Rebekah's Treasure (45 page)

Even my prayer ran toward the melancholy. I didn’t pray, “Lord, protect Aaron and Demas,” but, “Lord, if it’s your will to take Aaron and Demas, give me the grace to endure it.” So I’ve been preparing myself for the worst. Is it any wonder then that when Aaron and Demas entered our camp I was upon them both, showering them with kisses?

It is Ethan who finally pulls me away.

“I’m
so
happy to see you,” I say, all tears and smiles and breathless joy even after Ethan restrains me by gripping my arm. “
So
happy!”

“That is evident, Mama,” Aaron says, tucking his head as though feeling like a child.

Demas smiles and says nothing. I think he enjoys the fuss. With no relatives among our number, who was there to shower him with affection? In a way, he reminds me of a wool rag absorbing my love as if it were scented water.

“So, tell us how it went,” Ethan says, leading my son and Demas to the low cave ledge and the large rush mats spread out in welcome.
A smaller mat in the center contains bowls of raisins, nuts, and fresh pottage, along with cups of sweet spring water.

Aaron sits beside Ethan; Demas beside him. I take the seat where I can best see my son. Aaron looks thinner, older. In just ten days? How is that possible? A dusty patch covers one eye, but the other reveals so much. He’s weary and troubled, and I see a new hardness in his face. He smiles, but his forehead is crinkled.
Oh, Aaron, Aaron, where is that sweet boy who so loved the Lord? The boy with a heart as gentle as a dove’s?

“Well, brother, did you have to kill many Romans?” Benjamin asks, suddenly joining us.

Aaron laughs. It sounds cold, hollow. “Only twenty.”

“Single handedly, I suppose,” Benjamin quips, dipping his hand into the bowl of almonds.

Demas answers for him with a nod. But there’s no smile on his face. It is dark, somber.

“Then tell us about it, my brother. Don’t keep us in suspense.”

Aaron picks up the cup of water. “First allow me to wash the dust from my throat.” He drains the cup then places it back on the mat.

“Eat something, too,” Ethan says, but Aaron doesn’t even look at the food.

“There’s little to tell.” Aaron appears nervous, and shifts his legs. “Just past Gerasa we ran into a party of soldiers transporting a handful of Greekish-looking prisoners, I assume for trial in Caesarea. Over three hundred captives had already left us by then. The remaining seventy or so were to strike out on their own that night. It was already dusk. A few minutes more and we would have made camp.

“We had sold all but two wagons. That was our downfall, because the two overflowed with goods. One of the soldiers saw the pile of new tunics in one of them as he passed. He grew curious and stopped, then began asking questions. At first the questioning went well. But as it progressed it was clear he was growing suspicious. ‘Who was your slave master?’ he asked Demas. ‘Where in Damascus do you head? Have you ever heard of Adad the Syrian who specializes in eunuchs? Who
in Damascus was buying your slaves? And why would any Syrian want these worthless dregs from Jerusalem?’ And on it went.

“Demas gave his answers. But when the soldier asked his final question, when he asked why any Syrian slaver would buy new tunics for this Jewish filth, Demas gave no reply, so I spoke up. ‘What did he mean by asking so many questions? What right did he have to block our path? We were honest men of business. Was he looking for a bribe? For coins to line his pocket?’ He was obviously offended by my remarks, for he called the others over, and before I knew it, they were inspecting our wagons, rifling our supplies, taking things for themselves, and threatening to bring us in for questioning.

“There we were with over sixty men and nearly ten women, all roped together, filthy, ragged, plus a wagon full of new tunics, which purpose we couldn’t adequately explain. So what could I do but pull my dagger and attack? I killed five before the others even blinked. Then the rest swarmed like angry hornets. Soon their bodies were also sprawled across the roadway. Not a Roman soldier was left alive. Up to this point,
Hashem
had smiled on us. This normally well-traveled road was deserted so no one saw the carnage or that it was I who killed the Romans. But how long would that last? We were at a bend and not easily seen, but soon any number of travelers could appear and see their bodies and my blood-covered garments.

“So what was to be done but cut the ropes of the captives, give them each a tunic and some food, and urge them to make a hasty departure? Demas and I also grabbed a tunic, food, a water skin, then left the wagons and headed south toward the Jordan where we hid in caves by day and traveled by night. What happened to the other seventy I cannot say. I only pray that
Hashem
has led them to safety.”

When I look at the normally confident Demas I don’t like what I see. His face is tense, his brow furrowed. Aaron has not told us everything. There was something more, and I was determined to find out what it was.

“You have something on your mind?” Demas asks, looking at me sideways.

I nod. It’s taken me two days, but I’ve finally gotten him alone. The sun has barely risen and I’ve asked Demas to walk with me. He’s obliging, this broad Greek, agreeing to come without even asking why; so unlike the Demas who smashed my jars and foodstuffs with his club.

We have followed the waterfall downward, and are now lower than our campsite even though Ethan has insisted no one stray from it. He said he’s been hearing strange noises, and fears that Roman patrols are wandering about. I say my husband is weary from too much war for our sentries have seen no signs of any soldiers.

It’s beautiful here, lush foliage everywhere, and water cascading across boulders and into one small pool after another that forms a glistening chain beneath the sun. I stop and lean against a huge limestone boulder shaded by supple ferns and giant reeds.

“Tell me what happened the day you and Aaron fought the Romans.” Demas’s lips tighten. I’ve caught him off guard, that much is certain.

“I . . . didn’t fight the Romans. I’m ashamed to say I left it all to Aaron.” Demas’s face flushes as he looks at me sideways. “It seems I’m only brave when it comes to confronting women or having to use a club on pottery and shelving. But Aaron . . . I’ve never seen such a skilled warrior. And good thing too, since all I can manage with a dagger is to slice up a sausage or two when hungry.”

“But you watched, you
saw
. Tell me about it.”

Demas absently picks the fern. “It was my fault. It should never have happened. Aaron warned me we shouldn’t stray so close to the Kings Highway, that we should turn and go west. But I insisted we go just a little further north to this village I knew that made the best roast piglet I’ve ever eaten, all stuffed with vegetables and thrush and sausages. I couldn’t stop talking about it or telling Aaron how it would be worth the extra walk. I even convinced him to try it. And that wasn’t easy since he claimed, after eating those sausages at your sister’s, he was through with pork. But I suppose after weeks of eating gruel and
nuts and dried fruit, the thought of eating this delicacy was irresistible. Now I feel only shame for risking all our lives, though at the time I justified it because I also planned to purchase fresh supplies.

“We were almost at the village when we ran into the Romans. I didn’t answer the questions nearly as well as Aaron would have you believe. I stammered and bumbled my way through them, only adding to their suspicions. Aaron knew it, too. A fight was inevitable. It was the only way Aaron could get us all safely away, for surely death or imprisonment would have been our fate if he had not.”

“Perhaps you can’t do what Aaron can, but Ethan told me how valuable you have been; how skilled you are at the auction block, at gathering supplies and making sure there was plenty for all. Ethan said a thousand things would have gone wrong if it weren’t for you. You’ve done well for us all.”

“I can bargain for slaves, buy and sell merchandise, but when it mattered, when Aaron needed me, I did nothing. I just stood there.”

“Everyone knows you’re not a warrior, Demas. Why do you fault yourself for that?”

“Because of that look on Aaron’s face. I’ll never forget it; his eyes . . . wild like a wounded animal’s. And afterward, he wept. Like a little child. Sometimes in my dreams I can still hear him.”

My heart thumps. “Make sense, Demas, for pity’s sake. What is it that you are holding back?”

Demas sighs and closes his eyes. “An official, in a covered litter, was traveling with the Roman guards, I suppose under their protection. The litter’s thick red curtains were drawn so we didn’t know until later that a child traveled with him, a young girl of perhaps four or five. When the fighting began the six slaves carrying the litter nearly dropped it in their haste to run away. Before it even hit the ground, they were slipping the poles from the straps on their shoulders. That’s when the little girl jumped out in fright. Aaron was in a deadly clash with one of the soldiers, and as he swung his dagger backward, it caught the little girl in the neck, killing her.”

“Aaron never mentioned . . . he never said . . . .”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

Now I understand the new hardness on Aaron’s face, his aged and troubled look. Perhaps to other seasoned warriors, killing an innocent child would give them only a moment’s pause. So many children were dying these days. One could not weep over them all. But for Aaron . . . my tender Aaron . . . it was an act that was bound to leave a deep wound in his heart.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say, feeling my own heart weighed down. And just as I’m about to ask him not to let Aaron know we spoke, I hear a spine-chilling sound.

“Eeeeeee! Eeeeeee!”

It comes from below. Demas and I quickly follow it to the lower level pool, scrambling over rocks and boulders, and nicking our ankles on the thick, sharp vegetation.

“Eeeeeee! Eeeeeee!

The cry is louder now. What could it be? A wounded animal? A dying traveler? An escaped captive? It could even be a trap. I suddenly remember Ethan’s warning not to stray from camp. Perhaps we’re foolish to follow the sound. But we’re nearly there; too close to turn back now. I slip and scrape my leg as I slide down the incline, nearly missing a pile of wild goat droppings.

“Grrrrrrrr! Eeeeeee!” The cries are hideous, and full of anguish. No human could make such sounds. It had to be an animal.

“Careful, Demas,” I caution as he maneuvers around a white limestone boulder, and I behind him. And then we see it . . . more beast than human, wearing a tattered dirt-covered tunic, with a face nearly obscured by dirt and long, wild, tangled hair. Its hand is buried in a crevice as though tightly wedged, until I see the swarm of bees, and know that the creature has found a hive and is after honey.

“Let go!” Demas shouts. “Let go of the comb! They’ll keep stinging if you don’t.”

The creature groans in pain as bees sting its grimy arms and legs, its face. Other bees get caught in the wild tangle of hair, and sting the scalp. Dark eyes blink behind the matted hair when it sees us. Its mouth parts and emits what I can only describe as a growl. To scare us away? Still, the hand remains jammed in the crevice.

Without another word, Demas bends and picks up a thin, flat rock. I wonder if he plans to use it as a weapon, but no, with it he scoops up a clump of goat dung, sets it aside, then quickly peels a piece of bark off the trunk of a dead balsam. He picks up a nearby stick, lays the thin bark over the dung and after pressing the tip of the stick against the bark begins twirling it rapidly between his palms, grinding the point through the bark. The heat of the motion suddenly ignites the dung.

What was he doing?

As the dung begins to smoke, Demas, carrying it on the stone plate, moves toward the creature that is now hissing and spitting and making clawing motions with its free hand. Its fingernails look long and menacing. A madman for sure.

“Watch his claws!” I shout, and as I do the creature turns to the side and I see the small mounds on its chest. “Oh, Demas, it’s a woman!”

Demas moves slowly, ignoring the hissing and growling. Oh, what a poor mad creature this is; spitting and grunting and crying out with pain as bees swoop and sting. “The smoke will calm the bees,” Demas says, speaking softly. “Then you can claim your honeycomb.”

The madwoman suddenly makes barking sounds, almost like a dog, then spits again. I shrink back behind the reeds, keeping my distance.

“No one will harm you,” Demas says, stepping past the giant reeds to get to the crevice. “And no one will take your honey.”

The woman thrashes about, whether in pain or madness I cannot say. She even lunges for Demas, barely missing his shoulder with her claws, all the while keeping her hand wedged between the crevice. Demas stops, just out of her reach, and calmly blows smoke toward the woman; blowing, blowing, blowing until little by little the bees fly away.

“Now,” he says, his voice gentle, “if you let me blow smoke into the fissure, the bees that guard the hive will become calm, too.”