Rebekah's Treasure (22 page)

“And on the mountain behind us, it’s said Messiah withstood the temptations of the Evil One,” Aaron adds. “We should bless
Hashem
for this place, for many holy men have been forged here.”

“But we’re not holy men; merely soldiers,” my practical Benjamin says.

“We were . . . to become priests.” Aaron’s voice is softly, wistful. “But that was long ago . . . long . . . .”

“Long? Did somebody say, ‘long’?” Joseph, who walks ahead, turns to look at Aaron and me. “Our food will not last a long journey. I only pray our bones will not end up bleaching in this desert.”

I don’t know why Joseph speaks as he does. He’s no coward. Four years of fighting by his side has proven that. But even as a child he complained about everything. He can wield a sword like few I know but he can’t tame his own tongue.

“We could die of hunger,” Joseph repeats.

“Stop whining, woman,” Benjamin chuckles, adjusting the bundle on his shoulder. “It’s still the dry season. There will be plenty of goats around the springs near the Salt Sea should we need food.”

And that quiets Joseph. I welcome the silence as we tramp through the rough terrain. The limestone-shale blanket covering the sloping mountainsides, making them appear barren, can also make a man feel utterly desolate. Even so, life can be found here if one cares to look. Most hills on their north sides have enough grasses for shepherds to bring their animals to graze. And along the wadi are additional grasses and even tamarisk bushes in full bloom. But Joseph is right. Only prophets or madmen or shepherds would ever come here to live. The heat, the dust, the falling rocks, the hardmud pathways—all can kill an inexperienced traveler. And the mountains stretching endlessly over the horizon as far as the eye can see? They can swallow a man as if he were an insect.

“Father, you must slow down or we’ll all perish before we reach the ruins.”

Joseph, again. But this time no one mocks him. We’ve walked a good distance and are drenched with sweat. And not only Joseph’s shoulders droop, both Aaron’s and Benjamin’s as well. I gesture to the flat ground in an alcove of boulders just off the path. Joseph is the first to find a spot and sit. He quickly opens his skin of water and drinks. We all do the same, and when we finish, we wet the coverings on our heads.

“We’re nearly there,” I say, removing some raisins from my pouch. I extend my open palm to my sons. Benjamin and Aaron shake their heads, but Joseph grabs a goodly amount and shoves it into his mouth.

“What?” he says, when he notices his brothers staring. “I’ll share with Father when the time comes, you’ll see.”

“Since when have you ever shared your food with anyone? Willingly, anyway?” Aaron flicks a pebble at Joseph’s head but it strikes the boulder behind him. “Benjamin and I have always had to fight you for the last date cake in Mama’s basket, even when you had way more than your share.”

“Well, if there’s anything worth fighting for, it’s your mother’s date cakes,” I say, my thoughts full of Rebekah again.

“There, you see? It’s all Mama’s fault,” Joseph says, still chewing his mouthful of raisins.

We laugh and slap each others’ backs; and Benjamin and Joseph wrestle and roll in the dust like fools. I suppose we do this because it’s a way of emptying ourselves of the sorrow of these past many years; and because every once in a while a heart must fill itself with joy, or wither. We laugh so hard that tears streak our dust-caked faces. And amid all this foolishness we fail to hear anyone coming until it’s too late. All we see is a cloud of dust, and then they’re upon us.

“Such a merry group!” A man in costly apparel, his head and faced covered, stands tall over us. But even through the finery I smell his foul odor, an odor not of sweat from honest labor, but from raucous living and overindulgence of every kind. Only his eyes are visible, and there’s ill-will in them. He holds a dagger. Behind him stand a dozen others, less exalted-looking but well dressed, too, and we know we’ve fallen into the hands of bandits.

“We don’t usually encounter such joy. We ourselves have little, being an unfortunate lot.” The leader gestures with his hand that he means himself and his men.

“Not so unfortunate.” I shift my body slightly in order to reach the dagger belted at my waist. “Judging by your clothes.”

The leader fingers the edge of his linen robe. “This? It’s borrowed. From others. Always we are forced to borrow from others. From men like you who have much to rejoice over. Rich men, yes? For who else has
anything to laugh about these days? So I ask you, do you not see virtue in sharing with those less fortunate?”

We’re at a disadvantage, sitting in the dirt while they tower over us. And even as my hand gropes for my dagger, I feel a blade at my throat.

“Don’t be foolish,” the leader says. And then he does something unexpected. He tilts his head as if puzzled, removes his blade and bellows with laughter. “Why . . . I do have something to laugh about, after all. A great joke—us meeting out here like this. Imagine, the mighty general himself sitting on my patch of the world. I didn’t recognize you at first. Oh, what a joke! You are the last man in Judea I ever expected to see here. But I’ve been rude. A thousand pardons!” With that he drops the veil from his face, and even under all the dirt and dust I recognize Lamech, the one who beat the wool merchant to death for his money, and among the first of John Gischala’s generals to desert. He extends his hand and helps me to my feet. “A thousand pardons!” he repeats, smiling broadly but there is a menacing look in his eyes. “Of course you’ll be my guests. I insist upon showing you my hospitality.”

Benjamin and Aaron are already on their feet, their faces grim, their hands moving toward their daggers. I step in front of them. How can we make a stand? Our weapons are not drawn, and Joseph is still on the ground trying to rise. Besides, we carry nothing of value except what’s contained in our heads. Lamech may lack honor but he’s no fool. He’ll not risk harm to himself or his men if there’s nothing to be gained.

And so we follow these rogues, not knowing if we’re guests or captives.

I shamelessly devour the stolen food. It pricks my conscience, though I try not to think of it as I take another bite.

“Eat, eat!” Lamech bellows as he lounges beside the large bowls set before us. His open robe reveals an ornate dagger tucked into a leather
belt at his waist. “Fill your bellies. When was the last time you tasted lamb? Eh?”

Rush mats cover the cave floor where we sit, and large damaskcovered pillows cradle our backs. Lamech has already told us how he relieved a merchant of these wares.

“Go on! Fill you bellies,” Lamech repeats.

Aaron’s face is paved with disgust, but even he takes another bite. We know—that is, Aaron, Benjamin and I—that Lamech robbed one of the shepherds. Only Joseph is unmindful. He eats with utter pleasure, licking the fingers of one hand while dipping the other into one of the large wooden bowls to pull out yet another chunk of meat.

“A good place to live, is it not?” Lamech gestures with his hand, inviting us to inspect the cave with our eyes. His own hard, black eyes watch us as we do.

The cave is cool and spacious and well lit with more than a dozen oil lamps. As far as the eye can see, assorted goods—piles of folded robes, tunics, blankets, rush mats, as well as baskets of lentils, beans, grains and dried fruit line the walls. It’s not hard to guess where all this came from, and I see in my minds eye frail, frightened merchants traveling the hostile Judean wilderness on their way to peddle what little goods they had left, only to encounter Lamech and his men. How many have felt the tip of his ornate dagger? The thought makes me want to give Lamech the tip of my own.

“So what do you think?” Lamech presses.

“It’s adequate.” I know my words will irritate him but I need to test my position. How friendly is he, really? “Yes, adequate,” I repeat.

“Ha! It’s more than that, my friend. You have failed to see its importance; and you, a supposedly great general! I’ll tell you what you should have known; what you failed to notice. It’s safe, my friend.
Safe
. And in my business that counts for much. Eh?” He absently fingers the large scar on his cheek and laughs. “No one can see our cave from the road. Even you passed it by without a glance. We watched. I was a general, too,
remember? I know something of tactics and logistics, and it serves me well in my new pursuits.” His greasy hand taps my shoulder. “And it’s spacious, is it not?” His black eyes prick me like darts

I nod.

“Oh, I see you’re not impressed. But no matter. We’re content for we make an adequate living.”

“But a living off others,” Aaron says, looking at the chunk of lamb between his fingers.

Lamech snorts with laughter. It sounds like the snorting of a pig. “I remember this son of yours, Ethan. A bit of a hothead and quick to speak his mind.” When he pulls his dagger from his belted waist, I reach for mine. Lamech has allowed us to keep our weapons, perhaps to show we are truly guests. Just the same, I don’t trust him. But before I can pull my dagger, Lamech plunges his into the bowl of meat, then brings a skewered chunk to his mouth, but not without a sneer.

“Well, young son of Ethan, you may not approve, but can you tell me a better way to make a living? Eh? In these hard times one must gather where he can. Where do you plan to gather?”

My hand remains beneath my robe, resting on the hilt of my dagger. Who knows how Aaron will answer? He’s always been more zealous than prudent.

“I’m destined for the priesthood, when I come of age. I’ll follow where God leads.”

“Ha!” Lamech snorts like a pig again. “A priest, bah! Surely you know the Temple has been destroyed? Or . . . ,” Lamech crumples his face, making his large scar look like a worm crawling across his cheek, “or did you leave before the Romans tore it down, stone by stone?”

I hear Aaron gasp. Lamech hears it too, for he leans closer to Aaron who sits on his left. “Then you
didn’t
know. So . . . you’re deserters like the rest of us. Ha! The great general, a deserter. His sons, too. Now who would have believed that?” He laughs and scratches his head, then pulls some small crawling thing from his hair and squishes it between his greasy, blackened fingers. “That explains your clothes, the clothes of a
tradesman. Why you wear no tassels. John Gischala and I used to mock your fringe. Such vanity, those tassels, if you ask me. Still, I must admit we never had your zeal. For us it wasn’t about Jerusalem and the Temple. It was about
spoils
. We wanted to be rich men. But you always knew that, didn’t you? No matter what John or I said about freeing Holy Jerusalem from the Romans, you
knew
. I hear the Romans have John now; that he hid in the sewers like a girl before surrendering. They’ll surely take him to Rome for the triumph, and who knows what will happen to him there. But I feel no pity. He should have left Jerusalem when he had the chance.”

Lamech thrusts two dirty fingers into his mouth, then tugs at a piece of meat wedged between his decaying front teeth, but his gaze never leaves Aaron. “Well, young son of Ethan, what has brought you to this wilderness?” He roughly dislodges the meat. “Where is God leading you?” The laughter has gone from his voice. It’s obvious that he’s deliberately baiting my son.

I pray that
Hashem
subdues Aaron’s passion. Already his face shows he’s greatly offended over Lamech’s assumption that we are deserters.

“Where do you go now?” Lamech repeats.

“Our destination is Masada,” Aaron says calmly. “We’ll fight with the rebels there.” Though Aaron sits tall and straight, revealing the strong well-formed body of a man, his soft curls, hanging limply around his face, makes him look more like a boy. “Masada, along with Machaerus, is our last stronghold against the Romans.”

“And Herodium. Some say it’s occupied by a small rebel force,” Lamech says, eyeing Aaron strangely.

Aaron answers with silence. It’s loud, this silence. I want to break it like a clay jar, but I didn’t dare. As I tested Lamech, so he is now testing me; seeing if I’ll allow my son to speak or if I’ll come to his aid, seeing if I have something to hide. And so we sit, eating and staring unfriendly stares, like mountain goats ready to lock horns. But throughout this long silence and under Lamech’s relentless gaze, Aaron, my son the Zealot, Aaron, the passionate, remains unruffled, and I’m proud.

“Strange for deserters to go in search of more battles,” Lamech finally says. “Stranger still that you didn’t take the direct route from Jerusalem, passing Bethlehem and
Herodium
, as most who flee Jerusalem for Masada. Perhaps if you said you were heading to Machaerus, I would think it more natural. But Masada? A queer route you’ve taken, almost as if you’ve come by way of . . . Qumran.” Lamech wipes his dagger on his sleeve then tucks it back into his belt. “But what is that among disreputable men? Eh?” He laughs his snorting laugh. “We dare not pry into each other’s business for we all have something to hide. Don’t we?” His eyebrows lift as though expecting some denial, and getting none, he adds, “Well then . . . tomorrow go to Masada if you must. Today, you will eat and rest with me.”