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 her toes or any other malady.
My apprehension about living in Chuza’s house had dissipated as a result of this frightful journey. Soon we would be safe in Jerusalem. And Miryam was right: I would be fortunate to have time to read, write, and search for answers to my questions. The Holy One had brought me this far unharmed. Perhaps He might still have work for me, a way I could help to liberate our people. I would pray and watch for such a sign.
When at last Jerusalem emerged on the horizon, I latched my arm through Father’s. “Tell us about Jerusalem,” I coaxed.
“It’s large.”
“And the people?”
“They’re like people everywhere. People come here from everywhere.”
He withdrew his arm from mine to shade his eyes and look towards the southwest. “Soon you’ll see it for yourselves.”
Naomi took his arm. “Did you like Jerusalem?” she asked.
“Yes, especially the Temple.” Father smiled and his eyes drifted off.
Naomi tugged at him. “Then why did you leave?”
“I could no longer live in Jerusalem as a good Jew.”
“Why not?” I demanded.
“It’s complicated, child. You’ll understand better when you know Jerusalem. And when you’re older. Be patient.”
Father’s life, so simple on its surface, seemed to have a trapdoor leading to a secret place. From time to time, he would crack that door open but then slam it shut before I could accustom my eyes to its darkness and peer in. It made me miss Lev all the more. He could help me prop open the door.
We entered Jerusalem from the north, pouring through the Benjamin Gate with a lively, jostling crowd. The late afternoon sun was nestling itself onto the houses and shops, bathing them in soft tans and yellows. Father plucked us from the throng, and we stopped for a moment at a shaded vantage point under a shopkeeper’s awning. Naomi clapped her hands and squealed. “We’re here. We’re finally here! I’ve waited my whole life, twelve years, for this, and now, finally, little Naomi from Nazareth is in Jerusalem!”
I was both relieved that our journey had ended and anxious about what lay ahead. We elbowed our way down a street cutting lengthwise through the middle of the city. Father’s limp lessened, and he no longer leaned on his staff. His eyes, usually tired and faded with studying, brightened. Their color seemed a richer brown. It had been years since he had been to this city and seen Chuza, his firstborn.
The main street of the Tyropoeon Valley was crammed with shops and market carts. Exotic-looking people swarmed around us. Many women wore veils; a few had face coverings trailing all the way down to the ground. Naomi, giggling, pointed to a woman whose thin tunic clung so tightly to
