Keepers of the Covenant (22 page)

“Do you have a plan?” one of the elders asked. “We’re still under Persian authority, you know.”

“Prayer is our greatest weapon, just as it was when we fought Haman’s decree. That’s why I’ve come to all of you. When we’ve prayed and sought guidance, a group of us will travel to Susa together and convince the king’s officials to take our side. Fourteen years ago, God appointed a Jewish woman as queen of Persia. He appointed a Jew named Mordecai as the king’s right-hand man. We don’t know if they’re still in power with a new king on the throne, but if God was able to put His people in important positions back then, we can trust Him to have someone in Susa who’ll hear our petition and help us.”

“And you’re going there yourself, Ezra? As our spokesman?”

“Yes. And I’d like all of you to come with me. My plan is to ask for an audience with King Artaxerxes and petition him for permission to return to our land.”

“What if the king refuses?”

“Or even worse, what if he interprets our request as an act of rebellion? We’ll be back to making bricks without straw.”

“It’s a very long journey to Susa,” someone else added. “We’d be away from our families and our work for months.”

“That’s true, but do you believe it’s worthwhile to take those risks? Isn’t any sacrifice we made worth it to finally return to our land? I’m sure you realize what’s at stake if we don’t succeed—we’ll lose the next generation of young people. Within a few more years, we’ll die out as a people just as surely as if Haman’s decree had killed us.”

Ezra looked around at the gathered men. He had said what he’d come to say. He tugged his beard for a moment, then asked, “Who’s with me? And more important, who’s with God?”

One by one the elders rose from their seats to stand in solidarity with him. Every man supported him. “Praise God,” Ezra whispered. “Praise God.”

C
ASIPHIA

R
euben awoke with a pounding headache. He had celebrated with too much wine last night, and the noise his younger brother and sister were making outside in the courtyard, laughing and teasing each other, sent a jolt of pain through his temples like a hot poker. How would he cope with the clanging and pounding in the forge all day? Then he remembered why he had celebrated last night, and he smiled to himself. He didn’t have to work another day for that thief who had stolen Abba’s forge. Reuben would be his own boss from now on. At last.

He sat up and felt beneath his straw mattress for his money pouch, gripping it in his fist when he found it. He’d slept with it nearby, knowing how easily thieves could creep inside a house during the night, stealing while people slept.

Outside, his sister gave another shriek of laughter. Reuben lay down again and covered his eyes, wondering if his gang of friends felt as lousy as he did this morning. Probably worse. Reuben thought he remembered Bear and Digger bringing Babylonian prostitutes back to their hideout, but his memories from last night were hazy. He had stayed out until nearly dawn and
wouldn’t have come home at all if he hadn’t waited for more than fourteen years for the day he could buy back his inheritance. He had enough money now. Owning the forge had been Reuben’s goal for so long he couldn’t imagine what he would do tomorrow or the next day. He wouldn’t steal anymore, that was certain. It would be too risky once he became a respected blacksmith with his own business to run. He listened to his fourteen-year-old brother’s laughter and imagined them working together as he and Abba once had.

There had been lean years for Reuben and his gang of friends, especially after the disastrous ship robbery when Bear and Nib were injured. For a long time, the gang had stolen barely enough to live on. But the warehouse they’d robbed last night had yielded a cache of gold, plenty for each of them, even after dividing it five ways. If his Uncle Hashabiah knew all the things Reuben had done, he would say, “Stone the wayward son!” But Reuben didn’t care. His goal was finally within his grasp, as close as the money pouch he gripped in his hand.

The door to his room creaked open. “Reuben, you’ll be late for work,” his sister called.

“Stop shouting. I’ll get up when I feel like it.”

“But you’re supposed to be in the blacksmith shop. Your boss—”

“Go away! I’m not going to work today.”
Or ever again,
he added to himself. He rolled over and fell asleep.

The sun was high above his house when he finally rose. Reuben washed and changed out of his sour-smelling tunic. He refused his mother’s offer of food, his stomach still roiling, and crossed the lane to the blacksmith shop. His boss sat in the alcove behind the partition, reviewing his accounts. He glanced up at Reuben and frowned. “You’re late. Your sister said you were sick.”

Reuben tossed his bulging money pouch onto the table with a satisfying clunk. “I’ve come to buy back my father’s shop. You’ll find more than enough gold in there to pay for it.”

“My shop isn’t for sale,” he replied. “I finished paying your family the agreed-on price years ago. The smithy is mine now.”

“And I’m telling you to name your price. You know this place is rightfully mine. I want to buy it back.”

“You can’t possibly pay me what it’s worth. I know the salary you earn, and I know you help support your family on that pay. You couldn’t have saved enough during that time to—”

Reuben grabbed the bag and yanked open the drawstring, dumping the contents onto the table. The stolen coins clinked against each other as they poured out. “Look! I have more than enough!”

His boss’s eyes widened. He looked uneasy as he shoved the pile of coins back toward Reuben. “I don’t know where this came from . . . it doesn’t matter. I’m not interested in selling my shop for any amount. It will be my son’s someday.”

His
son’s.
Rage squeezed Reuben’s chest, making it hard for him to breathe. The man’s son worked alongside his father as an apprentice the way Reuben once worked beside Abba. The injustice infuriated him. Reuben had to leave—he would lose control and punch the man if he didn’t. He scooped up the coins and poured them back into the bag.

“Reuben, wait!” He heard his boss calling after him. “You have work to do.” Reuben kept walking, brushing past the man’s scrawny son as he stalked through the forge. The boy held one of Abba’s best hammers, and Reuben had to fight the urge to snatch it from his hand and pound him with it.

Uncle Hashabiah was to blame for this injustice. It was his responsibility to straighten out the mess he’d created. Reuben walked to Casiphia’s market square where his uncle sold imported cloth, trading with merchants from throughout the Persian Empire. Hashabiah was bargaining with a merchant over a cartload of brightly dyed linen when Reuben interrupted him.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Is everything okay, Reuben?”

“No, it isn’t,” he said with icy calm. “You stole my father’s smithy from me, and now you need to help me buy it back.”

Hashabiah’s brow creased in a frown. “Give me a moment to finish my business. Then we’ll talk.” He motioned for Reuben to wait in the rear of the booth where he kept a pile of cushions and a small table to serve refreshments to his customers. Hashabiah had sons of his own who worked with him, but they were nowhere to be seen. Reuben listened to the two men bartering, each trying to squeeze out the best deal, and he knew his uncle was capable of driving a hard bargain. Hashabiah could force the man to sell the forge to Reuben if he made up his mind to help him.

Reuben’s temper had a chance to cool while he waited, and he vowed to control it. He was no longer a boy who wept with rage at his impotence; he was an adult who knew what he wanted and was determined to get it. He had worked hard and waited patiently for this day, and no one was going to stop him.

At last his uncle finished his business deal and sank down on a cushion across from Reuben. “What brings you here? Why aren’t you at work?”

“I’m ready to buy back Abba’s blacksmith shop. You have to help me.”

“How can you possibly buy it back?”

“I have money. More than enough.” He dropped the money pouch onto the table. “You brokered the deal the first time—ask him to sell it back to me.”

Hashabiah picked up the heavy pouch and loosened the drawstring to look inside. “Where did this come from?” he asked, lowering his voice.

“That’s not your concern.” Reuben snatched it from him, tying the pouch onto his belt again. “Did you ask him where the money came from when he bought my father’s shop fourteen years ago? What difference does it make?”

“It makes a huge difference.” Hashabiah’s frown deepened.
“I’ve been worried about you for a long time, Reuben. I fear you’ve acquired this gold through illegal means and—”

“Listen, I’m no longer a child you can shake your finger at. I’m twenty-six years old. You committed a sin against me when you arranged this deal fourteen years ago, and now you owe it to me to make it right.”

“I don’t think he’s willing to sell, Reuben. There’s nothing I can do.”

“You can’t? Or you won’t? Maybe you and I should go talk to Casiphia’s elders. I’d like to explain to them how you cheated me out of my inheritance after my father died a hero’s death.”

“The elders know all about the arrangement I made for your family. I consulted them after your father died and asked their advice. I wanted you and your mother to be taken care of properly. The elders agreed this was the best solution.”

“If they agreed, then you’re all a bunch of thieves and crooks. Is it any wonder I have no respect for any of you?” Reuben’s anger grew hotter in spite of his best efforts to control it. “My father built that shop with his own hands. Those are his tools, his anvil, his grinding stones. The smithy is all I have left of him, and I want it back. I can pay for it. You owe it to me to help me.”

“My conscience is clear in this matter, Reuben,” Hashabiah said, spreading his hands. “But in the years since your father died, you’ve earned a reputation in this community as a black sheep. Even if you did buy back the shop, I’m not sure anyone would do business with you. You never attend prayers at the house of assembly. In fact, you didn’t even come to hear your own brother read the Torah for the first time when he became a Son of the Commandments. He looks up to you, but you’re hardly a good example for him to follow.”

“Can you blame me for not attending after the way you and the elders treated me?”

“And when one of your sisters was betrothed,” Hashabiah
continued, “you weren’t among us to help make the arrangements or provide the dowry. I took care of everything for her out of my own resources—and I have daughters of my own to provide for.”

“Why didn’t you ask me? I could have paid for her.”

“Because we don’t know where your money comes from, Reuben. How could the Holy One bless a bride who starts her marriage with a stolen dowry? You’re not part of our community. You live here and work here, but that’s all. You don’t worship with us or pray with us or celebrate or grieve with us. You don’t follow the Torah. Your mother says she has no idea where you go or what you do when you go out at night.”

“You’ve been spying on me? Asking questions about me?”

“No. It’s the other way around. Your mother has come to me countless times, asking for help. She believes you’ve been stealing. She’s worried you’re becoming a drunkard. She told me about your Babylonian friends, and she fears she’s losing you to their bad influence. I never told her how the authorities found your dagger at a murder scene because it would break her heart. But I did tell her that if I knew how to draw you back to us, I would gladly do it. And it’s true, I would.”

“Make him sell me my inheritance, and maybe I’ll start coming to prayers again.”

“Reuben, if he doesn’t want to sell—”

Reuben shot to his feet. “I know there’s a law in the Torah somewhere that says you have to give back a man’s inheritance. It can never be sold permanently—right?”

Hashabiah thought for a moment as he stood, as well. “In the Year of Jubilee, yes, property must be returned to its original owner. But that only pertains to the ancestral property we inherit in the land of Israel. We can’t own land in Babylon.”

“Abba owned that blacksmith shop!”

“No, not really. We pay fees and taxes to the Persians for
our land and businesses.” He gestured to his own booth. “The Persians can reclaim this anytime they want to.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He let his breath out in a rush, as if Reuben had punched him. “Listen, may I give you some advice, Reuben? You’ve become a very fine craftsman, so I’m told. If owning your own forge is so important to you, why not use your money to buy another one? Rejoin our community and earn back our people’s trust, and I’m sure you’ll make a fine living. An honest living.”

Reuben shook his head. “It wouldn’t be the same. My father built that forge himself. He worked hard for every tool he owned, and he wanted me to inherit everything.”

“We’re getting nowhere,” Hashabiah said. “Look, I’m going to explain something to you, and I hope you’ll listen—really listen. Our inheritance isn’t composed of physical things like tools and blacksmith shops. Our inheritance is the covenant our ancestors made with God—”

“I’m leaving.” Reuben started to go, but Hashabiah grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“When you forsake your true inheritance as a son of Abraham, you’re killing our people just as surely as our enemies did when they killed your father. One lost descendant of Abraham means that all the generations that would have come from you will be lost, as well. Do you understand what I’m saying? You’re accomplishing what the enemy failed to do fourteen years ago. You’re finishing their work and letting our people die out, one by one. Is that what you want?”

“Let me go,” Reuben said in a low voice.

Instead, Hashabiah’s grip tightened. “The inheritance you need to reclaim, Reuben, is your covenant with God. And I will gladly help you do that.” He finally released Reuben, waiting for his reply. But Reuben was too furious to say another word. He strode from the shop, nearly knocking over a customer on the way out, the pouch full of gold bouncing heavily against his
side as he walked. He may as well give it away to the beggars in the streets for all the good it would do him, or to the ragged Babylonian children asking for alms to buy bread.

He kept going, heading for the hangout he shared with his friends—his only true friends—hoping to find leftover wine from last night. What good was all the gold in the world if he couldn’t have the one thing he wanted most?