I don’t know why Joseph speaks as he does. He’s no coward. Four years of fighting by his side has proven that. But even as a child he complained about everything. He can wield a sword like few I know but he can’t tame his own tongue.
“We could die of hunger,” Joseph repeats.
“Stop whining, woman,” Benjamin chuckles, adjusting the bundle on his shoulder. “It’s still the dry season. There will be plenty of goats around the springs near the Salt Sea should we need food.”
And that quiets Joseph. I welcome the silence as we tramp through the rough terrain. The limestone-shale blanket covering the sloping mountainsides, making them appear barren, can also make a man feel utterly desolate. Even so, life can be found here if one cares to look. Most hills on their north sides have enough grasses for shepherds to bring their animals to graze. And along the wadi are additional grasses and even tamarisk bushes in full bloom. But Joseph is right. Only prophets or madmen or shepherds would ever come here to live. The heat, the dust, the falling rocks, the hardmud pathways—all can kill an inexperienced traveler. And the mountains stretching endlessly over the horizon as far as the eye can see? They can swallow a man as if he were an insect.
“Father, you must slow down or we’ll all perish before we reach the ruins.”
Joseph, again. But this time no one mocks him. We’ve walked a good distance and are drenched with sweat. And not only Joseph’s shoulders droop, both Aaron’s and Benjamin’s as well. I gesture to the flat ground in an alcove of boulders just off the path. Joseph is the first to find a spot and sit. He quickly opens his skin of water and drinks. We all do the same, and when we finish, we wet the coverings on our heads.
“We’re nearly there,” I say, removing some raisins from my pouch. I extend my open palm to my sons. Benjamin and Aaron shake their heads, but Joseph grabs a goodly amount and shoves it into his mouth.
“What?” he says, when he notices his brothers staring. “I’ll share with Father when the time comes, you’ll see.”
“Since when have you ever shared your food with anyone? Willingly, anyway?” Aaron flicks a pebble at Joseph’s head but it strikes the boulder behind him. “Benjamin and I have always had to fight you for the last date cake in Mama’s basket, even when you had way more than your share.”
“Well, if there’s anything worth fighting for, it’s your mother’s date cakes,” I say, my thoughts full of Rebekah again.
“There, you see? It’s all Mama’s fault,” Joseph says, still chewing his mouthful of raisins.
We laugh and slap each others’ backs; and Benjamin and Joseph wrestle and roll in the dust like fools. I suppose we do this because it’s a way of emptying ourselves of the sorrow of these past many years; and because every once in a while a heart must fill itself with joy, or wither. We laugh so hard that tears streak our dust-caked faces. And amid all this foolishness we fail to hear anyone coming until it’s too late. All we see is a cloud of dust, and then they’re upon us.
“Such a merry group!” A man in costly apparel, his head and faced covered, stands tall over us. But even through the finery I smell his foul odor, an odor not of sweat from honest labor, but from raucous living and overindulgence of every kind. Only his eyes are visible, and there’s ill-will in them. He holds a dagger. Behind him stand a dozen others, less exalted-looking but well dressed, too, and we know we’ve fallen into the hands of bandits.
“We don’t usually encounter such joy. We ourselves have little, being an unfortunate lot.” The leader gestures with his hand that he means himself and his men.
“Not so unfortunate.” I shift my body slightly in order to reach the dagger belted at my waist. “Judging by your clothes.”
The leader fingers the edge of his linen robe. “This? It’s borrowed. From others. Always we are forced to borrow from others. From men like you who have much to rejoice over. Rich men, yes? For who else has anything to laugh about these days? So I ask you, do you not see virtue in sharing with those less fortunate?”
We’re at a disadvantage, sitting in the dirt while they tower over us. And even as my hand gropes for my dagger, I feel a blade at my throat.
“Don’t be foolish,” the leader says. And then he does something unexpected. He tilts his head as if puzzled, removes his blade and bellows with laughter. “Why . . . I do have something to laugh about, after all. A great joke—us meeting out here like this. Imagine, the mighty general himself sitting on my patch of the world. I didn’t recognize you at first. Oh, what a joke! You are the last man in Judea I ever expected to see here. But I’ve been rude. A thousand pardons!” With that he drops the veil from his face, and even under all the dirt and dust I recognize Lamech, the one who beat the wool merchant to death for his money, and among the first of John Gischala’s generals to desert. He extends his hand and helps me to my feet. “A thousand pardons!” he repeats, smiling broadly but there is a menacing look in his eyes. “Of course you’ll be my guests. I insist upon showing you my hospitality.”
Benjamin and Aaron are already on their feet, their faces grim, their hands moving toward their daggers. I step in front of them. How can we make a stand? Our weapons are not drawn, and Joseph is still on the ground trying to rise. Besides, we carry nothing of value except what’s contained in our heads. Lamech may lack honor but he’s no fool. He’ll not risk harm to himself or his men if there’s nothing to be gained.
And so we follow these rogues, not knowing if we’re guests or captives.
I shamelessly devour the stolen food. It pricks my conscience, though I try not to think of it as I take another bite.
“Eat, eat!” Lamech bellows as he lounges beside the large bowls set before us. His open robe reveals an ornate dagger tucked into a leather belt at his waist. “Fill your bellies. When was the last time you tasted lamb? Eh?”
Rush mats cover the cave floor where we sit, and large damaskcovered pillows cradle our backs. Lamech has already told us how he relieved a merchant of these wares.
“Go on! Fill you bellies,” Lamech repeats.
Aaron’s face is paved with disgust, but even he takes another bite. We know—that is, Aaron, Benjamin and I—that Lamech robbed one of the shepherds. Only Joseph is unmindful. He eats with utter pleasure, licking the fingers of one hand while dipping the other into one of the large wooden bowls to pull out yet another chunk of meat.
“A good place to live, is it not?” Lamech gestures with his hand, inviting us to inspect the cave with our eyes. His own hard, black eyes watch us as we do.
The cave is cool and spacious and well lit with more than a dozen oil lamps. As far as the eye can see, assorted goods—piles of folded robes, tunics, blankets, rush mats, as well as baskets of lentils, beans, grains and dried fruit line the walls. It’s not hard to guess where all this came from, and I see in my minds eye frail, frightened merchants traveling the hostile Judean wilderness on their way to peddle what little goods they had left, only to encounter Lamech and his men. How many have felt the tip of his ornate dagger? The thought makes me want to give Lamech the tip of my own.
“So what do you think?” Lamech presses.
“It’s adequate.” I know my words will irritate him but I need to test my position. How friendly is he, really? “Yes, adequate,” I repeat.
“Ha! It’s more than that, my friend. You have failed to see its importance; and you, a supposedly great general! I’ll tell you what you should have known; what you failed to notice. It’s safe, my friend. Safe. And in my business that counts for much. Eh?” He absently fingers the large scar on his cheek and laughs. “No one can see our cave from the road. Even you passed it by without a glance. We watched. I was a general, too, remember? I know something of tactics and logistics, and it serves me well in my new pursuits.” His greasy hand taps my shoulder. “And it’s spacious, is it not?” His black eyes prick me like darts
I nod.
“Oh, I see you’re not impressed. But no matter. We’re content for we make an adequate living
.”
“But a living off others,” Aaron says, looking at the chunk of lamb between his fingers.
Lamech snorts with laughter. It sounds like the snorting of a pig. “I remember this son of yours, Ethan. A bit of a hothead and quick to speak his mind.” When he pulls his dagger from his belted waist, I reach for mine. Lamech has allowed us to keep our weapons, perhaps to show we are truly guests. Just the same, I don’t trust him. But before I can pull my dagger, Lamech plunges his into the bowl of meat, then brings a skewered chunk to his mouth, but not without a sneer.
“Well, young son of Ethan, you may not approve, but can you tell me a better way to make a living? Eh? In these hard times one must gather where he can. Where do you plan to gather?”
My hand remains beneath my robe, resting on the hilt of my dagger. Who knows how Aaron will answer? He’s always been more zealous than prudent.
“I’m destined for the priesthood, when I come of age. I’ll follow where God leads.”
“Ha!” Lamech snorts like a pig again. “A priest, bah! Surely you know the Temple has been destroyed? Or . . . ,” Lamech crumples his face, making his large scar look like a worm crawling across his cheek, “or did you leave before the Romans tore it down, stone by stone?”
I hear Aaron gasp. Lamech hears it too, for he leans closer to Aaron who sits on his left. “Then you didn’t know. So . . . you’re deserters like the rest of us. Ha! The great general, a deserter. His sons, too. Now who would have believed that?” He laughs and scratches his head, then pulls some small crawling thing from his hair and squishes it between his greasy, blackened fingers. “That explains your clothes, the clothes of a tradesman. Why you wear no tassels. John Gischala and I used to mock your fringe. Such vanity, those tassels, if you ask me. Still, I must admit we never had your zeal. For us it wasn’t about Jerusalem and the Temple. It was about spoils. We wanted to be rich men. But you always knew that, didn’t you? No matter what John or I said about freeing Holy Jerusalem from the Romans, you knew. I hear the Romans have John now; that he hid in the sewers like a girl before surrendering. They’ll surely take him to Rome for the triumph, and who knows what will happen to him there. But I feel no pity. He should have left Jerusalem when he had the chance.”
Lamech thrusts two dirty fingers into his mouth, then tugs at a piece of meat wedged between his decaying front teeth, but his gaze never leaves Aaron. “Well, young son of Ethan, what has brought you to this wilderness?” He roughly dislodges the meat. “Where is God leading you?” The laughter has gone from his voice. It’s obvious that he’s deliberately baiting my son.
I pray that Hashem subdues Aaron’s passion. Already his face shows he’s greatly offended over Lamech’s assumption that we are deserters.
“Where do you go now?” Lamech repeats.
“Our destination is Masada,” Aaron says calmly. “We’ll fight with the rebels there.” Though Aaron sits tall and straight, revealing the strong well-formed body of a man, his soft curls, hanging limply around his face, makes him look more like a boy. “Masada, along with Machaerus, is our last stronghold against the Romans.”
“And Herodium. Some say it’s occupied by a small rebel force,” Lamech says, eyeing Aaron strangely.
Aaron answers with silence. It’s loud, this silence. I want to break it like a clay jar, but I didn’t dare. As I tested Lamech, so he is now testing me; seeing if I’ll allow my son to speak or if I’ll come to his aid, seeing if I have something to hide. And so we sit, eating and staring unfriendly stares, like mountain goats ready to lock horns. But throughout this long silence and under Lamech’s relentless gaze, Aaron, my son the Zealot, Aaron, the passionate, remains unruffled, and I’m proud.
“Strange for deserters to go in search of more battles,” Lamech finally says. “Stranger still that you didn’t take the direct route from Jerusalem, passing Bethlehem and Herodium, as most who flee Jerusalem for Masada. Perhaps if you said you were heading to Machaerus, I would think it more natural. But Masada? A queer route you’ve taken, almost as if you’ve come by way of . . . Qumran.” Lamech wipes his dagger on his sleeve then tucks it back into his belt. “But what is that among disreputable men? Eh?” He laughs his snorting laugh. “We dare not pry into each other’s business for we all have something to hide. Don’t we?” His eyebrows lift as though expecting some denial, and getting none, he adds, “Well then . . . tomorrow go to Masada if you must. Today, you will eat and rest with me.”
“We are grateful for your kindness.” My praise is quick in order to keep my sons silent. “And we welcome the rest.” I bite into another piece of meat, knowing we’ll not get as much rest as Lamech supposes for I’ll have us sleep in shifts so that one pair of eyes will always be on our too-gracious host.
We have survived the night without incident, and depart at first light. In a few hours we reach Hyrcania. And after briefly exploring two tunnels at the base of the mountain and finding nothing of worth, we begin the climb. From the base of the mountain the steep winding path to the summit forms a curious M-shape. It takes us a while but when we reach the top we find the ruins of a once great fortress, one among a chain of many that lined the Salt Sea. When we finally navigate the man-made ditch surrounding the fort and gain access to the interior, I point to a nearby tower. “We’ll rest in there.” And so we enter—glad for the shade—and sit and eat almonds, then drink from our water skins and talk about which treasure we should look for first.
We finally decide to go in search of the chest containing seventeen talents of silver even though this weight of silver cannot be carried to Masada by just the four of us. I’ve already told my sons that when we find it . . . if we find it . . . we’ll take only a talent with us to Masada to show them that treasure does exist here, and that it’s worth sending their men back with us to help transport the rest.
The scroll tells us this chest of silver is in a cistern and buried at the bottom of a flight of stairs that face east. It will not be easy to find, but I don’t bother mentioning this to my sons. Instead I rest my head against the cool mudbrick and close my eyes as I listen to them chatter. Too little sleep last night has left me exhausted. But they are excited, all except Joseph. He continues to complain.
“It’s more ruinous that I expected,” Joseph says.
I open my eyes and watch him mop his forehead with the rag from his head.
“It will not be easy finding the right steps,” he continues.
“At least the scroll tells us we are to look in a cistern,” Aaron adds.
“And how many cisterns are there in Hyrcania? Do we even know?” Joseph again. “We could be stumbling around here for days!”
His gravelly voice is beginning to irritate me. It must annoy Benjamin, too, for he says, more sharply than he needs, “At least there’s a breeze atop this summit. Be grateful for that!”
“Most of the buildings have toppled.” Joseph is persistent. “Bricks and rubble are everywhere. In such a place we could dig for years and never find anything.”
“Enough!” I say, springing to my feet. “I would rather labor in the burning sun than endure any more of your complaining. Come, all of you, let’s begin.”
Aaron chuckles. “See what you’ve done, my brother? Now Father will work us unmercifully just to prove you wrong, and to silence your disagreeable tongue.”
Joseph grumbles about being tired, but even he knows better than to persist in his complaining. Soon we’re beneath the blazing sun, eating dust and poking through the ruins.
“Lamech let us off too easily. It troubles me,” Aaron says, as we examine the first cistern we come across. It is vaulted and lime-plastered, and a good place to start for it’s not goblet shaped but rectangular, exactly the type that would contain a flight of stairs along one of its walls. “I don’t think he really believes we’re going to Masada.” With his small hand shovel, Aaron begins moving rocks and debris which still contain layers of white–lime plaster. After he digs awhile, he looks up and frowns. “All
the way here I had the feeling we were being followed, though I saw no signs of it.”
“You’re beginning to sound like an old woman,” Joseph says, shadowing Aaron, and kicking stones and dirt as if he’s doing something important all the while his shovel hangs idly in his hand. “Why should he bother with us? He’s probably happy to be rid of us after all the food we ate.”
“You mean after all the food you ate,” Benjamin says, helping Aaron move a large pile of rocks to expose what’s behind it.
“Lamech is a rogue, a dog who has returned to his own vomit,” Aaron says, tossing stones over his shoulder. “Be assured he does nothing out of kindness. His hospitality last night was only a means of seeing if we were birds worth plucking. I say we still need to keep a sharp lookout, in case he really did follow us. He and his men know these hills better than we. It’s possible they could have tailed us without our knowing it.”
Before I can voice my agreement, Aaron yells, “Look! Here behind the pile of rocks! It’s a stairway!”
We all dig now, and soon our faces and clothes are powdered with dirt. But before long we uncover two steps and are quickly disappointed when we see they fail to head east as the steps must, according to the scrolls. And so we leave the relative cool of the cistern for the blistering sunlight.
We walk for hours over loose rocks and hard-mud ground, poking through ruins and rubble, and discover there are six cisterns on this summit, including one lined with benches. We stand before the final one now. The entrance is blocked, and the interior can only be reached by lowering oneself through the hole in the high vaulted ceiling. Though it is as tall as our house in Jerusalem, debris and dirt packed against the outside walls have decreased the distance from the ground to the hole in the rounded ceiling, making outside access easy. But one problem remains: getting safely through the hole and down into the cavernous cistern itself.
“We can tie our robes together; use them to lower one of us through the hole,” Joseph says, nibbling an almond. “I’ll go, if my brothers are afraid.”
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