Jerusalem's Hope (18 page)

Sighing heavily, Robb folded a pair of dividers, stabbed the prongs into the wooden arm of his drafting chair, and resumed. “It seemed so straightforward. The aqueduct, I mean. Water is precious here, and no people on earth crave it more than the Jews. Wash before eating, wash after eating, bathe before worship, bathe before making a vow, before signing a contract, before going to a wedding. In all the world, no people appreciate fresh water more than we Romans do, unless it's the Jews! And not merely for the simple pleasure and relaxation like us, oh no! With them it's sacred, religious, a sign of piety.”

Undoing his chin strap and doffing his helmet, Marcus tossed it onto a camp chair. None of this analysis was news to him. “So?” he queried, though he already knew the answer. “What's the problem?”

“Everything!” was the retort. “There's a dispute about the funds to build the aqueduct . . . and I don't understand since the high council of the Jews voted the money.”

Marcus explained what he understood about the Korban dispute. “The high priest Caiaphas slipped the measure past the council with a rigged vote,” he said, “knowing that many consider it sacrilegious. Once named as Korban, the Temple money can't be used for anything other than religious purposes.”

“But much of this water is for their Temple,” Robb protested.

Marcus spread his hands. “That's the same argument Caiaphas tried, but some still aren't convinced. And that's beside the point. A knottier problem is a rebel band like bar Abba's, who might seize on this issue and use it to rally an uprising. Has there been any rebel activity in your area?”

Robb scratched his sandy-colored hair. “Yes and no. There was one slash-and-burn raid . . . no more since. But the Jewish stonemasons, quarrymen, and laborers I employed are afraid to stay in their work camps at night . . . say they'll be targeted as collaborators.”

“Don't you have legionaries assigned to guard the works?”

Bobbing his head, Robb added, “But only one cohort. They can't be everywhere at once.”

“So what's the situation?”

Robb pointed out toward the arches and spans looming over the sheepfolds. “Instead of camping near each construction site, the workers go back to Herodium every night, where they'll be safe! That's the problem! It takes too long to get them back to work every morning.”

Humming to himself, Marcus said, “I'll look into the guard details so you can concentrate on the engineering. Who's your captain of legionaries?”

“Centurion Shomron, sent out from Jerusalem. Praetorian Vara said he was the right man to keep the Jews in line.”

Inwardly Marcus groaned. Vara, with his innate cruelty, was bad enough, but Shomron too! Shomron was a Samaritan who made no secret of how he detested all Jews and especially the more religious ones. The combination appeared as likely to remain peaceful as applying a torch to a pile of sulfur. “I'll see what I can do,” Marcus vowed. He gazed across the horizon toward the Tower of Migdal Eder. “Go back to your plans.”

The smell of sweet, fresh hay filled Emet's senses as they entered the lambing stable. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

At the end of the long corridor of stalls, Lev was turning the straw.

Such luxury! When Emet and Sister had wandered the streets of Jerusalem, they had slept in doorways, begged on street corners. A bed of clean straw was a dream in those days. Sister had sold herself into servitude for the sake of food and shelter. At the stone quarry entrance she had left Emet, who was no use to anyone, in the reluctant care of Avel.

And what about Avel? The Sparrow boys who lived in the Jerusalem quarries received new bedding six times a year from the Temple charity. And how Emet had envied that charity. How he had longed to be a Sparrow! To sleep beside a fire among the other boys! To carry a torch and earn a halfpenny for each link! Enough daily bread to fill his belly! That had been his ambition. But here he wanted to be a shepherd! In the whole world could there be an occupation as fine as this?

Emet watched as Avel leaned on the rail and stared wistfully down into the pen. He reached out to touch the soft wool of two recently arrived babies.

Emet and Ha-or Tov joined him to gawk.

Zadok studied Avel's face. “Well? I see words in your eyes. What is it? What? Speak up, boy.” The old man cupped his hand around his ear.

Avel replied solemnly, “We've fallen in a tub of butter.”

Zadok guffawed a hearty belly laugh. “So you have!” And then he asked Ha-or Tov, “And what is your opinion on the lambing stable?”

“Very fine butter at that.”

“Y' like the place, I take it,” Zadok replied. He placed a hand on Emet's head. “And what's running through your mind, little one?”

Emet was ashamed to mention his thought that it was far better to live in a sheep pen in Beth-lehem than as a human beggar in Yerushalayim. He fixed his gaze on the pair of newborns tugging at the udder of their mother. Tails flicked with delight as they nursed. “Pretty things.”

Zadok raised his chin slightly and winked as he whispered, “Lambs, boy. They're everywhere hereabouts. You'll soon get used to the sight. Twin ewes, these.”

Last night that stall had been home to one fat, miserable ewe. This morning she was flanked by tiny white creatures bumping and tugging merrily at the feed bag! Their arrival had been accomplished as Emet and the others slept. The lambing stable of Beth-lehem was a veritable palace of miracles!

Lev tossed the pitchfork into a mound of fodder and hailed Zadok. “They're up and at it, sir,” drawled the big youth. “That one there? She's been eating all morning. Making up for lost time. Like y' said.”

“I've brought y' the three strays as day workers, Lev.” Zadok nodded continually as he spoke. “You'll be in charge. They're ignorant of the ways of the fold. It'll take a load of teaching. Are y' up to it?”

Lev blinked down at Emet. “Sure. Sure. Sure. I could use a hand. But . . . scrawny things, aren't they?”

“Need to put muscle on them, I know.”

“These two'll fatten right up,” Lev said about Ha-or Tov and Avel, as though they were sheep instead of boys.

“That's right. Good big bones on this one.” Zadok patted Avel's back. “He'll be strong enough for pasture work. Herding. Big feet. Always charging off in front of the others. A mover. A header. We'll teach him to work with Red Dog.”

Lev sucked his teeth thoughtfully and scowled at Ha-or Tov. He picked up the boy's arm at the wrist and gave it a shake. “Delicate boned.”

“As y' know from last night, we can use a pair of small hands and a good imagination. This one has both. We'll teach him lambing,” Zadok said.

Lev pointed at Emet. “What will I do with this? Until it grows, the ewes will knock it over and trample it!”

Emet flushed with worry. Would Lev make him leave? Would old Zadok consider him too puny and unworthy to work with the flock?

Zadok glowered at Emet. Then he said, “We'll find something useful. He's eager enough.”

“It's barely got its eyes open, sir. Can't we sent it off to the village? Let a woman watch it till it grows? Let it dig turnips in a garden?”

“I'll grow!” Emet protested. “I promise!”

Avel stepped up. “I'll watch over him. I've been looking out for him awhile now. He's no bother. Quiet. No trouble.”

Zadok tugged his beard in contemplation. “Then it's settled. Emet's to stay here. Avel, you'll see to it he doesn't get into trouble, eh?” And then Zadok brightened, as if a solution came to mind, and instructed Lev, “Emet can tend to Old Girl and the orphans. Never was a ewe more gentle than Old Girl. She'll teach him which end of a sheep is which.” He nodded toward the pen where the elderly ewe resided with her four adopted offspring.

“Well, then,” Lev said, accepting this arrangement. “Old Girl won't trample it at least.” Lev cocked an eye sternly at Emet. “You fancy tending the sweetest old ewe in Judea?”

Emet agreed promptly. Anything! As long as he was not to be sent off to Beth-lehem to work in a turnip garden!

Zadok called Red Dog and Blue Eye, then took Avel and Ha-or Tov out into the sunlight where a group of twenty-four lambs and ewes awaited transfer back into the pasture.

Lev grasped Emet's shoulder and directed him farther into the stable, to the cubicle where Old Girl lay in the straw among three white lambs and one black.

There was nothing attractive about Old Girl. She blinked drowsily at Emet when he repeated her name. “
Shalom,
Old Girl. I'm Emet.” Her fleece was ragged and patchy, yellowed from sun, weather, and age. She seemed a huge and formidable creature. Amber eyes with clouded corneas considered his hazy form with vague interest, as if he were another ewe's lamb. She chewed hay languidly.

Lev explained, “This is your flock then, runt. Herself and the four little ones. Old Girl does most of the work. She tends them four as need tending.”

Each of the four lambs still had the extra strip of fleece secured to it. Lev pointed at the black lamb with knock-knees who wobbled toward Old Girl and stuck his nose in her ear. On his head was the cap of white fleece tied with a leather cord under his chin. Black ears poked out through the patch. “I give her a bit of grain so Old Girl's got enough milk to nourish the four about three quarters of what they need every day. I've been feeding them milk from the goats. I'll show you how it's done.” Lev hoisted Emet over the barrier.

Emet hung back, uncertain what he should do. The black lamb approached him with stiff-legged curiosity. Emet stuck out his hands, and the black probed his palms.

“Pet him!” Lev said impatiently. Then Lev nudged Emet aside and entered the nursery. “See here. Give me your thumb.” Lev formed Emet's fingers into a fist, leaving the thumb up. This he poked into the lamb's mouth. “Here's the way to get him to follow.”

Emet smiled as the baby latched on. Smooth, toothless gums, a rough tongue, and a corrugated pallet formed a fiercely sucking vacuum. “It doesn't hurt.” Emet giggled.

“That's the trick. A little goat's milk on your fingers, and they'll follow y' to Damascus and back for the promise of it.” Lev straightened. “So. I'll teach y' to milk the goats out back. How to feed the babies. But most important, your job is to keep those scraps of fleece tied onto the four. See here! If the coats come off too soon, Old Girl'll reject the lambs. Maybe hurt them. You understand?”

Emet nodded vigorously. “Sure.” But he didn't really understand. Questions rattled around in his brain. Would Old Girl still reject the orphans if they didn't wear the extra coat of wool? Emet decided he would ask Zadok later. He didn't want Lev to think he was too ignorant to accomplish this task.

Lev pulled Emet's thumb free from the black. It was red. Lev shrugged. “You're not much bigger than a lamb. A bit smarter maybe. But it doesn't take a clever fellow to tend sheep.”

Zadok returned to the barn with Avel and Ha-or Tov in tow. “Is he managing, then?” Zadok inquired after Emet.

“It'll do,” Lev replied. “A bit timid at first. But it'll come along.”

Then beyond the stable Emet spotted Jehu, the gruff shepherd from Migdal Eder. Jehu, warlike in demeanor, devoured the path with long strides. His grizzled face was set in consternation.

Lev saw him too. “Here comes Jehu.”

Zadok turned and sighed. “His face says trouble. I put him on guard against a jackal last night.”

“Two-legged jackal.” Lev wagged his head and lifted Emet out of Old Girl's domain. “Jackal in a Roman cloak, more like.”

Jehu called from a distance. “Sir! Zadok! Bad news! Six from the Korban flock stolen last night! The best of them! Yerushalayim bound today they were! Gone! Slaughtered!”

Zadok set his chiseled features against Herodium's outline. “Come along,” he said to the boys. “We'll deal with this right now.”

SODO

O
n horseback, skirting the cone of Herodium, Marcus Longinus studied the construction project spreading out across the valley in front of him. The purely Roman part of Marcus admired the audacity of the undertaking. Bringing water from two hundred leagues off in a man-made river of stone and lime mortar represented an achievement of Roman will and ingenuity: taking an unruly, unproductive land and subduing it into fruitfulness and civility.

But the portion of his nature drawn from his Britannic princess mother, born in freedom but destined to live in slavery, recoiled at the same view, or at least sympathized with Jewish objections.

Pylons and half-completed aqueduct supports stalked across the pasturelands, like figures from Jewish tales of Goliath and his Philistine brothers returning to do battle with the puny Jews. And this time where would they find a David to deliver them?