Rebekah's Treasure (26 page)

“Benjamin? His bow can’t . . . hit the side of a . . . mountain,” Joseph says, trying to force a smile when Benjamin suddenly kneels beside me. “Best you send . . . Aaron.” And as we lift the litter to resume our journey, Benjamin jeers his brother and laughs. But it’s a sad laugh, one sounding more like a sob.

“Just . . . leave me . . . Father,” Joseph says, his deeply sunken eyes sending me a pleading look.

“That would be unthinkable.” I kneel beside him, and note the foul odor of his leg.

“They will bury . . . me.” Joseph makes a feeble motion with his chin in the direction of the nearby woman who squats on a mat and sews the edges of a large animal skin around the two long wooden poles her husband, Bahij, made for her. I’m paying them to make a new litter for Joseph. Aaron’s ripped robe was discarded long ago. And my robe, the last one left, has already begun to tear. It would never have lasted all the way to Masada.

“Let me . . . stay here . . . and die,” Joseph says.

“No one is going to die. Soon you will be well again. You’ll see.” I motion for the woman to hurry and silently praise
Hashem
for this great gift of a new litter. But she pays no attention. She’s covered from head to toe in folds of dark cloth. Only her eyes and dry leathery hands are visible. It’s difficult to determine her age, but I think she’s old. Even so, her hands move swiftly, expertly, as she works to secure the skin. And again I praise
Hashem
.

“You would . . . make . . . better time . . . without me,” Joseph says, his words sounding like gasps. “What if Lamech . . . is on our trail?” With each succeeding word, Joseph’s voice fades. “You must get . . . the . . . silver . . . to . . . Masada.”

“Be still, Joseph. And don’t speak. God has not brought us to these tent dwellers for nothing.”

Joseph looks away.

We’re resting beneath a large tent of skins. It provides shade, but the air is heavy and foul. Bahij, a tall, leathery man with bushy gray hair, stands nearby, observing the woman and us. His arms are folded and his grinning mouth reveals few teeth. We’re in the company of shepherds, nomads who move with the seasons in order to graze their flock. In the rainy winter months the sheep are driven higher up along the north side of the mountains; in summer they are kept nearer the springs. Their son, even now, is close by with the herd.

When the woman makes her last stitch, I leave Joseph’s side and walk to where Bahij stands. I thank him as I press several coins into his hand. Then my sons and I lift Joseph onto the new litter, strap him down with the goat hair rope I also purchased from the couple. Finally, we carry him outside. And as we do, he pleads with his eyes, one last time, for me to leave him.

“If you weren’t always stuffing your face you wouldn’t be as heavy as three mountain goats,” Benjamin banters as he carries the foot of the litter.

“Joseph, tell him he would tire carrying a rabbit,” Aaron says, holding the litter at the head.

And between them, Joseph remains silent.

“Perhaps we should drag him on the ground like a sheave of wheat.” In jest, Benjamin slightly dips the sturdy pallet. And Aaron responds by saying that maybe Benjamin should be the one dragged on the ground.

And on it goes; my sons bantering back and forth, hoping to rouse Joseph, to keep him clinging to life until help can be found. And I bless them for it as I walk silently beside them. We’ve already passed En Gedi. If we keep this pace we should make Masada before nightfall. My one concern is, will Joseph live to see it?

“Joseph, you must drink.” He burns with fever, and quakes in my arms. I cup his head while Aaron puts the goat skin bag of water to his mouth. For hours we’ve been walking the hard-mud ground, keeping a furious pace. If only we had time to kill that goat—to make fresh broth for Joseph to drink. But there is none. Even if there was, we are worn to the bone and have no strength for a hunt. We’ve taken refuge from the sun in a low lying cave. But I’m determined to push on to Masada. It is Joseph’s only chance.

“You must drink,” I repeat, still cupping his head while Aaron slowly squeezes the bag trying to force droplets of water between Joseph’s dry, cracked lips, but most of it just dribbles down his chin.

“The smell is worse,” Aaron whispers, bending closer to me. As soldiers, we know what that means.

Benjamin tears a strip off what’s left of my robe, has Aaron wet it, then places the wet rag across Joseph’s forehead. “It won’t bring the fever down but maybe it will make him more comfortable.”

I release Joseph, then rise to my feet. “We must press on to Masada.”

“We must rest or we’ll never see Masada.” Benjamin looks at me with a frown. “You know I’m right, Father. Let us take a few minutes to regain our strength.”

I struggle with Benjamin’s words, then finally clasp his shoulder and nod. He speaks wisdom. We’ve driven ourselves most of the day; resting little, hardly eating. It’s doubtful we could make Masada in our condition. But Benjamin has always been the practical one.

“We’ll rest,” I say grudgingly. “But only for a short while.” I stretch out on the dirt floor nearby and pillow my head with my arm. But I don’t close my eyes. I’m listening to Joseph’s slow, ragged breathing.

“Will we take the Serpent’s Path?” Benjamin says as we stand at the base of a massive mountain of rock and look up at the steep winding trail before us. There are only three ways up the summit to the flat
’ rock-top of Masada: this one, the Serpent’s Path, on the eastern side, and two on the western; and the Serpent’s Path is the most treacherous.

“There’s no time to walk around the mountain; not if we wish to make the climb before nightfall. And it would be suicide in the dark, especially carrying Joseph. It’s the Serpent’s Path or nothing.” I examine the sky where the sun glows red and its fingers already dip below the horizon. “We must hurry.”

Benjamin, who has just taken his turn at the foot of the litter, nods. “I only pray we have the strength. We are nearly done in, Father.”

We’ve been walking for hours. Our faces are blistered; our feet cracked and swollen and bleeding. We are worn to the bone, and the steep uphill climb looks so formidable I’m almost ready to order a short rest when I hear Aaron’s voice.

“Joseph is unconscious. I can’t rouse him.”

I bend over the litter and peer at Joseph’s pale, lifeless face. His dried, cracked lips are bleeding, and when I put my hand to his nostrils, I feel little air. “Every minute counts, now,” I say, as the wind blows dust in our faces. But when I see Benjamin and Aaron so haggard, I add, “We can’t rest, but we can lighten our load. Leave everything but the coins.”

And so we shed our scrips and water skins and other bundles, and lay the large bags of silver between Joseph’s legs, leaving us with only our tunics and the daggers at our waist, and Joseph’s litter between us.

Then we begin the slow torturous climb up the narrow, stony trail; Benjamin at the foot of the litter, I, at the head—for before Aaron’s sandal even touched the Serpent’s Path, he became faint, and would have dropped the litter if I hadn’t been by his side. He now walks behind us, barely keeping up. And as we ascend the steep mountain, we drop great beads of sweat and the last of our strength until we can barely put one foot in front of the other. It’s as if we’re climbing to the top of the world. Even the sight of Herod’s Hanging Palace—the massive threetiered villa built into the distant cliff-face—doesn’t revive me. We move like swamp turtles, swallowing dust as the wind whips our faces. I pray to
Hashem
to give me the strength to take one more step, then another,
then another. And when I think even
Hashem’s
hand can’t move me any further, I hear a voice ringing out from atop the far-off fortress wall.

“State your business or I’ll have my archers drop you where you stand.”

We grind to a halt, all panting for air. My muscles quiver as I tighten sweaty palms around the poles of the heavy litter that is becoming slippery in my hands. But my mouth is as dry as the Negev, and I can’t speak.

“I said, state your business!” the voice rings out again.

I swallow hard, then run my dry tongue over parched, cracked lips. “I am Ethan, General under the command of Eleazar ben Simon, here on official business.”

“Ethan? The Hasmonaean priest? Son of Reuben? Is that
you
?”

“It is.”

“You mean to tell me I was summoned to this wall just to witness the assent of that loutish braggart who stole Rebekah, niece of Abner the Pharisee, the Jewel of Jerusalem, right from under my nose?” The sternness has gone from the voice.

I squint up at the speck of a man atop the wall. He’s surrounded by a cluster of armed soldiers. In the fading light, and from this distance, I can’t see his face, but the voice I recognize. “Josiah?” At once my ears are filled with exploding laughter, and I know it’s my boyhood friend, a Zealot also, the one who pleaded with me to follow him to Masada two years ago after becoming sickened by all the infighting in Jerusalem.

“Josiah, send your men to help carry Joseph. He’s injured,” I say, not wanting to waste any more time on meaningless banter. And before long, a swarm of men descend upon us, taking the litter from me and Benjamin, while others help Aaron navigate the remaining harsh terrain.

When at last we gain entrance into the fortress, I’m ushered into the upper tier of the Northern Palace, the palace that once was Herod’s living quarters. And then I’m directed to a large, lavish room. I carry two sacks of silver, the size of small boulders, by their necks. Benjamin follows, carrying two others. Aaron is not with us for he’s gone to help tend Joseph.

It’s cool here, with thick stone walls covered in clean bright plaster and painted frescos. I’m no longer accustomed to such splendor or cleanliness. The rebels have not reduced this palace to ruins like those in Jerusalem did to Herod’s palace there. I feel strangely out of place as I track dirt across the gleaming black and white tiled floor to where Josiah stands on a columned semi-circular balcony. To one side, a simply dressed leathery-faced man of uncertain age sits on a long stone bench. I know him. He’s Eleazar ben Ya’ir, commander of Masada.

Josiah laughs when he sees us. “Have you crawled here all the way from Jerusalem? Never have I seen such dirty men! Or smelled riper ones, either.”