Rebekah's Treasure

by Sylvia Bambola

  From nowhere, Rebekah’s familiar words fly at me like gnats and deliver their sting. Rome can’t enslave you. You’re already a slave to your pride and your hate.

  Was she right? I cannot say. I’m like two cleaved halves of a man. One longs for the peace Jesus promised. The other longs for the Temple and Jerusalem to be as they once were. Did hate push away one and drive the other? If yes, then . . . so be it. Whatever my fate, it lies here, in Jerusalem, with Eleazar, even if that means my death.

  Many in the city cling to the slender hope that the Romans will not come. After all, Vespasian has left his headquarters in Alexandria and sailed for Rome to allow the Senate to do what his legions have already done—proclaim him emperor. There he will don the imperial purple and receive his string of seven titles. “Why, then, would he leave Rome to bother with dusty Judea?” many ask. “Didn’t the new Pater Patriae, the “father” of his country, have enough troubles?” Yes, it was true. Rome was in shambles. What’s more, there were rumors that the new emperor’s power might be challenged by others who thought themselves more worthy. “No, no,” people were saying, “with so many problems facing Vespasian, Jerusalem will be forgotten.”

  But I don’t believe it. Vespasian, the Pater Patriae, might forget. But Vespasian, the general who utterly destroyed Joppa out of spite for having to conquer it twice, never. He’ll return to Jerusalem, to punish the city that, four years ago, massacred the Roman garrison stationed here. And when he does, I only pray that Hashem will strengthen my arm for battle.

  My sword crashes down on one of John Gischala’s men, splitting his forehead and sending him crumbling to the paved flooring of the Royal Porch. All around me I hear the sound of metal striking metal and the cries of men falling in battle. My tunic is covered with their blood. Amid a hail of arrows, I spot my three sons and whisper a quick prayer of thanksgiving. They still stand. They, too, are covered in blood, but whether theirs or others, I cannot tell.

  All morning we’ve fought John’s men. The battle began shortly after the guards removed the bodies of the mother and child. An evil omen—finding those bodies in the Court of Women, as events bear out. We’re outnumbered. And John’s men are relentless. They seem determined to infiltrate our stronghold and take the Temple today. Even now, the Council House—just outside the Huldah gates—is burning, and the scribes are fleeing with their scrolls. John’s men pour like rats through all seven entrances to the Temple platform. The porticos are crammed with them. It seems behind every column there are a half dozen or more flinging spears or wielding swords. And many have found their mark. The floors of the porticos are littered with dead Zealots lying on their backs, staring upward as though studying the elaborately carved ceiling overhead. We are being cut down at an alarming rate. Most of our men have already been pushed back behind the Soreg. That low, ornamental stone wall, with its inscriptions warning strangers not to enter, will not provide a buffer for long.

  “Quick, men! To the Gate Beautiful!” I hear Eleazar shout through the din, his white robe now red. “Retreat! Retreat to the Court of Women!”

  I beat back two Gischalites, then rush to where my sons are surrounded. “Benjamin! Joseph! Abner! Follow me!” I hack clear a path, and soon we’re all retreating into the women’s court. Then the four of us stand our ground in front of the gate, along with dozens of other Zealots, restraining John’s men, giving time to the rest of our fighters to retreat behind the walls and seal up all the entrances. And when the paving stones beneath our feet are slick with blood and the bodies piled so high we can see no more than five cubits in any direction, we hear the command to enter the gate and close it. And when at last it is bolted, a loud cheer goes up on the other side as our countrymen celebrate their victory over us, for the territory held by us Zealots has been greatly reduced.

  We remain barricaded behind the walled Temple area. Throughout the night, lone bowmen have tried to pick us off—a tactic meant to keep us from resting. Then early this morning John began pounding us with his catapults—hurling great stones on our heads while his bowmen shower us with arrows. Several of our men lie dead, scattered over the gouged stone floor. Our fighters, who line the tops of the walls, have inflicted their own damage. It’s reported that John continues to sustain heavy causalities, many incurred by our Benjaminite archers—the best bowmen in Israel.

  I stand in the Court of Levites, separated from the Court of the Priests by a cubit-high decorative barrier near my feet. On the multistair platform above me, clusters of white-robed priests minister around the blazing bronze Altar of Sacrifice. From it, a plume of smoke rises to heaven, and with it, my prayers. Eleazar stands beside me. He has not left the altar since the morning sacrifice. He prays and fasts for our cause. I pray for . . . Rebekah, for Esther, for my sons, for my arm to be strengthened. But I do not pray for God’s will to be done, nor for His justice to prevail, for I fear them both. We’ve been here so long I’ve grown weary of praying, and shuffle my feat anxiously. I yearn to be with my men on the walls, but Eleazar has asked me to stay by his side. And so I stay . . . and pray . . . and wait.

  “The Romans are coming,” Eleazar finally says, bending closer to me as if not wanting anyone to hear. “A messenger from Galilee claims they come from every direction. North, along the coast from Caesarea, east from Jericho. The roads are clogged with them.”

  My heart sinks as I think of Rebekah, Aaron and Esther, and I worry if they’re safe.

  “These endless months of infighting have sapped our supplies,” Eleazar says, signaling with a tap on my shoulder that he’s ready to return to the battle. “We’re not prepared for a siege.” In silence we make our way through the bronze Nicanor gate, then down the semicircular steps that lead to the Court of Women. “The Romans are no more than a day away, and Titus leads them.”

  “Then we must make peace with John and Simon,” I say as we descend the last step. “We must unite if we’re to have any chance against his legions.”

  Eleazar nods as a large stone catapults past us and crashes into the wall of the Parvah, where the hides of sacrificial animals are salted. Overhead, the arrows are so thick they look like a flock of birds. “Making peace is our only hope. Send an overture. Let’s see what that dog, John, says. If we can get him to agree, Simon will surely follow.”

  From atop the Temple wall, facing west, I watch a cloud of dust swirl above the road from Emmaus. Below that cloud are thousands of Roman soldiers, their mounted officers, their endless mule-pulled artillery and supply wagons. Our spies tell us it’s the 15th Legion—from Alexandria, led by Titus. Already, his scouts survey the southern end of Mount Scopus for a campsite. A second cloud follows. It’s the 5th Legion—the Macedonica. Their scouts, too, survey Mount Scopus, on the north.

  In addition, reports are coming in from the countryside that the 10th Legion is on its way from Jericho. The 10th. Can the news be more dire? They will remember how they were sent to punish Jerusalem for the Roman garrison massacre, but sent packing instead. They’ll seek revenge for this dishonor. They’ll show no mercy, give no quarter. The reports also claim that provisions for the army overflow the storehouses in Ashkelon and Caesarea. It’s clear that Titus has prepared for a long campaign.

  I inhale the warm air filled with swirling grit and the stench of our rotting dead thrown over the walls to prevent disease from descending upon our city. Behind me, the noise of war continues as it has for two days, with John’s men battering our defenses and hurling more arrows, spears and rocks. Does he not have eyes? Does he not see the Romans? Why does he continue to do Titus’s work for him by spoiling Jerusalem? And when will that jackal answer my dispatch?

  The next day, John does answer. We should have seen it coming, his treachery. But we didn’t. It’s the season of Passover, a most holy time, and many of us unwisely turned our hearts from the things of war to the things of God. It was agreed that the pilgrims, who have come to Jerusalem for Passover, should be allowed safe passage to the Temple. Throughou
t the city, they were searched, then passed along by the various rebels controlling the checkpoints. But deceitful men will use any opportunity. And while Eleazar kept his word and ordered the gate to be partially opened for the pilgrims to enter, John did not keep his. Instead, he and a group of his men perpetrated a great deception by disguising themselves as pilgrims. In one wild moment, they rushed the gate, forced it open for their comrades, and with little difficulty, overran us. But before much blood was shed, Eleazar surrendered and a truce was struck. In one bold move, John has become our leader.

  May Hashem give him wisdom.

  Simon has asked for a truce. But John has refused. Since John has retained me as one of his generals, I have tried to stress the necessity of joining forces. We must put aside our differences for the sake of Jerusalem. Already the 15th and 5th Legions have pitched camp. Vineyards and ancient olive groves have felt their ax. The Romans have no respect for the land. They tear at it like wild beasts until nothing remains. Outside the city walls, houses have been looted and burned to the ground. All structures, all vegetation, have been removed. Nothing is left to testify of the centuries of living that have gone on here. Now, only dirt and dust stand between their camp and a large portion of our western wall. They have removed all obstructions and flattened the land to prepare for their siege works and pending advance.

  The city weeps at this sight. I weep, too, for I see the scope of their intended destruction.

  The dreaded 10th has arrived. They set up camp, east of us, on the Mount of Olives, while the 15th and 5th fortify theirs by digging ditches and building berms. Siege works have been started by all three camps. And off to one side, a team of legionaries builds a massive battering ram with a tower and catapult. Already they have iron plated the tip of the ram. Scattered piles of green wicker lay in readiness, waiting for the beam housing—which is nearly the height of our walls—to be finished. And then the wicker will be used to cover it, along with layers of leather padded with wet straw. The showdown is not far off. The only consolation is that John has finally accepted Simon’s truce. We are, at long last, united. But our infighting has so weakened the city that I can’t help but wonder if our unification is too little too late.

  PELLA 70A.D.

  CHAPTER 3

  “This can’t be it,” I say, peering down into the Jordan Valley where, nestled among the tall green eastern hills, is a large city split in two by a wadi and the bubbling spring that flows through it. Even from this distance, the gutted and charred houses are unmistakable. So are the broken walls, the piles of rubble. “This can’t be it,” I repeat.

  “It can be no other, Mama,” Aaron says. His soft beard is caked with the dust of the road, his face blistered from the sun. His eyes, ever on the lookout for danger, squint into the expanse.

  Esther leans wearily against the donkey and laughs. “Were you expecting a Hasmonaean palace?”

  “Esther!” Aaron’s calloused hand jerks his sister’s arm. “You mustn’t speak so rudely to Mama! Your anger is a mouth looking for someone to bite. If you must be angry, then let it be with Father or me, the ones who forced you to leave Jerusalem.”

  I wave my hand, gesturing for Aaron to drop the matter. Since leaving the Kings Highway to avoid the Romans, then following along the Jordan Valley through wadis and narrow, dusty footpaths, Esther has been pecking at me like a bird of prey. Then just before Scythopolis and the Jezreel Valley where we crossed the Jordan, the bird of prey became a lioness. I’ve allowed it because her heart is broken. She’s told me she never expects to see Daniel again. She cries in her sleep. Even her appetite is gone. Twice now, I’ve had to force her to eat. I fear she’s losing the will to live. Perhaps anger can revive it.

  I turn and look at her. From head to toe she wears the dust of many days. Folds of dirty cloth cover the long oily strands of her hair. Her sandaled feet are cut and bruised. One side of her long, belted tunic is ripped up to the knee. “I didn’t expect a palace,” I say, barely able to conceal my disappointment. “But surely a city protected by Vespasian, and now Titus, should not be in such disrepair.”

  Our journey has been difficult. Forsaking the relatively well-kept Roman roads has added days to the trip. It’s also allowed us to see the cruel handiwork of Vespasian’s legions. Entire towns and villages have been decimated. Whole populations slaughtered. The land stinks from the dead. They’re everywhere, bloated, fly-covered, rotting. Many are nailed to trees. And food? There’s none to be had, either to buy or glean from abandoned fields. The countryside has been stripped, shaved by the razor of Rome.

  Ethan warned me. He told me what the Romans were doing. Even so, I was not prepared for what I saw, nor was I prepared to see the scars of war in a Greek city, even though Ethan had warned me of that, too.

  “It must be the work of John of Gischala,” Aaron says, holding the donkey’s bridle and standing beside me. “Stories of how he looted and burned the Greek cities of the Decapolis have filled the streets of Jerusalem. It made him a hero to many.”

  “Maybe he’ll return and kill us all. A fitting end for traitors who leave their city in her hour of need.” Esther’s face is red. I think even she knows how far she has overstepped this time.

  “At least some followers of The Way will be here,” I say, ignoring her. “I take comfort in that.”

  Aaron looks at me and frowns. “It may be the only comfort to be had. For I doubt the Gentiles will welcome us. They’ll still remember what the Jews did here.”

  Weary, I go and sit beneath a gnarled oak. We’re in the midst of a forest of oaks and pines. Esther remains by the donkey, seemingly too tired to walk the few paces to the shade of a tree.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, her dirt caked fingers combing the short bristly hair of the donkey’s mane. “I . . . don’t mean to be unkind. You don’t deserve it, Mama. Neither do you, Aaron.”

  I nod in understanding. My heart is broken too. Will I ever see my Ethan again? How I long for him now, for his strength, his comfort. And what of Aaron, so eager to return to Jerusalem? Will he survive the battle that’s coming? And my other sons? How will they fare? I wish there was someone I could peck and bite. But there isn’t. And for my family’s sake, I must sustain my will to live, to survive. Do I understand Esther? Oh, yes. How easy it would be to give up; to give up and just sit beneath this peaceful oak and wait for death.

  Aaron strokes Esther’s head as if she were a child. A westerly wind pulls at his ringlets. His face is almost beautiful, like how I imagine an angel’s face would look. “I’ll watch over him,” he says softly. “I will watch over your Daniel.”

  I study them both. He, clumsy and tender, strokes her head. She, too weak to move or answer, leans against the donkey. Their sunken cheeks reveal how little they’ve eaten. We are all hungry. Only one flatbread stands between us and starvation. If some kind soul in Pella doesn’t sell us food, I don’t know what we’ll do.

  As if reading my thoughts, Aaron points to a patchwork of planted fields. “At least there will be something to eat in Pella.”

  My stomach is as shriveled as an old cow’s udder, and grumbles at the mention of food. It will take all my strength to walk the remaining distance to Pella. And Aaron’s, too, I think. But Esther is much too weak. I don’t know how she’ll manage it. And she can’t ride. The donkey is nearly dead. He has stumbled three times this last mile. Once, I didn’t think he’d get up.

  “Give Esther half the bread; you take the other half,” I say to Aaron.

  Dust floats from Aaron’s beard as he shakes his head. A ringlet of hair falls across one eye, partially obscuring his shock at such a suggestion. “How could I do that, Mama? What of you and the donkey? We always divide the flatbread into fours. A quarter for each of us.”

  “Take the bread, Aaron,” I say softly. “The donkey and I will eat in Pella.” Again he shakes his head, so I rise and take the scrip from his shoulder then pull out the stale bread. Ignoring the little patches of mold along the edges, I
tear it in half and hand one piece to him, the other to Esther. “I don’t have the strength to argue.”

  “Maranatha. The Lord is risen,” I say to the strangers we pass as we thread our way through the winding street that appears to transverse the center of the city. The street is cobbled and lined with connecting shops, many of which have an upper floor. And though the city seems affluent—for the people are full bodied and show no signs of starvation—and though their dress is neat—some even wearing fine wool tunics belted with leather—John Gischala’s handiwork is still visible. Several shops have charred walls. Others, those completely destroyed by fire, remain abandoned, their crumbled walls and caved roofs sitting like skeletons beside the road. Here and there, whole sections of the street have been torn up as though the stones were carried off to make repairs elsewhere. And for its size, the city doesn’t appear overly crowded, further evidence of the slaughter that took place here.

  I see no friendly faces. And no one answers my “maranatha” with the customary, “He is risen, indeed.” Many whisper as we pass. Others point to our tattered clothes. Several curse and spit at us. Someone throws a rock, but it sails harmlessly over our heads.

  “We’re not among friends,” I say, when the smell of roast pig wafts from a nearby house and I realize we are in Gentile territory. I’m uneasy, but my uneasiness is overcome by the smell. I would have eaten that whole pig if I had gotten the chance. And I would have done it without once thinking how scandalized Ethan would be.

  We must find food. We’re nearly faint from hunger. More and more, Aaron leans against the panting donkey, while Esther whimpers and stumbles along behind us. My spirit slumps as we pass one shop after the other that sells only oil lamps and wicks, or spices, metal goods, or assorted fabrics. But it revives when we approach a woman in a doorway, a cook-shop by the looks of it. Wooden bowls of various sizes fill the stone shelf on its outside wall. And the woman, who is cooking on a brazier, periodically leans over and plucks something from a bowl, then drops it into her pot. It’s not until we get closer that I see the contents of the bowls: squirming beetle larvae, dead grasshoppers, small reddishblack livers—from chickens or rabbits judging from the size. Another bowl is filled with slices of raw meat; red grainy meat like that from a horse or cow. When I spot a bowl of chickpeas, I hesitate. Aaron frowns and warns me with a shake of his head not to stop. I know he fears this food has been offered to idols. It’s not unusual for surplus meat used in idol worship to find its way into the marketplace. But surely not chickpeas. Even so, I follow obediently. Esther follows too, but the distance between us is growing.