The Kingdom and the Crown

by Gerald N. Lund

  Chapter 4

  The stroke of the whip maketh marks in the flesh, but the stroke of the tongue breaketh bones.

  —Second Epistle of Pontianus

  I

  22 March, a.d. 30

  The rabbis had a saying: “Judea is wheat, Galilee straw, beyond Jordan, only chaff.”

  As the little column of weary people made their way through the verdant countryside of the upper Galilee, Miriam thought of that statement and shook her head. How like the arrogance of those in Jerusalem. Whoever had come up with that was more clever than wise. The latter rains, those that came in the late winter and early spring (as opposed to the first rains, which came in the late fall and early winter), had left the entire landscape bathed in brilliant greens. The grass alongside the pathway was as high as the donkey’s belly. Entire hillsides were a riotous splash of color, as though someone had punched holes in the rainbow and it had spilled its dazzling load across the fertile earth. One narrow valley had been so filled with wildflowers it was as if they were fording a river of scarlet as they passed through it.

  They were not together any longer, but spread out over about a quarter of a mile. The two whom Miriam did not know by name were in the lead now. With their destination nearby now, they were striding eagerly out ahead. Azariah the Pharisee came along just behind them, astonishing everyone with his tireless ability to keep pace with the younger men. About fifty paces behind those three, Miriam’s father hobbled along by himself, leaning heavily on a thick walking stick he had found somewhere along the way.

  Miriam understood only too well why he hobbled so badly. She could no longer distinguish individual sources of pain on the bottoms of her feet. Though she hadn’t looked, she was sure they were one large mass of blistered flesh now. And if hers were like that, what must her father be suffering?

  Daniel followed close behind her father, watching him to make sure he was going to make this last few hundred paces.

  Directly in front of Miriam, Yehuda walked ahead of the donkey on which Livia still rode, holding the halter rope. Though he was half a head taller than any of the other men and probably outweighed Simeon by half again, Yehuda moved with effortless ease, swinging along as though they had come only a few paces, rather than many miles.

  And what of his brother Daniel, Miriam wondered. He had followed Ya’abin for who knew how far before he doubled back to catch up with the rest of them. How many miles had he walked today? But like his older brother, he showed no signs of tiring.

  As for Miriam, she followed wearily along behind the donkey. She had stayed close to the animal all afternoon, reaching out to hang on to its tail from time to time if the trail got particularly steep. Somewhere behind them, Simeon was bringing up the rear. Or Ha’keedohn, she corrected herself. That was still so astonishing to her that she had to rehearse it again and again in her mind. She had heard his name mentioned so many times by members of the Council that she had half expected him to be taller than Goliath and more fearsome than a battering ram.

  She didn’t turn to see if he was still in sight. Sometimes he was; other times he disappeared.

  “Are you ready?”

  She lifted her head. Yehuda had slowed his step, walking backwards now as he looked at his two charges. They were coming around a bend where the path hugged the side of a hill. It was opening up into another of the small mountain valleys that seemed to be everywhere up here.

  “Ready for what?” Livia asked, craning her neck to try to see around him.

  “Are you ready for a sight that will leave your eyes dazzled forevermore?”

  Livia’s laugh filled the air. Even Miriam managed a smile. His enthusiasm was as boundless as his endurance. Then she smiled even more. Without thinking, the Greek word had come to her mind: enthousiasmos. From en-theos, literally meaning to have a god within you. Though she realized that Livia was partially bringing this exuberance out in Yehuda, it was also his natural zest for life. Enthusiasm was a fitting word for Yehuda the Zealot.

  The big man saw her smiling. He wagged his finger at her. “Oh, daughter of Jerusalem,” he intoned, “after what you are about to see, you shall never be satisfied with your drab and lifeless city again.”

  Miriam laughed aloud. “Are all Galileans so shameless?”

  Still walking backwards, Yehuda half turned his head to see where they were, then stepped to one side, giving a grand flourish. “Behold my humble home, the village of Beth Neelah.”

  About two arrow shots away, nestled in a lush cradle of pines and oak, the simple houses of a small farming village were bathed in the last rays of the setting sun. Built of the white limestone that was so common in all of the Holy Land, the buildings glowed like golden brooches fastened on a tapestry of royal green. Miriam stopped, her breath drawing in. For a moment the burning pain in her feet was forgotten. She heard Livia give a soft “oh.”

  Yehuda hooted. “I warned you now, did I not?”

  “It is lovely!” Livia exclaimed, slipping off the animal’s back as it came to a stop. She moved over to stand next to Miriam.

  “It is, Yehuda,” Miriam agreed. “It is beautiful.” Her eyes took the sight in, and she felt a quiet peace come over her. “Beth Neelah,” she mused. “The House of Joy. A name as lovely as its setting.”

  Suddenly aware of someone’s presence behind them, Miriam turned and saw Simeon just coming around the bend behind them. When he saw the three of them there, he shook his head. “Ah, Yehuda, are you touting the glories of the village again?”

  “But of course,” he said happily.

  Simeon sighed in mock weariness and spoke to the women. “If he could put Beth Neelah into goatskin bottles, he would try to sell it to every person who walked by.”

  “Aye,” the big man answered, “and what a simple way to make a fortune.”

  “Is this your home too?” Miriam asked, pleased to see that his mood seemed to have improved again.

  For a moment Simeon seemed startled by the question, but then he shook his head. “No, I am only an adopted son.”

  Then she remembered that Yehuda had told her that Simeon was from Capernaum, down on the shores of the Sea of Kinnereth. “The rest of us are from here,” Yehuda explained when it was clear Simeon wasn’t going to volunteer any more information, “but Simeon has been cursed to dwell in the lowlands.” He gave his friend a pitying look. “It is a lovely little place, but . . . ” He turned and looked at his village as if the view said it all.

  “You make more noise than a ram’s horn,” Simeon responded. “Stop your trumpeting and let us get these people to a place where they can stop at last.”

  “Of course,” Yehuda said, not in the least bit deflated by his friend’s pretended sourness. “Come, let me introduce you to our village.”

  Miriam started to smile, then had to remind herself that this bantering was going on between a Zealot warrior and Ha’keedohn, one of the most virulent of the Zealot leaders. It was so foreign to her expectations that she was still having a difficult time assimilating it. She had come expecting—what? she wondered. Men more like Ya’abin? Men who hid behind masks or beneath hoods?

  Without thinking, she stepped forward, putting her full weight on the ball of her foot. She gave a sharp cry and nearly stumbled. Livia reached out quickly and grabbed her arm.

  “What is it?” Yehuda said, moving in beside her.

  “It’s nothing. I—” She glanced at Simeon. “My feet have grown a little tender, I fear.”

  “You ride the rest of the way,” Livia said, taking her elbow more firmly. “I’m fine now.”

  Looking down so that the two men wouldn’t see the tears of pain that had sprung to her eyes, Miriam shook her head. “We’re almost there.”

  “Miriam, really. You ride. My head is fine now.”

  Miriam shrugged off Livia’s grasp and started up the trail, fighting with every shred of willpower not to wince. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Simeon nod in Yehuda’s direction. Suddenly she was
swooped upward, Yehuda’s fingertips nearly touching as his massive hands encircled her waist. He set her gently on the back of the donkey and took the halter. “The Javelin has spoken.” He grinned. Yehuda apparently found it hugely amusing that Miriam had been so shocked to learn that Simeon was the infamous Ha’keedohn.

  They had barely started again when a noise drew their attention. The lead ones in their party were just approaching the village and had been sighted. A cry went up, and almost instantly the place erupted into life. Children raced out, whooping and shouting. A dozen dogs followed right on their heels, barking furiously. In a moment the women and older girls appeared, their high-pitched voices echoing off the hills. Miriam saw one woman plow into the two lead Galileans and throw her arms around one of them. Then another figure broke loose from the group, waving and shouting. Waist-long black hair streamed out behind her as she careened down the path. She raced past Miriam’s father and blasted into Daniel. Miriam could hear her squeal as he lifted her and spun her around. But the moment her feet touched the ground again, she was off once more. Now she left the path to take a more direct route. She came toward them like a young gazelle, leaping over stones and darting through the brush.

  “Shana!” Yehuda dropped the halter rope and ran forward. They met a moment later, and the young woman flung herself across the last several feet into his outstretched arms. For a moment it looked as though the slim figure would be completely crushed in the awesome bear hug that encircled her, but there was no cry of pain, only a breathless, “Yehuda! Yehuda!”

  Livia and Miriam looked at each other, a little taken aback by the ferocity of the welcome. Was this the answer to the question as to whether Yehuda was married? But finally he pried loose the arms that were locked around his neck and, with a giant grin, turned his attacker around to face Miriam and Livia. “Shana, I want you to meet someone.” His pride in presenting Beth Neelah had been evident before. It was nothing compared to what they saw on his face now. “This is Miriam bat Mordechai ben Uzziel, daughter of one of the most important men in all of Jerusalem. And,” he turned slightly, “this is Livia of Alexandria.”

  Livia flushed even as she smiled, and Miriam sensed how deeply it pleased her that Yehuda had not added, “and maidservant to Miriam.”

  The big man put his arm around the girl’s shoulder. “And this is my sister, Shana.”

  Shana nodded in greeting. Of course! She had the same enormous brown eyes that made Yehuda seem so gentle. Now those eyes were filled with unabashed curiosity as Shana slowly scrutinized the two women before her.

  Yehuda nudged her a little. “That was Mordechai, the important man of whom I just spoke, that you nearly knocked down as you ran to greet Daniel.”

  “Oh.” Shana didn’t seem at all contrite. She was still eyeing Miriam and Livia. She was perhaps a year or two younger than Miriam, and though clothed in simple Galilean homespun, she was remarkably lovely. Her facial features were flawless and set in equally flawless skin. She had a girlish freshness that only heightened the loveliness of the woman. There was no mistaking her relationship to Yehuda, since she was a replica in miniature.

  After a moment she lifted her head. There was an instant transformation. “Shalom, Simeon,” she said softly, her eyes lowering behind thick dark lashes.

  “Peace to you also, Shana. How are things with your house?”

  Miriam watched half in surprise, half in amusement at the change that had so swiftly transformed the breathless, eager girl into a demure and shy young woman. Shana’s eyes studied the rocks on the pathway with meticulous attention. It was hard to believe this was the same person who just moments before had tumbled down the hill with such wild abandon.

  “Things are well, thank you.” Her head came up, and she gave Simeon a dazzling smile. It was clear that the rest of them had been totally forgotten.

  Yehuda cut in now. “Come! We are tired and hungry and nearly home. We have guests, Shana. We must show them why our village is called the House of Joy.”

  II

  Among the Jews it was always said that one “went up” to Jerusalem. While Miriam knew that was literally true, since the city sat astride the central Judean highlands between the Great Sea on the west and the Sea of Salt on the east, the phrase implied far more than a topographical change. To go to Jerusalem was to ascend—emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. The populace of the city looked down with condescension on those Jews so unfortunate as to dwell outside the Holy City. Surrounding Judeans were viewed with a slight touch of pity, but tolerated, for they at least had the common sense to live close to the city of God. But the Galileans? The urbane and worldly wise Jerusalemites spoke of them with barely disguised contempt. They were peasants—not only ignorant and unlearned but, what was infinitely worse, content to stay that way. Their slaughter of the Aramaic language was the constant butt of ridicule. A common joke among the Judeans was that if a Galilean asked for a lamb, one could not tell whether he asked for immar, a lamb; chamar, an ass; hamar, wine; or amar, wool.

  With a touch of shame, Miriam realized that to the Jerusalemite, the Galilean was slow, oafish, crude, and earthy. Occasionally one might hear a Jerusalemite admit, but only with some reluctance, that the Galileans were also known for their warmhearted openness, their unrestrained hospitality, and their uncompromising honesty. They were men of the soil and the sea, and this kept them much more in touch with the deeper values of life than their urban cousins. They had also traditionally furnished the fiercest warriors in Israel’s battles.

  As Miriam sat near the fire in the open square of Beth Neelah, she admitted to herself that she had been guilty of these feelings towards Galileans. Now she was envious. Perhaps it was because they had not been confined to the twisting, garbage-strewn ruts that passed for streets in Jerusalem. They had not had to learn to deal with the sophistries of the street vendors, who could change the weights on their scales with the swiftness of a master magician. Nor had they been forced to learn the intricate and endless hypocrisies of conversation that filled the homes of Jerusalem’s finest. Maybe that explained their openness and their love for life.

  The whole village—about three hundred souls—had made the occasion of the return of Simeon’s men and their guests into a minor festival. The four native sons were given a family’s welcome, and Simeon had clearly been right when he said he was an adopted son of the village, for he was welcomed as warmly. But to her complete surprise, the four strangers from Jerusalem were accepted without restraint. Though simple, the food had been carted out without measure. Roast lamb, dates, olives, grapes, fresh vegetables—the makeshift tables groaned with the load. Again it was with a twinge of guilty conscience that Miriam wondered what it would have been like had the situation been reversed and the Galileans visited Jerusalem.

  Even sour Azariah the Pharisee had been noticeably impressed to the point that his muttered grumblings about the events of the day finally ceased. The excellent wine had mellowed his crusty exterior, and he became warm and expansive. Half the village gathered around him now as he told story after story, leaving them laughing uproariously one moment and in tears the next. Miriam was amazed to see this side of Jerusalem’s leading Pharisee. She suspected that not many in the Great Sanhedrin knew this Azariah.

  At that moment Shana reappeared, winning a ripple of approval from the crowd. She carried several timbrels, a sistrum, and a wooden flute. Instantly the villagers spread out across the square, and in a moment the area was cleared. Shana thrust the flute into the reluctant hands of her brother Daniel, then passed out the other instruments to waiting women. A hush descended over the square, and for a moment the only sound in the night was the crackling of the fire. Then Daniel put the flute to his lips and began to play.

  At first he played without accompaniment, his eyes closed, his face a flickering mirror of the firelight. The sound was haunting, almost hypnotic in its lonely melancholy. Then gradually, almost imperceptibly, there was a subtle change of mood. The tempo i
ncreased and the sadness gave way, first to happiness and then to joyful abandon. Shana began to beat the circular timbrel with its metal rattles against her leg. Soon the other women joined, the strumming of the sistrum blending in. Quickly now, the beat became more powerful, almost impelling, causing the body to respond without conscious thought.

  Suddenly Yehuda was on his feet, followed almost instantly by a dozen others. He faced Shana, who was now beating the timbrel rapidly with the tips of her fingers in a counter rhythm to the others. With great soberness Yehuda’s feet began to move in time to the music. Like the music itself, the dance was completely extemporaneous and unrehearsed, but it was as though Yehuda’s feet and Daniel’s fingers were attuned to the same inward sound. And the villagers were connected to that same invisible source, for they followed Yehuda’s lead with precise execution and effortless grace, the men on one side, the women on the other, as was the Jewish way. Miriam watched, fascinated. This too was the way of her people—spontaneous music, the improvised dance—but rarely had she seen it performed with such flawless execution.

  Livia was sitting beside Miriam. She leaned over and whispered into her ear. “Look at your father.”

  Here was a second surprise for Miriam. A short distance away, across the fire from them, Mordechai ben Uzziel was clapping his hands rhythmically in time with the beat of the timbrels. The lines of weariness, so evident earlier, had vanished. He was smiling broadly and obviously enjoying himself. Miriam had not yet told him that their rescuer was none other than Ha’keedohn himself. She had started to while they were eating supper, then decided that she did not want to ruin what was proving to be a very pleasant evening.

  “I think he would be up dancing were it not for his feet,” Miriam smiled.

  “Yes,” Livia agreed. She turned to look at the dancers. “And how does Azariah do it? He has walked as far as you and your father.”

  Miriam shook her head as she turned and watched the small, round figure of the Pharisee. He had the skirts of his robe pulled up slightly, and with his side curls bouncing and bobbing, he kept in step, as agile and quick as any man in the circle. “He must walk everywhere in Jerusalem. I don’t think he has raised so much as a single blister.”