out in her neck, and her carotid artery throbbed.
Rivka took a discreet look at her watch, which she kept hidden well up her arm inside the long sleeve of her tunic. 3:48 p.m. She’d better start timing the contractions. If only she knew what the times meant.
Yael opened her eyes again, and her iron grip relaxed. “It will be soon now, Sister Rivka. When a baby comes early, it comes fast.”
“Early?”
“A month early, at least.”
“Oh, my!” Rivka felt her breath squeezing out of her. “That’s ... not good.”
Yael’s eyes glistened. “The one HaShem took was born early.”
The girl Sarah began whimpering softly.
Rivka fought panic. Sarah was not helping. “Sarah, do you have anything to wash the baby in?”
Sarah shook her head. “With what would I wash the baby?”
“The midwife would bring salt,” Yael said.
“Salt?” Rivka repeated, feeling stupid. Oh, as an antiseptic. She had read something about that somewhere. Probably in Jeremias’s book. No, on second thought—
“Oh!” Yael’s voice tightened, and then she was gripping so hard Rivka thought her hands would pop. Finally, the contraction began easing.
Rivka checked the time again. Less than two minutes apart.
“Do you have salt?” Rivka said. “And ... a knife, and some very thick thread?”
Sarah nodded. “We have salt—”
“Not enough,” Yael said. “The midwife is to bring some.”
Panic bubbled in Rivka’s chest. What if the midwife didn’t get here in time? “If you don’t have salt, we’ll have to use something else.”
Sarah stared up at her stupidly.
“It is the custom to use salt,” Yael said. “The midwife—”
“Beer,” Rivka said. “Sarah, do you have beer in the house?”
“Of course.” Sarah jumped to her feet. “Shall I fetch some?”
“A pitcher full, and a small basin to wash the baby in. And a towel.”
“You must find a cracked basin,” Yael said. Pain washed across her face. “Ah! Ah! Ah!” A long contraction followed, during which she crushed Rivka’s hand in hers. Sweat stood out on her forehead.
“Why a cracked basin?” Rivka asked.
Yael gave her a strange look. “It will be unclean afterward.”
“Of course,” Rivka said. I knew that. Pottery was susceptible to ritual uncleanness—and a newborn baby was definitely unclean. The basin could not be purified, so they would throw it away afterward.
Sarah hurried into the room with a basin and pitcher, a linen cloth draped over her shoulder.
“Don’t forget the knife and thread,” Rivka said.
Sarah dumped everything on the bed and disappeared.
“Oh!” Yael said. The sound of liquid gushing onto the floor followed.
Rivka felt her knees turn wet. She looked at the clear fluid seeping into her tunic. Thank God it wasn’t bloody, but she would need to wash it tonight.
Yael’s grip was a vise now, mashing Rivka’s hand. The contraction went on and on. Finally it eased. “My waters have broken. The time is short.”
“I have the knife and thread!” Sarah returned, waving a large kitchen knife.
Ten anguished minutes passed, and still no midwife. Sweat drenched Yael’s face. “It is time,” she grunted through clenched teeth.
So soon? Rivka was sweating now. She didn’t have any idea what to do. Yael had obviously been through this many times, so they were just going to have to wing it.
Rivka knelt in front of Yael and pulled up the linen garment that shrouded her. “Sarah, hold this up.”
The girl grabbed it and stood there, mute with fear.
The seat of the birthstool was shaped like a horizontal U, with the open end forward to give a midwife access. The stool supported Yael’s weight, allowing her to squat for more leverage.
A dark mass bulged out of Yael’s birth canal.
Rivka reached up and felt it—the soft bloody head of the baby. “I’m ready.”
Yael gripped the handles on either side of the birthstool and gave a low moan. The air in the room turned electric with the crushing strength of her push. The whole head emerged, slightly misshapen, with soggy black hair.
Rivka hoped that was normal. She waited, but nothing mor
e happened. “Push again when you can, Yael. We’re almost there.”
Another tremendously powerful push and then ... the whole body emerged in one long sweeping movement. So fast!
Rivka caught the wet, slimy baby as it emerged.
Now what? Her mind spun furiously. A pulsing bluish cord still connected mother and child. Rivka realized she was weeping. Tears of joy. And terror. “It’s out,” she said. “I’ve got the baby in my hands.”
The baby felt very small, very light. A thin oily film covered its body, as if somebody had smeared butter all over it.
Rivka waited, her mind numb. Should she cut the cord? Or let the placenta come out? “Yael, what am I ... what should I do now?”
Yael grunted, sounding exhausted. “I am very thirsty.”
Sarah brought a large stone cup of water.
Yael drank it greedily.
Rivka turned the baby over. “How wonderful! A boy. Sarah bring the knife.”
Yael’s sweaty face glowed with a holy pride. “Blessed be ... HaShem. Are you cutting the cord already? I would like to lie down on the bed.”
“Just … give us a minute and Sarah can help you up.” Rivka tied the cord with the thread and then held it firmly while Sarah sawed through it, whimpering.
“Sarah, help Yael to the bed.” Rivka carried the baby to the table and laid it on a fresh linen towel. The child was perfect. She began wiping off the tiny body. The heart beat rapidly under her fingers. Something flickered in her mind. Something not quite right.
The child’s heart missed a beat.
A rush of panic shot through Rivka. This was wrong. She leaned down and peered into the baby’s pale face. Of course! The baby was supposed to be breathing. You were supposed to spank it or something. She turned him over and gave his skinny buttocks a tentative swat.
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