by Angela Hunt
“Right,” Johanan agreed. “Our people must feel safe in the holy city.”
The king looked at me now, but I was still weighing the matter. “I am inclined to accept,” I finally said, “but I will always be curious about what caused the king’s change of heart.”
The child gave me no answer as his mouth curled in a lopsided smile.
I nodded at Lysias and picked up the sharpened stick. “We are willing to accept the terms. We will live in peace with the king if the men in the citadel do not harass our people at the Temple.”
“Excellent.” Lysias pressed his hands together. “This treaty will take effect the day you and your army evacuate the Temple fortress. When you have done so, our army will return to Antioch straightaway.”
I glanced at Simon, who cleared his throat. “We will return to our homes and villages if you agree not to harm the innocent citizens of Jerusalem or leave the city defenseless,” he said. “We have worked long and hard to repair the damage done by the former king.”
Lysias bobbed his head. “Agreed.”
“Very well,” I said. “We will begin to leave Jerusalem on the morrow.”
“As soon as possible, please,” the boy king said. “I am certain neither of us wishes to prolong this situation.” He gestured to a soldier at the side of the tent. “Remove the chains from these men. They are free to go.”
I pressed my hand to my chest and bowed my head. “As soon as possible, then. Farewell, my king.”
To a man, the army of Israel marveled at HaShem’s surprising provision for our safety.
Though our overjoyed women wanted to celebrate, I was inclined to obey the king’s suggestion and leave Jerusalem as soon as possible. We needed food, and the city’s inhabitants needed to recover from the invasion of so many unexpected refugees. After days of being confined within the city walls, everyone would enjoy walking in open country, even if the Seleucids watched as we departed.
As for my family, we were happy to depart for Modein. I found it difficult to believe that I might be able to hang up my sword and shield, but the enemy gave us no trouble as we began to leave. They did not molest or question us, and my heart was encouraged when I saw them breaking camp, too.
The last of our refugee families walked through the gates of Jerusalem just before sunset, leaving only my family, the priests, and the permanent residents inside the walls. Johanan and I stood by the road that led to Beth-zur and watched as the Gentiles ascended the heights of Jerusalem. When the Seleucid officials met us, we stepped aside so they could enter the city. A company of warriors followed them, and I reluctantly accepted the knowledge that they would be an occupying force stationed at the citadel, the tower we had tried so long to empty.
“Go in peace.” The captain of the Seleucid squad lifted his chin as I passed him. “The city is ours.”
I wanted to argue that point, but the sharp jab of Simon’s elbow convinced me to move out with my brothers and join our waiting families. We walked for several minutes, each of us struggling to deal with a host of mixed feelings, and then we heard the unexpected sound of thunder. Simon glanced over his shoulder at the city we had just vacated.
I turned in time to see a section of the Temple fortress crumble and fall. The thunder had been the sound of a battering ram.
“They’ve already broken their word,” Simon said, an edge to his voice.
“Do we keep walking?” Jonathan peered at me, then looked back at the dust rising from the demolition. “Or do we sound the shofar?”
I pressed my lips together and debated the question. “The king can’t afford to let us have a fortress,” I said, “and he wants to be sure he can enter whenever he likes. After all, he sees the city as his.”
Ona began to weep, and Morit moved to comfort her. I knew what they were thinking—Eleazar had given his life in the defense of Jerusalem, and now the city was being laid helpless . . . again.
But HaShem had granted us a temporary respite.
“We go home,” I finally said. “And we enjoy the peace . . . for as long as it lasts.”
“Good of Adonai to save us at the last minute,” Simon quipped as we walked home in the dark. “I was already wondering who would be plowing my fields next year, since I’d be in my grave.”
Johanan laughed. “I was wondering who would marry my wife.”
Instinctively, I waited for Eleazar to contribute to the conversation, then winced at the sudden pang of loss.
“I miss him, too,” Jonathan said. “Modein won’t be the same without him.”
Simon shot a pointed look at the women, who walked in front of us. “We will have to take care of Ona. I’ll have Morit check on her every morning. We can share our harvests with her, and I know the other women will make sure she has everything she needs.”
“She might marry again,” Jonathan said, staring into the darkness.
I chuckled at his suggestion. “That is a good idea. She is still a young woman, and you need a wife. How old are you now, anyway?”
Jonathan glared at me. “Twenty-three.”
“Perfect. She can’t be a day over nineteen, so why don’t you consider it a match?”
Jonathan gaped at me as Johanan elbowed him. “It is the Law. You should take her as your wife and have children for Eleazar.”
“Brilliant plan.” Simon nodded with finality. “Ona is a lovely woman. You will be very happy with her.”
Jonathan pretended to ignore our suggestions, but the matter remained on his mind because he kept sneaking glances at the women as we walked.
Once we had properly mourned Eleazar, I was certain we would be celebrating a wedding.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Leah
Not long after HaShem spared my husband, Judah received a letter from Philander, who revealed the reason for the king’s sudden capitulation during the siege. The impetus had come from Lysias, who had just learned that Philip, the late king’s choice to be his son’s guardian, was en route from Persia to Antioch with papers guaranteeing his place as regent until the young king came of age. Since Lysias had no wish to surrender his power and authority as acting regent, he was obligated to return to the Seleucid capital before Philip took the kingdom into his hands.
We did not care who reigned in Antioch, as long as the ruler left us in peace.
Two years passed. Life returned to what passed for normal in the Hasmon family, and I reveled in the joy of having my husband at home. Judah, the mighty warrior, took care of the goats while I made cheese to sell in the market. Johanan oversaw excellent grain harvests because HaShem blessed the earth after the sabbatical year. Simon’s orchard produced juicy figs and abundant grapes, and Morit baked delicious breads and cakes. Eleazar’s horses, now supervised by Judah and Johanan, received praise from all over Judea, and men came to study the brood mares and stallions. And Jonathan, the young man who had always enjoyed an idyllic unmarried life, married Ona and took care of the sheep so she would have plenty of wool for her weaving.
While the men were out in the fields one afternoon, a caravan stopped in Modein. We women had been talking at the well, so when the caravan arrived we reached for buckets to water the horses and camels. A richly dressed man on the second camel called down to us in Aramaic. “Peace to you, ladies! We have come seeking Judah Maccabaeus. I have something for him.”
Another message from the scribe? I walked over to the camel and extended my hand, expecting to receive a parchment or scroll. “I am Judah’s wife. I will take whatever you have brought.”
The swarthy rider’s cheek curved in a grin. “’Tis not the sort of thing you can hold,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the rear of the caravan.
I lowered my arm and looked back in time to see a young man, probably no more than fifteen or sixteen, slide off a mule. He walked toward me, head down, and looked up only when the man on the camel spoke again. “I leave him with you,” he said, pulling on the reins of his beast. “We must keep moving.”
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nbsp; Before the other women could offer water, the caravan pulled away and headed south, away from Jerusalem.
Who was this?
I studied the youth standing before me. Gray dust covered his skin, matted his hair, and caked his sandaled feet. His clothing appeared to be expensive, but it, too, had suffered on the journey.
“He’s too old to be a son of Judah,” Morit said. “But if he claims Simon as his father, my husband will never hear the last of it.”
The boy lifted his head. “Philander of Antioch is my father,” he said, defiance flashing in his eyes. “I am not a Jew.”
Shock ran through me as my eyes met his. His eyes were as blue as the sea, tinted with green. No, he had not been sired by one of the Hasmon brothers.
“I understand,” I said, not understanding anything. “Have you—have you run away?”
His face seemed to collapse as his shoulders slumped. “My father is dead,” he said, his voice scraping as though it hurt to speak the words. “I would be dead, too, if a friend had not saved me.”
“You must be Eneas.” The name came back on a tide of memory. “Your father mentioned you often in his letters. He wrote . . . that you liked the colt Judah sent.”
The youth brought his hand to his face as his body shook, but he did not weep. “They took the horse. They took everything.”
I placed my hand on the boy’s shoulder, hoping to bring some comfort, then looked to my sisters-in-law. “Can one of you fetch Judah? He should be here.”
“I will go.” Ona whirled away and ran toward the fields while I attended to our guest.
“Here is water,” I said, picking up a bucket. “You’ll feel better after you’ve washed the dust from your face and feet. Let me help make you comfortable, and then you can tell Judah what happened. I know he will want to hear everything.”
Eneas nodded silently, then walked with me to our house.
After helping the boy wash his hands, feet, and head, I gave him bread, cheese, and honey water. I had no experience with young Seleucid men, and I wasn’t certain how much more I should do for him. Though he ate silently, he seemed grateful for the food.
When the door finally opened, Judah and Simon strode into the house. Judah glanced at me first, lifting his brows to silently ask if all was well. I nodded and gestured to the boy. “Philander’s son,” I explained in Hebrew. “He has come with sorrowful news.”
While Simon tugged on his beard and watched, Judah sank to the bench next to the boy. “I am happy to meet you, Eneas,” he said, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “I have heard many fine things about you. Your father loved you very much.”
The boy stopped eating, swallowed hard, and threw his arms around Judah’s neck, going quietly and thoroughly to pieces.
Part V
In the one hundred and fifty-first year, Demetrius, the son of Seleucus, set forth from Rome, sailed with a few men to a city by the sea, and there began to reign.
As he was entering the royal palace of his fathers, the army seized Antiochus and Lysias to bring them to [Demetrius].
But when this act became known to him, he said, “Do not let me see their faces!”
So the army killed them, and Demetrius took his seat upon the throne of the kingdom. Then there came to him all the lawless and ungodly men of Israel; they were led by Alcimus, who wanted to be high priest.
1 Maccabees 7:1–5
Chapter Sixty
Judah
When the boy could finally speak, Simon and I sat across from him and let him tell his story. Leah stood against the wall, and I was glad she would know the boy’s history, too. He needed comfort at this time in his life, and women always seemed to know how to console the distressed.
“A lot has happened since my father last wrote you,” Eneas said, glancing up through tear-clotted lashes. “The last Antiochus, the boy king, is dead, and so is Lysias, killed by the army of Demetrius.”
“Who is Demetrius?” Simon asked, scowling. “Do these kings reproduce like rabbits?”
The boy shook his head. “Ask me not who these men are or where they came from; I do not know. I only know that kings rise and fall, and good men die along with them. Dead also is Onias, the Jewish priest who served Antiochus.”
“The last of Zadok’s line,” Simon whispered.
“Why were these men killed?” I asked. “But most important, what happened to your father? Surely any king can use a scribe. He could have served the new king as well as he served the other—”
“All the other scribes are well,” Eneas said, angrily swiping a tear from his cheek. “But the new king’s man—I forget his name—was going through the desks of certain scribes, and he found a letter Father had written to you. When they called Father before the king, he would not lie, but told them he had been a friend to Judah Maccabaeus for a long time. And that he would always be a friend to you. And then—” he turned the catch in his voice into a cough and went on—“for his loyalty they killed my father, my mother, and my sister. They would have killed me, but one of Father’s friends slipped away from court, came to the house, and took me away through a back door. My mother and sister were in the front of the house or they might have been saved, too.”
I clapped my hand to the boy’s shoulder and bowed my head. I felt my face twist as tears rolled over my face and into my beard. I wept for my friend, for his goodness and bravery, and for the loss of his family. And for this fatherless boy who would never know how many lives his father’s letters had saved.
“Your father was a friend, indeed,” I said after clearing my throat. “My people owe him a great debt, and you are welcome to stay with us for as long as you like. You may live in my house and be part of my family, for I can never repay the debt I owe Philander.”
The trembling boy looked up and met my gaze. “You should know the things Father was writing to you about. There are Jews in the king’s court who bear no love for your Law, nor for Israel, and especially not for any who call themselves Maccabees. They are lawless men led by one called Alcimus, who was named high priest in Jerusalem. He came to Antioch with an accusation—he said you and your brothers have destroyed all the king’s friends and driven them off their land. He said you tell the people not to respect his authority. He invited the king to send a trustworthy witness to Judea, someone who will see the ruin you have brought on the land. He wants the king to punish you and anyone who helps you.”
I listened to the boy’s report not with alarm, but with an odd sense of weariness. I thought we had finally achieved a sort of peace, but apparently HaShem had not finished testing us.
I lifted my face toward heaven. “We have purged the land and still you judge us?”
The boy looked confused, but Simon ignored me and leaned toward the lad. “What more can you tell us?”
Eneas pressed his lips into a thin line. “The new king has already chosen one called Bacchides—I believe he is a governor of the province beyond the river, but I know he is a loyal friend to the king. He and this Alcimus are coming to Judea with a large force to take vengeance on you.” A wry smile crossed the youth’s face. “Beware. That’s how Father signed the letter. ‘Beware, friend.’”
I squeezed the lad’s shoulder again, then looked at Simon. “The time of peace is over. Another king in the north sends yet another army against us. And this one comes with a Jewish traitor.”
Simon narrowed his eyes. “Shall we sound the shofar?”
I considered a moment, then smiled. “Let us send riders instead. Surprise has always worked to our advantage.”
Bacchides, our newly appointed governor, and Alcimus the high priest entered the land of Judea with such a large force that no one could ignore them. They sent letters filled with peaceful words to me and my brothers, but we paid them no mind—no man intent on peace arrives with a vast company of soldiers.
But not everyone in Israel could discern the truth. When the Hasidim, our allies and known for their strict observance
of the Law, heard that an envoy from the new king had arrived, they protested our decision to assemble the army of Israel.
“We should not fight them,” their leader told me and Simon. “Alcimus is a priest of the line of Aaron. He would not harm us.”
“Why would a godly high priest bring a Seleucid army to Judea?” I countered. “Why does a man of peace need so many swords at his side?”
The leader shook his head. “If you will not meet with these men, we will.”
“Go ahead, then, do what you must. I hope you are right about his intentions. But be careful.”
A messenger from Alcimus promised the Hasidim safe passage to a meeting with the priest. More than a hundred of the pious men traveled to the Seleucid camp where Alcimus met them with friendly and agreeable words. He swore that neither he nor Bacchides would seek to injure them or their friends.
Spurning my advice, the Hasidim agreed to support Alcimus. But after the meeting, during a meal meant to commemorate their agreement, Alcimus ordered soldiers to seize and execute sixty of his guests. He then sent the remaining forty away without allowing them to bury the bodies of their executed companions.
Word of the devious betrayal spread like a conflagration. When my brothers and I heard about the executions of the godly Hasidim, most of whom had fought with us in earlier battles, Simon tore his garment and wept.
“The psalmist prophesied this,” he said, his voice in tatters. “‘They have given the bodies of thy servants to the birds of the air for food, the flesh of thy saints to the beasts of the earth,’” he quoted. “‘They have poured out their blood like water round about Jerusalem, and there was none to bury them.’”
Though Alcimus rightly claimed the dead Hasidim had fought against the Seleucid kings, I suspected that he killed them only to demonstrate his authority to the survivors.
Over the next several days my brothers and I heard about hundreds of ungodly Jews who were flocking to Alcimus, for in him they found a leader who was outwardly a legitimate priest, but inwardly a raving wolf.