“Only five!” Miriam and her father had spoken as one.
“Yes,” the Galilean said. “In less than an hour Ya’abin and his dogs will be out of the hill country and will know that only one man follows them. Then he will return very swiftly.”
That was enough to spur Miriam on. As Yehuda stepped to the tent pole and lifted it enough to allow entrance, Miriam and Livia went into the tent. The four men stood there, awkwardly, not speaking; then suddenly Mordechai started. He was staring at the ground, just beyond where Eliab had dropped to his knees after being hit with the shaft. The Galilean saw his look and turned. There on the ground, where Eliab had dropped it, lay the money bag. For a moment no one moved; then with a leap Azariah pounced for it. But the Galilean was quicker. In one quick movement he had it. He swung back around to face Mordechai, hefting it thoughtfully.
Azariah’s face had turned a furious red, but Mordechai just looked steadily at the young man before him. “You saved our lives,” he said evenly. He glanced at the tent door, his eyes suddenly shining. “And my daughter. What you did for her . . . ” His voice had gone suddenly gruff, and he shook his head quickly. “Take what you will.”
The Galilean hefted the bag again. “How much?”
“I told you!” Azariah snapped. “I told you they were no better than Ya’abin.”
Mordechai ignored him, still meeting the gaze of the other. “About six thousand shekels.”
The Galilean suddenly tossed the money bag, catching Mordechai so completely by surprise that the heavy weight hit him in the chest, knocking him backwards and making him drop both the food and the donkey’s lead rope.
The Galilean’s head bobbed slightly, his sand-brown eyes faintly amused, faintly contemptuous. “We shall ask a tenth. Half for this morning’s work. Half for delivering you safely to your destination.”
Both Sadducee and Pharisee gaped at him. The Galilean turned slightly as he realized that Livia and Miriam had come out from the tent behind him and were watching.
He turned back to Mordechai. “Yehuda and the others have families, or we would not ask that. Agreed?”
Mordechai ben Uzziel shook off his stunned amazement. “Gladly! I will pay twice that for what you did for us this morning, and that again if you escort us to the Galilee.”
The other shook his head quickly. “Such shameless wages would only corrupt my men.”
Yehuda chuckled deeply. “We might even be accused of plunder.”
The young Galilean swung around to Miriam. “Can you walk?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“We are not taking the horses. But we have one donkey. Your servant can ride for a time.”
“We are going to walk?” Mordechai said in dismay. “Wouldn’t the horses be faster?”
“They leave too clear a trail to follow. We’ll cut them loose. They’ll make their way back to Jerusalem.”
Yehuda turned and in one gentle swoop had Livia off her feet and onto the back of the donkey. “Will you be all right?” he asked kindly.
Livia, still pale and drawn, nodded.
The Galilean thrust the donkey’s halter rope into Miriam’s hand. “We must go.” He started away.
Miriam stepped into his path, blocking the way. “Wait! You have done us—” she stopped. “Me!—a great service, and I do not even know your name.”
“Yes,” Mordechai added quickly. “By what name are you called?”
For the first time, a full smile played at the corners of the young man’s mouth, crinkling around his eyes as well. “The Romans call me ‘criminal.’” He glanced at Azariah. “The Pharisees call me ‘infidel’ and are horrified that I do not wear a beard and the peyot. Yehuda here calls me ‘the crazy one.’ And Moshe Ya’abin? I suspect he is calling me things which it would be better not to repeat in the presence of women.”
With that he stepped around Miriam and started back up the path down which he had strode so confidently less than half an hour before.
Chapter Notes
In the age of the Bible, time was marked by the natural rhythm of light and darkness. Each twenty-four-hour period was divided equally into day and night, and each of these were divided into equal twelve-hour blocks. The rising of the sun marked the beginning of the day and its setting the beginning of night. This made their “hours” distinctly different from ours in that the length of the hour would vary from season to season, being twelve shorter periods in winter during the day, and twelve longer periods in summer for the day, with the opposite for the night. Since the Holy Land is somewhat closer to the equator, this variation was not as great as it would be in more northern latitudes.
If we think of sunrise as occurring on the average about 6:00 a.m., and sunset about 6:00 p.m., then it is easy to calculate the time as given in the New Testament. The third hour would be between 8:00 and 9:00 a.m. The end of the sixth hour would correspond to our noon. The eleventh hour would begin at 4:00 p.m. and the twelfth at 5:00 p.m.
Probably from their strong military tradition, the Romans divided the night into four “watches” of three hours each. By New Testament times the Jews had adopted the Roman way of referring to nighttime hours. Thus, the first watch would be from about sundown to 9:00 p.m. The last, or fourth watch, would be from about 3:00 a.m. to sunrise (see Fallows, 3:1661–2, 1714).
In Leviticus 19:27, the Law reads: “Ye shall not round the corners of your heads, neither shalt thou mar the corners of thy beard.” Most scholars agree that this was a prohibition against a practice found among the heathen religions, which made cutting the hair or shaving the beard in peculiar ways part of their religious rituals. Today some of the most strict of the Jewish groups interpret this to be a literal commandment and never cut their sideburns, that is, the place where the beard and the hair join. Thus they develop long side curls, which are called peyot (Hebrew: “edge,” or “corner”). Though no mention is made of the wearing of the peyot in the New Testament, the author has assumed the practice was observed among the stricter sects of the Jews at that time as well.
Many Galileans were indeed fairer in their complexion than most of the other inhabitants of Palestine. After the Jewish captivity in Babylon and their subsequent return, Galilee was left mostly to the Gentiles (see, for example, Isaiah 9:1). Only about 150 years before Christ was it resettled by Jews, and even then there continued to be a heavy influence of fair-skinned people there.
Chapter 3
The deepest rivers flow with the least sound.
—Quintus Curtius Rufus, Alexander the Great, VII.iv
I
22 March, a.d. 30
With a great sigh of relief, Miriam sank wearily onto the grassy creek bank, slipped off her sandals, and thrust her burning feet into the deliciously cool water of the stream. The Galilean, who was scanning the valley floor from whence they had just come, spun around at Miriam’s audible groan of pleasure.
“Not here!” he said sharply. Then, seeing the stab of disappointment on her face, his voice softened and he raised his arm to point. “Follow the stream up a hundred paces, and you’ll be in the trees. We’ll rest there.”
Miriam’s father was instantly to her side and helping her up. “Come, my dear. Just a few more steps.” Azariah the Pharisee likewise moved to her and took one arm.
Miriam jerked away, aware that the Galilean was watching with what looked like a touch of mockery in his eyes. She replaced her sandals, trying not to wince at the pain. She straightened and started away, determined not to limp. This tenderness in her feet was a surprise to her. She walked all the time in Jerusalem. Unlike her father, Miriam was embarrassed to be carried about in a carriage. Besides, she loved the Holy City. Her father spent long hours involved in the management of the Great Council, so Miriam had much time on her hands. Unless the weather was terrible, she took long walks every day, exploring every corner of the rabbit’s warren of streets and alleys and narrow marketplaces. So it came as a shock that in the last hour the bottoms of her feet w
ere starting to grow very tender. True, the pathways and trails they had been following were not paved, but even then . . .
Moving slowly, Miriam followed the stream to where it bubbled from a large outcropping of rock at the base of the steep hillside. The scattered oak and tamarisk trees gave way to a stand of pines that provided a deep and welcome shade. As they left the hammering sunshine, the smell of the pine needles was deep and rich. Miriam started, suddenly aware that two men were there near the spring. It was the other two who served with Yehuda and the Galilean. She didn’t know their names. They had trailed the group at some distance, watching their back trail. Now suddenly they were here. One of them came noiselessly over. He gently took the donkey’s halter from Miriam, helped Livia slide down, then pulled the willing animal over to the creek and tethered it where it could reach both water and grass.
The two men drank quickly, then moved away again, disappearing into the trees. To stand guard, no doubt. Since leaving the camp this morning, they had seen no more sign of Moshe Ya’abin, but it was reassuring to Miriam to know they were not taking any chances.
She turned as Yehuda came up and spoke. “We shall rest here. We must wait for Daniel.”
Miriam’s father grunted. “Is he the one making sure our robber friend does not follow?”
“Yes. He is also my younger brother.”
Livia seemed anxious. “Do you think there was more trouble?”
Yehuda was quick to shake his head. “No.” Then he gestured toward the small stream. “We have about an hour. Rest. I shall get some food.” He moved away.
The four of them sat down, and once again Miriam removed her sandals. She grasped her ankle and pulled her foot around so that she could examine the bottom of it. What she saw was no great surprise. It was deep red, and a large blister was starting to form on the ball of her foot.
She heard a soft intake of breath and turned to see Livia staring. Livia had ridden the donkey all day and therefore had not been on her feet. Miriam warned her off with a quick shake of her head and thrust both feet into the water. She sighed in pleasure as the burning sensation instantly stopped.
An audible groan came from the other side of her. Her father was removing his sandals, a pair carefully crafted from the finest Antiochan leather and which had cost him more than fifty shekels. Earlier in the day, the first time the Galilean and Yehuda had allowed them to stop, her father had wisely wrapped his feet in cloth. Now he was biting his lip as he unwound the cloth, and as he got to the last layer, Miriam saw a dark stain. Then she gasped as he removed the cloth. The bottoms of his feet had already blistered and then burst.
He closed his eyes as he put his feet into the stream, and she saw his mouth pinch a little at the pain. She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. The ample girth beneath her father’s robes bore silent witness to the softness of the life he lived, and yet he had not once complained.
He smiled grimly, patted her hand, and closed his eyes.
A movement caught Miriam’s eye, and she turned. Yehuda and the young Galilean were kneeling beside the blanket they had filled with food, breaking off chunks of bread and slicing off pieces of cheese. Miriam smiled faintly. How different these two were. Yehuda was the gentle bear. She guessed that if he ever became aroused, he would be fearsome to contend with. Otherwise, he was of quick humor and gentle manner. She liked him very much.
The Galilean was an enigma. At the camp he had shown a brief flash of gentleness, but she had seen little of it since. He had driven them relentlessly for the better part of the day, allowing only brief stops until now. He was silent, aloof, almost withdrawn.
She dropped her eyes again when the two men stood and started toward them, conversing in low tones. To her surprise the Galilean came directly to her. He held out a piece of bread and a thick slab of cheese. “I’m sorry. There can be no fire.”
As she took the food, he retrieved some dates from the bag and handed those to her as well. Yehuda gave Livia an equal portion.
Miriam took the offering gratefully. “A stream and a hearty appetite are better than a fire.”
That seemed to please him, and he murmured something in assent. Yehuda broke the loaf of bread into great chunks and passed it to Mordechai as the Galilean sliced off more cheese for them. Her father held the food out to Azariah, but he did not see it. He was staring out across the valley below them.
“Are we out of Samaria?” Azariah demanded.
The Galilean’s eyes hardened, but his face remained impassive. He nodded. “Yes. This stream comes from Ein Harod.”
“If this is the Spring of Harod,” Yehuda added, in case they weren’t sure exactly what that implied, “we are at the base of Mt. Gilboa, which means we left Samaria some time ago.”
Azariah’s eyes raised heavenward, his one hand reaching up to grasp one of his side curls, as was his habit. “Praises to the Holy One of Israel; blessed be his name.” He flung off his outer robe, strode to the creek, and began washing himself with meticulous care.
As Miriam watched, she realized that the fact that Azariah had agreed to the shorter route through Samaritan territory said as much as anything about the gravity of the meeting that would be held tomorrow. The bitter rivalry between the Jews and the Samaritans had begun centuries ago, when soldiers from the conquering armies of Assyria stayed on to garrison the land. They intermarried with the poorest class of the people who had not been taken captive. According to the Jews, the Samaritans mixed the true worship of Jehovah with pagan influences and therefore were rejected by God. To this day, Samaria, which occupied the central highlands between Judea and Galilee, was seen by the Jews as a slice of foreign soil stuck into the heart of the Holy Land, and it galled the Jews unendingly.
Many Judeans, especially the Pharisees, believed that any contact with the Samaritans, or even with the soil on which they lived, brought spiritual defilement. So when traveling to the north, instead of taking the direct route through the heartland of the country, they went east from Jerusalem down to Jericho, turned up the valley of the River Jordan, and finally cut back into Galilee above Beth Shean. This bypassed the hated Samaria and Samaritans altogether. It also added a full day to the journey, which, as far as Miriam was concerned, was way too much hate.
Miriam turned and saw that the Galilean watched Azariah as well, his face a picture of disgust. He started slightly when he realized Miriam’s eyes were on him. Straightening, he became instantly brusque. “Eat! When Daniel comes we must leave. We still have some way to go before nightfall.” With that he took the rest of the food and started over into the trees to join his other two men.
Yehuda watched him go, then turned to Livia. “Are you feeling better?” he asked.
Livia’s head dropped slightly, and red spread quickly across her cheeks. “Yes, thank you.” The knot on the side of her head had gone down somewhat, replaced by a large, ugly bruise on her temple. Yet even in the shade of the trees, Miriam could see that her face was still somewhat pale.
“Good,” Yehuda rumbled. Then with a look that also mirrored his disapproval, he glanced at Azariah, still deep in his ablutions, shook his head, and moved away. He stepped across the creek easily, then dropped to one knee and scooped up water in one hand in order to drink. Finished, he went to join his other companions for their meal.
Miriam turned and smiled at Livia, who blushed all the more deeply under her gaze. She almost teased her servant about her obvious embarrassment, but then decided it might not be appropriate. None of these four men wore a ring on their index finger, nor did they have the armband that also signified either marriage or betrothal. Those tokens were not universally worn, but they were common enough that Miriam had just assumed none of their rescuers was married. Yehuda’s open interest and solicitousness for Livia supported that idea, but she wanted to be sure before she encouraged Livia in any way. And yet, as the rabbis summarized the stages of a man’s life, eighteen was the age given for marriage. All four of their rescuers were in their
early twenties —Yehuda was probably the oldest, twenty-four or twenty-five, she guessed—and it would be a little unusual if none of them was married.
And then she suddenly realized she didn’t really care one way or the other. She was terribly tired. Her feet hurt, and the smell of the bread made her realize that she was ravenous. She ate hungrily, then drank deeply from the stream. It was not melon spears and chilled apple nectar; nevertheless, it tasted as good as anything she had eaten in a long time.
II
Miriam opened her eyes slowly. For a moment she was disoriented; then she saw Yehuda, the bear, a few paces away, stretched out flat on his back, his chest rising and falling slowly. Azariah, chief of the Pharisees and member of the Great Sanhedrin, was propped against a tree a little farther on, his head back and his mouth open in the fulness of his beard. His snoring made a soft raspy sound. She turned her head the other way. Her father and Livia were also stretched out, nestled on a thick bed of dead pine needles. Just a few paces away from her, the Galilean sat beside the stream. Another man sat beside him—one they hadn’t seen before. So this must be Daniel. As he turned his head to speak to the Galilean, she saw the clear resemblance to Yehuda, although he was definitely younger, about the same age as his leader. Then as she realized what Daniel’s presence signified, she groaned inwardly. They would be moving again soon.
Miriam turned on her side, laying her head on one arm, and studied the man who had saved her from Moshe Ya’abin. This morning he had walked into the camp like a lion—regal, confident, dangerous. It was not surprising that Yehuda and the other men, all of whom seemed older than him, should accept him as their leader. One sensed a supple power beneath the lithe, easy grace of his movement. There was also a sureness of purpose, almost to the point of implacability.
Her eyes narrowed as the light caught him across the chest and shoulders. The way he was bent over left his tunic open to the waist. She squinted a little, peering more closely. Starting just below where his tunic had left his skin white, she saw an angry red slash, standing out so vividly against the whiteness of his skin that it shocked her. She shuddered inwardly, only barely able to imagine what had made such a terrible gash in the flesh. It was at least two handspans in length and straight as an—she stopped herself. She had been about to say straight as an arrow, but now she knew the better metaphor. It was as straight as the edge of a sword.