Then he leaned back, and the scar was gone.
A noise behind her made her sit up. Yehuda was still flat on his back, but his eyes were opened, watching her. “That’s Daniel.”
“Yes, he looks like you,” she whispered, mindful that the others were still sleeping.
He nodded gravely. “Not everyone is born with such good fortune.”
She clamped a hand over her mouth to cut off the laugh that had exploded from her.
He grinned lazily. “My mother was some woman,” he said earnestly. “Can you imagine producing two such handsome devils?”
She laughed softly, in control again. “No. She must be very proud of you.”
His grin faded. “She died several years ago now.”
“I’m sorry.”
He waved that away with his hand, obviously not wanting to say more. Then his eyes moved back to the two men downstream from them. There was clear affection in his eyes now. “Look at him, would you—hanging on every word. You’d think it was Simeon who had been father and mother to him instead of me. He never—”
“Simeon?” Miriam said in surprise. The Galilean actually had a name?
Yehuda looked surprised. “Of course. Had we not spoken his name before now?”
She shook her head.
“Sorry. That is Simeon, son of David of Capernaum, though some of us prefer to call him Ha’keedohn.”
Miriam jerked bolt upright. “The Javelin? Simeon is the Javelin?”
Yehuda laughed, a deep rumble in his chest. “So you have heard of Ha’keedohn?”
She sat back, staring. Ha’keedohn, the Javelin, was the name that was most frequently mentioned of late in the Great Sanhedrin in Jerusalem. He was the worst of what the Zealot movement was capable of producing. A charismatic leader. A fearless fighter. Daring. Bold. Reckless. So bitter was his hatred against everything Roman that they said even the most hardened rebels spoke his name with a touch of awe. It was men like the Javelin who were the reason for the meeting in Sepphoris.
She leaned back, her mind still reeling. Then she realized that Simeon and Daniel were staring at her. Evidently they had heard her burst out, though she hoped they had not heard her words.
Seeing that Yehuda was awake now as well, the two stood up and came over to join them. She realized that her face was hot as he looked at her curiously.
“Isn’t this where Gideon destroyed the Midianites?” she asked to cover her embarrassment.
“Yes. This is ‘Ein Harod,’ the Spring of Trembling.”
She nodded. One of Miriam’s favorite stories from Jewish history, recorded in the book of Judges, was the story of Gideon. Called by the Lord to help throw off the yoke of the Midianites, Gideon sent out a call to the twelve tribes for men to join the army. More than thirty thousand soldiers had answered that call. The Lord told Gideon that was too many, that he wanted Israel to know the victory belonged to the Lord and not their own force of arms. When Gideon invited those who so desired to return home, twenty thousand immediately left. Miriam loved that part. Better to identify the fainthearted then, than in the heat of battle. But the Lord said ten thousand was still too many. When they reached a small brook, the very brook where they now were, the Lord told Gideon to watch how the remaining men got a drink. If they set aside their weapons and lay flat on their stomachs, they were to be rejected. If they dropped to one knee and scooped up water in their hand, all the time watching for possible attack, they were chosen. Of the original thirty-two thousand men, only three hundred were retained, but with that three hundred a great battle was won that night.
Miriam explained why she had asked her question. “I thought of Gideon when I saw Yehuda stop to drink at the stream earlier.”
Simeon’s eyes flicked to his friend.
Miriam turned to Yehuda, glad for this diversion. “You didn’t lie down,” Miriam said to him. “You scooped up water in your hand, just like Gideon’s men.”
“It is a good thing,” Simeon growled, “for when Yehuda lies on his stomach it takes a windlass and a team of oxen to get him up again.”
Miriam swung back in surprise. Though his face was still sober, the sand-brown eyes were laughing at his friend. He was actually making a joke!
Adjusting the quiver he was using for a pillow, Yehuda winked at Miriam and then closed his eyes again. “When the puppies yap at the heels of the bull, only the puppies are impressed by the noise.”
Livia had sat up beside Miriam. She clapped her hands in delight. “Well said,” she exclaimed.
Yehuda turned and gave her a warm smile, pleased with her response.
“Please,” Simeon pleaded, flashing a startlingly boyish look at Livia, “don’t encourage him. The only thing about Yehuda that is as large as a bull is the size of his pride.”
Yehuda closed his eyes again. “The pup is fortunate that the bull is contented and full.”
“And unable to get up,” Daniel said dryly. Before Yehuda could retort to that one, Azariah the Pharisee suddenly woke up. He straightened, clearing his throat. Mordechai ben Uzziel also rolled over and sat up. As suddenly as it had come, the humor in the man they called the Javelin was gone, and the bowstring tautness was back. He watched with narrow eyes as the Pharisee went to the stream and washed carefully before reaching for more of the food.
Everyone was aware of the sudden change of mood except for Azariah, who was humming some tuneless melody to himself as he munched on a large slice of cheese.
Finally Simeon let his eyes come back to Miriam. This time she did not flinch under the probing gaze, but met it steadily. “We have moved with much haste since this morning,” she said softly. “I fear we have not properly thanked the five of you for what you did this morning.”
He shrugged, but she wouldn’t let him brush it aside. “Each of us has much to be grateful for.” She felt an involuntary shudder as the searing memory of Ya’abin’s hot breath on her neck hit her. “I, most of all.”
He nodded soberly; then the humor touched his eyes again. “Actually, I think it is Ya’abin who owes us a debt of gratitude. Once inside that tent, I don’t think we could have saved him from you any longer.”
She flushed, realizing that what she saw on his face was genuine praise.
Yehuda finally got up to a sitting position, but it was his brother who spoke. “Had we delayed any longer,” Daniel said, he too with admiration in his eyes, “there wouldn’t have been a man left in camp without a mark from your dagger.”
Miriam felt a little thrill of pride. She understood that these men did not give praise lightly. Then the humor in Simeon’s eyes went out again as sharply as a candle blown by the wind. He turned to look at Miriam’s father. “Why do you bring women with you into the countryside when it is common knowledge that men like Moshe Ya’abin roam unchecked?”
Her father reared back a little, caught completely off guard by the swiftness of the change and the bitterness in the accusation. When he spoke, his own voice had a touch of asperity in it. “Who I travel with and why is my affair. We hired those extra men to guard us. If it hadn’t been for my steward’s treachery—”
“My father didn’t want me to come,” Miriam cut in quickly, irritated by the sudden switch in mood. “But I serve as an informal scribe to the Great Sanhedrin, and they asked that I come in that capacity.” Which was not completely true. As a scribe Miriam could write almost as fast as a person could speak, and so she had done much work for her father, some of which included his responsibilities on the Great Council. When she learned he was going, she asked to come. He had refused, noting there was a slight chance of danger. But she hated it when she was alone, and besides that, her father had business in Caesarea after they finished their business in the Galilee. She loved Caesarea and the beaches surrounding it. So while in most matters the will of Mordechai ben Uzziel was unbending, in this case he had finally surrendered to Miriam’s insistence, learning that he had raised a daughter with a strong will of her own. That was when he ha
d asked Joab, the steward, to hire six additional men to guard their party on the road north. As if that was enough!
Simeon suddenly looked bored with such foolishness and looked away. To Miriam’s surprise, Livia cleared her throat nervously, wanting to speak. Simeon turned back. She brushed at a strand of the blond hair that had picked up a pine needle. “I also thank you,” she said nervously. “When I think what could have happened to mistress Miriam, I—”
“And to you as well,” Simeon snapped.
“To all of us,” Mordechai broke in smoothly. “We are most grateful that you happened by at such a fortuitous time.”
The Javelin and his men quickly exchanged glances. Miriam caught it and suddenly understood. “You didn’t just happen by, did you?”
Yehuda grinned but didn’t answer. Daniel shook his head slowly.
She turned to Simeon. “Did you?”
There was an almost imperceptible shake of the head.
Surprisingly it was one of the other two men who spoke next. “We followed you from the moment you left the Hill of Samuel, north of Jerusalem. We knew Ya’abin was in the area but did not expect betrayal from within your own camp. He was in control before we could stop him.”
Azariah had forgotten his food and was likewise staring at their rescuers. He spoke to Simeon. “But why were you following us?”
He didn’t answer. Yehuda stood up, brushing the needles from the back of his tunic. “It is a dangerous time to travel in Judea. The men of Sepphoris thought it would be well if you had an escort.”
Mordechai’s head came up sharply. “Sepphoris? You know of that meeting?”
Again Simeon just watched them, not answering. Miriam was tempted to turn to her father and blurt out, “Do you know who this is? This is Ha’keedohn, the infamous Javelin.” But she held her peace. She wasn’t sure if Simeon had heard what Yehuda had told her. If not, she didn’t want him to know that she knew.
And then her father seemed to accept the fact that he wasn’t going to get an answer. He nodded, looking at Simeon. “However it came about, we are grateful for the consideration of your leaders in sending an escort. And I, along with my daughter and her servant, offer my thanks to you for your timely intervention in our behalf. I will tell your leaders as much when I see them tomorrow.”
Simeon half listened, absently rubbing a spot on his left calf with his other sandal. Miriam’s eyes followed the motion, then stayed locked there when he lowered the foot again. Here were more scars. These were nothing like the one on his chest, but they still made her shiver a little. Three parallel lines ran vertically down his leg from just below the knee almost to the ankle. It looked as though a huge cat had raked her claws down his shins and left him permanently branded. This young lion had seen his share of conflict.
Simeon was suddenly impatient and looked at Livia. “We have about three more hours before we reach the place where we stay the night. Are you strong enough to continue that much longer if we keep you on the donkey?”
“I am fine now. I can walk.”
Yehuda stepped forward and once again lifted her as though he were lifting a bag of goose feathers and plopped her atop the donkey. “If Yehuda says you are to ride, you shall ride.”
Simeon looked curious now. “You are not Jewish, are you?”
Livia was startled by the question and looked down. “She is Greek,” Miriam answered for her.
The bronzed rescuer swung on her sharply. “Do you view your slave as an ox who cannot speak for herself?”
Miriam recoiled as though she had been slapped. “No, I . . . ”
“She is a woman! A person! Let her speak for herself.”
“I know what she is!” Miriam shot back, stung deeply. “And she is not my slave, only my servant.”
“Only my servant,” he mimicked sarcastically. He swung back to Livia, cutting off Miriam’s retort. “How did you come to be a servant?” The last word was spoken with heavy mockery.
Livia ducked her head, biting her lip.
“Well?” he demanded.
“My parents were slaves to a wealthy Roman patrician in Alexandria. When he lost his fortune through foolish business dealings, we were sold to pay his creditors.”
Miriam stared at the pale girl standing next to her. Livia was two years older than Miriam, and Miriam’s feelings toward her were more like that of a sister than a servant. Her father had brought her to their house five years ago, and in all that time Miriam had assumed her family to be dead. She realized with a stab of guilt that she had never really asked.
“Where is your family now?” the Galilean persisted, gentle now as he addressed her.
Tears welled up and trickled down her cheeks. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
Simeon’s face was like flint as he turned on Miriam. “Moses made the selling of another human being punishable by death. So today we pious Jews let the Romans do the unacceptable for us.”
“She’s not a slave,” Miriam said, realizing how weak it sounded even as she spoke.
He shook his head in disgust. “If you lash a burden on a donkey, calling him a horse doesn’t make the burden feel any lighter.”
He spun abruptly and started away, the disgust clearly written on his face.
Mordechai, Azariah, and, surprisingly, Yehuda all began to speak at once, springing to Miriam’s defense, but it was Livia’s voice that cut through them all.
“I was not finished speaking!” she cried.
Simeon of Capernaum stopped; then in the sudden silence, he turned slowly back around to face her. Livia brushed at her cheeks angrily, then took a deep breath. “Mordechai ben Uzziel purchased me in the slave markets of Alexandria five years ago. On the day of the purchase he gave me my freedom.”
“That’s right!” Mordechai said. “I gave her the papers too.”
“You freed her to be your servant?” the Galilean cried. “Hail, O noble Mordechai!”
Mordechai was slapping at his leg angrily. Not many in all of Judea dared speak to him in that tone. “I don’t care what you did this morning, young Simeon. You will not—”
“Please!” Livia said sharply. “May I finish?”
Mordechai was shocked into silence. Around the house Livia barely raised her eyes to meet his glance, let alone speak to him. But Livia did not wait to see his reaction. She whirled back to face the Javelin.
“This morning . . . ” She took a deep breath. “When that filthy animal grabbed Miriam, in one instant I knew that—” She turned to Miriam. The tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks, and she made no effort to hide them. “I knew that I was willing to die for her if necessary. She is my family now and . . . ”
Her voice broke, and she dropped her chin. Stepping forward, Miriam touched her arm, her own eyes suddenly burning. Livia raised her head to meet the gaze of the man confronting them. “And when Miriam stepped in front of me to shield me from the man with the bow, I also knew that she was willing to give her life for me.”
Again her voice caught. She stopped, bit her lip, staring at the ground. Then her head came up proudly. “If that is what it means to be a servant, then I accept it gladly, for it is something I never had when I was a slave.”
Miriam threw her arms around her, crying openly now too. Livia’s words had touched her more deeply than anything she could ever remember. For a long moment they clung to each other, then finally pulled apart and faced the Galilean together.
But all anger had left him now. He nodded, looking at Livia. “I understand,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.” His eyes moved to Miriam and held hers for a long moment. She could still see the anger lying just below the surface, but she also thought she could detect a touch of shame there as well.
Then he swung around abruptly to Yehuda. “We must go,” he said. “Daniel, you take the lead now. I’ll watch our back trail.” Without waiting for an answer he strode away, out of the trees and into the bright afternoon sunshine, setting his face to the north.
; Daniel cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence. “Get your things.”
The other men with him looked a little sheepish, and they all three moved away together. The gentle bear Yehuda sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, speaking to Miriam. “Our friend Simeon has many devils that roost in his rafters. Sometimes he forgets to drive them away.”
“I would say that the devils are more in his heart,” muttered Azariah.
Yehuda stiffened, instantly cold. “What would you know of his heart?” he exclaimed. “You don’t even know your own heart, Pharisee. Don’t try to judge the heart of another.”
Miriam looked away. She had to press her hands against the sides of her skirt, so hot was the indignation and shame burning inside her. Earlier, she had thought of this man as the lion, and so he would continue to be—strong, solitary, almost majestic in his aloofness. But Ha’keedohn was the better title. He was hard, unbendable, cold as sharpened steel. Or maybe he would just be Simeon. Simeon the brave but ill-mannered Galilean.
She felt a touch on her arm and looked up into Yehuda’s enormous brown eyes, now saddened. “If it makes you feel better, it is a rare thing for Simeon to apologize.”
“He didn’t apologize to me,” she blurted. “He apologized to Livia.”
His smile was slow and sorrowful. “So you weren’t watching his eyes then?”
Miriam’s head came up, and her eyes widened. She had seen something there.
Yehuda shrugged and turned to the two representatives from the Great Sanhedrin. “Come,” he commanded. “We have much farther to go before you can rest.”
Chapter 4
The stroke of the whip maketh marks in the flesh, but the stroke of the tongue breaketh bones.