Keepers of the Covenant, Page 3

  Jude exhaled. She could tell he was searching for words, trying to shape them in his mind the way he shaped his clay pots. He was a man who preferred action over words. But Devorah wanted to know everything, believing she had enough faith to handle the truth. She had grown up as the much-loved, only child of a scholarly father who had treated her like a son, immersing her in the stories of their ancestors, discussing the Almighty One and His Torah with her the way mothers discussed household duties with their daughters. She would have preferred not to marry at all than to live with a husband who didn’t confide in her and consider her his best friend.

  “If I tell you what I know, it will distress you,” Jude finally said. “And I don’t want you to be upset. I’m sorry I said anything in the first place.”

  “If you don’t tell me, I may have to stop speaking to you and feeding you—and sleeping with you.”

  He turned away and sank down on the bed. Devorah wondered if he was going to be stubborn, but he beckoned for her to join him. “The decree came from the Persian king,” he said when she had nestled beside him. “The law has been signed and sealed in his name and can never be changed or cancelled. He sent it to every province in the empire.” He paused, then finished in a rush. “It allows our enemies to execute every Jew in the world—men, women, and children—on the thirteenth day of Adar. This year.”

  Devorah felt sick. They would kill children, too? “Our enemies?” she asked when she could speak. “We don’t have any enemies here in Babylon.”

  He sighed again. “Have you ever heard of the Amalekites?”

  “Yes, they attacked our people when we were helpless in the desert.”

  “Well, Ezra discovered that an Amalekite prince is behind this order of execution. And this prince—our enemy—is the Persian king’s right-hand man.”

  She was beginning to see the hopeless trap that had been set for her people and to understand Jude’s despair. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart, inhaling his familiar scent of hard work and earthy clay, wishing she could wake up and discover that this had only been a nightmare. “What do the elders say? Have they decided what we’re going to do?”

  “There hasn’t been time. The decree came without warning. The elders are in shock. We all are. Rebbe Nathan fell apart. I’m sure you heard me trying to convince Ezra to take over for him. If anyone knows about God and His ways, it’s my brother. Maybe he can figure something out, find something we did that angered God and caused this to happen. Maybe we haven’t been faithful enough or haven’t followed all His laws the way we should—although it’s pretty hard to obey the Torah here in Babylon.”

  Devorah was glad she was lying down. She felt shaken by Jude’s words and the fear she heard in his halting voice. When he’d first told her about the decree earlier today, it had seemed unreal to her, something that couldn’t possibly be true. Was it a natural reaction to believe you’ll live even when the Angel of Death unsheathes his sword in front of your face? She heard the rattle of his saber now, and it seemed as if the God she’d known since childhood had disappeared. She drew a shaky breath, trying to summon strength.

  “God performed miracles for our ancestors, Jude. We both know the stories of how He parted the sea and brought water from a rock and gave us manna to eat in the desert. He made a covenant with us, promising to always be our God—and He’ll keep that promise. He will!” She was trying to convince herself as well as Jude. “I know things look bad right now, but we just need a little time to find a way out. Our armies have been outnumbered before, but God always came through for us and saved us.”

  “Not always,” Jude said. “Look where we are.”

  A chill went through her. Jude was right: not always. Not if her people turned away from Him and disobeyed His laws. Wasn’t that why they were living here in Babylon, marched into exile under the sword of God’s wrath? “We’ll figure something out,” she repeated.

  “Maybe you should lead our people instead of Rebbe Nathan. You’ll be like your namesake, General Devorah.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No, my love,” he said, pulling her closer. “If any woman in the empire could lead an army, it’s you.”

  The baby began to stir, tossing restlessly in her bed before starting to whimper. “Did we wake her?” Jude whispered.

  “No, a new tooth is bothering her. I’ll rub her gums.”

  This planned execution of her people would never happen, Devorah told herself as she lifted one-year-old Michal into her arms. God would never allow it. If all the stories in the Scriptures were true, then the Almighty One had a plan. Her people could trust God no matter what.

  Even so, as Devorah soothed her daughter back to sleep, she couldn’t deny that she was terrified—not for herself but for her children. She understood Jude’s compulsion to protect her, because she would die to protect Michal and three-year-old Abigail. Tears stung Devorah’s eyes, but she forced them back, holding the baby closer, refusing to cry. She would be strong. And she would teach her daughters to be strong. And to trust God.

  Chapter

  3

  THE CITY OF CASIPHIA, NORTH OF BABYLON

  Reuben squeezed his eyes closed, fighting tears. He was a man now at age twelve, and men weren’t supposed to cry. Even when they faced death. Especially then. Soldiers on the battlefield never wept.

  “Careful!” his father warned. “Watch what you’re doing. Keep the bellows going.”

  Reuben opened his eyes and pumped the leather bellows as Abba held the blade in the flames, slowly turning it until it glowed red-hot. “Don’t stop, Reuben. . . . Keep fanning the coals.” Abba knew when the metal was hot enough to remove from the fire. And Reuben knew that blowing air on the coals made the furnace burn hotter. Sweat rolled down his face and stung his eyes. His father’s face and bare chest glistened with it.

  At last Abba pulled the blade from the fire and carried it to his anvil to hammer into shape. Reuben rose from his crouch and wiped sweat and tears from his eyes as the clang of metal against metal rang in his ears. The racket went on and on until Abba paused to inspect the curved sickle blade he had fashioned.

  “How can you just keep working?” Reuben asked him. “Why bother? We’re all going to die in a few months!” He coughed and cleared his throat to disguise the emotion in his voice.

  “The Babylonians don’t care, son. They still expect us to do our jobs.”

  “We should refuse. What could they do? Kill us sooner rather than later?”

  Abba looked up. “You’re right. We could all stop working and just wait to die. But I spend my time praying while I’m working. It helps me concentrate.” He laid the blade on the anvil again and hammered it some more.

  Reuben didn’t want to die, but the emperor of Persia had decreed it. The date of his execution was set for the thirteenth day of Adar.

  Abba paused to inspect his work again, and Reuben knew by the satisfaction on his face that the blade was finished. “See that?” Abba said, holding it up. “We’ll sharpen it on the grinding stone, let the carpenters add a wooden handle, and it’ll be ready to cut grain.” Abba had another blacksmith who worked for him and two apprentices, but he was training Reuben himself. They would own the forge together one day—at least that had been the plan before the king’s edict. Reuben vowed to burn the smithy to the ground on the night before his execution. It wasn’t much, just two furnace pits and a collection of tools and worktables beneath a thatched roof, but he refused to let the Babylonians have everything after they killed him.

  “What if the Holy One doesn’t answer our prayers and save us?” Reuben asked. “Then what are we going to do?” He followed his father to the grinding stone in another part of the shop.

  “We’ve been through this, son. I told you the elders have discussed it and—”

  “I know, I know. But why can’t we escape outside the empire? Someplace where we don’t have enemies.”

  “The
lands beyond the borders are all unknown, their people uncivilized. Besides, our enemies won’t allow a mass migration of millions of Jews. They want us all dead, not relocated. We’re trapped inside the city walls.” Abba continued to work while he talked, sorting through his sharpening tools.

  “Can’t we escape and hide in the desert? Just our family?”

  “I’ve considered that. But we would have to stay there forever and never come back.”

  “So? I’d rather be alive in a cave than dead here.”

  Abba looked up at him, his expression angry and sad at the same time. “The elders have discussed all these options, Reuben. Endlessly. They’ve prayed and fasted and prayed some more. None of us wants to die in a few short months, but we haven’t come up with a plan that will work yet. Keep praying that we will.”

  “Can’t we fight back?”

  Abba moved closer to Reuben and lowered his voice. “I intend to fight. When the time comes, I’ll fight with my last breath to protect you and our family. A lot of other men feel the same way.”

  “But I don’t understand why—”

  Abba reached for Reuben and pulled him close, his muscled arms wrapped tightly around him like metal bands, his body slick with sweat. Reuben could no longer stop his tears as he clung to him. “I don’t understand it either, son. I wish I did. I can’t explain what I don’t understand myself.”

  When Abba finally released him, his eyes glistened with tears. “Go get more wood for the fire before we break for lunch. We need to make another sickle blade before evening prayers.”

  “Are you just going to keep working all the way to the end?”

  Abba looked at the new blade for a moment, as if trying to decide. “Yes. I am,” he said. “We show our faith in God when we keep moving forward even when our prayers aren’t being answered. It’s the highest form of praise to keep believing that God is good even when it doesn’t seem that way.”

  Reuben didn’t want to praise a God who would let them all die. He exhaled and went out to the woodpile where the air was cooler and a breeze blew inland from the nearby river. He picked up a piece of firewood and then flung it down again, as hard as he could. He knew he would die someday, but most of the time he never thought about it, living as if life would go on forever. Now all he could think about was death, wondering if he would have to suffer or if he’d die quickly. And he wondered what would happen afterward.

  Reuben had cheated death once before when he and his friends had gone swimming in the flood-swollen Tigris River, misjudging the danger. Reuben had barely made it back to shore after the current swept him downstream, inhaling so much water he’d nearly drowned. But once he’d reached the riverbank and the shock and terror faded, he’d felt a thrill that had been addictive, fueling his passion for more death-defying exploits.

  But this was different. His enemies planned to execute him in less than ten months, along with his family, his friends, and everyone else who was a descendant of Abraham. Maybe he deserved it. He didn’t always obey his parents or follow God’s laws. He often recited his prayers in the house of assembly without thinking about the words or the God he was talking to. And he had no interest in studying the Torah. So yes, he probably deserved to die—but his mother and father didn’t. His two younger sisters didn’t. Neither did the new baby his mother was expecting in a few months. Would his enemies kill an innocent newborn, too?

  Why had life become so crazy? The God of Abraham had turned out to be as careless and unpredictable as the gods of Babylon. And the adults Reuben had trusted to have everything under control were helpless to stop this edict and completely without hope.

  He finally bent to gather an armload of wood and carried it back to the fire pit. Abba stirred the coals, making a place to add the logs. “I wish we weren’t God’s chosen people,” Reuben said as he let the wood drop to the ground. “Why can’t we be like everyone else? Maybe if we blended in with the Babylonians and started going to their temples and festivals they’d let us live.”

  Abba shook his head. “If we deny God, our lives aren’t worth living.”

  Reuben heard his father’s words but didn’t understand them. He crouched to rebuild the fire, fighting tears again. “Is it true that the king’s law is final? That no one can change it?”

  “Yes, it’s true.” Abba ran his fingers through his beard as if considering something. “Come with me, Reuben,” he said when the fire was laid. “I want to show you something.” He led him to the rear of the shop, separated from the work area by a partition. He pulled a crate from one of the shelves and opened the lid to show Reuben what was inside.

  Swords. Four of them.

  Reuben pulled one out to examine it, recognizing his father’s craftsmanship. “I plan to forge as many of these as I can in my spare time,” Abba said, “before the month of Adar. Would you like to help me?”

  Reuben could only nod, unable to speak. Maybe they weren’t without hope after all. If he had given up the day he’d fought the river’s current, he would’ve drowned. But he hadn’t given up then, and he wouldn’t now. He and Abba would fight until the end. And maybe, just maybe, they would survive the slaughter after all.

  Chapter

  4

  BETHLEHEM

  Wait!” Amina shouted. “Wait for me!” She limped along as fast as she could, dragging her weak leg through the dirt, but her sister and the other children ignored her pleas. They ran ahead of her through the marketplace, weaving through displays of pomegranates and melons, running between stalls of reed baskets and wool rugs, laughing as they chased each other. Amina was the youngest at age eight, and she couldn’t run as fast as her older sister, Sayfah. Tears blurred her vision, and Amina tripped and fell, her crippled leg collapsing beneath her. She lay in the dust, angry and bleeding, crying harder.

  A gentle hand touched her shoulder. “Are you all right, dear?”

  Amina sat up. Crouching beside her was the white-haired woman who owned a stall filled with beautiful woolen cloth. Her wrinkled face was kind, the skin around her dark eyes creased as if she smiled a lot. She lived in Bethlehem, not Amina’s village. And she was a Jew. Amina’s father hated Jews. His people, the Edomites, always had.

  “You’ve skinned your knees,” the woman said as she helped Amina to her feet. “Come inside my booth and let me clean off the dirt for you.”

  “I told Sayfah to w-wait for me,” Amina said, sobbing, “b-but she didn’t listen!”

  “Is Sayfah your sister?”

  Amina nodded, drying her tears on her sleeve. The woman helped her sit on a low stool inside her booth. She was very pretty for a white-haired grandmother. “My name is Hodaya,” she said as she fetched a clean cloth and a skin of water. “What’s yours?”

  “Amina.”

  “That’s a lovely name.” Hodaya squatted beside her, and as she lifted her hand, Amina flinched and drew back. In her experience, a raised hand was likely to strike her. “I won’t hurt you, Amina. I’m just going to clean off the dirt and blood.” Her hands were gentle as she worked, holding the cloth in place until the bleeding stopped. The cool water soothed Amina’s stinging knees. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had treated her so kindly.

  “Does that feel better?” Hodaya asked. Amina nodded. “I like to watch you and the other children play when you come to the market. I noticed you especially because we have something in common. See?” She stood and lifted her hem to show Amina her left foot, withered and twisted at an odd angle. “I can’t run very fast, either,” she said, smiling.

  “The other girls laugh and make fun of me because I can’t keep up, but I used to run even faster than Sayfah.” Amina wiped another tear as it rolled down her face.

  “What happened?”

  “I got a fever and the sickness made my leg weak. Is that what happened to your foot, too?”

  “No, I was born this way.”

  “Abba is ashamed of me,” Amina said, lowering her voice so no one would hear her. “H
e won’t even look at me and my ugly leg. Did your father hate you, too?”

  Hodaya took a moment to reply. “I had two fathers. The one whose blood I share was much like yours. When he saw that I was born crippled, he didn’t want me. But our loving God, who created me this way for a reason, gave me a new father, the man who raised me and loved me. He was a priest in God’s holy temple, and he taught me all about the God who loves you and me.”

  “I wish I had a nice father like that. I try to stay out of Abba’s way because he’ll hit me if I make him lose his temper.” Amina didn’t say so out loud, but she feared her father’s words even more than she feared his blows. They rained on her like stones, saying she was worthless, she would always be a burden to him, she would never marry a husband and be a proper wife.

  “What about your mother?” Hodaya asked.

  “Mama does whatever Abba says so he won’t hit her, too.”

  “You poor child.” Hodaya reached for Amina again, and again Amina instinctively pulled back. When she realized that Hodaya was only trying to put her arm around her, she moved closer to receive the rare embrace. What would it be like to be treated this kindly all the time?

  “Do you have a husband?” she asked Hodaya.

  “He died a few years ago, but Aaron and I were married for many years. My sons have given me seven grandchildren.”

  “Abba says no one will ever marry me unless I stop limping. I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t help it. See how weak this leg is?” Amina wasn’t supposed to let anyone see her thin, shriveled leg, but Hodaya had already seen it when she’d washed the dirt off Amina’s knees. Besides, the old woman’s leg was shriveled and crooked, too, and her misshapen foot pointed the wrong way.

  “A husband who loves you won’t care what your leg looks like. A very wise friend once told me that every one of us has something about us that isn’t perfect. For you and me, our differences are just a little more noticeable, that’s all.”