Rebekah's Treasure (43 page)

“Have you spoken to the captain?” I say to Benjamin, who rides his camel beside me on the dirt path.

Benjamin nods. “All morning he’s been instructing his fifty. They’ll be ready.”

Suddenly, curses fill the air as yet another caravan tries to pass. “Move aside!” the drivers growl. One driver actually raises his stick to strike my camel but when he sees the size of my sons and me, our fierce countenance, and the large daggers belted at our waists, he swats his own camel instead, and makes a wide arc around us. Others follow, swinging around us amid a swirl of dust.

Our party stretches along the Caesarea-Scythopolis Highway for as far as the eye can see. First the camels. They walk the soft dirt path paralleling the paved road, led by my sons and me. Then the wagons—one of which carries Rebekah—clatter over the hot paving stones. Following them trudge hundreds of men, roped together and wearing filthy, ripped tunics. And behind the men come the women, also roped and tattered and dirty—all to perpetuate our charade. Last comes poor Demas who eats the dust of us all without complaint, though my sons have offered to spell him numerous times.

We head east, toward the King’s Highway—the main road to Damascus, and have already passed Megiddo. Our plan is simple. We deliberately move slowly to frustrate the other caravans and make them pass us. That way, no one is around us long enough to notice that every day our numbers decrease. Already our party is down by nearly five hundred. Each night we lose about seventy-five souls. Daily, the excitement grows among the captives as they wonder if their group will be the next to taste freedom.

So far our plan is working.

In the glow of the camp fires, I watch Rebekah move swiftly among the silent group of men, nearly fifty in all, who are freshly washed, and
dressed in new tunics. She hands each a small pouch of food filled with raisins and nuts and a few date cakes. Another group of about twenty women, also washed and dressed in new tunics, wait patiently nearby for their rations.

In the distance a coyote howls as a gust of wind swirls dust around our faces. It’s unusually dark. Clouds have partially obscured the moon—a bad night for travel.

“You don’t have to go. You can wait until tomorrow,” I say to the captain of the fifty, but my eyes are still on Rebekah.

“My men are anxious. The women, too. No one wants to postpone the departure. All are willing to take their chances. And the men have promised to help the women when they get to the rough terrain. And . . . if anything happens, we won’t betray you. We’ve all sworn an oath.”

“Well, then, have them eat and rest. In another few hours you can be on your way.”

Our sprawling camp has sentries posted at various intervals, sentries hand-picked by Aaron for their combat experience. Even so, as usual, numerous travelers have made their own camps along the highway. It would not be safe for the captives to break camp and disappear into the countryside until deep into the night. If they were seen and caught, it could go badly for us all.

“You should rest, too,” I say to the captain, my heart twisting strangely within me as I think of him facing a future alone. He’s a tanner by trade who escaped Galilee and sought the safety of Jerusalem after Vespasian annihilated his family. Though he fought against the Romans while in the city, he somehow convinced them he had not, and was spared crucifixion with the other rebels. “God speed,” I say, firmly clasping his arm.

He unexpectedly holds fast to mine. “What you have done for us . . . for all of the many souls you have rescued, can never be repaid. I pray
Hashem’s
blessing on your head.” Then he releases me and slaps my back good-naturedly. “Your wife is very beautiful. You are a fortunate man.”

I follow his eyes. They are on Rebekah. “I . . . that is . . . she’s only one of my many cooks.” For safety’s sake, I’ve kept Rebekah’s identity a secret. This way, if our charade is discovered by the Romans, she won’t be in danger.

The captain chuckles. “Anyone with eyes can tell she’s more to you than a cook. Even your sons speak differently to her than the others. Many of us have guessed your secret.” He leans closer. “I would give anything to have what you have. I lost mine . . . I lost them all.” His voice is low. “But you still have sons and a wife. I pray
Hashem
gives you many happy years together.”

Hours later, when the wind picks up and scatters some of the overhead clouds, the captain and his band of seventy creep from camp and disappear into the night. As I watch them go, I remember the captain’s words. And unable to resist any longer, I leave my place beside my snoring sons and walk the long line of sleeping captives until I reach the wagons that have been moved to last position, wagons guarded by Demas and the large Thracian cook, Skaris.

As I stumble in the darkness, grinding my knee into the dirt, I tell myself this is foolishness. What am I doing? I’m mad to be here, searching the grounds for Rebekah in this dim moonlight. Demas stirs, so does Skaris. How would I explain myself if they awoke? I peer into the darkness, hardly able to make anyone out. And just as I’m about to give up, I spot the familiar form of my Rebekah sleeping near the twenty other women who help with the cooking. I move carefully around the prone bodies. When I reach her, I kneel down, and bending over, I kiss her cheek. “I love you,” I whisper, and before anyone can awake, I force myself to rise and silently steal back to my pallet.

“We’re nearing Pella,” Aaron says, straddling his dusty camel and fanning himself with an empty leather scrip. “Our group is ready. Everything has been divided: food, clothing, weapons.”

“I still don’t like the idea of you leaving us,” I say, my camel clomping beside his.

“You know I must. Your group numbers less than two-hundred, while ours is nearly twice that, far too many for Demas to manage alone. Besides, you’ll have Benjamin to help you, and Skaris, too.”

The blistering sun beats relentlessly overhead. I mop my face with the edge of my
kaffia
and nod. Of the over eighteen-hundred captives, less than six-hundred remain. But only one-hundred and ninety—mostly men—have chosen to go to Masada with me. The remaining captives will go with Demas and Aaron. They’ll pass Pella, then head west skirting Gerasa. But they won’t continue beyond that to the King’s Highway. Most will head north to Gilead and return to their shattered villages.

“I know you must go with Demas,” I finally say. “But I don’t have to like it. There will be more Romans the nearer to the King’s Highway you get. If anything goes wrong . . . if you should be questioned or stopped . . . .”

Aaron laughs. “Wait for us in En Gedi. You and Mama and the others could use the rest. By the time you get there and have your first nap, we should be on our way to you. And while you’re enjoying the shade and fresh springs, and eating your date cakes, Demas and I will be eating dust in the Judean Desert. But don’t worry, Father, we’ll be careful . . . nothing will go wrong.”

Rebekah won’t look at me. Tears wash her eyes as she watches Aaron and Demas, their wagons and camels, and the nearly four-hundred souls they lead, head in the direction of Pella. I can see the city from here nestled among fields and trees, and with a spring running through it. Though scarred by war, there is something inviting about it.

Demas needs fresh supplies, but won’t stop in Pella. It is, after all, predominately Gentile, and a city where he is known. Other than the believers, who would help him if they learned he was trying to resettle hundreds of Titus’s captives? Hundreds of
Jewish
captives. Besides, it would be dangerous to expose our plans in this manner. The news of it could get back to the Roman legions. So they’ll bypass the city and head straight for Gerasa while we, Benjamin and I and Rebekah and Skaris and nearly two-hundred emaciated souls, head to the Jordan Valley, then on toward the Judean Desert and En Gedi.

They have taken all the wagons; we, most of the camels. Our course will not be a smooth Roman road. Rather, we’ll travel footpaths and narrow rocky trails, and hide in caves along the way.

My mind is already considering the many dangers when Rebekah suddenly turns and walks in my direction. She holds a new tunic, the same type of tunic she’s been giving to all those who have made their escape. She hands it to me. Her eyes look away but not before I see fresh tears well up. My heart is heavy as I take the garment. I know I have disappointed her and it nearly chokes me with grief. Shielded by my camel, I remove my
kaffia
and Syrian robe, and slip on the tunic. From now on, I’ll no longer be dressed as a slave master. Who would believe a Syrian slaver would wander the Jordan Valley with his slaves, going in the opposite direction of Damascus? Even now, Benjamin and the broad Thracian, Skaris, are unyoking the captives, giving them water to wash and a new tunic along with a small bag of food. When they are ready, they’ll leave in small groups and head for Masada on their own, for a large company of travelers would be too easy for the Roman patrols to spot.

“We don’t have enough tunics for everyone,” Rebekah says softly, lifting her eyes and looking at me for the first time. “We are nearly fifty short, but Demas could find no more.”

Demas has been purchasing supplies in every little shop and bazaar along the way. But there were only so many goods each merchant had to sell. He had gotten us this far on dried fruits and nuts and grain
for pottage. He even managed to keep our water skins full by stopping at every watering hole and well along the way. And he had purchased enough clothing for most of the captives. As far as I was concerned, the man was a wonder.