by Angela Hunt
We women kept busy with the meal. Rosana had butchered and roasted a lamb the day before, so I helped her pull the meat off the bone as Neta and Morit crushed dry herbs to mix with olive oil.
Rosana tossed a bone out the window for the village dogs. “How fared the naming ceremony?” she asked me, lifting a brow. “Did Caleb manage it without fainting?”
I laughed. “He was anxious, anyone could see it. So was his wife. But the thing is done and another baby is circumcised.”
“Blessed be Adonai,” Rosana murmured. “And blessed be those two for their obedience. They have more courage than many priests in Jerusalem.”
I made a soft sound of assent as I placed several hunks of the steaming meat in a serving bowl. I couldn’t tell which spices Rosana had used to season the lamb, but I had never smelled anything so appetizing.
I saw my mother sitting on a bench across the room. She wore a blank look, but at least she had joined the family celebration.
“How is my mother?” I asked Rosana.
My mother-in-law’s busy hands slowed for a moment. “She does not say much,” she said, her gaze drifting to the far side of the room. “Mattathias thinks she may have been violated by the soldiers who entered her house. But she does not seem unhappy.”
“Thank you for looking after her,” I said. “You have shown such kindness to us.”
“You are both part of our family now.” The warmth of Rosana’s smile echoed in her voice. “In truth, it does me good to see your mother again. I knew her as a young girl—she was quite the beauty.”
The unexpected revelation stole my breath. “She was?”
Rosana lifted a brow. “Can you not see it? She is much the same, but the years have been hard on her. That man.” She shook her head. “Still, I am glad she is with us.”
She dropped the last handfuls of meat into the serving bowl, checked the bread, and stood back to survey the dishes on the table. Then she smiled at me. “You may ask Ehud to call the men for dinner. The sun is about to set, so tell them to hurry.”
I approached the periphery of the men’s circle, caught Uncle Ehud’s eye, and crooked my index finger, then pointed to the table. He understood and interrupted Eleazar long enough to say that dinner was ready.
The entire family sat on couches and benches as Rosana lit the candles and welcomed the Sabbath. As she brought her hands to her face in the ritual gesture, Simon leaned over and untied the strap that held the leather curtain at the window. It rolled down, blocking what remained of the daylight, and my mother abruptly lifted her head as if confused by the darkness.
“Simon,” Mattathias said, his voice firm, “tie up the curtain again.”
“But that would be work on the—”
“Tie it up.”
Silence hung over the gathering as Simon stood to roll the curtain again. If any Seleucid travelers happened to be in the vicinity, they would have a good view of our family’s Sabbath meal.
We all knew why Simon had closed the window, yet if the dinner had been taking place in my home, I might have closed the windows beforehand. I certainly wasn’t eager to be hauled off, tortured, and executed. In Jerusalem, where it was nearly impossible to hide from one’s neighbor, thousands had already been killed.
But no one had been arrested in Modein. Not yet. The small village seemed to be occupied only by devout followers of Adonai, so perhaps we would not have to fear the sort of persecution that had decimated Jerusalem.
Judah and I settled onto a dining couch as Mattathias lifted a linen napkin from the herbed bread and recited the blessing: “Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha-olam hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz.”
Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.
“Amein,” a dozen voices chorused.
As we ate, I looked around the gathering and wondered how many of these people would have the courage to observe the Sabbath if Mattathias and Rosana were not here to lead them.
Chapter Nineteen
Judah
During dinner, I couldn’t stop a wry smile from lifting the corner of my mouth. Neta, Johanan’s wife, kept whispering in her husband’s ear, and Johanan wore the look of bored tolerance I had seen a thousand times. Johanan had insisted on marrying a beautiful but peckish woman, while I married out of obedience and had been blessed with a gentle beauty.
“Judah?” Father’s voice broke into my musings. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
“Um . . . yes.” I nodded. “The situation in Jerusalem grows worse.”
Father grunted, barely mollified. “They say this movement springs from the great Alexander, who wanted to unite the world into one race and one people. But he failed, as all men will fail if they attempt a task only HaShem can perform. How can a man unite the world when Adonai has set people apart? We are the seed of Abraham, a chosen race and a peculiar people. The world will be blessed through us, but we are commanded to remain separate.”
“I believe,” Uncle Ehud said, “this latest edict is designed to promote the king’s religion. Is his name not Antiochus Epiphanes, ‘God manifest’? These foreign kings yearn to be worshiped as gods. They desire our worship, our allegiance, and our offerings.”
“Especially our offerings.” Eleazar made a face. “He would bleed Jerusalem dry if he could.”
“I have a name for him,” Simon announced. “We should call him Antiochus Epimanes, which means ‘the mad one.’”
Eleazar bent over his plate, choking with laughter, and Jonathan giggled so freely that I couldn’t help chuckling.
Simon stifled his urge to laugh by rubbing a finger over his lip.
“We must never give a human king what belongs to HaShem,” Father said, his voice calm. “We are the people of Adonai.”
“Perhaps we should go to Egypt,” Uncle Ehud said. “There are thousands of Jews in the south. Antiochus is not allied with Egypt, so we could dwell there safely.”
“And leave our Promised Land?” Johanan said. “And leave the Temple, ruined as it is?”
The others raised their voices in dissent, but Father lifted his hand for quiet. “This is not a time for arguing,” he said. “It is a time for careful consideration.” He straightened, his shoulders twitching as he eased into the authority he wore like an invisible mantle. “I will not deny that HaShem has led some of our people into Egypt—Adonai has His reasons, and who am I to argue with Him? But how can we abandon the Promised Land out of fear? Shall we capitulate to the Hellenes and surrender our Temple? Shall we submit to the high priest who has betrayed his people and used his office to bribe a pagan king?”
“But what are we to do?” Simon asked Father. “We are members of a priestly family, but we can do nothing about the current high priest. He bribed his way into power, and we are not wealthy enough to bribe the king into appointing someone more appropriate.”
“He used Temple money to pay his bribe,” Johanan said, his lips thinning. “He would not be wealthy if he had not stolen money from the Temple treasury.”
“What are we to do? We are to pray.” Father lifted his gaze from our circle and looked out the dark window, beyond which lay Jerusalem in all its troubled splendor. “We are to remember that a heathen altar has been raised above our sacred stones, and we are to pray for its removal. We are to remind each other that profane animals are being sacrificed in the Holy of Holies, and that Zeus is revered in our holy place, not Adonai, the Lord of heaven and earth. And we are to teach our children that no king can ever take the place of HaShem in our hearts. The Hellenes may abolish our Temple service, they may forbid us to circumcise our children or observe the Sabbath, and they may encourage us to eat unclean animals. But they can never unseat HaShem from His throne. He still owns heaven and earth, and He still controls the fate of kings and priests.”
“Amein,” I said with my brothers.
And in that moment, as I looked around the circle of my family, I sensed a presence among us. I h
ave never seen a burning bush or the glowing angel of the Lord, but as I sat and watched shadows lengthen across the room, I felt a sense, unanchored but strong, that Adonai was among us and that He would honor my father’s prayer. And that everyone present had a role to play in the coming days, a purpose that would result in the salvation of Israel.
Only when I tasted the salt of tears on my lips did I realize I was weeping.
Chapter Twenty
Leah
At the conclusion of the meal, Mattathias stood and rapped his knuckles on a table. “My children,” he said, his eyes sweeping over everyone in the room, “how I wish I could prepare you for the coming trouble. For it is coming to Modein, even as it came to Jerusalem.”
I looked at Judah and lifted my brow in an unspoken question. I had not been taught the Torah as he and his brothers had, and though I had grown up in the synagogue, I always understood that my husband would be responsible for teaching me—or his father, as was the case that Sabbath night.
“Alas!” Mattathias closed his eyes and lifted his hands to his white head. “Why was I born to see the ruin of my people and the destruction of the holy city? Why did HaShem allow me to dwell in the City of David when the Temple had been defiled and the sanctuary given over to aliens? Our Temple is like a woman without honor, her altars desecrated by heathens who do not know Adonai. The infants of Israel have been slaughtered, her youths struck down by the sword of our enemies. What nation has not inherited Jerusalem’s palaces and seized her spoils? All her adornment has been taken away. No longer free, she has become a slave. The glory of Jerusalem has been laid waste; the Gentiles have profaned it. Why would HaShem allow this to happen?”
His gaze shifted from one son to another as he waited for an answer. All five men lowered their heads, and at length, Mattathias sighed.
“HaShem is doing what He has always done—Israel has sinned, so we are being disciplined by our enemies. We have become a people who follow the Law without heeding its intention; we sacrifice on every holy day and ignore the hungry stranger at our door. But most important, we have ignored Adonai, the God who brought us out of Egypt, who brought us back from Babylon, and who gave us this land. How long has it been since we lifted our voices in honest prayer? Since we praised His majesty? Since we thanked Him for His goodness? Since we asked HaShem to send His Spirit to convict us of sin and fill us for His use?”
I lowered my head and peered around the room. I had never witnessed a family like this, and words like these had never passed my father’s lips. He had spoken more about himself than about Adonai, and to my knowledge he had never given a thought to sin, starving strangers, or gratitude.
“We, the children of Israel,” Mattathias went on, “have taken pains to do all that has been commanded in the Law of Moses, but we have forgotten how to be people of HaShem. We have dedicated our hands but not our hearts. So when other ideas and foreign gods entered our land, our hands kept doing, but like an unfaithful wife our hearts followed strange gods. We have sinned as a people, and Israel’s sin has touched all of us—especially me.”
I stared, shocked, as the old priest bowed his head and struck his breast. “Why should we live, if we are living apart from HaShem’s blessing?”
Silence fell over the gathering, a quiet so thick that the only sound was the thin whistle of the old man’s breathing.
My husband spoke first. “I’ll tell you why we should live,” he said, color rising in his face. “We should live to restore the holy Temple and return it to Israel.”
“War!” Eleazar shouted. “Joshua led the children of Israel to war when conquering this holy land, so why shouldn’t we pick up weapons in order to keep it? David was a man of war, also Samson. Adonai gave them strength against their enemies and allowed them to prevail against impossible odds.”
I blinked at the unexpected outburst. My husband had proven himself to be gentle and not at all violent except when he had to be. I knew he would fight if attacked, and he would use all his strength against anyone who came against his family. But go to war? I pressed my lips together and hoped that Mattathias would counsel against such rash action.
But Mattathias looked at Eleazar with approval in his eyes. “You have always been the boldest of your brothers,” he said, a smile in his voice. “It may be that Adonai has given you the heart of a warrior for this very place and time.”
Johanan leaned toward his father. “What of me, your firstborn?”
“Ah, Johanan.” Mattathias smiled at his eldest child. “You are the most ambitious of my sons. You will yearn for victory, but you must always remember that there can be no victory apart from HaShem. Without holiness, your efforts will fail.”
“And me, Father?”
“And me?”
Jonathan and Simon pressed for their father’s attention, but Mattathias had transferred his attention to Judah. “In the past,” he said, “Adonai punished Israel by sending the Philistines, the Babylonians, and the Canaanites. Now He has sent Antiochus Epiphanes. If we are to restore the Temple, if we are to bring Israel back to Adonai, we must purify ourselves before we can do anything. After that, we shall see how HaShem leads us.”
He spread his hands, indicating the remains of the feast on the table. “From this moment until sundown three days hence, I will eat nothing. I beg you to join me in this fast, so that we will be ready when Adonai opens the door for action. Will you fast and pray with me?”
One by one, the brothers voiced their agreement. The women remained silent, though I knew we would be expected to do whatever our husbands did. But three days without food! My father would never suggest such a thing.
“We will join you, Father.” Judah spoke for all the men present. “And we will wait for your instructions.”
The old man fixed his penetrating gaze on my husband. “The time is coming, Judah,” he said, his eyes burning, “when you will walk away from your goat pen and pick up your sword. When that time comes, trust in no man, but in Adonai alone. Can you make that promise?”
Judah inclined his head. “I can.”
“Good.” Mattathias turned to me, as if he wanted to be sure I had borne witness to the exchange. “Very good indeed.”
Our little house was not far from Mattathias’s home, but when the door closed and the window coverings lowered, we might have been a world away. When Judah crawled onto our bed and I saw the light in his eyes, I hoped that fire burned for me—and not for his father’s cause.
“What say you, wife?” Judah caught my hands and held them between his. “Have you decided to leave my family and go in search of your father’s clan? Surely things are quieter there.”
“I did not come to Modein in search of quiet.” I lifted my head long enough to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “I came in search of laughter—and Simon always makes me laugh.”
“Simon?” Judah roared with pretend indignation, then lowered his head until his lips grazed the side of my neck. “Are Simon’s jokes as pleasing as this?”
I closed my eyes as my blood began to rush through my veins. “No.”
“Or this?”
His questing lips found my palm, a sensitive spot that never failed to pebble my skin. “All right, I confess! I never laugh at Simon.”
“So you laugh only at me?”
“I laugh . . . with you.”
His lips covered mine. I returned his kiss in a surprising rush of feeling, then pointedly turned my head.
“What’s this? Have I done something to displease you?”
I averted my eyes. “Your father wants us to purify ourselves and be holy, and surely it is wrong to lie with your wife on Shabbat.”
“Wrong to—” He blew out a breath and grinned. “Who would teach you such a thing? Loving one’s wife is not work; it is a mitzvah. A good deed.”
“If lighting a fire is wrong because it is an act of creation, then lying with one’s wife must also be wrong, for it might result in the creation of a child.”
; Curious, I peeked up at him and saw thought working in his expression. “But the Torah commands us to be fruitful and multiply. It also commands a husband to provide his wife with food, clothing, and the intimacy of the marriage bed.”
He had gone serious, an effect I had not intended. “Judah?”
“Hmm?”
“I was teasing.” With the tip of my finger, I traced his brow, the curve of his cheek, and his lips. “And when you take me in your arms”—my voice thickened—“I care not what day it is.”
His arms tightened around me as he smiled. “You are surely a wanton woman. A woman who terrified me when we first met.”
My jaw dropped. “Why?”
He nodded as a rush of color stained his cheeks. “Because you were so beautiful.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck and surrendered to him, reserving only a small portion of my thoughts for wondering if this night might result in the child I needed to keep Judah safe from his father’s enthusiasm for war.
An abrupt sound woke me from sleep. I stiffened as a thrill of fear shot through me, then I reached out for Judah and felt only empty space.
“Judah?”
“I’m here.”
Frightened by something I heard in his voice, I stumbled out of bed and hurried to the window. Not caring if it was the Sabbath, I tore down the leather blind, allowing moonlight to flood the room.
Judah remained in our bed, but he was sitting erect, his face and chest pale in the silvery light. His eyes were wide, his lips parted, and his hands . . . were shaking.
“Are you all right?” I hurried to his side and knelt on the floor, my hands seeking his. “Are you sick?”
He shook his head. “I . . . had a dream.”
Relief washed over me in a flood. “Oh. It’s nothing, then.”
I gripped his hands, which continued to tremble, and forced a smile. “Judah, I am here. It was only a dream. Nothing of importance.”
He shook his head again. “I . . . have them sometimes. I see things, sometimes horrible things, and . . . they are real.”