Rebekah's Treasure (11 page)

The next time we gather at Zechariah’s house, two more believers are healed; the widow, Leah, of a cut she gave herself when cooking—I think her eyes are failing. But it shows how God cares even about the little things. Then Ira, who broke his leg falling off a roof. I saw it with my own eyes—the bone sticking through his skin, the leg swollen and purple. All during the time we prayed, he cried and screamed with pain. And then, after Ira drank from the cup, his leg . . . it mended, just like that. The bone disappeared, the skin closed over. He even stood on it, gently at first. After a moment or two, when he realized he had no pain, he began to walk. He walked all around the outside of Zechariah’s house. Round and around and around. It made me dizzy. Then he jumped up and down. I thought he’d never stop. But we all cried and laughed and shouted praises to God.

Everyone says it’s the cup. But I don’t believe it. Jesus drank from hundreds of cups, and ate from just as many bowls. Do these things heal? When I tell people, “no, it’s not the cup,” they argue that Peter’s shadow alone could heal. They remind me of Paul the Apostle’s handkerchiefs that healed, too.

Zechariah says the Spirit of God has fallen afresh on us. People are beginning to feel more hopeful. Their spirits are rising. They’re beginning to believe it’s possible to make a good life here. They’re beginning to see that God has
not
abandoned them.

Still, I’m troubled by it all. Too many of our number are looking at a stone cup instead of the Lord. And the Gentiles? News of what’s happening here has reached their ears. Argos incites them against us. Anger is rising, and fear, too, fear of what they don’t understand. Violence increases. Only yesterday, Ira’s winepress was destroyed, and the day before that Caleb, a young shepherd boy, was badly beaten. Everyone knows that both were the work of Argos and his cult. I worry that if this doesn’t stop soon, someone will die.

J
ERUSALEM
70 A.D.

CHAPTER 4

Jerusalem, the Holy City, the Navel of the Earth, will soon be under siege—attacked from the north. It’s only logical since our other three sides are protected by deep ravines. Foolish to mention the obvious to the men near me, but I do, more to break the silence than anything else. They seem grateful, for at once they nod and voice their agreement.

“Titus will be thorough,” adds Eleazar, who stands to my right. “And why not? He can afford to be. Our spies tell me there’s no limit to his supplies—leather tents, weaponry, bedding,
food
. The Romans dig trench-and-berm fortifications by day, then play knucklebones and dice, and gorge themselves by night.” He curses under his breath. “Look there. Already their campfires glow in the distance. Soon they’ll gather for meals of fresh bread, vegetables, meat.”

His statement hangs in the air like an accusation. Had John and Simon not burned our grain, the city would not be so desperate, and people wouldn’t be breaking into homes stealing bread or fighting in the streets over chunks of moldy cheese and a handful of raisins.

“I ask you, how are we supposed to keep our men fit for battle when they have so little to eat?” Eleazar absently pulls his beard.

Both John and Simon stand nearby, along with their generals, but no one answers. We are staring down from the Phasael, the tower named for Herod the Great’s brother, and built on the western ridge of the city near Herod’s palace. We can see for miles. It’s the largest of the three protective towers Herod built by his palace; and is complete with bulwarks and parapets. It’s also honeycombed with lavish quarters. Herod
was nothing if not extravagant. Even the other two towers—Hippicus, a water reserve, and Mariamme were laced with opulent apartments.

We are a glum lot. Titus has moved his camp northwest, only eight hundred cubits from our wall. The 15
^th
Apollinaris, the 5
^th
Macedonica, and the 12
^th
—the Fulminata from Syria, which has only recently arrived—share the new campsite. The 10
^th
remains on the Mount of Olives facing our eastern wall.

Four legions are now poised against us.

Titus’s move began after he leveled the land. Everything is gone. Even the gullies and caves have been filled. A flat barren wasteland now sits between us. Not one green leaf—not one bush or vine or tree—can be seen. Our spies claim no trees remain standing for ten miles in any direction. All have been cut for Roman siege-works or to heat Roman food or for making the crosses they use to hang us rebels.

And though I grieve this devastation, I also take perverse pleasure in knowing that the Romans are even now reaping what they have sown. A cloud of dust hovers over their large sprawling camp. It swirls in the wind like an army of gnats. It coats their leather tents, their supply wagons and horses, their mules; clings to their hair and bodies, armor and weapons; grits their food. For days I’ve watched them, eating, breathing, choking on it, but still they worked their pickaxes and mattocks. They’ve filled baskets by the hundreds with earth, then used the earth to build one massive wall around their camp, another around our city. Their tenacity in the face of such trying conditions is irksome, inspiring and terrifying all at once.

“Titus will try cutting off our supplies,” John of Gischala finally says, his eyes riveted on the activities below. “He’ll attempt to starve us out.”

“He’ll try,” I say. “But he won’t wait for famine to kill us.” My hand rests on the hilt of the sword strapped to my waist. “His siege walls are too long. Defending them means spreading his legions too thin. It means making his men easy targets for our raiding parties. He’s too good of a general for that. He’s also impatient for victory. Already his engineers have heaved lead and line from one of their platforms to
measure the distance to our walls for their archers. And look . . . he has started a ramp.” Even from here it’s clear that the swarming men who keep darting behind screens and sheds and into leather covered passageways are building a ramp.

“Ethan’s right. Titus won’t wait. He’ll bring the fight to us,” Eleazar says. “His battering rams are finished, and his wooden towers, too. From them he’ll pummel us with stones, arrows, spears.”

I glance at the Roman towers. They are covered with hides and iron plates, and sit on massive wooden wheels by which they will be rolled to our walls when the ramp is finished.

Time was running out.

“Yes . . . I believe you’re right,” John of Gischala says, almost reluctantly. “It does appear that Titus will strike soon. But where? What part of the north wall will he hit?” His question is directed to all the generals, but he looks at me.

“Near the tomb of John the High Priest,” I answer quickly. “The ground there is flat, and the wall low and poorly joined. It’s our weakest point. If I were Titus, that’s where I’d go.”

John nods. “Then that’s where we’ll put the Benjaminite archers.”

“Food will be the problem,” Eleazar says, “or rather the lack of it.”

Food again
.

“We must continue the raiding parties to gather all we can while the southern end of the city is still open,” Eleazar continues. “Every day, Titus tightens his siege wall around Jerusalem. It will not be much longer before he seals us in.”

Before John can answer, a voice shouts from outside the wall, “It is foolish to fight the mighty Roman army! Come, open the gates and Titus will show you mercy!”

I look down and see a man on horseback, galloping toward us. He wears Roman armor and carries a white flag tied to a spear. Two men ride behind him.

“I’ve come in peace,” he shouts, riding so close one of our archers could easily strike him down. “Allow me to speak.”

Jeers and hoots are hurled from our walls, along with a large stone, but it drops harmlessly onto the dirt. John sends one of his generals to quiet the men and allow the rider to approach.

“Perhaps Titus wishes to surrender,” he says, laughingly, when his general disappears.

But I don’t laugh. Titus has not gone to all the trouble of moving his camp to surrender now. It’s more likely he wishes to extend the terms of
our
surrender.

When the rider closes in, someone shouts, “Josephus! It’s that traitor Josephus!”

My chest tightens with shame. Josephus is a relative, an aristocrat, a Hasmonaean priest, a descendant of the Maccabees, a man who fought for his people in Galilee then switched sides after his capture by the Romans. It is said he predicted Vespasian would become emperor. It is also said he predicts the downfall of Jerusalem. I curse him now, under my breath.

“You miserable fools,” he cries, “Why do you insist on fighting Rome? Don’t you know God has ordained that everything is to be brought under their rule?
Imperium orbis terrae
. Will you fight against your God? Submit now, and Legate Titus will be merciful. There will be no loss of life, no destruction of the city, no desecration of the Holy Temple. For your sakes, for your wives’ and children’s sakes, make an end to this rebellion, and all will be well.”

The walls erupt with shouts and hoots and curses. Our men are angry wolves desperate to tear the royal eagle and humiliate Titus; desperate to draw Roman blood and avenge all of Judea. I look into Eleazar’s troubled eyes and see that which he wishes to hide: his willingness to open the gates to Titus. And I know it’s only because he fears for the safety of the Temple. And when John orders one of the bowmen to fire an arrow into the ground near Josephus to show his contempt for Titus’s offer, I hear Eleazar sigh, and understand his disappointment, for I feel it too. We both know the ancient law. Once Titus’s battering ram strikes its first blow, surrender will be unconditional.

“The New City has fallen! Bezetha—the New City, has fallen!” people shout as they run past me. Men, women, children—half starved and in rags, pour from the New City, fleeing the advancing Roman army, their eyes wide with terror; tears streaking their dust caked faces. Wounded rebels, limping and groaning and covered with blood, are carried along by the crowd, all trying to escape the slaughter behind them. Even now, anguished shrieks and cries float from Bezetha, along with plumes of smoke and circling birds of prey.

I knew it was coming. We all did. The Romans have been battering our northwestern wall for days while raining arrows and stones upon our heads from their huge iron-clad towers. Not even our firebrands could stop them. The few who dared suggest we surrender have been murdered by John’s men. I have said nothing. For my part I’m happy to die for Jerusalem. But something strange has happened. I’ve been seized by a fear so fierce it sets my teeth on edge. And it came upon me the minute my son, Aaron, was wounded while trying to save Esther’s husband, Daniel, who fell early this morning. I’ve always understood the possibility of losing one of my sons, perhaps all. They are, after all, soldiers, and soldiers die in battle. But I’ve suddenly learned that knowing something in your head and reconciling it in your heart is a gulf as wide as the Valley of Jezreel.