Danya. Anne McGivern
and married Mother, who had fled from the country of Nabatea to our village. Mother was much younger than Father, closer in age to my half-brother Chuza than she was to Father. Her name was Nahara, which means “light.” I couldn’t remember what she looked like, but my fingertips still held the memory of the soft curve of her cheek and the dip of the dimple in her chin. I longed to know more about her. And about Father. I began to suspect that Lev was wrong: Father was silent not because he was thinking great thoughts, but because he was keeping great secrets. I would not give up.
“What do the Essenes, these ‘Sons of Light’ do?” I asked Father, as we waded across a flooded stretch of the pathway.
“They prepare to fight the Sons of Darkness.”
“Who are the Sons of Darkness?”
“Their enemies, of course.”
“I’m tired of hearing about these strange people,” Naomi said. “And look, I dropped my sandals and now they’re soaked.”
“Who are their enemies?” I probed. “Romans? Other Gentiles? Jews?”
“They have many enemies.”
“Do you think any Essenes live in Jerusalem?”
“Probably. We should sit and dry our feet now.”
The tiny possibility of finding Lev with the Essenes in Jerusalem caused my feet to dance along the gnarled river path. For the first time since we had left Nazareth, I didn’t worry about thieves, Romans, snakes, or thunderstorms. I carried the hope of seeing Lev again with me, in my hands. My hope was a real thing, warm and soft and pliable, like a wineskin.
After we had hiked in silence for some time, Father spoke without my having to prod him. “Danya, the Essenes are a male sect. Women can’t be members. You weren’t thinking you could join them, were you?”
“But surely, Father, there are some women. Lev and the other men don’t know how to bake or spin or weave. How could these men survive without women?”
Father shook his staff at me. “They will survive without you, Danya. That is certain!” Losing his balance, he turned his ankle. “Ouch! Now look what’s happened.” He hobbled to the riverbank and soaked his leg in the cold water. Naomi clucked over him, binding his ankle tightly in thin strips of cloth. I dropped the subject of the Essenes. No one could win an argument with Father, Lev always said.
* * *
At daybreak on the fifth day, we split away from the Jordan River where the pilgrim path turned towards Jericho and climbed to the top of a cliff. From that height, we could see the Jericho oasis, improbably lush and green, springing up from the brittle desert besieging it on all sides. But columns of smoke smudged the sky over the city.
Naomi scurried forward. “My father told me that King Herod had three palaces in Jericho,” she said. “And a swimming pool. And a sunken garden, whatever that is. There’s even a bathhouse, like the Romans have in Sepphoris, that my father says is the work of the devil. Please, please can we see it?”
Father said, “Naomi, child, I’m afraid that you won’t see a bathhouse or anything else in Jericho. That smoke is a bad sign.” A foul odor, like the diseased figs we had to burn a few harvests ago, hung in the air.
The footpath that led down from the cliff fed into a road that sliced across the Jericho plain. Smaller roads, coming from other directions, joined this one. Merchants and their wagons, farmers with herds of animals, and pilgrims bound for Jerusalem all crowded onto this passage through the date palm groves of the Jericho valley. As we drew closer to the city, the smoke smudges in the sky darkened and thickened. Our eyes watered; we coughed; we put our headcoverings over our mouths.
The gates to Jericho were locked. Roman soldiers, stationed an arm’s length apart, guarded its walls. We were in a crowd of people who, silently and submissively, streamed by them. No one questioned or challenged the soldiers whose short, sleeveless tunics emphasized the bulging muscles of their arms and legs. They clutched spears whose iron heads were as long as my arm and, and the handles on their thick-bladed swords were wider than my fist.
Staring at the swords, I suddenly felt foolish. If I had joined the raid on Sepphoris, I might’ve accidentally wounded myself simply trying to lift one of them. And how could I have run lugging a sack full of these heavy weapons?
Each soldier looked just like the next as we passed meekly through their ranks. Helmets, complete with cheek pieces and nose deflectors, obscured each man’s individual features. It seemed as if the same face, fixed in the same contemptuous sneer, glared out at us and at all of Judea. Naomi clutched at my tunic, and I clutched at Father’s. Had Lev been as afraid as I was now when he faced the Roman supply convoy in Galilee?
At the far edge of Jericho, we stopped to fill our water jars from the Ein es-Sultan spring. Father approached a beardless young soldier and spoke with him in Greek. “What has happened here?”
“Rebels have burned the palace and gardens,” the soldier said.
“What rebels?” asked Father.
“Maybe the traitors who follow the shepherd Anthronges. Or maybe Simon of Perea’s rabble. Or Judah ben Hezekiah’s bandits. It doesn’t matter who did it. We’ll kill them all.” The soldier pounded the ground with the butt of his spear and, with his other arm, signaled for us to move on.
“But it does matter,” Father said, keeping his place. “You must not punish one for the crimes of another. Judah ben Hezekiah didn’t do this.”
“How do you know?” said the soldier. He stepped back and sized Father up.
His stare chilled me. I tugged on Father. “Come. We must go.”
“You must have evidence of wrongdoing before you punish,” Father said sternly.
“Don’t tell me what I must or must not do, old man,” said the soldier. The arrogant young man, a boy really, gripped his spear crosswise and pushed it against Father’s chest.
Father lost his balance and fell down. The soldier towered over Father and sneered at him as Father lay on his back in the dirt. I cowered, too afraid to help Father to his feet. It was I who clung to Naomi this time, our mutual fear wet and heavy in our palms. Shame filled me. I was too weak to defend my own father. No wonder I hadn’t been favored.
Slowly and in obvious pain, Father rolled over and struggled to bring himself to his knees, then to his feet. He brushed the dust from his hands and squinted into the soldier’s blue eyes.
“You know better than to treat an old man like this,” Father said gently, as if chiding a student of his.
The young soldier’s face colored. He hoisted his spear and glared at Father. No one breathed. Then he lowered his gaze, laid his weapon on his shoulder, and walked away.
My tongue stuck in my mouth. My legs felt like water, so I couldn’t walk. But Naomi ran to Father and, swatting at the dust on the back of his tunic said, “You are the bravest man in the world. I am so grateful that you’re my protector!” She hugged him tightly then reached out and pulled me to him also.
Father held the two of us and let me cry. He thought my tears were those of relief. “It’s all right. You’ve been strong and brave throughout this hard journey, my little light. Just another half day and we’ll be in Jerusalem.”
Though I had been brave in some ways, some of my tears were those of disappointment. I had neither the physical strength nor the courage I thought I had.
In my heart, I cradled that image of my father standing up to the Roman bully. I would have to find some way to do the same, to imitate my father’s courage and dignity. However, I would not share his willingness to put aside the cruelty shown to him.
We hurried to reach Jerusalem before sundown. Father leaned heavily on his walking staff but trudged along without rest. I didn’t even stop to pick stones out of my sandals. Naomi kept pace, for once not whining about the blisters on