Keepers of the Covenant (4 page)

T
HE
CITY
OF
C
ASIPHIA
,
NORTH
OF
B
ABYLON

R
euben 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.

B
ETHLEHEM

W
ait!” 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. “He 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.”

Could that be true? Were Amina’s sister and older brothers and even her father imperfect in some way? It seemed unlikely. Amina held out her palms to show Hodaya how they’d been
scraped, too. Hodaya poured more water onto the cloth. “Maybe you can’t run as fast as the other children,” she said as she wiped the dirt off Amina’s hands, “but God created you to do something special that they can’t do.”

“He did? What?”

Hodaya laughed. “I don’t know, but I’m certain you’ll figure it out by the time you’re my age. My husband was a shepherd. His flock grazed in the fields outside town. I learned to spin and weave the wool from his sheep and make cloth to sell.”

Amina climbed off the stool after Hodaya finished and looked around at the colorful skeins of wool and piles of cloth. Hodaya had been unpacking her goods in her stall when Amina had tripped and fallen, and she continued laying out her samples now. “These colors are really pretty,” Amina said, trailing her fingers over the soft fabric.

“Thank you, dear. I dye the wool myself. I love trying different ingredients and creating new colors.”

Amina’s father said Jews were thieves and liars, and she should stay far away from them. If her sister came back and saw her talking to one, Amina would get into trouble. But she didn’t care. She liked this kind, gentle woman.

“Your hair is such a beautiful color,” Hodaya said, resting her hand on Amina’s head for a moment. Amina only flinched a little this time. “I would love to find a way to dye my cloth this gorgeous, coppery-brown.”

“Sayfah says my hair is ugly. Hers is black like Mama’s.”

“Don’t listen to her. It’s lovely and—” Hodaya halted in surprise as a man hurried into the booth. Amina could tell by the little cap he wore and the tassels on his robe that he was Jewish. “Jacob! What are you doing here?” Hodaya asked.

“Pack everything up, Mama. We have to go home right away.”

“What are you talking about? I just got here. I haven’t sold anything yet.” The man began stuffing cloth back into sacks as if he hadn’t heard her. “Jacob, stop. What are you doing?”

“Something’s happened, Mama—”

“To one of the children? To your brothers?” she asked in alarm.

“No, we’re all fine.” He noticed Amina for the first time and asked, “Who’s the Edomite girl? Why is she here?” He glared at Amina as if she were his enemy.

“This is my new friend, Amina. She fell and skinned her knees. Amina, this is my very rude son, Jacob.” He didn’t respond as he continued to fold up Hodaya’s cloth and take down her display, his movements hurried and jerky. Hodaya made him stop, pulling a bolt of fabric from his hands. “Jacob, I’m not packing up or going anywhere until you tell me why.”

He let out his breath in a rush, the way a horse snorts when it’s impatient to run. “Three elders from Jerusalem came to the house of assembly this morning with bad news. The Persian emperor has issued a decree that’s . . . well, it’s like something from a nightmare. We’re holding a meeting right away to discuss what to do. I came to take you home.”

Amina watched Hodaya’s face. If her son’s news upset her, the older woman didn’t let it show. She rested her hand on Amina’s head again, as if blessing her. “It was so nice to meet you, Amina. I hope we see each other again.”

“Me too.”

Just then, Amina heard her sister calling her. “Amina . . . Amina, where are you?”

“Bye,” she said with a little wave. “Thanks for helping me.” She ducked out of the booth and limped up the street toward Sayfah, taking her time so she wouldn’t trip again.

“Where have you been?” Sayfah asked. She looked as angry and impatient as their father as she stood with her arms folded, glaring as if Amina was at fault instead of Sayfah and the others for running off. “Come on, slowpoke. Mama is finished shopping. We’re going home.”

Mama stood waiting at the narrow entrance to Bethlehem,
holding the produce she’d purchased. Amina tried to help, carrying a melon as she limped home, but her weak leg made it hard to keep up. She tried to show Mama her scraped knees when they arrived back in their village. “Look what happened when I fell. A nice woman in the marketplace helped me—”

But her mother wasn’t interested. “Maybe you’ll watch where you’re going next time.”

Amina helped prepare the meal, then waited out of sight while Abba and her two older brothers ate. They were the three most important people in her household and entitled to the first and best of everything. They peppered her with slaps and kicks and curses whenever she didn’t move quickly enough, especially when they were tired from working in the fields all day.

She was still thinking about the Jewish weaver’s kindness as she lay in bed that night. Hodaya had called Amina’s hair a lovely color. She’d said there was something special that Amina could do that her sister couldn’t—and she would find out what it was someday. Hodaya said she liked being different, even though her foot was even more crooked than Amina’s.

Amina fell asleep thinking of her words. But sometime in the middle of the night, loud voices and cheering woke her up. She sat up, listening in the dark to sounds of laughter and celebration. It sounded like the festival her village held after the olives were harvested, but they weren’t even ripe yet. When another great cheer went up, Amina climbed out of bed and peeked outside her door. Everyone in the village had gathered in the street, celebrating with torches blazing and open jars of wine. Amina’s mother and some of the other women passed through the crowd with pitchers, refilling everyone’s cups. Abba stood on the back of a wagon, swaying slightly as if the wagon was rolling down the road. “What a day this is!” he said, lifting his cup. “We’ll be rid of those filthy Jews at last! Now they’ll all die!” The crowd cheered in response.

Amina’s Uncle Abdel, who had come to visit from a distant
village, jumped onto the wagon beside him, draping his arm over Abba’s shoulder. “Friends, we’ll take our pick of the Jews’ houses and property,” he said. “We can have their olive groves and vineyards, harvest fields that we didn’t have to plant—”

“And sheep!” someone yelled from the crowd. “They have huge flocks of sheep!”

“That’s right!” Abba said. “We’ll not only reap the benefits of the Jews’ labor and prosperity, but we’ll be rid of them for good.” His words were met with joyful laughter.

“Listen . . . listen!” The oldest man in the village shuffled toward the wagon with his arms raised, signaling that he had something to say. The laughter quieted. “I was just a boy when the Jews arrived here from Babylon with their stinking caravans. They invaded like a locust swarm, building on our land and claiming our fields and vineyards as their own. Thousands of them! That was nearly seventy years ago, and I’ve thought of little else all these years, except getting rid of them. At last we’ll have our chance!” The people gave another roaring cheer.

Amina was wide awake now. She slipped through the door and limped barefoot across her family’s small courtyard to stand by the gate. She was too frightened by the shouting and rowdiness to venture into the street, and besides, she was in her nightclothes.

“We need a plan,” Abba said, “so we can take advantage of this opportunity. Everyone needs to stake his claim and determine whose plunder he wants and which Jews he intends to kill. And we’ll need swords and other weapons.”

“It might be better if we rounded up all the Jews first,” the old man said. “We could kill them all in one place.”

“Do you think they’ll fight back?” Amina’s uncle asked.

“They can’t!” Abba replied. “That’s the beauty of it! This decree comes from King Xerxes himself. Every Jew in the empire—every man, woman, and child—must be executed.”

Amina didn’t understand. The woman who’d helped her
today was Jewish. Why would the king kill someone as kind and gentle as Hodaya?

She watched her father drain his cup of wine, then scan the crowd as if searching for a refill. “Hey! What are you doing out here?” he shouted when he saw Amina. She backed away, careful not to trip and make him angrier. “Get back inside! Now!”

Mama hurried over and slapped Amina’s face before yanking her into the house. “You heard your father. Stay inside where you belong.”

“But . . . why is Abba going to kill—”

“This doesn’t concern you. This is grown-up business.” Mama pushed Amina down onto her pallet saying, “Go to sleep and forget what you heard.”

“But the nice lady who helped me today was Jewish and—”

“What are you doing talking to Jews? You know better.” Amina ducked as Mama lifted her hand to slap her again, her face still burning from the first slap. “Never trust a Jew. They do sneaky things to deceive people and disguise what they’re really like. They all deserve to die.” Mama left the room, closing the door behind her.

Amina was no stranger to killing and bloodshed. She’d seen Abba and the other men slaughter sheep and pigs for festivals and special occasions. She’d watched as the blood gushed onto the ground after Abba cut their throats, his hands and arms turning red and slick. The animals had squealed and squirmed one moment, then lay limp and lifeless the next. Would Abba kill the Jews the same way, slashing their throats and letting their blood soak his hands and pour into the dirt? Amina knew that people sometimes died—two children from her village had died of the same fever that had crippled her leg. But everyone was supposed to be sad when people died, wailing and mourning for them. They weren’t supposed to cheer and rejoice in the streets. Amina shivered in bed as she listened to the noise outside. It took her a long time to fall asleep.