by Angela Hunt
“It will also come about in that day, a great shofar will be blown. Those perishing in the land of Assyria and the exiles in the land of Egypt will come and worship Adonai on the holy mountain in Jerusalem.”
The priest lowered the scroll, turned and left. I closed my eyes and felt a trembling in my arms and legs. Was that message for me? The woman at prayer did not even lift her head, and the other priest had long finished lighting the incense. If the message was not for me, then whom?
And what did it mean? Shelamzion would undoubtedly understand it better than I, but one thing had been made clear: Adonai was not only the God of the Jews. One day the people from Assyria, or Seleucia, would know Him, as would the Egyptians. And we would all travel to Jerusalem, where we would worship on the Temple Mount.
But I would be there first.
I whirled and hurried away, eager to share the news.
I waited until the coach had settled into its rocking rhythm for the long journey back to Jerusalem.
“You look like a cat who has just swallowed a mouse,” Shelamzion said, her eyes sparkling. “There is no one to interrupt us, so tell me everything.”
I knew she wanted details of the construction, the decoration, and the artful embellishments. But other words tumbled from my mouth. “I heard a voice . . . that no one else seemed to hear. It said, ‘I am Adonai your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt to be your God.’ It seemed to be speaking to me alone.”
Shelamzion blinked, and her mouth dropped open before she found her voice. “To you?”
“I know Adonai brought your people out of the land of Egypt,” I assured her, “but today He spoke to me. I felt it, here.” I tapped my breastbone. “No one else seemed to hear anything at all.”
“Others were in the sanctuary?”
“A woman and a priest. They did not even look up when the voice spoke.”
Shelamzion looked away as her mouth curved in a wistful smile. “I do not doubt you, Kissa. I find that I am even a bit . . . envious, considering all the times I have yearned to hear the voice of Adonai for myself.”
“Does He do this often? Speak to your people?”
“Not often.” She met my gaze again. “But yes, He does speak to those who are willing to listen. Samuel. Daniel. Moses. All of the prophets. And others, too.” Her graceful brow rose. “Now do you believe He is the Almighty God?”
I nodded. “That is not all. No sooner had the voice finished speaking than the priest began to read from the scroll. Fortunately I knew enough Hebrew to understand.”
“What did he read?”
“Something about five cities in Egypt that would swear allegiance to Adonai. They would cry out to Adonai because of oppressors, and He would send them a savior and defender who would deliver them. And all the Egyptians would know Adonai, and the Assyrians would worship with the Egyptians and the people of Israel, and all of them would worship Adonai on the Holy Mount in Jerusalem.”
Shelamzion’s face rearranged itself into an inward look, and I knew she was searching her memory. “I believe that reading is from the prophecies of Isaiah,” she said, looking at me as if I had suddenly shone a light on something she had never understood. “Imagine . . . my people worshiping Adonai with your people and even the Seleucids. In the Holy City.”
I grinned. “Will it happen soon, do you think?”
“I don’t know. I think the Savior will have to come first. When we are delivered from the wicked mess this world has become, perhaps then.”
She reached across the space between us and caught my hand. “I can never thank you enough. You have helped me see the future of our beloved city.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Shelamzion
Kissa and I returned to Jerusalem with a quiet confidence that surely must have mystified all who noticed it. That confidence, that faith, enabled me to endure the growing insolence of my sons, my unfaithful husband, and the strife that continued to rock Judea. The Pharisees may have fled, but plenty of others remained to oppose the hedonism of the Sadducees, though they remained hidden. The king railed against them all, yet he could not execute those he could not find.
In the twenty-fourth year of Alexander Jannaeus’s reign, I returned from an outing with my grandchildren to urgent news: the king was ill and wanted to see me.
“Why didn’t someone send for me sooner?” I asked. I uncovered my hair and handed the himation to Kissa, then hurried up the stairs to the king’s bedchamber.
I found Jannaeus in bed, propped up on silk pillows. A physician sat by his bedside, and at my approach he stood and prostrated himself. “Forgive me, my queen, for not sending a message earlier, but the king would not allow me.”
Of course he wouldn’t; Jannaeus was too proud.
I gave the physician a perfunctory nod and went to Jannaeus’s side. His eyes were closed, his hair wet with perspiration. His complexion, usually ruddy and robust, had gone a pale yellow.
“Jannaeus? Husband?”
His eyelids fluttered.
“The king is suffering from fever,” the physician said, still facedown on the floor. “If the queen will allow me—”
“You may rise,” I said, studying my husband’s face. “Tell me what happened here.”
With great effort, the aged physician got to his feet, then pressed his hands together. “It is a quartan fever, my queen. Every fourth day he suffers. Tomorrow he will feel more like himself, perhaps a bit weaker than usual, and the next day he will feel stronger still, but on the fourth day he will have fever again.”
I pressed my hand to Jannaeus’s damp forehead.
“He doesn’t feel hot.”
“He will—he chills, then he burns. It is the way of the fever.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and took my husband’s hand in mine. “Jannaeus,” I said firmly. “Jannaeus, wake up. Your wife is here.”
Again the eyelids fluttered, but this time they lifted. The dark eyes rolled in his head, lowered, and focused on my face. “Shelamzion?”
He had not called me by that name since his childhood. I gave him a curt nod. “I am sorry to hear you are ill. Can I get anything for you?”
“I need . . . your help.”
I glanced down at his pale, waxy hand. How many nights had I thought about killing this man? Too many to count. But HaShem had kept him alive, and here I was, offering my help as his wife and partner.
Truly Adonai worked in mysterious ways.
I squeezed his hand. “Tell me what to do, and I will see to it.”
A faint smile lifted the corners of my husband’s cracked lips. “I am sick.”
“So the physician says.”
“I am sure I will get better—”
“If HaShem wills.”
“But until I do, I need your help.”
He seemed so childlike, so unlike himself, that I patted his hand. “Tell me what I can do to help.”
“I need you to help . . . like you did in Galilee. Remember?”
I lifted both brows. “You want me to receive people in your name?”
His chin dipped in a barely perceptible nod. “And oversee the treasury. I am not certain my accountants are managing things . . . properly.”
“And how do I explain why I am doing these things in your place?”
His face went blank as his eyelids closed, a curtain coming between us.
“He sleeps,” the physician said, stepping forward.
I released my husband’s hand and slowly left the room, my thoughts spinning in bewilderment. What had motivated Jannaeus to ask for me? I was far from young—sixty-two, by my reckoning—and no man would call me a beauty. Jannaeus had not slept with me since we lived in Galilee, so he certainly did not think of me as a lover.
But he had not forgotten that I had a good head on my shoulders. He must have remembered that I judged well during our days in Galilee, and he had always known that his father admired my desire for learning.
My husband did no
t love me, he would not call me a friend, but he did respect me.
And, considering everything that had passed between us, that was enough.
For the next two years Jannaeus and I ruled Judea together. When he felt strong, Jannaeus would ride out to oversee his army, which was busily engaged in a campaign to reclaim some of the cities he had lost when his health began to suffer.
True to my word, I took over the day-to-day affairs of ruling Judea. I received visiting dignitaries, resolved disputes between Judean cities, and sent and received tributes and gifts from other national leaders. I sent a kind message to the Ptolemies in Egypt and sent gifts to Philip II, the current ruler of Seleucia. On Rosh Hashanah I sent emissaries to Rome, assuring them that we valued our treaty with the Roman Senate and wished them a prosperous new year.
When I was not receiving visitors or sending gifts, I quietly held banquets for several of the leading Torah teachers, Pharisees, and Essenes. I paid little attention to the Sadducees, and because they sat at the top of the Temple’s power structure and had the king’s blessing, they paid little attention to me.
But I thoroughly enjoyed my conversations with the Torah scholars. Both the Pharisees and Essenes were eagerly awaiting the Messiah. I was astonished and encouraged to realize their hope for the future had been fueled by the very incidents that had driven me to despair. The more corruption and violence they observed at the Temple, the more tumult in the world, the more convinced they became that the Messiah was on His way.
Once the Essenes learned to trust me, they told me that a large group of their unmarried members had gone to an area near the caves of Qumran, near the Dead Sea. I had heard this, of course, but I had not learned the exact location or the details.
These Essenes called themselves “the community” and had submitted to the leadership of the Teacher of Righteousness. This man, they explained, had been given a special understanding from the Ruach HaKodesh, or Holy Spirit of God. He opened the Torah scrolls, the prophets, and the writings to his followers, and taught them the proper meaning of the Scriptures.
I found that the Pharisees and the Essenes had much in common. Both groups believed in a coming Messiah. Both groups believed in the afterlife, angels, and the importance of circumcision. Both groups believed that righteous Gentiles like Kissa would be included in the kingdom of God.
They disagreed on divorce, however. The Pharisees were all too quick to divorce their wives, citing the Law of Moses as their authority. The Essenes, on the other hand, believed that God’s ideal was one man for one woman for one lifetime. “How can it be otherwise,” one Essene told me, “when HaShem created one wife only for Adam?”
I smiled when I heard this, for though I had always considered myself a Pharisee, I agreed with the Essenes on that point. Jannaeus had caused me deep and abiding grief over the years, and while I had considered murdering him, I had never considered asking him to grant me a divorce.
When I mentioned that the Essenes and the Pharisees were much alike, the Torah teacher with the Essenes laughed aloud. “On the surface, yes,” he said. “But we believe the Pharisees seek the ‘smooth way’ to godliness. We Essenes do not believe in an easy road. To join the community, a man must renounce the world, his family, and surrender his earthly possessions. He must repent of sin and present himself to the community, where he will be on probation for at least one year. Every detail of our lives is watched by the community. If a member bears a grudge against his neighbor, falls asleep during a meeting, or even burps during a meeting, he is punished. It is not easy to be part of the community.”
I leaned forward. “I am most interested in matters that might affect Judea. What does your Teacher of Righteousness say about the coming Messiah?”
The teacher picked up a scroll and unrolled it. “‘An oppression will come to the earth,’” he read aloud. “‘A great massacre in the province. The king of Assyria and Egypt will rise, and he will be great on the earth. He will call himself grand, and by his name he will be designated. Then the Son of God will be proclaimed and the Son of the Most High they will call Him. Like the sparks of the vision, so will be their kingdom. They will reign for years on the earth and they will trample all. People will trample people, and one province another province vacate until the people of God will arise and all will rest from the sword. The people of God’s kingdom will be an eternal kingdom and all their path will be in truth. They will judge the earth in truth and all will make peace. The sword will cease from the earth, and all the provinces will pay homage to them. Their dominion will be an eternal dominion.’”
I frowned. “I do not understand. What does it mean?”
The Torah teacher returned his gaze to the scroll. “I do not fully understand myself. But I know this: if we live in righteousness, if Israel commits to keeping the Law of Adonai, then HaShem will raise up the Anointed One, the Son of the Most High. He will have the Ruach HaKodesh upon Him, and He will defeat the wicked king.”
My eyes wandered over the dining room—the ornate couches, the thick rug, the wall carvings inlaid with precious gems and metals. I enjoyed these comforts along with my husband, but might I be called upon to sacrifice them for a new king?
“Do you think,” I said, lowering my voice, “my husband is the wicked king? Should I be expecting this Messiah to unseat him?”
The Torah teacher’s eyes widened. “I . . . I cannot say, my queen.”
I understood the anxiety filling his expression. “You may speak freely,” I said. “I would never try to prevent or deny HaShem’s truth.”
The man swallowed hard, then closed the scroll. “The Teacher of Righteousness has called your husband ‘the wicked priest,’ but I do not believe he considers Alexander Jannaeus the wicked king described in the text. Your husband does not rule Egypt and Syria.”
I sighed. “So we should not expect the Messiah until later?”
The Torah teacher pressed his hands on the table for a moment, then shook his head. “I do not know, my queen. I only know He is expected. Some say we are to look for two anointed messiahs—a king from the line of David and a priest from the line of Zadok. I do not know when they will come, but I am always watching.”
I lifted my cup. “Then I will watch with you.”
Chapter Forty
Shelamzion
As the months passed, Jannaeus’s good days became fewer and fewer. The yellow cast did not vanish from his skin, his eyes watered almost constantly, and his once-strong constitution weakened. He stopped visiting his military commanders and remained in Jerusalem, conducting business when he could. As he grew weaker, he spent more time in his bedchamber, usually accompanied by one or two of his favorite concubines, whom he housed in a new wing of the palace. He no longer visited the Temple, but allowed other kohanim to perform the sacrifices usually offered by the high priest. The wooden barriers blocking access to the inner sanctuary remained in place, and I knew he would not remove them during his lifetime. Any act to restore the Temple to the people would have to come from his successor.
Though he tried, he could not hide his illness from the people of Jerusalem. How else could he explain his absence from the Temple, the Sanhedrin, and his reception hall? For I handled all questions of state. I presided over banquets attended by delegations from other nations. I even met with the chief priests whenever they sought the high priest’s advice. Jannaeus had become so frail, and looked so diminished, that he refused to be seen in public.
For their part, the people of Jerusalem did not seem to miss him. They could not forget the atrocities he had committed, and though the people who entered our reception hall always made solicitous inquiries about his health, I suspected they were patiently waiting for his reign to end.
I waited along with them, for every day I saw proof that my husband was dying. I dutifully visited his bedchamber each morning to offer my help and ask his opinion on certain matters. I followed his commands, when he made them, but as the days passed and he grew more incapac
itated, more and more often he told me to do what I thought best.
Finally, the physician told me that Jannaeus would not live another week. “HaShem could always work a miracle,” the man hastened to add, “but you should be prepared, my queen. I do not think the king will live to see another Shabbat.”
He left me then, and I sat in the dying man’s room, alone with him . . . and a troubling predicament.
We had two sons, neither of whom would make a good king. I loved my sons deeply, but though I had been quick to praise their virtues, I had never been blind to their faults.
Hyrcanus, our firstborn, had grown into a soft, gentle, intellectual young man . . . who, I had to admit, was inordinately fond of sensual pleasures. As far as I knew, he was faithful to his wife, but he loved fine food, extravagant garments, and fine furnishings. If he were to move into this house, he would toss out every stick of furniture and every curtain, replacing them with furnishings far more expensive and grand. If the Seleucids or Egyptians or Romans were to threaten Judea in the years to come, Hyrcanus would negotiate Judea into poverty and utter submission, for he preferred capitulation over violence.
On the other hand, if Aristobulus were faced with the threat of war, he would fight until the last citizen of Judea lay gasping for breath. As king he would not hesitate to attack whoever stood in the way of his territorial ambitions. He would conscript warriors from our people and tax the people to hire mercenaries until he had the largest and most fearsome army in the known world. He would push Judea’s boundaries to the north, south, and east, and his reign would be remembered for its bloody battles.
Which son should inherit my husband’s throne? By right, the throne should go to Hyrcanus, and yet I did not believe Aristobulus would accept his brother as king. Prodded by his own ambition and his pushy wife, he would seek to overthrow his brother and would almost certainly succeed. Which meant he would have to kill my beloved Hyrcanus, because the firstborn would always be a threat. He might as well kill me too, because I could not continue living if one of my sons had murdered the other.