Chapter Thirty-Seven

Shelamzion

With each succeeding year I found myself marveling that Adonai saw fit to keep my husband on the throne of Israel. With Kissa and Simeon I quietly continued my Torah study and searched for clues about the coming king-priest. Would he come this year? Would he overthrow Jannaeus at once, or would he first raise an army? Would I recognize him if I saw him?

Simeon told me that the Essenes had begun to write about Jannaeus. The man they called the Teacher of Righteousness wrote openly about “the wicked priest” who everyone recognized as my husband. Jannaeus’s arrogance and debauchery were now common knowledge, and even the common people realized he had murdered his younger brothers.

I did not understand how HaShem could tolerate a sinful high priest like Jannaeus. But when I caught myself thinking such things, I remembered that I was not HaShem and had no right to question His judgments. Perhaps HaShem was giving Jannaeus time to repent, or perhaps He was preparing the Messiah for the day He would take the throne of Israel.

As in so many situations, I could do nothing but watch and wait.

Five years after Jannaeus established a treaty with Cleopatra III, the Egyptian queen died. Now that she no longer monitored Jannaeus from Alexandria, my husband renewed his abandoned dreams of conquest and decided to increase his territory. He attacked several weak city-states east of the Jordan River and then set out to capture Gaza.

He would not have been successful at Gaza had two brothers, Apollodotus and Lysimachus, not convinced the city’s citizens to surrender. Jannaeus entered the city in peace, then set his mercenaries free to loot, pillage, and take captives for the slave market. In the ensuing mayhem, the men from Gaza killed their wives and children to prevent them from being captured, while others burned their homes to prevent them from being looted. When more than five hundred people took refuge in the Temple of Apollo, Jannaeus battered down the doors and slaughtered them all. In the end, Jannaeus had conquered a city of blood, bodies, and burned ruins.

My heart constricted when I read Ezra Diagos’s report of the campaign. Though I knew I ought to support my husband, I could not sanction wanton cruelty, especially when directed at innocents or those who were willing to surrender. Why did Jannaeus have to destroy others so completely? Not even Alexander the Great had been so brutal.

Shortly after that campaign, both of my sons married. Hyrcanus, who had become a quiet, thoughtful man, married a pleasant young girl and seemed to enjoy being a father to his two girls. Aristobulus married the daughter of one of the leading Sadducees, a young woman I disliked within minutes of meeting her. I could not deny her beauty, but she was also loud, arrogant, and manipulative—all the qualities I despised in other women.

But my boys had grown into men, and they did not ask me to approve their choice of brides. That authority resided with their father, and Jannaeus was only too happy to cement relationships with other wealthy families.

In the twenty-second year of my husband’s reign, the city prepared to celebrate the autumnal festival of Sukkot, always a time of rejoicing. I urged my sons to bring their families to the high priest’s palace, so that we could all participate in the traditional family rituals. When both sons and their families had arrived, I led everyone onto the rooftop, where we constructed makeshift shelters out of palm branches and linen fabrics.

Aristobulus’s firstborn, five-year-old Alexander, kept tossing citrons into the air and trying to make his younger sisters squeal. “Careful,” I warned him. “We will need that fruit when we go to the Temple.”

He held the citron close to his chest and gave me a winning smile. “Will we see grandfather the high priest when we are there?”

“I expect we will,” I answered, my heart warming at his sincere expression. “And you will see many other things, as well.”

With the children we collected palm, myrtle, and willow branches, then bound them together to create the lulavs we would wave during the festival. While we tied them, I recited the Levitical injunction we were obeying: “‘On the first day you are to take choice fruit of trees, branches of palm trees, boughs of leafy trees, and willows of the brook, and rejoice before Adonai your God for seven days.’”

My sons’ wives watched the proceeding without speaking. Hyrcanus’s wife smiled as though she enjoyed the spectacle, but Aristobulus’s wife paid more attention to the state of her nails than to her son.

When we had finished, I asked my sons if they would like to spend the night in their shelters. I doubted they would, as neither of them had ever freely chosen to experience a moment of discomfort.

As I expected, they declined. “Would you sleep outside?” Aristobulus asked.

“I used to sleep in our shelter when I was a child,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Sometimes it is good to remember what our fathers endured.”

“Enjoy yourself, then.” Aristobulus kissed my cheek, scooped up young Alexander, and followed Hyrcanus and his family down the stairs.

I watched them go with a heavy heart. Despite my earnest love for my sons, my boys did not love each other. Hyrcanus had clearly inherited my scholarly temperament; Aristobulus possessed his father’s excitable nature and unflagging ambition. They were oil and water, and each seemed to repel the other.

As a gift for their twenty-first birthdays, I had given each of them a large, splendid house near the winter palace I constructed near Jericho. I gave the builders explicit instructions—the two houses were to be absolutely identical lest one of my sons claim I had favored the other. The builders used the same marble, the same cypress, and the same carvings of olive wood for both structures.

The day I presented my sons with their princely palaces, they thanked me, looked over their new homes, and turned on each other. “He has the sunset views,” Aristobulus complained.

“And he has the sunrise!” Hyrcanus countered.

I calmly suggested that they exchange palaces, since each seemed to favor a different direction, but they immediately dismissed my suggestion and resumed their argument. Their wives joined in a moment later, adding feminine voices to the distressing clamor.

“Let them be,” Kissa whispered. “Wanting what the other has is part of their nature.”

“I could do without that particular aspect of their personalities,” I had replied, watching my sons quarrel. “They are determined to make me miserable.”

But at least we managed to make lulavs together without destroying the Sukkot spirit of celebration.

Like the Feast of Unleavened Bread and the Passover Feast, the Feast of Tabernacles was a pilgrimage festival, requiring Jews from all over the world to come to Jerusalem if they were able. Thousands of people had streamed through the gates of the city, coming from Galilee, Egypt, Samaria, and other regions near and far. Standing in a recently constructed tower at the high priest’s palace, no matter where I looked I saw temporary shelters crowding corners, doorways, and rooftops. Every unoccupied wall in the city had been partially or completely covered by some family’s sukkah.

My heart lifted as I descended the tower stairs and went back to my bedchamber to dress. Kissa and I would enjoy the celebration today. My little grandchildren would wave their lulavs and hear how HaShem brought us out of the wilderness into a land flowing with milk and honey. Perhaps this would be the year they began to understand the miracle of it all.

With Kissa’s help I dressed quickly, then led her and a few of the other servants from the house. Holding tight to each other’s hands lest we be separated in the crowd, Kissa and I slipped into the throngs of people moving toward the Temple. The morning sacrifices were finished, so the people were now waiting for the water ceremony that commemorated the drawing of water from the rock at Horeb.

Today and each of the remaining days of the festival, a priest would take a golden ewer from the Temple and go out to draw water from the pool of Siloam. He would then carry the filled vessel back to the Temple, moving through the Water Gate and into the inner court. Once he had reached the altar, he would pour the water into a silver basin while ceremonial trumpets blew and other Levites chanted the words of Isaiah: “With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation.”

Any priest could conduct the ceremony, but on this first day of Sukkot, Jannaeus had elected to perform the honor, probably for the sake of the grandchildren. He informed me the night before, and I had been pleased to see him taking more interest in the Temple ceremonies.

Kissa and I slipped through the courtyard and made our way into the inner court. From where we stood I could see the bloodstained stones of the altar and the expectant faces around it. The trumpeters stood in their place, instruments in hand, and the choir stood opposite them, ready to sing HaShem’s praises.

I smiled as I spotted several family groups among the crowd. Fathers raised their little ones onto their shoulders while mothers held on to the children’s lulavs until it was time to wave them toward the north, south, east, and west.

One young girl held a citron close to her nose, happily breathing in the lemony scent. “Look at that one.” I elbowed Kissa. “Isn’t she adorable?”

Kissa smiled. “Perhaps you will have another granddaughter soon.”

“If HaShem wills it . . . and I hope He does.”

Finally we heard the roar that signaled the high priest’s approach. Jannaeus had reached the Water Gate and would soon cross the Temple courtyard. We would have to wait only a few more moments . . .

There! I glimpsed the high priest’s blue robe moving through the crowd. Though I could not say I loved my husband, as a wife and righteous woman I had to respect him. HaShem had placed him on the throne of Israel for reasons I did not understand, and so long as He kept Jannaeus there, how could I not honor the man?

I pasted a smile on my face in case Jannaeus should spot me. But as my husband walked past the line of Levites who kept the people from crowding the altar, I sensed a shift in the mood around me. The spirit of jubilation vanished once the people saw which priest would perform the rite. The faces that turned toward Jannaeus as he climbed the altar’s stone steps were surly and filled with disdain.

I cannot say what went through my husband’s mind in the moment he held the golden ewer above the silver bowl. He was supposed to pour water into the bowl, but as he looked out over the sea of disapproving faces, he adjusted his grip on the jug and poured the water onto his sandaled feet.

An audible gasp rose from those at the front of the assembly, followed by a rumbling growl that spread through the crowd. The angry faces flushed, and before I realized what had happened, men began to throw the only weapons they had—citrons. The yellow fruits flew through the air, pelting Jannaeus’s shoulders, head, and body. The rain of citrons followed him as he hurried down the altar steps and struck him as he ducked and ran through the line of Levites, finally disappearing into one of the storage rooms.

I stood motionless, my hand at my throat, and only Kissa’s insistent tug snapped me out of my paralysis. “Hurry!” she said, yanking on my sleeve. “It would not be good for you to be recognized in this crowd.”

Unable to think of any other response, I lowered my head and fled with her.

When Kissa and I reached the house, I went immediately to the reception hall where I paced and prayed that Jannaeus would return from his humiliation and ask himself why his people had been so angry. But though I prayed diligently, I knew the episode would not end as I hoped because my husband had no gift for introspection. HaShem had allowed this to happen for a reason, and an event as momentous as this had to have a significant reason behind it.

Two hours later, I heard a full report of what had taken place after my husband fled the crowd. When their citrons could no longer reach him, the people began to shout that Jannaeus was a bastard and unfit to be high priest. The taunts only inflamed my husband’s temper, and he reacted by sending the Temple guards into the crowd, telling his men to “kill them all.” The Levites who served as guards went after the crowd with the same zeal their forefathers had shown in the wilderness, striking left and right at brothers and friends and neighbors, whoever stood in their way.

After Israel danced around the golden calf, the Levites killed three thousand men. After Israel threw citrons at Alexander Jannaeus, the Levites killed six thousand.

I could not help but see a pattern, but to me the first killing was righteous, while the second . . . ?

Part of me wanted to say it was wrong. Jannaeus reacted in anger because the people hurt his pride. On the other hand, he was the Lord’s anointed high priest, and to disrespect him was to disrespect Adonai. Or was it?

I could not settle the matter in my mind, yet Jannaeus had not finished. To further signal his displeasure, he had the Levites place wooden barriers around the Temple’s inner chamber and the altar, declaring that henceforth only the priests would be allowed to observe the sacrifices—a sight that had once been available to any Jewish man, non-menstruating woman, or child.

So he denied his people access to the home of their God.

Disappointment and despair struck me like a blow in the stomach when I heard the news. I had to turn away and choke back the bile that rose in my throat. This was too much! The wicked priest indeed! Just when I thought Jannaeus had gone too far, he strode further into wickedness.

“My queen?” The poor messenger who had delivered the news waited for me to release him, which I did with an anguished gesture. Then I collapsed in a heap on the cold tiles of the vestibule.

“Shelamzion!” Kissa knelt beside me an instant later, her hand on my shoulder. “You must rise. Do not let anyone see you like this. They might report your reaction to your husband, and that one must never think you are weak.”

I lifted my blurry gaze to Kissa’s face. “I have tried to respect him, even to love him, but how can I be a party to this? He murdered people in the Temple. In the presence of Adonai he struck out because they wounded his pride. And then, not content with bloody revenge, he barred them from HaShem’s presence.”

“Wipe your tears, mistress.”

“And my sons! They were in the crowd, along with my precious grandchildren. The little ones saw the horror and heard the screaming. Will they ever be able to visit the Temple without remembering this horrible day? It is too much! I cannot bear it.”

“Rise, Shelamzion.” Kissa murmured soothing words as she helped me to my feet. She quickly escorted me to my bedchamber where I could mourn in private.

Jannaeus did not return home after the massacre at the Temple. He went instead to the Baris Tower, where he summoned his generals and turned his ferocity toward the enemies of Judea.

I should not have been surprised. Whether or not he would admit it, I suspected that he was ashamed to face me. Either that or he had hardened his heart to the point that he wanted nothing to do with a woman who strove to live a righteous life.

Jannaeus erected barriers against me in other areas, as well. I would not have known anything of his military battles if Ezra Diagos had not faithfully written me. Every week or two I would receive a message informing me—in impersonal terms—of the Judean army’s activities. As a parting note, Diagos would inquire about my health and assure me the king was well.

After reading his letters, I would wrap them back onto a spindle and hide them away. I was grateful I never had to tell Diagos I could no longer see him. Something in me wondered if he had sensed the dangerous attraction between us and decided to remain at a distance, but I found it more likely that HaShem had come between us.

From Diagos’s reports I learned that Jannaeus had launched a campaign against the Nabatean Arabs who lived east of the Galilee. The Nabateans, overwhelmed by the size of the Judean army, petitioned the Seleucid king, Demetrius III, for help. Diagos wrote that Jannaeus should have lost that campaign, but six thousand Jewish soldiers who were fighting for Demetrius defected to our army. Alarmed to lose so many warriors, Demetrius fled the field.

Feeling invincible, and taking such events as signs that HaShem approved of him, Jannaeus returned to Jerusalem and the high priest’s palace . . . and his wife. He did not seek me out, however, but was immediately beset by advisors and priests, who crowded the reception hall and reported increasing unrest and displeasure among the people of Jerusalem.

I did not feel the need to repeat what he was hearing from his most trusted advisors. I rarely spoke to him, even during the rare meals we shared, but every king has informants and Jannaeus had an army of spies. He learned about the Essenes, who had left Jerusalem and established a community in a secret location near the Dead Sea. He was not happy to hear that their writings referred to him as “the wicked priest,” but as long as they remained far from Jerusalem, he was willing to let them stay in the desert.

The Sadducees, for the most part, were satisfied with my husband’s rule, for they controlled the Sanhedrin and the Temple. They were the wealthy ruling class, and because they claimed to be descended from Zadok, Solomon’s high priest, they lent an air of legitimacy to Jannaeus’s priesthood.

But the Pharisees, who followed the Law and spoke out against everything from forced circumcisions to bloodshed in the Temple, were not content to merely protest my husband’s actions. They met in covert groups and investigated ways by which they could overthrow Jannaeus and put someone else on the throne.

I was not happy to hear that some Pharisees were planning insurrection. History had taught me that the dethroned king and his family usually ended up dead or in prison, and I did not wish that fate for myself or my sons. But neither could I endorse Jannaeus’s open persecution of righteous people.

Apparently forgetting that his father was once a devoted Pharisee, Jannaeus behaved as if he had been born a Sadducee and let it be known that he would not tolerate dissension. When he learned of groups that had formed against him, he had the organizers rounded up, arrested, and tortured until they confessed the names of their coconspirators. For six agonizing years he conducted a campaign of terror, searching out Pharisees in home meetings, outlying villages, and Jerusalem haverim.

What did I do while my husband killed more than fifty thousand righteous Jews? I retreated to my room and wept. I prayed. I fasted. I tore my garments and wore sackcloth—all because I could not be of one mind about the situation. I did not want to see godly people executed, but neither could I turn a blind eye toward those who would kill my sons and grandsons to prevent other Hasmoneans from ruling Judea.

In the early days of the persecution I feared for the lives of those in my havurah every time Kissa and I slipped away from the palace. I prayed with my eyes open, half expecting soldiers to burst through the door before the meeting ended. I finally realized that my involvement in such a fellowship endangered the lives of others.

Simeon ben Shetah continued to come to the palace for my Torah study, but he came less frequently and always appeared nervous when he visited. I told him I would understand if he chose not to come, yet he insisted that as long as I was willing to learn, he was willing to teach.

Did I fear for my life? No. Jannaeus knew I was a Pharisee, but he also knew I did not want him to lose his position. I believe he thought that having a devout, Law-obeying wife ratified his actions in the eyes of the people.

As time passed, I came to believe that Jannaeus did not persecute the Pharisees because they had conspired against him, but because their commitment to HaShem made him feel guilty. As high priest, he should have been closer to HaShem than anyone else, but how could he be holy with the blood of so many innocents on his hands?

Night after night I lay awake in my bed and wondered if I were also guilty before HaShem. Was I complicit in my husband’s sin because I did not stop him?

Many times I thought of Grypus, who knew plants and their unsavory uses, and Salina, who had almost certainly poisoned Judah Aristobulus. She had done it for the good of the nation, yet her husband had not killed nearly as many as Jannaeus.

I had been taught to honor the Ten Words, and I obeyed them instinctively. I kept the Sabbath, I did not take the name of my God in vain, I did not worship graven images, and I did not steal or covet or bear false witness.

Would there ever come a time when HaShem would allow me to disobey You shall not murder?

I thought that time had come when my sons and I returned from a visit to the winter palace in Jericho. The streets of Jerusalem were quiet when we reentered the city, and I noticed that doors and windows had been shuttered or boarded up. I shot Kissa an inquisitive look and she returned it. “I am sure we will hear the latest news when we return home,” she said. “If not from the servants, then from someone in the king’s service.”

Kissa and I had just stepped through the doorway when one of the kitchen slaves, a pale girl from across the Great Sea, ran into the vestibule and dropped to her knees in front of us.

I glanced at Kissa. “Is this some new form of greeting?”

“Excuse me, mistress,” the girl said, folding her hands as her voice trembled, “but the entire household has been shaken by what happened last night.”

I steeled myself to hear the dreadful news. “Tell me, please.”

Tears welled in the girl’s eyes and flowed over her cheeks. “The king . . . the king your husband—”

“Slowly now, collect yourself,” Kissa counseled. “You need not fear your mistress.”

“I know. But what we saw . . .”

“Take a deep breath,” I told her. “And tell us everything.”

The girl inhaled, then stared over Kissa’s shoulder. Whatever she had seen last night, she was seeing it again.

“Eight hundred men,” she said, her voice flat. “Eight hundred Pharisees.”

I tried to keep my heart calm, for it had begun to race at the mention of so large a number.

“The king crucified eight hundred Pharisees,” the girl said, “in the Valley of Hinnom. And while they hung on the execution stakes, the king’s mercenaries murdered the condemned men’s wives and children in front of their eyes. And while—” the girl choked on a sob—“while the air filled with the screams and cries of dying women and children, the king and his concubines sat and feasted on a platform overlooking the valley.”

Grief drove me to my knees. The Valley of Hinnom lay south of the city. It was where pagan worshipers used to meet to sacrifice their children to Baal and Molech.

Jannaeus could not have chosen a more cursed spot.

As Kissa cried out and my sons came running from the courtyard, I beat my breast and wondered why HaShem had allowed such a terrible tragedy. Why didn’t He remove Jannaeus from the earth? Why had He spared my husband so often on the battlefield? Why was this bloodthirsty king allowed to continue his murderous rampage?

Where was the Messiah, the Savior HaShem had promised?

Hyrcanus scooped me up and carried me upstairs to my bedchamber. Kissa put me to bed, where I lay in a dark stupor for several days, unwilling to face another day where I felt helpless and torn. I wondered if I would ever rise from my bed again.

But one morning I woke with a lighter heart—as if HaShem had planted within it a seed that sprouted in the middle of the night. The fruit of that seed? A psalm that kept running through my mind:

Though the wicked spring up like grass,

and all evildoers flourish,

it is only to be ruined forever.

But You, Adonai, are exalted forever.

For behold, Your enemies, Adonai

—behold Your enemies perish—

all evildoers are scattered . . .

The righteous will flourish like a palm tree . . .

Planted in the House of Adonai,

they will flourish in the courts of our God.

They will still yield fruit in old age.

They will be full of sap and freshness.

They declare, “Adonai is upright, my Rock

—there is no injustice in Him.”

Later that day, I would come across a scroll written by one of the Essenes. It contained a prayer not unlike my own:

Rise up, O Holy One, against King Alexander Jannaeus and all the congregation of Your people Israel who are in the four winds of heaven. Let them all be at peace and upon Your kingdom may Your Name be blessed.

Because Simeon ben Shetah would not come to the palace, I wrote him a letter and sent it with a personal servant:

Greetings, highly esteemed teacher!

I have spent many days praying and studying, all to find the answer to one particular question. Is it right to commit murder in order to save many innocent lives?

You taught me that the Torah’s laws are intended to enhance life, never to cause death. So whenever observance of the Law endangers life—such as allowing a killer to live so he may kill again—the requirement to observe the Law is suspended.

But you have said there are four instances where the Law takes precedence over life: we shall not worship idols or commit adultery, incest, or murder.

So, with great difficulty, I have put the thought of murder out of my mind, even though I may have to watch others die or even find myself and my sons in danger.

If I have misinterpreted the Law, please write to me at once. You need not sign your letter—I will know who sent it.

Pray for me, as I pray for you and your family.

S.A.

That afternoon a messenger knocked on my door and said the king wished to see me at dinner. He was hosting important men from the Sanhedrin, and he wanted his queen in attendance.

I told the messenger I would come and had Kissa begin to dress my hair.

An hour later I found myself in the banquet hall, seated on the couch next to Jannaeus’s. He bowed his head when our gazes crossed, and I sent him a chilly smile in acknowledgment. A moment or two later, our guests streamed in—a half-dozen Sadducees and their wives, all of them dressed in silks and jewels and finely crafted leather sandals.

Mindful of the many eyes focused on us, I tried to maintain a pleasant expression, though I wanted nothing more than to turn to my husband and scream accusations. But when a king held the power of life and death, a queen could not scream out her frustrations, nor could she rebuke him without risking her life.

I was not foolish enough to trade my life for a fit of self-indulgence. I also lacked confidence in my ability to sway a stubborn fool with words from the Torah. Jannaeus had counselors—members of the Sanhedrin—who were supposed to counsel him in legal matters, but they despised the Pharisees and Essenes as much as he did.

So what was I to do, except avoid him?

One bit of good news sustained me during that troubling evening. I knew that most of the remaining Pharisees had fled Jerusalem for Egypt, where they would remain until they were sure they could safely return to their homes. When I heard how few remained in the city, I sent Kissa to inform their leaders that I would supply horses and wagons for any who needed conveyance. I would not let them remain in Jerusalem as long as their lives were endangered.

I reached for my goblet and sipped the sweet wine. Not only had Jannaeus denied the common people access to their God, he had also chased the Pharisees away from the Holy City.

As the king reclined on his couch and reached for his first bite, we followed his example. Then, looking around the gathering, he noted with some dismay that we had no Torah teachers in attendance.

Smiling wistfully, Jannaeus looked at me. “Would that we had someone to say grace for us.”

I inclined my head in a gesture of respect. “I could send for someone, but you will have to swear you will not harm him.”

His eyes narrowed for a moment, then he smiled, playing to his guests. “I swear it. Any Pharisee brave enough to remain in the city need not fear me.”

I gestured to Kissa. When she came near, I asked her to fetch Simeon ben Shetah, who had been staying with Josu Attis ever since the king crucified the Pharisees.

When Simeon arrived, Kissa escorted him to the dining chamber where I introduced him to the gathering and seated him on the end of my couch. I gave him a smile. “Sit here and see how much honor the king pays you.”

The corner of his mouth twisted. “It is not the king that honors me, but the Torah. For it is written: ‘Exalt her, and she will promote you; she will bring you honor when you embrace her.’”

I glanced at Jannaeus, who had never given anything but perfunctory attention to Torah study. “Indeed.”

Simeon stood and offered the blessing: “Baruch atah A-donay, Elo-heinu Melech Ha’Olam shehakol nihiyah bed’varo.” Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, by whose word all things came to be.

When he had finished praying, I asked Simeon if he would like to stay for dinner. “No,” he said, pitching his voice for my ears alone, “but I will remain until you are finished. I would have a word with you before I go.”

I nodded, understanding his anxiety, and promised to meet him as soon as I could slip away.

When the last guest had gone, Jannaeus and I stood alone in the vestibule. He turned, caught sight of me, and bent at the waist in a respectful bow. “Good night, wife.”

I bowed as well, having long found myself without words when facing my husband. What could I say that I had not already said? He knew I disapproved of his actions. He knew I did not love him. He ought to know that I worried about his eternal soul.

I was walking toward the stairs when a hissing sound caught my attention. Kissa stood in the shadows, gesturing for me to come closer.

“Your teacher is waiting to say good-bye,” she said, pointing to a dark room off the vestibule.

I found Simeon waiting in the shadows.

“My heart nearly stopped beating when I received your summons,” he said, the corner of his mouth twisting. “My wife fainted.”

“I am sorry to have caused you distress. I hoped the summons would go out in my name.”

“Given our long relationship, I would have suspected the king behind any summons from this house. The king would lie, I believe, to catch a Pharisee who opposed him.”

He folded his hands at his waist—in an effort, I think, to refrain from touching me during this difficult farewell. He took a deep breath and adjusted his smile. “As much as it pains me to leave the Holy City, I am leaving for Egypt. My wife and I will leave on the morrow.”

Though I had been expecting such an announcement, I still felt the pang of loss. “The king swore he would not harm you.”

“A king who will lie will not keep an oath. So we are going to Egypt and will return, if HaShem wills, if—when—Jannaeus is no longer king. Until then, Shelamzion, know that you will be in our thoughts and prayers.”

I folded my hands too, though I wanted to draw him into an affectionate embrace out of simple gratitude for all he had taught me over the years.

“I would not be . . . I could not be the woman I am without your guidance,” I said, my chest tightening with unexpressed emotions. “I am so grateful.”

“It was not I who guided you,” he replied. “It was the Torah. And though I am leaving, you will always have the Torah with you. If not on a scroll, then here”—he tapped his chest—“and here.” He tapped his temple. “Blessings on your head, Shelamzion. I hope to see you again.”

I stood silently and watched him go, my heart breaking. Over the course of my life I had lost my father, my uncle, and now my Torah teacher. To whom could I go when I needed godly guidance?

Not to my husband, nor to either of my sons.

Only to the Torah . . . and HaShem.