Lamech’s men don’t move. They fear us. Lamech, too, for I see it in his eyes. My sons are known for their bravery. Their exploits are numerous and renowned. They’ve often vanquished forces far greater than themselves.
“Well, speak up. What will it be? A bag of silver to share with your men or . . . this?” I hold up my dagger. “Come. It grows dark. Let’s conclude our business, one way or the other.”
For a moment the only sound I hear is the wind blowing atop the summit. Finally, Lamech laughs and slips his dagger into his belted waist. “A good bargain, if I say so myself. I accept your terms, Ethan. Two worthless men, five bags of food, five skins of water, for one bag of silver. Yes, a good bargain.” He points to the scrips and water skins on the ground behind him, then tosses me a small empty leather pouch. I give the bag to Aaron who quickly fills it with coins. And when I toss it back, Lamech signals for his men to leave.
“One more thing,” I say, causing Lamech to stop. “If you follow us again I’ll kill you.”
Lamech shakes his head. “Such unfriendly talk. So unnecessary among friends.” He raises the bag of coins into the air. “I will think of you often, my friend,” he says, smiling with his mouth, but his eyes are hard as pebbles. “I’ll not forget you.”
If only Joseph would complain instead of lying listless on his rush mat, unable even to lift his head, it would give me hope. But his life is draining away. Though Aaron has dressed the wound—a deep gash the length of my hand—the bleeding continues and there’s no way to stop it since the wound is by the groin. I’ve seen injuries like this on the battlefield where men have bled out. I feel helpless and angry, and sick with fear that Joseph will die. And how can my heart bear that?
“They’re nearly down the summit,” Benjamin says, looking out a window. We are in the north tower, which gives us a good view of Lamech and his men as they make their descent down the winding sloping path. “They’ve stopped by the old aqueduct . . . oh . . . they are beginning again . . . now . . . now they’re mere shadows in the distance. They’ll not return tonight.”
“But sooner or later they will,” I say, watching Joseph drift into sleep or unconsciousness, I know not which. “Perhaps Lamech will recruit more men. Either way, he’ll be back. And he must not find us here.”
“What of the rest of the coins still in the chest? Joseph has covered it over with dirt, but if Lamech comes back, surely he’ll search out this cistern where he knows we have been working. He and his men may even dig throughout the ruins. What if he finds the gold ingots under the monument or the talents buried in the courtyard cistern?” It’s Aaron, Aaron the son who is always mindful of his duty even when his own heart is heavy with grief, for I see on his face that his fear for Joseph mirrors mine.
“We must leave them, and hope some of the men of Masada will return with us before Lamech does. But now, we must see to Joseph.”
“And have my brothers call me a girl?” Joseph says, as if waking from the dead. His voice is but a vapor in my ears. “You must not take me into account, Father.” He lifts his hand but when he can’t reach mine he lets his drop. Even in the fading light I see him grimace from the effort. And I see the look in his eyes, too, though I wish I hadn’t. Because he knows. He tries to tell me but I’m a coward and look away. “Do not consider me, Father,” he repeats. “Do your duty.”
“My duty is to get you to Masada.” I bend over Joseph and touch his bandaged thigh with my finger tips. Already the newly wound rag is soaked with blood. “When you are safe and properly tended, your brothers and I will come back here with more men. But rest now.” Joseph closes his eyes. “Rest while we prepare your litter, for soon we leave.”
“Tonight, Father?” Benjamin says, turning from the window. “It’s dangerous to make the descent in the dark.”
“But more dangerous to stay,” I say.
And when Benjamin glances past my shoulder to where Joseph is lying and sees the great quantity of blood covering the fresh bandage, he nods in understanding.
“Let me carry him,” I say, squinting down at the prone body on the pallet. A bed of rush mats atop Aaron’s spread robe provides support for Joseph’s back. But already the robe, which is knotted at the four corners for ease of carrying, is beginning to wear. Aaron holds the end by Joseph’s head. Benjamin carries the other, only the robe isn’t long enough and one of Joseph’s legs folds at the knee and dangles off the edge. The other leg, the injured one, juts straight out like a log, being tightly wrapped in one of the rush mats. In addition, I’ve folded my robe under his thigh to lift the leg. I’m praying to Hashem that these efforts will keep the wound from spurting blood.
“Come, it’s my turn,” I repeat. “Let me do my share.”
“We can switch after we reach the wadi and the road is better,” Aaron answers in a labored voice.
“When we reach the wadi we’ll all stop for a rest,” I say. “There’s no need for you to bear so much of the load.” But Aaron ignores me and continues the descent.
The trek downhill is treacherous. We don’t travel the path that Lamech and his men took for fear they may still be close by. Rather, we descend the opposite side of the summit where the path is less defined, the terrain more inhospitable. And only moonlight guides us. Everything seems to conspire to make our journey maddeningly slow. And this eats at my gut. I’m desperate to get Joseph to Masada, for surely there must be at least one physician there to help him.
Throughout all the jostling and stumbling over rocks, Joseph has not uttered a word. Only an occasional groan tells me he’s still alive. But he’s heavy. So are our bundles and the bags of silver we carry, and they all take their toll, sapping our strength as we try to safely maneuver the steep incline. I’ve already relieved Benjamin. But Aaron has yet to rest. He pants like a dog beside me.
“Let me take him,” I say again, and to my surprise Aaron tells Benjamin to stop, and amid a level spot near a jagged limestone protrusion, he gives me first one knotted end of the litter, then the other.
“An unencumbered man can walk to Masada from Hyrcania in a day,” Aaron whispers beside me, then takes great gulps of air as though trying to catch his breath. “With Joseph injured we’ll be fortunate to do it in two.”
“Yes, that’s what I calculate.”
“But in another day, he’ll bleed out. His wound is grievous, Father, and even if we travel day and night, I fear it will be too late.”
I’m silent for a moment. “Scout ahead and find a better patch of level ground,” I finally tell Aaron. “I’ll stop the bleeding.”
“How?”
“By packing the wound.”
“But we have nothing, Father. No oil or wine, no clean wool,” Aaron’s voice shakes, “only our filthy rags. You’ll poison what blood he has left.”
“Find me the ground!” I hiss. And so Aaron, my obedient Aaron, disappears into the night amid the sound of skittering rocks. And before long, I hear his voice say, “Over here.”
After Benjamin and I rest the litter on the level ground that Aaron has found, I feel Joseph’s leg. The rag around his wound is sticky and wet. “Give me your robe, Benjamin.” Without a word, Benjamin pulls his robe from his sack and hands it to me.
“Uncover his wound.” Again, Benjamin obeys, while I tear his dirty robe into strips. “Hold him down, both of you.” I kneel beside Joseph and reach toward the bloody gash. My hand stops in mid air and trembles in the moonlight as I pray to Hashem. Then I force open Joseph’s wound and begin jamming in the dirty strips of cloth, one by one, until I can fit no more. Throughout it all, Joseph screams—piercing, anguished, pleading screams. And between the screams, he begs us to let him die. I’ll never forget those screams or his words, or that they came because of my hand. He tries to roll off the litter, but his efforts are feeble and easily restrained by Aaron and Benjamin. By the time I’m done, Joseph is unconscious and my cheeks are streaked with tears.
The sun has risen. I feel its fingers poking my eyelids
, forcing them to open against my will, and when they do, everything is a blur. I know we’re in the wadi, cradled in the arms of a limestone niche, one of many along the base of the bordering mountains. The climb down the summit took everything we had. And because Joseph’s bleeding has stopped, I ordered a brief rest just before sunrise. I think we all would have collapsed if I hadn’t.
My open eyes burn and feel as though they’re filled with grit the size of boulders. I squeeze my lids then wipe the corners with dirty fingers. Now they are more painful than ever. I’m covered in dirt. It coats my hair, lines my nostrils and mouth; powders my torso and limbs. In desperation, I sit up and feel for my water skin. And when I find it I use some of the precious water to wash my hands, then my eyes until I can finally see the outlines of my sons sleeping beside me, and see that it is Benjamin who snores so loudly.
“Aaron, wake up.” I shake him, for he’s the closest. “We must be on our way.” Aaron opens his sleepy eyes and yawns. Benjamin stops snoring and sits upright. Joseph doesn’t move. His head is turned away. I struggle to my feet and go to his litter.
“Joseph.” I bend to examine his leg. His dressing is nearly dry, and for that I praise Hashem. Then I probe a little harder, to make sure.
“Don’t press, Father, it hurts too much,” Joseph says, in a thin, tired voice as he turns and squints up at me.
“Next time don’t be in such a rush to pick a fight.” I smile, trying to keep the worry from my face. He’s as white as lime dust, even his lips. Only his eyes have any color at all. And they look more like black stones pressed deep into a lump of dough.
“I only followed . . . Aaron’s lead.” His voice is so low I bend closer and put my ear near his mouth in order to hear. “He was ready to strike, only I . . . beat him to it.”
“Don’t talk. Save your strength.”
He takes my hand which is resting on his hip. His fingers are cold. “I want you . . . to know that no matter what happens . . . it’s alright.”
“We’ll follow the wadi along the Salt Sea until we reach Masada,” I say, trying to gather courage. “There’ll be plenty of mountain goats near the springs. If time permits, perhaps Benjamin will kill one for you. The fresh meat and hot broth will do you good.”
“Benjamin? His bow can’t . . . hit the side of a . . . mountain,” Joseph says, trying to force a smile when Benjamin suddenly kneels beside me. “Best you send . . . Aaron.” And as we lift the litter to resume our journey, Benjamin jeers his brother and laughs. But it’s a sad laugh, one sounding more like a sob.
“Just . . . leave me . . . Father,” Joseph says, his deeply sunken eyes sending me a pleading look.
“That would be unthinkable.” I kneel beside him, and note the foul odor of his leg.
“They will bury . . . me.” Joseph makes a feeble motion with his chin in the direction of the nearby woman who squats on a mat and sews the edges of a large animal skin around the two long wooden poles her husband, Bahij, made for her. I’m paying them to make a new litter for Joseph. Aaron’s ripped robe was discarded long ago. And my robe, the last one left, has already begun to tear. It would never have lasted all the way to Masada.
“Let me . . . stay here . . . and die,” Joseph says.
“No one is going to die. Soon you will be well again. You’ll see.” I motion for the woman to hurry and silently praise Hashem for this great gift of a new litter. But she pays no attention. She’s covered from head to toe in folds of dark cloth. Only her eyes and dry leathery hands are visible. It’s difficult to determine her age, but I think she’s old. Even so, her hands move swiftly, expertly, as she works to secure the skin. And again I praise Hashem.
“You would . . . make . . . better time . . . without me,” Joseph says, his words sounding like gasps. “What if Lamech . . . is on our trail?” With each succeeding word, Joseph’s voice fades. “You must get . . . the . . . silver . . . to . . . Masada.”
“Be still, Joseph. And don’t speak. God has not brought us to these tent dwellers for nothing.”
Joseph looks away.
We’re resting beneath a large tent of skins. It provides shade, but the air is heavy and foul. Bahij, a tall, leathery man with bushy gray hair, stands nearby, observing the woman and us. His arms are folded and his grinning mouth reveals few teeth. We’re in the company of shepherds, nomads who move with the seasons in order to graze their flock. In the rainy winter months the sheep are driven higher up along the north side of the mountains; in summer they are kept nearer the springs. Their son, even now, is close by with the herd.
When the woman makes her last stitch, I leave Joseph’s side and walk to where Bahij stands. I thank him as I press several coins into his hand. Then my sons and I lift Joseph onto the new litter, strap him down with the goat hair rope I also purchased from the couple. Finally, we carry him outside. And as we do, he pleads with his eyes, one last time, for me to leave him.
“If you weren’t always stuffing your face you wouldn’t be as heavy as three mountain goats,” Benjamin banters as he carries the foot of the litter.
“Joseph, tell him he would tire carrying a rabbit,” Aaron says, holding the litter at the head.
And between them, Joseph remains silent.
“Perhaps we should drag him on the ground like a sheave of wheat.” In jest, Benjamin slightly dips the sturdy pallet. And Aaron responds by saying that maybe Benjamin should be the one dragged on the ground.
And on it goes; my sons bantering back and forth, hoping to rouse Joseph, to keep him clinging to life until help can be found. And I bless them for it as I walk silently beside them. We’ve already passed En Gedi. If we keep this pace we should make Masada before nightfall. My one concern is, will Joseph live to see it?
“Joseph, you must drink.” He burns with fever, and quakes in my arms. I cup his head while Aaron puts the goat skin bag of water to his mouth. For hours we’ve been walking the hard-mud ground, keeping a furious pace. If only we had time to kill that goat—to make fresh broth for Joseph to drink. But there is none. Even if there was, we are worn to the bone and have no strength for a hunt. We’ve taken refuge from the sun in a low lying cave. But I’m determined to push on to Masada. It is Joseph’s only chance.
“You must drink,” I repeat, still cupping his head while Aaron slowly squeezes the bag trying to force droplets of water between Joseph’s dry, cracked lips, but most of it just dribbles down his chin.
“The smell is worse,” Aaron whispers, bending closer to me. As soldiers, we know what that means.
Benjamin tears a strip off what’s left of my robe, has Aaron wet it, then places the wet rag across Joseph’s forehead. “It won’t bring the fever down but maybe it will make him more comfortable.”
I release Joseph, then rise to my feet. “We must press on to Masada.”
“We must rest or we’ll never see Masada.” Benjamin looks at me with a frown. “You know I’m right, Father. Let us take a few minutes to regain our strength.”
I struggle with Benjamin’s words, then finally clasp his shoulder and nod. He speaks wisdom. We’ve driven ourselves most of the day; resting little, hardly eating. It’s doubtful we could make Masada in our condition. But Benjamin has always been the practical one.
“We’ll rest,” I say grudgingly. “But only for a short while.” I stretch out on the dirt floor nearby and pillow my head with my arm. But I don’t close my eyes. I’m listening to Joseph’s slow, ragged breathing.
“Will we take the Serpent’s Path?” Benjamin says as we stand at the base of a massive mountain of rock and look up at the steep winding trail before us. There are only three ways up the summit to the flat ’ rock-top of Masada: this one, the Serpent’s Path, on the eastern side, and two on the western; and the Serpent’s Path is the most treacherous.
“There’s no time to walk around the mountain; not if we wish to make the climb before nightfall. And it would be suicide in the dark, especially carrying Joseph. It’s the Serpent’s Path or nothin
g.” I examine the sky where the sun glows red and its fingers already dip below the horizon. “We must hurry.”
Benjamin, who has just taken his turn at the foot of the litter, nods. “I only pray we have the strength. We are nearly done in, Father.”
We’ve been walking for hours. Our faces are blistered; our feet cracked and swollen and bleeding. We are worn to the bone, and the steep uphill climb looks so formidable I’m almost ready to order a short rest when I hear Aaron’s voice.
“Joseph is unconscious. I can’t rouse him.”
I bend over the litter and peer at Joseph’s pale, lifeless face. His dried, cracked lips are bleeding, and when I put my hand to his nostrils, I feel little air. “Every minute counts, now,” I say, as the wind blows dust in our faces. But when I see Benjamin and Aaron so haggard, I add, “We can’t rest, but we can lighten our load. Leave everything but the coins.”
And so we shed our scrips and water skins and other bundles, and lay the large bags of silver between Joseph’s legs, leaving us with only our tunics and the daggers at our waist, and Joseph’s litter between us.
Then we begin the slow torturous climb up the narrow, stony trail; Benjamin at the foot of the litter, I, at the head—for before Aaron’s sandal even touched the Serpent’s Path, he became faint, and would have dropped the litter if I hadn’t been by his side. He now walks behind us, barely keeping up. And as we ascend the steep mountain, we drop great beads of sweat and the last of our strength until we can barely put one foot in front of the other. It’s as if we’re climbing to the top of the world. Even the sight of Herod’s Hanging Palace—the massive threetiered villa built into the distant cliff-face—doesn’t revive me. We move like swamp turtles, swallowing dust as the wind whips our faces. I pray to Hashem to give me the strength to take one more step, then another, then another. And when I think even Hashem’s hand can’t move me any further, I hear a voice ringing out from atop the far-off fortress wall.
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