Miriam looked up in surprise. “I—” She thought quickly. What Simeon had told her last night about his mother still left her feeling strangely confused. And yet Miriam too was frustrated that they had come so far and at such risk only to run into a wall of stone. She took a quick breath. “I do not agree with what Rome stands for, nor with what they do. But neither do I believe that blind faith can offset the power of an empire. If we do not make some accommodation to reality, there will be no more Zealots or Sadducees, or Judea or Galilee or anything else.”
Deborah nodded, watching as Miriam carefully sprinkled a dusting of fine sand on the ink, let it absorb the liquid for a moment, then blew it away.
Miriam rolled the parchment up carefully, then held the stick of red wax over the flame of the candle that burned on the table beside her. When it was soft, she pressed the sealing wax over the edge of the paper, then immediately took her father’s signet ring and pressed his mark into the wax. She blew on it, making sure it had hardened, then handed the scroll to Deborah.
When she realized that this woman wasn’t going to respond to her comment, Miriam almost let it go, relieved in a way that her own answer had not brought a stinging rebuke. But something inside her could not let it pass.
“May I ask you a question?” she said, putting her writing materials back in the bag.
“Of course.”
“A few minutes ago you spoke of mothers whose sons may spill their blood trying to make things right. Doesn’t it concern you—” She caught herself. Of course it concerned her. Miriam had no wish to sound arrogant or condescending. She started again. “And what if you send your sons to war and it all proves to make no difference? What if it is a war that we cannot possibly win?”
Deborah slipped the scroll inside her robe. She started to turn, still not answering, then thought better of it. “May I tell you a story?”
“Yes.”
“Not so very long ago, a family who lived near here was visited by Roman soldiers, come to enforce an unjust tax assessment. Even though everyone, including the Roman officer, knew that this assessment was terribly unjust, the direct product of a corrupt system upheld by Rome, no one was willing to take a stand against it. No one dared stand up to the Roman way.” She spit out those last two words with complete disdain. “The father had gone to raise the money but had been delayed in his return. The family explained all of this to the soldiers, but even though he believed them, the Roman officer would not give them an extension.”
Her voice had gone very quiet now, and Miriam leaned forward, watching her closely, hanging on every word. At first she had thought it was going to be a parable or allegory of some kind. The Galileans were famous for those. But now she knew she was hearing a description of an actual event.
“The officer ordered the house and all that the family owned to be seized and the mother and her children to be sold into slavery.”
She looked directly into Miriam’s eyes. “It was fruitless to resist. There was no way anyone in this family could make a difference. There were well over a hundred soldiers either in the courtyard or outside in the street. There was no way that family could possibly win. None.”
Miriam colored as she realized Deborah had deliberately chosen to use Miriam’s own words.
“But one of the family decided that he had to act. He didn’t consider the danger. He didn’t stop and add up the numbers or calculate the possibility of winning. He decided to do what was right, not what was safe. He was wounded terribly that day. It nearly cost him his life, in fact.”
Miriam was suddenly aghast. “I saw Simeon’s scar,” she whispered. “It was him, wasn’t it.”
Deborah’s eyes were glistening as she looked out the window of Yehuda’s small home. “Another man came the following day and confronted the Romans. It was foolish and stupid. There was no way that he could change the mind of Rome, and yet he did. He freed his wife and daughter and saved them from an unthinkable fate.”
“I’m sorry,” Miriam said, for the first time beginning to understand what made the Zealots so frightening to the Jerusalem leadership, and for the first time wondering if her father and the others were right in what they were doing.
Deborah’s eyes came back and held Miriam fast. “Tell me, Miriam of Jerusalem. If you were to ask that family if blind faith is a foolish thing, what do you suppose they would say?”
Miriam couldn’t answer and had to look away.
Deborah’s eyes softened as she lifted the scroll. “Thank you. I will bring a response from Sepphoris as soon as possible.” She made as though to leave, then stopped again. “Do you know why my son wears no beard?”
Caught completely off guard by the question, Miriam could only shake her head. “I had noticed,” she mumbled, “and wondered.”
“It is so that he can enter Tiberias or any other Gentile city and pass himself off as a Roman.” She bit her lip. “Do you know what that does for me as a mother? To know that he walks into the lair of the lion and tweaks his whiskers?”
Miriam nodded numbly, pummeled by the pain in Deborah’s eyes.
“Well, I am the one who told Simeon to go clean-shaven because that’s how strongly I feel about what must be done.”
Miriam was staring at her writing materials. She could not bear to meet Deborah’s burning eyes. “I’m sorry,” is again all she could manage to say.
As she started for the door, Deborah stopped for a moment beside the table where Miriam sat. She breathed deeply. “That smells wonderful,” she said with a tiny smile. “What perfume is it that you wear?”
Surprised, Miriam looked up. “It—It’s from Ephesus. They call it the Rose of Diana.”
“It’s very lovely.” And with that, Deborah of Capernaum went out the door, leaving the daughter of Mordechai ben Uzziel to stare after her, deeply regretful that she had been so foolish as to speak her mind in this matter.
Chapter 6
But thou, Bethlehem Ephratah, though thou be little among the thousands of Judah, yet out of thee shall he come forth unto me that is to be the ruler in Israel; whose goings forth have been from of old, from everlasting.
—Micah 5:2
I
23 March, a.d. 30
Simeon and his father took the road that led northeast out of Beth Neelah. They passed through the village of Cana, then began dropping swiftly down the sides of the “bowl” in which the Sea of Kinnereth nestled. As they moved down the narrow road that snaked its way back and forth from the tops of the ridges to the shores of the sea, they looked directly down on the city of Tiberias. Located at the site of some hot springs that sprang from the mountainside on the western shore of the lake, Tiberias was the most Gentile city in this part of Galilee.
Built by Herod Antipas, son of Herod the Great, and named for the emperor as a way of gaining favor with Rome, the city had very few Jewish inhabitants. Though he did not know it at the time he began construction, Antipas chose a site that covered part of an ancient burial ground. In the Torah any contact with a dead body was said to defile a person. When the Jews learned that the city was being built on a graveyard, all but the most secular of them refused to live there.
That Jewish attitude was fine with the Romans and the other Gentiles. Tiberias was one of the few places a Roman citizen could walk down the streets without feeling a thousand eyes of hate raking over him. It was also a beautiful city, built largely of marble and stone in the finest Roman style. The Herods were masters at currying favor with the emperor.
Simeon and his father often visited the city, which was about ten miles south of Capernaum, because a prosperous part of their business was bringing in the supplies needed to keep a city running. The more devout of the Jews would not sell directly to Gentiles because they believed that contact with the goyim, or Gentiles, as they called all non-Jews, defiled them. Simeon’s father viewed that as ridiculous. Defilement came in many ways, but not through interaction with a non-Jew. So David had set up contacts with various
merchants in Tiberias—a butcher, two different bakers, a spice monger, a sandal-maker, and the city’s largest supplier of woven goods. He brought in the raw materials they needed and in turn helped them market their finished products not only in Tiberias but in the other towns up and down the shoreline of Kinnereth. The residents of Tiberias were pleased because they liked the quality of the Jewish products, and the Jews that David represented were pleased because they had access to a profitable market without having to compromise their strict standards by dealing with the goyim directly.
Leah loved Tiberias and begged to go whenever her father went there. Simeon did not like it at all. In the first place, one could hardly walk a dozen paces without meeting Roman soldiers, a sight that always made his stomach knot up and his flesh crawl a little. The other problem was that Simeon always felt like the inhabitants of the city reacted to the few Jews they saw with one of three emotions—faint condescension, open disdain, or idle curiosity. Each of these three attitudes irritated Simeon so deeply that he always came away angry, so he stayed out of the city as much as possible.
As they came to the junction where the road turned right to Tiberias and left to Capernaum, they turned left, but the sight of Tiberias got David started talking about business. He reviewed the things in Tiberias that needed attention to keep their business running smoothly. That discussion lasted well past Magdala, and only as they approached the little village of Kinnereth did the conversation finally lag.
Simeon waited until he was sure his father was really finished, then spoke. “Father.”
“Yes, Son?”
“Mother said you have something to tell me.”
One eyebrow lifted. “She did? About what?”
“She said I should ask you about Bethlehem.”
His step slowed.
“She said it would help me better understand why you feel so strongly about going south to see this John the Baptist. She said it was time I knew about it.”
He said nothing for several moments, then finally nodded.
Simeon grinned. “I didn’t think a father was supposed to keep dark secrets from his children.”
If he heard, his father made no sign. His eyes were far away and his expression quite solemn. Simeon’s smile faded. “What is it, Father? Can you tell me?”
His eyes focused again, and his head slowly bobbed once or twice. “I think your mother is right. It is time that you know.”
The sun was high now, and along the shores of the lake the air was hot and humid even though it was still only the end of the month of Adar, just past mid-March as the Romans reckoned the calendar. It was common knowledge in the empire that the Sea of Salt, or the Dead Sea as the Gentiles called it, was far below the level of the Great Sea, the Mediterranean. But outside of the Holy Land, few knew that the Sea of Kinnereth, the Sea of Galilee, was also below the level of the Great Sea, some six hundred feet below that level, if the Roman mapmakers and engineers could be trusted. So even though the temperature in the highlands had been pleasant, at these lower elevations it was getting oppressive, and both father and son were sweating as they walked briskly along.
David pointed to a large fig tree off to one side of the road. “Let’s stop for awhile. We’re making good time.”
“Good.” Simeon was very curious now. It would be better to hear this, whatever it was, without being interrupted by someone they knew passing them on the road.
Together they moved over into the deep shade and found a place where the grass was thick and soft. They sat down facing each other and got settled. Now that he had decided to go ahead, David seemed anxious to do so and began immediately.
“What I am about to tell you, I have not spoken of for many years now, except with your mother.” He paused, then added. “This happened thirty years ago next month, during Passover season.”
“So you and Mother were not married yet.” Simeon hadn’t really made it a question. He knew that his parents were soon to celebrate the twenty-ninth year of their marriage.
“No. We were betrothed. We had been for almost a year by then, but we didn’t marry until the following spring.” He paused to collect his thoughts for a moment, then went on. “I used to tell everyone I met about it. I was so excited, so on fire with it. In fact, I felt I had an obligation to do so. But then—” He sighed. “As the years passed and nothing more happened, people began to give me strange looks, or openly scoff. I felt this was too sacred to be treated in such a manner. Once your grandfather died, I—”
“Grandfather was there too?” Simeon cut in, not sure what any of this meant.
“Yes. And your cousin Benjamin.” He began to rub his eyes. “When the years became decades and nothing more happened, I began to wonder if I had misunderstood or—” He sighed yet again. “So I decided I would not speak of it openly anymore until I knew more.”
“What?” Simeon said, thoroughly puzzled now. “What happened?”
His father looked suddenly sheepish as he realized he had gotten lost in his own memories. He leaned forward and began. “As you know, my father’s sister, your great-aunt Sarah, married a Levite. As you also know, the various orders of the priesthood have responsibility for supporting the temple rites. Now that Jerusalem has grown so large, and with tens of thousands coming into the city for the annual feasts, it takes many people to support the operation of the temple. The various courses of the priesthood are responsible for all the practical aspects of keeping the temple operating—cutting wood, purifying the sacred oil for the great menorah, preparing the sacrifices, baking the shewbread that is put in the Holy Place each Sabbath.”
“Yes.” Simeon didn’t understand all the complexities of the various courses of the Levites, but he knew that it took literally thousands to do all that had to be done.
“Well, one of those courses is responsible for caring for the animals that are used in the sacrifices. With all of the various offerings—the sin offerings, the trespass offerings, the thank offerings, the daily sacrifices—keeping sufficient sheep on hand is a major task as well. Your Great-Uncle Seth belonged to that order of the Levites who were in charge of the temple flocks, which were tended around Migdal Eder, the fields just north of Bethlehem.”
Again Simeon was nodding. His Uncle Seth and Aunt Sarah had both been gone for several years now, and Simeon’s memory of them was somewhat blurred, but he knew it was considered a great honor that there was a Levite in the family who served the temple, even though only as a shepherd.
“Our family always went down to Bethlehem and celebrated the Feast of Unleavened Bread and the Passover with Uncle Seth, Aunt Sarah, and Benjamin. They had enough room for us, and Bethlehem is only six miles from Jerusalem, close enough that we could participate in the celebrations at the temple. With hundreds of thousands of people coming to Jerusalem for Passover each season, it is very difficult to find lodging of any kind, so we considered ourselves fortunate.”
His face softened in a gentle smile. “It was wonderful. Of all the cousins, Benjamin and I were the closest. He was only a year younger than me, and he and his family would always come to the Galilee in the summer and spend time with us as well. We were more like brothers than cousins.”
“I think of Benjamin and Esther more like an uncle and aunt than as my cousins,” Simeon agreed. “Of all your family, they are my favorite relatives.”
“Yes, I know. Ephraim feels the same. That is why they named little Esther what they did. Well, anyway, in this particular year I was sixteen and Benjamin was fifteen. Our family arrived in Bethlehem a day or two before the Feast of Unleavened Bread was to begin. It was the usual hectic rush. My mother would always help Aunt Sarah clean house and make sure every speck of leaven was removed. They would shop together in the markets to get the matzos bread, the bitter herbs, and all the other things we needed for the seder meal. It was hectic but a wonderful time.
“One of the things I always enjoyed the most,” he went on, “was that Father and I would go out and ten
d the sheep with Uncle Seth and Benjamin. It’s usually lambing season at Passover season, so we would go out and sleep in the fields with them and help make sure none of the newborns was lost.” He flashed Simeon a smile. “For a boy who spent his life in the city as the son of a merchant, the shepherd’s life seemed wondrous to me.”
None of this was new to Simeon. Benjamin and Esther had moved to Jerusalem, but Simeon had often heard his father talk about those earlier times.
Now his father’s voice grew soft as the memories came back to him. “This year at first seemed no different from any other. It was Uncle Seth’s turn to spend the night out in the fields. He asked my father and me and Benjamin to help. Benjamin and I stayed behind at the house for a little while to help Aunt Sarah do some things, so we were alone as we started out of the city to find my father and uncle.
“Like every other night during Passover, the city was an impossible clog of people. Every street was thronged. You could barely push your way through. You could hear a dozen languages as you made your way, and take in every smell imaginable. It was wonderful.
“Then—” He stopped and his eyes half closed, as though he was picturing it in his mind. “As we made our way along, we were passing this khan, a caravanserai near the center of Bethlehem. Every place of lodging was full; every room within twenty miles of Jerusalem had long since filled and filled again to overflowing. But this was a large khan. We could see into the great center courtyard as we passed. It was filled with camels and donkeys, chickens, pigs, cattle, boys selling food, men taking cages of doves to sell to the temple officers. Around the courtyard people were camped in every vestibule, their cooking fires filling the air with smoke.”
He smiled. “For a young man used to the quieter life of Capernaum, it was a grand sight. But anyway, we were passing by this khan. Benjamin and I were laughing and talking and not paying much attention to what was going on around us. Then as we passed the door of the keeper of the khan, I noticed a man and a woman there, inquiring about lodging. I guess that’s why I noticed. I can remember thinking, ‘You’ve only just come to Bethlehem and are looking for a place to stay? Don’t you know anything about Bethlehem at Passover time? Everything has been completely filled now for more than a week.’ I can remember feeling sorry for them, because from what we could see of the woman’s face, she looked like she was sick. I heard her husband say something about needing to find a place where she could rest.”