Chapter Thirteen

Shelamzion

After beginning her monthly courses, Kissa started to lose interest in playing games. She would play if I insisted, of course, as was her duty, but her attention soon wandered, and I would often catch her looking at the other slaves, looking with particular curiosity at the young men. Her face sometimes wore a distant look, and when I began to tell one of my stories about my famous relatives or life in Modein, at some point I could tell that her thoughts had wandered to a place I could not go.

Exasperated by her inattention, one afternoon I stalked away and went in search of something more interesting. I left the high priest’s house and wandered down the twisty street, dodging carts and pack mules and women carrying water jugs. I found myself at the Temple and walked into the wide open space where the animals were kept in pens until purchased for sacrifice.

What I saw in that place made me sick. A man had pulled a young calf from an enclosure. With no rope to secure the animal, he was chasing it through the area, beating the animal about the head with a stick whenever he could get close enough to land a blow. The terrorized calf bleated hoarsely, a pitiful sound unlike anything I had ever heard—

“Stop!” Not thinking about anything except helping the panicked animal, I ran toward the man, my sandals skimming the stones. “Stop that! You are frightening him!”

The man scowled at me, then turned. “Whose child is this? She shouldn’t be here.”

No one claimed me, for I had come alone. I shrank back, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I was. In truth, I frequently took liberties that would not have been proper for an ordinary girl, knowing I would be excused on account of who my uncle was. But I had never gone into the Temple alone, and never had I acted so impetuously.

I forced myself to calm down. “That is wrong,” I said, pointing to the stick in his hand. “The Torah says an animal offered to HaShem must be perfect and without flaw.”

The man glared at me, then gestured to the bleating calf that stood with its trembling legs splayed, head hanging low. “Do you see any fault in this animal?”

“I do.” I pointed to the animal’s face. “He is bleeding about the eyes on account of your cruelty, and he is terrified. How do you know you have not hurt him in other ways?”

The question had been birthed from desperation, but it was enough to make the gathering onlookers pause for debate. “How does he know?” one Levite murmured to another. “Perhaps the animal does have a fault from this rough handling.”

The man who had purchased the calf was not disposed to discuss the matter. Instead he came toward me. “Get out of here,” he said, his voice a low, angry whisper. “Go home to your mother.”

“I will go home and tell this story to everyone.” I lifted my chin. “I live in the house of Yoḥanan Cohen Gadol.”

The use of John Hyrcanus’s Hebrew name and title was enough to elicit consternation from the circle of observers. But just as I was about to walk away, a priest came over, grabbed my arm, and dragged me from the courtyard.

Uncle narrowed his eyes and peered over the top of the scroll he was reading. He seemed to be studying me, and for a moment I was certain he was wondering if he had invited a demon into his home, for surely only an imp would have run into the Temple courtyard and stopped a man from offering a sacrifice.

The Levite who served as my escort had relayed the entire story, omitting no detail. So I waited—half afraid, half indignant—for the high priest’s judgment.

“Shelamzion,” he said, leaning forward as he lowered his scroll, “what makes you think the calf’s eyes bled for some reason other than the stick? If the bleeding occurred in the act of stunning the beast, the stick could be considered a tool of mercy.”

I gave him a look of horror. “What I saw was not a stunning; it was torture.”

Too late I realized I should have chosen a better word. My uncle had seen enough torture in past years, and he did not need a reminder.

But he did not scold me. “Is it not merciful to stun the animal before cutting its throat? Would HaShem have us be deliberately cruel?”

“HaShem is compassionate and merciful,” I said, reciting one of the lessons Father had taught me. “But beating an animal, especially one so young and frightened, is neither. The man I saw was chasing the calf, laughing and beating it whenever he could, as though it were a game for pleasure. My father taught me that hunting was wrong, for it brings terror to the beast and renders the meat forbidden. Is not the same thing happening in the Temple courtyard? Do we offer forbidden meat to HaShem and give the same to the priests?”

My uncle leaned back, cleared his throat, and sent a pointed look to the priest who had brought me. The man lowered his head and stepped back.

“Who are you?” Uncle murmured, resting his cheek on his hand as he studied me. “Such a grown-up mind in such a small body.”

I answered his question the only way I could. “I am Salome Alexandra, daughter of Ittamar and Sipporah.”

Uncle smiled. “Perhaps you have a point, Shelamzion. I shall study the matter and see what can be done. We must not torture the creatures destined for sacrifice. You are right—such a thing would not please HaShem.”

I felt my heart turn over in happiness. “Truly? You will do this?”

“I will. Now run along. Do not leave the house again without an escort. And no more going to the Temple alone. Ever.”

I sighed in relief and slipped out of the room, a little amazed that a mere girl could say something important and have a man pay attention.

No one was more surprised than I the next time Mother, Kissa, and I went to the Temple. As we entered the courtyard, I tugged on her sleeve, about to show her the awful spectacle of men beating the sacrificial calves. To my amazement, however, the livestock area had been changed. New wooden posts stood in the open area, and small circles had been etched around the posts. One man stood with a calf within the circle. I watched as he tied the animal to the post, and then with one swift blow he stunned the animal so that it fell to its knees. The man bound it and carried it to the altar.

I turned to Kissa. “Did you see?”

The heavy lashes that usually shadowed her cheeks had flown up. “Your uncle listened.”

That was the miracle of it all. Not only had Uncle paid attention, but he had also considered my words and acted on them. A thrill shivered through me. Maybe I could make a difference. Maybe one day I could be important to creatures more appreciative than sacrificial calves.

Overcome by a heady rush of satisfaction, I clapped in delight.

“Stop daydreaming, Shelamzion.” Mother pulled me toward the steps. “We must go inside.”

Mother and I went inside, yet my thoughts wandered as the Temple musicians played. My uncle had tremendous power, and everyone knew it. I had no power of my own, but my father had set my feet on a path of knowledge, and that knowledge had spurred Uncle to act on behalf of the sacrificial animals. If I knew more, I might be able to convince Uncle to act on behalf of others . . . even girls who were not the most beautiful daughter in the family. If I could learn more, I might be able to give Kissa answers to her many questions about HaShem.

Though Alena had mentioned finding a tutor for me, no tutor had yet come to the house. I would have to find a tactful way to remind her that I wanted to learn. Perhaps after her baby came . . .

A girl might not be able to do much alone, but an educated girl who had her uncle’s ear might be able to do a great many things.