Rebekah's Treasure (30 page)

Kyra begins to whimper. Again, curses fill the air. And then Zechariah does something unexpected. The big ox actually lifts Kyra into the air by cupping his hands beneath her arms, and after carrying her to a spot a good distance from all the sleepy drivers, puts her down. I follow behind, carrying my bag with me.

“Speak!” he hisses. “And I want the truth.”

Kyra sobs into her hands, and I see Zechariah falter. That heart of his, that big tender heart that loves the world and everyone in it, is unraveling before my eyes, undone by a young woman’s tears.

So I step forward and place my palm beneath Kyra’s chin to lift her face. “Why were you going through my things?” My own heart is
greatly moved, and gentles my voice, perhaps because I’m remembering how Esther used to cry this way. “What were you looking for?”

Does she sense my love? I think not, because when she tilts her tear-smudged face towards me, she trembles with fear. “What were you looking for?” I repeat.

“Your cup,” she says, jutting her chin defiantly, but expecting me to strike her, too, for she flinches when I move my hand.

“Tell us what mischief you’re up to.” Zechariah crowds closer, having collected himself, but my fingers, which brush his shoulder lightly, keep him in check.

“Here,” I say, fumbling in my striped rush bag and pulling out the stone cup. “Here it is.” Zechariah gasps. So does Kyra. “Now what do you want to do with it?”

Kyra is clearly frightened by the cup for she steps backward. “I . . . wanted to pray to it . . . for healing . . . for the healing of my foot.”

Zechariah shakes his head. “Why do you persist in lying? Tell us the truth and we will help you. Has Argos put you up to this? Were you to steal the cup for him?”

“No! I swear!” Kyra drops to her knees in front of us. “I only wanted to heal my foot . . . so I wouldn’t slow you down. I know you speak against me, Zechariah. I’ve heard you. But you speak falsely. I mean no harm. I’m just a worthless slave trying to reclaim her life . . . just a worthless slave.”

I kneel in the dirt beside Kyra, the cup in my hand.

“You don’t believe me. Do you?” Kyra says, looking at me imploringly. “Even by moonlight I see how your lips are tightly pinched. Like Zechariah, you think I’m lying.” She begins weeping again.

“Be still,” I say, placing the cup and my bag on the ground beside me. After making her sit, I take her injured foot between my hands. And then I pray, softly, fervently. I pray prayers I know Kyra doesn’t understand, prayers for the healing of her spirit and soul, as well as her body. As I pray, heat flows from my palms into Kyra’s foot, and startles her. She
stops crying. Her breathing becomes heavy, almost like the panting of a frightened animal. Behind me, Zechariah prays, too.

When I’m finished, I release Kyra, scoop the cup from the ground and rise to my feet. As I do, I hear her shout, “It’s gone! My wound is gone!” I feel her hand tug on mine. “You didn’t believe me, yet you prayed. You still asked your cup to heal me.”

“No. I asked my God to heal you.”

“But . . . why?”

“Because my God wishes you to be healed. In every way.”

“I don’t understand this, but I do understand why Argos wants your cup. It’s more powerful than his knots or incantations. But he would never use it as you do. He would not be kind or generous. He would only use it to enhance his own power; to increase his reputation and wealth.”

“It’s not the cup, Kyra. The cup is only stone.” But by the way she shakes her head, I know she doesn’t believe me.

We’re nearing the edge of the rocky Samarian hills. To the right is the Carmel Ridge; ahead, the Plain of Sharon with its lovely flowers, oak forests, and swamps. We still trail the same caravans we’ve been following since passing Scythopolis. The noisy chatter of the drivers and the steady plodding of their camels give me comfort.

Since Kyra’s healing, Zechariah, too, seems more at ease. I won’t say he trusts her any more than before. But he’s at peace. I think he believes God has some purpose for her being here since He took the trouble to heal her. In any event, I welcome the peace. Though we still fear the slave hunters, the presence of such a large caravan gives us a feeling of protection, however false that might be.

“I’ve decided to stay in Caesarea until you’ve found your daughter.” Zechariah’s bushy gray beard flutters in the meager breeze. “Once you two are reunited and safely joined to a caravan heading for the Decapolis, I’ll push on to Ephesus.”

My heart swells with gratitude.
Dear sweet, faithful Zechariah
. “Thank you,” I mumble. I’m so grateful, not only for his continued protection but for his absolute faith that I’ll find Esther.

“I’ll be better company, now that my mind is no longer troubled about Kyra.” He speaks freely for Kyra trails far behind. She’s been trailing behind all day, though her foot is healed. The one consolation is she doesn’t stop beside the road anymore.

“Perhaps we’ve both let our thoughts run wild,” I say with a chuckle.

Before he can answer, I hear Kyra scream. When I turn, I see a man, his back toward me, beating her with his fists.

“Why didn’t you do as I said?” the man shouts, striking her again and again. “I told you to meet me in Megiddo!”

It’s Argos’s voice. No mistaking it. I drop the donkey’s bridle and race toward Kyra. Argos has her on the ground now, kicking her in the chest and ribs, while three large men, unknown to me but obviously companions of Argos, stand nearby, watching.

“Stop!” I scream. “Stop! You’ll kill her.”

One of Argos’s friends grabs me and holds me in place. “This is not your affair,” he growls. “Argos has every right to chastise his slave.”

“Zechariah!” I scream. But there’s no need to yell. Zechariah is already by my side, facing the man who has me by my wrists. And with one good thump of his fist, he knocks the man backward. The other two approach, but when they see Zechariah’s great size and fierce expression, they back away.

“I waited all night for you to bring the cup! While you spent the time resting, I wore myself out pacing!” The veins on Argos’s neck look like squirming asps, as his fists and feet rain blow after blow. I hear the sickening sound of bones snapping.

Kyra offers no struggle. It’s as if she’s been expecting this, waiting for it; as though it was her fate to be here on this dusty road and abused in such a manner. A crowd has gathered. Two of the camel drivers have pulled daggers from someplace inside their robes, but their faces show confusion, and they stand idly by holding their weapons as though not knowing what to do.

“What’s happening?” people murmur all around us.

I hear Kyra whimper; see Argos raise his sandaled foot for one final blow. But before he can slam his foot into her neck I jump on his back and claw his face with my nails. Zechariah, who has been busy keeping the three men at bay, shouts for me to stop. But I don’t. And after Argos finally casts me, like a bag of grain, onto the dirt next to Kyra’s motionless body, he turns to the crowd. Then leaning over Kyra, he pulls her limp body up by the metal band around her neck and shows them the tag.

“My runaway slave. Worthless slime. I’m done with her!” He lets her drop backward onto the dirt with a thud, then points to me. “I could have you arrested for your interference!”

But the sight of the small, battered body with blood oozing from lips and ears and eyes, has horrified the throng of onlookers. And even Argos, in his rage, sees this and understands that the crowd is against him. He lowers his trembling finger, and throwing back his chin adds, “Yes, I could arrest you. But I choose to let the matter drop.” With his hands, he wipes the blood from his cheeks, the blood drawn by my nails, and glares at me. Then he and his three companions head toward the Plain of Sharon.

I kneel by Kyra’s side and cradle her head in my arms. Blood streaks her face and tunic. She looks so small, so helpless, so broken.

“The ferryman . . . comes . . . but I have no coin,” Kyra says in a ragged voice. Her lips are swollen. “How will I cross the River Styx?”

“Hush. Don’t speak.” I take the rag from Zechariah, the one he has wet from his water skin. But when I begin washing the blood from Kyra’s face, she winces so pitifully I stop.

“
Please,”
Kyra peers at me through eyes nearly swollen shut, “one last kindness. When I die . . . place a coin in my mouth . . . for the ferryman . . . for Charon.”

It’s useless to tell Kyra she’s not going to die. The lie would be an offense. Her breath is fitful and shallow. Most of her ribs are surely broken. Blood still trickles from her nose and mouth. She’s like a mist evaporating before my eyes. Over my shoulder I hear Zechariah praying.

“You don’t need the ferryman,” I say, softly. “You can fly to the afterworld. Zechariah has told you many times before, if you commit yourself to Jesus, if you put your hand in His, He will take you.”

“But I . . . lied. I betrayed you. Argos promised . . . he promised me freedom. I came only to steal your cup. That was my one purpose.” Kyra sinks deeper into my arms. “Forgive me. You . . . have been so kind. But Argos, he . . . . ” Her hand slides limply onto the dirt. “If only . . . Jesus would forgive . . . if only it could be His hand that takes me . . . .”

“Jesus will forgive you if you ask Him. He will forgive you everything if you ask.”

She raises her bloody hand to touch mine. Where she gets the strength, I know not. “You mustn’t . . . say that . . . if it’s not true. Please . . . don’t deceive me.”

“I’m not deceiving you.” I stroke her head softly. I think Kyra smiles, though her lips are so swollen it’s hard to know for sure. She mumbles something I don’t understand, but I hear the words “forgive me, Jesus”. And then I hear her say, “Argos . . . beware of Argos . . . he will try . . . oh, yes, I see Him now.” I turn, thinking Argos is behind me, and see only Zechariah and a few lingering camel drivers, and realize it’s not Argos she sees, but Jesus. And this time I’m sure there’s a smile on her poor swollen lips as she takes her last breath, and I imagine that I see her spirit fly into Jesus’ arms like a little caged bird that has been set free.

Caesarea has been described to me many times. It is the capital of Judea, the seat of the Roman
praefecti
, and the abode of the Roman governor. But looking upon it now for the first time makes my heart race and my throat become as dry as linen. It’s the largest city in Judea. But it wasn’t always this imposing. When it was called Strato’s Tower and controlled by the Phoenicians, it was barely a mud puddle. But leave it to Herod to change everything in a grand way. He loved all things Greek and Roman, and his lust for power was legendary. That was
his downfall. It made the Jews hate him. I doubt he was ever content with who he was: an Edomite who tried to pass as a Jew; a king never anointed with holy oil.

Many call Herod the Great a master builder, for he built lavish cities all across our land. I call him a demon. His intent was always to Romanize us Jews. Just look at what he did to Strato’s Tower. Made it mirror decadent Rome with its massive harbor, its marketplace, palaces, theatre, amphitheatre, its public baths, its temple to Augustus Caesar. For good measure, he even changed the name to Caesarea in order to ingratiate himself to the Emperor. But for all his accomplishments, I don’t think he ever obtained peace. How could he with so much blood on his hands, having murdered the babies of Bethlehem as well as so many of his own relatives, including two sons and a wife. Emperor Augustus once said it was better to be Herod’s pig than a member of his family. Still, many of his accomplishments live on, and most are huge and impressive, like Caesarea.

“It’s . . . daunting, isn’t it?” I say to Zechariah in a near whisper as I look at Caesarea’s famous grain fields and orchards that stretch before us. Behind them, and on this side of Caesarea’s massive walls, I see the white stone top of the giant amphitheatre through a clump of trees. It’s a massive structure said to seat fifteen-thousand people. And its floor of crushed chalk has hosted chariot races, wrestling matches, gymnastic tournaments, and even gladiatorial events.

I can’t imagine such contemptible activities. Though to be honest, the entire city is contemptible to me—a byword for violence and cruelty, for it was here that the rebellion against Rome began several years ago after its Gentiles massacred a good portion of the Jewish population, then desecrated their synagogue.