by Angela Hunt
“If I can do anything to help—”
“Just hold his head,” I said, walking toward my wagon.
I took a short knife from a leather pouch by the driver’s seat. I returned to the stallion, bent the creature’s foreleg again, and managed to slip the blade between the pebble and the soft interior of the foot. By pressing my finger near the pebble, a quick twist of the knife forced the pebble to pop out and rattle over the hard ground.
Before lowering the leg, I observed that the interior part of the hoof was red and swollen. The poor animal had borne the pain for as long as he could.
“This animal needs to rest,” I told the man. “Ride him gently—or better yet, lead him—and at the next town, find an inn with a stable and put him up for the night. Give him good food and let him rest. The swelling should go down during the night, and you may be able to continue your journey tomorrow. Avoid roads with small stones, and do not ride him hard on the way home.”
“Thank you.” The man patted the huge horse on the shoulder and smiled. “I am called Philander, and I owe you a debt.”
I shrugged. “You owe me nothing. You owe the horse a gentle ride.”
“Will you at least let me provide a meal at the next town? Please—my mount will be able to rest while we break bread together.”
I tilted my head, considering. He had a point. Though this foreigner was completely undeserving of that magnificent horse, and though his king had desecrated our Temple and destroyed our capital city, I was hungry . . . and, if the truth be told, a little weary of hearing myself think.
When we reached Beth-horon, a small mountain town mostly inhabited by shepherds and goat herders, we went to an inn across from the village well. Philander led his horse to the nearby stable while I checked on Leah’s mother. Sabra appeared to sleep soundly, but I would check on her again before returning to the road.
Philander noticed my sleeping passenger. “Is your mother ill?”
“My wife’s mother.” I managed a small smile. “I cannot forget to bring her something to eat when we leave.”
“You are a good son-in-law—better than most, by far.” Philander led the way into the inn.
Like other inns in Israel, the place was little more than a family home with an extra table for guests. I sat at the table and Philander sat across from me. The owner lifted a brow when he saw us, probably surprised to see a Jew sharing a meal with a Seleucid dignitary.
“What can I get you?” he said, coming over.
“Whatever you have.” Philander folded his hands and smiled. “Anything but pork.”
The innkeeper and I shared a quick look—why would this heathen object to eating swine?
When the innkeeper moved away, Philander lowered his voice and leaned across the table. “I know you have no reason to trust me,” he said, glancing around, “but I am sympathetic to your cause.”
“My cause?”
Philander shook his head. “Your clothing gives you away. You wear a long tunic, you still have your beard, and your head is uncovered. You are one of those who cling to the laws of your fathers—what do they call you? Hasidim?”
I hesitated. Was this some kind of trap?
“Anyway,” Philander went on, “I respect your position. After all, we Greeks cling to the religion of our fathers. Yet our king feels he can impose his religion on others. Not even the Persian kings attempted that.” He propped an elbow on the table. “Now I have a question for you. You were leaving your capital city, and you had to be upset by what you saw. Yet you stopped to help me, a man who is obviously affiliated with the enemy. Why did you do so? Were you planning to kill me and take the horse?”
I snorted. “I have never killed anyone, and I am not likely to start now. Truth be told, I didn’t want to stop for you. But the Torah commands us to show hospitality to strangers.”
“Even the enemy?”
“‘If your enemy is hungry, give him bread to eat,’” I quoted, “‘and if he is thirsty, give him water to drink.’” I smiled. “The Torah commands us to treat a foreigner as we would the native-born among us. We are to regard you as we regard ourselves, for we were once foreigners in the land of Egypt.”
Philander stared at me, his fingers absently tugging at a few straggly hairs on his chin. “An altruistic god. Fascinating.”
I braced my elbow on the table and rested my chin in my hand. Either this Philander was truly sympathetic or he was trying to catch me saying something that would merit a death sentence. “You say you live in Syria?”
“In Antioch—yes, the king’s capital city. You might as well know the whole story: I work for Antiochus. I’m one of his scribes.”
“A man of letters.”
“Yes. As I said.”
“What brings you to Judea?”
The little man sighed. “The king’s business, of course. I brought a packet of messages to Apollonius. The king sent me because I am—how did he put it?—invisible. No one would suspect an unassuming man like me to be carrying messages from Antiochus Epiphanes. You, on the other hand—you will never be invisible.”
I felt a slow grin stretch across my face. This man was so honest, so unassuming, I was tempted to believe every word out of his mouth. But how likely was it that I would encounter one of the king’s scribes on the lonely road to Modein?
“If you really work for the king—”
“I do.”
“I was trying to think of some way you could prove yourself. But I can think of nothing.”
Philander shook his head. “You lack creativity, my friend. Ask yourself—why would a little man like this be traveling on a valuable horse and not know how to care for it? If I were a wealthy merchant, I would have goods to sell or pocketsful of money. If I were a military man, I would certainly know how to care for my mount. If I were a farmer, would I have hands as clean as these?” He held up his hands, displaying soft pink palms and manicured fingernails.
“You could be a spy.”
He laughed aloud. “If I were a spy, would I identify myself as one of the king’s scribes? I would pretend to be something I am not, so I am obviously who I said I am. I could be nothing else.”
The host stepped over to our table, carrying a wooden platter loaded with two cups of wine, a loaf of crusty bread, and two generous hunks of goat cheese. Philander pulled a slender moneybag from his belt and paid with gold coins, then jingled the bag before my eyes. “Hear that? I have just enough to get home. No wealth here, and none hidden on my horse.”
“I’m not going to rob you.”
“Good.” The man bit off a chunk of cheese, then made a face. “Not as good as that of the king’s house, but better than starving.”
I sampled the cheese, too. “My wife makes cheese, and hers is better than this.”
“You have a wife—children?”
“Not yet.”
“Where do you live?”
I narrowed my eyes. For one who was not a spy, he asked a lot of questions. “Why would you want to know?”
Philander shrugged. “Because I enjoy conversation. Fine, don’t tell me where you live, but do tell me your name. After all, I gave you my name without hesitation.”
“I am called Judah Maccabaeus.”
He wrinkled his nose. “What does that mean? Something to do with your god?”
“It means hammerhead. Because I like to pound things.”
The scribe’s round eyes went wide. “Should I be more careful with my words? A diminutive man like me might not survive a good pounding.”
“Mostly I pound people who blaspheme HaShem,” I answered. “And I haven’t heard you do that.”
“Nor will you.” Philander broke the bread and selected the smallest piece. “I have learned it is not wise to come between a man and his god. The king has other ideas, but I don’t subscribe to them—I only write them down. And I like you Jews.”
“Why?”
“Why not? You keep to yourselves, mostly. You are a literate people,
and as a man who prizes literacy, that is a great virtue. You have persevered through many persecutions—present, past, and, I daresay, future.”
“Why would we face persecution in the future?”
“Why does the fox chase the hare? Because he is always hungry.”
I considered his answer and decided that Philander was an honest and practical man. At least he seemed to view the world with clear eyes. “I cannot find fault with your opinions.”
“Then let us be friends, finish our meal, and depart in peace.” He lifted his cup and held it before my eyes. “To you, Judah Maccabaeus—a swift journey and a prosperous life.”
I couldn’t help myself. I lifted my cup, too. “So be it, Philander the scribe.”
Because his horse needed rest, I left Philander at the inn and continued on.
Sabra said very little on our journey. I thought she might be a quiet person by nature, which helped explain Leah’s reserve. My wife might have inherited her mother’s quiet disposition just as she inherited the woman’s nose and jawline.
Though we traveled slowly, I pressed to reach Modein within a single day. I did not want to spend a night with a woman to whom I was not married, no matter who she might be. A righteous man of Israel should not do such a thing.
And, if I am honest, I was also motivated by the thought of sleeping with my wife in my own bed.
The road had emptied by sunset; most travelers had turned aside for dinner and a good night’s rest. The sun dipped below the horizon and turned the sky blue-black, then the residual light disappeared and left us with a diamond-spangled sky. Fortunately, a round moon lit the countryside, coating the worn road with a silver sheen.
I was humming one of Father’s favorite hymns of ascent when a voice startled me: “That is beautiful.” Startled, I turned and saw Sabra lying on her back, one arm pillowing her head, the other extended as if she could catch stars with her fingers. Was the woman losing her mind? Or was this her way of expressing admiration for Adonai’s handiwork?
“It is,” I answered, watching for her reaction. “Nearly as beautiful as your daughter.”
I expected some sort of reply, but the woman simply smiled and lowered her hand to her belly, apparently content to ride the rest of the way in silence.
Darkness lay heavy on the horizon by the time I reached Modein. I pulled up outside my father’s house, hitched the mule to a post, and woke my sleeping passenger. “This is my parents’ house. I am going to wake them, then we will get you settled.”
The quiet sound of steady breathing was the only reply.
Father came to the door, his eyes wide and his hair standing up around his head. He glanced beyond me and saw the wagon. “Did you find Leah’s parents?”
“Her mother,” I answered. “The cheesemaker is dead. The mother is not well. The governor’s men beat her.”
“Bring her in.”
“I was going to take her to our house—”
“She’ll be more comfortable with us, son. I’ll wake Rosana.”
By the time I brought the frail woman inside, my mother had prepared a pallet near the fire. I laid Sabra on it, then gave my mother a grateful smile. “I do not know how badly she is hurt,” I said. “But I’m sure Leah will be relieved to hear her mother is safely out of Jerusalem.”
“Do not worry.” Mother squeezed my hand. “She will receive tender care here with us.”
While Mother knelt by the woman’s bed, Father took me aside. “How fares Jerusalem?” he asked, unspoken pain glowing in his eyes. “What damage did the heathen do this time?”
I took a deep breath, uncertain of how honest I should be. “The damage is severe,” I finally said. “The walls are down, and the city is crowded with the king’s men. Entire neighborhoods stand empty and burned out. Children wander through the ruins looking for their parents. Food is scarce. The survivors are trying to help the injured and restore order, but the task will not be easy.”
Fresh misery darkened Father’s face. “Is it so truly bad?”
“The rumors we heard are all true. The enemy has established a citadel in the old City of David, and they are using stones from the destroyed walls to fortify their position. They will be close enough to the Temple to observe anything done there.”
Father groaned.
“That’s not the worst of it. The men doing the work are not all Gentiles. Many are Jews who have given themselves over to the king’s men.”
“And his gods.” Father frowned, then spat on the floor as if the thought of such betrayal had left a sour taste in his mouth. “At least we are no longer there to witness the desecration. I am grateful Adonai led us away. We will stand for Him here, in Modein, and we will welcome others who join our cause.”
I glanced around, wondering how my father’s house was supposed to hold the others he spoke of. He and Mother would be crowded by the addition of even this refugee.
“Go home to your bride.” Mother stood and slipped her arm around my waist. “Tell Leah not to worry about her mother. We will care for her, and she can remain with us for as long as she likes. But no newly married couple needs a mother hovering in the shadows of their home.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Mother pressed her fingers across my lips. “Go home, son.” Gently she pushed me toward the doorway. “And tell your bride she may visit her mother in the morning.”
Chapter Sixteen
Leah
Judah had been gentle and solicitous when he gave me the news about Father’s death, but he had never lived in my father’s house. His father was a decent, reasonable man, but my father had never been anything but a tyrant. Yet the Law of Moses commanded me to respect and obey that tyrant, and Solomon promised a blessing for those who honored their parents.
Why would HaShem command me to honor a man who constantly injured those he was supposed to love?
I bit my lip and lowered my eyes, not wanting Judah to see the extent of my relief, but he was more observant than most men. “You are . . . glad to hear this? I knew your father was harsh, but—”
“My father was not a good man.” I lifted my chin and met his gaze. “Living with him was not easy . . . not for me, but especially not for my mother. Life will be better for her now that he is gone.”
Judah’s face went blank with shock. “But he was your father. The Torah commands us to—”
“And I did, as best I could, until you took me away from that terrible man. But I will not mourn him. And neither will my mother.”
Judah shook his head back and forth, like an ox stunned by the slaughter’s blade. He might not understand, but he had grown up in a much different home. From what I could tell, I had come from a freakish family.
“One thing, Judah.” I caught my husband’s hand. “Say nothing of this to your family. I would not have them think less of me or my mother because Father was a monster. We survived him, though at times I did not think we would. He routinely beat my mother and several times she almost died, but you are the only one who needs to know the full truth.”
Upon hearing this, Judah had tilted his brow, given me an uncertain look, and blown out the lamp.
Now I drew a deep breath before approaching my father-in-law’s house. HaShem had answered the prayers I had dared not breathe, and my father was dead. Mother was here, and I was glad for it.
With Father gone, Mother could learn how to live her own life. She could smile without fear, she could relax, she could sit and do nothing if she wanted to. She could learn how to speak without evaluating every word beforehand; she could laugh and know she would not be scorned or silenced. She could learn how to stand erect and walk with confidence, holding her head high and knowing that she had survived the worst kind of nightmare.
What would she be like now that she did not have to weigh every attitude and action in the mercurial light of my father’s cruelty? Who would she be, now that she was no longer Father’s wife?
I paused outside the door and tilted my ear toward
the open window, but I heard nothing from inside Mattathias’s house. Then I knocked, and a moment later Rosana called and bade me come in.
I found Rosana and my mother inside. My mother-in-law stood at the table, working with her pestle to grind spices. Mother reclined on a couch, her hands in her lap, her gaze focused on Rosana’s work. Her face, when it finally turned toward me, seemed vacant and lifeless. Had Father stolen her soul before he died?
“Mother.” I walked forward and kissed her forehead, then sank to the floor at her feet. “I am glad you are with us.”
Are you? She did not speak the words, but I heard them as she looked at me with exhausted eyes.
If we had been alone, I might have asked about what happened to Father and how she came to be injured. But Rosana was listening and might not understand what had gone on in our home. I had been part of her family long enough to know that Mattathias treated her like a friend and a partner, showing her respect and rarely acting without asking her advice.
“How are you?” Mother’s brows flickered above a tentative smile. “How do you like being a wife?”
I felt my face heat. “I like it well enough. My husband is . . . nothing like Father.”
Mother’s smile deepened. “Good.”
The sons of Mattathias and Rosana, including Judah, also treated their wives with respect, and as one of those wives I did not always know how to respond. When Judah asked for my opinion, I hesitated to give it, certain that it would be met with an insult. When he approached with his arms outstretched, I found myself bracing for a blow; when he turned abruptly to flash a smile, I flinched.
And when he reached for me at night in the early days, my inclination had been to lie like a dead woman, biding my time until his breathing became deep and regular. Then I would remove his heavy arm and roll toward the edge of the mattress, clinging to the side as if it were a log in a raging river. In those moments I felt like I was two women, one who wanted to give herself to a man who had demonstrated nothing but kindness, and another who doubted that the kindness and generosity could be real . . . or permanent.