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Pillar
of Fire
CHAPTER 2 A meadowlark chirped the arrival of morning. Its nest obscured the innocent faces of three cherubs chiseled into the facade of the stone arch that stretched above the east gate, like a cloud adorning the entrance to heaven. But this was not heaven’s gate, it was Jerusalem’s, and could hardly be mistaken for a cloud with its span of forty limestone blocks set without mortar and held in place by a keystone. It was thousand-year-old stone, badly quarried and with enough fissures to come crashing down under its own weight. Ruth, Jonathan’s wife, detoured across the square toward the gate, but pulled up before passing under the arch. She made a habit never to stand under it. Whenever she had reason to leave the city by this gate, and she found few reasons to do so, it was with a quick nod to the watchman and three brisk strides. Isaiah said not one stone in Jerusalem would be left standing upon another, and Ruth had no reason to doubt the prophet’s wordno matter how many years dead he was. Better to trust Isaiah and live than dawdle beneath the arch and suffer who-knew-what fate. She ventured close enough to notice the new wooden gate was propped open with sandbags. Odd. The watchman never unlocked before daybreak, except on holy days when the large-bellied high priest bathed in the Gihon Spring—an immodest rite no matter how early the hour or how holy the priest. Odder still, the gate was left unguarded, but there were no signs the watchman had struggled with robbers. His were the only footprints in the dust. A whinny drew Ruth’s glance away from the gate and down along the wall. A powerful horse stood hidden in the shadows, pawing at the cobblestones. At this hour and with the gate left without a watch it could be the mount of a robber, just the sort she should avoid. She’d heard the stories about the robber band of Shechem. They lived in the hills around Jerusalem, sleeping in caves by day and doing their evil deeds by night, and a chance meeting with one of them was not a risk she cared to take. A robber wouldn’t treat a woman alone in the streets at this hour with due respect. If the animal or its dark-clothed rider saw her, they gave no hint. They faced the other way, leaving her free to slip behind the gatepost. Let the rider do what he would, but let her go unnoticed. She stayed crouched behind the gatepost, sharing her hiding place with the foul stench of rotted animal fat. The grease slicking the pivot stones hadn’t been changed since the gate was rebuilt after the war. It wasn’t enough she had to stand beneath the arch with stones that could fall on her at any moment, she had to endure that wicked smell. Why hadn’t she picked a more suitable recess in the wall, an obscure crevice without stone overhead and with adequate ventilation? But she had no other choice than to remain there and pray the arch wouldn’t fall, while holding her nose until the rider went his way so she could go hers. And heaven willing, he would go quickly. She peered around the gatepost and caught a better view of the rider, judging him to be a military man, not a robber, though he didn’t holster a weapon or girdle heavy breastplates. He was too slight of stature to be anything but a courier, and he had a mailbag strapped over one shoulder. His cap of short hair was combed straight back as if riding into the wind, and his tight-fitting tunic wrapped his torso as skin covers the body. The courier was a young soldier named Hosha Yahu, assigned to mail delivery in southern Judah, his routes covering cities south of Jerusalem. He wore nothing that would slow his animal. They were a pair outfitted for speed, a fleet horse and a light rider. Ruth would
have abandoned her hiding place, relieved Hosha Yahu wasn’t a robber,
if only he hadn’t reined about and straightened to attention as another
horse approached at full gallop. A white Arabian raced into the square
from the upper city. Its braided mane peaked, fell, and rose again in
cadence with its stride. The saddle was all show, silver plates sewn into
darkly tanned leather with threads made of the same precious metal. The
owner’s care of the animal was meticulous down to its tail, cut short
and braided around a cord. Not a Ruth saw the Arabian owner’s face when he slowed to a canter and reined in next to the courier. Captain Laban seemed a timeless figure, dressed in full brass armor. The leather cords of his breastplates strained with his every breath. “Where’s the watchman?” Hosha asked. “I sent him off.” Laban scanned the square, his gaze pausing on the gatepost where Ruth hid. She didn’t move, and with a bit of luck Laban shifted his stare farther down the wall to the deserted guard station before turning across the square to the line of darkened shop fronts. “No one’s to know of your ride until I catch the palace informant.” Ruth pulled
the collar of her robe around her ears. This conversation was not intended
for her and she would have plugged her ears with her fingers if it weren’t
for the smell. She kept a firm grip on her nose and prayed a childish
prayer. Keep the stones from falling and the foul smell from choking her.
And if there were “I’m getting closer.” Laban leaned over the neck of his horse. “The informant is someone very close to me. Someone who knows my family well.” “I don’t mean to trouble you, sir, but your father and brothers died in the war.” Hosha glanced at the rebuilt gate with its new wooden slats and iron braces. “At this very spot.” “My only troubles come from men who question my inheritance.” Laban tightened his grip on the reins. “The relics make me King of Israel.” “This is Judah, sir.” Ruth peered around the gatepost, careful not to draw Laban’s eye. What did the captain mean? There had been no kingdom of Israel for a hundred and twenty years—the Assyrians had seen to that. There was no Northern Kingdom, not one acre of land over which to rule. “I know our history, boy.” Laban worked the tip of his beard between his fingers. “Do you know mine?” Hosha met his stare. “You’re descended of Joseph who was sold into Egypt. Everyone knows that.” Laban sat erect in the saddle. “I’m the only one.” “No one thinks otherwise.” “The enemy should honor my lineage.” “Sir, the war’s been over nearly six months.” “I’m talking about the palace informant,” said Laban. Hosha checked his reins. “Oh, that enemy.” “He’s a Rekhabite.” “Are you certain?” “The informant is one of them.” Laban’s horse reared against his tight hold on the reins. “Cursed traitors.” The clap of the animals’ hooves shook the wood planks that framed Ruth’s hiding place. Rekhabites. She’d heard the stories about them, named for the religious vows they made, but until now she’d tried to convince herself they didn’t exist, that they were conjured up by the neighborhood gossip. Now Laban gave life to the tale. She steadied herself against the gatepost until the rumbling underfoot and the whinnies stopped and she could forget what little she knew about the Rekhabites. Forget that they listened to the words of the prophet Uriah and his preaching of an Anointed One—with a common man’s name no less. Yeshua the Anointed One. If that wasn’t blasphemy she didn’t know what kind of abomination was. She would never repeat that phrase. It was not in her to use profanity. Most of all she’d forget that the Rekhabites accused Laban of crimes against the people of Judah. What did she care? Let them accuse Laban of whatever sin they would and believe whatever foolish doctrines they wanted to believe, so long as she didn’t have to endure their repulsive religious symbol. Of all the patterns on earth, none struck more fear into her heart than the mark of the Rekhabites. Laban said, “You’re to ride to Fort Lakhish this morning.” “A letter delivery?” Hosha asked. “That’s what this is about?” “What did you expect, a call to arms?” “Your orders were unclear.” “My orders are secret.” “That’s always the procedure for your letters.” “Is it?” Laban drew his horse in close enough to grip the courier’s delivery bag. “Or do you read my letters before you deliver them?” “I’ve been taught better.” Laban backed his horse, blocking passage through the gate. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what you’ve been taught about Rekhabites.” “If you mean, am I one of them, no, sir, I’ve not been baptized by their prophet.” “I can get a record of washings and anointings from the temple scribe. What I want is your oath. There’s no better assurance than a man’s life.” Hosha tore the sleeve of his riding tunic. “As I now rend this garment, so will I lay down my life if ever I am found to be a Rekhabite!” “See that you deliver this letter personally to Commander Yaush at Fort Lakhish. Don’t leave it with the quartermaster.” Laban handed Hosha a parchment scroll. The soft leather draped over his hand. “It’s far too important.” “That’s part of my usual route.” “It isn’t your usual mail.” Hosha slowly fitted the letter into his pouch and slung the delivery bag over his shoulder. Twice each month he rode the fifty-mile round trip delivery route, through five small villages, the last one called Qiryat Ye’arim, then on to Fort Lakhish before turning back to Jerusalem. It would have been as unimportant as all of his other routes, except that the prophet Uriah lived in the village below the fort. Hosha was born there and when he rode through, he stopped for long visits. Laban chewed cedar bark to sweeten his breath, and spat out a black cud, saying, “The letter has orders for Uriah’s arrest. I want him silenced. I’ll not tolerate him spreading rumors about me in the name of God.” He reached over and slapped the courier’s horse on the rump. “If it means anything to you, soldier, Godspeed.” Ruth would
have abandoned her hiding place once Hosha bolted through the gate and
onto the road leading south into the hills beyond Bethlehem toward Fort
Lakhish, but she wasn’t allowed that freedom. Another horse trotted
out of the dark alley next to the carpentry, appearing out of the shadows
like a dark spirit “You scared your courier, Captain. Scared him good.” Shechem reined in next to Laban. “Maybe too good.” “He’ll go straight to Uriah with that letter now.” “He always goes to Uriah with your mail. And he will this time if you haven’t warned him off with your threats.” “You can track him down. I pay you more than enough for that.” Shechem took out his dagger. “I don’t do this for money.” Laban and Shechem were strange partners from unlike ways of life. The law Laban had sworn to uphold mandated the slaying of robbers without trial and without mercy, and now he worked in league with one. Thieves were bad enough: pitiful criminals, loners, working their craft among their neighbors. They stole bread from the baker, sheep from the farmer and coins from a blind man’s purse. And for their misdeeds they were compelled to repay the stolen goods and make a sin offering at the temple. But robbers! They were the most ruthless of outlaws, burning farms and besieging villages, plundering the trade route, and raining terror down on whole cities from their mountain hideouts. With their oaths, they planted men on government councils and assassinated heads of state. And for their crimes, they were not tried by a judge, but simply beheaded by the first man to catch them. “We have an oath between us.” Shechem leaned forward in the saddle, close enough to lay the dagger’s tip to Laban’s chest. “I keep mine and I expect you to keep yours.” Laban scanned the horizon, watching the courier’s trail of dust rise and spread like a cloud against the morning sky. Hosha Yahu was well onto the plains south of Jerusalem. “You’re sure he’s the palace informant?” “Everything points to him.” Shechem shook his head enough to make his long hair jump onto his shoulders. “He’s the only man in your army who frequents the palace. He reads all your mail and he stops at Uriah’s inn every ride through Lakhish.” “Report to Captain Yaush when you arrive. He’ll help with the arrests.” “Arrests?” Shechem held up his dagger and grinned. It was like watching a hyena smile. “There are better ways to silence traitors.” “You’ll do this my way.” Laban handed over another set of orders. It was his eighteenth letter sent to Lakhish about the prophet. “Uriah and the courier are to be in prison before the week’s out.” “I don’t take orders, Captain.” Shechem prodded his horse to the entrance and glanced back before going out. “You do things your way, and I do things mine.” He reared his horse and bolted onto the road, chasing the courier’s trail of dust. Once Ruth was certain they must be gone, she stepped from behind the foul-smelling gatepost and unplugged her nose. Finally! She took a deep breath, grateful to be on her way and hopeful she could forget what she’d overheard. What she didn’t plan on was Laban lingering, watching after Shechem until long after the dust settled. Her only recourse was to keep going, striding across the square with the determination of a shopper on the way to market, though the market didn’t open for hours. She kept close to the wall, but any hope to go unnoticed faded when Laban spurred across her path. He pulled so close, Ruth felt the warmth of the horse’s breath on her face. “Why, good morning, Captain.” Ruth lifted the hem of her robe. “You’re out early for a ride, sir.” “Did you overhear—” “Nothing.” She turned from his penetrating stare. “Nothing at all.” Laban blinked before inspecting each pleat in her robe, every contour of her form. “Treason will not go unpunished in this kingdom.” Ruth tried to step back to escape his stare but the wall stood firm. She was trapped there, bound by his gaze. “Are you charging me, sir?” “I’m informing you that my commander at Fort Lakhish will have his orders before any Rekhabite can do anything to save Uriah.” “I’m neither a soldier nor a Rekhabite.” “You’re Ruth, wife of Jonathan the new blacksmith.” Ruth caught
her breath. How did Laban know so much about them? He wasn’t the
neighborly sort of man who enjoyed the sociality of friendships or the
company of strangers. The captain kept commoners at a respectable distance,
and since Ruth and her family were without any of the visible graces of
wealth, it didn’t “You came to Jerusalem three months ago with your husband, who hopes to acquire one of the blacksmith shops abandoned after the war. And no, we’ve never met. Though I do make it my business to know the citizens who come and go. Just like your husband knows the secrets of steelmaking.” Laban shifted his weight and the saddle leather squeaked. “He does know them, doesn’t he?” “Steelmaking is Jonathan’s craft.” Ruth answered with a calm voice before looking away. She would tolerate his probing gaze no longer. It wasn’t proper. “We have work for him.” Ruth checked the square. Laban was alone and after what she’d overheard she had no desire to inquire who else his we included. “Good day.” She dismissed herself and started across the square, but Laban reined alongside again and pinned her against the wall. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain.” She pushed the horse’s muzzle aside. “I’m on an errand to the tannery.” Laban didn’t take her suggestion or his leave. He followed her, high stepping across the square and down Water Street to the tannery where he stopped across the street beneath the branches of a Joshua tree. The tanner’s shop stood between the masonry and a stable, a two-story limestone building with a roof large enough to stretch twenty pelts over cedar planks and dry them in the sun. Ruth knocked. “Is anyone in?” She tried the latch. It was bolted. Under any other circumstance she would have left to come back another time, but with Laban scrutinizing her every move she determined it best to knock again. “Is anyone about?” She was never so thankful than when she heard footsteps stir inside. The tanner unlocked the bolt and cracked open the door. His hair needed a good combing and his eyelids drooped. “Good morning,” Ruth said. “It would be finer if it weren’t for your knocking.” He held his eyelids shut, fighting back the arrival of morning. “If it isn’t any trouble, I’ve come for my husband’s smithing apron.” “Trouble, my good lady, would be to have the captain of the guard standing on my porch wanting to search my home.” Ruth worked her lower lip between her teeth. Of all the things the tanner could have said, why that? She glanced at the large door carved with an intricate lattice pattern. “What a lovely door.” “Everyone’s a Rekhabite to Laban. We’re all spies.” Ruth sniffed the grain in the wood. “Is this made of cedar or olive?” “It’s written that the leaders of the Jews are called by God, but Laban?” The tanner yawned. “Makes you wonder if God hasn’t forsaken us for another chosen people.” Ruth sniffed again. “Has to be cedar.” “He’s obsessed by those Rekhabites, and for no good reason.” “It has that scent.” “Who does he think he is raising a stir among us law-abiding people anyway?” “It’s the sap.” “Laban?” The tanner scratched his head. “No, I meant the cedar wood. It has the scent of pine sap.” Ruth let go of the door. “I’m sure Laban has good reason for his suspicions.” “He has one reason and it’s—” “It’s best I come back another time.” “Nonsense. Your apron’s finished drying. I can have it down from the roof in no time.” “Could we speak softly?” “Don’t worry about waking the family. It’s time they were up and about.” “That isn’t what’s troubling me.” Ruth shifted aside and let the tanner’s gaze drift beyond her, across the street. “Captain?” The tanner swallowed hard. Laban reined over, edging the horse’s hooves onto the steps and forcing Ruth out of the way. “I’ll have a word with you.” The tanner half-closed the door, his beady eyes peering out between the plank and post. “Perhaps another time?” “Obsessed over the Rekhabites, am I?” “Concerned would be a better word.” “Everyone’s a spy, are they?” “You heard that?” “I hear everything.” Laban reared his Arabian, its powerful legs kicking open the door and ripping the planks off the frame. He spurred inside and pinned the tanner between the wall and the horse’s haunches. “Take off your shirt.” “I don’t wear the mark. I swear, I’m no Rekhabite.” “Don’t make me undress you.” Laban unsheathed his sword. “My hand isn’t always steady when I’m on the back of a horse.” The tanner knelt at the horses’ hooves with the animal’s breath blowing his hair back in bursts. It was a degrading thing to watch, like a sinner begging forgiveness of a God who did not deal in mercy. He stripped to the waist, bearing his chest for Laban to inspect. No mark. He was free of the sign the most ardent of Rekhabites wore on a brass chain over their breast bone. Laban sent the tanner to the roof to fetch the apron, then cantered out the front door, coming round in the street. He relaxed his hold on the reins, sat back in the saddle and tipped his head to Ruth. “We’ll be by to see your husband.” Then he trotted up the street toward the upper city, calm as a man out for a ride through his vineyards. “Is he gone?” The tanner descended the last steps from the roof with the smithing apron in hand, his glance darting about the room. “We’re alone.” “Good
thing. This door wouldn’t stand any more of his interrogating.”
The tanner shook the latch and another plank fell off its nails. “Curses.”
He picked it up and fitted it back in place. “Laban’s afraid
of something. You look at him sometimes when he doesn’t think anybody’s
watching. I say he’s murdered men who got in his way. You can see
it in his eyes.” He tugged on the planks, checking each one. “Most
people think him a hero. He saved the national treasures from falling
into the hands of the Babylonians during the war, but lost his father
and brothers, God rest their souls. They were good men, nothing like Laban.
Then all of a sudden . . .” He snapped his fingers. “Laban’s
made captain of the guard. It isn’t common for a soldier to rise
so quickly. Thirty years old and he’s reached the highest office
in the military. How does he do that?” The tanner clucked his “I’m fine.” “Don’t worry about Laban. You’re safe as long as you don’t associate with the Rekhabites. They preach some foolish belief about the ending.” “I really must go.” “Rekhabites call it the fulfilling of Moses’ Law, but it’s blasphemy, pure and simple.” “How much for the apron?” “You should hear me out. It’s for your own good.” The tanner nodded. “It was the prophet Uriah who accused Laban of conspiracy. Something about his lineage and those relics of his. I’d be careful before listening to any of those prophets.” “There are other prophets?” “You are new here, aren’t you?” The tanner took Ruth by the arm. “You should’ve stayed in Sidon. You’d have found more tolerance there.” Ruth pulled back. “We’ve not had any trouble since we came.” “That’s because you’ve yet to take sides.” He wagged his finger at her. “I don’t support any of them. Side with Laban and the Elders of the Jews and you’ll go to hell as sure as the night is dark. Side with the Rekhabites and you’ll go to prison as sure as the sun rises. Why, I’ll bet you three shekels you’ll see Uriah in the palace dungeons before the year’s out.” Ruth lowered her head. The tanner was right about prison, but it would happen much sooner. She opened her coin purse and handed over three shekels. The tanner said, “I can’t take that. It’s a sin to wager on the life of a prophet.” “It’s for the apron.” “That sells at six.” Ruth turned back her sleeve and pulled up the stitches until another shekel fell from inside her cuff. “Four and I’ll take the apron.” “Done.” Somehow the tanner knew she had no more money. He asked, “Is your husband’s shop doing well?” “There isn’t a lot of money in the city since the war ended, but I’ll not let my husband go another smelting day without a good apron. Not after the . . .” “Accident?” “You know about that?” “Only that your oldest son was hurt.” The tanner patted Ruth on the hand. “My sympathies.” “That’s all you heard? No name?” The tanner cocked his ear. “What name?” “My son Aaron is healing well.” Ruth bit her lip to keep it from trembling and to keep herself from saying any more about the name of the one Aaron said would heal him. If anyone learned he’d uttered that name the whole family could be accused of believing as the Rekhabites believed. And there was no name under heaven with that kind of healing power, no matter how much faith the Rekhabites placed in the Anointed One they called Yeshua. “Tell me something.” The tanner scratched his chin and leaned forward. “Which side do you favor? Laban and the Elders of the Jews or the Rekhabites and the prophets?” Ruth tucked the apron under her arm. “On the advice of a good tanner, I’ve decided not to take sides.” She started home. |
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