Rebekah's Treasure

by Sylvia Bambola

  “I understand. But consider this: today we killed two of those bandits. Two paid for the life of one.”

  “But not Lamech,” I spit. “Lamech, who beats wool merchants to death for their money. Lamech, who robs his own starving countrymen. Lamech, who cared nothing for our Holy City, our Holy Temple. Lamech, who killed my son for gain.” I wipe my wet cheeks with the back of my hand. “All the wealth in the world is not worth Joseph’s life.”

  Josiah’s strong hand grasps my arm. “Whatever you ask, I’ll do. My men are at your command. What is it you wish?”

  “Lamech’s blood on my dagger.” And even as I say it, I see Aaron’s face fall, and Benjamin’s too.

  “Shedding his blood will not bring Joseph back. What of your oath to Eleazar? What of Esther?” Aaron says.

  I stare at him, my eyes hard. “I haven’t forgotten either. But first I must kill this snake.”

  It takes most of the next day to catch up with the snake who has made his way back to his hole. From my place of concealment I watch him lounge at the mouth of his cave alongside his men. Our overwhelming strength at Hyrcania obviously made him abandon all hope of despoiling us. Josiah, and fifty of his men, have come with me and my sons. The rest have gone to Masada with some of the treasure. So we have fifty to subdue Lamech’s ten or twelve. I don’t feel shame or pity that my enemy is so outnumbered. I feel only hate.

  Without waiting to formulate a battle plan, I let out a loud cry and charge toward the cave, surprising Lamech’s men and mine. The bandits drop bread and cups and rush inside, and I right behind them with my dagger waving. I slash and thrust like a wild man, plunging my blade into one rogue after another. When Josiah’s men finally join me, they make a quick end to the rest, and within minutes the floor is littered with bodies, though not one is ours. How many I killed, I cannot say. It’s all a blur. I only know I feel profound disappointment that my dagger, dripping with blood, has no other foe to strike.

  I stand in the middle of the cave, my chest heaving for want of air, and watch Josiah’s men collect bodies, then lay them in a row for the diggers. They are, after all, Jews, reason enough to honor them with a burial.

  “Ten dead, in all,” reports one of the men when at last all the bodies have been collected.

  “That’s it then,” Josiah says, clasping my shoulder. “You have avenged your son.”

  I nod, and am about to leave, then I stop. “I will see him. I will see this jackal before I go.” And so I walk down the line of bodies, examining each face until at last I reach the end and realize Lamech is not among them. “He’s not here!” I shout, hardly believing my own words. “He’s not among the dead!”

  At once a dozen men scour the cave, my sons among them.

  “There’s an opening in the back, Father,” Aaron says, coming up to me, his face strained. “It was concealed by baskets and rush mats.” Aaron holds his dagger in his hand. “I’ll go in.”

  “It’s for me to go . . . for me to . . . .”

  “No Father.” Aaron bars my way, and the look in his one good eye stops me. There’s no hatred in it. Only a wistful sadness that makes me feel diminished somehow. I watch him and Benjamin disappear into the opening. And then I wait. And for the first time in many months I think of Jesus. He promised us a kingdom. Why, then, didn’t He drive out the Romans and set it up? Why has He allowed His people, the Jews, to suffer so? Was it all a lie? That promise of His? No . . . not a lie. I was only a boy but I heard Him speak. I saw Him die, saw the sky blacken, felt the earth shake. And I saw His wounds, too, after He came out of the tomb. After he rose from the dead. Yes . . . I saw them. So it wasn’t a lie. But oh, how far we are from that kingdom now, that kingdom of love and forgiveness and peace and joy that He spoke so much about. Where was it? For one fleeting second I yearn for Jesus and His peace. Then I remember Lamech, and the Master fades from my thoughts.

  “Let me see his blood on your dagger,” I say, when at long last my sons reappear.

  “You’ll not find it, Father,” Aaron says, looking at me with pity. “The opening leads to a narrow tunnel which ends as a small cave on the north side of the mountain, a cave with an egress. The coward has escaped; deserted his men in order to save himself.”

  “Give me the word, my friend, and I’ll order my men to scour the hills,” Josiah says, his eyes blazing.

  I look at my Aaron. His face, even after all these years of fighting and bloodshed, is still like the face of an angel with its delicate contours framed by soft matted curls. His one damaged eye attests to his ferocity as a warrior; but the other, the eye that probes and pierces me so deeply, is hopeful and kind, but sorrowful, too. And I know he is praying that I’ll rise to the higher calling. And though my heart desires to shed more blood, I bow to his better instincts.

  “We’ll not waste time looking for one rogue.” I wipe my dagger on the sleeve of my tunic and slip it into the belt at my waist. “We’ll return to Hyrcania, and in the morning, you, Josiah, must go to Masada with the rest of the treasure, with wealth enough to supply your army for years to come, while I and my sons must head north.”

  “We search for Esther?” Benjamin asks.

  “We search for Esther,” I say, watching Aaron offer prayers of thanksgiving to Hashem.

  ON THE ROAD TO CAESAREA 70 A.D.

  CHAPTER 7

  “She didn’t even know murex snails were found in Dor.”

  “Yes, Zechariah, you told me . . . a dozen times.”

  “But wouldn’t she know that? Coming from Dor as she claims? After all, it’s big business there, and the Tyrian dye from these snails is famous. All the imperial families of the Empire have worn its purple.” Zechariah glances back at Kyra who trails behind. “And when I mentioned Dor’s temples to Zeus and Astarte, and purposely described them wrong, she didn’t correct me. I’m telling you, I have a bad feeling, Rebekah. It’s like an anchor in my chest. It always lodges there just before trouble comes. And I’m never wrong.”

  “What could I do? Leave her behind at the mercy of Argos? She asked . . . she pleaded. What could I do?” I say this for the hundredth time. Oh, how Zechariah frets when he suspects an ill omen is looming. He’s been complaining about Kyra since we left Pella and we’re already far from the Decapolis, having passed Scythopolis nearly three days ago.

  “And why did she want to take us out of our way and spend the night in Megiddo? Can you answer me that? She was so insistent, too. Getting all red-faced; looking like she was going to burst into tears. It’s almost as if she were meeting someone there. But would she tell me when I asked? No. She wouldn’t even tell you, but only talked about having a sore foot as if neither of us had sore feet from this journey. And what does that have to do with Megiddo, anyway? So what am I to think? Can my thoughts of her be good? I’m telling you, she’s trouble. Mark my words, Argos will come for her. He’s not one to give up anything easily.”

  I sigh, but don’t answer. In a way I feel guilty. I know Zechariah doesn’t speak out of a spiteful nature, for his heart of love is as big as Mount Carmel. The truth is, he’s burdened for my safety. I’ve heard him praying far into the night while I was busy with my own prayers for Esther. Soon we must stop and make camp, and that adds to his worry for I know his concern is greatest during the dark hours. But now that we’re west of Megiddo, having passed it without stopping and without incident and with only a mild complaint from Kyra, I hope his mind will be more at ease.

  We’re still south of the Mount Carmel ridge, on the Caesarea-Scythopolis highway, scattering pebbles with our sandals, causing them to skitter across the dusty road. The large stone markers that tell us the distance we’ve traveled also tell us they were built by the 10th legion under the command of Marcus Ulpius Traianus only a year ago. It’s hardly the Via Appia, the main thoroughfare of Rome, and one, they say, that’s built of smooth, tightly-fitting paving stones. Rather, our road is lined with kerb stones and paved with pebbles and sand and little else.

  Thoug
h trees and shrubs have been cleared on both sides of the road to deter any ambush by rebels, I’m happy to see that Roman axes have not decimated the hills. Lush trees still flourish there, nourished by the rains carried to these parts on the pinions of the westerly Mediterranean winds.

  I glance around at the many caravans that clog the dirt path running parallel to our road. The path is made of smooth earth; built by the Romans for their horses since it is kinder to hooves than the pebbled road. The path is heavily traveled by caravans coming from the Decapolis with their wares.

  “It’s more crowded than usual,” Zechariah says, mopping his sweaty brow. “Merchants everywhere must have heard that Titus is marching his army back to Caesarea; an army with booty enough to spend on the most lavish goods.”

  Two Midianites push by, each wearing an undergarment belted by a wide leather strap, and over that a sheepskin cloak, loose and ill-fitting, with the wool facing outward. They’re wild looking and rough, like most Midianites, and I wonder if they could be slave hunters. I’m relieved when they pass without glancing our way. But it’s evident that Zechariah’s fears have become mine.

  We travel slowly. Kyra holds us back. She meanders like a mindless child while one traveler after another passes us by. Another large caravan overtakes us, all laden with goods. For Titus? Or for shipment to other parts of the Empire out of Sebastos, Caesarea’s man-made harbor?

  As the camel drivers laugh and talk and encourage their animals to move faster, I leave the road and follow behind on the dirt path gathering camel chips for my cooking fires. And while I do, I study the men, searching for any who might be the slave hunters we fear. Finally, I laugh at myself for allowing Zechariah’s words to disquiet me, then praise God that in two days we’ll be in Caesarea.

  “She’s left the road again,” Zechariah grumbles, as he glances over his shoulder.

  I turn and see Kyra seated a good distance away, near an oak; not a great oak of Bashan with an impressive trunk and full, rounded top, but a small bushy, prickly-looking tree that hardly invites company. At once I’m irritated by this delay until I see her metal collar glinting in the sun. We’ve yet to find a way to remove it without injuring her. Now it reminds me of her sad, dangerous state, and I feel pity.

  “That makes a dozen times she’s stopped today. If I had a more suspicious nature, I’d say she’s deliberately trying to slow us down.”

  “More suspicious? Zechariah, you’re a bundle of suspicion. You’ve not stopped speaking of Kyra since we left Pella. Though I understand your concern, I must confess you weary me with your words.”

  Zechariah thumps his chest with a fist, causing the dust on his tunic to float upward. “In here, I’m uneasy. I tell you, when God stirs me this way, I know trouble is coming.” He looks at me sideways, pulling at his beard. “I feel sorry for her, too, Rebekah, but I must be cautious, for both our sakes. And though I hate speaking of this for fear of worrying you, I must tell you that last night I caught Kyra going through one of your bags. When I confronted her she mumbled something about mistaking your bag for hers in the dark. But how was that possible? When yours is made from rushes, and hers from homespun?”

  I pull the donkey off the path, allowing the remainder of the caravan to pass, then double back and head for Kyra. Zechariah follows, his face as soft as cheese, and so sweet I feel sorry for being cross. “Forgive my impatience. You’re right to be cautious,” I say as we walk. And he just smiles.

  “Why have you stopped?” I ask Kyra when we reach her.

  “Ooooh,” she moans, rubbing her bare foot, her dusty sandal lying beside her.

  She lifts her leg slightly to show me her sole, while her large green eyes avoid looking at my face. “A pebble was lodged in my sandal, and cut my flesh.”

  I see only blood-tinged dirt. Without a word, I hand the donkey’s bridle to Zechariah, take up one of the water skins, wet a clean rag, then squat in the dirt.

  Kyra recoils when I touch the rag to her wound. “No . . . you mustn’t. I can do it myself.”

  I ignore her, and holding her foot firmly by the heel, carefully wipe away the grit. Oh, the faces she makes! First a frown, then a soft bewildered look, and finally her cheeks turn the color of pomegranates before her chin juts out defiantly. I think it odd, all this emotion, until I see that the wound has not been made by the grinding of a pebble. Rather, it’s long and thin, with clean edges like the cut from a blade or other sharp object.

  Has Kyra inflicted this wound upon herself?

  She looks at me as though reading my thoughts. And the longer I take, the more uneasy she becomes, until finally, before I can even apply the olive oil, she pulls her foot from my hands.

  “This is unseemly. I’m a slave and should tend myself.” With that, she replaces her sandal and springs to her feet.

  And we’re off again, with Zechariah leading the donkey back to the path while Kyra and I follow. And as we trudge along the gritty hills heading for the Plain of Sharon, I feel a heaviness in my chest. Weighed down by an anchor like Zechariah? Hardly. But though I’m still not convinced Zechariah is right about Kyra, I’ve decided to watch her more closely.

  I stir the bubbling pot of barley as Zechariah pounds three posts into the ground then stretches and secures his robe over them as a tent for Kyra and me. He’ll sleep under the stars. The air is still hot and sticky, though it’s nearly sunset, and I wonder if I might be better off sleeping beneath the stars as well. I’m grimy from the dust of the road and my own sweat. It will be uncomfortable beneath an airless canopy.

  Kyra is close by, rubbing oil into the bottom of her foot. Her limping brought us to a stop earlier than we intended. That foot of hers is more swollen than the first time I saw it. Redder, too. Without proper tending, it could become a problem.

  When she sees me watching, she smiles. “You’ve been so kind all through the trip. You and Zechariah, both. You haven’t even let me wash your clothes or cook. And now you insist on serving me. And who am I but a worthless slave?” She replaces her sandal, then rises to her feet and limps to where my pot is simmering over a slow-burning dung fire. “At least let me tend the barley while you refresh yourself. I’ve had worse injuries than this and still managed my chores.” She holds out her hand, and reluctantly I give her my wooden spoon.

  “It’s nearly ready,” I say, then go to the tent, and using water from my water bottle and a rag, I wash my face and hands.

  “Soon there will be an end to these hills.” Zechariah comes over and sits beside me on the rush mat. “I won’t lie. I dislike traveling. It will be nice sleeping beneath a roof again.”

  I nod as I watch Kyra. “Her wound, Zechariah . . . is not a wound one gets from a pebble. She might have . . . she could have . . . .”

  “Inflicted it herself? Yes, I suspected as much. But why? Why would she deliberately want to slow us down? Unless she’s waiting for someone to catch up. Argos perhaps?”

  “It can’t be Argos. You should have seen the fear in her eyes when she begged me to let her come. She’s terrified of him. This is her chance to be free. It hardly seems reasonable that she would deliberately ruin it. There must be some other explanation.”

  Kyra’s shadow suddenly falls over me. I look up and see her holding two steaming wooden bowls. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve added raisins and a bit of cinnamon to conceal the blandness of the barley. I think you’ll like it.”

  I thank her and take the bowl, along with a piece of flatbread. Did she overhear? Her face, blank as parchment, tells me nothing. When she returns to the barley pot I ask Zechariah what he thinks. But before he can answer, she’s back with her own bowl and takes a seat beside me on the mat.

  “I’ll miss you both when we part in Caesarea,” Kyra says, blowing on her steaming pottage. “I can’t remember when I was treated with such kindness.”

  I actually believe her. I actually think there are tears in her eyes. I actually feel sorry for thinking ill of her. “Are there any in Dor you
still call ‘friend?’” I say hopefully, for the thought of this desolate, young woman all alone fills me with sadness.

  “Dor? Yes . . . there should still be a cousin or two.”

  “No parents?” Zechariah asks.

  I think he feels sorry, too.

  Kyra scoops barley with her flatbread. Her movements are slow, deliberate, as though she’s thinking of an answer.

  “Have you no parents still living?” I repeat Zechariah’s question.

  “Why should I speak of those who sold me as if I were one of their goats?” Kyra shrugs as though trying to convey contempt but all she conveys is a wounded spirit, for her eyes rim with tears. “To me they are dead.”

  “You’re angry,” I say, “without even knowing their reasons? Perhaps they were poor, and in debt?”

  Kyra wipes the tears from her cheeks and looks away.

  “Will you not try to forgive them? As Jesus taught? You’ve heard Zechariah speak of this many times.” Without thinking, I brush the stray wisps of her hair from one of her damp cheeks, then let my fingers linger. “Begin your new life now, by extending this forgiveness. What better way to celebrate your freedom?”

  Oh, those green eyes! How they stare at me. Full of sadness and anger both. But her cheek remains turned toward my caress, like a starving little bird grateful for any meager kernel a cruel world was willing to dispense.

  “For some there is no freedom, there is no forgiveness, there is only suffering,” she finally says, pulling away.

  Camels groan behind us. And donkeys bray. All around, in little pockets, are other travelers who have stopped for the night and set up camp. Laughter and voices fill the air. But we are silent, Zechariah and I. What can we say to Kyra’s sad comment? Can we say “Come to Jesus and He will heal you? He’ll take your heart of stone and plow it with His love, creating deep, rich furrows in which He’ll plant a beautiful new garden?” No. She has heard all this before at Zechariah’s house. So, instead, we sit close to one another, quietly eating our barley, and watching the great orange and red sun slip behind the horizon.