The Well Read online

  “Let me pass.” Mara hoped they didn’t hear the tremble in her voice.

  “Where is your mother, Mara? Too ashamed to go to the well?” said the tallest boy with a sneer. “My father says she is nothing but a—a whore.”

  Amram, the eldest son of Zevulun and Tirzah. He was tall and thick but had the bad manners of a spoiled child. The other two boys gasped, then laughed along with Amram.

  Mara’s face flushed hot. Her throat closed so tightly that she could barely breathe, let alone speak. She lowered the jar from her head and wrapped her arms around it, shielding herself from her chin to waist. She stared into the eyes of the nearest boy, the smallest. He faltered and took a step back. Amram did not.

  Just ignore them. Maybe she’d get by with just a few insults. Quickening her stride, she veered around them, her head high.

  Chapter 3

  Shem heard the woman’s desperate sobs before he saw her.

  He and his brother had stayed late at their tutor’s house, debating Aristotle and complaining about the Romans. Now they made their way through the dark alleys and winding streets of Caesarea when all the respectable citizens were safe behind locked doors. Everyone knew that only thieves, cutthroats, and Roman soldiers prowled the city after sundown.

  It was Shem’s fault they were late, and he’d pay if his father found out that he had taken Benjamin through the city in the dark. But they had only to make their way across the wide, open forum and down a few side streets before they reached their father’s house on the cliffs above the sea. He had his knife if they ran into any trouble. And he knew how to use it.

  The sobs became louder. Drunken laughter rang out. “What’s a fine woman like you doing out in the dark?” Greek words with a heavy accent, definitely a Roman.

  “Please.”

  The desperate word quickened Shem’s pulse. What was going on here? He pulled Benjamin into the dark shadow of the nearest building and edged closer to the square.

  Under the imposing statue of Augustus Caesar, a woman knelt on the stone paving, gathering onions and oranges that had rolled from her basket. Two soldiers stood above her. One held a lighted torch and swayed on unsteady legs. The other, his hair the color of fire, bent over the woman, pulling at the rough cloak that covered her shoulders.

  Benjamin tugged on Shem’s tunic. “Shem, remember what Father said. One more fight and—”

  Shem put his hand to his lips. “Shh. I know.”

  But Benjamin was right. Their father had warned him. In the past month, he’d come home with two black eyes and a broken nose. If he came home with any more injuries, he’d have to pay his own tutoring fees. But how could he ignore such injustice?

  Shem pointed to a dark doorway. “Stay here.”

  Benjamin was the youngest of Shem’s four brothers. At twenty, he was only two years younger than Shem, but his beard was just wispy patches, and his fair hair was as fine as a child’s. He stuttered, but only when their father was around. He didn’t have any trouble speaking with their Greek tutor. Benjamin needed the escape to their tutor each day as much as he needed the medicine that his physician gave him for his chronic cough. And it was Shem’s job to get him safely there and back.

  Benjamin plucked at his cloak again. “Shem. Don’t do it.”

  He brushed his brother off. “I’m not going to fight. I’m just going to talk to them.”

  Shem stepped into the forum.

  “Come on. Just one little kiss!” said the redhead.

  “Please.” The woman shoved the basket toward the soldiers. “Keep the food. Just let me go.”

  The drunken one lurched forward and grabbed the neck of her cloak. She choked out a scream.

  Shem stepped forward. “Let her go.”

  The soldiers straightened and turned to Shem. Their hands went to the swords that hung from their studded leather belts.

  The woman grabbed her basket and ran.

  Shem held out his own empty hands. “She’s nothing. Forget her.” He smiled. “Here,” he rummaged in the fold of his tunic for a coin and held it out to them. “Have a drink on me.”

  See, Benjamin. I’m not starting anything.

  The redhead stepped closer to him, his stance relaxing. “You speak Latin well, for a Jew.”

  Shem let that go. Both Samaritans and Jews lived in Caesarea. The Romans didn’t know the difference, and they didn’t care. If you weren’t Roman, you didn’t count. Few Samaritans or Jews spoke Latin, and even fewer spoke it well. Perhaps he’d be able to reason with these men.

  The drunk tipped his torch toward the fading patter of sandaled feet. “Longinus, he spoiled our fun. I guess he’ll have to make it up to us.”

  “As I said, have a drink on me.” Shem tossed the coin. It clinked on the stone pavers, then rolled and settled at the drunk’s feet.

  Shem heard the shuffle of his brother’s sandals, and the soldiers’ attention shifted behind him. He clenched his teeth to stifle a curse. Why hadn’t Benjamin done what he was told?

  The redhead—Longinus—smirked. “Who’s your mulier?”

  His woman? Shem stiffened and blood roared in his ears. He knew what the Roman was implying. “He’s my brother. We’re on our way home.”

  Longinus stepped toward Benjamin.

  Benjamin held his ground, but his pale hands twitched at his sides.

  “Hey, cinaedus,” Longinus said. “You’re out late with your boyfriend, here.” He hacked and launched a wad of saliva at Benjamin.

  Benjamin flinched as spittle covered his face.

  That was too much. “Leave him alone!” Shem stepped up to the soldier and pushed him in the chest. “Keep your perversions to yourself, you filthy dog.”

  Longinus stepped behind Shem and wrenched his arms back in one smooth motion. The drunken one threw down the torch and came at Shem from the front.

  “Benjamin, get out of here!” Shem yelled before a hard punch to his gut took his breath away.

  Benjamin launched himself at the one named Longinus. He wrapped his thin arms around the soldier’s neck and held on.

  Shem’s arms came free. He reached for his knife.

  Metal scraped against leather as the drunken soldier pulled his sword from its sheath.

  Shem crouched into a fighting stance and circled. It wouldn’t be much of a fight. A sword against a blade, but he’d do what he could. A glance behind him showed Longinus throwing Benjamin off his neck.

  “Run!” Shem shouted. This time, his brother did as was he was told. He took off, and Longinus went after him.

  When Shem turned back, the sword was right in front of him. His distraction had cost him precious seconds. He felt a hot slice, then pain along his cheek. His eyes stung, and blood clouded his vision.

  He ducked the second thrust and got in close before the soldier could regain his balance. Up close, he was hardly older than Shem. As he felt the soldier’s arm swing back for a strong blow, Shem thrust his blade forward with all his strength. The soldier’s eyes met Shem’s. His brows came down in confusion, and his sword clattered to the ground.

  Shem looked down. His hand was pushed against the soldiers ribs, the knife plunged to the hilt. Dark blood poured out like spilled wine.

  What have I done?

  He pulled the knife out, and the soldier crumpled to the ground.

  • • •

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  Shem froze in mid-stride at his mother’s whispered warning. “I was just—”

  “I know what you were doing. And I know why.”

  Shem turned from the door.

  His mother sighed. “You’ve been stuck in the house for days—you’re like a caged lion. But it isn’t worth it. You could be seen.”

  Shem cringed at his mother’s anxious voice. “It’s not even dawn, and it’s raining. Any Roman soldier is probably still sleeping off last night’s drunk.” Except one. One Roman soldier was nothing but ash on a funeral pyre. Was his mother mourning him?


  He shrugged off his cloak and stepped back into the dark house. She was right. It wasn’t fair to endanger his family just to get a breath of fresh air. Even if the soldiers weren’t up yet, there were plenty of Greeks and even Jews in Caesarea who would gladly turn him in. And then . . . crucifixion outside the city gate, a slow death next to other murderers.

  But what did they expect him to do? He couldn’t hide for the rest of his life. Shem tried not to be angry at his mother. She had the rest of the family to think about, their safety to consider. He had only himself to blame for this imprisonment. And the Roman legions that infected the city like a pestilence.

  He couldn’t think clearly in the stifling air of his father’s home. His brothers’ subdued whispers, worried looks from his mother, and—most grating of all—his father’s constant tirades, made it impossible to forget his guilt. He desperately wanted to get out, just to clear his head.

  “Come, I want to talk to you,” his mother said.

  Shem followed her down the wide hallway, past glowing brass lamps and ornately carved doorways. Soft carpets muffled their steps as she led him to the brightly lit kitchen, already bustling with servants and smelling of warm bread.

  His mother scooped thick yogurt into a bowl for him. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell your father that you tried to escape.”

  Shem helped himself to a round of soft, warm bread. Of course she wouldn’t tell. He was her favorite son, after all. Which is why this must hurt her more than anyone else.

  “I need you to promise me something, Shem.” She sounded serious. She poured a stream of dark honey over the yogurt and put the bowl in his hand.

  He nodded as he dipped his bread. He had heard his father ranting late into the night. It wasn’t hard to guess that the conversation had been about him.

  “Ezra has decided what to do with you.”

  Shem opened his mouth to speak, but she raised her hand.

  “Shem. Don’t argue with him. Just do as he says.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Please, Shem. He’s trying to save your life.”

  Shem finished his food in silence, then hurried down the long hallway. He couldn’t appear before his father with sleep-mussed hair and an old tunic. His father had a plan for him, and Shem doubted that he would like it. But Ezra’s word was law.

  Shem stepped into his spacious room to find his servant hovering like a wasp in a fig tree. Drusus had already straightened the thick blankets on his bed and tidied the wax tablets and scrolls on his cluttered desk. He buzzed about the room gathering stray clothes and abandoned sandals.

  “Good morning, sir. I’m sorry to have left you these past days.”

  Shem shrugged. A few days without Drusus had been a relief. His servant was a short, wiry Greek who seemed never to run out of words.

  “Your father sent me to attend to some . . . family business.”

  Drusus’s hopeful pause meant that he had information to share, but Shem was not in the mood for gossip. Shem rooted through a cedar-lined chest, searching for his best tunic.

  “I trust you didn’t find my absence a hardship. You are already so terribly burdened.” Drusus produced the tunic and a look of concern.

  “Of course not, Drusus,” Shem snapped. “I’m not a child.” He shrugged into the sandalwood-scented linen and dismissed Drusus, wondering at his eager words but determined not to indulge his servant’s loose tongue. He would find out soon enough.

  Shem adjusted his tunic and glanced in the burnished-silver mirror that hung near his bed. He touched the puckered wound that curved from his temple to the corner of his mouth. The scar would always remind him of his own stupidity.

  The familiar weight of guilt settled on Shem as he found Benjamin waiting outside his door. He stopped Shem with a hand around his arm, his grip as weak as a girl’s. “Father wants to see you,” he said rolling his eyes. “Right away.”

  Shem frowned. Yes, Ezra didn’t like to be kept waiting.

  Benjamin coughed and took a deep, wheezing breath. “Mama is there, waiting for you.”

  Shem steadied him with his other hand. “You should be in bed.”

  Benjamin waved his concern away. “Remember—”

  “I know, I know. Don’t lose my temper. Go now. Get some rest and stop worrying about me.” He stepped past Benjamin and strode down the long hall toward his father’s workroom.

  Whatever his father had decided, he would do. Not for his father, but for his mother and for Benjamin. Did that soldier have a brother? Maybe I deserve to be crucified. He surely didn’t deserve his mother’s concern, or his brother’s loyalty.

  Shem entered his father’s workroom to find Ezra behind a vast ebony worktable, frowning at him as though he was a naughty child. He measured at least a head shorter than his son but was more powerfully built. His face was heavy and square, with thick brows and a wide mouth. Scrolls and maps littered his worktable, and an iron-bound money box sat at his feet. From this room, Ezra’s commands were carried out by slaves and sons alike as he did business with merchants throughout the Roman Empire.

  Shem’s mother stood silently at his side, as straight as a tent pole, her hands clutched to her heart. A glance from her reminded Shem of his promise.

  “Well, Shem,” Ezra said. “You put all of us in danger this time. This trouble is not going away. I’ve heard that they are still searching for you throughout the city.”

  His father waited. No doubt for another apology.

  Shem said nothing as he perched on the edge of an intricately carved chair.

  “The centurion owes me a favor. If they track you here, I can get protection for the rest of the family. But you . . . I can’t protect you. You’ll hang from a cross outside the city gates.”

  His mother’s quick sob only earned her an irritated look from her husband.

  “We need to get you out of Caesarea.” Ezra watched Shem with pursed lips, clearly waiting for a response.

  Shem twisted the heavy gold signet ring on his first finger. It glinted in the sun, now high enough to pour through the wide windows and heat the already stuffy room. The ring was a sign, his father had said, that Shem was on his way to being an important man in Caesarea. Would that ever happen now?

  His father snorted impatiently. “I sent Drusus to Sychar yesterday to speak to your grandfather.”

  Shem’s head jerked up as his heart sank. Please, not Sychar. The tiny town where his mother had been born was an intellectual desert, a wasteland of farmers and narrow minds. He was probably better educated than Sychar’s high priest.

  “Abahu has agreed to take you on as his apprentice in the olive business,” his father continued. “With no sons, he is in need of an heir. You will be useful to him.”

  “But . . . but Father.” Shem tried to keep his voice steady. “What can I do there? Pick olives?” Shem heard the note of scorn in his own voice and glanced at his mother.

  His father’s face darkened and his voice rose. “You are hardly in the position to be selective, boy.”

  Shem ducked his head, ashamed of himself. His father was right. But, please, not Sychar.

  “Now,” Ezra sent a stern look to his wife. “Your grandparents know nothing of the . . . trouble . . . that you have had here in Caesarea. I ordered Drusus not to go into that disaster. There is no need to alarm them.”

  His mother’s mouth hardened into a thin line. She clearly didn’t agree.

  Shem knew a little about his grandfather, Abahu of Sychar. He had heard that Abahu had been disappointed when Ezra had taken Dinah, his only child, to Caesarea. Shem could guess that Abahu despaired for his grandchildren. He probably thought they had deserted the Holy Mountain that was central to their faith.

  But Abahu was no village idiot. He would wonder why Ezra was suddenly so eager to part with his most scholarly son. Surely Shem would need to give his grandfather an explanation?

  “Grandfather will wonder—”

  “You will not speak of it.”

  “But they mi
ght be in danger—”

  “No.” His father slapped his big hands on the table. “Do not tell your grandparents about the Roman.” He frowned at his wife. “They will not look for you there. I doubt that anyone here even knows that your mother comes from Sychar. It is not something I brag about.”

  “How long must I stay?” Shem asked. He would just have to get used to the idea. A few months couldn’t be that bad.

  His father sighed a bit too loudly. “Perhaps it is a good place for you to live. Your grandfather has a good life there, and he is old. He needs someone to take over the olives for him.”

  Shem sucked in his breath. “You mean . . .” He looked from one parent to the other. “I will never return here? Never live here again?” This was too harsh. But was it? A knife in the heart was harsh. A funeral pyre was harsh.

  “It is the only way,” his mother said quickly. “And it is a good place.”

  Now he understood her earlier request. She wanted him away from the city and with her parents, where he would be safe. And she wanted him to take care of Abahu and his grandmother.

  She raised open, pleading hands toward Shem. “My father, he is a good man and will teach you well. Drusus said that he was overjoyed to have you join his family. You will be happy in Sychar. And safe, my son.”

  How had his mother managed to get his father to agree to this? Ezra had had much grander plans for his well-educated son. He surely wouldn’t let the money he had spent on tutors go to waste. Not to mention the bribes he’d paid to get Shem well-placed in the city government.

  “Well, we shall see what happens,” Ezra said. His face was turned to his wife, but he cast a sidelong glance at his son. Some of the tension drained from Shem’s shoulders. No, his father wasn’t about to banish him to Sychar forever.

  “Leave us now, Dinah. Shem will say good-bye to you before he goes.” Ezra dismissed his wife with a curt wave.

  She rested her hand briefly on Shem’s shoulder. He pressed his own hand over hers for a moment. His father’s brows lowered, and his mouth twisted. Ezra didn’t approve of grown sons showing affection toward their mothers, but Shem had never let that stop him.