Leah
When the unthinkable happened, I did not wonder whether Mattathias was right or wrong to kill the king’s men. I did not think at all. I simply sat on my bench and stared as wave after wave of shock slapped at me.
But as the blood of four men seeped into the dirt, I knew my father-in-law’s actions had forever changed our lives. When the king heard about this, he would seek revenge. He would publicly punish us to demonstrate the high cost of rebellion. We might run, but we could never be anonymous. Everyone knew Mattathias, the priest with five sons, and soon everyone would know what he had done in Modein.
We might run, but we would never be able to hide.
The king would send his men, and next time they would not come with turtledoves and wearing fancy clothes, but with swords and armor. They would not ask us to comply; they would kill us without discussion. They would execute not only the priest, but anyone affiliated with the village of Modein.
The pleasant, safe life I had enjoyed since my marriage was over.
With the other women, I walked home without speaking. Morit walked with me, her hand never leaving the mound of her pregnant belly. Even if by some miracle she survived whatever the king had in store for our family, the king’s edict would forbid her to circumcise her son. But how could she refuse circumcision when she was Mattathias’s daughter-in-law? She would take a knife in her hand and do it. The king’s men would find her and they would kill her and her baby, probably in full view of everyone.
Overcome by a wave of gratitude because Judah and I had not yet conceived a child, I went weak-kneed and nearly stumbled.
Ona caught my arm. “Are you all right?”
I blinked at her. “Are you?”
“Perhaps . . . perhaps things are not as bad as we think they are.”
I glanced at Morit, who kept her head low, then looked back at Ona. “What are your thoughts?”
“I’m thinking”—she lowered her voice—“that I will have to leave our home and my flax field, that we will wander like the Israelites of old, and I will not be able to take my loom.”
“And you think that is not so bad?”
“Alive is always better than dead.”
I swallowed and looked back at the village center, empty now but for the four dead men, three horses, and Jael’s wife, who wept over his body.
“I am sure we will all make sacrifices,” I answered, thinking of the dusty soil I had hoed and the many buckets of milk I had carried from the goat pen. “But will we be safe? We are a small group of people, and the king has an army—”
“Mattathias is an old man.” Neta stepped closer and cut into the conversation. “If he is captured and executed by the king’s men, then he is reaping what he has sown. He has already lived a full life and sired five sons. He may choose to sacrifice his life, but we do not have to be captured with him. Our husbands do not have to fight for him.”
I winced, taken aback by her attitude. “I—I am not sure I agree with what he did here today, but I would never wish him ill.”
“I do not wish him dead.” Neta shrugged. “But sometimes the old are inflexible and unable to change their ways. Did you hear about Eliezer of Jerusalem?”
Morit, Ona, and I shook our heads.
“The old man was a scribe,” Neta said, speaking quietly. “Some of the king’s officials invited him to a feast. They served meat from the sacrifice offered to the king, and Eliezer took a bite and spat it out when he learned he was eating swine’s flesh. The king’s men took note of it and were eager to punish him, but other Jews took Eliezer aside and begged him to get some lawful meat and eat it, pretending that he was eating from the king’s sacrifice. If he would do so, the king’s men could not accuse him.”
“Good advice,” I said, considering. “He could maintain his conscience and save his life.”
“Yet some people cannot recognize good counsel.” Neta frowned. “Eliezer considered their words, measured them against the Law of Moses, and then told the other Jews to send him straightway to the grave. He said it wouldn’t be right for a ninety-year-old man to pretend to be eating pig because young people might think he had left the worship of Adonai in his advanced age. He said he’d be a hypocrite to pretend, and while it might keep him from being killed by the king’s men, it would not allow him to escape the hand of Adonai. So he chose to leave a good example by refusing to eat, saying he would die willingly and courageously for the holy laws.”
“He would not listen to them?” I asked, aghast. “When he could have saved himself so easily?”
Neta gave a taut jerk of her head. “And thus a wise old man became a fool,” she said. “And those who had been his friends became his enemies. When he was ready to die, he said he was content to suffer being beaten and killed because he feared God.”
“So he died for nothing,” I finished, guessing the end of the tale. “Leaving his story as an example of courage and virtue to all who would throw their lives away.”
Neta nodded in agreement, Morit’s eyes widened in alarm, and Ona chewed on her thumbnail. We were all wondering if Mattathias would follow the example of the old scribe . . . and lead us to certain death. Would our husbands insist on following their father? Would we perish in the desert or die at the hands of a Seleucid executioner?
One thing was clear—we had no time to consider such questions. The patriarch of my husband’s family had sent us to pack. I would obey, but not because I believed in his cause.
I would pack because to remain in Modein almost certainly meant death.