The Galilean Secret: A Novel (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Roman Times

Jerusalem, AD 30

ON THE MORNING OF HER WEDDING, JUDITH OF JERUSALEM KNEW SHE COULDN’T GO THROUGH WITH IT. She woke up before dawn drenched in sweat. Stomach churning, she put on her tunic and sandals and felt her way to the bedroom window.
Oh, why am I not attracted to Gabriel?
The lament that had haunted her for months now sounded like a scream. She stared into the darkness that draped Jerusalem like a shroud, her breathing short, her head throbbing.

She liked and admired Gabriel ben Zebulun but could not marry him. She stumbled toward the nightstand beside the bed. On it stood the candle in the brass holder that she had set out the night before. The candle that she must light and place in the window.

The candle that would signal Dismas, Gabriel’s older brother, that she would elope with him instead.

Judith hesitated. How could she do it? If she ran away with Dismas and they were caught, they would be stoned to death as adulterers. Her quivering fingers touched the candle. She drew back, terrified. She tiptoed into the hall to listen for the steady breathing of her parents, her older brother and his wife, and her two younger sisters. Relieved that no one was stirring, she paused by the lamp outside her parents’ door and caught a whiff of the flame’s oily scent.

She thought of Reuben, her brother who had died a year earlier at age four. He should have been here too. But he was gone—because of the Romans. Because they had murdered him as sure as she was standing here. Her throat tightened, as it did whenever she remembered Reuben and how his death had occurred. Fighting back tears, she returned to her room and sat down on the bed.

Oh God, oh God, what should I do?
She wiped sweat from her forehead and groped for the candle again. Her hands shook like those of a leper. She glanced out the window to see the stars glittering in the silent purple sky, beckoning her. If Dismas didn’t come before the sun rose, she would be forced to marry Gabriel, the man her father had chosen for her a year earlier. The man she did not love, but couldn’t bear to hurt.

She again reached for the candle, and then quickly withdrew her hand. Her passion for Dismas had so consumed her these past few months that she never questioned her decision to run away with him. Until now. Gabriel offered her the security she had always known as the well-educated daughter of a wealthy spice trader. She considered him handsome in an understated, approachable way. Not only did his boyishly endearing features frame the most serene brown eyes she had ever seen, but he was also a gentleman and a successful merchant like his father, with his own food and clothing market.

Dismas, on the other hand, had shunned business to become a stonemason and to join the
Sicarii
, the dagger-wielding Zealots intent on overthrowing Roman rule. Now the thought of abandoning her learning and comforts for a vagabond life in the desert made her gasp, as if winded after a footrace.
It is not too late to back out
, she told herself. But how could she? As kind and good as Gabriel was, she felt nothing for him.

She swallowed hard and buried her face in her hands. Tears stung her eyes; she struggled to catch her breath. Looking up, she peered through the gray-black darkness and made out the candle on the nightstand. She thought of the girls who accepted loveless matches as if they were mandated by God, and she thought of the Jews—her own family included—who had nothing but contempt for the Romans but did nothing about them.

She could no longer live with such hypocrisy. With the wedding only hours away, she had to flee what she feared most—a passionless marriage.
I must go and fight the Romans with Dismas,
she told herself
. In his arms I become the woman I long to be
. The thought of making love to him calmed her trembling. Her heart leapt. She grimaced and reached for the candle. This time she seized and held it tightly. She tiptoed into the hall again and approached the lamp. She lit the candle from its flame and quietly returned to her room.

She strode to the window and placed the candle on the ledge; then she went back to the bed and reached under it. After retrieving the long rope she’d hidden there, she returned to the window, tied the rope to its frame and peered out. Where was Dismas? She moved away and rummaged through her bag. Made of homespun cloth, it was full of clothes from the oversized wooden chest in the corner of the room. Her mind was full of questions.
Had Dismas reneged on his promise to elope with her? Had bandits robbed and beaten him?

Assured that she had packed everything, Judith lifted the bag onto the bed and sat to brush her long chestnut hair. Comforted by the scent of pine, a gift from the trees along the street, she heard footsteps below.
Dismas!
She threw the brush into the bag and ran to the window. His gaze was directed upward, his hair windblown, a faint smile on his ruggedly handsome face. A shudder ran through her; she gripped the ledge, hesitating.

He waved. “Please hurry!”

Judith froze, unable to bring herself to climb down the rope. How could she betray her betrothed, shame her father, ruin her mother’s wedding plans, disrupt the lives of two families and more than one hundred guests? But then, as she gazed into Dismas’ expectant eyes, she wondered,
How can I not go with him?

He paced nervously. Before she could decide what to do, he seized the rope and began to climb up, his muscular arms moving in tandem with his sure steps on the wall. In an instant, he had entered her room. She brushed away a tear and put a finger to her lips.

He met her gaze and whispered, “What’s wrong?”

“I am not sure I can do this,” she said.

He studied her, as if admiring her glinting hazel eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low. “After all our planning, are you going to back out now? What about the anguish we’ve known under the Roman fist?”

She turned away. “What about Gabriel’s anguish?”

“He’ll get over it.” Dismas reached for her arm. “But if you marry him, I never will. And neither will you.”

She studied his sculpted athlete’s frame and tight-set jaw. “I am afraid of the desert, of what might happen to us.”

“That’s why you need me. I’m strong enough for both of us, and where I want to take you is the only place worth going.” He said nothing more, but took her in his arms, whispering her name.

Then he was kissing her, igniting a flame that rose from the soles of her feet, up her legs, through her torso, to the place where their lips met. His sweet scent, combined with the pine and traces of lemon and hibiscus from the garden below, enveloped her in what seemed a dream. The night became luminous, as if possessed by a hidden radiance that only he controlled. She held perfectly still, savoring each shared heartbeat.

Her rage at the Romans surfaced like oil in a boiling cauldron of water.
Dismas understands that love is more than doing your parents’ bidding, and that freedom must be fought for.
She saw him as an idealist, a man on a righteous mission. That is why he had volunteered to go to the caves at Qumran, near the Dead Sea, to serve under the fierce and heroic Zealot commander, Barabbas.

The first splashes of dawn were reflecting pale light into the room. She gazed into Dismas’ steely dark eyes, which were focused like a warrior’s. A thud from the hall interrupted her thoughts. Dismas tensed, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet, preparing for a fight. She waved him toward the wooden chest: he hurried to it, lifted the lid and ducked inside. She stuffed her bag under the bed and slid beneath the blanket, her heart throbbing. She pretended to be asleep and waited for her brother or father to storm into the room.

Perhaps this is an omen. An omen of the trouble that will fall on us
. If her burly brother searched the room and found Dismas, the two would fight. Her father, Nathan, would rush to Gideon’s aid and help him to prevail. She and Dismas would be publicly humiliated and severely punished, if not stoned. Not even Gabriel would want her then.

But no sound followed the thud. Then there were plodding footsteps. Were they headed toward her room? She braced for a confrontation, but the footsteps stopped. Her heart beat easier as she realized what had happened: her sixty-six-year-old father had gotten up to relieve himself, as he often did in the early morning. Lying perfectly still, she waited until the soft, barefooted steps signaled that her father had gone back to bed.

Dismas poked his head out of the chest, glanced around the room and then dashed to the window. Judith was close behind. One leg over the ledge, he paused to face her and said, “As a Zealot I am determined to return Israel to the true worship of God. I’ve never met a woman who shares my two great passions—love and freedom.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I would never pressure you to come with me, but I want you to. I want you to be my wife and fight for freedom with me.”

She could not resist the wildness in his eyes. It was as if a dam had broken and a river was sweeping her downstream on whitewater rapids. She had tried to forget about Dismas, but she could not help herself. At twenty-one Dismas was four years older than she, and had the confidence and life experience that she lacked. His strength made her more secure than money ever could. She pulled the bag from under the bed.
I must go with him
, she told herself, reaffirming her passion for him and the Zealot cause. “You are my future now, Dismas.” She whispered under her breath. “Promise you’ll never disappoint me.”

The first rays of sun were painting the horizon pink. A cock crowed in the distance. When Judith saw Dismas on the ground, she tossed her bag down, took the rope and boosted herself over the window ledge. Her feet dangled precariously until they found the outer wall and pushed against it. Not daring to breathe, the rope chafing her hands, she leaned back as a burning ache shot from her shoulders to her fingertips. Then her foot slipped. Her knee hit the wall, cutting the skin.

“Who’s there?” Her father’s demanding voice came from his window. She froze, dangling against the stone.

“Hurry!” Dismas said.

She could hear people rushing into her room.

“Go ahead and jump! I’ll catch you.” Dismas held out his arms.

She fought to hang on, her body swaying wildly from side to side. She slid down the rope. As her feet neared the ground, she let go and Dismas caught her. “Let’s go!” He tucked her bag under his arm and took her hand. She broke into a sprint, pulled forward by Dismas, who was guiding her toward a heavily loaded horse that she could see up the street.

“Judith!”

She heard her father shouting but did not look back, the image of his slender frame and stern features etched in her mind. He sounded frantic, desperate. Dismas boosted her onto the horse, threw her the bag and climbed up himself.

“Judith, come back!”

“Please, Judith, don’t do this!”

Recognizing the voices of her sister Dinah and her mother, Judith stole a backward glance. Expressions of terror creased their still sleepy faces. Her brother Gideon had flown down the stairs and out the door.

“Come back with my sister!” Gideon’s deep voice boomed as he bolted to within feet of the horse, cursing Dismas.

Judith closed her eyes tightly, determined to shut out all doubt. She clung to Dismas as the horse galloped into the morning, leaving her family and their futile shouts behind.

CHAPTER THREE

THE POUNDING ON THE FRONT DOOR WOKE GABRIEL BEN ZEBULUN WITH A START. Certain that someone was breaking into the house, he rolled his lanky frame out of bed, grabbed his tunic and the dagger that he kept for protection, and ran toward the door, dressing on the way. His father met him in the broad central courtyard that led to the front. A large man with a nimbus of white hair around his bald head, Zebulun’s face was contorted with alarm.

Gabriel recognized the voice of the man outside. Nathan, Judith’s father, was shouting that he must talk to them, that something terrible had happened. When Gabriel opened the door, Nathan burst in, red-faced, hands gripping his heart, an anguished expression on his strong features. Without taking a breath, he related how Dismas had run away with Judith. The two had met when Nathan hired Dismas to repair his courtyard.

Gabriel felt the color drain from his sun-bronzed face and made no attempt to hide his shock and dismay. His father led Nathan into the sitting room and offered him a chair. Gabriel paced back and forth, head throbbing, feelings numb. “How can this be true?” He struggled to grasp the terrible news, his eyes wet and burning. “You gave me your daughter’s hand. Today is our wedding day. Does your word mean nothing?”

Zebulun could barely contain his rage. “You knew that Dismas was estranged from us, yet you hired him! How could you?”

“I needed a good stonemason, and Dismas is one of the best in Jerusalem.” Nathan fidgeted nervously. “I had no idea that he was seducing Judith. If I had known, I would have fired him immediately.” He buried his face in his hands. “This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. Now it’s the saddest.”

While the three men were discussing the appalling turn of events, Gabriel’s slightly rotund mother came in, her gray hair tied back. “What is all this commotion about?” When Nathan told her, she appeared faint. “What are we going to do? We have more than a hundred guests coming for the wedding feast.”

Gabriel’s mind raced.
Why would Judith do this to me? How could she be so cruel?
He had sensed her reluctance to marry him, but he assumed that she would love him after the wedding. The power of his infatuation allowed him no other conclusion.

Since his father had introduced him to Judith a year ago, she had consumed his thoughts. He dreamed of their wedding night, of freely expressing his love for her with body and soul. He longed to have her as his wife, to greet her each morning and come home to her at night, to build her a spacious home and to father her children. But now his dreams lashed at him like a sandstorm. And who had initiated this lashing? His own brother!

Gabriel slipped the dagger inside the belt of his tunic and hurried toward the door. Nathan shouted after him. “Where are you going?”

He neither answered nor looked back. He fled up the street, his sandaled feet barely touching the dusty stones. To his relief, few people were out that early. He moved faster and faster, desperate to get away, berating himself for failing to win Judith’s heart.

The streets seemed rougher and the hills steeper, as if conspiring to trap him. He turned north toward the Temple, drawn by the first blasts of the ram’s horn, yet he was oblivious to the sound. He kept running until his lungs burned, his legs grew weak and the labyrinth of streets grew longer and more inescapable.

Images of Dismas flooded his mind: their footraces and wrestling matches, their archery duels and mock gladiator contests as boys. Whether studying, working or playing, they were sparring partners constantly pitted against each other. And Dismas, the older and stronger, usually won. He always got his way, the favored one. Gabriel slowed to a walk. He had received little recognition or affirmation until Dismas left home, and by then it was too late: his image of himself was irreparably damaged.

Still he craved approval, hungering for it like a beggar invited to a feast but not allowed to eat. Succeeding in his father’s business became his only outlet for satisfying the craving. Dismas was better at working with his hands, and it galled him to see his younger brother excel in the family trade. When Dismas left home to join the Zealot resistance, Gabriel wondered if he had done it because he was no longer the favored son.

Did he run away with Judith to get revenge? Was this Dismas’ last desperate attempt to assert his dominance? To Gabriel, the reasons didn’t matter, just the rejection and shame. Judith was the only woman he had ever loved; without her, life lost all meaning. He might as well be dead.

G
abriel neared the Temple Mount, its massive platform rising high above the city, its majestic courts and altars surrounded by a sixty-foot marble wall that, even in the gray of dawn, shone dazzlingly white. If he jumped from there, it would be his end. He looked up at the Temple’s enormous Corinthian columns, filigreed with gold on top of the capitals, and thought,
What better place to end my life than here? I would rather die than go home to face the wedding guests.
Everything that gave meaning to his life had been taken from him—the woman he loved, his honor, his hope for the future. Today the holiest place in Israel served only as a reminder of God’s indifference to his pain. His self-inflicted death here, resulting from the treachery that had been visited upon him, would publicly embarrass God for allowing it. All of Jerusalem would see a Jew spurn a weak and indifferent deity!

The blasts of the ram’s horn rang in his ears. The Gates of Hulda stood open; lepers and beggars were clustered on the ground nearby, still asleep. A few pilgrims were already entering the Court of the Gentiles with doves, goats and lambs for sacrifice. He was determined to climb to the walkway atop the wall, where he had seen trumpeters stand during festivals.

Gabriel watched as a family of five, pushing a cart loaded with wheat, dates, pomegranates, olives, figs and grapes, headed for the gates. He followed close behind, as if he were a family member, and once inside the Temple’s outer court, strode up the stairs to the walkway, undetected by priests on their way to assist with the sacrifices.

Roman soldiers patrolled the walkway and policed the gates at the bottom, but at this early hour, Gabriel saw no one. He climbed onto the ledge and looked down. He withdrew his dagger and held its tip against his stomach.
One step and my misery will be over
, he told himself, rocking precariously on the balls of his feet.

He was breathing hard, lips quivering, heart pounding. He gazed at Jerusalem’s dusty streets and rounded hills, and at its one- and two-story stone houses, tawny like a lion’s skin. Glancing down, he became dizzy and fought to keep his balance. When he finally stabilized, he bent his knees, ready to jump. Then he noticed the rising sun. Streaks of red blazed on the horizon as if enormous torches had been flung across the sky. Gabriel hesitated.
If I jump, I’ll never see another sunrise. How can I give up all this?

The answer throbbed in his mind: he could give it up because life without Judith was no life at all. The rejection churned in his stomach like a sickness that only death could cure. He whispered farewell to the gentle morning, rocked back on his heels and bent his knees, prepared to leap. But before he could spring forward, he heard a shout behind him.

“Don’t!”

Startled, Gabriel turned to see a heavyset man, slightly taller than medium height, with shoulder-length white hair and kindly dark eyes. The man wore a purple robe and a black turban. Around his wrists he had the cords of phylacteries—the small leather boxes that contained verses of scripture. Obviously a Pharisee, the man reached out a hand. Gabriel froze.
Just jump!
Yet the hand beckoned, trembling, stretched to its limits.

“You there! Get down at once!”

Gabriel looked to his left. A hefty Roman soldier had rounded the corner on patrol. He was running toward Gabriel, yelling in Greek. Startled, Gabriel stepped back, putting him within the Pharisee’s grasp.

The Pharisee seized his tunic and yanked. Gabriel fell onto the walkway. He lost control of his dagger and sprawled across the rough stone surface. His skin burned as he scraped it from his elbows to his ribs and knees. He scrambled to his feet, scarlet-faced. He picked up the dagger and hid it inside his tunic, backpedaling. The soldier bore down on him, red and gold regalia flapping with each step. He grabbed Gabriel and twisted an arm behind his back. “What kind of stunt were you trying to pull?” The soldier wrestled Gabriel toward the stairs. “I hope you enjoy Pilate’s prison because that’s where you’re going.”

Gabriel’s shoulder throbbed with pain, as if someone were beating it with a hammer. Afraid his arm would break, he drew a quick breath, dug in his heels and slammed his body against the soldier, stomping on the Roman’s foot with his full weight. Stunned, the soldier let go and Gabriel began to run, but after only a few steps he felt something sharp hit his shin. He stumbled and fell. The soldier pounced and held a javelin at Gabriel’s neck. “I’ll teach you to—”

The Pharisee rushed over and grabbed the Roman’s arm. “Please don’t hurt him! My son was just admiring the sunrise.” He was yelling in Greek and trying to pull the soldier off. “I’ll make sure it never happens again.” The soldier wrestled Gabriel upright and held the tip of the javelin against Gabriel’s back. “I know it won’t happen again—not where he’s going.

Gabriel stood still, amazed at the Pharisee’s lie.

“There has been enough trouble between the Jews and Romans,” the Pharisee said. “I want peace, but you will have a fight on your hands if you throw my son into prison.”

The soldier spun Gabriel around and then eyed the Pharisee with scorn. “Why should I show your boy mercy after he nearly broke my foot? He’s a troublemaker and must be taught a lesson.”

“Please, sir, he has never been in trouble before. He’s a good boy and I will make sure he stays away from here.”

The soldier glared at Gabriel and then turned back to the Pharisee.

“All right,” the soldier said. He pushed Gabriel aside and began to walk away. “But if I catch your boy climbing here again, I’ll show no mercy.”

G
abriel dusted himself off and turned to run away, his neck and ears red with shame. He had forgotten why he wanted to jump; all that mattered was fleeing from the man who had seen him try.

The Pharisee called after him in Aramaic, “I saved your life and lied to keep you out of prison. You owe me an explanation!”

Gabriel wanted to keep going, but the urgency of the man’s words stopped him. He faced the Pharisee and said, “I didn’t ask for your help. You had no right to stop me from jumping.”

The Pharisee approached him, brow furrowed, close-set auburn eyes flashing. “You were about to commit a grievous sin. It was my duty to stop you.”

“Was it your duty to lie for me?”

“Of course not. But I could no more let you get thrown into a filthy Roman jail than I could watch you kill yourself.”

Gabriel heard compassion in the Pharisee’s voice and this surprised him. He had always thought that the Pharisees lived up to the meaning of their name—“separated ones.” They avoided contact with anyone who didn’t strictly obey Jewish law and they bitterly opposed the Sadducees, the Temple priests whose compromises with the Romans and whose unorthodox beliefs offended them. He knew the Pharisees as severe men who cherished their privileged status in the Jewish caste system.

The Pharisees prided themselves on being members of the
chaburah
or brotherhood. Obsessed with the minutiae of God’s law, they strove to honor every regulation—the Sabbath, the dietary laws, the requirements of ritual purity—and to monitor who complied and who did not. Gabriel respected the Pharisees’ learning and dedication, but he saw them as wearisome meddlers. This man’s sensitivity took him aback. “Why would a Pharisee care about someone he doesn’t even know?” Gabriel asked.

“I
do
know you.” The Pharisee reached out and squeezed Gabriel’s shoulders. “Are you not Zebulun’s son? You are the mirror image of your father; I have known him since before you were born.”

Gabriel’s mouth gaped open in disbelief. “Who
are
you?”

The Pharisee extended his hand. “I am Nicodemus ben Gorion, a member of the Sanhedrin. I often seek quiet on this wall before beginning my duties in the Temple.”

“The Sanhedrin!” Gabriel stepped back in awe. He revered the Sanhedrin as Judaism’s Supreme Court. Its seventy distinguished priests, scribes, Pharisees, and Sadducees ruled on the fine points of Jewish law. Not only did they determine the verdicts and punishments of those accused of violations, but they also advised Caiaphas, the high priest, and Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, on religious matters.

Those who served on the Sanhedrin were often wealthy and always influential. Gabriel hesitantly took Nicodemus’ hand and said, “Yes, I am Gabriel, Zebulun’s son. It doesn’t surprise me that you know my father. He has many important friends.” Gabriel paused and stared at the ground for a moment; then he met the Pharisee’s eyes. “It’s partly because of my father’s friends that I wanted to jump.”

“How could they make you so desperate?” Nicodemus asked.

Gabriel again turned to go, his arms weak with shame.

Nicodemus tightened his grip on Gabriel’s hand. “Sometimes problems seem unbearable. May I help?”