his own people,” said Father.
Chuza ran his fingers through his hair. “I had such hopes. This Herod was raised and educated in Rome. He should be wiser and should know how to treat his people”
“Being raised and educated in Rome doesn’t make a man civilized,” said Father.
This would start the fight. Chuza, who wanted to design his house around a Roman peristyle, would challenge Father’s criticism of Roman culture. I tensed and readied myself to leave.
But Chuza kept pulling on his hair. “I tried to prevent this, but I failed.” His voice began to crack. “Look what has happened. Thousands have died! I failed. I failed.” Then he wept.
I had never imagined so much as a tear welling in Chuza’s eyes, but here he was, wracked with shuddering sobs, nose running, gasping for breath.
“Not your failure, my son.” Father put his arm around Chuza’s heaving shoulders, and his son leaned into him. “How I wish you didn’t work for this tyrant. . . . But I know I drove you to it. What a jealous fool I was!”
Chuza dried his face with his sleeve then said quietly, “It’s no longer important, Father. That was many years ago.”
As I tiptoed off, they were still enfolded. That this most terrible day could produce harmony between my father and my brother seemed a miracle. The comfort of witnessing their embrace allowed me to finally fall asleep.
* * *
The Roman soldiers had heaped their victims onto carts and rolled their cargo through the Dung Gate into the Valley of Hinnon. There, in the area reserved for burning refuse, they had dumped the corpses. They had left the job of identifying and burying their slaughter to others.
Father insisted on going with Chuza to tend to the dead. As they were leaving I whispered to Father, “Will you look for Judah ben Hezekiah?” And, as an afterthought, “And the priest Tobiah?”
Chuza overheard me. “Judah ben Hezekiah? How would you know him? And why would you care what happens to him?” he said.
I weighed my words carefully. “He’s from Galilee. We all know of him.”
Chuza laughed. “Are you are one of those foolish Galileans who thinks that cutthroat is your Savior?”
“No, not my Savior,” I said, as evenly as I could. But I must have blushed.
“You fancy him then?” said Chuza. “I’ve heard that women find him attractive.”
I didn’t know if he was menacing or mocking me or just joking, so I stayed quiet and nudged myself closer to Father.
“Hush, Chuza,” Father said, good-naturedly. “How old do brothers have to be before they stop teasing their sisters?”
Chuza didn’t laugh. He frowned at me, and then they set off for the gruesome task that laid before them. My stomach stirred uneasily, as if some rodent were prowling about inside it.
* * *
Joanna sent servants all over the city to buy linen. While father and Chuza tended to the dead in their way, Naomi, Joanna, and I cut and stitched the linen into shrouds for those whose remains could be identified and claimed. These shrouds would cover the lucky ones, those for whom a proper Jewish burial could be arranged. Many victims of this slaughter would have to be buried in mass graves. Their bodies had been hacked or crushed beyond recognition, or they had no family left to identify and bury them.
At the end of a sad, tedious day of sewing, Joanna suggested that we meet Father and Chuza on their way home from their awful chore. Knowing they would be hot and very weary, she filled water jugs for us to carry to the Lower City plaza. There they would be able to rest and refresh themselves before the climb to the Upper City.
The plaza was almost empty. People were keeping to their houses, hiding or mourning. A fig tree, hanging over the last stairway leading down to the plaza, shaded us as we sat under it and waited there with our water jugs. Soldiers milled around, eyeing with suspicion each person who crossed the plaza. “I hate their sandals,” said Naomi. “Why do they have to wind those straps all the way up to their knees? They look silly. The straps must tug at the hair on their legs!”
We smiled behind our hands until we noticed one of the soldiers staring at us. “That looks like the one from Jericho,” Naomi whispered. “The one who shoved your father down.”
“It can’t be. They all look alike with their helmets on.” But my palms began to sweat.
Father and Chuza trudged towards us, looking like corpses themselves. Their tunics were stained with dirt and blood. Their mantles, which protected them from the impurities of their work, were still tied across their noses and mouths.
We rose and lifted the water jugs as they drew closer to our stairway. But at that moment, the soldier Naomi had pointed out strode over to Father and yanked on his arm. “Stop and remove your head covering,” he ordered.
Father pulled his mantle down from his face. The soldier scrutinized him, then drew his short sword and pointed it at Father’s throat. “This old man here,” he said to the soldier with him, “told me that Judah ben Hezekiah didn’t burn the palace at Jericho. The only way he could have known that is if he were a conspirator of Judah’s.”
Chuza tore off his own face covering. “I am the chief steward of Herod Archelaus. Put your sword down and release this innocent man. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The soldier then pointed to us. He said to his companion, “He travels with those two young women over there. Probably spies. I saw them all at Jericho, hanging around after the rebels had destroyed it.”
“I command you to release this man,” shouted Chuza. “He is my father. He has no affiliation with Judah ben Hezekiah!”
The soldier kept his sword on Father’s throat. “Herod Archelaus has ordered us to root out all the rebels. He didn’t exclude the fathers of minor palace officials.”
Chuza lowered his voice and filled each word with menace. “Herod Archelaus is the Roman appointed governor of all of Judea, including the ground you are standing on. Release my father or Herod will hear about this directly from me.”
The second soldier grabbed Chuza from behind and, pushing his thick forearm against his throat, choked off his speech. Father turned his head to say something to us. As he did, the young soldier drew the tip of his sword across Father’s neck and raised a thin line of blood on it.
To the soldiers, Father said, “These women have nothing to do with our business here. They’re just women. They’re not capable of revolution.” To us he called sternly, “Go. Now. Get our supper prepared, women.”
“Your father is trying to protect us,” said Joanna. “And himself and Chuza. The soldiers know they are in the wrong, but they need to save face. They’ll release Micah and Chuza if we leave.”
I stiffened and stood my ground. Joanna and Naomi put down the water jugs and dragged me up the first flight of stairs. At the top, I pulled away from them and turned around to watch. The second soldier still held Chuza but had loosened his grip. I heard my brother entreat and threaten the soldiers. “He’s a harmless old man. I have power and money.
