by Angela Hunt
Kissa shook her head. “I read that story. But your Law says only that a woman is unclean for seven days. It says nothing about a bath or running water.”
I turned away so she could remove the pins from my hair, but her question troubled me. In our desire to protect the Law, had we made it so complicated that no one could follow it perfectly?
I would have to ask Simeon the next time we met.
“Why?” I asked as Simeon came into the room.
His puzzled expression reminded me that I had not explained myself. “Forgive me.” I smiled. “Please, have a seat, make yourself comfortable. But I want to begin our time of study with a question.”
Simeon nodded respectfully, then sat at a table with an open Torah scroll. “My queen, I am delighted to serve.”
“You don’t have to observe the formalities, just answer my question.”
His smile was a blend of curiosity and indulgence. “As you wish.”
I sat on the chair next to him. “Why is it necessary to protect the Law?”
He blinked. “Because if we don’t protect it, we might accidentally offend.”
“Offend who? Can the Law be offended? Is it a living thing that requires protection? We speak of it as though it breathes and lives.”
Simeon tilted his head. “In a sense, it does. It was breathed by HaShem, written by Moses, and guides our actions—”
“Not all of it was breathed by HaShem. The oral laws were not written by Moses, but have been passed down by Torah teachers and the sages. But why? Why did Adonai give us the Law, knowing that over time it would become so complicated that Gentiles cannot understand it?”
“Is this about someone in particular?” Simeon asked.
I nodded. “For years I have tried to be a righteous example to my handmaid, Kissa. I have tried to explain HaShem and the Law, but she refuses to see the logic in my explanations. She finds the Law complicated, and sometimes I know she thinks I am being—”
“Overly righteous?”
“Silly.” I exhaled a sigh. “Please, Simeon. She is pragmatic, and the Law makes no sense to her.”
Simeon leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “Do you remember how we talked about patterns in the Torah? About how both Abram and Jacob went into Egypt and came out with great wealth, and how both Moses and Noah floated in an ark and ultimately saved their people?”
“I remember Ma’asei avot, siman l’banim. The deeds of the fathers are a sign to the sons.”
“Exactly.” Simeon tugged at his beard. “There is another pattern in the Torah, that of Adam and Israel. Can you find it?”
I searched my memory. “Both Adam and Israel were . . . no, they were not both placed in a garden. They were both—” I shook my head—“I don’t see it.”
Simeon turned to the scroll and pointed his finger to where the first book began. “God established a covenant with Adam and Israel,” he said. “First, God spoke to Adam. He blessed them and said, ‘Be fruitful and multiply, fill the land, and conquer it. Rule over the fish of the sea, the flying creatures of the sky, and over every animal that crawls on the land.’”
Simeon looked over at me. “Blessing, filling the land, conquering it. Now let’s look at Israel.”
“I understand—HaShem did the same with Israel. He blessed them, said they would fill the Promised Land, and commanded them to conquer it.”
Nodding, Simeon continued, “HaShem also gave commands. To Adam, He gave one commandment: no eating from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. To Israel, He gave six hundred thirteen commandments at Sinai. To both Adam and Israel, HaShem promised that the land would be theirs as long as they obeyed. If they broke His covenant with them, they would be exiled.”
The pattern was becoming clearer to me. Adam and Eve disobeyed HaShem’s command, and so did Israel. The first humans were exiled from Eden, and Israel was exiled from their Promised Land. But now we had returned, and we had brought renewed passion to keep the Law . . .
Or had we? My husband, Israel’s king and high priest, only observed the public rituals. In private, his heart turned continually toward power and pleasure, living as he pleased with no regard for eternity. Many Sadducees lived exactly as he did.
Our nation was as divided as I had ever seen it. Two generations ago, the Maccabees had stirred us to renewed zeal, but even then the nation had been composed of Hellenes, who followed Greek gods and philosophies, and the Hasidim, who observed the Law. Now we were made up of three groups—no, four groups—the Sadducees, Pharisees, Essenes, and those who didn’t care enough to choose an affiliation.
“What is the point?” I asked. “Why should we try to keep the Law when we have already tried and failed?”
“Some would say we need to try harder, that we must build walls around the Law so we cannot sin against it even accidentally,” Simeon replied. “But perhaps you are right—making the Law harder to keep does not seem to be the answer.” He tugged on his beard again, then shifted his position. “Lately I have been talking to an elder of the Essenes. He has given me much to think about.”
I leaned forward. “And?”
“This elder believes that the Law was given to show us that we could not keep it perfectly, that our human efforts are doomed to failure. He says the Torah was not written to bring Israel to the Law, but to lead Israel through the Law to the kingdom of God.”
I slumped in my chair, more confused than ever. “Through the Law?”
“HaShem wants you to believe above all things.” Simeon gave me a brief, distracted glance and tried to smile. “Have you noticed how many times the Torah tells us that Israel failed because they did not believe?”
“Believe . . . what?”
Simeon did not answer directly, but a spark of some indefinable emotion lit his eyes. “Adam was HaShem’s first king on the earth. He was to have dominion over the animals and plants. And one day another king will come, the other half of the pattern. He is to exercise dominion, as well. As the Torah says, ‘One from Jacob shall exercise dominion . . .’”
“Who is this?”
“Adam was also HaShem’s first priest,” Simeon continued, ignoring my question. “HaShem talked with him in the garden just as He talked with Moses in the Tabernacle. The same precious metals mentioned in the Garden of Eden were used in the construction of the Tabernacle. The One who is to come will be a priest who also talks to HaShem.”
I felt the truth all at once, like a tingle in my stomach. “You are talking about the Messiah.”
Simeon nodded like a dreamer in a trance. “He has been in the Torah all along, and yet I never saw Him. He is the coming Adam, a king. He is a priest like Moses. Even Balaam prophesied about Him.”
“Balaam? The Gentile with the talking donkey?”
“The Ruach HaKodesh came over him, and Balaam saw the future with the eyes of Adonai. He said, ‘I see him, yet not at this moment. I behold him, yet not in this location. For a star will come from Jacob, a scepter will arise from Israel.”
I stared at Simeon, not knowing how to respond. The confident Torah teacher had vanished, leaving behind a man who had exchanged the absolutes of the Law for the uncertainties of prophecy. No wonder my uncle had been so cautious about finding the right Torah teacher for me. Scripture could be dangerous in the hands of a man with an improper understanding.
As the silence stretched between us, I leaned on the arm of my chair and looked deep into my Torah teacher’s eyes. “You have not answered my questions, Simeon ben Shetah. I asked you what purpose the Law serves, and you have not given me a clear answer.”
Something in my words snapped him out of his reverie. He looked at me with an odd mingling of caution and excitement in his eyes. “Moses prophesied that we would break the Law and go into exile, and we did,” he said. “Now the Law serves as our tutor to shield us from the consequences of unbelief until the Anointed One comes. When He comes, we will no longer need a tutor, for the Messiah will teach us all things.”
“Are you saying we will no longer need the Law?” I tried to imagine a world without moral guidelines. “How will we know how to behave? It would be impossible to rule—to live in—a nation where every man did whatever he pleased.”
“You are right, Shelamzion. The Law must be replaced.”
“Replaced with what?”
Simeon folded his hands at his waist. “Remember the words of the prophet Jeremiah.” In a soft voice, he quoted, “‘Behold, days are coming’—it is a declaration of Adonai—‘when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and with the house of Judah—not like the covenant I made with their fathers in the day I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt. For they broke My covenant, though I was a husband to them.’ It is a declaration of Adonai.”
“I have read that,” I said, “but I did not understand it.”
Simeon held up a finger and closed his eyes. “‘But this is the covenant I will make with the house of Israel after those days’—it is a declaration of Adonai—‘I will put My Torah within them. Yes, I will write it on their hearts. I will be their God and they will be My people. No longer will each teach his neighbor or each his brother, saying, “Know Adonai,” for they will all know Me, from the least of them to the greatest.’ It is a declaration of Adonai. ‘For I will forgive their iniquity; their sin I will remember no more.’”
Simeon opened his dark eyes and smiled. “Keep the Law, Shelamzion, until you find the Messiah. Believe that He is coming . . . though when or how I cannot say. But when He comes, you will not need to obey the Law, because it will be inscribed in your mind, your soul, and your heart.”
I made a face, not understanding how such a thing could be possible. “How will we know what we have not been taught?”
Simeon shook his head and pressed his hands together. “It is a mystery,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “It is a miracle.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Kissa
My mistress was unusually quiet at dinner. I served the meal in the small family dining room, where Shelamzion, her sons, and the king ate on the rare occasions they came together.
Hyrcanus and Aristobulus were in high spirits, having spent the day hunting with their father, and I thought their talk of killing deer and a lion might have ruined my lady’s appetite. For once the boys were not arguing, and they relived their hunting experience aloud, each of them describing his exploits as the king listened with amused approval. None of the three even glanced at my mistress, who reclined on her couch and only nibbled at the fruit and cooked meats on the tray.
How could they not notice Shelamzion’s silence? She was usually the liveliest of the group, cleverly advising her husband while rebuking her sons’ antics when they became too loud or spoke of something not appropriate for a family dinner. But the hours stretched on, the three men congratulating each other without once noticing their silent dining partner . . .
Finally, Jannaeus looked at his wife. “Salome,” he said, leaning toward her, “why haven’t you congratulated your sons? Today Hyrcanus killed an eagle, and Aristobulus speared a lion!”
When my mistress did not respond, the king looked at me. “Is she ill?”
I stepped forward and nudged Shelamzion’s shoulder. “Mistress? The king has spoken to you.”
A deep flush rose up from her throat as she turned to him. “Apologies, my king. I was deep in thought.”
“Obviously.” He glared at her, his eyes hot with resentment, then forced a smile. “I asked why you have not congratulated your sons. Both boys snagged a kill during the hunt.”
“Oh.” She looked at the boys with indulgent pride. “Apologies to you as well, my sons. I’m sure you are both skilled hunters.”
“I’m the best,” Aristobulus said, grinning with the confidence of a young warrior. “I killed a lion with only a spear. Hyrcanus shot a bird.”
“An eagle,” Hyrcanus countered. “And they’re strong and fast and not easy to kill. You couldn’t kill one if you tried.”
“You doubt me?”
“I do.”
“Then let’s go out again tomorrow.” Aristobulus turned to the king. “Will you take us hunting again tomorrow? Perhaps we could go to a different place.”
Jannaeus shook his head. “No, but I can ask Ezra Diagos to take you.”
Hyrcanus scowled. “That old man? He cannot keep up.”
“That old man,” the king said, “could wrestle either of you to the ground in a heartbeat. He deserves your respect. If you want to go hunting tomorrow, it will be with him.”
My mistress lifted her head and looked at her husband. “If you will grant me permission, my king, I would like to retire. I am in need of a good rest.”
The king waved her away. “Go then.”
I waited as my mistress stood, then followed her out of the room.
My mistress had not told the entire truth. She might have been tired of the dinner conversation, but she was not ready for sleep. I followed her to her bedchamber, but instead of going to bed, she went to the desk where she kept a Torah scroll.
“If you would light the lamp, Kissa,” she said, sitting, “I would do some reading before bed.”
I thrust a piece of straw into the ashes of last night’s fire. When the end caught an ember and flamed, I brought it to the small oil lamp near the scroll. In the golden glow of the lamp, my mistress bent over the text and began to read: “‘I will put animosity between you and the woman—between your seed and her seed. He will crush your head, and you will crush his heel.’” Shelamzion paused, then repeated the words, “‘He will crush your head . . .’”
“Who is speaking?” I asked, aware that she was asking me to participate in her musing.
“Adonai Elohim.”
“And who is He speaking to?”
“The serpent who enticed Eve into sin.”
I tilted my head. “So Adonai will . . . what?”
Shelamzion looked at the scroll again. “The serpent will have descendants and so will the woman. A descendant of the woman will crush the serpent’s head, but the serpent will crush his heel.”
I sank to a nearby bench. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But here’s another one.” She turned back to the scroll, searching the text, and stopped. “‘The scepter will not pass from Judah, nor the ruler’s staff from between his feet, until he to whom it belongs will come. To him will be the obedience of the peoples. Binding his foal to the vine, his donkey’s colt to the choice vine, he washes his garments in wine, and in the blood of grapes his robe.’”
“Who is speaking now?” I asked.
“Jacob,” she answered. “When he gathered his sons to tell them what would happen to their descendants in the last days.”
“The last days of what?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But he seems to say that a king is coming from the tribe of Judah.”
“A king for many nations,” I said, “because many different peoples will obey him. Is that right?”
She picked up the lamp and held it closer to the scroll. “Yes. Many peoples, not just one. So not just Israel . . . I think.”
“What else could it mean?”
She hesitated, lowered her head to the table, and sighed. “I only wish I knew.”
“Maybe,” I said, sitting on the edge of her bed, “you should think about something more pleasurable.”
“Like what?” she mumbled.
“Like . . .” I smiled. “Ezra Diagos.”
Her head rose at once. “What do you mean?”
I shifted to face her. “I know you want to deny it, but I have seen the way you light up when his name is mentioned. Even tonight, when your husband said Diagos might take the boys hunting.”
Shelamzion groaned. “No. It cannot be that obvious.”
“You always take extra care with your hair and dress if you know Diagos will be attending a banquet,” I continued. “And yo
ur voice—it is lighter when you speak to him. You sound almost happy.”
She groaned again, bringing both hands to her cheeks. “You cannot mean it.”
I tossed her another smile, thinking she would return it, but my mistress’s face had clouded. “Why, I thought you liked Diagos.”
“I do,” she murmured, then buried her face in her folded arms. “But I should not. I am a married woman.”
I stared at her in dazed exasperation and crossed my arms. “You have not sinned against your husband. You admire Diagos, and he admires you. Or is HaShem so intent on destroying your happiness that you are not allowed to have a friend?”
“I have friends,” she whispered. “But I wish Diagos were . . . more.”
When a muffled sob escaped her folded arms, guilt coursed through my veins. “I’m sorry,” I said, slipping from the bed. I walked over and placed my hands on her shoulders. “I should not have said anything.”
“It is all right.” She sniffed as she lifted her head. “It is good you mentioned it. If my . . . affection for Diagos is obvious to you, it will be evident to others. I cannot allow that.”
“You have few friends, Shelamzion. You should not deny yourself the pleasure of a friend’s company.”
She sniffed again. “But what I feel for Diagos is not mere friendship. I . . . I will have to stop seeing him.”
“Forever?”
She swiped at her eyes as she slumped into a chair. “I know my heart, Kissa. It can be desperately wicked, and I am trying to live a righteous life.”
Shaking my head, I pulled the himation from her shoulders and tossed it in a trunk. Though I could see no sense in depriving herself of joy, Shelamzion had her reasons, and I would respect that.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Shelamzion
With each succeeding year I found myself marveling that Adonai saw fit to keep my husband on the throne of Israel. With Kissa and Simeon I quietly continued my Torah study and searched for clues about the coming king-priest. Would he come this year? Would he overthrow Jannaeus at once, or would he first raise an army? Would I recognize him if I saw him?