Simeon started. Those were precisely the same words Jesus had said to Martha of Bethany when she wanted him to chastise her sister, Mary, for not helping her to serve supper. “Mary has chosen the better part.” It was a superlative compliment, and he turned to see if Miriam had fully understood. She had. She was too overcome to speak, as the tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks.
Jesus half turned, looking out across the water, which was gray as slate from the overcast skies. “My doctrine angers the leaders of the Jews, both Pharisee and Sadducee. They say that I bear witness of myself and therefore my witness cannot be true. But they are like blind men leading others who are blind. And if the blind lead the blind, then both shall fall into a ditch.”
The three said nothing, watching the face of the Master closely, realizing that he was doing what they had hoped he would do when they came, and that was to teach them.
“Be not afraid of them who kill the body but after that have no more that they can do to you. But I give you warning whom you shall fear. Fear him which, after he has killed you, has the power to thrust both body and soul down to hell.”
Then he turned to Miriam again. “But even as I say these things unto you, remember that which I have said before. Your enemies may be those of your own household, but I have commanded you to love your enemies, to bless them that curse you, to do good to them who hate you, and to pray for them who despitefully use you and persecute you.”
Miriam’s lips were moist and her eyes wide as the import of his words sunk into her heart. This was her father he was speaking about. She bowed her head. “Yes, Lord, I understand.”
“There is a way to find solace in such times as these,” Jesus said. “Simeon has heard me teach this before, but now I say unto you and Livia, whosoever hears my sayings and does them, I will liken him unto a wise man who built his house upon a rock. And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not, for it was founded upon a rock.
“And every one that hears these sayings of mine, and does them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand. And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell, and great was the fall of it.”
He stopped, and for a moment the only sound was the quiet lapping of the water against the shore. Miriam’s eyes were burning again. She felt like she had come through a terrible storm. She was battered and torn, but she was still standing. She shook her head. More than just standing. She had lost her father but found Simeon. She had left the traditions of the Sadducees and found the doctrine of truth. She no longer had a home in Jerusalem, but she had a better home here in the Galilee.
She bowed her head slightly. “Thank you, Master,” she whispered. “You have heard the cries of my heart and brought me peace.”
II
Capernaum 12 November, a.d. 31
The morning had been unusual for Simeon. He had remembered that there were still eight Roman uniforms hidden among the stacks and bales and barrels, purchased in Damascus in one of his empty-headed schemes to free Yehuda from prison. He immediately took them out and burned them. They were a dangerous thing to have around, and Ephraim was glad to see them gone.
But if the morning had been out of the ordinary, the afternoon was profoundly mundane. Normally, one of the laborers at the warehouse cared for their horses and pack asses, but things were slow now that the harvest was in, and his father had not required his extra workers today. After working for a while in the warehouse, Simeon had volunteered to take care of the animals.
The women of the family were at Ezra’s sandal shop, cleaning out a small storeroom in the back where Livia and Miriam would stay until the marriage took place. Ezra and Lilly and the baby lived above the shop itself, so Livia and Miriam would occupy the spare room on the ground floor.
It felt good to Simeon to be alone. Since his return with Miriam and the announcement of their betrothal, a steady stream of friends, neighbors, and fellow disciples had come to the house to offer congratulations. So he welcomed the opportunity to work in solitude, speaking softly to the animals as he forked hay into their mangers and dumped barley in the troughs.
He spread one last bucket of barley, patted the head of the mare as she moved forward to eat. As he stood there, he heard a noise. He backed out of the stall and saw a man standing in the doorway of the stable. Simeon recognized him instantly. “Shalom, Sextus Rubrius.”
“Shalom, Simeon ben David.”
Simeon moved forward and extended his hand. As they clasped arms in the Roman manner, Simeon realized that he had not seen this Roman centurion since the day of the capture of Moshe Ya’abin. That was more than five months before. “I thought you were in Jerusalem,” Simeon said.
“I was until three days ago. The governor fears that with lessening tensions here in the Galilee, the garrisons in the north may be growing sloppy.” Sextus shrugged in that enigmatic way he had that said a lot without revealing anything. “We arrived just last evening.”
“Welcome back.”
“Thank you. I’ll be here a few days, then I’m going to Sepphoris, where our main garrison is. I’ll probably stay there until spring, then transfer to Jerusalem in time for Passover and stay there until I return to Rome.”
Simeon’s eyebrows lifted. “Rome?”
“Yes. I will complete my thirty years of service in about eighteen months. I’ll be going home again.”
It occurred to Simeon that he knew very little about this Roman with whom he had become friends and allies. Was he married? Did he have children? He felt a little blush of shame that he had never taken the opportunity to inquire about such things. “Are things well with you then?” Simeon asked.
“Yes. And with you?”
“Well, thank you.”
Sextus smiled openly. “That’s what I understand. Congratulations. Your father told me this morning about your upcoming betrothal.”
Simeon felt a sudden jab of fear. Had Marcus heard of Miriam’s disappearance? Surely. And he would surely guess who had freed her and where she was going. Had he sent his most trusted officer up to learn if she was in Capernaum? But Simeon pushed the concerns away. Nothing amiss showed in the man’s eyes, and Simeon trusted him deeply. Yes, he was a Roman legionnaire whose first duty—on pain of death—was always to Rome. But on the other hand, they had developed a relationship of mutual trust and respect. And it wasn’t as though Miriam’s return could be hidden. Word of her rescue and of the betrothal was all over the Galilee. Simeon’s face relaxed into an easy grin. “I think my mother was beginning to despair that I would ever marry.”
“I have met this Miriam briefly on one or two occasions, once in Jerusalem on the Temple Mount, and once when I came to your house to give your father the news of your arrest by Pilate. She is a lovely and gracious woman.”
“Thank you.”
“I must be off. I’m inspecting the garrison this morning.” He smiled with obvious relish. “I need to put the fear of Zeus into a few legionnaires. They’ve gotten lazy in my absence.”
Simeon smiled back. “I’d like to watch that.”
“I—” Sextus was suddenly all business again and yet hesitant for some reason.
Simeon watched him steadily, knowing there was something more than amiable well wishes behind this visit.
Sextus cleared his throat. “I thought it might be of interest to you to know that there is a stranger in town.”
Simeon set the bucket down slowly. “Oh?”
“They tell me he’s a Judean, and from his accent, probably from Jerusalem or nearby.”
A chill ran through Simeon’s body. “And do you know what this stranger is doing in Capernaum?”
“Not for sure,” Sextus answered. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “He has not come to us. In fact, he seems to be taking care to avoid us, but he’s going about asking questions.”
“What kind of questions?�
� Simeon already knew the answer.
Sextus gave a soft grunt. “First of all, he says he represents someone on the Great Sanhedrin in Jerusalem. He uses that as leverage to get people to talk to him. I am told that he is quietly asking questions about you and your family.”
Mordechai! It had to be Mordechai. So it had begun. Simeon felt sick.
There was the tiniest hint of a smile behind the Roman eyes. “Of course, you know how these stubborn Galileans are about outsiders, especially those who come from Jerusalem.”
That took Simeon aback somewhat. That was true. Galileans were normally open, warm, and hospitable, but Jerusalemites looked down their collective noses at their country cousins from the north. In fact, the rabbis had a saying: “Jerusalem is wheat, Galilee straw, beyond Jordan, only chaff.” He gave Sextus a wry look. “Are you saying he’s not having much success?”
“Thus far, word is, he is getting very frustrated.”
“Is there any chance this person was sent by some of your people?” Simeon asked.
“You mean Tribune Didius?” Sextus asked bluntly.
Simeon nodded. “Or Pilate.”
“None.” He almost said more, but duty held him back. Marcus Didius had spoken of Miriam’s disappearance to Sextus, and it was obvious his commander harbored some deep resentment against Simeon. But he had also given the centurion specific orders to carry to the Galilean garrisons: If Miriam was there, she was to be left alone. The same for Simeon ben David.
Simeon’s mind was working swiftly. “Would you characterize this man as potentially dangerous?”
“No,” came the quick reply. “He is, however, well-financed. I’m told he is willing to pay handsomely for information. And that seems to be his primary mission at the moment: to gather information. I’m sure he will eventually learn what he wants to know. Money can do that, as you know.”
Yes. That made sense. That’s how Mordechai would begin. Simeon bobbed his head. “Once again I am in your debt, Sextus. Thank you.”
Sextus Rubrius gave a curt nod. Among men of good will, debts were incurred, paid, incurred again. It was the way of life.
Sextus carried a scar in his leg. He had received it at the Joknean Pass when Moshe Ya’abin had broken his word and tried to massacre a full Roman cohort. When Sextus had gone down with an arrow in his leg, another bandit came at him, swinging a sword. It was Simeon’s shaft out of the darkness that had saved him. On the other hand, though Simeon didn’t know this, Sextus had repaid the debt some time later when he had essentially disobeyed an order to not throw ropes down to Simeon’s band, trapped in a box canyon by a very angry Moshe Ya’abin. If he hadn’t, the Zealots would have been massacred. Strangely, instead of feeling released from his sense of obligation, Sextus actually felt a deeper bond with this man and his family.
He watched the younger man, marveling still that this lithe figure that moved like a cat and had the courage of a lion had voluntarily turned his back on the Zealot life. And yet, in a way, it wasn’t surprising. Sextus himself had been powerfully influenced by the one known as Jesus of Nazareth. The presence of the man was impossible to ignore. A year before, when Sextus had been stationed in Capernaum, he had, on more than one occasion, stood near the edge of the crowds so he could listen to the man. And when his servant had taken deathly ill one day, Sextus had gone to his friend, David ben Joseph, to see if he would intervene with Jesus. There had been none of the expected disgust and revulsion in Jesus’ eyes when he had stood face to face with a Roman. Instead, Jesus had spoken a word and the miracle had happened.
Sextus pulled out of his thoughts, straightening. “Well, best wishes to you and your bride-to-be. How soon after the betrothal will you be married?”
“Probably a year, as is customary,” Simeon said, only half listening.
“You Jews,” Sextus grunted, almost smiling. “Most Romans don’t even wait for the betrothal to consummate the marriage,” he said dryly. “Like I say. Strange customs.”
Simeon chuckled at that. “Well, in my case, I’ve been running around the countryside for so long, it’s time I came back and became part of the merchant business. Right now I couldn’t support a rabbit, let alone a wife and family.”
“Your father said you were going to see what you could do to expand your trade into such areas as Damascus, Jerash, and maybe even Alexandria.”
“That’s right. And we’re going to start in Tiberias and try to expand our trade there significantly. Ephraim doesn’t like to go there. Leah loves the city, but she obviously can’t go in and deal with suppliers. With my Latin, I could do a lot more than we’ve done. Tiberias is a huge market, less than ten miles away, and though we’ve had success there, we think we can do much more.”
“Sounds like this is more than just a way to make a place for you in the family business.”
“I hope so. I want to be able to finally pull my own weight and not leave it to Father and Ephraim to do all the work. Miriam and I figure it will take six months to a year to get enough money to start a home. If we can do it sooner than a full year, we’ll marry then.”
“I wish you and Miriam the best.” Sextus turned and walked out of the stable again. But just as he exited into the sunlight, he stopped and looked back. “Not suggesting that you would have any reason to be concerned about this stranger, of course,” he drawled softly. “But he is taking lodging at the Inn of the Golden Horn.”
“I am deeply obliged to you, Sextus Rubrius,” Simeon said, slapping his arm across his chest in the salute of a Roman soldier. Sextus nodded, saluted back, and then was gone.
Chapter Notes
Jesus’ quotation from the Psalmist is found in Psalm 103:4. The statement that “Mary has chosen the better part” comes from Luke 10:42. The King James Version says, “Mary hath chosen that good part”; the statement that “Mary has chosen the better part” is found in the New Revised Standard Version. Jesus’ teachings on building one’s house on a rock come from Matthew 7:21–29.
Chapter 4
He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.
—Matthew 11:15
I
Capernaum 15 November, a.d. 31
Livia, Miriam, Deborah, and Leah were standing inside the largest stall in Capernaum’s main marketplace, a stall dedicated completely to women. The shop, open on the south end and made of thin wood partitions, was maybe five paces across and fifteen deep. But Deborah had been right in suggesting that this would be the best place for Livia and Miriam to refurbish the wardrobes they had left behind when they fled from Rome.
There were dozens of outer robes hanging from overhead ropes. Some were made of simple, but practical, light-brown homespun material; others were made of more expensive linen and embroidered with bright colors and intricate patterns. The inner “shirts,” or light cotton underclothing worn beneath the main dress, were discreetly stacked on a table in the corner. From pegs on one wall hung shawls, headdresses, and veils—some of linen so fine it was like looking through slightly clouded water, others made of heavy dark wool with slits only for the eyes, nose, and mouth. These were used by the married women from the wandering tribes that ran sheep in the highlands of the Golan. Only their husbands were permitted to look upon their faces, so when they came into town, they wore these heavier veils.
Another long table carried various footwear, from winter boots that came halfway up the calves to soft sandals designed for wear inside the home. There were baskets of bracelets, headbands, and other jewelry. The shopkeeper, who knew Deborah well, hovered discreetly in the background, sensing that this could be a profitable day for him.
Livia stood to one side, near the entrance. She had made her purchases quickly—a habit borne of a lifetime of living simply—then stepped back, not wanting to rush Miriam.
Suddenly she lifted her head. Across the half-crowded marketplace, a moving figure had caught Livia’s eye. He towered above the other people and was impossible to miss. She leaned forward, peering intently; then a
smile broke across her face. She turned and called into the shop. “Miriam. Look. It’s Yehuda.”
All three of the other women turned, their eyes scanning across the square. At that moment, Yehuda saw them as well. He lifted a hand, waved, and called something to them.
Deborah turned to the shopkeeper, pointing to the growing pile on his counter. “Hold these,” she said. “We’ll be back.”
“But of course.”
The four of them moved outside as Yehuda reached them. “Shalom, Deborah,” he boomed happily. “Shalom, young Leah.”
“Good morning, Yehuda,” Deborah said with a broad smile. “This is a most pleasant surprise.”
The burly giant turned slightly. “And shalom to you, Miriam and Livia. So it is true. You’re back.”
Miriam reached out and took his hand warmly. “Yes. We arrived just a few days ago.”
He looked at Deborah and clucked his tongue. “That lout of a son of yours didn’t even bother to send me word.”
“Actually,” Miriam said, feeling a need to defend Simeon even though she knew Yehuda was only half serious, “we talked about going to Beth Neelah to see you, but then . . .” She bit her lip and dropped her eyes.
Deborah explained quickly about the stranger who had come to Capernaum and the decision by David and Simeon to go to Jerusalem.
Yehuda scowled. “I’m sorry, Miriam. Your father is not a man to take defeat lightly—but Simeon will know what to do.”
“So how did you hear we were back?” Livia asked.
“But I didn’t,” he grumped, obviously playing to his audience. “I brought Shana down last night. As I’m sure you’ve heard, she and Samuel are now betrothed. Samuel has an aunt here—Zipporah, wife of Jebu the baker—who will help her with the wedding preparations.” He pulled a face. “I don’t understand why she thinks I can’t do that for her.”
As they laughed, he went on. “It’s no place for a man, I’ll tell you, not when they’re getting ready for a wedding. So I went to the warehouse to see if there was any word of my old friend and companion, Simeon ben David. And lo, Ephraim tells me he’s been back for several days.”
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