Bloodline

by Alan Gold

  The imam nodded in gratitude and walked down the corridor.

  * * *

  YAEL WALKED THE CORRIDORS of the hospital, making precise turns left and right, without ever looking up from the clipboard in her hand. Her feet seemed to know exactly how many steps each hallway segment required before turning as she made her way through the labyrinthine building. She had pushed all thoughts of Bilal and his family and ancient stone seals from her mind and was intent upon her rounds when she all but walked into the lean but muscular figure of Mahmud, her Palestinian colleague.

  “God, I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking . . .” stammered Yael.

  “I’ve been called many things, but never ‘God.’ ” Mahmud smiled his wry and somewhat mischievous grin, but it took Yael’s mind a moment to catch up to the joke. She returned the smile and was about to continue on her way when Mahmud’s hand rested on her shoulder.

  “How is the boy?”

  Despite the number of children in the large hospital, Yael didn’t need to ask which boy Mahmud was referring to.

  “He’s . . . um . . . recovering well. Slowly . . . Did you know him?”

  “Sure. All us Arabs know each other. We’re all cousins.”

  Yael blushed just a little and smiled at his facetiousness. But no matter how long she lived and worked with Palestinian people, she found casual conversation hard.

  When the grin left Mahmud’s face, he removed his small, round glasses and began to clean them with a handkerchief from his pocket. “Bilal? Is that his name?”

  “Yes,” replied Yael.

  Mahmud nodded. “More than bullet wounds, right? Angiomyolipoma?”

  “Yeah.” Yael found herself transfixed by Mahmud’s hand as he rubbed at the lenses of his glasses, rubbed at dust that was long gone.

  “That’s a rare condition. I would have liked to see that operation.”

  “He was lucky he was here for us to find it,” said Yael.

  “Allah works in mysterious ways.”

  Yael let out a soft laugh.

  “I don’t know Bilal, Yael, but I know I could have been him . . .” He returned his glasses to his face and used them to focus on her. “Different choices, different opportunities. My father gave everything to send me to school. He said it was the only answer to what you all call the Palestinian problem. Funny for a man who couldn’t read. Bilal and me, a fork in the road, and yet we both end up in a hospital. Me to save people; him to be saved—by you.”

  Yael found herself unable to reply so Mahmud filled the silence for her.

  “Thank you, Yael,” he said as he walked away down the corridor toward his patients.

  * * *

  935 BCE

  GAMALIEL, SON OF TERAH of the tribe of Manasseh, had grown rich from buying the rights to impose a levy on all visitors to Jerusalem and placing his own tax collectors outside the gates. He’d bid for the privilege of collecting taxes when the king’s treasurer offered for sale the right to tax people passing through the gates of the city. And the deal he’d made with the treasurer had been rewarding for all concerned. The king was earning good money from traders, merchants, and visitors to Jerusalem, who paid a tenth of Gamaliel’s estimate of the value of their goods to the king’s estate. He gave the lion’s share of the levy to the king and kept a quarter part of the tax to himself, and paid a twentieth part to the treasurer for giving him the rights.

  Of course, what Solomon and his treasurer didn’t know was that Gamaliel always overestimated the value by a tenth part, much to the anger of the merchants, and underestimated the value to the king’s treasurer. The difference went directly into his pocket.

  Now he’d been called to the palace to sit in an audience with the king himself and with the high priest, Ahimaaz. Why? he wondered. What spoils of office were on offer now? With the temple almost complete and with Solomon’s treasury almost empty from his ridiculous demands for gold leaf to adorn the tops of columns, and for huge statues of angels and cherubim and seraphim and lions made only of gold, no wonder the king was without money.

  Perhaps the meeting was to demand he increase the levy at the gates to pay for the temple. Perhaps it was to raise new levies from an already overburdened people. Who knew? He told his wife he’d be back before nightfall and left his home to walk the steep pathways up the hill of the City of David toward Solomon’s palace.

  Gamaliel was shown into the king’s throne room and he bowed low before Solomon the Wise. On the far side of the room stood the man Gamaliel knew to be Ahimaaz the high priest, although they had never met.

  Solomon seemed to ignore the priest and looked only at Gamaliel from his throne. The king then abruptly stood and began to talk. He talked about the temple, his reign, the troubles he was having with his wives, his relationship with nearby kings, the difficulties with the twelve tribes, and on and on. Gamaliel was not in the least surprised by this long-winded monologue—nor was Ahimaaz, it seemed to him. Solomon, though renowned for his wisdom, could talk from morning to dusk and not realize that the minds of those listening to him were elsewhere.

  But the rewards the king held in his gift were great, as was the potential of his wrath, and so those summoned listened in lengthy silence.

  Though Gamaliel’s eyes never left the king as he wandered the room, he could feel the eyes of Ahimaaz on him. Did the priest know what the king might say to him? Or was the priest waiting with painful curiosity just as Gamaliel was? Gamaliel was a shrewd and successful man and so was cognizant enough to know that those in power stayed in power by knowing from where future threats might come. Did the high priest see him as a threat?

  Solomon turned from the Western Wall, with its miraculous painted display of ferns and flowers, of lions and deer and rabbits and birds, and faced Gamaliel directly for what seemed like the first time. On either side of him were golden statues of lions, and Solomon sat down on his gold-covered ivory throne with its purple cushion filled with the feathers of ducks. With a voice much softer than his previous monologue he said, “As you can see, my temple is close to being finished. The land is sanctified and cleansed, thanks to you, Ahimaaz”—Solomon gave a curt nod in the direction of the high priest—“and the builders from Lebanon will soon erect the roof of costly but beautiful cedars. Which brings me to why I have commanded you to appear before me.”

  At last, thought Gamaliel. But with the mentioning of the temple he assumed whatever the king was about to tell him had something to do with its building. Again he felt the eyes of Ahimaaz searching him from the other side of the room. Rumors reverberated around the city about Ahimaaz: how he had spent his life studying the scrolls that were written of the life of Father Moses and of the laws he and others had invoked for the community. It was said of Ahimaaz that he knew every prayer for every occasion. His visits to the poor and the sick were spoken of, and how he gave away large sums of his wealth to those in need. No doubt such rumors were the fabrications of Ahimaaz himself to cement his position. Gamaliel didn’t envy him. He had no time for priests and their empty declarations and pointless rituals. Yet, he knew well the machinations of the priestly order and that if Ahimaaz was to survive he would have to be very deft.

  Solomon picked up a scroll and read briefly from it to remind himself. “Two separate orders of officials are required to ensure the good running of my temple. The first is the priesthood, which will minister to the people, keep the times and meanings of the services, ensure that all the people worship there at least three times every week, and bring the correct gifts as offerings and animals for sacrifice. Since his betrayal of me and my kingdom, Azariah has been banished and therefore you, Ahimaaz, have been tasked with the role of the high priest, and your charge will be maintaining the priestly blessing, the redemption of the firstborn, prayers for skin diseases and mildew, and instructing those who are learned and of the priestly family in the words of the law, and you will control the order and distribution of the sacrifices and the incense offerings.”

  Ahimaaz
looked at the king in amazement. The revenue he would earn from these tasks was enormous. He would be wealthy. He nodded his thanks to Solomon, unable to speak. And then the king looked at Gamaliel.

  “Know this, Gamaliel of the tribe of Manasseh, tax collector. For many years, merchants and travelers, men and women from foreign lands, have been coming to Jerusalem to see its splendors and to marvel at the brilliance of its impenetrable walls. And during that time I have allowed you to collect the revenues that accrue from taxing such peoples at the gate. According to our contract, you have given me over half of the tenth part of what you levied when they entered the city. This is true.”

  Gamaliel looked closely at King Solomon, sitting there on his raised dais, shrouded in his purple cloak, his golden crown sitting firmly on his head. Gamaliel nodded, and said, “That is true, Majesty.”

  “But while you pay half of what you are paid, my spies have spoken to these merchants and they tell me that what you levied is not what you’ve told my treasury. You have demanded a tenth share more from the merchants than you’ve declared to me.”

  Gamaliel began to speak but the king put up his hand and said, “Silence! Not only have you underestimated your income from these merchants but you’ve also lied to me about the numbers of people who visit my city. You pay me tax for a hundred people in a week but my men have counted those whom you tax and they tell me that, since the last full moon until the full moon two days ago, two hundred people have entered the city every week.”

  Gamaliel smiled and tried to hide his nervousness. He knew that he was sweating and hoped that it didn’t show. “Majesty, your spies are correct. There have been twice the number of men and women than those who have paid to cross the threshold of the city and enter its walls. But your spies haven’t told you the whole truth, for those extra people who enter are residents of the city. They are exempt from paying the levy. They are farmers in the valleys, or workmen on the Mount of Olives, or builders cutting rock. You have received all that I have levied, less my part. And as to the tax on the goods the merchants bring in, Majesty, I levy no more and no less than the value of the goods. I swear by Yahweh, Majesty, that—”

  “Lie to me one more time, Gamaliel, and I will cast you out. My first and foremost wife, Tashere, tells me that one of her servants overheard one of your wives speaking in the marketplace. Your wife was boasting about how she had a lot of money because of you and the way you cheat your king.

  “The walls of this city have my ears, tax collector. I know everything that happens, and if you continue to lie to me, then you will follow my son into the darkness of the Valley of Hinnom. My men didn’t just count the people who entered but asked them where they were from. And they tell a very different tale to your lie. You have cheated me and my kingdom of wealth, money that has gone into your pocket. That is punishable by stoning until death.”

  Gamaliel looked upon the king in terror and began to answer, but Solomon put up his hand again to silence the man. “The eighth commandment of the Lord Yahweh was that you will not steal, and if I stone you or cast you into the wilderness, you will surely die.”

  Gamaliel coughed and tried again to speak but no words came out. Instead the king’s tone changed abruptly.

  “But your death will not suit my purpose. For once a thief is caught and death is the reward of his crimes, then that thief will do anything to remain alive. Will he not? So I will not punish you despite your thefts, for you, more than any before you, are a good collector of taxes. Liar and a thief though you may be, I will use these failings to my benefit. I need money to complete the building of my temple. You will collect it by raising taxes wherever you can. Do not bend the backs of the people too much, but I must have money. You will keep one-third of all you collect and two-thirds will be given to me to pay for my workmen and those from Lebanon. And from time to time, at times unknown to you, my treasurer will seek your records and will count the number of people, how much each has paid, and the purpose of the payment, and he will count every talent, every mina, and every shekel. Should there be one single shekel’s discrepancy between what is and what should be, then without question all your wealth, property, and livelihood will be forfeited and your family will be expelled from Jerusalem forever. And you, tax collector, will be cast into a pit and stoned to death from the walls above.”

  Gamaliel looked at the king in horror and nodded quickly and emphatically.

  * * *

  GAMALIEL LEFT THE PALACE chastened and shaken. His head was a beehive swarming with stinging insects. Normally a man of determination, he felt himself flailing on the edge of a precipice, one part of him about to plunge into the abyss because of his deceit, yet the other part elevated to the safety of increased status.

  The logic and wisdom of the king was not lost on Gamaliel. Solomon knew that in a world where all men cheated and lied, the only thief who was honest was the thief who knew that all knew him to be a thief, one too afraid to steal again.

  It was a long moment in his bewildered state before he realized that he had been followed. Ahimaaz walked quickly behind him to catch him up and tapped him on the shoulder. Lost in his own world of confusion and relief, Gamaliel turned in surprise.

  “Priest? You want to speak with me?” he said.

  Ahimaaz nodded, and said, “It’s a hot day. In the next lane is a stall selling pomegranate juice. Let us drink together. There is much that we have to discuss.”

  Years of shrewd business dealings brought back Gamaliel’s composure and he eyed the high priest suspiciously. “I know the stall you’re talking about. The seller waters down juice and charges too much. Why not walk down two streets to the marketplace? There are better stalls there.”

  It was a big and crowded bazaar: not as large as that of Hebron or Damascus because Jerusalem had been built on a steep hillside, but it was noisy and bustling with the smells and sounds of any marketplace in any city. Some of the stalls sold the meat of sheep and cattle, some sold freshly baked bread, some the produce of the fields, and others proudly offered goods from as far afield as Acco in the north and Lachish in the south, from Damascus, Sidon, Jaffa, and Ashkelon on the coast, from Assyria, Persia, and even India in the east. Everybody, it seemed, every merchant, caravan, and craftsman, was setting their sights on Jerusalem.

  As they rounded the corner, the noise of the marketplace grew louder and Ahimaaz wondered whether this was the best place to talk. Sensing his concerns, Gamaliel turned and said, “There’s a stall owned by my cousin. The drink isn’t watered down and he won’t cheat us.”

  Gamaliel led the way, weaving around the stalls, holding his breath as he passed the tables of meat sellers, whose carcasses hung in haunches, shoulders, innards, and entrails covered in hysterical flies. The acrid smell was soon replaced by that of newly baked bread. Gamaliel took some shekels out of his pocket, threw them onto the table, and grabbed two warm loaves. He handed one to Ahimaaz.

  “I wish you God’s good appetite.”

  “Thank you,” said the high priest, slightly startled, but the hours standing in the palace had left him hungry. Gamaliel tore off a chunk and chewed openly. Ahimaaz held the bread in both hands and under his breath whispered a prayer.

  They sat down on stools at the stall of Gamaliel’s cousin. Ahimaaz looked darkly at Gamaliel as he ordered juice, then said quietly, “Do you always eat without blessing and giving thanks to Yahweh for providing it?”

  Gamaliel’s reply came bluntly. “The Lord didn’t provide it. The baker did. And I thanked him accordingly with shekels on his table.”

  “Is everything not provided by the Almighty?” asked Ahimaaz.

  Gamaliel, shorter than Ahimaaz, graying and slightly stooped, thought for a moment before replying. “Did the Almighty give me the right to levy taxes at the gate, which has made me a rich man? No, I negotiated that myself from Solomon’s treasury. There were others, but only I came to a suitable arrangement with the treasurer. So why should I thank God? It was me who paid o
ut of my pocket. You, priest, would tell me that what I did was wrong in the eyes of God. So how do you explain that I’m still here, not struck by lightning, not brought down by a divine arrow, but standing before you with bread in my stomach and juice on my table?”

  Gamaliel picked up the cup and drank deeply. He didn’t know what this priest wanted, but after the brush with death at the hand of Solomon, and now facing a strange future, Gamaliel felt oddly bold.

  “And when I prayed fervently and offered all manner of things to the temple, did the Almighty save my second-born son when he fell into the ravine? No, my son died after three days in agony, his body broken. And where is the Almighty when my second wife, whose skin is constantly aflame with welts and ruptures, cries from morning till night and scratches herself so hard that she bleeds? And my daughter from my third wife, while no beauty, is still unmarried and is already fifteen years old and no man, regardless of what I offer as bride money, will take her because her arm is withered.”

  Ahimaaz was clearly unused to such speeches and found himself without response as Gamaliel continued in a strangely mocking tone.

  “Surely conjuring a loaf of bread is a rather unimpressive display from your god if he means to atone for the sorrow and misery of the city?”

  Ahimaaz’s dismay turned to shock. “How dare you speak in that way, merchant! How dare you think you can understand God’s ways! Wasn’t it God Almighty who gave us this city? Wasn’t it Yahweh who gave our father, Moses, the strength to resist the Egyptian pharaoh and lead us out of our bondage? Wasn’t it—”

  “Spare me, please. Your sermons are wasted here. I’m a man of business and I make a living from those who come into this city to trade. I have no need for this god of yours, or any other god. The Jebusites had their gods and look what happened to them.”

  “Our god is the one true God . . .”

  “Show me proof and I’ll believe you. Do you know what proof is, Priest? Solomon had proof that I had cheated him. I have proof that the bread I’ve just eaten was baked today. Other people have stone and iron gods that they can see, but our Yahweh is invisible”—Gamaliel pointed up to the sky, and then to the top of Mount Moriah, where the temple was soon to be completed—“and yet we’re building Him a home. So when the roof is on the building and the men of Lebanon have gone back to where they came from, will Yahweh reside there? And if He does, will we be able to see Him? When I’m in my house and sitting on a chair, people can see me and nobody can sit on the chair that I occupy. Yet, if Yahweh is invisible, how will we know which chair He’s sitting on?”