She didn’t tell her mother or Miriam about their precarious financial situation, for fear it would push them into another spiral of despair. Panicked, Esther went over and over what her father had written, trying to understand what it all meant.
They had enough food—for now. They had milk and cheese from the goats, eggs from the chickens, and vegetables from the kitchen garden. But they had only a few coins left to buy wheat and barley, and she still needed to pay the stonemason. If she didn’t pay him soon, he might not finish the work. He might change his mind or get so busy with the construction of the wall that he wouldn’t have time. She couldn’t take a chance; her father’s and Shimon’s eternal life depended on having a resting place for their bones.
The family had some valuable possessions—her father’s vases, the ones that used to cast rainbows on the walls in his office; the Purim scroll; and their silver candelabra—but who would buy them now? And her mother would know if those things were missing. Esther could sell Lazar’s bracelet; she didn’t know how much it was worth, but it was silver and it was heavy. It would fetch a good price, but how would she explain its disappearance to Lazar? Maybe she could tell him it fell off her wrist or that it was stolen from her in the market. Or she could track Tiberius down, through Zahara, and claim what was legally hers.
But now that her father was dead and the Roman administration, with its courts and clerks, had evacuated, maybe Tiberius had decided to keep the money. With no one to enforce the contract, it was worthless. She could never bring it before a Jewish court, since it proved her father was a collaborator.
Still, her father had trusted Tiberius. And she trusted her father. She would leave word for him with Zahara, like Tiberius had told her to do.
Esther dreaded going back to Zahara’s pub. The memories of the riot were still vivid, too vivid. The street looked the same. The hole in the wall where Matti had hidden with the kitten was still there.
Esther knocked. No answer. She knocked again. Then, a click of the peephole, and the squeak of the hinges. Finally the door cracked open. Zahara had the same wild hair, the same mole on her chin, and the same all-seeing eyes.
The place was empty and quiet, so different from the last time. But this time, Zahara seemed eager for the company, and stepped aside to let Esther in.
“Do you want me to read your fortune?” Zahara offered, seemingly not surprised to see her.
“I don’t have any money,” Esther said.
“My treat.” She motioned for Esther to sit and told her to pour some oil from a jug into a glass beaker. Zahara studied the oil as it spread out on the surface and then broke up into little drops.
“What do you see?” Esther asked.
Zahara looked at the beaker again and pronounced, “You need a man.”
“I need money.”
“Isn’t it the same thing?”
“I’m betrothed,” said Esther, “and that’s already one too many.”
“There are different kinds of olives,” Zahara said slowly, as though she were talking to a small child. “Some you eat fresh, some are dried, some are salted, and some you have to pound to get rid of the bitterness. You have to work them before they’re useful, but we can’t live without them.”
“You do. You’re free.”
Zahara shook her head. “No woman is free. Only men buy my drink and rent my rooms. No Jerusalem matron would dirty her soles on my doorstep, except…,” she said, fixing Esther with her shrewd stare, “someone very desperate. Women want my help but hate me for giving it to them.”
Esther shifted uneasily.
Zahara sat back in her chair. “So, what’s wrong with your betrothed? Is he a rebel?”
“He’s making the coins for the new government.”
“Then he’s perfect,” she laughed, “even though he’s a rebel. They’re worse than the Romans. Romans are corrupt and incompetent, but the rebels…well, they’re just mad. Still, your man will always have money, and that’s no small thing.”
“He gave me a bracelet. I’ll sell it if I can’t get my money from Tiberius.”
Zahara sat up. “Tiberius?”
“He owed my father money from a shipment. But now that my father’s dead, Tiberius owes me the money instead. I need it to pay for the ossuaries.”
“I heard about Shimon. I’m sorry,” Zahara said, suddenly solemn. She muttered the Hebrew words of comfort: May you know no more sorrow.
Esther inclined her head slightly, in a gesture of gratitude.
“If Tiberius owes you money,” Zahara said, “you’ll get it. But I heard he went to Alexandria for business. I don’t know when he’s coming back.”
“He said you could get a message to him.”
She nodded. “Sometimes. His agent brings me food.”
“The stonemason wants his payment, and I don’t have it.”
She opened a drawer and pulled out a small bronze disc with a hole in the middle. “This will protect you.”
“I don’t need protection; I need money.”
“We always need protection.”
Esther realized that her words might have sounded ungrateful. “Thank you,” she said, spinning the disc on her fingertip. She didn’t know why she had been so apprehensive about coming; Zahara was nice, even if she was just an innkeeper.
“What will it protect me from?”
“Disease, evil spirits—both flying and resting—and miscarriage.”
“Miscarriage? I don’t plan on having a baby—at least not yet.”
“We don’t plan on a lot of things that happen,” Zahara said. “I didn’t plan on being an innkeeper in Jerusalem. And yet, here I am.”
“Because your husband died?”
“That’s what I tell people. It’s simpler that way. Otherwise, they gossip—say that I’m the daughter of a slave, the illegitimate daughter of a priest, or a whore. No one seems to know, but they’re sure anyway that there are sins in my skirt.”
Esther regarded her with a newfound curiosity. “You’re not a widow?”
“I wish. That would mean the old bastard’s dead. But no such luck. He’s still where I left him, on our farm near Gamla.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Esther waited for her to continue.
“He tried to get rid of me when I refused him a second wife. He accused me of adultery—me! After he bedded every woman in the village…” She wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips as though she’d just bitten into an unripe fig.
“Where did you get the money to open the inn?” Esther asked.
“Aaah…,” Zahara said, leaning back again in the chair. “Now, that’s another story. I rented a room in a house with an old man. One night, I had a dream that I would find a buried treasure in his garden, under the oak tree. So the next day, I dug—and found a box full of gold coins with Emperor Augustus’s image.”
Esther frowned.
“What’s the matter?” Zahara asked.
“I thought you were telling me the truth.”
“I am.” Zahara smiled and ran her fingers through her hair. “But it’s a different truth. The old man died, and I found his savings. What does it matter? He couldn’t take it with him.”
As Esther stood up to leave, she noticed the graffiti and drawings on the walls. “Aren’t you scared to have pictures on your wall? It’s a sin.”
“I have bigger sins to worry about,” Zahara said, waving her hand dismissively.
Esther stared at the wall, almost completely covered with lewd sayings and sticklike images. She drew a sharp breath when she noticed a detailed portrait in the top corner: a nude girl in front of a window.
“It’s forbidden to draw people,” Esther said quickly, looking away. She didn’t want Zahara to know she recognized herself.
“Not for a Roman.” Zahara wore a knowing smile. “Tiberius talked about you. He was worried. He’s one of the good ones,” Zahara said, “the kind you don’t have to pound.”