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With his mother gone, he looked back to his father. “I won’t be staying permanently in Sychar, then?”

  Ezra shook his head. “I don’t think that will be necessary. They won’t look for you forever. Once the current legion moves to another area of the province, you should be able to return here. Then we can continue with your education and get you placed in the city.”

  “But what of Mother and my grandparents?” Shem asked.

  “Your mother,” Ezra snorted. “She would have you waste your life in the olive grove. I will not let that happen. Any fool can prune trees and harvest olives. I need you here. If you gain your grandfather’s trust, you could still inherit the olive groves. We’ll hire a steward to manage them. It will be a good income for you.”

  “So I am to lie to them?” Bitterness filled Shem’s throat. This is wrong. “About everything?”

  “Shem, do not be so childish.” Ezra unrolled a scroll and fixed his eyes on it as he spoke. “There is no need for them to know. Go to Sychar, work hard, help your grandfather. I will send word when it is safe to return to Caesarea. And Shem,” he glanced up at his son. “Stay out of trouble, for once.”

  Chapter 4

  I look ridiculous.” Shem ran a hand through his newly cut hair. It was indecently short with absurd ringlets arranged over his forehead. His smooth cheeks stung from the scrape of the blade that had taken off his soft black beard.

  Drusus adjusted a curl. “Ridiculous? Of course not. You look like a respectable Greek merchant, just as your father ordered.”

  Ezra stalked into the room. His critical eyes flicked from Shem’s shorn head to his sandal-clad feet. “Yes,” he said, running a hand over his own full beard. “That will do.”

  “How will this help me get out of the city?” Shem asked. He touched his scar, a naked red furrow on his smooth white skin. “At least my beard and hair almost covered the scar.”

  “My informer reported that soldiers are questioning every Jew and Samaritan. From a distance, you look like a Greek merchant.”

  “What about close up?”

  Ezra shrugged. “Don’t let them get close, boy.”

  Shem clenched his teeth. Easy enough for you to say. You are not the one they are after. But an argument with Ezra wouldn’t help anyone. “How will I get past the guards at the gate?”

  “I have a man waiting for you on the east end of the forum. He’ll get you out. After that, cross the plain in the dark. You’ll be in Sychar by morning.”

  They walked down the hallway and into the lush courtyard. The high walls protected them from the view of the street. Long shadows stretched over his mother’s flower garden, and the evening breeze smelled of the sea.

  His older brothers stood under the blooming fig trees. Benjamin and his mother sat close together on the edge of a gurgling fountain. Drusus waited by the gate, a loaded donkey by his side.

  His mother rose and stepped toward him, her face already streaked with tears.

  “Don’t worry.” He embraced her, ignoring his father’s grunt of disapproval.

  He said good-bye to his older brothers as they clapped him roughly on the shoulders. He would miss their fighting and teasing, but he had never had much in common with them. They worked in the shops and ran the businesses that his father owned. They knew of shipping and selling. Shem knew of philosophy and the law. Still, a pang of remorse surprised him.

  He turned to Benjamin. He would miss his little brother the most. A lump formed in his throat as he embraced Benjamin’s bony frame. “Take care of yourself.”

  Benjamin nodded, and Shem felt his brother’s body shudder.

  Shem tipped his head toward their father. “Just stay out of his way. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Go on now, Shem. Get out of here before the soldiers find you.” Ezra checked the buckles on the donkey. “Remember. East end of the forum.”

  How could he forget? That was where this had all started. “How will I know him?”

  A brief, humorless smile flashed across his father’s face. “Oh, you’ll know him when you see him.”

  With a last nod to Benjamin, Shem slipped out of the courtyard and into the late-afternoon glow. Drusus walked behind, quiet for once, towing a donkey loaded with gifts for Shem’s grandparents.

  It took only a short time for them to slip down the narrow alleys to the forum, partially deserted now that the statue of Augustus threw its long shadow over the square. Two soldiers lounged at the northern corner, but their eyes were trained on three scantily dressed women displayed in front of Athena’s temple.

  Where was the man that his father had paid, probably very handsomely, to get him out of the city gate? All he saw at the east side of the wide square was a filthy tanner standing by an oxcart heaped with sheep and goat skins.

  As Shem drew near, the tanner jerked his head up. “Shem ben Ezra?”

  The meaning of his father’s brief smile hit him squarely in the nose. The tanner reeked of the urine and dung that he used in his trade. His clothes were rags, his feet and bare legs stained yellow from tramping in urine vats all day.

  He looked Shem up and down, his grizzled face unimpressed. “Don’t look like a killer to me.”

  The man slapped his ox’s bony rear end and turned abruptly down a street so narrow that the rickety cart could barely squeeze through it. He didn’t look back to see if Shem followed.

  Shem glanced back at the soldiers—they hadn’t moved—but Drusus scurried behind him, one hand clamped firmly over his nose.

  The clop of the ox’s feet rang off the high walls. They walked to the end of the street where they could see the corner of the main gate. Shem squeezed past the ox to peek around the corner. Freedom was just a stone’s throw away, but it might as well be across the ocean.

  Three soldiers stood at the gate, harassing each passing traveler. A cart heaped with melons rumbled to a stop. As one soldier questioned the driver, the other two plunged razor-tipped spears deep into the pile of fruit. A breeze chilled Shem’s neck and sent a shiver down his back. How will I get past the soldiers?

  The tanner started throwing the heavy skins, covered with dried blood, dung, and bits of flesh, to one side of the cart. The smell of rot and decay intensified. He turned to Shem and punched his hand toward the space he’d made. “Get in, then,” he said. So that was the plan. Once again, Ezra had had the last word.

  Shem pulled his cloak tightly around his new white tunic and wedged himself into the center of the cart, curling his legs up to his chest. His stomach lurched, and his last meal threatened to come up. He glanced at Drusus. The servant looked as though he was about to faint.

  Shem swallowed the bile that rose in his throat as the man covered him with one heavy skin after another, squeezing the air from his lungs. The damp skins pressed close around his face, blocking any fresh air. He took shallow breaths as the cart lurched forward. How long would he be able to last?

  The cart bumped to a stop. Shem’s heart pounded. Would the soldiers probe the cart with their spears as they’d done with the melons?

  “Where are you going?” a deep voice barked in Greek with a heavy Roman accent.

  “Taking these skins to my tannery, on the north beach,” the tanner replied.

  Shem’s lungs ached. His stomach heaved and he tasted bile. This must be what it felt like to drown. But in a sea of blood and gore. A sudden jab ripped through the skins, and a flash of pain lanced across his shoulder. He sucked in a breath of hot, fetid air and contracted into a tighter ball. I’m not going to make it out of the city alive.

  “Roman dogs!” the tanner bellowed. “You’re ruining my good skins.”

  A soldier cursed. The cart jolted, and the tanner grunted like he’d been kicked. The sound of flesh striking flesh followed another jolt to the cart.

  “Merde! Get this stinking filth out of here, and don’t come back if you know what’s good for you.”

  The cart jerked and began to roll. A wave of pain and nausea surged through
Shem, and the sounds and smells dissolved in a black void.

  • • •

  Fresh air. Shem took a deep breath. He opened his eyes to the blur of a dirty hand and a sharp crack of pain across his cheek.

  “You alive?” The old tanner peered at him with one eye. The other was swelled shut, and his filthy tunic was ripped down the front.

  “Should have charged your father more than ten drachma to get you out.” He dragged Shem out of the cart and dumped him on rocky ground. “Ruined five of my good hides.”

  They were on a road. Alone. And outside the city gates. The tanner was already heading north with his cart.

  Drusus knelt beside him, opened his cloak, and checked for blood. “Are you hurt, sir? The soldiers . . . the spear . . .”

  Shem pushed Drusus away and clambered to his feet. His shoulder stung, but a quick look showed that the spear had just nicked him. “I’m fine.” He shrugged off the stinking cloak and threw it at his hovering servant. “Get rid of that.”

  A narrow road stretched east, toward Sychar. He stalked down it. Surely, this night couldn’t get any more humiliating.

  Shem’s long, hurried strides slowed after they crossed the Plain of Sharon by the light of the moon and reached the less-exposed hills of Samaria. He threw himself down next to the first flowing stream, plunged his arms in to his elbows, then his head. The icy shock revived him, but no matter how much he scrubbed, he still smelled the stench of death.

  He left Drusus behind, preferring to be alone with his thoughts as they trudged the narrow path that wound through the hills.

  Mother said that this . . . situation is part of God’s plan for me. Hadn’t Joseph been exiled into slavery to save his people, she said.

  Shem snorted. He was no Joseph. Talk of God’s plan was just an excuse men used when their lives didn’t work out as they desired. The God of Abraham only acted in the lives of great men like Jacob and Moses.

  He hadn’t prayed when the soldier drew his sword in the forum. And he didn’t pray when he thought he would die in the tanner’s cart. Prayers weren’t heard by their God. His people had prayed for thousands of years, yet their history was one of defeat and slavery, their land overrun with foreigners. Yes, he believed the God of Abraham was the one, true God, but his God had deserted his people long ago.

  They passed Sebaste when dawn showed pink through the eastern clouds. Now, as the sun brightened the rocky peaks and deepened the shadowed valleys, Sychar lay just over the next hill. They passed a little house alone in the valley between Mount Gerizim and Mount Ebal. The tiny hut looked about to fall down, but the neatly tilled garden showed sprouts of green and the fire in front burned brightly.

  “What about that hut?” Drusus panted, catching up. “Perhaps we can ask for some breakfast?”

  “Whoever lives there can hardly spare us breakfast,” Shem said. “Your stomach can wait. We will be at my grandparents’ soon.” And then he’d have to decide. Is it right to lie to Abahu to obey my father? And if I tell the truth, what then?

  Shem stopped at the top of the hill. There it was. Sychar, just as he remembered from his few visits as a boy. A cluster of tiny houses, a marketplace, women with water jars on their heads, boys driving goats. I’m supposed to live here? And for how long?

  “Shouldn’t we go through the village?” Drusus whined.

  Although early, a few villagers peered out of the doorways. They must have nothing better to do. In a town this small, word of his arrival would be spread before he could even reach Abahu’s home on the other side. I might not care about what these people think, but grandfather surely does.

  “No,” Shem said as he started down the hill. “This path skirts the town and meets the Patriarch’s Highway. We don’t need everyone getting a good look at us before we even see my grandparents.” He left Drusus struggling behind him with the donkey.

  Chapter 5

  Mara measured her steps. I’m not running away from them. Just ahead was a sharp curve and then the well. A few more steps and she’d be safe.

  She jumped as a sharp stone hit her just above the elbow. Behind her, Amram snickered. Another hit her on her leg, biting into her skin. More rained down on her back and legs. The boys laughed and jeered.

  She didn’t look back but broke into a run. The tall jar bumped against her hip, slipping from her damp hands. She stumbled and fell to her knees, desperately juggling the water jar to keep it from breaking on the stony path.

  A yelp rang out behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. Amram lay splayed on the dusty ground. The other boys stepped back, the rocks dropping from their hands. A man towered over Amram. Who is that?

  The stranger growled. “Picking on girls? Is that what you do in this town?” He took a quick, menacing step toward the smaller boys. They flinched, then spun around, and ran toward the village.

  He turned back to Amram. “What is the matter with you? Do you make your family proud when you throw rocks at girls?”

  Amram scrambled to his feet. He stepped forward, his fists clenched. “I know who you are.”

  “Do you?”

  Amram pointed a thick finger. “You’ve come to live here. My father knows about you. He is the most powerful man in this town. You should know better than to make enemies of me and my family.”

  The stranger stood still and silent, then glanced over his shoulder at Mara. “Well, now that I’m trembling in fear, you can go report back to your abba. Make sure and tell him you took care of this dangerous girl as well.”

  Amram sneered once more at Mara, turned, and half-ran back toward the village.

  The stranger watched Amram scurry away. When he turned to Mara, she scrambled around the big jar, putting it between them, and peeked over the lip of the jug.

  He was young, not a boy but a full-grown man, probably over twenty years. His bright white tunic—made of fine linen—ended at his knees and was belted with intricately tooled leather studded in silver and bronze. An ornate dagger and fat leather purse hung from his waist, and his feet were encased in sturdy Roman sandals.

  His face was smooth instead of bearded, and his short black hair curled over his forehead. Serious dark eyes regarded her silently, and straight thin lips remained turned down in anger. Dark brows contrasted sharply with his pale skin—she had never seen such pale skin. An angry red gash marred one side of his face, and one shoulder of his tunic was torn and stained with what looked like blood. She had a fleeting, ridiculous thought of the stories of warrior angels—terrifying and beautiful. Still crouching on the ground, she caught up her mantle and used it to shield her burning face.

  “Are you hurt?” His sandals scraped the ground close to her. His words were precise and clipped, unlike the softer inflections of the Samaritans.

  She shook her head. I must look ridiculous, huddled on the ground.

  She held the water jug close to her face with one arm and pushed herself to her feet. Can he see my legs tremble? Even if I weren’t forbidden to speak to a man in public, I couldn’t think of one thing to say.

  Another man came panting along the path, trying to keep up with a trotting donkey. “First you wouldn’t budge; now you won’t slow down!”

  This man was small and slight, also short-haired and clean-shaven, but much older, and his clothes were of lesser quality. He yanked the donkey to a halt behind the young man, who stood tense and straight, his fists at his sides. The older man’s head swiveled to take in Mara. “What happened?”

  The younger man turned toward him. “Nothing, Drusus. Let us get on with our own business.” He glanced at Mara, one brow raised, then walked past her.

  She ducked her head to hide her flaming face.

  Mara didn’t move as dust settled around her bare feet and the sound of sandals and hooves faded around the curve in the road. What just happened? Is he new to Sychar, as Amram said? He’s wealthy, certainly, and hardly looks like he belongs here.

  Mara started toward the well. If he was new to Sychar, he
would soon find out that he’d chosen the wrong side in this battle. He seemed to regret it already.

  Her legs still shook when she reached the well. She searched the women’s faces, but no one was drawing water or even spared her a glance. The women and girls were clustered in bunches, chattering in high voices about the handsome stranger who had just passed by.

  • • •

  As Asher played in the afternoon shade, Mara sat by the hot fire, baking enough bread for tonight and tomorrow. Her extra tunic and Asher’s white tallith were washed and drying on the bushes, ready for Sabbath prayers. The plump skin of goat’s milk hung by the fire, thickening into a sour yogurt.

  Mara’s hands still shook when she thought of the boys on the path. Her mind swam with sharp words that she could have—should have—used on Amram. She groaned out loud. How ridiculous she must have looked to the stranger.

  Nava dragged her thin body out of the dark house as if she were made of stone. Her lips were cracked and dry, her face lined from sleeping, her hair matted to her head. She sank to the ground beside Mara.

  Mara kneaded bread dough, beating it fiercely. Here she comes, looking for food and water after she slept the day away. She doesn’t care what I put up with because of her. She pinched off a knob and slapped it on the hot coals of the cooking fire. Nava had to be made to see reason. The boys on the road were just the beginning if she kept up her acquaintance with Alexandros. Everything she did just made their lives worse. Did she care for her children at all?

  Mara turned back to her work without a word to Nava. She could get her own water.

  “Asher,” Nava said, patting her lap, “come here.”

  Asher crawled over and climbed into the folds of her dirty tunic, sticking his thumb in his mouth. His eyes flicked between his mother and his sister.

  “Mara.” Nava laid her hand on Mara’s shoulder.

  Mara shrugged her away and slapped another round of dough on the fire.

  “Mara.” She rested her hand on Mara’s, stopping her frantic movements. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what is wrong with me. Thank you for taking such good care of us.”