III
Rome
Fifteen hundred miles to the northwest, in a spacious and luxurious apartment only a few blocks from the Roman Forum, Mordechai ben Uzziel raised his cup and nodded at Drusus Alexander Carlottus.
Livia’s brother, freed from slavery just over a week before, looked around. His pale blue eyes were moist, and he suddenly found it difficult to speak.
When Livia had told him that the two of them were invited to celebrate a Passover feast with Miriam and her father, Drusus found the whole thing somewhat peculiar, and he said he didn’t want to participate. At eighteen, he had determined he had no need for religion or ceremony. But at eighteen, he was the youngest male present, and by tradition it was his role to ask the crucial question. Livia had reminded him of the debt they both owed to the family of Mordechai and Miriam for their continuing kindness, and whether he found the whole tradition peculiar or not, they would be participating. Finally, he had reluctantly agreed. But when Mordechai had intoned those words—“This year we are slaves. Next year we shall be freeman”—Drusus was caught totally by surprise and found himself deeply moved.
“Go ahead, Drusus,” Mordechai said gently.
He swallowed; then asked the question Miriam had taught him. “Why is this night different from all other nights?”
There were just the four of them. Rome had a significant number of Jews in the city, but many had gone to Jerusalem to celebrate the feast there, and Mordechai had not associated himself with the Jewish community in Rome, fearing that word of his whereabouts might somehow get back to Ya’abin. So he had declared that they would have their own Passover, simple and limited as it might be.
Mordechai raised the cup of wine high, and the others followed suit. “On all other nights, we eat leavened bread and matzos, or unleavened bread. On this night we eat only matzos. On all other nights, we eat all kinds of herbs. On this night we eat only bitter herbs to remind us of the bitterness of bondage. On all other nights, we eat reclining and in repose. On this night we eat with our feet shod and staff in hand, for tonight we shall flee our bondage and escape from Egypt.”
IV
Bethlehem
They all drank together, then set their cups down again. Benjamin nodded at Boaz. Rachel hovered near his side to make sure he carried out his role properly.
More confident now, and clearly enjoying his central role, Boaz called out, “Then what mean ye by this service?”
Benjamin nodded his approval. “It is the sacrifice of the Lord’s Passover, who passed over the houses of the children of Israel when he delivered them from bondage in Egypt, when he smote the Egyptians and delivered our houses.”
All around the table bowed their heads. “Amen!” they intoned.
V
Rome
At a nod from her father, Miriam refilled their cups again. Mordechai picked up the plate of unleavened bread a second time and held it high.
Miriam and Livia asked the next question together. Traditionally, all others present were supposed to ask the questions of the one leading the service, but since Drusus didn’t know the ceremony, just the two women led out while Drusus watched. “This matzos that we eat? What meaning has it?”
Mordechai answered, and as he did so Miriam wondered if this was the first time in history that the Seder feast had been performed in Latin. Livia would have been fine with the Hebrew ceremony, but Drusus, of course, spoke nothing but Latin and his native Greek.
“The dough of our forefathers,” Mordechai said, his voice low and sonorous, “did not have sufficient time to be leavened, when the King of kings, the Holy One of Israel, blessed be his Name, revealed himself to our people and redeemed them.”
VI
Bethlehem
Benjamin set the matzos down, then pointed at the seder plate. As one, the family asked the next question. “And the bitter herb that we eat? What meaning has it?”
“The Egyptians embittered the lives of our forefathers in Egypt,” Benjamin answered. “As it is written, ‘And they embittered their lives with hard labor in the brick pits and with all manner of labor in the fields.’”
“Amen!”
Deborah smiled as young Esther reached for the tiniest piece of the bitter herb she could see, already wrinkling her nose in anticipation. They used the roots of a leafy vegetable which were never eaten except at Passover. It was terribly bitter. Each took a piece and put it in their mouths, chewed quickly, then swallowed. Esther gave a little shudder as she got hers down.
Quickly now, they reached for the next bowl on the seder plates. This contained celery and parsnips. They dipped those vegetables in a small bowl of salt water, then turned again to Benjamin, poised to continue. He nodded, and they all spoke in unison again. “And the salt water that we see? What meaning has it?”
VII
Rome
Mordechai dipped his celery stick in the bowl of salt water and held it up. “The Israelites shed many tears during the years of their bondage in Egypt. The salt water reminds us of the bitter tears that were shed.”
They ate the celery, this time not with haste, but savoring it. Miriam always liked this particular moment, for the salty celery helped purge the taste of the bitter herbs.
Finished, they looked up. Her father reached over. Leaning against the table beside him was a long walking stick he had purchased somewhere in the markets earlier that day. He grasped the walking stick and began to stand. That was the signal for each of them to stand as well. When they were up, Mordechai nodded and she and Livia again spoke together. “And why do we eat this supper with a girdle about our loins, our sandals on our feet, and a staff in our hands?”
Actually, only her father had a staff, but all four of them wore their sandals. This felt so strange to Miriam, because they always removed their outside footwear when they entered the home. They also had a sash tied around their waists, suggesting that they had girded up their loins in preparation for flight.
Once again, her father answered in a solemn voice. “The Lord God, the Holy One of Israel, blessed be his name, commanded ancient Israel, as it is written: ‘And thus shall ye eat the Passover meal—with your loins girded, your shoes on your feet, and your staff in hand. And thus ye shall eat it in haste, for tonight is the Lord’s Passover. I will pass through the land of Egypt this night, and I will smite all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, and against all the gods of Egypt will I execute judgment this night.’”
“Amen!” all of them answered solemnly. They lifted their cups and held them up, turning to face Mordechai.
VIII
Bethlehem
The family members held their cups high, watching Benjamin with anticipation. This was the most solemn moment of all. Benjamin lifted his cup of wine heavenward. “In every generation,” he exclaimed, his voice rich and low, “one ought to regard himself as though he had personally been delivered from bondage in Egypt. As it is said in the Torah: ‘And this day shall be unto you for a memorial, and ye shall keep it a feast to the Lord throughout your generations.’ Not only our forefathers did the Holy One, blessed is he, redeem, but also ourselves.
“Therefore it is our duty to thank, praise, laud, glorify, uplift, extol, bless, exalt, and adore Him who did all of these miracles for our fathers and for ourselves. He has brought us forth from slavery to freedom, from sorrow to joy, from mourning to festive day, from darkness unto great light, and from subjection to redemption. Let us then recite before Him a new song: Hallelujah! Praise ye God! Hallelujah! Praise ye God!”
As one, the family lifted their cups higher. “Amen!” they cried aloud. “Amen and Amen!”
IX
Bethlehem 13 April, a.d. 31
Simeon was in the small courtyard, just buckling on the belt that held two scabbards, one for his dagger and one for the short Roman sword he preferred. The sky was just lightening, but it was nearly dark within the confined space. Above him, Uncle Benjamin’s house was completely dark. Finished, he looked around, fe
eling a pang of sorrow. These past few days had been a wonderful break from the intensity of his quest in the wilderness of Judea. Now it was time to plunge back into that murky and dangerous world.
He turned as he heard a sound. His mother and father were there, standing at the entry. “You didn’t need to get up,” he said. “We said our farewells last night.”
“I know,” Deborah said, “but we were awake.”
Bending down, he strapped his sandals on as they watched. Then he reached for his bow and quiver propped against the house. Only then did he move over to face them.
“You’ll be careful?” Deborah said, trying not to sound too anxious.
“More than ever before.”
The earnestness in his voice caused her to peer at him more closely. Before she could ask him what he meant by that, he spoke. “Do you realize that during this week we haven’t seen Jesus perform one miracle or give one overt demonstration of his power?”
That came as a surprise to both of them. “I hadn’t thought about that,” David answered, “but you are right.” Then he looked more closely at Simeon. “Is that a disappointment to you?”
“No. Actually, it’s the other way around.” He was thinking of what Yehuda had said to him that night while they waited for Issachar to come with the wine. “It’s been good to just listen to him, to think about what he’s trying to teach us. Sometimes, I think—at least this is true for me—the miracles are so powerful, they almost overshadow what he’s saying. But it’s his teachings that are really important, isn’t it?”
His mother was nodding slowly. “Yes,” she said. “No question about it.”
“As I lay awake last night thinking about this last week, I realized that there has been one thread that has run through much of what he has said.”
“Which is?” his mother asked.
“Well, for me, I think Jesus has been teaching us what it means to love as God loves. The story of the good Samaritan, that experience with Mary and Martha, the parables of the lost—the lost sheep, the lost coin, the prodigal son. It seems like all of those things are meant to teach us how to love both God and others better.”
His father nodded slowly, obviously intrigued with the idea.
Simeon’s face softened. “I’m learning that from you, Father. You ponder a lot about what Jesus has said; then you come up with these wonderful insights. So I’ve been trying to do that for myself.”
“And what have you come up with, Son?” David asked.
“Well, here’s one thing. It doesn’t really matter why we are lost. Some of us are like sheep. It’s not that we are rebellious. We’ve got our heads down, grazing along, looking for deeper grass and sweeter water, and the next thing you know we’re lost in the wilderness. Other people get dropped through carelessness or neglect, like the coin. We get our feelings hurt. We kind of slip away and no one pays any attention. It’s not that we’re not valued, it is just that nobody seems to notice as we fall into a crack or roll under a piece of furniture.”
He shook his head ruefully. “And some of us are determined that we don’t need God, or at least that we don’t need God telling us how we should live our lives. ‘Give me my inheritance,’ we demand. ‘It’s my life. Let me live it as I want.’ We are rebellious and deliberately choose to leave the Father and go away to a ‘far country,’ as Jesus called it.”
“The lost son,” David said softly.
“Yes. Then it struck me that this story was different from the first two. The shepherd went after the sheep. The woman searched the house for the coin. But the father just waited. That seemed odd at first, but now I think I understand. This was the son’s deliberate choice. He turned his back on his family and his heritage. So until he ‘came to himself,’ as Jesus put it, until he realized how stubborn he had been, how selfish and foolish, until he found himself sleeping with the swine and saw how far he had fallen, there was no way to convince him he needed to go back home. If the father had gone after him before that point, he would probably have told him the same thing. ‘It’s my life. Let me live it.’”
He looked at both of his parents. “Do you know what I thought was the most beautiful part of the parable about the two sons?” he asked.
“Let me guess,” David said. “It was when Jesus said, ‘And while he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion.”
“Yes,” Simeon said, his voice low. “Talk about a lesson in how God loves us. The father didn’t make his son come all the way back before he would accept him. By every right, by every measure of justice, the father could have said, ‘This was your choice. No one made you run off like you did. So once you have restored all that you squandered, once you have fully repaid me, then we’ll talk about reconciliation and restoration.’ But the father didn’t say any of that.”
Now Deborah spoke. “What occurred to me was this. For the father to see his son while he was still a long way away, he had to be watching for him, waiting and hoping that he would return.”
“Yes,” Simeon said eagerly, for he had come to the same conclusion. “And the moment he saw him returning, he ran out to meet him.” His voice was tinged with reverent awe.
They fell silent, each contemplating that thought. Then Simeon sighed, grateful for the chance to express what had been on his mind. “It has been a remarkable week. I have learned much.” He looked at his mother. “I can hardly believe this is coming from me, Mother, but all I want right now is to come home. I want to be with the family. I want to hold Boaz and have him go to sleep in my arms again. I want to watch Esther as one of those delightful smiles breaks out from behind her eyes and steals across her face. I want to be there when Leah gets betrothed and when Rachel has the new baby. I want to have time to think. I want to lay on my back and stare up at the clouds and ponder what Jesus is asking of us, of me.”
“We would both like that very much too,” Deborah whispered.
Simeon’s eyes widened a little as a new thought struck him. “And I thought Jesus hadn’t worked any miracles this week.”
X
Jerusalem
Simeon and Yehuda stood at the northernmost limits of the Court of the Gentiles. The walls of the Antonia Fortress, built by Herod the Great and named in honor of his patron, Marc Antony, loomed over them. They were still early enough that only a few people moved here and there on the Temple Mount. Most were priests in their white robes, hurrying to enter the inner courts and begin their duties.
The crunch of metal-tipped sandals on stone brought them around. It was a young legionnaire, not much older than Simeon. “Follow me,” he commanded. “And keep your hands away from your swords.”
This time they did not object to entering the fortress. They followed the young man through the high, thick doors that stood open at the moment. The main court of the fortress was huge, large enough to assemble several hundred soldiers for review. It was far busier here than out on the Temple Mount. Men moved everywhere. Directly in front of them they could see the glow of a blacksmith’s fire and hear the ringing blows as he prepared to shoe a horse. Workshops and storage areas and barracks filled the walls in every direction. Above them, an arched balcony ran all around the courtyard, and they could see doors leading into the upper chambers. At each corner, a soldier in full uniform, spear in hand, stood on sentry duty.
Yehuda nudged Simeon, and he turned to see where Yehuda was looking. Marcus Didius and Sextus Rubrius were just coming out of the main doors of the garrison. They walked down the broad stairway that joined the courtyard and started toward them.
Simeon started to move forward, but Yehuda hissed at him out of the corner of his mouth. “Make them come to us.”
Simeon considered for a moment. There was some wisdom in that. The Romans looked for any sign of weakness. Then he shook his head and walked forward, ignoring Yehuda’s soft grunt of frustration. “Good morning,” he said easily.
Marcus nodded absently, eyeing them up and down, obviously noting the fact that
they were both armed. “So,” he said abruptly. “You’re heading back to the wilderness?”
“Yes,” Simeon said. “It’s time.”
“And what if Ya’abin doesn’t return to this side of the Jordan for a while?” Marcus asked.
“What if summer doesn’t come until December?” Simeon responded easily. “What if the rain falls upward? Those are not likely, but if it happens, then you change your plans accordingly.”
Marcus felt a flash of anger, but he sensed that Simeon had not been trying to irritate him. It was a simple statement of fact. “I am returning to Caesarea tomorrow,” he said. “I shall give Pilate a report of what I’ve learned. He may send me back, or he may keep me there until we receive further word from you. In the meantime, if you need anything, Sextus Rubrius here will be your contact as before.”
Simeon nodded. That was how they preferred it. He looked at the centurion. “We’ll let you know when we’re ready for your help, but that could be several more weeks.”
“Just remember—” Marcus started.
“Yes, yes,” Yehuda cut in sharply. “Our time is almost gone, and Pilate is an impatient man. Do you think we are a couple of young boys who can’t remember anything from one day to the next?”
Marcus stiffened at the insolent tone, but Simeon came in smoothly before he could react. “We are well aware of the limits your governor has put upon us, and we know when our year is up. If we were worried about keeping our agreement, I would have spoken to you about it sooner.”
Still smarting a little, Marcus decided to put Simeon on the defensive. “I am told that you are a follower of this man they call Jesus of Nazareth.”
Simeon was instantly wary. “And if I am?”
Marcus shrugged. “I find that curious for a man of your—” he smiled thinly—“of your inclination. Did you see him while you were here?”
Simeon fought the urge to look at Sextus. Sextus had seen him with Jesus in the Royal Portico. Was that what was triggering this line of questions? “Is this an interrogation or mere curiosity?” he finally said.
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