Take This Cup (28 page)

Below me my grandparents had a dinner celebration with a few close friends, but none were my age. I heard their banter, but no one present was interested in talking with me.

As soon as I was excused from supper, I came to the rooftop. The location carried my thoughts back to an earlier year—that Purim when Rabbi Kagba opened the skies and showed me the heavenly cup and the celestial hart. Bundled again in my shepherd’s coat and boots, I peered into a cloudy sky for some glimpse of my old starry friends. Misty banners, torn from the fabric of the storm, carried news of the tempest toward Jerusalem but did not linger in Joppa.

Waves crashed against Andromeda’s Rock. Long swells swept in from the northwest, to land with hollow, jarring thuds on Joppa’s promontory. I wondered if they came from Cyprus, or perhaps as far away as the Pillars of Hercules.

The wind howled in my ears, screeching pipes to the drumbeat of the breakers. These were lonely, disquieting sounds on a lonely, unpeaceful night.

Still no word of my brothers. No news about my teacher either.

I was safe, I was loved, I was cared for, yet I was restless.

Several houses up the street I glimpsed a man striding purposefully along as he passed beneath a blazing torch. He was alone and completely wrapped in a long cloak, with a hood over his head. The wind threatened to turn his robes into sails and spin him off east, like the clouds.

Like a ship quartering into the gale to avoid being flung on the rocks, he had to lean into the blast.
Why
would
anyone
be
out
on
such
a
bitter
night?
I wondered. I rubbed wind-plucked tears from my eyes and watched.

Two houses away he stopped. Peering back the way he had come, he counted entries, as if uncertain of his destination. When his tabulation ceased, he was pointing at Grandfather’s gate!

Beneath my gaze he pulled the bell rope, but no one answered. Between the tumult of the storm and the merrymaking, I doubted if anyone would. “They can’t hear you,” I shouted. “Are you seeking Boaz the Weaver?”

A familiar face lifted toward me. Joseph of Arimathea corrected, “Yes, I am, Nehemiah. But I’m also seeking you!”

“Wait! I’ll be right down!”

Moments later Joseph warmed himself in front of the fire amid a crowd of attentive onlookers. He answered my grandmother’s question about why he was out on such a fearful night. “And well you might ask. I barely got off my ship from Alexandria before the storm hit. They were so anxious to sail off toward a safer harbor that they almost threw me overboard. Just like Jonah, eh?” He smiled. “My steward was expecting me and met me. Just in from Jerusalem, he has received some startling news. My business partner, Lazarus of Bethany . . . ?”

“Friend of Jesus of Nazareth,” Grandfather remarked. “Yes?”

“Caring for the Jerusalem Sparrows, he took sick with the strangling sickness.”

“And Jesus healed him?” Grandmother asked.

“No . . . he died,” Joseph corrected.

I was stunned and shocked. My heart sank.

A rotund spice merchant laughed mockingly. “That’s a prophet from Galilee for you. Couldn’t even save his own friend!”

“No,” Joseph continued slowly. “But Jesus brought Lazarus back from the dead.”

After a stunned silence, a tumult of queries equal in volume and confusion to the storm outside barraged Joseph.

“What d’ya mean?”

“Then he wasn’t really dead!”

“But he’s real, I tell you!”

“Four days in the tomb,” Joseph said. “Really and truly dead, and Jesus called him out of the grave . . . so they say.”

“That’ll light a fire under High Priest Caiaphas. The whole country will want to see Jesus and Lazarus both!”

Joseph ignored the mocking banter and addressed my grandfather. “Has any word come directly regarding Nehemiah’s parents?”

Grandfather shook his head. “We’ve still had no
real
word about them . . . good or bad,” he emphasized with a look at me. “Only what the bandit Zimri implied.” He paused. “Then again, he is a bandit and not to be trusted and cruel by choice.”

A spark of hope, like the pinprick sparks that had shimmered upward when Joseph gestured toward the lamp, ignited in my heart. Could the bandit have lied? Might my parents still be alive somewhere? And searching for me?

“Then,” Joseph said, “here is a request: I would like to take Nehemiah on as an apprentice in my export business, if he agrees. I want him to accompany me to the Holy City when

I leave tomorrow. Of course, his parents may not give their consent when they return, but until then, you can approve his employment, if you will.”

Turning, Grandfather put his hands on his hips. With raised eyebrows he looked a question at me.

I nodded eagerly. “Yes, please!” I confirmed.

And so it was settled.

Chapter 25

O
ur journey to the home of David ben Lazarus in Bethany was briefly interrupted outside the Holy City. Joseph reined his horse and dismounted near a stone wall outside Jerusalem.

Two men stacked carefully hewn limestone blocks to form a waist-high barricade. The wall surrounded a newly planted garden. Inside the enclosure was a border of fragrant juniper shrubs. The place was busy with workmen. Boys about my age mixed mortar. Older boys worked as hod carriers, assisting the masons.

At the sight of Joseph, I noticed heads lean together and anxious whispers pass between the laborers. Whatever this building site was, Joseph clearly had authority over it. He pushed aside a wooden gate as I slid from my donkey and hesitated.

“Come on, then,” he instructed. I tied our mounts to the limb of a tree.

The gate opened onto a winding gravel path that was a beehive of activity. Another boy, wielding a branch of a juniper as a broom, swept the curving track clear of dust. A man wearing the apron of a stone mason edged the path with more stacked stone. Joseph greeted the mason, then asked, “Where is Hyram?”

The stone-setter indicated a grass-covered knoll at the back of the property. Between the fence and the small hill were beds
of lavender. When the weather warmed, the lavender would perfume the air with rich sweetness.

The trail skirted a pair of ancient olive trees, so gnarled and massive at their bases that the garden must have been constructed around them. The path ended against a rocky knoll. The flank of the hillside in front of me was faced with flat stones. At the center of the wall’s base was a square hole, slightly shorter than me, leading inward.

A man emerged from the opening. He wore his mason’s apron with one corner turned up, designating him the overseer of the work. “
Shalom,
Master Joseph,” he said.

“
Shalom,
Master Hyram,” Joseph returned. “You’ve made good progress.”

“I think you’ll be pleased with the tomb.” Hyram tugged his forelock.

“I think my father will be pleased too. I am eager to have it done before the Passover holiday.”

I felt a pang of renewed guilt. According to our beliefs, it was a very necessary mark of respect for children to see their parents honorably interred. Joseph was paying great homage to his father with this gift.

I, on the other hand, had run away. My father and mother, if dead as I feared, may have remained unburied except for the kindness of strangers. I squinted with the pain of regret.

Though I did not speak, Joseph noticed my distress and somehow understood its cause. “We will not give up hope, boy,” he whispered to me. Then, to divert me, he asked, “Would you like to see inside? I have no torch, but I think there’s enough light.”

I nodded.

A massive stone disk, taller than me, stood on edge in a
channel cut for the purpose. It rested against the outer wall of the tomb and was wedged there by a block beneath it.

I eyed it suspiciously. “Safe?”

Joseph nodded. “But once the wedge is removed, the covering rolls into place, sealing the entry.”

The master mason explained proudly, “When shut, it will take at least four men to roll it back up the slope. Sir, would you like to inspect the work?”

Joseph nodded, then motioned for me to go first. “Go ahead. Go in.”

The opening was so small that even I had to duck to enter. Joseph followed me. The mason remained outside.

Inside, the floor was lower than the entry, so I stood upright. I was surrounded by hewn stone walls bearing the fresh marks of hammers and chisels.

There was no carving or other adornment in the tomb, but the corners were all perfectly square. Every angle was completely uniform. The floor, walls, and ceiling were smooth and level. It had cost a lot of labor and expense.

On three sides of the chamber were low benches cut out of the very rock. Each was the length of a man lying down and about twice his width. Because the tomb was brand-new, there were no bone boxes or niches cut in the walls, as would be true when multiple generations of Joseph’s family had been buried there. It was a rich man’s tomb, different from the primitive burial caves of my homeland.

“It’s almost like a little house, you know? When no one’s in it.” I paused. “I mean, nobody dead.”

Joseph touched the cool wall. “Yes. I suppose. I like to think of this place as where my family will gather to await the resurrection at the last day. We are not Sadducees, who expect no
resurrection. No, my father and I expect to be reunited, even if parted for a time. Of course,” he added thoughtfully, “if what Jesus did for Lazarus is true, then perhaps all of what we know about death will change.”

There seemed nothing left to see or say, especially since my mother and father were again strongly, forcefully in my mind.

The mason lowered his face and smiled in at us. “Is it to your liking, sir?”

Joseph gave a short laugh. “I am in no hurry to move in, but I am sure it will be a comfortable place to wait for the resurrection.”

The mason stepped aside as we emerged. “I was hoping you would be pleased with our progress.”

Joseph touched his money belt. “A bonus if you’re finished before Passover. I’ll return before
Shabbat
to pay the workers for their labor up to now.”

I squared my shoulders and attempted to match the stride of Joseph as we returned up the gravel path to our mounts. I felt the eyes of the boys take me in furtively, then look away. Perhaps they imagined I was the son of the wealthy merchant.

“Come along.” Joseph untied the reins and gave me a boost onto my donkey. “The day is passing, and I want to reach Bethany before sunset.”

It was dusk when we passed the Mount of Olives and reached the hamlet of Bethany, a couple miles east of Jerusalem. The villa of Lazarus was set below a hill crowned with a fig orchard, in the midst of a vineyard.

I shuddered at the thought of all that had taken place here over the last weeks. I hoped I would have a chance to meet and
speak to a real, live dead man. I wondered what he would look like and imagined it all somewhat fearfully, but with excitement.

The vines had been thoroughly pruned. Twisted stalks, crusted with gray bark, looked like roots protruding out of the red earth. But even amid winter’s desolation, rebirth was apparent. Beginning where each branch grew nearest the trunk of the parent vine, pairs of tiny, dark green leaves fluttered.

“Banners of returning life,” Joseph said to himself. Then he turned and spoke to me over his shoulder as we rode. “What do you know about vineyards?”

I shrugged. “My folks are shepherds. Papa drinks wine, which comes from vineyards. That’s it.”

Joseph gave a laugh. “The wines of Lazarus are drunk by emperors and kings as far away as Brittania. It comes from here. As hard as it is to believe right now, in six months these hillsides will be completely shadowed by lush growth. The branches will be bent with the weight of the clusters. And the laborers of David ben Lazarus will harvest them so he can work his magic. From dead sticks to the taste of new wine in three quarters of a year.”

“So kings drink it. Lazarus makes good wine, then?” I said.

“The best! He says it takes the vines nine months to give birth, but the children of his vineyard will travel far and wide.”

“I bet my papa said
Kiddush
on
Shabbat
. Your friend’s wine poured into cups in Amadiya,” I said, thinking of home and Joseph’s cup at the same time.

Joseph nodded vigorously. “Shared in Rome and Alexandria.” Then in a more thoughtful tone he added, “It’s strange. Every year before this the wine is what I wanted to talk about—how many barrels, how much to charge, where it would be shipped. My family is proud to be his partner. But this year? I want to
hear from him his own story about what happened. Was he really dead? What was it like? Who is this Jesus?”

These were the very questions in my head.

From the vineyard a cheerful voice joined our conversation. “Yes, Master Lazarus was truly dead. I can vouch for that. But still, those are all very good questions! Very good, indeed.”

A young man, perhaps as old as twenty but thin-bearded, fresh-faced, and smiling, emerged from the shadows beside the fence enclosing the vineyard. “
Shalom,
sir. The master and his sisters are not at home. They’ve all gone off to follow Jesus. Leaving the vineyard in the care of Samson, the steward. But who knows when they’ll be back? The Herodians would like Lazarus dead permanently.”