Judah's Wife: A Novel of the Maccabees

by Angela Hunt

  I did exactly as she said, obeying with a single-mindedness that rivaled Judah’s passion for his army, but despite all my pushing, the infant would not be born. Rosana then asked me to lie down, and though she said she could see the baby’s head, nothing she did seemed to make the baby want to leave my body.

  For three days and two nights I suffered, and by the third afternoon I was past caring whether I lived or died. Weary in heart and body, I sensed an approaching darkness and an ominous numbness, and I welcomed them both.

  This was my fault. I had been angry and upset when Judah left to fight again, and now HaShem was punishing me. Rosana had said that Judah was fighting for all Israel, so if I didn’t want him to go, I was standing in the way of HaShem’s plan.

  He was a just God, and He punished evildoers. So He was going to kill me and my child.

  I was about to close my eyes and surrender to defeat when a great whooshing sound filled my ears.

  “Move out of the way,” my mother commanded, then her iron hands manipulated my belly, pressing and pushing, shifting and squeezing. I cried out, reflexively trying to shield my weary womb. Then satisfaction filled Mother’s voice. “Push again, daughter. With all your strength.”

  Surely pushing the child would tear my flesh apart. If so . . . let it be.

  Somehow I found enough courage and strength to push Judah’s son into the world.

  As Mother and Rosana murmured over the baby, I waited to hear a cry . . . and realized what had happened. My baby was dead. That was why I heard no crying or happy fussing from the grandmothers. Something had happened while the child was imprisoned in my womb.

  The image of a trapped soul resonated like a deep-voiced bell. I was trapped, too, in a marriage with a man who refused to be the husband I wanted. My son had died because I could not set him free, and I would die as well unless Judah came home to stay.

  Wild grief ripped through me as I rolled onto my side and wept.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Judah

  Three weeks after the Dedication feast I rode home with my brothers, all of whom were anxious to rejoin their families. I was anxious, too, but for a different reason—if I had reckoned correctly, Leah should be near her time.

  I might have a son or daughter.

  We moved confidently through the rocky slopes, then crossed the valley that led to Modein. The sky glowed orange and red in the colors of sunset, and a group of young cousins heralded our approach with shouts and the rowdy bleat of a ram’s horn. I smiled, imagining Leah’s surprise at the sound of the horn, and hoped she would come out to greet me with our baby.

  We entered the village a few moments later. Neta, Morit, and Ona hurried out of their houses to greet us, but I saw no sign of my wife. Fear blew down my spine as I dismounted, then I spotted my mother emerging from my house, her face tight with concern. She lifted her hand to acknowledge me and pointed to a path that led away from the village center.

  A sense of trepidation crept into my mood as I dismounted and followed her. Why would Mother lead me away from my house? Nothing of importance lay out here, only fields, a pasture, and the family tomb—

  I halted as Mother walked to the tomb and placed her palms against the stone. She bowed her head for a moment, then turned to look at me.

  “Your son is here,” she said. “Buried next to your father.” Her face wore a drawn, inward look, as if she were seeing an image of the child in the air between us.

  My son. The child who might have followed in my footsteps . . .

  My throat was so tight I could barely draw breath to speak, but I forced the words out: “Did Leah give him a name?”

  Mother shook her head. “He died without having drawn breath.” She turned toward me, and the light in her eyes shone weak. “I am sorry, Judah.”

  Grief welled in me, dark and cold, but somehow I found the courage to meet her gaze. “Is my wife—?”

  “Leah lives,” Mother said. “But she is weak. She needs to regain her health.”

  While I stood by the tomb, mourning my loss, Mother squeezed my shoulder, then turned and walked back to the village.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Leah

  From the loud greetings and commotion that spilled through the window, I knew the men had returned. I rolled onto my side and brought my arms up to cover my head, fending off imagined blows that would have come from a man like my father. Perhaps they would come from Judah, as well. I had never before cost him as much as a son. This might be the situation to reveal the depths I had dreaded, the anger and violence I would never be able to bear.

  “Every man has a beast in him,” Mother used to say, and Judah proved her words every time he led men into battle. I had married a fighter, through some mischief or omission I had killed his son, and now I would have to face his anger. I would try to be as stoic as Mother, but in my weakened condition I could not endure punishment for long. Better, perhaps, that I should curl up and die.

  The thought of death flitted through my brain, then circled back to linger. Why not? Dying alone in the wilderness might be easier than being pummeled by the husband who once loved me. Then again, death by a warrior’s hands would be quicker than slow starvation. And if I died here in Modein, at least Mother and Rosana would make certain my bones had a fitting place to rest.

  I flinched as the wooden door swung on its leather hinges. For an instant I held my breath, waiting for the sound of footsteps so I could identify the trespasser, but I heard nothing.

  Then the pallet beneath me shifted as someone dropped onto it and drew me toward him.

  I opened my eyes, ready to face the Hammerhead’s fury. But Judah lay quietly next to me, his eyes closed and his shoulders slumped, as though he had come home to a burden too heavy to carry.

  Slowly, I slid away from his arms, out of striking distance.

  His eyes opened. “Leah.” My name came out hoarse, as if forced through a tight throat. “I do not know how to tell you how grieved I am.”

  Because now he would have to beat me? I rolled off the bed and took a step back.

  For the first time since entering, my husband looked directly at me, his tanned face drawn with unhappiness. “I don’t know what to say. I am sorry.”

  “For what?” I stepped backward again until I felt my shoulder touch the wall. “For killing your son?”

  His face twisted as if I had slapped him. “No, no—I am sorry for not being here. Mother says you suffered greatly.”

  I shrugged to hide my confusion. “That does not change anything. I live. The child does not. HaShem is punishing me.”

  “‘Adonai gives and Adonai takes away,’” Judah whispered, staring at the wall. The corners of his mouth had gone tight, his eyes shiny. “‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’”

  I stared at him. Did he mean what he had just said? Or was he trying to lull me into a false sense of safety? Father had often tortured Mother in that way. He behaved as though nothing was wrong, then, when she relaxed, he had flown at her like a raptor.

  I would not let Judah use me like that. If he wanted to beat or humiliate or kill me, better that he do it now, while we were alone.

  “I failed you,” I said, slowly sinking to my hands and knees. I lowered my head so I would not have to look at him. “If you wish to punish me, go ahead. Take my life if you want it, and know this—no matter what you do to me, you cannot make me feel any worse.”

  I braced myself for a curse, a blow, or a kick, but nothing happened. After a moment I lifted my head, expecting to meet censure, but instead I saw a man whose eyes overflowed in what appeared to be genuine sorrow.

  “What did that man do to you?” he asked, rising. In three long steps he stood before me. With strong hands he lifted me up, but instead of striking me, he wrapped me in his arms, held me against his chest, and pressed his lips against my forehead. “May HaShem forgive the man who taught you to expect such things,” he said, his voice breaking. Then he cried, “Adonai, in your
mercy, restore the things that have been stolen from this woman.”

  What? Did he expect to pray our baby back into my arms? Did he expect me to forgive the hurt he had caused by leaving when I begged him not to go?

  Struggling against his grip, I pulled free of him and took two steps back, the better to see into his eyes. “Don’t pretend,” I said, throwing the words at him like stones. “I know what you are doing, but I will not keep silent.”

  “Leah.” His jaws wobbled beneath his beard. “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw it time and time again, with my father,” I went on. “He would be furious about something but would act as if everything were fine. And just when my mother had begun to relax, he would pull his arm back and punch her so hard her feet left the floor.”

  He shook his head, his eyes screwed shut against stray beams of sunlight that fringed the window covering. “I would never do that.”

  “Wouldn’t you? I’ve seen you fight.”

  “Leah—”

  “And I know you probably want to hurt me because I killed our son. I was angry at you for leaving, and HaShem punished me by taking our baby. So it is my fault, and if you want to hit me, go ahead. I am ready to die, anyway. I still don’t understand why I’m alive . . . unless HaShem wants you to have the pleasure of killing me.”

  I stood before him, trembling with rage and fear, breathing hard but warmed by the knowledge that I had finally been able to say everything I had wanted to say. I kept my eyes fastened to his face, ready to endure whatever would come, bracing myself for the moment when his buried anger became a scalding fury . . .

  I watched, pulse pounding, as he reached down and withdrew the knife sheathed at his belt. He brought it up and held it between us, then gripped the end of the blade and presented it to me, handle first.

  “If you believe I am such a man,” he said, speaking with a delicate ferocity that made it clear his emotions were barely under control, “then take this and strike me. But strike well, because we will not do this again.”

  I took the blade, wrapped my palm around the handle, and wavered, wondering where to strike. His heart? I didn’t want him dead. Judah was a hero of Israel, and I would never be forgiven for killing the man who had chased the Seleucids out of Judea.

  I didn’t want to kill him, but I did want to make him angry enough to grant me a divorce. If I were free, I would no longer have to worry about the anger building up inside him, his judgment on my shortcomings and failures, or his comments about how I was not worthy to be a hero’s wife.

  He sank to his knees and spread out his arms, then lifted his chin and closed his eyes. He was making it easy for me to strike and run, and he had placed his life in my hands. He might well kill me after I struck, so I would have to be fast.

  I tightened my grip on the knife and felt a stab of memory, one as sharp as a blade. As much as I hated to admit it, I did love him. I would never forget the nights we lay in bed laughing together, the way he looked at me on our wedding day, the many times he asked about my comfort, how did I like Modein, were the other women treating me well?

  I blinked the images of the past away. That was before the war, before HaShem called him to be a commander. That calling had awakened the beast within my gentle giant, and I was certain the beast yearned to kill me now. Hadn’t I heard the barely restrained frustration in his voice? Hadn’t my mother warned me? Hadn’t I tested him beyond endurance?

  I brought the blade down, slashing his face, cutting him from the corner of his eye to his beard. I stood motionless, breathing hard and waiting for some response, but for a moment Judah did not move. Then he lifted his head and looked at me, and in his eyes I saw nothing but tenderness. Compassion. Love.

  If he were like my father, he would have killed me. He would not be looking at me with longing.

  Comprehension swept over me in a powerful wave, one so strong it stole my breath. This man, this Hammerhead, had nothing in common with my father. He was tough, but not brutal. He was strong, but not cruel. He was my husband and master, but he had not made me his slave.

  Everything I had assumed about him . . . was wrong.

  “Are you finished?” he asked, his voice filled with calm entreaty. “Because you can cut me again and I will not hurt you. You can do whatever you like and I will not change toward you.”

  I dropped the knife and fell onto my knees as my world spun. What had I done?

  In years to come, people would look at him and wonder which enemy had given him that wound. If asked, he would tell the stark truth: his wife, the foolish girl who could not believe he was a good man, the woman who could not trust him to treat her with kindness, the person who was supposed to love him best.

  “Judah.” Tears ran down my face, tears of shame. “Can you forgive me?”

  Somehow he managed a wavering smile. “It hurts my heart,” he said, his own voice breaking, “to know you do not trust my love.”

  I could not speak as he lowered his head into the space between my shoulder and neck. His tears, mingled with his blood, slid hot and wet over my skin.

  Could Judah’s love be great enough to forgive me?

  I placed my hand on his thick hair, then gripped it and gently lifted his head so I could look into his eyes. The pupils were large with grief, the white areas streaked with red. I had not seen many men cry, but Judah’s expression could not be false.

  “Can you—” I tried to control myself, but my chin quivered and my eyes filled in spite of my resolve—“can you forgive me for killing our son?”

  His eyes welled with fresh hurt. “Why should I forgive you for something that was not your fault?”

  I clung to him and we rocked silently together, sharing our pain and grief.

  I lowered the basket of dirty tunics to the rocks, then knelt at the water’s edge to test its temperature—still cold. My fingers would be pruned and numb by the time I had finished pounding these clothes, but at least Judah would be wearing a clean tunic the next time he rode off in the defense of Israel.

  I took a brown garment from the basket and immersed it in the creek. I was about to lift it out when a shadow fell over mine. In the reflection on the water I recognized my mother-in-law.

  “Rosana.” I looked up and smiled. “Come to wash clothes?”

  “No. I’ve come to talk to you.”

  She was carrying a basket, but when she sat on a rock I saw that it contained spun wool, not fabrics. I dipped my hands into the creek again, waiting for her to speak, but for a while we sat in that pregnant silence in which words are carefully sought and sewn together.

  “I have been watching you and Judah,” she finally said. “How is it with you two?”

  I forced a smile. “Fine. We are fine.”

  “Are you?” She bent toward me, her face alive with concern. “I noticed you did not join Judah at dinner last night.”

  “Oh.” I looked away. “I knew everyone would be at your house. I did not think anyone would miss me.”

  “I missed you. And Judah missed you.” In a voice far younger than her years, she said, “I remember when I first married Mattathias. I felt out of place whenever he insisted we visit his Levite friends. The men would talk in a corner, leaving me to speak with women I barely knew. I was always uncomfortable.”

  “I know the women here.” I gently scrubbed Judah’s tunic. “And I am at ease with everyone in the family.”

  “Except Judah?”

  I squinted through a bright burst of sunlight that had appeared from behind a cloud. “Judah and I . . . have reached an understanding.”

  “A truce?”

  I shrugged. “You could say that.”

  Rosana sighed. “I am sorry to hear you say so.”

  “I’m glad about it. Better a truce than two unhappy people.”

  “But surely it is better to have both happy.”

  I stopped scrubbing, and wondered if Rosana had been listening outside our window. “I don’t know what you wan
t me to say, Rosana. I cannot abide violence, and Judah is a warrior. He knows how I feel, and I know he won’t change.”

  “Judah is a warrior because Adonai has chosen him to lead the army of Israel,” Rosana said, her voice softening. “Has Adonai chosen you to oppose your husband?”

  I was about to protest that I was no longer actively opposing him, but wasn’t my lack of support the same thing?

  “Adonai hasn’t called me to anything,” I answered, my tone sharper than I intended. “He doesn’t speak to me.”

  “Perhaps you are not listening.” Rosana’s bright eyes sank into nets of wrinkles as she smiled. “Sometimes, after we lay ourselves down before HaShem, we simply know what is right.”

  I waited for another word of explanation, but when I looked at Rosana again, she was sitting with her eyes closed and an expectant expression on her face. I heard nothing but a dusty palm rattling its leaves, then Rosana stood and lifted her basket. “I should get back to work. Enjoy your washing, daughter.”

  I sat back and watched her walk away, a small, stately woman who had always bewildered me. Why should she care about the state of my marriage? Judah and I had reached an impasse, but at least we were no longer at odds. I was not trying to change him; he was not trying to pacify me. We slept together without touching and went about our work without arguing. And the cut on his face had nearly healed.

  I went into my marriage looking for peace and safety, and after Judah went to war, I settled for peace. No one in Israel would know safety until the struggle was over.

  So what did Rosana mean by laying ourselves down? Was she speaking literally? Had she lain down at her husband’s feet, or did she mean something else?

  My thoughts whirled as I went back to scrubbing. My father had never lain down for anyone, physically or figuratively, but Mother would have gladly flattened herself on the floor if it meant keeping peace in the house. I had almost lain down in front of Judah when I confessed my guilt about losing the baby—