Rebekah's Treasure (20 page)

“Horrible but true. If she was even half alive and had a pleasing countenance the soldiers would have used her shamelessly. And if she survived that, she’d be sent to the slave markets along the coast.”

“Where? What markets?”

Tobias looks at me strangely, his skeleton head tipped to one side. “It’s no use. Who can know such a thing? Count her as one dead. Mourn her. Rend your garments. But entertain no hope of ever finding her. You must forget.”

“Where would they take her? You are a merchant. You know the Romans. You understand them.”

Tobias drops his head against his chest as if it were a heavy boulder he can no longer hold. “Forget her.”

“She’s all I have left!”

“Is it possible to find one lost grain of sand along the seashore?”

“
Where
?”

Tobias’s bird-like chest heaves upward in a shrug. “Caesarea Maritima. Jerusalem is lost; the war nearly over. And before taking on Masada, Titus will most likely deploy his army to Caesarea. To give his troops some rest and pleasure. The brothels will need more women. They will take many of the captured females there.”

“Then that’s where I’ll look.”

Tobias waves his bony hand in the air. “No, no! You mustn’t. I’ve seen these places. I know what happens there. Spare yourself, I beg you.”

“
She’s all I have left
.”

“Then understand this: these girls are forced to see more than a dozen men a day, many of whom are little more than vicious brutes. In no time the girls fall prey to disease, some are even battered to death. Most don’t last two years. By the time you find her, if you find her, she’ll be dead. And if she’s not . . . you’ll wish she were.”

There are no words to answer. My heart is in shreds. Zechariah’s, too, for he weeps loudly, his barrel-chest heaving, his gray head bobbing up and down. But no tears stream from Tobias’s eyes. I suppose a person has only a fixed number of tears to cry and he has cried them all. I lean near the drooping skull of a head and whisper, “May God bless and keep you.” I do this because Tobias has earned this blessing. The retelling of his story has cost him. And I bless him because, like me, he has lost so
much. But most of all, I bless him because he has ended my anguish; my endless opening and closing of that alabaster box in my heart; my wondering if I’m a widow, if I’m a woman without sons. For a brief second, I rest my fingertips on his hand, and we are one—sufferer, survivor, the seed of Israel’s future. Then I depart without another word.

“This is folly, Rebekah.” Zechariah follows me around my house as I go from one room to the next. “You’re acting like a madwoman.”

“She’s all I have now.” I stuff bread and almonds and pouches of raisins into a large woven bag with handles. “I’ll not lose her, too. I have lost the others.” My throat catches. “My husband . . . my sons.”

“Yes . . . grieve them. Stay here and grieve them. Give yourself time to heal. Time to think.”

“There is no time. You heard Tobias. You heard what happens to girls like Esther in the brothels. For her sake, I cannot delay. My mind is made up, Zechariah. I’m going to Caesarea with my
semadi
, with my coins, to buy her freedom.”

“How do you know you’ll find her? Suppose they take her to Rome instead, for the Triumph? The Romans always take captives to Rome after their major campaigns.” Zechariah steps in front of me as I try to leave the room. “Suppose she wasn’t captured at all.” He pulls his beard. “How do you even know she went to Jerusalem?”

“Where else? You saw her, how she dressed, how she behaved. Her mind was filled with Daniel, always Daniel. She thought of nothing else. When it came time for Ira’s and Rina’s wedding . . . well, I suppose she could bear it no longer.”

Zechariah’s bushy eyebrows join. His mouth, so well suited to smiles and laughter, tightens. “It’s dangerous for a lone woman to travel the roads. The Romans are everywhere. And many of our fellow Jews who survived, first Vespasian, and now, Titus, have turned to banditry in order to live. And they’re not above robbing one of their own.”

“I must take that chance. Please, Zechariah, don’t dissuade me. Give me your blessing and your continued prayers. I need them both. Even so, I’ll go without them.”

The large man studies me. He sighs, he closes his eyes, he opens them, he shakes his head, then studies me all over again. Finally, he throws up his hands. “If I can’t talk you out of it, then I must go, too.”

“You . . . would do that?” Oh, how my heart soars. I see God’s mercy in this. Surely it shows I follow His path. His will. Or . . . am I just being selfish? “What of the church? How can you leave the others?”

Zechariah’s hair looks like a crop of zukkum thorns sticking out all over his head. He could be as prickly as his hair, and as stubborn. But he was also steadfast. He would never shirk any task given him by God. Now I’ve gone and reminded him of that. And he’ll remember his duty and recant his rash words. I brace myself for disappointment, for I’d like nothing better than to have his company.

“My work here is done.” His mouth forms that familiar grin. “I came here to strengthen the church, to encourage the believers. With
Hashem’s
help, and that of . . . your cup, I’ve done so. The saints of Pella believe God is with them now. They have new hope, new courage. Simon, the bottlemaker, is a good man. He and Mary will be pleased to open their home to the believers. They don’t need me anymore. And I’ve desired to return to Ephesus for some time now to see John the Apostle again. And to get there I must travel the same road as you. It’s only sensible we travel it together. Besides, you’re like a daughter to me. Shouldn’t a father protect his daughter?”

My eyes tear. “Oh,
Zechariah
! You good, kind, beautiful man. See how God is already preparing my path! Oh, blessings on your head. Blessings! Blessings on that hoary head of yours!”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he chuckles. “Only . . . there is one thing I must ask. Bring the cup.”

“Take the cup? And not leave it here with Mary and Simon? But why?”

“Since Ira’s and Rina’s wedding I’ve known you were right. Our brethren rely too much on it. I fear it may become an idol. Let them focus on Jesus, as they should. Let Him be the object of their devotion.”

I nod. “I’ll do as you ask,” I say, leading Zechariah to the door. “But now you must go and pack. We leave this morning.”

All the arrangements have been made. Tirzah will tend the animals; Mary, my gardens. And each will share in the products of both, as will Hannah and Naomi who have promised to keep an eye on the house, and tend it from time to time. The food which can’t be carried has been given away: a basket of grain, several melons, leeks, a half dozen chicken eggs. The two bells I’ve given to Mary. She says she’ll use them not only to sound the alarm in times of danger but to call the believers to the weekly meetings.

My
semadi
is safely hidden beneath my tunic, and my two large bags with handles are already tied onto the donkey. I glance one last time around the house, then head for the door. My heart jumps when I see a shadowed figure barring the way. It takes me a second to recognize Kyra, Argos’s servant girl. A large bundle, slung over her shoulder, makes her list to one side.

“News has crossed the wadi that you’re leaving,” Kyra says, standing as still as a plastered statue, though her bundle must be heavy. “I wish to come with you.”

No words could have startled me more. She’s been attending the meetings at Zechariah’s for weeks now, and never expressed any desire to leave Pella. Why would she want to go now? And with a Jewess?

“You must take me with you,” she repeats. “
Please
.”

“Impossible.” I’m standing next to her now. She’s a wisp, barely coming to my shoulder. Her clouded eyes, her thin, sad lips reveal how hard life has been. Even so, determination firms her jaw. “You belong
’ to Argos,” I say, trying to look stern. “You wear his collar, the collar of one who’s run away before.”

“No, it’s not true. My parents sold me when I was ten. I was only to serve Argos five years. I’ve been with him for eight and still he refuses to free me. Last year I tried going home but he caught me, and put this on.” Kyra clutches the collar with her free hand. Its rounded strip of fused metal rims her throat like a necklace. From it hangs a metal tag telling all she has once run from her master, Argos.

“If you run again, he’ll have the slave hunters track you down. And if they find you, this time he’ll surely brand your forehead with an ‘F’, the mark of a
fugitivus
,”

“I don’t care. He’s cruel, vicious. If I don’t get free of him, he’ll kill me for sure.”

“He . . . beats you?”

Kyra puts down the bundle then rolls up the long sleeves of her tunic. Large bruises cover both arms; some brownish-yellow and almost healed; others, purple and fresh. “This Jesus Zechariah speaks of is more powerful than Argos. I’ve seen the miracles. I’ll put myself under His protection.”

My mind, warring against my heart, scrambles for arguments to dissuade her. She’ll make the trip more dangerous. Slave hunters, perhaps even Argos, himself, will pursue us. Yet . . . can I leave her? Can I allow her to suffer more abuse?

Kyra’s eyes harden. “Argos doesn’t know I’m here, if that’s what you’re worried about. He’s incubating in the Temple of Isis. He’ll be there for days, trying to enhance his powers so he can defeat you. He doesn’t know you’re leaving. By the time he finds out, we’ll be far away.”

My insides are in an uproar, the war still raging. Even so, I pick up the heavy bundle at her feet, take it outside where the donkey is tied beneath a shade tree, then hoist it upon his back atop the other burdens.

“I can come?” Kyra’s large, green eyes widen. “Oh, you won’t be sorry. I will cook for you . . . I’ll wash your clothes . . . I’ll serve you like no other has ever served you before. You’ll see. You won’t be sorry.”

But I’m already sorry as I tie down Kyra’s bundle then clasp the donkey’s bridle in my hand and motion for her to follow. And all the way to Zechariah’s my discomfort builds as I wonder,
what have I done?

Q
UMRAN
70 A.D.