Rebekah's Treasure (31 page)

“It’s a fearful place,” I say, still reluctant to continue my journey. “We must pray for God’s protection and favor, for how else are we ever to find Esther in such a place?”

Zechariah places his hand on my shoulder. “For days we’ve prayed without ceasing. Now it’s time to trust God.”

Zechariah knows the city. For that I’m grateful. He also knows some in the Jewish Quarter, at least what’s left of it. The man we seek is Achim, the tentmaker. He’s a Jew who follows the Messiah. His house is in the northern part of the city near the aqueduct. That is, if he’s still there. Zechariah isn’t sure. It’s been almost a year since Zechariah has been here.

Amid the city noises I hear our donkey’s hooves clatter along the giant paving stones of the busy street. I’m told all the streets in Caesarea are paved with stone slabs and are laid out in the Roman grid system with major roads running north and south, and east and west, and with the forum or Public Square in the center; useful information for navigating those parts of the city Zechariah knows least.

We are in the Jewish quarter now, having entered Caesarea by the north gate, and are moving south along the aqueduct. Surprisingly, the quarter teems with life. Merchants hawk their wares in croaking voices. Children laugh and chase each other into alleys. Men argue in doorways. And women, or their servants, rush home with fresh fish or sacks of ground grain and other foodstuffs in anticipation of preparing their evening meal. It hardly looks like a street that once ran red with the blood of twenty-thousand Jews.

Our first stop is Achim’s house. We quickly learn he’s no longer there, and the new tenant doesn’t know his whereabouts. And so we begin stopping at every open doorway we encounter.

“I can tell you about Achim,” an old woman says before we even approach her door. She’s sitting on a small wooden stool, dressed in a fine striped linen tunic. A similar fabric loosely covers her plaited gray hair. Her face crinkles in a wide grin, revealing few teeth. She points to a basket of grain by her feet. “Come, I’ll tell you of Achim, and feed your donkey as well.” Without waiting for an answer, she tosses a handful of oats outside her door. And so we oblige her and unbridle the donkey, then refresh ourselves by drinking from our water skins.

“Last time I was here, Achim lived in that house over there.” Zechariah wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before pointing to a modest mudbrick house further up the street.

“Yes, that was his house. But he’s gone now.” The old woman studies us as she tosses another handful of oats onto the street. “You from Jerusalem?”

“From Pella,” Zechariah answers. I know him well enough to sense his caution rising, and some impatience, too. “But about Achim. Is he still in the city?”

“No. He’s been gone about six months now. And I say, ‘good riddance.’ He spent too much time talking about a dead Messiah. No one wants to hear about another Messiah. We’ve grown a bushel full of them lately. Like weeds, they’ve popped up all over our land. The Romans don’t like that. And who wants any more trouble with the Romans, or the other Gentiles here, for that matter?” She dabs her perspiring forehead with the edge of her headscarf. “You’re not one of them, are you? A follower of this Jesus Achim talked about?”

“We are,” Zechariah says, without flinching.

“Did you hear what they’ve been doing with your kind in Rome? They’re covering them with pitch and using them as torches to light the arena for the gladiatorial games.” Her smile is gone and her eyes probe us.

I want to tell her “yes, under Claudius and Nero, not Vespasian,” but why defend Vespasian? His Judean campaign proved him to be just as cruel. So, instead, I bridle the donkey. “Thank you for your kindness,” I say, pulling my animal forward.

“You’ll need a place to stay the night,” the old woman says with a crooked smile, “and I have rooms . . . for a price.”

“Our business takes us elsewhere,” I answer quickly. The woman makes me uneasy. What does she mean by feeding our donkey then telling us about how believers were made into torches? I glance at Zechariah as I lead the donkey away. He seems perfectly at ease, and I’m left wondering why.

“If only that Centurion Cor . . . Cornellus . . . .”

“Cornelius,” Zachariah says, correcting me.

“Yes, if only he and his family were still here. They would help us,” I say, happy to be leaving the house of that strange woman.

Zechariah shrugs. “It’s been years since he and his family were baptized by Peter the Apostle. The last time I was here I could find neither him nor his relatives.”

“But surely Caesarea has a Gentile church? Surely Cornelius left a remnant of believers behind?”

“Yes, Peter broke that barrier, and Paul, too. And I’ve heard the church was a strong one even though some Jewish believers refused to fellowship with them. But where to look? The revolt has soured many Gentiles toward us Jews. And the followers of Jesus, even Gentile followers, are not highly regarded by the Romans. Making inquires could be dangerous. We must be cautious, and first formulate a plan.”

By the time we reach the end of the Jewish Quarter we’re still without a plan, though Zechariah surprises me with a strange suggestion. “Our long journey has wearied us both. Come. Let’s return to that women’s house and pass a restful evening. Tonight we’ll pray and ask God what He would have us do.”

“But . . . Zechariah . . . you heard the woman . . . how strangely she spoke. Surely, you don’t mean you want to lodge beneath
her
roof?”

Zechariah chuckles. “Yes, I believe that’s just where the Lord would have us go.”

And so we head back to the house near the north gate.

Her name is Hannah, and she smiles when we ask for lodgings. By way of answer, she takes the reins of the donkey from my hand, then leads us around to the back of the house and into a small outer courtyard where she feeds and waters my animal before bringing us inside.

Her dwelling is tidy and clean, and made of plastered mudbrick, with several rooms built around a central courtyard. Though it is modest, being neither overly spacious nor lavishly furnished, compared to my house in Pella it’s a luxurious mansion.

She brings us into a large room with a tiled floor where a waisthigh work area, all made of masonry, contains both an oven for baking bread and a fire pit for cooking. She gestures for us to sit at a well-made wooden table. It’s evident that Hannah is a woman of some means.

“I have a pot of lentils cooking.” She grins and gestures to the many spaces in her mouth. “I fear that’s all I can manage to eat these days, other than cheese. Even so, the lentils must be very soft. You won’t mind that, will you?”

“I’m grateful to share whatever food you have. Of course we’ll pay well for both it and our lodging,” I add, eager to relieve her of any worry that she has invited worthless strangers into her house.

Zechariah, who sits beside me, nods.

“We can discuss that later,” Hannah eyes us strangely as she stirs her lentils. “But first tell me, have you come from the Via Maris?”

“No. We traveled the Caesarea-Scythopolis Highway,” Zechariah says.

“Ah, yes, of course, you coming from Pella, from the east, like you said. Then you missed all the congestion. I hear the Via Maris is clogged with Titus’s legions.” She makes a strange spitting sound. “Clogged with soldiers, and thousands of captives from Jerusalem.” Hannah’s back is to us as she hovers over the steaming pot, but she turns her head to the side and watches us out of the corner of her eye.

“When will . . . they arrive?” I say, hardly able to control the tremor in my voice.

“In three, maybe four days. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

My stomach rolls into a fist. Can Esther really be so near?

“Might be longer, though.” Hannah puts down her wooden spoon, then walks over and takes the stool next to mine. She sits close, too close, and I begin to feel we’ve made a mistake in coming here. After all, what do we know about her? She could be mad, or even a spy for the Romans.

“That pig, Titus!” Hannah suddenly blurts, then begins spitting on the floor. She actually spits on her tile floor! “He’s been squandering his captives in lavish blood sports. They say he’s stopping in every arena along the Via Maris.” She gazes at us intently. “Too many captives drive down the price. Titus knows he’ll get little for the slavers. So what better way to use his human booty?”

“But . . . I heard he was bringing the captives here, to Caesarea,” I say. “Some destined for Rome, others for auction in the marketplace; especially the women. With the army returning, surely they’ll want more women for the brothels?”

“If they’re young enough, yes.” Hannah tents her fingers. Her yellow, cracked nails, the deeply creased skin of her hands, all betray her advanced age. But her gray eyes, those piercing gray eyes reveal a keen, vibrant mind. “Ah,” she finally says, after a long silence. “You have someone you’re hoping to find. Someone captured in Jerusalem.”

I cover my face with my hands. The anxiety of the trip, the death of Kyra, and now this devastating news that Esther might have already been killed in the arena, all conspire to reduce me to a quivering heap as I bend over the table and sob.

I feel Hannah’s leathery hand patting my arm. “Yes, I understand. I understand. For I, too, search.”

When I sit up, she quickly tells us how her son went to Jerusalem for Passover, in spite of her warnings and pleadings; then became trapped inside the city like so many other pilgrims. “I don’t know if he lives. How could I know for sure? But something inside me,” she thumps her chest, “something in here tells me he does.” She suddenly clasps my hands like a madwoman and throws back her head and laughs. “Oh, how I’ve prayed to
Hashem
, imploring him night and day; asking Him that if my son still lives, to bring him back here to Caesarea.”

When she jumps from the chair, her scarf slips from her head and rings her shoulders, revealing thick gray hair bound in one neat plait. “And what else do you think I’ve been praying for?” She waves her hands in the air. “Never mind, I’ll tell you. Money! Money enough to
buy my son from the slave block. I’m a widow. My husband left behind this house and the possessions in it, but only one bagful of shekels. After so many years, that bag is nearly empty. We had our son late in life. And after my husband died I had to raise Judah alone. He was only a boy of eight and unable to provide for me, so the bag of shekels kept us both. He is a man now, a good son who supports me, but even so I fear there are not enough shekels left for the slavers. But see,
Hashem
has sent you!

“I tested you, with talk of this dead Jesus, with talk of human torches. And still you spoke out fearlessly. My son—he believes as you do—he says this Jesus isn’t dead. But never mind that now.” She points to Zechariah. “I knew you were the one. ‘Now there’s an honest man,’ I said to myself. ‘He can be trusted.’” Hannah is skipping around the room now. “See how good
Hashem
is! He has answered one prayer. He has sent me an honest man, someone I can trust to share my house and food, and to pay me for it; to give me the money I need to buy my son’s freedom. And if
Hashem
answered this prayer, surely He’ll answer the other.”

As I sit and watch Hannah leap around the room like a young girl, clapping her hands in glee, my heart is greatly moved and I determine then and there to help her. Should she need more money, she can have some of the coins from my
semadi
.

Finally, when she has tired herself out, Hannah returns to the table. She leans over and takes both Zechariah’s hand and mine in hers. “Until Titus comes,” she makes a spitting sound again, but this time I’m not so horrified, “until that pig comes, you’ll stay with me. And we’ll pray to
Hashem
and make our plans, for I’ve not forgotten your sorrow either.” She squeezes my hand. Then she closes her eyes as if suddenly remembering something. And when she opens them, those wonderful vibrant gray eyes are fierce. “It’s only fair I tell you of an added danger. We, my son and I, are from the tribe of Judah, from the house of David. And it’s rumored that Vespasian has ordered the slaying of all the descendants of the royal house, in order to cut off David’s bloodline forever.