by Tracy Higley
His tone did not invite further questions, but she could surmise some of the answers. The pain ran deep beneath the words—a vulnerability born of loss she well understood—one that drove him to the life he had chosen.
“What’s this, Captain?” Another soldier, middle-aged, jostled a shoulder against Simon’s. “Found a woman at last who does not flee like a frightened gazelle when the jackal roars?”
Simon smacked the back of the other man’s head. “Mind your own men, Jonah. They’re as undisciplined as a flock of sheep.”
Jonah laughed and leaned forward to wink at Lydia. “Be careful of this one, girl. He bites.”
When he moved on, Simon shrugged. “Jonah is right, I suppose. But perhaps we have all grown unfit for the company of women. Such is the life of a soldier.”
Lydia did not argue. But Simon was not as disagreeable as he seemed to think. His passion for Israel reminded her of Samuel, and there was a hint of humor under the gruffness.
They reached the outskirts of Jerusalem within a week, set up camp in the hills west of the city. Herod now had the city isolated—surrounded by his troops and his allies in Samaria with its large Greek population in the north—and cut off from the sea. But it would be the third siege on the city in less than twenty-five years, and Herod was reluctant to subject those he hoped to soon rule to such devastation. Instead, he declared to his family and advisers that he would take the city with the force of his magnanimous personality alone.
Lydia was serving breakfast in Mariamme’s tent when this announcement was made. A few exchanged looks that signaled the doubt of everyone but Herod that his plan would be effective.
But Lydia was making plans of her own. This close to the city, and only two days until Yom HaKippurim. She would be on the steps of the Temple with her wooden box whether Herod had taken the city or not.
She had only to find a way in.
In the half darkness of early morning, Lydia took up her sack, crept out of her tent, and followed the scouts and soldiers Herod sent toward the city as ambassadors to the people.
She had emptied all but the wooden box from the canvas and wore it knotted across her chest, the box bouncing at her hip as she hurried along the edge of a wide valley toward the city. When the sun rose behind Herod’s camp and slid along the rocky valley and hills, she joined a cluster of people at one of the massive gates, which was being opened just as she reached it.
She had little difficulty blending into the crowd. One woman could do little harm, after all. And those who guarded the gate had their attention on the soldiers she had followed.
Herod’s emissaries had already begun shouting their message to anyone who would listen. “Herod comes for the good of the people and the safety of Jerusalem!”
The heads of all at the gate turned toward the speaker.
“Tell your families, your friends. Herod has no desire for vengeance, nor to cause harm to those inside the wall. He offers forgiveness to all his opponents, including the unlawful Antigonus!”
Those around her wore guarded expressions, suspicious.
“No harm will come to the city. Open the gates to Herod and welcome him as your savior. He brings the blessing and prosperity of Rome with him!”
Perhaps this mention of Rome was overmuch. Backs were turned, and not a few men spat in the direction of the soldier who spoke. He did not let up, however. As the crowds moved in and out of the city, the message was repeated. How many other city gates had soldiers delivering messages? Would word reach Antigonus that Herod was attempting a coup from within?
Indeed, word was spreading quickly. It followed her like a flame lit at the end of a cord, burning its way through the city as she hurried along cramped streets strung with bright-colored clothes hanging in the sun and crowded with children and donkeys and women. An air of tension pervaded the streets. No doubt the people were well aware of the massed Roman legions outside their walls and the traitorous Jews at their flanks.
Lydia moved toward the highest building she could see. Would it not be their Temple?
Soldiers stalked the streets, shouting at the people to return to their homes. “Close your ears to the lies of the pretender!” One soldier glared down on Lydia as he passed. “He is no Jew, and no royal blood flows through his veins. The king’s nephew, held hostage by the Idumean, has more royal blood than Herod!”
It took Lydia a moment to work out this claim in her mind. Mariamme’s father was brother to Antigonus, which meant that her younger brother was the nephew of Antigonus and had a more legitimate claim to the Judean throne than Herod. Perhaps that was why Herod kept the boy so close.
Riots were breaking out in the streets. The citizens of Jerusalem did not seem to favor being forced into their houses on a solemn day of such religious importance. Lydia skirted several small mobs being chased down by soldiers and kept her focus on the great white-and-gold building above that must surely be her destination. She allowed herself only quick looks. It was better to keep her eyes trained downward to the street, to appear to be hurrying home.
But the Temple was still a good distance off when her chest began to constrict with fear that she would not make it. The crowds were thinning, the streets emptying.
She reached the outer court of the Temple, still so far from the steps where she would meet the Chakkiym, and she was met instead with the lowered pike of a guard.
“No one in the Temple courts this morning. Orders of the king.”
She sucked in a breath. “Please—I must—there is someone I must meet.” The box at her hip felt heavy, accusing.
“Get to your home, woman.” His eyes narrowed as he took in her clothing. She had not thought to don a head covering such as the Jewish women wore. “Where is your husband?”
She took a step backward, glanced left and right. Was there no other way into the courtyard?
The soldier called to another, “Do you know this woman?”
Was every woman of the city known? Was she so conspicuous?
She scuttled backward, clutching the sack knotted around her neck to her chest.
An hour later, head pounding and heart brittle enough to shatter to a thousand pieces, she retraced her steps through the now-deserted streets to the gate on the west side of the city. She had found no way in, and she had found no Chakkiym.
At the edge of the camp, the sun highlighted the silhouette of one man on a ridge. She was nearly upon him before she realized it was Simon. His eyes were accusing and his face grim. “Where have you been?”
Had he noticed her absence? Or was he only curious to see her returning from the direction of the city?
“I . . . I wanted to get a closer look at Jerusalem.”
“Foolish girl! Could you not wait until Herod has beaten the people into submission?”
Again, the hatred for Herod, whom he claimed to serve. “I do not understand you, Simon. What do you want to see happen here?”
He took a step closer, his eyes on fire with the heat of his words. “I want a free Israel, as every Jew does.”
She caught her breath at the intensity. The poet Varius had the same passion, but it was only for battle-glory and adventure. This fervor in Simon’s eyes was something deeper, more substantial, something he felt with his heart and his soul and his whole being.
“But a free Israel is not to be today.” He took her arm, as if to drag her back into the camp.
She yanked her arm from his grasp. “I am not one of your soldiers, Simon. You do not command me.”
“I am not trying to command you! I’m trying to protect you. As any man would.”
“I do not need a protector. And I sometimes wonder if you are a man—since you have the head and the manners of a bull!”
They were crossing through the tents now, and he stalked away without a word.
Near the command tent, Herod and Silo were shouting at each other, ringed by Roman legionaries and Herod’s top men.
“We have no provisions!” Silo’s fac
e was red with rage. “You cannot expect us to winter here.” He jabbed a thumb toward the city. “The Parthians have left almost nothing behind.”
“You forget how much support I have here.” Herod extended his arms, as if to take in all of his friends in Samaria, in Galilee, in Idumea. “I’ll have ample supplies sent down to Jericho, which will serve as the winter supply depot. Settle your men in the region. I’ll send Joseph to Idumea with a couple thousand infantry and cavalry as well.” He pointed to Simon passing by. “And I’ll give you my best man to manage the supplies in Jericho. He kept everyone from starving for more than two years at Masada. You’ll have no trouble there.” He turned a greedy eye on Jerusalem. “If they are too foolish to see what is in store for them, then I will take the rest of their country apart, one piece at a time, and return when we are strong enough to take the city by force.”
Silo threw his hands skyward as though there was no reasoning with the man, then whirled away toward his men.
Mariamme had appeared outside her tent and stood behind Herod. Her voice was low, barely loud enough for Lydia to make out the words. “And where shall we go, Herod? My mother and brother and I? Shall we live in soldiers’ tents until you have gained the victory?”
The question was asked without rancor, but it seemed to cut at Herod. He spun and took Mariamme’s hands. “No, my love. You shall spend the winter in the finest quarters I can find. But not here. In Samaria. You shall be safe in Samaria.”
Mariamme sighed and nodded, then turned away. Was she as eager to return to her native Jerusalem as Lydia was to see it for the first time?
It did not appear that either of them would see their wishes fulfilled. They would go to Samaria, and Simon would go to Jericho. A strange feeling of deflated hope settled in her chest with both of these facts.
As the sun set on the Day of Atonement, Lydia sat on the ground, her back to her tent and the sack in her lap.
Somewhere in the city, a man in a red-striped tallit with red and blue corded tassels waited for her on the Temple steps, watched and hoped for the precious scrolls to be delivered. Did he sense that this year was different? That this year, the lost scrolls waited just outside the city wall, in the hands of a nobody, a servant girl who had failed at the only task of true importance she had ever been given?
Chapter 16
The Jericho winter makes a soldier grow soft.
Simon shifted sore muscles against his horse and led the three servants who accompanied him on a slow route through the capital of Samaria, to the outskirts where Herod’s lavish family home housed the four battling royal women.
His discomfort stemmed from both the bumpy journey and the thought of what lay ahead.
The busy year in Jericho’s winter palace, hiring staff and securing supplies in preparation for Herod’s successful campaign, had evaporated like mist. But the effect of the mild weather and the comfortable accommodations was a long way from a soldier’s life. Would he even have the skill to fight again, if called?
Herod’s estate clung to a small hill, nothing as grand as Jericho but still flaunting wealth. Simon left his horse with the servants, took only the single item he had been charged to bring, and wandered through the front courtyard.
There was no protection at all in the front of the house. Where were the guards and watchmen who should have been posted to keep the women safe?
Despite his reluctance to engage with the royal family, Simon’s pulse quickened over the one woman he would not be sorry to encounter. When the troops pulled back from Jerusalem a year ago, scattering to the corners of Judea, the handmaid Lydia had come with Mariamme. Would she still be here?
He did not have long to wonder.
A woman bent over a patch of flowers in the front garden, her back to him, but he knew her immediately. He scraped a sandal across the stone paving and cleared his throat.
She startled and whirled. At the sight of him, her lips parted and a flush pinked her cheeks. She took a step closer, one hand extended.
Simon nodded in greeting, noting the flush with a suppressed smile.
“What are you doing here?” She clutched a handful of stems at her side, the yellow-eyed centers grinning up at him.
So. She remembered.
He held up the scroll he had retrieved from his pack. “A message for the royal women. From Herod.”
Lydia glanced to his hand, then back to his face. “Is he in Jericho, then? Is the fighting over?”
She was largely unchanged—still delicate in stature with the olive complexion of a mixed heritage, her long dark hair unbound around her shoulders like an Egyptian. But even in her few words, it was clear she had grown in spirit. More subdued, perhaps. Less of a child.
“Yes to the first question. And he hopes to report the end of the war soon. But not yet.”
She looked to the scroll again, as though she would ask what else it contained, but then straightened and smiled. “You have come a long way. You must be tired. Please, come inside and let me serve you.”
The kindness washed over him like a balm. His staff in Jericho, just as his soldiers on Masada, treated him with fearful deference and kept their distance. His brief moments with Lydia had lived in his memory for just this reason—she seemed to see him in a softer light. Was he truly the man she saw, or would she treat even an enemy with such generosity?
He allowed himself to be led indoors, following on her heels like a pet. “I should deliver the letter.”
She continued toward the back of the house. “They do not even know you are here. Your letter can wait until you have at least taken some water.”
Had his soldier’s training fallen away so completely that he now took orders from a woman? What was it about this girl? She was nothing like Levana.
At the thought of Levana it was as if a door slammed in his heart. He would not go there again.
In the kitchens, she placed him at a table with the firmness of a mother, then brought more than water. He ate the bread and cheese and fruit with the hunger of a starving man.
“Do you miss the fighting?” She lowered herself to a chair across from his. “Your duties this past year have been quite different, I would guess. And you have been far from the front lines where you seemed committed to do some good.”
He chewed a bit of crust and swallowed, his heart ragged with memories, not only of four years ago, but of all he had seen on his journey northward to this house of luxury.
He placed his palms flat on the table and studied her eyes. “There is a desperation in the people, Lydia. It grows every year, every month. They are hungry and weary of war. They are weary of waiting for the promise and many are giving up hope.”
“The promise?”
He balled his hands into fists. “I forget that you are not one of us. The promise of the Messiah, who will end all of this and bring redemption to the land.”
At the declaration, her head dropped and then she looked away. When her gaze returned to his, it was cloudy and sorrowful. “What can be done?”
He jabbed a finger at the plate of food. “Something more than living like this while the people starve.”
Her gaze fell away again.
He reached a hand across the table and covered hers. Her skin was warm and soft under his touch. “I am sorry. I did not mean to accuse. It is not your fault.”
What would Jonah say, to hear him apologizing to a servant girl?
As if she read his thoughts, she pulled her hand from his. “What do you hear of your friend—Jonah, was it? Does he still fight for Herod’s kingship?”
“I told you once, Lydia. We do not fight for Herod. We fight for a free Israel.” The old anger had risen in an instant, the surge of blood that would serve in battle. Perhaps he was not such a palace pet as he feared.
“Jonah too, then? He joined Herod only to get close to the enemy?”
Was that condemnation in her tone? He pushed away from the table and circled to stand before her.
She st
udied him, not with accusation but with anxiety. Did she fear for him? He bent to one knee, bringing his face to the level of hers, and peered back at those lovely dark eyes. “We had no choice. Do you not see that? We have tried to fight them, to fight them all, and the wars have ravaged our land, destroyed our people. Those of us who are willing to be seen as traitors are quietly finding a better way. We will rot the enemy from the inside out.”
She reached across the narrow space between them and touched his jaw, touched the place where an old battle scar furrowed the skin. “And what if you do not survive the rottenness yourself?”
He sucked in a breath at her touch, reached for her hand, and returned it to her lap. “A small price to pay for the vindication of those we have loved and lost.”
“Lydia?” A young man’s voice called into the kitchen, followed by his body. “Have you seen—? Oh, there you are.”
Lydia jumped to her feet, backed away from where Simon still knelt before her.
Aristobulus was much changed. Simon eyed the boy’s muscular frame as he pulled himself to his feet. Good. They needed him strong for the days to come.
“I heard there was a messenger.” Aristobulus glanced to Lydia, then returned Simon’s appraisal with a bit of suspicion. Perhaps even jealousy? “Herod sent you?”
Lydia frowned. “Yes, Simon—I did not think to ask. Why didn’t Herod send a servant with his letter?” Her eyes widened a bit. “Is there danger here? Is he worried for us?”
How much should he say? “Herod sent me to assess the holdings here in Samaria. In case supplies are needed.”
Aristobulus strode across the kitchen and thrust out a waiting hand with the brashness of a youth training to be a king. “I will take your letter, soldier.”
When the boy had gone, Simon turned to Lydia, trying to avoid those eyes. “I cannot stay long. I am expected back in Jericho immediately.”
She nodded but grasped his hand once more. “Be safe, Simon.”
Yes. Safety. But it was not the battlefield he feared. It was this one girl, who was threatening to crumble four years’ worth of cultivated indifference to the world of home and family and anything that involved his heart.