by Angela Hunt
“David meant he would go to Sheol,” Diagos answered. “And yes, we will all go into the grave. You Pharisees have been too influenced by the Hellenes and Egyptians, who babble about the afterlife and judgment after death.”
“While the Sadducees refuse to believe in angels.” Simeon leaned closer to me. “How many times does the Torah mention ministering angels? They visited Lot, Hagar, and Abraham. They walked with Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah in the Babylonians’ fiery furnace. And as to the anointed guardian cherub—did Ezekiel not describe his fall from heaven?”
Diagos snorted. “I do not claim to know what the prophet was thinking as he wrote. Perhaps our hostess would like us to speak of something more . . . easily understood.”
“Please continue.” I folded my hands and glanced at Jannaeus to make sure we had not caught his attention. “I have no problem with ambiguity.”
“With your permission, then.” The commander smiled, his neck brightening to an intense shade of red. “The Pharisees are waiting for God’s anointed Messiah to rule as king over Israel. Well, where is He? The Pharisees say a son of David will take the throne in Jerusalem, but the closest thing we have to a king is John Hyrcanus, and he is from the house of Levi, not David. From where will this savior come? The house of Hasmon has enough sons to continue their line for several generations, so how will this son of David knock the sons of Mattathias from their positions of power?”
“The prophets speak of a Messiah who is the begotten Son of HaShem,” Simeon said. “And if they truly spoke for HaShem, then He is coming, just as the prophets foretold. From where is He coming? HaShem knows, and when it is time, He will send Him.”
I pressed my lips together, quelling a sudden urge to share my thoughts about the coming Messiah. This was clearly not the time or place to suggest that my son might be the Lord’s Anointed One.
“You had better hope this Messiah doesn’t rebel against all the rules and regulations you Pharisees have added to the Torah,” Diagos said. “HaShem said the Sabbath was to be a day of rest, but you have made it so complicated that a man could exhaust himself determining how he should rest. We can pull a donkey from a well, but we cannot light a fire to warm our frozen hands. We can walk two thousand cubits in any direction outside our city, but since any house next to another is considered part of the city, you could walk from Jerusalem to Samaria if the road was covered with houses.” The commander tugged on his beard and laughed. “Moses would roll his eyes if he could see how you have mutilated HaShem’s Law.”
The conversation had become loud, and from the corner of my eye I saw Jannaeus move toward us, his eyes narrowing.
Time to call a halt to this enjoyable exchange.
“Gentlemen.” I thrust my cup into the center of the debate. “Each of you has made valid points, but it is time to consider another subject.”
“Not all points can be valid,” Simeon muttered. “One of us has to be wrong.”
Diagos was opening his mouth to say something else when I lifted my hand and cut him off. “I’m not sure we can settle the debate tonight.”
“Another time, another place.” Simeon lifted his goblet toward me and then toward the commander, a sign of good grace.
The gesture pleased me. I would have conversed more with both men, yet at that moment my irritated husband asked Simeon to lead us in a blessing.
As the Torah teacher stood, I pulled my himation over my head and wished for a more private opportunity to talk to Ezra Diagos. While many people in Jerusalem did not declare for the Essenes, Pharisees, or the Sadducees, rarely did I encounter anyone who openly proclaimed neutrality. Conventional wisdom would recommend aligning oneself to the sect of one’s employer, but though my husband would now undoubtedly declare himself a Sadducee, I had to respect a man who had considered all sides of a situation and chose to remain above the fray.
When Simeon had finished his prayer, I uncovered my head and smiled my thanks at the teacher. “Thank you for the invitation,” he said as his wife joined him on the couch. “It is not every day we are invited to travel.”
“I was hoping you might be able to open a school in the area.” I smiled, thinking of Kissa and her bold exploration of the Tanakh. “Few of the Galileans have a proper understanding of the Law, and they are not far removed from pagan superstition.”
“I would not be able to teach here myself,” Simeon said, “but I have students who might be willing to come. I will broach the matter as soon as we return to Jerusalem.”
The servants entered, bringing additional trays of steaming meat. Amid the murmurs of pleasure coming from the guests, I counted the serving trays to make sure the servants had brought enough food. Then for no reason I could name, a sudden shiver raised the hair at the back of my neck.
Drawn by some inexplicable force, I turned . . . and felt Ezra Diagos’s eyes upon me. I stiffened, momentarily abashed, but the commander lifted his cup, smiled, and drank, relieving my awkwardness.
I turned away, hoping no one noticed the blush that had heated my cheekbones. What was wrong with me? I was not a young girl, nor was I prone to indulge in silly fantasies.
I smiled at a server and took a piece of cheese from a platter, then stole another glance at the commander. Though Jannaeus had leaned toward him and was filling his ear, the commander was watching me.
I turned toward Simeon and his wife, determined not to look in Diagos’s direction again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Shelamzion
In the spring of the next year, when our sons were four and six, a rider from Jerusalem brought urgent news: John Hyrcanus was dying. If we wanted to see him before he died, we would have to depart immediately.
The news filled me with sadness, for Uncle had given me opportunities few girls ever received. I thought Jannaeus would be sorrowful as well, yet he received the news with an eagerness that seemed vulgar. “We shall leave for Jerusalem at once,” he told the messenger. “Thank you for bringing us the news.”
After the rider departed, a strange light gleamed in my husband’s eye. “Finally we can return to Jerusalem,” he said, hurrying to our bedchamber. He paused to give me a heartfelt smile. “I know you have suffered in this primitive region, but our time of travail is nearly at an end.”
I stared in confusion because, apart from having two babies, I had neither suffered nor travailed. Jannaeus’s words only proved how little he knew me, and how rarely he paid attention.
I sent Kissa to gather the things my sons would need while I oversaw the packing of food, water, and supplies for the journey. I did not know how long we would remain in Jerusalem, but I was beginning to suspect that Jannaeus would not willingly return to Galilee. He had come to this region only because his father commanded it. If Judah Aristobulus offered him a place in his administration, Jannaeus would undoubtedly take it.
The gangly adolescent I married had grown into his name, surpassing me in height as well as weight. He was now twenty-three, with a young man’s ambition, passions, and interests. When he joined me in the courtyard where the servants were loading wagons, I could see that the prospect of returning to Jerusalem had lit a fire within him.
I caught his arm as he strode by and studied his face when he halted. “You’re eager to return home,” I said, stating the obvious. “Be careful that you don’t appear eager for your father to die.”
“And why shouldn’t I be eager?” His dark eyes narrowed as he shook my hand from his arm. “The old man has led a full life. His time is finished.”
My eyes filled with tears—whether from sadness at my husband’s attitude or the thought of losing my uncle, I could not say. “He loves us,” I said, my voice breaking. “Both of us. And I will miss him dreadfully.”
“So be it.” Jannaeus stepped away, then lifted his arm to catch the eye of a passing servant. “Saddle the stallion for me,” he called. “My wife and children will ride in the wagon.” He turned. “Anything else, Salome?”
I sh
ook my head and turned, arranging my himation like a cowl about my face, so he would not see me weep.
John Hyrcanus, high priest of Israel, beloved of man and HaShem, must have waited for us. After arriving at the palace where I had spent so many happy years, we hurried into Uncle’s bedchamber. I tapped my sons’ shoulders and gestured for them to kneel at his bedside. As Alena watched, Uncle placed his hands on their dark curls and blessed them, his lips moving in an inaudible whisper. When he had finished, Kissa took the children away while Uncle took my hand.
My heart broke to see a tremor in those once-strong fingers. “Uncle, we have come to be with you.”
Alena stepped forward. “We are glad you have come, but do not encourage him to talk. He has trouble drawing breath, and speech is difficult. But you may say whatever is on your heart.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped my hands around his. “I shall miss you, Uncle,” I told him. “Every day we have been away, I have thanked HaShem that you set me on a path I could never have walked on my own. When you came to Modein and offered your hospitality and guardianship, you changed my life for the good.”
His gaze softened, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he gave me a wavering smile. He did not speak, but his fingers trembled in my grasp.
“Shelamzion.” Alena gestured toward the hallway. “Would you like to oversee the unloading of your wagons? You can make yourself at home—”
“I will wait.” I tightened my grip on Uncle’s hand, remembering that it was forbidden to leave a dying person lest he die alone.
An hour later, amid the flickering of the oil lamps and in the company of many of his fellow priests, John Hyrcanus drew his last breath. And only when the hired mourners began to wail did I look up and realize that my husband had not followed us into the sick man’s bedchamber.
After the funeral, the high priest’s family, members of the Sanhedrin, and dozens of Levites crowded into the palace reception hall. One of Uncle’s assistants picked up a scroll and read the preamble.
Aware that his health was failing, John Hyrcanus had written a will months before his death. The statement of most interest to those gathered at the funeral was this:
Some have boldly stated that the offices of priest and civic leader should not be vested in the same man. Though I did my best to represent the nation of Israel before man and Adonai, perhaps I should now submit to those who have protested the arrangement. I decree therefore that the office of high priest shall go to my eldest son, Judah Aristobulus, who meets the qualifications established in the Torah. Responsibility for ruling as the civil authority will go to my wife, Kefira Alena, for she has labored by my side and knows what should be done to govern Judea. Like Deborah, wife of Lappidoth and the fifth judge of Israel, she possesses the knowledge and experience to oversee the nation. She can be trusted to seek HaShem’s wisdom as she makes decisions for Israel.
An audible gasp filled the room at the mention of Alena’s name. John Hyrcanus had accomplished many noteworthy achievements in his lifetime, but perhaps he would be most remembered for leaving the leadership of the nation in his wife’s hands.
After the initial shock, I couldn’t stop smiling. Uncle’s decision, while unexpected, did not surprise me because I knew how much he admired the female sovereigns of neighboring kingdoms. He had spent years observing Cleopatra Thea, and he knew strong women had a talent for weaving peace from the raveled strands of a war-torn empire.
I turned to look at the others in the room and saw dismay on my kinsmen’s faces. Judah Aristobulus, who apparently expected to step into his father’s dual position, was glaring at his mother with burning, reproachful eyes while Antigonus’s nostrils flared with fury.
I looked for Jannaeus, spotting him leaning against the wall, his attention focused on his older brothers. Absalom and Philo Elias, the two youngest sons, were red-eyed and weeping, their faces a study in anguish.
My heart brimmed with compassion for them. Ambition had not made its home in their young hearts, so they had room to grieve the father they had lost. Not so with Judah Aristobulus and Antigonus.
And Jannaeus? I studied my husband. His face was utterly blank, a perfect mask of indifference.
The Levite who had read the will rolled the scroll back onto its spindle, bowed to the assembly, and left the chamber. Every eye swiveled toward Alena.
“I know we are still mourning our high priest,” she said, her voice wavering as she stepped forward, “but on the morrow we must move forward with new hope for Judea. John has entrusted us with the safekeeping of a nation. We must continue to work for the goals he established, and we must serve HaShem as faithfully as he did. For now, let us depart to our homes and mourn him, but tomorrow we will rise to the challenge before us.”
A sudden movement caught my eye, and I turned to see Judah Aristobulus whirl and leave the room. Antigonus followed.
Alena stammered in the sudden silence. “I . . . I am afraid my husband’s wishes have come as a shock to some,” she said, glancing at the doorway through which her sons had disappeared. “But we are a family. We will work together for the good of Judea.”
People began to exit the chamber in groups of twos and threes, heads together as the mourners whispered their reactions to the astonishing news. I walked over to Alena and embraced her, then motioned for my sons to join me as we climbed the stairs and escorted her safely to her chamber.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Shelamzion
I lay beneath a thin blanket in a silence so thick that the only sound was the annoying whistle of Jannaeus’s breathing. We had been given one of the upstairs chambers, and though my husband lay sleeping by my side, my thoughts centered on my sons, who slept next to Kissa in my mother’s house. Were they safe? I could not think of any reason someone might want to harm them, but the expression on Judah Aristobulus’s face had made my stomach tighten. As he left, he wore the expression of a man who would do anything to achieve his goal.
I mentioned my concern to Jannaeus, and he laughed at my fears. “You are worried about my brother? You might as well worry about the moon swooping down to harm us. We are family; we do not hurt each other.”
And most mothers did not kill their sons, yet Cleopatra Thea killed one and was murdered by another. The allure of power could destroy familial bonds and turn God-fearing individuals into executioners.
Feeling restless and anxious, I slipped out of bed and padded in bare feet to the balcony, where a soft breeze fluttered the linen curtains. I stepped through the gauzy fabric and shivered in the moonlight, bracing my hands on the balustrade and peering into the empty courtyard. The moon had gilded the paving stones with silver, and a pair of horses in the corral stood motionless beneath their saddles.
I frowned. Why did the horses wear saddles at this hour? Uncle’s proud mounts were always brushed down and put away at night, led to plush stalls with fresh straw. Either some servant had grown lazy, or the regular routines had been abandoned in the aftermath of the funeral.
I breathed deeply of the cool night air and closed my eyes, relishing the silence. The wind whispered in the palm branches, but nothing else stirred, except . . .
My ears alerted me to a sound in the distance—a soft, rhythmic thumping that grew stronger as the moments stretched. What was it? In all my years of living in the high priest’s compound, I had never before heard that sound. Then came silence, followed by a faint chink of metal as a dark figure emerged from the barn.
I leaned forward as a sense of unease sent prickles up my spine. Who was this, and was he planning to take the horses? The man moved toward the gate, then vanished into shadows thrown by a massive terebinth tree. I pressed my hand to my forehead, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Then I heard the gates creaking as they parted, and the strange sound began once more.
Rows of armed soldiers marched from the street into the courtyard, their rhythmic tread abruptly shifting to quick steps. They spread out like hungry ants, dart
ing toward the stable, the servants’ quarters, even my mother’s house, their drawn swords glinting in the moonlight.
Who were they? Had someone sent a squad of Temple guards to protect Alena and Aristobulus?
Realization shattered my unlikely notion. Temple guards would have no reason to approach stealthily in the dead of night, nor would they enter the premises with swords drawn. These men, whoever they were, intended evil for the occupants of this house.
I flew back into the chamber.
“Jannaeus!” I gripped my husband’s shoulder and shook him awake. “Armed men have entered the house. They are downstairs even now.”
He blinked at me and frowned, clearly irritated. “What are you—? If there is trouble, it has nothing to do with us.”
No sooner had the words left his lips than the doors to our chamber burst open. A half dozen soldiers entered the room, swords drawn, their attention focused on my husband. I retreated toward the balcony, desperate to keep an eye on the building where my sons slept.
“Alexander Jannaeus,” one of the men called, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room. “You will come with us.”
Jannaeus sat up, a scowl darkening his face. “What is the meaning of this?”
Without answering, two of the men dragged him from the bed, tied his hands behind his back, and hauled him out of the room. As I cowered in the corner, I heard my husband’s demanding questions: “Why are you doing this? Where are you taking me?”
A moment later I heard Alena’s shrill scream. I rushed onto the balcony, crouched behind the balustrade, and peered through the gaps in the stone pillars.
John Hyrcanus’s heirs were being rounded up like cattle—Alena, still wearing her nightdress, along with Absalom, Elias, and Jannaeus. The four of them stood in the center of the courtyard while watchful soldiers encircled them. I froze when I heard the gruff voice of a commander, afraid I was about to witness my family’s execution. I squeezed my eyes shut, but after an interval of uncertainty I opened them in time to see four of the people John Hyrcanus loved most being dragged into the darkness.