by Angela Hunt
In the early days of the persecution I feared for the lives of those in my havurah every time Kissa and I slipped away from the palace. I prayed with my eyes open, half expecting soldiers to burst through the door before the meeting ended. I finally realized that my involvement in such a fellowship endangered the lives of others.
Simeon ben Shetah continued to come to the palace for my Torah study, but he came less frequently and always appeared nervous when he visited. I told him I would understand if he chose not to come, yet he insisted that as long as I was willing to learn, he was willing to teach.
Did I fear for my life? No. Jannaeus knew I was a Pharisee, but he also knew I did not want him to lose his position. I believe he thought that having a devout, Law-obeying wife ratified his actions in the eyes of the people.
As time passed, I came to believe that Jannaeus did not persecute the Pharisees because they had conspired against him, but because their commitment to HaShem made him feel guilty. As high priest, he should have been closer to HaShem than anyone else, but how could he be holy with the blood of so many innocents on his hands?
Night after night I lay awake in my bed and wondered if I were also guilty before HaShem. Was I complicit in my husband’s sin because I did not stop him?
Many times I thought of Grypus, who knew plants and their unsavory uses, and Salina, who had almost certainly poisoned Judah Aristobulus. She had done it for the good of the nation, yet her husband had not killed nearly as many as Jannaeus.
I had been taught to honor the Ten Words, and I obeyed them instinctively. I kept the Sabbath, I did not take the name of my God in vain, I did not worship graven images, and I did not steal or covet or bear false witness.
Would there ever come a time when HaShem would allow me to disobey You shall not murder?
I thought that time had come when my sons and I returned from a visit to the winter palace in Jericho. The streets of Jerusalem were quiet when we reentered the city, and I noticed that doors and windows had been shuttered or boarded up. I shot Kissa an inquisitive look and she returned it. “I am sure we will hear the latest news when we return home,” she said. “If not from the servants, then from someone in the king’s service.”
Kissa and I had just stepped through the doorway when one of the kitchen slaves, a pale girl from across the Great Sea, ran into the vestibule and dropped to her knees in front of us.
I glanced at Kissa. “Is this some new form of greeting?”
“Excuse me, mistress,” the girl said, folding her hands as her voice trembled, “but the entire household has been shaken by what happened last night.”
I steeled myself to hear the dreadful news. “Tell me, please.”
Tears welled in the girl’s eyes and flowed over her cheeks. “The king . . . the king your husband—”
“Slowly now, collect yourself,” Kissa counseled. “You need not fear your mistress.”
“I know. But what we saw . . .”
“Take a deep breath,” I told her. “And tell us everything.”
The girl inhaled, then stared over Kissa’s shoulder. Whatever she had seen last night, she was seeing it again.
“Eight hundred men,” she said, her voice flat. “Eight hundred Pharisees.”
I tried to keep my heart calm, for it had begun to race at the mention of so large a number.
“The king crucified eight hundred Pharisees,” the girl said, “in the Valley of Hinnom. And while they hung on the execution stakes, the king’s mercenaries murdered the condemned men’s wives and children in front of their eyes. And while—” the girl choked on a sob—“while the air filled with the screams and cries of dying women and children, the king and his concubines sat and feasted on a platform overlooking the valley.”
Grief drove me to my knees. The Valley of Hinnom lay south of the city. It was where pagan worshipers used to meet to sacrifice their children to Baal and Molech.
Jannaeus could not have chosen a more cursed spot.
As Kissa cried out and my sons came running from the courtyard, I beat my breast and wondered why HaShem had allowed such a terrible tragedy. Why didn’t He remove Jannaeus from the earth? Why had He spared my husband so often on the battlefield? Why was this bloodthirsty king allowed to continue his murderous rampage?
Where was the Messiah, the Savior HaShem had promised?
Hyrcanus scooped me up and carried me upstairs to my bedchamber. Kissa put me to bed, where I lay in a dark stupor for several days, unwilling to face another day where I felt helpless and torn. I wondered if I would ever rise from my bed again.
But one morning I woke with a lighter heart—as if HaShem had planted within it a seed that sprouted in the middle of the night. The fruit of that seed? A psalm that kept running through my mind:
Though the wicked spring up like grass,
and all evildoers flourish,
it is only to be ruined forever.
But You, Adonai, are exalted forever.
For behold, Your enemies, Adonai
—behold Your enemies perish—
all evildoers are scattered . . .
The righteous will flourish like a palm tree . . .
Planted in the House of Adonai,
they will flourish in the courts of our God.
They will still yield fruit in old age.
They will be full of sap and freshness.
They declare, “Adonai is upright, my Rock
—there is no injustice in Him.”
Later that day, I would come across a scroll written by one of the Essenes. It contained a prayer not unlike my own:
Rise up, O Holy One, against King Alexander Jannaeus and all the congregation of Your people Israel who are in the four winds of heaven. Let them all be at peace and upon Your kingdom may Your Name be blessed.
Because Simeon ben Shetah would not come to the palace, I wrote him a letter and sent it with a personal servant:
Greetings, highly esteemed teacher!
I have spent many days praying and studying, all to find the answer to one particular question. Is it right to commit murder in order to save many innocent lives?
You taught me that the Torah’s laws are intended to enhance life, never to cause death. So whenever observance of the Law endangers life—such as allowing a killer to live so he may kill again—the requirement to observe the Law is suspended.
But you have said there are four instances where the Law takes precedence over life: we shall not worship idols or commit adultery, incest, or murder.
So, with great difficulty, I have put the thought of murder out of my mind, even though I may have to watch others die or even find myself and my sons in danger.
If I have misinterpreted the Law, please write to me at once. You need not sign your letter—I will know who sent it.
Pray for me, as I pray for you and your family.
S.A.
That afternoon a messenger knocked on my door and said the king wished to see me at dinner. He was hosting important men from the Sanhedrin, and he wanted his queen in attendance.
I told the messenger I would come and had Kissa begin to dress my hair.
An hour later I found myself in the banquet hall, seated on the couch next to Jannaeus’s. He bowed his head when our gazes crossed, and I sent him a chilly smile in acknowledgment. A moment or two later, our guests streamed in—a half-dozen Sadducees and their wives, all of them dressed in silks and jewels and finely crafted leather sandals.
Mindful of the many eyes focused on us, I tried to maintain a pleasant expression, though I wanted nothing more than to turn to my husband and scream accusations. But when a king held the power of life and death, a queen could not scream out her frustrations, nor could she rebuke him without risking her life.
I was not foolish enough to trade my life for a fit of self-indulgence. I also lacked confidence in my ability to sway a stubborn fool with words from the Torah. Jannaeus had counselors—members of the Sanhedrin—who were supposed to counsel him
in legal matters, but they despised the Pharisees and Essenes as much as he did.
So what was I to do, except avoid him?
One bit of good news sustained me during that troubling evening. I knew that most of the remaining Pharisees had fled Jerusalem for Egypt, where they would remain until they were sure they could safely return to their homes. When I heard how few remained in the city, I sent Kissa to inform their leaders that I would supply horses and wagons for any who needed conveyance. I would not let them remain in Jerusalem as long as their lives were endangered.
I reached for my goblet and sipped the sweet wine. Not only had Jannaeus denied the common people access to their God, he had also chased the Pharisees away from the Holy City.
As the king reclined on his couch and reached for his first bite, we followed his example. Then, looking around the gathering, he noted with some dismay that we had no Torah teachers in attendance.
Smiling wistfully, Jannaeus looked at me. “Would that we had someone to say grace for us.”
I inclined my head in a gesture of respect. “I could send for someone, but you will have to swear you will not harm him.”
His eyes narrowed for a moment, then he smiled, playing to his guests. “I swear it. Any Pharisee brave enough to remain in the city need not fear me.”
I gestured to Kissa. When she came near, I asked her to fetch Simeon ben Shetah, who had been staying with Josu Attis ever since the king crucified the Pharisees.
When Simeon arrived, Kissa escorted him to the dining chamber where I introduced him to the gathering and seated him on the end of my couch. I gave him a smile. “Sit here and see how much honor the king pays you.”
The corner of his mouth twisted. “It is not the king that honors me, but the Torah. For it is written: ‘Exalt her, and she will promote you; she will bring you honor when you embrace her.’”
I glanced at Jannaeus, who had never given anything but perfunctory attention to Torah study. “Indeed.”
Simeon stood and offered the blessing: “Baruch atah A-donay, Elo-heinu Melech Ha’Olam shehakol nihiyah bed’varo.” Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, by whose word all things came to be.
When he had finished praying, I asked Simeon if he would like to stay for dinner. “No,” he said, pitching his voice for my ears alone, “but I will remain until you are finished. I would have a word with you before I go.”
I nodded, understanding his anxiety, and promised to meet him as soon as I could slip away.
When the last guest had gone, Jannaeus and I stood alone in the vestibule. He turned, caught sight of me, and bent at the waist in a respectful bow. “Good night, wife.”
I bowed as well, having long found myself without words when facing my husband. What could I say that I had not already said? He knew I disapproved of his actions. He knew I did not love him. He ought to know that I worried about his eternal soul.
I was walking toward the stairs when a hissing sound caught my attention. Kissa stood in the shadows, gesturing for me to come closer.
“Your teacher is waiting to say good-bye,” she said, pointing to a dark room off the vestibule.
I found Simeon waiting in the shadows.
“My heart nearly stopped beating when I received your summons,” he said, the corner of his mouth twisting. “My wife fainted.”
“I am sorry to have caused you distress. I hoped the summons would go out in my name.”
“Given our long relationship, I would have suspected the king behind any summons from this house. The king would lie, I believe, to catch a Pharisee who opposed him.”
He folded his hands at his waist—in an effort, I think, to refrain from touching me during this difficult farewell. He took a deep breath and adjusted his smile. “As much as it pains me to leave the Holy City, I am leaving for Egypt. My wife and I will leave on the morrow.”
Though I had been expecting such an announcement, I still felt the pang of loss. “The king swore he would not harm you.”
“A king who will lie will not keep an oath. So we are going to Egypt and will return, if HaShem wills, if—when—Jannaeus is no longer king. Until then, Shelamzion, know that you will be in our thoughts and prayers.”
I folded my hands too, though I wanted to draw him into an affectionate embrace out of simple gratitude for all he had taught me over the years.
“I would not be . . . I could not be the woman I am without your guidance,” I said, my chest tightening with unexpressed emotions. “I am so grateful.”
“It was not I who guided you,” he replied. “It was the Torah. And though I am leaving, you will always have the Torah with you. If not on a scroll, then here”—he tapped his chest—“and here.” He tapped his temple. “Blessings on your head, Shelamzion. I hope to see you again.”
I stood silently and watched him go, my heart breaking. Over the course of my life I had lost my father, my uncle, and now my Torah teacher. To whom could I go when I needed godly guidance?
Not to my husband, nor to either of my sons.
Only to the Torah . . . and HaShem.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Kissa
I followed my mistress up the stone staircase, my heart as heavy as her slow footsteps. I knew her spirits were low—studying Torah with Simeon ben Shetah had been one of her truest joys, and she would miss him desperately. The sober Torah teacher would probably miss her too, for never again would he find a woman with such a thirst for knowledge and wisdom.
My mistress sighed as we entered her chamber. She pulled the himation free of her throat and let it flutter to the floor. “My world is closing around me, Kissa,” she said, undoing the broach at her shoulder. “I have no friends but you and my sons. Though I don’t see them often now that they are married with children of their own.”
“You cannot lose me,” I said and stooped to pick up the himation. “I will always be at your side.”
She gave me a weary smile, then sank to the edge of the bed. “I think it is time for me to free you. When I was younger, I said Uncle wouldn’t allow me to free one of his slaves, but that has not been a valid reason for a long, long time.” I looked up and felt the weight of her gaze, dark and gentle like the sea at dawn. “What say you to becoming a free woman?”
I took a wincing little breath. “I . . . I don’t know what to think.”
Shelamzion ran her hand over the blanket on the bed. “You do not have to remain in this household if you would rather leave. I know you have always wanted to go back to Egypt—I will pay for your passage should you still wish it. You could even go with Simeon ben Shetah and his family.”
The words hung in the silence like bait, tempting me. I did want to visit Egypt, but without Shelamzion? I would feel . . . unanchored. Adrift.
“We are no longer young women,” Shelamzion went on, “but we are not so filled with years that we cannot enjoy the remaining time HaShem intends to give us.”
I dropped to a stool and stared at the floor. How could I leave the household to which I had become so attached? And how could I leave Shelamzion? I tried to imagine boarding a ship without her, journeying to the land of my birth alone, but the images would not form. We had become intertwined, one beginning where the other left off. By deciding to become her friend so many years ago, I had given her my heart . . . and shaped my life around hers. And it was a good life.
“I know what your Torah says about slaves,” I whispered, not willing to speak the words too loudly lest I wake myself from a dream. “If a master sets a slave free and the slave says, ‘I love my master and I will not go out free,’ then the master is to bring him to God, then pierce his ear and let him serve his master forever.”
Shelamzion nodded. “Yes, that is right.”
“I would not be your slave forever,” I said, my throat tightening, “but if you would have me, I would be your friend forever.”
Shelamzion stood and looked at me with eager tenderness, then drew me into her arms. “Thank you,” sh
e said, squeezing me. She smiled into my eyes. “From this day forward you shall not be my slave but my hired servant. I will pay you a weekly wage, and if you desire to take a day for yourself, you must do it. And we will finish our days on earth together.”
I nodded, happy with the deal we had struck, but needed one thing more. “I would like a document of manumission.”
“Of course.” Shelamzion turned to her desk. “I will write it, and you shall have it immediately.”
She sat down, pulled parchment from a drawer, and began to write while I straightened up the fabrics in her trunk.
With a few written words and the stroke of a pen, Shelamzion set me free.
How ironic that I had no desire to go.
I walked carefully down the stairs, my hand on Alexander’s shoulder. Shelamzion was carrying Aristobulus’s youngest son on her hip, and with the other hand she gripped her son’s youngest daughter, making sure the girl had a firm footing on each stone step before descending to the next.
“There,” Shelamzion said, setting the other twin onto the floor. “It was so good to see you sweet children today.”
Aristobulus stood in the vestibule, waiting for his offspring. I released Alexander and watched as the girls ran to hug their father’s knees.
Shelamzion crossed her arms as she watched her grandchildren scamper out the doorway. Then she turned and dashed tears from her eyes. “What should we do next?” she said, her voice bright as she looked at me. “Do we have a meeting planned?”
“You don’t have to pretend,” I said, brushing past her as I turned to go back upstairs. “I know your heart breaks every time you have to let those little ones go home.”
My mistress’s chin wobbled as she fought back tears. “They are only little for such a short while. Sometimes I wish Hyrcanus and Aristobulus could be small again, just for the day. They were sweeter in those days . . . or maybe I was.” A frown passed over her features, and she squeezed my arm. “Listen to me, going on about my family. I have not told you, but I have been preparing something special.”