Chapter Fifteen

Judah

At daybreak I had brought a mule out of the pasture, hitched her to a wagon, and set out for the City of David. Mother reacted with joy and fear when I announced I was going back to Jerusalem—she worried I might be attacked in the war-torn city, yet she hoped I would be able to bring back a report on her friends who still lived there. I kissed her good-bye, then stopped at my house to take one last look at my sleeping bride. If I were to die on this trip, I wanted to carry Leah’s image with me into the afterlife.

She did not wake when I opened the door, so I studied the shape of her young face, then backed out as quietly as I had entered. The sooner I began my journey, the sooner I could return.

The well-worn track led me down a rocky slope to the plain, where the residents of Modein had planted olive groves and vineyards. A little farther on, pastures teemed with goats and sheep. All seemed peaceful in the bright light of early morning.

Yet worry bedeviled me as I rode—what would I tell Leah if I found her parents dead? She was a quiet girl, and I still knew so little about her. She had seemed pleased to wed me and she was an obedient wife, but was she happy? What did she want from life, and from me? The questions felt too personal to ask aloud, and she had never offered to share her dreams.

Did she even have any?

An approaching caravan snapped my thoughts back to reality. I was not alone on the road. I met several caravans coming from the port at Joppa, wagons and camels laden with goods from Egypt, Rome, and Tyre. Several red-caped Roman soldiers rode with the caravans, undoubtedly guarding the richly dressed merchants. A tax collector, recognizable by the stylus hanging from his belt, rode atop a lanky camel, counting coins in his palm even as he rocked with the ponderous beast.

I also passed refugees coming from what remained of the holy city. Entire families traveled on the road, their feet gray with dust and their faces marked by runnels of sweat. Mothers with their infants tied to their backs or carrying toddlers in their arms. Few of them rode in wagons, and fewer still traveled with supplies. They had fled with their most precious possessions, their children, and their lives.

Finally I caught a glimpse of Jerusalem. The great wall that had rimmed the holy city lay in pieces on the hillside like blocks tossed by a giant. Two of the wall’s distinctive towers had been torn down, and smoke still drifted upward from a nearby valley. As I rode closer, I recognized the unforgettable scent of burning bodies and realized that the governor’s men were burning the dead.

I entered at the Joppa Gate amid a flock of bleating sheep. With the stink of death in my nostrils, I turned the mule away from the shepherd and his flock. I left the beast and wagon at a stable and made my way through burned-out buildings to the Tyropoeon Valley, home of the cheesemakers, the only home Leah had ever known. The valley lay between Mount Moriah and Mount Zion, and the buildings in that area appeared to have escaped the flames.

The marketplace was but a shadow of what it had been when we left, but a few valiant merchants had set up booths to feed the city’s starving survivors. I walked past baskets of dried figs, a bakery offering hard loaves, and a merchant selling soot-covered jars of Arabian spices. Not enough to make a meal, perhaps, but something to fill the belly.

Then I reached Leah’s booth . . . and found it empty. I turned, not knowing if I should keep searching the market or make my way to her house.

A sharp voice cut into my thoughts. “If you’re looking for the cheesemaker, he’s dead.” I turned and saw a woman with brazen red hair leaning against a post.

“What happened to him?”

The woman groaned. “Didn’t I say it would happen sooner or later? He dined and drank with the Seleucids, that’s what happened. Apparently he got into an argument and pulled a knife on one of the king’s men. He always had a temper, and now he is dead.”

I considered this news, and felt relief. “What about his wife?”

The woman—surely a harlot, to have hair that unnatural—lifted a meaty shoulder and shrugged. “Haven’t seen her. But nobody has been in that booth since the governor’s men came through the gate.”

I nodded my thanks and set out for Leah’s house.

I found my wife’s former home without much trouble. The fires had not touched this part of the valley, and the little house appeared deserted—the door hung askew on its leather hinges and a jagged bit of fabric dangled from a window.

I moved closer to the rough wooden door. I heard no sound from within, but the door was closed, so someone might still be inside. I knocked and heard nothing. Leah’s mother must have fled, especially if she no longer had a husband to protect her. But where would she go?

I was about to leave when a neighbor across the street thrust his head out of a window. “She’s in there,” he said, pointing to Leah’s door. “Aren’t you the big fellow who married their daughter?”

I nodded.

“Then have a care and take Sabra out of here. She’ll die unless someone takes her away. The governor’s men knocked her around before they killed her husband. Left her for dead, I’d wager.”

Without waiting to hear more, I pushed at the unbarred door and entered the house. The small table had been overturned, the bench tipped over. A female form, covered only by a thin piece of wool, occupied a straw mattress.

I knew a man should not look at a woman who was not his wife, so I turned my eyes away. But that quick glance assured me that the neighbor had spoken the truth—Leah’s mother would not live long without proper care.

“I’m going to find some food for you,” I said, hoping she could hear me. “And then I will take you to your daughter in Modein. You will live with my family from this day forward. Our home is not large, but you are welcome in it.”

She did not speak, yet when I glanced her way again, I saw an uplifted hand and fluttering fingers. She was still alive.

I hurried out the door, determined that I would not have to tell my wife that both her parents were dead.

For three drachmas I hired a woman to remain in the house and care for Sabra until she was strong enough to travel. By sunset of the second day Leah’s mother had regained her voice, and her first words to me were a question: “Is my daughter well?”

“She is.”

“Is she happy?”

I knelt by the woman’s side and observed the mottled bruises on her arms and face. “I believe so. I know I am happy with her. Life is good in Modein—our village is so small, the king’s men do not bother with us.”

A ghost of a smile flickered at the edges of Sabra’s mouth, then she closed her eyes and slept.

On the morning of the fourth day, I carefully lifted my mother-in-law and carried her to the wagon where I had padded the bare boards with a few blankets and other fabrics I found in the house. Traveling with a sick woman and a stubborn mule would not grant me a speedy journey, but my bride would be happy to learn she had not been orphaned.

We were half a day’s journey past the ruined city walls when I spotted a man and his horse on the side of the road. The beast, a magnificent Arabian, was refusing to lower his foreleg while the rider struggled to calm the high-strung animal.

After glancing at my passenger to make sure she slept, I stopped the mule and climbed down from the wagon. The balding man wore the colorful robes of a Seleucid diplomat, and his clean-cut face assured me he was not Jewish.

Thinking of Jerusalem, which lay in ruins and ashes because of this fellow’s king, I approached cautiously. “Is your horse lame?”

The man pulled himself up in a vain attempt to look me in the eye. “I have nothing against Jews,” he began, “and I had nothing to do with what happened back there.”

I frowned. “Did I accuse you?”

“Well—” He blew out a breath. “I don’t know horses, you see, and this creature nearly threw me before he stopped.”

“He’s not yours, then.”

“Rented.”

“Ah. Well, he’s a magnificent beast. My brother would love this animal.” As the stallion tossed his head, I caught the reins and held them, then rubbed my hand over the animal’s jawline. The stallion’s eyes were wild with pain, and his breath came fast and heavy through his wide nostrils. “Have you examined his hoof?”

The foreigner, who barely came up to my breastbone, gave me a sheepish look. “I am a man of letters, friend. I would examine his foot, but he makes me nervous. What if he were to kick all the letters out of my head?”

“He might,” I admitted, suppressing a smile, “if you make him nervous.”

I murmured soft shushing sounds and handed the reins to the little man. “Hold them firmly, with no sudden movements.” With the horse’s head secure, I ran my hand down the stallion’s foreleg, then bent the leg to examine the hoof. Bracing my shoulder against the stallion’s side, I spotted a pebble embedded in the tender flesh inside the hard outer surface. I clucked in quiet sympathy as I tried to slip my finger into the space, but the pebble was too deeply embedded.

“I see the problem,” I said, easing the leg back down, “but I will need a tool to solve it.”

“If I can do anything to help—”

“Just hold his head,” I said, walking toward my wagon.

I took a short knife from a leather pouch by the driver’s seat. I returned to the stallion, bent the creature’s foreleg again, and managed to slip the blade between the pebble and the soft interior of the foot. By pressing my finger near the pebble, a quick twist of the knife forced the pebble to pop out and rattle over the hard ground.

Before lowering the leg, I observed that the interior part of the hoof was red and swollen. The poor animal had borne the pain for as long as he could.

“This animal needs to rest,” I told the man. “Ride him gently—or better yet, lead him—and at the next town, find an inn with a stable and put him up for the night. Give him good food and let him rest. The swelling should go down during the night, and you may be able to continue your journey tomorrow. Avoid roads with small stones, and do not ride him hard on the way home.”

“Thank you.” The man patted the huge horse on the shoulder and smiled. “I am called Philander, and I owe you a debt.”

I shrugged. “You owe me nothing. You owe the horse a gentle ride.”

“Will you at least let me provide a meal at the next town? Please—my mount will be able to rest while we break bread together.”

I tilted my head, considering. He had a point. Though this foreigner was completely undeserving of that magnificent horse, and though his king had desecrated our Temple and destroyed our capital city, I was hungry . . . and, if the truth be told, a little weary of hearing myself think.

When we reached Beth-horon, a small mountain town mostly inhabited by shepherds and goat herders, we went to an inn across from the village well. Philander led his horse to the nearby stable while I checked on Leah’s mother. Sabra appeared to sleep soundly, but I would check on her again before returning to the road.

Philander noticed my sleeping passenger. “Is your mother ill?”

“My wife’s mother.” I managed a small smile. “I cannot forget to bring her something to eat when we leave.”

“You are a good son-in-law—better than most, by far.” Philander led the way into the inn.

Like other inns in Israel, the place was little more than a family home with an extra table for guests. I sat at the table and Philander sat across from me. The owner lifted a brow when he saw us, probably surprised to see a Jew sharing a meal with a Seleucid dignitary.

“What can I get you?” he said, coming over.

“Whatever you have.” Philander folded his hands and smiled. “Anything but pork.”

The innkeeper and I shared a quick look—why would this heathen object to eating swine?

When the innkeeper moved away, Philander lowered his voice and leaned across the table. “I know you have no reason to trust me,” he said, glancing around, “but I am sympathetic to your cause.”

“My cause?”

Philander shook his head. “Your clothing gives you away. You wear a long tunic, you still have your beard, and your head is uncovered. You are one of those who cling to the laws of your fathers—what do they call you? Hasidim?”

I hesitated. Was this some kind of trap?

“Anyway,” Philander went on, “I respect your position. After all, we Greeks cling to the religion of our fathers. Yet our king feels he can impose his religion on others. Not even the Persian kings attempted that.” He propped an elbow on the table. “Now I have a question for you. You were leaving your capital city, and you had to be upset by what you saw. Yet you stopped to help me, a man who is obviously affiliated with the enemy. Why did you do so? Were you planning to kill me and take the horse?”

I snorted. “I have never killed anyone, and I am not likely to start now. Truth be told, I didn’t want to stop for you. But the Torah commands us to show hospitality to strangers.”

“Even the enemy?”

“‘If your enemy is hungry, give him bread to eat,’” I quoted, “‘and if he is thirsty, give him water to drink.’” I smiled. “The Torah commands us to treat a foreigner as we would the native-born among us. We are to regard you as we regard ourselves, for we were once foreigners in the land of Egypt.”

Philander stared at me, his fingers absently tugging at a few straggly hairs on his chin. “An altruistic god. Fascinating.”

I braced my elbow on the table and rested my chin in my hand. Either this Philander was truly sympathetic or he was trying to catch me saying something that would merit a death sentence. “You say you live in Syria?”

“In Antioch—yes, the king’s capital city. You might as well know the whole story: I work for Antiochus. I’m one of his scribes.”

“A man of letters.”

“Yes. As I said.”

“What brings you to Judea?”

The little man sighed. “The king’s business, of course. I brought a packet of messages to Apollonius. The king sent me because I am—how did he put it?—invisible. No one would suspect an unassuming man like me to be carrying messages from Antiochus Epiphanes. You, on the other hand—you will never be invisible.”

I felt a slow grin stretch across my face. This man was so honest, so unassuming, I was tempted to believe every word out of his mouth. But how likely was it that I would encounter one of the king’s scribes on the lonely road to Modein?

“If you really work for the king—”

“I do.”

“I was trying to think of some way you could prove yourself. But I can think of nothing.”

Philander shook his head. “You lack creativity, my friend. Ask yourself—why would a little man like this be traveling on a valuable horse and not know how to care for it? If I were a wealthy merchant, I would have goods to sell or pocketsful of money. If I were a military man, I would certainly know how to care for my mount. If I were a farmer, would I have hands as clean as these?” He held up his hands, displaying soft pink palms and manicured fingernails.

“You could be a spy.”

He laughed aloud. “If I were a spy, would I identify myself as one of the king’s scribes? I would pretend to be something I am not, so I am obviously who I said I am. I could be nothing else.”

The host stepped over to our table, carrying a wooden platter loaded with two cups of wine, a loaf of crusty bread, and two generous hunks of goat cheese. Philander pulled a slender moneybag from his belt and paid with gold coins, then jingled the bag before my eyes. “Hear that? I have just enough to get home. No wealth here, and none hidden on my horse.”

“I’m not going to rob you.”

“Good.” The man bit off a chunk of cheese, then made a face. “Not as good as that of the king’s house, but better than starving.”

I sampled the cheese, too. “My wife makes cheese, and hers is better than this.”

“You have a wife—children?”

“Not yet.”

“Where do you live?”

I narrowed my eyes. For one who was not a spy, he asked a lot of questions. “Why would you want to know?”

Philander shrugged. “Because I enjoy conversation. Fine, don’t tell me where you live, but do tell me your name. After all, I gave you my name without hesitation.”

“I am called Judah Maccabaeus.”

He wrinkled his nose. “What does that mean? Something to do with your god?”

“It means hammerhead. Because I like to pound things.”

The scribe’s round eyes went wide. “Should I be more careful with my words? A diminutive man like me might not survive a good pounding.”

“Mostly I pound people who blaspheme HaShem,” I answered. “And I haven’t heard you do that.”

“Nor will you.” Philander broke the bread and selected the smallest piece. “I have learned it is not wise to come between a man and his god. The king has other ideas, but I don’t subscribe to them—I only write them down. And I like you Jews.”

“Why?”

“Why not? You keep to yourselves, mostly. You are a literate people, and as a man who prizes literacy, that is a great virtue. You have persevered through many persecutions—present, past, and, I daresay, future.”

“Why would we face persecution in the future?”

“Why does the fox chase the hare? Because he is always hungry.”

I considered his answer and decided that Philander was an honest and practical man. At least he seemed to view the world with clear eyes. “I cannot find fault with your opinions.”

“Then let us be friends, finish our meal, and depart in peace.” He lifted his cup and held it before my eyes. “To you, Judah Maccabaeus—a swift journey and a prosperous life.”

I couldn’t help myself. I lifted my cup, too. “So be it, Philander the scribe.”

Because his horse needed rest, I left Philander at the inn and continued on.

Sabra said very little on our journey. I thought she might be a quiet person by nature, which helped explain Leah’s reserve. My wife might have inherited her mother’s quiet disposition just as she inherited the woman’s nose and jawline.

Though we traveled slowly, I pressed to reach Modein within a single day. I did not want to spend a night with a woman to whom I was not married, no matter who she might be. A righteous man of Israel should not do such a thing.

And, if I am honest, I was also motivated by the thought of sleeping with my wife in my own bed.

The road had emptied by sunset; most travelers had turned aside for dinner and a good night’s rest. The sun dipped below the horizon and turned the sky blue-black, then the residual light disappeared and left us with a diamond-spangled sky. Fortunately, a round moon lit the countryside, coating the worn road with a silver sheen.

I was humming one of Father’s favorite hymns of ascent when a voice startled me: “That is beautiful.” Startled, I turned and saw Sabra lying on her back, one arm pillowing her head, the other extended as if she could catch stars with her fingers. Was the woman losing her mind? Or was this her way of expressing admiration for Adonai’s handiwork?

“It is,” I answered, watching for her reaction. “Nearly as beautiful as your daughter.”

I expected some sort of reply, but the woman simply smiled and lowered her hand to her belly, apparently content to ride the rest of the way in silence.

Darkness lay heavy on the horizon by the time I reached Modein. I pulled up outside my father’s house, hitched the mule to a post, and woke my sleeping passenger. “This is my parents’ house. I am going to wake them, then we will get you settled.”

The quiet sound of steady breathing was the only reply.

Father came to the door, his eyes wide and his hair standing up around his head. He glanced beyond me and saw the wagon. “Did you find Leah’s parents?”

“Her mother,” I answered. “The cheesemaker is dead. The mother is not well. The governor’s men beat her.”

“Bring her in.”

“I was going to take her to our house—”

“She’ll be more comfortable with us, son. I’ll wake Rosana.”

By the time I brought the frail woman inside, my mother had prepared a pallet near the fire. I laid Sabra on it, then gave my mother a grateful smile. “I do not know how badly she is hurt,” I said. “But I’m sure Leah will be relieved to hear her mother is safely out of Jerusalem.”

“Do not worry.” Mother squeezed my hand. “She will receive tender care here with us.”

While Mother knelt by the woman’s bed, Father took me aside. “How fares Jerusalem?” he asked, unspoken pain glowing in his eyes. “What damage did the heathen do this time?”

I took a deep breath, uncertain of how honest I should be. “The damage is severe,” I finally said. “The walls are down, and the city is crowded with the king’s men. Entire neighborhoods stand empty and burned out. Children wander through the ruins looking for their parents. Food is scarce. The survivors are trying to help the injured and restore order, but the task will not be easy.”

Fresh misery darkened Father’s face. “Is it so truly bad?”

“The rumors we heard are all true. The enemy has established a citadel in the old City of David, and they are using stones from the destroyed walls to fortify their position. They will be close enough to the Temple to observe anything done there.”

Father groaned.

“That’s not the worst of it. The men doing the work are not all Gentiles. Many are Jews who have given themselves over to the king’s men.”

“And his gods.” Father frowned, then spat on the floor as if the thought of such betrayal had left a sour taste in his mouth. “At least we are no longer there to witness the desecration. I am grateful Adonai led us away. We will stand for Him here, in Modein, and we will welcome others who join our cause.”

I glanced around, wondering how my father’s house was supposed to hold the others he spoke of. He and Mother would be crowded by the addition of even this refugee.

“Go home to your bride.” Mother stood and slipped her arm around my waist. “Tell Leah not to worry about her mother. We will care for her, and she can remain with us for as long as she likes. But no newly married couple needs a mother hovering in the shadows of their home.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Mother pressed her fingers across my lips. “Go home, son.” Gently she pushed me toward the doorway. “And tell your bride she may visit her mother in the morning.”