Читать книгу Danya - Anne McGivern - Страница 8

The Journey to Jerusalem

Another week passed as I prepared our household for our journey to Jerusalem. Father was of little help, consumed as he was by his fear of an imminent retaliatory invasion. He roamed the hilltops around Nazareth, scanning the horizon for signs of a Roman column on the march. He wandered from house to house in the village, monitoring each family’s preparedness. When one family we planned to travel with encountered difficulties selling its livestock, and another had a sick baby, he decided we could wait no longer. Instead we would set out on our own and find other countrymen to travel with once we were out on the main road. With great care, he rolled protective calfskins around his scrolls and sealed them tightly into stone jars. The old donkey bore only this precious load. The younger one carried all our other provisions.

Naomi’s parents and the few of our friends who had not yet departed walked with us to the edge of the village. Naomi and her mother wept and clung to each other, and Amos had to pry his wife and daughter apart so we could proceed. The familiar loneliness of having no mother seeped into my chest once again, but I clutched my father’s hand and didn’t look back. In my other hand I cupped some soil from our courtyard. I will return, I will return, someday I will return, I told myself with each step. Though my heart pulled backward, my feet moved forward, one regretful step at a time, throughout the whole long morning. Naomi sniffled for a long time until Father put her between the two of us and asked her sing to cheer us all up.

We traveled east, which surprised me, because Lev had told me that a good road led straight south from Sepphoris to Jerusalem. But Father explained that the southern route passed through Samaria, considered a dangerous and unclean land. We would travel east to the Jordan River and follow it south almost to Jericho, then turn back west to Jerusalem.

All across Galilee, olive trees and trellised grapevines graced every hillside. Grain crops, mostly wheat and barley, flooded the valleys. Healthy pomegranate, almond, and fig orchards clustered around the villages. But the prosperity of the land did not match that of the people. In village after village, the children, listless with hunger, did not smile or raise their hands in greeting to us. Beggars squatted along the roadside. The first one we spoke to told us a bitter story, later repeated by others we met.

“I was a farmer. Rome demanded one-fifth of my crops as tribute; King Herod imposed other taxes; the Temple and its priests required its offerings and tithes.” He stopped to gulp down the date cake we gave him, then held out his bony hand for another. “I had to borrow to meet all these obligations, and the debt crushed me. My creditors took over my land.”

“Were your creditors Romans?” Father demanded.

“No. Jews. Wealthy Jews.”

Father’s eyes narrowed. “Was your land that of your ancestors, land given to your people by The Holy One?”

“Yes.”

How strongly my father’s scowl resembled Lev’s.

We met men heading in the opposite direction, on their way out of Galilee. They, too, had been farmers, but, after losing their land, had left their families behind to migrate from estate to estate surviving on seasonal fieldwork. Others were heading to Caesarea Maritima to search for employment on the building projects there. Some were sharecroppers on the very land they used to own. They seemed to be the fortunate ones.

The afternoon sun shone harshly as we crossed our sad, beautiful land. The soles of our feet ached from the heat and the hard paving stones though only Naomi complained aloud about this. Passing carts raised a dust that lodged in our nostrils and wedged between our fingers. Dirt and perspiration clung to our clothes. We longed for shade and rest.

As we approached the town of Beit Yerah, an oak grove in the distance promised refreshment. Father said it contained a well and a space where we could spread a mat, eat some loaves and figs, and rest. However, as we drew closer to the grove, an odor of decomposition fouled the air. We slowed our steps. As we entered the grove, all was eerily silent. Women and children should have been drawing water, washing clothes, and gossiping there.

And then we saw them. Lashed to several of the smaller trees were the corpses of four crucified men. Their limbs were tied in grotesquely twisted positions, as if mocking their inability to flee their ghastly fate. One was postured against a tree trunk with his right knee raised and his left leg behind him like a runner’s. The arms of another victim were tied to a tree’s spreading branches and mimicked a bird’s wings. Rats and dogs ravaged the naked corpses. Some of the beasts slinked off as we approached, but the vultures remained, hovering above the treetops, jealously guarding their food. The flies and maggots did not stir from their hideous work.

A board proclaimed in Latin and in Greek, “REBEL BANDITS. ENEMIES OF ROME.” Lev. One of these putrefying corpses could be Lev! I closed my eyes and burrowed my head into Father’s chest. Naomi shrieked and clutched him too. “It’s not Lev,” my father whispered over and over as he pushed us past this horror.

A short distance up the road, upwind of that grove of death, another beggar squatted and reached his hands imploringly towards us. Father extracted a loaf of bread from a pack on the donkey’s back. “Why has no one from Beit Yerah buried those men?” he asked the crippled man whose eyes sank deep into their sockets

“The soldiers forbid it,” said the beggar. “The rebels must stay on the trees until their bones are picked clean by the beasts, they say. The Romans swear they will return, and, if the crucified have been cut down, they will take innocent men from the town as replacements.”

Father gave the man a loaf, and he tore into it ravenously. He looked like the starving beasts ripping into the corpses. Naomi and I fled, choking on our tears. Father hobbled along as best he could. Even the normally reluctant donkeys bolted ahead of us.

Eventually we caught up to a group of about fifteen refugees from Cana, a village not far from ours. Like us, they had stumbled onto the atrocity in the oak grove. Mothers and fathers held their children in their arms, even those far too old to be carried. We joined the stunned villagers from Cana and staggered on, mute with horror, until we reached the pebbly shore of the Sea of Galilee. The vast blue lake welcomed us, and we rushed into it, removing our head coverings, ladling cool water on our necks and faces, washing the images of death from our eyes, and calming ourselves until our exhaustion overcame our terror.

We dried off and set up a camp. From the donkey packs, I pulled out extra mantles for warmth and reed mats for ground cover. We didn’t want to attract attention with a fire, so we ate stale barley loaves. I chipped a tooth on the hardened crust of mine. Darkness fell. I let Naomi put her mat next to mine, even though she kicked at night, and I held her until she stopped trembling. A line of clouds rolled across the moon; my eyes finally closed.

* * *

Sometime that night, before dreams had formed, I was awakened by fingers clutching my throat. A torch flared in the darkness. A faceless voice announced, “Give me your food, and I will not harm her.”

Naomi whimpered beside me. Most of the group woke up in a daze. But Father stood up, fully alert, and fixed his gaze on the man who held me hostage. “Shalom, Judah ben Hezekiah,” Father said calmly.

Judah ben Hezekiah, the leader of Lev’s rebel band? Though one of my captor’s hands was clasped around my neck, I could turn my head enough to see a red curl flashing out from under the man’s head covering. It must be Judah ben Hezekiah. Lev might be close by!

Father opened his palms in appeasement. “We are poor people fleeing from Nazareth and Cana, driven from our homes by the threat of Roman vengeance. We’re happy to share what food we have, though we don’t have much.”

Judah released me to draw his sword on the circle of people tightening in around him. He kept the torch in his other hand and ordered me to bring him the food. I fetched a sack of raisins, cakes of dried fruit, and a bag of barley flour. When I approached him with these, I could see his eyes in the light of his torch. A few nights ago from a distance, his eyes had seemed hard as stone. Tonight they looked like softened clay. That emboldened me, as did Father’s presence right behind me. “Where is Lev ben Micah of Nazareth?” I asked.

Judah spat on the ground. “Lev deserted, the coward.”

I remembered Judah’s foot in Lev’s stomach. “My brother is not a coward! You were cruel to him.”

“How do you know?” Judah said. “Ah, so you were watching us that night?” He smiled in a way I didn’t understand. He had all his teeth, and they were white and straight. “Lev told me he had a little sister with courage and dreams of being a revolutionary.”

Then he softened his voice, speaking to me as if I were the only person there. “I disciplined your brother only that one time. He left my band after our attack on a Roman supply convoy. Some of my men were killed during the ambush. A few were captured and crucified by the Roman dogs.” His eyes filled. The skin in the half moon below his lids was raw.

My hands shook as I held out the food to him. “We saw them at Beit Yerah.”

But he turned from my offering and lowered his sword. “Since you are Galileans, you have suffered enough. Keep your food.”

I knew then that all his men had deserted him. If he had troops to feed, he would have taken the food for them. Pity crowded against my anger. “What will you do now?” I said.

“Gather a new band and continue. I will not stop until the Lord’s Kingdom has been restored to Israel. I have been chosen for this.” Judah’s voice was strong and heavy with conviction. So he, too, had been chosen. The Holy One had entrusted him with a special task. He was favored.

To me alone he whispered, “Maybe you should replace your brother.” The soft rustle of his breath stirred through my hair. “In any camp, there is women’s work that needs doing.” His lips pulled out into a wide smile, revealing the long, sharply-pointed teeth farther back in his mouth.

Judah both attracted and repelled me. I couldn’t determine whether he was a hero or a devil. An anointed one or a murderous brute. His suffering eyes said one thing; his hands around my neck another. A chill crept up my spine, but stopped at the spot on my throat where his fingerprints still burned. From there, a flame flashed through my entire body. Was this the call I sought? Was I being given another chance?

Father placed his hands firmly on my shoulders. “Come, Danya, our friend has to leave.”

“Your brother has probably gone to the Essenes,” Judah said, and withdrew into the darkness.

I heard him drag a boat from the shore and launch it into the Sea of Galilee. I imagined myself wading into the water and climbing into his boat. But I stayed on the shore as he rowed himself away, the light from his torch flickering faintly until it died.

* * *

The next morning, the group from Cana separated themselves from us. They believed it was too dangerous to travel with anyone associated with Judah ben Hezekiah. Alone again, Father, Naomi, and I turned south and followed the paths along the Jordan River for three days. Walking was easier for me than it was for Naomi and Father. I have big feet, and trailing after Lev had accustomed me to sustained physical exertion. Naomi complained that she was hot; then she was cold. She couldn’t get to sleep; she couldn’t wake up. She was frightened; she was bored. Father developed a limp and leaned heavily on his walking staff. He needed to rest often. Each time we stopped, he checked his treasured scrolls to make sure they were securely bound to the old donkey’s back.

On our third day along the Jordan River path, we came across a forest ravaged by wildfire. The groundcover and shrubs had been reduced to ash; some of the trees still smoldered. Had we arrived there a day earlier, we could’ve been caught in those flames. Naomi and I held hands as we picked our way through the blackened landscape.

All along the Jordan River, Roman forts, menacing reminders of the crucifixions we’d witnessed, loomed above us. At night, jackals and leopards hunted in the nearby hills, and the screeches of their victims pierced our restless sleep. We knew that thieves preyed on pilgrim groups enroute to Jerusalem, and this threat gnawed away at us. Our only weapon was Father’s staff.

Throughout our long trek along the river, I often thought about Lev, and wondered where he was and what he would be doing now. Father must know more about this than he was telling me. “Are the Essenes foreigners, Father?” I asked.

“No,” he answered sharply, maneuvering around a huge rock that had fallen onto the path.

“Magicians? Bandits? Soldiers?”

“No. No. And no.”

“Who are they then?”

“Jews, like us. I need to catch my breath. Sit on this log with me and be quiet.”

“What kind of Jews—Pharisees? Sadducees? Zealots?”

“None of those.”

“Why are they called Essenes?”

“I don’t know. Please get me some water.”

While I filled the water jug, Naomi stayed on the log with Father. “My father calls the Essenes ‘Sons of Light,’” she said.

“Some do call them that.”

“Where do they live?” I demanded.

“Qumran.”

“Where is Qumran?”

“In the desert.”

“Do they live anywhere else?”

“Probably. Let’s just keep walking. I’m getting no rest anyway.”

His habit of secrecy infuriated me. The parents of my friends told stories about growing up in Nazareth, marrying the spouse chosen for them by their families and gradually falling in love with that person. They talked about their aunts, uncles, cousins, and in-laws. I knew more about Naomi’s and Miryam’s families than I did about my own. I knew only that Father and his first wife had had one child, Chuza, and that they had lived in Jerusalem. After this wife died, Father and Chuza moved to Nazareth, where Father met and married Mother, who had fled from the country of Nabatea to our village. Mother was much younger than Father, closer in age to my half-brother Chuza than she was to Father. Her name was Nahara, which means “light.” I couldn’t remember what she looked like, but my fingertips still held the memory of the soft curve of her cheek and the dip of the dimple in her chin. I longed to know more about her. And about Father. I began to suspect that Lev was wrong: Father was silent not because he was thinking great thoughts, but because he was keeping great secrets. I would not give up.

“What do the Essenes, these ‘Sons of Light’ do?” I asked Father, as we waded across a flooded stretch of the pathway.

“They prepare to fight the Sons of Darkness.”

“Who are the Sons of Darkness?”

“Their enemies, of course.”

“I’m tired of hearing about these strange people,” Naomi said. “And look, I dropped my sandals and now they’re soaked.”

“Who are their enemies?” I probed. “Romans? Other Gentiles? Jews?”

“They have many enemies.”

“Do you think any Essenes live in Jerusalem?”

“Probably. We should sit and dry our feet now.”

The tiny possibility of finding Lev with the Essenes in Jerusalem caused my feet to dance along the gnarled river path. For the first time since we had left Nazareth, I didn’t worry about thieves, Romans, snakes, or thunderstorms. I carried the hope of seeing Lev again with me, in my hands. My hope was a real thing, warm and soft and pliable, like a wineskin.

After we had hiked in silence for some time, Father spoke without my having to prod him. “Danya, the Essenes are a male sect. Women can’t be members. You weren’t thinking you could join them, were you?”

“But surely, Father, there are some women. Lev and the other men don’t know how to bake or spin or weave. How could these men survive without women?”

Father shook his staff at me. “They will survive without you, Danya. That is certain!” Losing his balance, he turned his ankle. “Ouch! Now look what’s happened.” He hobbled to the riverbank and soaked his leg in the cold water. Naomi clucked over him, binding his ankle tightly in thin strips of cloth. I dropped the subject of the Essenes. No one could win an argument with Father, Lev always said.

* * *

At daybreak on the fifth day, we split away from the Jordan River where the pilgrim path turned towards Jericho and climbed to the top of a cliff. From that height, we could see the Jericho oasis, improbably lush and green, springing up from the brittle desert besieging it on all sides. But columns of smoke smudged the sky over the city.

Naomi scurried forward. “My father told me that King Herod had three palaces in Jericho,” she said. “And a swimming pool. And a sunken garden, whatever that is. There’s even a bathhouse, like the Romans have in Sepphoris, that my father says is the work of the devil. Please, please can we see it?”

Father said, “Naomi, child, I’m afraid that you won’t see a bathhouse or anything else in Jericho. That smoke is a bad sign.” A foul odor, like the diseased figs we had to burn a few harvests ago, hung in the air.

The footpath that led down from the cliff fed into a road that sliced across the Jericho plain. Smaller roads, coming from other directions, joined this one. Merchants and their wagons, farmers with herds of animals, and pilgrims bound for Jerusalem all crowded onto this passage through the date palm groves of the Jericho valley. As we drew closer to the city, the smoke smudges in the sky darkened and thickened. Our eyes watered; we coughed; we put our headcoverings over our mouths.

The gates to Jericho were locked. Roman soldiers, stationed an arm’s length apart, guarded its walls. We were in a crowd of people who, silently and submissively, streamed by them. No one questioned or challenged the soldiers whose short, sleeveless tunics emphasized the bulging muscles of their arms and legs. They clutched spears whose iron heads were as long as my arm and, and the handles on their thick-bladed swords were wider than my fist.

Staring at the swords, I suddenly felt foolish. If I had joined the raid on Sepphoris, I might’ve accidentally wounded myself simply trying to lift one of them. And how could I have run lugging a sack full of these heavy weapons?

Each soldier looked just like the next as we passed meekly through their ranks. Helmets, complete with cheek pieces and nose deflectors, obscured each man’s individual features. It seemed as if the same face, fixed in the same contemptuous sneer, glared out at us and at all of Judea. Naomi clutched at my tunic, and I clutched at Father’s. Had Lev been as afraid as I was now when he faced the Roman supply convoy in Galilee?

At the far edge of Jericho, we stopped to fill our water jars from the Ein es-Sultan spring. Father approached a beardless young soldier and spoke with him in Greek. “What has happened here?”

“Rebels have burned the palace and gardens,” the soldier said.

“What rebels?” asked Father.

“Maybe the traitors who follow the shepherd Anthronges. Or maybe Simon of Perea’s rabble. Or Judah ben Hezekiah’s bandits. It doesn’t matter who did it. We’ll kill them all.” The soldier pounded the ground with the butt of his spear and, with his other arm, signaled for us to move on.

“But it does matter,” Father said, keeping his place. “You must not punish one for the crimes of another. Judah ben Hezekiah didn’t do this.”

“How do you know?” said the soldier. He stepped back and sized Father up.

His stare chilled me. I tugged on Father. “Come. We must go.”

“You must have evidence of wrongdoing before you punish,” Father said sternly.

“Don’t tell me what I must or must not do, old man,” said the soldier. The arrogant young man, a boy really, gripped his spear crosswise and pushed it against Father’s chest.

Father lost his balance and fell down. The soldier towered over Father and sneered at him as Father lay on his back in the dirt. I cowered, too afraid to help Father to his feet. It was I who clung to Naomi this time, our mutual fear wet and heavy in our palms. Shame filled me. I was too weak to defend my own father. No wonder I hadn’t been favored.

Slowly and in obvious pain, Father rolled over and struggled to bring himself to his knees, then to his feet. He brushed the dust from his hands and squinted into the soldier’s blue eyes.

“You know better than to treat an old man like this,” Father said gently, as if chiding a student of his.

The young soldier’s face colored. He hoisted his spear and glared at Father. No one breathed. Then he lowered his gaze, laid his weapon on his shoulder, and walked away.

My tongue stuck in my mouth. My legs felt like water, so I couldn’t walk. But Naomi ran to Father and, swatting at the dust on the back of his tunic said, “You are the bravest man in the world. I am so grateful that you’re my protector!” She hugged him tightly then reached out and pulled me to him also.

Father held the two of us and let me cry. He thought my tears were those of relief. “It’s all right. You’ve been strong and brave throughout this hard journey, my little light. Just another half day and we’ll be in Jerusalem.”

Though I had been brave in some ways, some of my tears were those of disappointment. I had neither the physical strength nor the courage I thought I had.

In my heart, I cradled that image of my father standing up to the Roman bully. I would have to find some way to do the same, to imitate my father’s courage and dignity. However, I would not share his willingness to put aside the cruelty shown to him.

We hurried to reach Jerusalem before sundown. Father leaned heavily on his walking staff but trudged along without rest. I didn’t even stop to pick stones out of my sandals. Naomi kept pace, for once not whining about the blisters on her toes or any other malady.

My apprehension about living in Chuza’s house had dissipated as a result of this frightful journey. Soon we would be safe in Jerusalem. And Miryam was right: I would be fortunate to have time to read, write, and search for answers to my questions. The Holy One had brought me this far unharmed. Perhaps He might still have work for me, a way I could help to liberate our people. I would pray and watch for such a sign.

When at last Jerusalem emerged on the horizon, I latched my arm through Father’s. “Tell us about Jerusalem,” I coaxed.

“It’s large.”

“And the people?”

“They’re like people everywhere. People come here from everywhere.”

He withdrew his arm from mine to shade his eyes and look towards the southwest. “Soon you’ll see it for yourselves.”

Naomi took his arm. “Did you like Jerusalem?” she asked.

“Yes, especially the Temple.” Father smiled and his eyes drifted off.

Naomi tugged at him. “Then why did you leave?”

“I could no longer live in Jerusalem as a good Jew.”

“Why not?” I demanded.

“It’s complicated, child. You’ll understand better when you know Jerusalem. And when you’re older. Be patient.”

Father’s life, so simple on its surface, seemed to have a trapdoor leading to a secret place. From time to time, he would crack that door open but then slam it shut before I could accustom my eyes to its darkness and peer in. It made me miss Lev all the more. He could help me prop open the door.

We entered Jerusalem from the north, pouring through the Benjamin Gate with a lively, jostling crowd. The late afternoon sun was nestling itself onto the houses and shops, bathing them in soft tans and yellows. Father plucked us from the throng, and we stopped for a moment at a shaded vantage point under a shopkeeper’s awning. Naomi clapped her hands and squealed. “We’re here. We’re finally here! I’ve waited my whole life, twelve years, for this, and now, finally, little Naomi from Nazareth is in Jerusalem!”

I was both relieved that our journey had ended and anxious about what lay ahead. We elbowed our way down a street cutting lengthwise through the middle of the city. Father’s limp lessened, and he no longer leaned on his staff. His eyes, usually tired and faded with studying, brightened. Their color seemed a richer brown. It had been years since he had been to this city and seen Chuza, his firstborn.

The main street of the Tyropoeon Valley was crammed with shops and market carts. Exotic-looking people swarmed around us. Many women wore veils; a few had face coverings trailing all the way down to the ground. Naomi, giggling, pointed to a woman whose thin tunic clung so tightly to her breasts we could see the outline of her nipples. I saw my first wig. We howled in laughter at the hair on a shopkeeper’s head, piled so high it looked as if she might topple over.

Besides hoods, turbans, and mantles, men wore hats of every description: hats with wide, stiff brims or flaps; hats pointed at the top like cypress trees; hats embroidered with the shapes of animals and heavenly bodies; hats tall and rounded like the necks of wine decanters.

Eight slaves in matching red pantaloons suddenly commandeered the whole walkway, shouting, “Make way, make way.” On their shoulders they balanced a man reclining on a chair and wearing a white toga bordered in purple. He was holding a rolled document, sealed with a gaudy blotch of red wax. Father scowled. “Probably a Roman procurator.”

Another litter, behind that one, bore a woman. An enormous turquoise brooch fastened her mantle, and I gaped in wonder. Surely she must be the richest woman in Jerusalem! But her skin was whiter than any I had ever seen. She looked as if she had never been warmed by the sun, and I felt a little sorry for her.

Clamorous Jerusalem: tools pounding, digging, sawing, splitting; animals barking, bleating, bellowing; people chattering, chanting, shouting and singing in Greek, Latin, Aramaic, Hebrew, and a hundred alien tongues. Our donkeys added their brays to the din.

Open stalls reeked with the odor of spoiling fish and meat. The sewers swirled with the blood of slaughtered animals. Naomi, feeling sick, asked to rest. As we turned away from the crowded market area, I almost collided with a camel. It hissed at me, and I backed away from its enormous teeth. We climbed a staircase and sat there while Naomi’s stomach settled. By this time, I, too, welcomed the chance to get away from the rowdy crowds. The donkeys pawed at the ground, hoping to uncover a sprig of green to eat, but nothing grew up through the stones.

“Are you sure you know the way to Chuza’s?” a very pale Naomi asked my father.

“Of course. It was once my house, and my father’s and grandfather’s before that.” From a pack on the younger donkey’s back, Father extracted the Sabbath lamp, carefully wrapped in sheepskin, and cradled it against his breast.

We climbed a second staircase then followed along a street to a third staircase and another street. Father never hesitated. He made no wrong turns. Up here we could barely detect the commotion below. In this section of the city, the houses were all large and walled. Father led us down a few more streets, through a gate, and into the courtyard of a private home. He eased himself onto a stone bench just as the sun’s reflected glow expired. I sat next to him. Tears spilled onto his cheeks as he placed the Sabbath lamp in my lap. “You are home, my little light,” he said.

An open window overlooked the courtyard. From within the house, we heard something crash onto a stone floor, then sharp whispers. A stout man with a closely trimmed, oiled beard strode from the house. He wore a linen tunic and smelled of soap. “Father,” Chuza said, “Shalom.”