Rebekah's Treasure (36 page)

CHAPTER 9

“In three hours my son will be free!” Hannah’s hand shakes as it clutches mine. Her eyes brim with tears as we praise God together. But our rejoicing is cut short when Hannah’s face darkens, or is that the shadow of the oak tree falling across her brow? “He wouldn’t deceive me, would he? This slave dealer? But no, he said, ‘come back in three hours.’ He wouldn’t lie?”

“No. Why would he?” I draw the old woman closer, allowing her to lean into me as though she could extract strength from my lesser age. “It
must
be true.”
Oh let it be, Lord. Let it be true
.

“But Rebekah, he’s so thin, my son. Walking bones. Oh, I mustn’t think of that now. He’s alive. What more can I ask? But
so
thin.” A breeze flutters her scarf and the three of us, Hannah, Zechariah, and I huddle together, for courage I think, because all around us are Roman soldiers who swear and shout and laugh as they inspect the remainder of the women slaves who have not been sold and will now be divided among them.

“Ah, well, three hours,” Hannah says nervously. “Only three hours. What is three hours after all this time?” She stiffens. “Suppose the dealer wants more than I have?”

I wrap Hannah in my arms and slip several coins into her hand. “He will be glad for the profit, and glad he has one less slave to feed.”

A mother’s love makes Hannah slide the money into her leather pouch. Pride colors her face and makes her look away. “Oh, what a selfish creature I am!” she says, suddenly throwing back her head. “I’ve
been going on and on, never once thinking of you. What news of your daughter? Did you see her?”

My arms drop and I shake my head. When I do, I notice Zechariah silently weeping beside me.

“Tomorrow, we’ll visit the marketplace,” Zechariah says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “The more enterprising slavers purchase captives nearer the battlefield for almost nothing, then sell them for a handsome profit on the slave block.”

Hannah nods. “Don’t give up. We’ll go to the block every day if we have to.” Her eyes are filled with pity.

“You mustn’t think of me now. You’ve found your son. Let him fill your thoughts. And when it’s time to claim him, you must go with her, Zechariah.” I smile at the large, rugged man whose heart breaks so easily for others. And rejoices, too. “That gold bedecked slaver will think twice about cheating Hannah if you’re there.”

Zechariah nods, then leans closer as he looks around at the milling soldiers. “Return to the house. It’s senseless for you to wait here with all these Romans about. I’ll care for Hannah. But it will ease me to know you are safely away.” His large fingers brush my shoulder. “And fear not. You’ll find Esther.” He thumps his chest. “I know. I know it in here.”

All the days I’ve spent at Hannah’s waiting for Titus to reach Caesarea has given me time to think. At first my thoughts were full of Esther—dark, despairing thoughts. She is, after all, the last of my family—all I have left.
Was she dead, too
? That was the question my mind asked over and over again. And this: Was I to be left alone, with
no one
? Then I heard it, the answer, soft like a whisper, as though it were carried by the wind.
“But you have Me.”
That’s all. Just those words,
“But you have Me.”

“Who? Who do I have?” My voice was a shout; loud and rancorous and full of self-pity. And for a time it drowned out the whisper. I felt as
if I was the only one in the world who had suffered. As if I was the only one in the world who cried herself to sleep.

As if I was the only one in the world
. . . .

And then it was clear. Like the giant statue of Agrippa’s daughter that dominated the public square of Caesarea, so
I
dominated my thoughts; an idol of my own making. Oh, the tears that flowed then! Tears as briny as the Sea of Salt. But amid the tears, I heard that gentle voice.

“I will never leave you or forsake you. I love you with an everlasting love.”

“Oh, Jesus,” I whispered, falling on my knees. “Forgive me for not remembering.”

Now, entering Hannah’s house—the fresh disappointment of not finding Esther still stinging my heart—I fall on my knees once more. I am heartbroken. The prospect of rescuing Esther is as dim as the caves of Mount Carmel, and there is only One who can comfort me. I bow in deep agony, and when I do, there comes that voice, soft as a sparrow’s breath.

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”

We’re going to feast like kings! Lamb stew bubbles on Hannah’s stove, pluming aromas I’ve not smelled in a very long time. It’s in honor of her son’s homecoming that I’m making it, for meat is rarely eaten except during the feasts of the Lord or on special occasions such as weddings or the entertaining of important guests. I’ve also prepared
shefot
, a cream poured into tube-like wooden vessels and sprinkled with sugar. And two large barley loaves seasoned with cumin and fennel are baking in the oven. In addition, I’ve purchased fig cakes and cheese and pistachio nuts from the nearby shops. I’m nearly overcome with anticipation of seeing the happy look on Hannah’s face when she arrives.

As I wait, I busy myself washing leeks and radishes, and wonder how long before Hannah walks in the door with her son. All this preparation
helps diminish my sorrow over Esther. Though I have received no promises, no assurances from the Lord regarding my daughter, I’m determined to walk by faith. God has promised me joy. When the joy is to come, well, I must leave that to Him. So instead, I picture Hannah’s happy face, feel
her
joy at finding her son. But I grow impatient. I’ve been cooking for hours.
When will they come
?

I scamper around the kitchen making final preparations by setting four wooden bowls on the polished table. And just as I place the last one, I hear a commotion outside and rush to the door to open it. The street is full of people weeping, shouting, laughing. Arms wave like wheat in the air, and bodies press around a central figure. The house is raised a good hand’s length higher than the street and I’m able to make out the top of Zechariah’s wiry, gray head. Surely Hannah is with him; her son, too, though I can see neither. Everyone is talking at once.

“Welcome home, Judah!”

“God has been merciful!”

“Blessed be the name of the Lord!”

“
Hashem
has answered our prayers!”

I lean against the doorpost, my heart filled with gratitude as I listen to all the well- wishes. They seem to go on forever, but I don’t grow weary of hearing them, for I’m caught up in the moment, this sublime moment when good has triumphed over evil, proving it’s possible, even in these dark days. And I’m overcome with joy.

The crowd slowly dissipates. I hear a young man, surely Judah’s friend by the way he is greeted, offer to prepare the
mikvah
, then see him head toward the back of the house where the entrance to the lower level and baths are located. Finally, only Hannah and her son and Zechariah are left standing outside the door.

When Hannah sees me, when her eyes light upon me for the first time, she giggles like a girl, then beckons me to come. I do, and she introduces me to Judah. She’s right to worry. I see rags and bones and little else. And his face? Oh, how gaunt it is, and the color of sifted flour! And all the while his body smells like an open sore. But what I see in his
eyes makes me take heart. Mini goblets of horror, yes. Judah surely has seen terrible things. It colors him with darkness. But there’s strength, too, and determination, and gratitude, and a light, a small stubborn light that refuses to be extinguished.

I enfold him in my arms as if he were my own son, and weep at his neck. But when we part, my fingers feel the deep hollows around his protruding ribs.
Be Merciful, Lord. Heal him. Do not let Hannah lose him now
.

“Such a wonderful smell!” Judah says when we enter the house. Then he closes his eyes and sniffs. “Can it really be lamb stew?”

“It is! And in your honor. There are other good things, too: flat bread and cheese and
shefot
, and fig cakes and . . . .”

“First he must bathe, then dress in his new tunic.” Hannah’s eyes are full of love, and they are looking at me. “Then he’ll have some of your fine supper. But only a little. You can’t bring back a shriveled stomach all at once. Judah must eat only a small portion at a time until he’s used to real food again.”

Her son laughs and pushes oily, matted hair from his forehead. “For weeks I’ve been ordered about by the Romans. Now that I’m home, it appears I’m to be ordered about by my mother!”

“I like your Judah,” I say to Hannah when he leaves and heads for the stairs to the lower rooms of the
mikvah
. “He has a sense of humor.”

“At least the Romans haven’t taken that from him.” Hannah rubs her face with her gnarled hands. “But he’s thin and weak. You see. You have eyes. He pretends he’s well, but if it hadn’t been for Zechariah’s strong arms to gird him . . . well, we might not have gotten here.”

I lead Hannah to the table. “Sit,” I say, pulling out a stool and gently helping her onto it. “And be at peace. God will surely restore your son. Would He bring him so far otherwise?” I take a fig cake and place it in her hand. “You haven’t eaten since this morning. This will strengthen you until Judah is ready to join us.” Then I go and pull the two loaves of bread from the oven, and at once fill the room with a pleasing yeasty aroma. Finally, I dip two cups into the large clay water jar by the door and give one to Hannah, the other to Zechariah, who up to now has
done nothing but stand nearby and grin from ear to ear. “Now tell me how it went with the slave dealer.”

Hannah takes a bite of her cake, chews for a moment, then swallows. It seems to revive her for she sits straighter on her stool. “That jackal made me wait for hours. And after he finished his business with the
quaestor
he disappeared. No one knew where he went. He just vanished. Finally, he sent one of the
quaestor’s
slaves to me. He didn’t even come himself. In fact, I never saw him again.

“And the slave he sent! What a slovenly lout! With green eyes like a cat, and so much hair on his arms he looked as though he was covered in fleece. He took little interest in me or his task. Just told me to pick out anyone I wanted, and then, without examining Judah, fixed the price at one hundred
drachmas
. One hundred
drachmas
! I expected him to demand six times that amount. I could hardly believe my good fortune.

“But when I paid him, he asked me where I lived. Said he needed it for his records. I thought it strange. But I was frightened and didn’t want anything to go wrong, so I told him. But after I left him, I began to worry. Suppose he went back and the slave dealer was dissatisfied with the price? Suppose he sends his men to my house? And takes Judah away? Those were my thoughts. Are my thoughts still.”

“Perhaps it was the sight of Zechariah that made him so generous,” I say, handing my large friend, who has finally taken a nearby stool, his own fig cake. His brow is crinkled. “What troubles you, Zechariah?”

“I don’t know . . . an aging man’s imagination, perhaps. But just before the dealer disappeared, I got a good look at him and . . . well, he looked like Demas!”

“Demas? You mean Demas from Pella? That Demas?”

Zechariah shrugs. “I know. It sounds mad. Forget my saying it. I’m sure I was mistaken. Demas is a beekeeper, not a slaver.”

“Let’s not indulge in worry,” I say, taking a bite of my own cake and sitting on the stool next to Hannah. “God has been good to us. He has returned Hannah’s son. Let’s rejoice in that.” And just as we all begin to relax, there’s a knock on the door.

“Ah, another well-wisher no doubt.” Hannah rises from her stool.

I listen to Hannah’s sandals scrape across the stone floor, hear the door open, hear her strained voice say, “What . . . do you want? Why have you come?” I hear a man’s voice, low and gruff, but not his words. When Hannah begins to cry, Zechariah and I leap from our stools. By the time we get to the door, Hannah has already closed it. Her face is drained, and in her hand she holds a wax tablet.