Rebekah's Treasure

by Sylvia Bambola

  For an instant the man looks like he’s going to bolt. But then he walks forward with arms still held high above his head as though wanting to make sure we understand he’s unarmed. When he’s nearly upon us, he stops, looks us over, puts down his arms, smiles, then says the strangest thing: “I’ve been sent by God.”

  “You are a Gentile.” Aaron’s voice is edgy. “What would you know of our God? And why would he send you?”

  “My name is Demas, and what I know of your God can fill a large scroll. To begin with, I know He heals because He has healed me.”

  He’s young, this Demas, perhaps only a year or two older than my sons, but he’s no warrior. Though he is muscular enough, his soft hands and perfumed clothes tell me he is someone unaccustomed to hardship or much labor. And how can you trust a man who has not known either? My first instinct is to let him feel the flat of my dagger across his back, then send him on his way, but before I can, Benjamin steps forward, and taking the man by the arm pushes us aside and ushers him into the house.

  “Come join us for breakfast.” Benjamin smiles, looking so like Rebekah. And before I can utter an objection, he shoves the Greek onto a small stool near the wall, then sits on the floor beside him.

  What can I do? Dishonor my son by retracting the hospitality he has just offered? So I position myself on the floor next to Benjamin, but keep one hand on my belted dagger. Aaron follows, his face showing ’ displeasure. Benjamin has already placed a basket in the middle of our circle. It’s filled with the raisins and cheese Mary, the bottlemaker’s wife, brought us yesterday just before sundown.

  “Now tell me,” Benjamin says, chomping on a handful of raisins, “why does a Gentile think that the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob has sent him?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” Demas frowns and smiles at the same time. “I only know that last night your Jesus, who has also become mine, revealed to me that I was to offer you my services.”

  “And what services are those?” I say.

  “I wasn’t told. I thought you’d know.”

  “Perhaps it’s best to begin by telling us your trade,” Benjamin says. “Then we can determine your usefulness.”

  I think my son’s suggestion wise until I hear Demas’s answer.

  “I am . . . rather I was the head beekeeper in the Temple of Isis. Her priests are forever making ambrosia, the elixir of the goddess. There was much need for my honey.”

  “Isis! That abomination?” Aaron nearly spits out the words.

  “How is it that a Greek without a shaved head is a beekeeper?” I say, pointing to Demas’s short curly locks and ignoring Aaron’s outburst. No beekeeper worth his name would approach a hive with scented hair for fear of agitating the bees. And Demas’s oiled hair smelled strongly of lilies.

  “I used to shave my head in spring and again in late autumn when we harvested the honey. The rest of the time my servants would oversee the hives.”

  “Well, Greeks are considered clever beekeepers,” Benjamin says, smiling.

  Demas shakes his head. “Egyptians are the true masters. My father was Greek. But my mother was an Egyptian from Lower-Egypt—where the best beekeepers in the world reside; among them, my mother’s family. From them I learned how to cover baskets with mud to make hives, how to make elixirs, ointments and medicines from the honey, how to render the wax for amulets, writing tablets, sealants. It’s a profitable business.” He gestures toward his expensive tunic and sighs. “But I no longer keep bees for Isis. Not since my healing. I suppose you can say I’m a man without employment.”

  “And this is all you have to recommend yourself?” I glare at our guest in disbelief. “Do you take us for fools? Why would we need someone who collects honey for idols?”

  “Used to collect, used to collect honey. No more.” Demas is surprisingly calm.

  Benjamin laughs. “You have courage, to sit with men who have no sense of humor and tell such a tale. What else but courage can you offer us?”

  “I know Argos, your enemy. We were friends once. Perhaps God has sent me to help you fight against him. He’s powerful. You must understand that it’s not the slave girl, Kyra, he’s after, but your wife’s cup. He’ll not rest until he gets it. And he may make trouble by accusing Rebekah of harboring his runaway slave.”

  “How do you know this?” Aaron says, thrusting himself a bit too close to Demas.

  “We used to spend hours talking about how best to use Kyra to get to Rebekah. We even sent Kyra to Zechariah’s weekly gatherings hoping to gain Rebekah’s confidence. But all that was before I came to Jesus. He changed everything.”

  How do you trust such a man? Perhaps he does know Jesus. Or perhaps he’s laying a trap. Aaron certainly believes he is. I can tell by his thin, tight lips, by the way he studies Demas’s every move, and how his hand, even now, holds the hilt of his dagger beneath his robe. Benjamin is less suspicious. Always calm and logical, I know he’s quietly sifting Demas’s words to discern truth from lie. While I, myself, am not sure what to think.

  “You’ve given us little reason to believe we need your services. I see no value in a beekeeper,” I finally say. When Demas’s face falls I quickly add, “Don’t misunderstand. I have no wish to insult you. Beekeeping is, in itself, an honorable profession.”

  Demas rises to his feet. “Then God speed. But be warned. Argos will fight you, both with the powers given him by Isis, which are formidable, and his knowledge of the rules of Jus Gentium concerning slaves, which is vast.”

  Benjamin rises too. “And how does an idol maker know so much about the laws of slavery?”

  Demas smiles sheepishly. “Because I taught him.”

  “You?” Benjamin looks puzzled.

  “My father was a slave dealer. He trained me in the business, believing I would follow in his footsteps. But I had no stomach for it, so I chose the trade of my mother’s relatives, instead. He wasn’t pleased.”

  Benjamin smiles at me, then gestures for Demas to retake his seat. “Perhaps I’m beginning to understand why God has sent you, after all.”

  Aaron tells me he doesn’t trust Demas. It’s difficult for Aaron to trust anyone these days. His tender heart has been seared by years of war. I only pray Hashem will heal it.

  Benjamin, on the other hand, tells me only a fool or someone telling the truth would come up with such a story. And who fears a fool?

  I’m inclined to believe Demas, though I must confess trust came easier after I spoke to Mary and her husband, Simon. “Oh, yes, Demas is a follower of Jesus,” Simon said. While Mary talked about how Demas received “both his physical and spiritual sight.”

  I admit it irritates me a bit. Not that I don’t believe what happened to Demas is real, it’s that I do. And that begs this question: Why would God heal the eyes of a heathen, a former worshiper of Isis, and not heal my Aaron’s eye—a man of virtue, one of the Chosen, a Jew not only faithful to Jesus, but to Torah and Temple as well? It’s a thorny question that pricks my heart.

  I still grapple with it as we cross the wadi to join Demas and purchase supplies for our trip to Caesarea. When we meet him, he is as calm and pleasant as he was yesterday. We waste no time but at once set about making our purchases. First we buy enormous amounts of date cakes and raisins and flat breads from street vendors. Next, I ask Demas to take us to a seller of shirwals, Syrian tunics, and kaffias. He looks at me strangely, but asks no questions. This makes Aaron even more suspicious, for I see it on his face. After all, what normal man would not question the purchase of Syrian garb by a Jew?

  Demas points to a shop at the end of the stone-paved street. “Markos sells Greek and Roman togas, stolas, a few pallas, a good collection of tunics, and of course loin cloths. But he also carries clothing for the rich Syrian merchants who sometimes pass this way, or used to.” He tactfully avoids my eyes. “With the war, well . . . few have graced our city.” Was he thinking of John of Gischala and what his men did to the Decapolis and the rich who traveled between these cities
?

  “Perhaps Markos has some of this clothing left.” Demas’s face suddenly brightens. “If he does, he’ll be happy to be rid of them for who knows when another rich Syrian will come along? You should get them for a good price.”

  So we enter the shop and are greeted by Markos, the owner. He is a small hunched man with skin the color of saffron and who wheezes loudly as he stands anxiously by our side. When Demas tells him what we want, he leads us to the back wall where on a stone shelf are stacks of assorted folded garments. He unfurls them one by one, praising the quality of the stitching, the amount of gold thread, the red, black or blue embroidery around the neck, the perfection of the appliqués along the chest. He offers each garment for our inspection, begs us to handle them and even try them on. Most of the tunics, which fall to the ankle and are heavily decorated, are white cotton with long sleeves, decidedly unsuitable for Romans and Greeks since they consider long sleeves effeminate.

  My sons and I choose several, causing Markos great distress over the speed with which we make our choices. He frowns and shakes his head and continues to extol the virtues of his other garments and insists we examine them further. Politeness prevails and we listen, but when he sees we’re not going to change our minds, he finally packs the remaining tunics away and pulls down his abayas. Since the weather is still warm, we choose lightweight cloaks of fine cream-colored Syrian cotton, though we also pick one or two heavier cloaks for the cooler evenings. Again, Markos provides endless commentary, happily praising each embroidered shoulder seam and neckline, and pointing out that one of the cloaks in my pile of chosen garments is stitched with spun-gold thread.

  Next we select scarves or kaffias for our heads. Many are silk with long fringe, others plain Syrian cotton. To hold them in place we add several fine braided agals, or head ropes. Last of all we each select two pairs of Markos’s best leather sandals.

  The little merchant is overjoyed that such good fortune has come his way, for we have nearly emptied his stone shelf and hardly haggled over price. But if we’re to succeed in our charade, we’ll need a generous wardrobe befitting men of our supposed stature. Besides, I don’t begrudge him his profit.

  “You’ll need clothes for the journey, too,” I say to Demas.

  “Then I am to go?” He looks surprised.

  I smile and point to the many shelves containing Greekish clothes. “Pick out some tunics and sandals, perhaps a pallium or two, and whatever else you need.”

  “A pallium? The cloak of the wealthy?” Demas’s eyebrows raise.

  Markos dances gleefully around his shop as he realizes even greater profits are to be his. “Here, over here,” he gestures, leading Demas to a section of shelves containing carefully folded garments. “Here are my finest wares. Wools from Laodicea and Attica, and all weighted with lead along the hem in order to drape a man properly.”

  Demas shakes his head. “Perhaps something less costly.”

  As Demas turns, I bar his way. “Choose from this lot,” I say, much to Markos’s delight. And so Demas plucks several tunics and belts and togas and palliums and sandals from the shelf of costly wear, and before we’re done we each have a large bundle to carry.

  Poor hunched Markos is so grateful he bows repeatedly and articulates his appreciation all the way to the door. And even after we’re a good way into the street he continues to profess his gratitude.

  “So when do we leave?” Demas asks once Markos’s shop is far behind. Sweat beads his forehead, and he breathes heavily beneath his large bundle in stark contrast to my sons who barely show any strain.

  “If you can secure the camels I’ve commissioned you to buy, we’ll leave tomorrow at first light.”

  “You and your sons will go as rich merchants? From Damascus?”

  I nod.

  “And I as a Greek . . . slaver?” It’s clear Demas has guessed our plans.

  “It’s as you say.”

  Demas wrinkles his forehead. “I thought I was done with that business.” He sighs. “Even so, if Jesus, the restorer of my sight, wishes this, how can I refuse? But this brutal, heartless business will try my soul. It doesn’t please me to enter it again. It once made me brutal and heartless, too, until . . . well . . . until I met Him. But you already know all that. Surely, Mary and Simon have not spared any details, not even the part of how I broke into Rebekah’s house and tried to rob her of the cup.” There’s a twinkle in his eyes. “They told me you spoke to them. But I don’t fault you for making inquiries about me.”

  “Then understand this,” Aaron says, suddenly coming up from behind and staring fiercely at Demas, “though we’ll be dressing like rich, soft fools on this journey, we are far from soft or foolish. Four years of fighting in Jerusalem have hardened us. I can kill a man with one flick of my dagger. And I would do it in an instant if I thought he was plotting any treachery against me or my family.”

  Oh, my Aaron. I want to enfold him in my arms and hold him there until every memory of killing has faded from him. But it would take a lifetime of holding, and he is a man, and such a thing would be unthinkable, so instead I ask Hashem to hold him.

  Our trip is a blur of dusty roads, sore haunches and backs, sun baked bodies, the odor of unwashed men, groaning camels, cursing camel drivers, and sleepless nights ripe with thoughts of Rebekah.

  Does she love another? My mind can hardly comprehend it. Sweet Rebekah, wife of my youth. Still young and beautiful to me. Oh, yes, beautiful. And how she loved me! Once. She loved me once. I’ve never played the coward, but I feel cowardly now. If Hashem is kind and allows me to find her, how will I bear it if she spurns me? If she no longer wants me? Fear invades my being, me the general who has fought fiercely in a hundred battles. What has come over me? It must be age. I’m beginning to feel old. Even so, didn’t I have to fight for Rebekah once? After Josiah’s father initiated the shiddukhin, the match, between Rebekah and his son? Didn’t I fight them all? Even my own father who had already picked out a young maiden from Jericho for me? Someone I had never seen but who came from a wealthy priestly family? Yes, I fought them all because I loved her. And because she loved me. And I knew of her love because my wild, sweet, matchless Rebekah had defied custom and whispered it in my ear one starry night when we sat together on the narrow steps outside her upper room. It was this love of hers that made me brave and persistent in the face of both family opposition and the pressure of a tradition dating back centuries—the tradition that the father of the groom picks the bride.

  But can I fight for her now, not knowing if she still loves me? The ache in my heart tells me I can do no other. I picture her now as she looked that night on the outer steps, so young, hardly fifteen, and so beautiful. And how she laughed when I told her my father was away in Jericho initiating a match for me. And how her hair shimmered in the moonlight as she bent closer to me, smelling of lavender and telling me such a thing could never happen. And when I asked “why,” she simply said, without hesitation and with a hint of merriment in her voice, “because I love you!”

  Oh, Rebekah. Is it possible you now love another?

  “Make way! Make way!” Demas shouts, walking beside his camel, and leading it and two others laden with goods through the crowded north gate of Caesarea. As he goes, he pushes aside other travelers who lead their own camels. A dog with matted fur and flies buzzing around his eyes nips at Demas’s heels. And behind Demas and the three camels and the yapping dog come my sons and I, riding atop our beasts like we were the three magi. We’re perfumed and decked in our finest cloaks, and we all wear gold chains and rings.

  Benjamin appears to enjoy the charade. I suppose because we have no choice but to disguise ourselves and he’s simply making the best of it. He nods his head condescendingly at those who stare up at him in awe from the street. Aaron, on the other hand, appears embarrassed and hardly lifts his eyes.

  And I? I scout the lay of the land, looking for hidden dangers, measuring the people, searching for potential snares. My vigilance ends w
hen I realize we’re in the Jewish Quarter. Then I remember we’re masquerading as Syrians and must appear to be contemptuous of the poor Jews around us. It’s difficult, for I feel only love and compassion. When I recall how Titus’s Syrian auxiliary gutted fleeing Jewish refugees for the gold they believed they had swallowed I’m able to produce the desired contempt, but it’s for the Syrians.

  An old Jew carrying a talith scurries past, obviously on his way to the partially rebuilt synagogue. I picture him drawing the fringed cloth over his head and shoulders, then stooping and swaying in prayer. What will he pray for, I wonder? From what I’ve seen so far, there’s much need here.

  Two children run in front of my camel, laughing and chasing a small spinning clay disk, and in spite of myself, I smile. It’s good to see such abandonment, such carefree joy. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard the laughter of children.

  Our gaudy little caravan travels south through the streets of Caesarea, and in no time exits the Jewish Quarter. Now, columns of pink Aswan granite line the paved streets. The houses are larger, too; and silks and expensive wools, rather than homespun, clothe the people. All the buildings look white, being made of either limestone or marble, and gleam in the sun. It’s a grand city, this Caesarea; a city of fountains and statues, vaulted warehouses and temples, and cook shops oozing with aromas of roasting meats. Even Benjamin is impressed. Aaron hardly looks.

  Demas points west to a massive columned building which can be seen even from our vantage point several streets away. “The Temple of Augustus. See how it towers above all else? Use it as a guide and you’ll not get lost.” He looks at me and chuckles. “Herod always knew how to curry favor with the powerful. He made certain his tribute to Caesar would stand out among the other structures in the city by building it on a raised platform.”

  “Are we going there now?” I ask, seeing Demas turn in the direction of the temple and feeling disquieted.

  “No, to the market place and docks beyond. Both are excellent places to gather information. I’ll seek news about Titus and his captives there.”