“You dare to think you could take action against me in my own council?” he roared.
“It is not your council, Mordechai,” Simeon shot back. “It is the council of the people. But I fear that you and others like you have forgotten that long before now.”
Mordechai flung the scroll aside. “I will not sign it. Now get out!”
Simeon bent down and picked up the parchment, rolling it up again and tossing it on the table. “We have a duplicate ketubah in Capernaum. All the necessary signatures have been secured. This was a courtesy only, in keeping with your daughter’s desire not to do something without your knowledge.”
“I have no daughter. The daughter I once had is dead to me.”
“As you will,” Simeon answered.
“Get out,” Mordechai said coldly, “or I will call for help.”
“We brought the dowry as specified in the ketubah. One thousand shekels. A most generous dowry, considering the circumstances.” Simeon glanced at the bag on the table. “In keeping with the statutes, should something ever happen to dissolve the marriage, Miriam is entitled to the full amount back from you, along with any income derived from investing the same.”
Mordechai swung around. With one vicious sweep of his arm, he sent the heavy bag off the table. It hit the ground with a tremendous thud. The leather split down the sides, and silver shekels skittered across the marble floor in every direction. “There is your dowry,” he raged, panting heavily. “Now get out of my house!”
Simeon didn’t even glance down. “I hope you mean what you say, Mordechai ben Uzziel.” His voice was like the whisper of steel across silk. “If Miriam is dead to you, then you will make no more effort to interfere with her life.”
“Are you threatening me?” he thundered.
It was David who answered. “We would call your attention to the law of the land, as well as the law of our God. A man not only has the right but the solemn duty to protect and care for his family. Miriam will soon be a part of our family. As her betrothed husband, Simeon would be less than a man if he did not deal with any possible threat to his wife. As Miriam’s father-in-law, my rights now become equal to yours. My fortunes are nothing compared to yours, but know this: I would spend every shekel I own and can borrow to bring you to answer to the law.”
“I’ll have your heads for this,” Mordechai snarled, so livid he could hardly speak.
Simeon gave a soft, almost sad laugh, which only made it all the more menacing. “That is exactly what Moshe Ya’abin once said to me.”
Mordechai’s mouth opened and then shut again. The fire within him was burning white hot, but the mere mention of that name cut off the next outburst even as it formed on his lips. And in the back of his mind, he also knew that David was right. With all of his influence, he might not be able to win this one. In some cultures, women had no rights before the law. Not so for Judaism.
Simeon moved forward one step, and in spite of himself, Mordechai shrank back. “It was over a year ago, Mordechai, that you were under threat of death from Moshe Ya’abin. As you know, I was freed by the governor to eliminate that threat to you and to him.” He sighed wearily. “I don’t believe in empty threats, Mordechai. And I want nothing more than to live in peace. But even though it took us almost one full year, eventually Moshe Ya’abin was brought to justice. He now lies in the grave because he made the mistake of thinking he was beyond the laws of God and the reach of man.”
Simeon’s voice grew very quiet. “Should something happen to Miriam, or even threaten her peace and safety, I would consider myself under obligation to see that justice is done.”
“Get out!”
“Make no mistake,” Simeon said with cool deliberation. “This is done with here and now, Mordechai, or you shall never know peace again.”
Something in the combination of Simeon’s eyes and the coldness of his voice sent a shiver through Mordechai. After the capture of Ya’abin, Marcus Didius had given Mordechai a full report of how Simeon had done it. It was a brilliant campaign. Flawless. Frightening in its implacability. He swallowed quickly, suddenly remembering Pilate’s warning to stay out of the Galilee and to put any thoughts of retaliation aside. His eyes dropped, and he knew that for now he had lost. But time would pass, and things would change.
Simeon watched the older man, struck suddenly by the awareness that in a short time this man would become his father-in-law. The thought filled him with a sharp pang of sorrow. When Mordechai said nothing more, Simeon motioned to his father, and they both left the room, not bothering to shut the door behind them.
II
Sepphoris, in the Galilee 22 November, a.d. 31
Sepphoris lay about four miles north of Nazareth, near the center of a fertile valley where copious springs provided an abundance of fresh water. To the south, the Nazareth Ridge rose about fifteen hundred feet above the site, providing a beautiful backdrop for the city. It was little wonder that the Romans chose this as the place to create a major presence in the Galilee.
Simeon, Miriam, David, and Deborah were traveling alone. With the betrothal coming so quickly, they had even left young Joseph with Ephraim and Rachel. They had left very early and pushed hard. Now, as they made their way through the city, Simeon was reminded of Rome. They passed an aqueduct bringing water into the city, a mausoleum, theaters, temples, luxurious homes. What was it about these Romans that made them bring their culture, their architecture, their religion, their traditions and impose them upon the local populations?
They moved through the main part of the city, passing the walled, fortress-like garrison where dozens of soldiers milled about or stood guard. Then, in a matter of a few blocks, they were in neighborhoods completely Jewish, different enough that it seemed as if they had not only come miles but changed countries completely.
Aaron’s house was on one of the finer streets, but it was not by any means the most impressive in that block. It was two stories high, with a small courtyard in front. There was no fountain there, which was surprising in a city with virtually unlimited supplies of water and where most courtyards held elaborate marble fountains.
Aaron was an enigma in many ways, Simeon decided. Born in a fiercely independent family that hated Rome with the intensity of a she-bear protecting her young, Aaron’s uncle was the famous Judah of Gamla, founder of the Zealot movement. Thirty-some years before, Cyrenius, newly appointed legate of Syria, called for a census. The people rebelled. Not only were the taxes based on the census grossly unfair, administered through the corrupt and venal system of publicani, or tax collectors, but much of the money went directly to the emperor. This was an affront of enormous proportion to the Jews, who vehemently eschewed any form of idolatry, because the emperor was worshiped by many as a god. The Galilee exploded in open rebellion.
Eventually it took three full legions to put the revolt down. Two thousand Jews were either killed in battle or crucified by the victorious Romans. When it was over, Aaron and Deborah were alone.
Deborah had come out of that experience fired with passion. The Zealot cause was her cause, and, through her encouragement, Simeon had taken it up as well. Only when she had come to believe in Jesus had those fires finally been banked.
But Aaron had chosen a different path. He turned to the strict, demanding code of the Pharisees, embracing it with the same amount of passion his sister felt for the cause of freedom. He started late in the yeshivas, the schools that taught young men the Law of Moses, but he quickly surpassed his classmates in expertise, knowledge, and dedication.
Where Simeon’s mother was self-effacing, Aaron was haughty. Where Deborah was tolerant of divergent views, Aaron treated anything outside of Pharisaism as near heresy. Instead of Deborah’s deep and gentle warmth, much of which had been gained before tragedy struck the family, Aaron could exhibit a condescending coldness that stung like the flick of a whip. For the previous several years, whenever Simeon and Aaron were together, they went at each other like their tongues were swords and
their minds battering rams. That always saddened his mother, even though she often sided with Simeon against Aaron’s rigidity.
He looked up from his thoughts. His mother was seated between him and his father on the seat of the cart. She was watching him steadily. “What?” he asked.
“No battles today. Please.”
Simeon laughed softly. Had his feelings shown so clearly on his face? “I won’t, Mother. I only want to thank him for what he did and invite them to the betrothal.”
“Good. When you two fight, it upsets Hava as much as it does me.”
“I promise,” Simeon said, lifting his hand to signify as much.
“We can’t stay that long anyway,” David came in. “Not if we’re going to make Beth Neelah by nightfall.”
“I know,” Deborah replied. “Aaron will be disappointed.”
“No,” David said dryly, “Hava will be disappointed. Aaron will be relieved.”
“Now listen, you two,” she scolded, trying to sound severe. “I mean it. No arguments.”
“Aunt Hava is wonderful,” Simeon noted with exaggerated innocence.
“Simeon.” There was warning in Deborah’s eyes, and she was no longer teasing.
He raised both hands, this time in defense. “I promise, Mother. I’ll be nice.”
III
“And so,” Simeon concluded, taking a quick breath, “since I was in the wilderness of Judea for so many months, I never had a chance to really thank you, Uncle Aaron. What you did in bringing that letter to the governor not only showed your concern, but it put you at risk too. I didn’t know until just a little while ago that you actually went inside the Praetorium and talked with the governor face to face.”
Aaron was toying with one of his peyot, the long side curls that were a mark of piety and thus were especially favored by the Pharisees. Somewhere in the thickness of his beard there was half a smile, and his dark eyes twinkled. “Actually, the hardest part was the month of purification it took after that before I could feel clean again.”
Simeon nearly choked. Aaron was joking with him! Embarrassed by Simeon’s sincerity, he was trying to make light of what he’d done. Simeon could hardly believe it.
“Well,” Miriam said, “as I said before, my father and I were there in Caesarea that night. After you left, we had supper with Pilate and he told us about your visit. He was still muttering about it. He didn’t like you interfering, but I think it was a factor in influencing him to strike a bargain with Simeon.”
“Whether it was or wasn’t,” Hava said, watching her husband with open pride, “we are grateful to the Holy One, blessed be his name, for working things out as he did.” She turned to Miriam. “And now this.” Her smile filled her whole face. “We are so happy for you two.”
“Thank you, Hava,” Miriam said.
“Will you be coming down for the betrothal then?” Simeon asked. “It will be the day before Hanukkah.”
“Of course.”
Simeon suddenly had an idea. When he had been betrothed to Shana, more than eighteen months before, the ceremony had taken place in Beth Neelah, Shana’s village. Shana’s uncle, Rabbi Nahum, had performed the betrothal ceremony. Normally the groom chose the wedding officiator, and Sepphoris was only a few miles from Beth Neelah, but at that point Simeon wouldn’t have considered asking his Uncle Aaron to officiate. Thus, Rabbi Nahum had been asked. The only thing that saved Simeon was the fact that Nahum was a relative of Shana’s, but Aaron had let his sister know he had been deeply hurt that he hadn’t even been considered.
“We have a request,” Simeon said. “We were wondering if you would perform the ceremony for us.”
Aaron almost jumped. His eyes widened as he peered at Simeon.
“You are a rabbi, Uncle Aaron. We need a rabbi to perform the ceremony. Who better than you?”
Even Deborah was staring at her son. She had planned to suggest that Aaron be asked but was still working up the nerve to do so. “Yes,” she said quickly, “who better than you, Aaron?”
Simeon looked at Miriam.
She didn’t wait for his question. “We would be very pleased,” she said warmly. “In fact, it would be an honor to have it be someone in the family.”
Then came the second surprise of the afternoon: Aaron’s eyes were glistening. “I am the one who would be honored,” he said. “Most honored. Thank you.”
Deborah was a little misty-eyed herself. What had just happened was a small step toward healing some deep breeches, and she was very pleased. “Then you’ll stay with us for the festival as well?” she asked, speaking to Aaron and Hava. “We would love to have you in our home again.”
“Actually,” Aaron began, then turned and looked at his wife. She nodded for him to go on. “Actually, that would work out very nicely for us. You see, we are moving to Jerusalem.”
“What?” Deborah nearly shot off her chair.
Pleased with himself for his little surprise, his head bobbed quickly. “Yes. We planned to leave here and celebrate Hanukkah in Capernaum on our way down. We have decided that we are too far removed from the main center of Pharisaism up here.” He gave them a wry smile. “Jerusalem would change that somewhat.”
“Aaron has been invited by Azariah, the chief of all the Pharisees, to become part of the community there,” Hava said, her eyes shining with pride. “He even hinted that perhaps there might be a seat on the Great Council.”
“Hava,” he said, half chiding her. “He didn’t say that.”
“But he hinted at it,” she replied.
There was no mistaking the pleasure on Aaron’s face. “Yes, he hinted at it.”
“But . . .” Deborah was still dumbfounded. “What about your pottery business?”
“Hava’s brother will take over things here. He’s done most of the selling to the Romans anyway. I’ll just have to see whether I have time to start a shop down there.”
“You’ll love Jerusalem,” Miriam said. “I used to spend hours just walking the streets.”
Aaron twisted both side curls around his fingers, his way of showing either great agitation or deep satisfaction. “It is time we moved to where there are more of our own.” He rolled his eyes in mock horror. “Oh! The influence here. One can hardly walk down the street here without bumping into a Roman, a Greek, or a Phoenician. I spend half my life in the ritual bath purifying myself.”
“Congratulations are in order then,” David said. “We wish you well.”
“And you also,” Aaron said, looking at Simeon. “It is certainly time that you were getting married. Past time,” he added.
It was said without malice, and Simeon smiled. “My parents would emphasize the word past.”
Aaron turned to Miriam. “I understand you, too, are a follower of Jesus of Nazareth.”
The comment was so unexpected that Miriam just looked at him for a moment. Instantly, there was tension in the room. “I . . .” Then her head came up. “Yes. My friend and I were baptized before we left for Rome.”
“May I ask why?”
“Aaron,” Deborah broke in, “we don’t want to get into all of that today. We have to leave soon.”
He waved his sister away. “I’m not being critical, merely curious. I would like to know what it is about Jesus that appeals to people, especially one who was raised in the house of a Sadducee. I am determined to try to better understand him.”
“So you can stop him?” Simeon said shortly.
Deborah shot Simeon a warning glance, but Aaron ignored the comment. “So?” he asked, still addressing Miriam.
“I first saw him in Jerusalem, on the Temple Mount. He was incensed when he saw what the money changers and the other sellers had done there. Noise, filth, a terrible smell. And the dishonesty as they changed money for the people. I’ve always hated that part of the festivals.”
“Ah, yes,” Aaron said softly. “I heard of this incident. And you were there?”
“Yes, just a few feet away. He was magnificent. Even t
he temple police didn’t dare stop him.”
“That is one of the few times we Pharisees would be in total agreement with what Jesus did. The Sadducees turn a blind eye on those doings because a goodly share of the profits goes directly into their purses.”
Since Aaron had mentioned only moments before that Miriam’s father was a Sadducee, it seemed clear that his comment was likely a jab at her. She almost responded that, according to her father, the Pharisees quietly took their cut as well—but then decided to let it pass. She decided instead to further answer his question about Jesus. “Then my friend, Livia, and I came up here to the Galilee. We heard Jesus teach. What he said was so simple, so reasonable. It was like I had finally found a treasured book I had lost many years before.” She shrugged. “I don’t know how else to describe it.”
“Interesting,” Aaron said.
Simeon was watching their interchange cautiously. Aaron was a master of setting verbal traps. He would entice you in with an innocent face, then slam the door shut with great relish. But he seemed genuinely curious.
“I once thought I wanted to be a Pharisee,” Miriam said.
“Really?” Simeon, his mother, and Aaron all said it at the same time.
“When I was fifteen. I could see that my father and his associates used religion mostly as a cloak they wore when it was convenient.”
“Well said!” Aaron exclaimed.
“But,” she went on, knowing she was going to lose his approval but needing to say it anyway, “I found Pharisaism too confining, too stifling. All the rules. All the minutia. I’m sorry, but that’s how it was for me.”
“The burden of the Law is too heavy for some,” Aaron said, not taking offense. “And where one feels a burden, it is difficult to see beauty.”
Mystified, Simeon shot a glance at his mother. What was going on with Aaron today? Where was the Pharisee who bristled at the slightest criticism of his beliefs?
“When I listened to Jesus,” Miriam went on, “it was liberating, not stifling. It was like he was removing shackles rather than handing me more. I had never felt so free. I had never heard anything that felt so right.”
Fishers of Men Page 126