Rebekah's Treasure (7 page)

The dreaded 10
^th
has arrived. They set up camp, east of us, on the Mount of Olives, while the 15
^th
and 5
^th
fortify theirs by digging ditches and building berms. Siege works have been started by all three camps. And off to one side, a team of legionaries builds a massive battering ram with a tower and catapult. Already they have iron plated the tip of the ram. Scattered piles of green wicker lay in readiness, waiting for the beam housing—which is nearly the height of our walls—to be finished. And then the wicker will be used to cover it, along with layers of leather padded with wet straw. The showdown is not far off. The only consolation is that John has finally accepted Simon’s truce. We are, at long last, united. But our infighting has so weakened the city that I can’t help but wonder if our unification is too little too late.

P
ELLA
70A.D.

CHAPTER 3

“This can’t be it,” I say, peering down into the Jordan Valley where, nestled among the tall green eastern hills, is a large city split in two by a wadi and the bubbling spring that flows through it. Even from this distance, the gutted and charred houses are unmistakable. So are the broken walls, the piles of rubble. “This can’t be it,” I repeat.

“It can be no other, Mama,” Aaron says. His soft beard is caked with the dust of the road, his face blistered from the sun. His eyes, ever on the lookout for danger, squint into the expanse.

Esther leans wearily against the donkey and laughs. “Were you expecting a Hasmonaean palace?”

“Esther!” Aaron’s calloused hand jerks his sister’s arm. “You mustn’t speak so rudely to Mama! Your anger is a mouth looking for someone to bite. If you must be angry, then let it be with Father or me, the ones who forced you to leave Jerusalem.”

I wave my hand, gesturing for Aaron to drop the matter. Since leaving the Kings Highway to avoid the Romans, then following along the Jordan Valley through wadis and narrow, dusty footpaths, Esther has been pecking at me like a bird of prey. Then just before Scythopolis and the Jezreel Valley where we crossed the Jordan, the bird of prey became a lioness. I’ve allowed it because her heart is broken. She’s told me she never expects to see Daniel again. She cries in her sleep. Even her appetite is gone. Twice now, I’ve had to force her to eat. I fear she’s losing the will to live. Perhaps anger can revive it.

I turn and look at her. From head to toe she wears the dust of many days. Folds of dirty cloth cover the long oily strands of her hair. Her sandaled feet are cut and bruised. One side of her long, belted tunic is ripped up to the knee. “I didn’t expect a palace,” I say, barely able to conceal my disappointment. “But surely a city protected by Vespasian, and now Titus, should not be in such disrepair.”

Our journey has been difficult. Forsaking the relatively well-kept Roman roads has added days to the trip. It’s also allowed us to see the cruel handiwork of Vespasian’s legions. Entire towns and villages have been decimated. Whole populations slaughtered. The land stinks from the dead. They’re everywhere, bloated, fly-covered, rotting. Many are nailed to trees. And food? There’s none to be had, either to buy or glean from abandoned fields. The countryside has been stripped, shaved by the razor of Rome.

Ethan warned me. He told me what the Romans were doing. Even so, I was not prepared for what I saw, nor was I prepared to see the scars of war in a Greek city, even though Ethan had warned me of that, too.

“It must be the work of John of Gischala,” Aaron says, holding the donkey’s bridle and standing beside me. “Stories of how he looted and burned the Greek cities of the Decapolis have filled the streets of Jerusalem. It made him a hero to many.”

“Maybe he’ll return and kill us all. A fitting end for traitors who leave their city in her hour of need.” Esther’s face is red. I think even she knows how far she has overstepped this time.

“At least some followers of The Way will be here,” I say, ignoring her. “I take comfort in that.”

Aaron looks at me and frowns. “It may be the only comfort to be had. For I doubt the Gentiles will welcome us. They’ll still remember what the Jews did here.”

Weary, I go and sit beneath a gnarled oak. We’re in the midst of a forest of oaks and pines. Esther remains by the donkey, seemingly too tired to walk the few paces to the shade of a tree.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her dirt caked fingers combing the short bristly hair of the donkey’s mane. “I . . . don’t mean to be unkind. You don’t deserve it, Mama. Neither do you, Aaron.”

I nod in understanding. My heart is broken too. Will I ever see my Ethan again? How I long for him now, for his strength, his comfort. And what of Aaron, so eager to return to Jerusalem? Will he survive the battle that’s coming? And my other sons? How will they fare? I wish there was someone I could peck and bite. But there isn’t. And for my family’s sake, I must sustain my will to live, to survive. Do I understand Esther? Oh, yes. How easy it would be to give up; to give up and just sit beneath this peaceful oak and wait for death.

Aaron strokes Esther’s head as if she were a child. A westerly wind pulls at his ringlets. His face is almost beautiful, like how I imagine an angel’s face would look. “I’ll watch over him,” he says softly. “I will watch over your Daniel.”

I study them both. He, clumsy and tender, strokes her head. She, too weak to move or answer, leans against the donkey. Their sunken cheeks reveal how little they’ve eaten. We are all hungry. Only one flatbread stands between us and starvation. If some kind soul in Pella doesn’t sell us food, I don’t know what we’ll do.

As if reading my thoughts, Aaron points to a patchwork of planted fields. “At least there will be something to eat in Pella.”

My stomach is as shriveled as an old cow’s udder, and grumbles at the mention of food. It will take all my strength to walk the remaining distance to Pella. And Aaron’s, too, I think. But Esther is much too weak. I don’t know how she’ll manage it. And she can’t ride. The donkey is nearly dead. He has stumbled three times this last mile. Once, I didn’t think he’d get up.

“Give Esther half the bread; you take the other half,” I say to Aaron.

Dust floats from Aaron’s beard as he shakes his head. A ringlet of hair falls across one eye, partially obscuring his shock at such a suggestion. “How could I do that, Mama? What of you and the donkey? We always divide the flatbread into fours. A quarter for each of us.”

“Take the bread, Aaron,” I say softly. “The donkey and I will eat in Pella.” Again he shakes his head, so I rise and take the scrip from his shoulder then pull out the stale bread. Ignoring the little patches of mold along the edges, I tear it in half and hand one piece to him, the other to Esther. “I don’t have the strength to argue.”

“
Maranatha
. The Lord is risen,” I say to the strangers we pass as we thread our way through the winding street that appears to transverse the center of the city. The street is cobbled and lined with connecting shops, many of which have an upper floor. And though the city seems affluent—for the people are full bodied and show no signs of starvation—and though their dress is neat—some even wearing fine wool tunics belted with leather—John Gischala’s handiwork is still visible. Several shops have charred walls. Others, those completely destroyed by fire, remain abandoned, their crumbled walls and caved roofs sitting like skeletons beside the road. Here and there, whole sections of the street have been torn up as though the stones were carried off to make repairs elsewhere. And for its size, the city doesn’t appear overly crowded, further evidence of the slaughter that took place here.

I see no friendly faces. And no one answers my “
maranatha
” with the customary, “He is risen, indeed.” Many whisper as we pass. Others point to our tattered clothes. Several curse and spit at us. Someone throws a rock, but it sails harmlessly over our heads.

“We’re not among friends,” I say, when the smell of roast pig wafts from a nearby house and I realize we are in Gentile territory. I’m uneasy, but my uneasiness is overcome by the smell. I would have eaten that whole pig if I had gotten the chance. And I would have done it without once thinking how scandalized Ethan would be.

We must find food. We’re nearly faint from hunger. More and more, Aaron leans against the panting donkey, while Esther whimpers and stumbles along behind us. My spirit slumps as we pass one shop after
the other that sells only oil lamps and wicks, or spices, metal goods, or assorted fabrics. But it revives when we approach a woman in a doorway, a cook-shop by the looks of it. Wooden bowls of various sizes fill the stone shelf on its outside wall. And the woman, who is cooking on a brazier, periodically leans over and plucks something from a bowl, then drops it into her pot. It’s not until we get closer that I see the contents of the bowls: squirming beetle larvae, dead grasshoppers, small reddishblack livers—from chickens or rabbits judging from the size. Another bowl is filled with slices of raw meat; red grainy meat like that from a horse or cow. When I spot a bowl of chickpeas, I hesitate. Aaron frowns and warns me with a shake of his head not to stop. I know he fears this food has been offered to idols. It’s not unusual for surplus meat used in idol worship to find its way into the marketplace. But surely not chickpeas. Even so, I follow obediently. Esther follows too, but the distance between us is growing.

When Aaron signals me to walk in the middle of the street and closer to the donkey, I ignore him, then look backward, still thinking of the chickpeas and how I should buy some. We desperately need food.

“Mama! Look out!” Esther suddenly shouts.

But too late. I bump into a table set outside the doorway of a shop, causing dozens of clay statues to tumble to the ground. The shop owner shrieks amid the sound of breaking pottery. “Clumsy Jew! Look what you’ve done!”

At once a crowd gathers.

I look in horror at all the broken statues lying in a heap on the table. Others lie in pieces on the ground. “I’m . . . I’m sorry . . .”

“You disrespect Isis—the one who gives birth to heaven and earth!” the owner screams. He’s a small man with gray eyes that pierce like the tip of a blade. His blond hair, of medium length, is oddly braided. His long aquiline nose looks like the beak of an eagle, while his lips are thin, like the mouth of a fish. On a chain around his neck, he wears the Knot of Isis. His eyes flare as he points to the shattered statues of his goddess.