Judah's Wife Read online

  Most men would have realized this long before I did, but when my bride became more interested in stargazing than talking, I knew I had lost her.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Leah

  Worn down by age, responsibility, and the zeal that consumed him, Mattathias finally grew so weak he could not stand. His sons brought him to the Gophna caves where we made him a comfortable bed, fed him, and watched him grow more feeble with each passing day.

  Though the fire within him still created an impression of great power, as he reclined and closed his eyes on his pillow, he looked like the mere shell of a man. More than once I went into his stone chamber to seek Rosana’s counsel, and the sight of Mattathias’s pale countenance gave me a start.

  Everyone could see the inevitable truth, although several days passed before my father-in-law would admit that his life was drawing to a close. He would die without accomplishing his goal, but he earnestly believed he had set the nation of Israel on the proper course. He would entrust the future to his children.

  When the old man’s breathing grew irregular and the act of filling his lungs became agony, Rosana sent for his sons. They came, and all of us gathered around the patriarch’s bedside to hear his parting words:

  “Arrogance and reproach . . . have now become strong,” he said, gasping out each word. “This is . . . a time of ruin and furious anger.” His bright eyes roved over us in the chilly cave. “Now, my children . . . show zeal for the Law . . . and give your lives for the covenant of our fathers. Remember the deeds of the fathers . . . which they did in their generations . . . and receive great honor and an everlasting name.”

  His voice broke in a horrible, rattling gurgle. Rosana helped him sit up and patted his back until he found the strength to clear his throat.

  “My children . . . be courageous and grow strong in the Law, for by it you will gain honor.” The dying man’s gaze flicked to his second-born son. “Now behold . . . I know Simon your brother is wise in counsel. Always listen to him; he shall be your father.”

  Simon covered his face with his hands in an attempt to silence his grief.

  “Judah Maccabaeus”—yellowed teeth flashed in Mattathias’s gray beard—“has been a mighty warrior from his youth. He shall command the army for you and fight the battle against the peoples.”

  Judah bowed his head as if humbled by the statement.

  “You shall rally . . . about you all who observe the Law, and avenge the wrong done to your people. Pay back the Gentiles in full and heed what the Law commands. Trust in no man, but in HaShem alone. And now . . . my task is finished.”

  As tears welled in my eyes, each of the old man’s sons knelt by his side, received his blessing, and stood. When he had finished, Mattathias smiled at Rosana and took his last breath, his eyes focused on her face as he exhaled in one long sigh.

  Then we heard nothing but a sough of wind whispering at the entrance of the cave.

  Simon wiped tears from his eyes and announced that we would pack the wagons at sunrise. We would take Mattathias back to Modein and bury him in the tomb of his fathers. The men slipped out of the cave, leaving us women to ceremonially wash and wrap the body.

  As we worked, I thought about how deeply Israel would mourn for Mattathias. Though not everyone agreed with him, everyone admired him for having the courage to act on his principles. I knew I ought to be proud to be related to this remarkable man, but his passing had filled me with a new and unexpected fear.

  With the father gone, what sort of future remained for his sons?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Judah

  Johanan, Simon, and Jonathan rode ahead of us, leaving Eleazar and me to take a wagon with the women back to the Gophna Hills.

  “Do you think anyone will be left in camp?” Eleazar shot me a sidelong glance. “After all, we’ve been gone a full week.”

  I stared at the mules’ hindquarters and shifted the reins to my other hand. Did I want the camp to remain full? Or would it be better if we returned to the wilderness and found the camp deserted?

  “It will be as God wills,” I said, giving my younger brother a grim smile. “If He wants us to fight, we will have an army. If not . . .” I shrugged. “If we find ourselves alone, perhaps we should go to Egypt and raise our families there.”

  “You could never do that—not after Father appointed you commander of the army.”

  I shook my head. “I did not ask for that honor.”

  “But Father knew you would make a great commander. That’s why he chose you.”

  “Father did not know me very well. He saw my size, and to him, big meant strong. Fierce.”

  “Are you not fierce? Have you not defended your brothers, including me, countless times?”

  “Defending is not attacking. I am happy to defend my loved ones. But what Father asked us to do, going into villages and killing our brothers—”

  “They were apostate! They were spreading blasphemies like a contagion!”

  “They were sleeping peacefully when we hauled them out to be executed. I could obey Father because the Lord commands me to honor him. Now that he is gone . . .” I looked up and saw Leah’s tear-streaked face in the empty air before me. “If the camp is deserted, I will not be disappointed.”

  “But if God commands you to fight—”

  “If HaShem commands me I will obey, but have you heard Him speak of late? Have you been visited by a prophet who shared a word from Adonai?” I stared at Eleazar, my eyes probing his, then I lowered my gaze. “Neither have I. If I lead men to fight, I will be doing it on the strength of Father’s conviction.”

  “I think,” Eleazar said, speaking in the tone of a man carefully choosing his words, “you can no longer consider the renegade Jews your brothers. They have turned their backs on Adonai, so you are acting defensively when you strike them. You are defending Adonai. You are defending your devout brothers against those who would turn their hearts away from HaShem and toward false gods.”

  I tilted my head, considering Eleazar’s advice. His reasoning made sense, and I could almost hear Father speaking through his words.

  We rounded a bend and approached the Gophna Hills. I searched the rocks, looking for signs of activity, knowing my heart would rejoice if I saw nothing but empty space. But within a few moments I saw two women who shaded their eyes as we approached, then released joyous shouts and ran into the caves.

  “We have been recognized,” Eleazar said.

  “Yes.”

  I reined in the mules, then hopped down from the wagon, stretching my legs before helping the women climb down. I did not have to look across the plain to know our camp still teemed with men—they would not have gone home without their women and children.

  We still had an army.

  We still had a cause.

  And we still had Adonai to lead us.

  My heart steeled itself to the task ahead.

  We were still a good distance away from the camp when I heard a shout of recognition. We had steadily stirred up dust on our approach, and now men hurried toward us, many of them with weapons in hand.

  “See that, brother?” Eleazar asked. “They are eager to fight under you.”

  I closed my eyes, not ready to be reminded of the heavy burden Father had placed on my shoulders.

  How was I supposed to lead in a time when HaShem no longer spoke to His prophets? When he taught us, Father often spoke of Adonai’s silence. For generations, the Lord spoke directly to His prophets, kings, and followers. He listened when they prayed, and answered with words and signs, some of them too wondrous to be believed unless HaShem had brought them to pass. The visible Shekinah glory had led the Israelites through the wilderness and filled the Temple when Solomon prayed his prayer of dedication, but it disappeared when the people began to worship idols.

  The Shekinah had not returned.

  Now I was supposed to lead—without Adonai’s visible presence, without a prophet to tell me what HaShem wanted, an
d without my father. I had only my instincts, my brothers, and a wife who seemed to abhor bloodshed . . . and me, as long as I carried a sword.

  “Judah! Judah! Judah!”

  My eyes opened as the men chanted my name. They had lined the path, and their eager faces shone up at me as they raised their weapons in a salute. They had already placed their trust in me, and I could not let them down.

  Adonai, hear me. Lead me to do your will.

  I was not as learned as my father, as pious or as zealous. But I could be faithful, so until HaShem stopped me, I would do what I had been asked to do.

  Eleazar and I climbed out of the wagon and stood before the crowd. I raised my hands and told them to disperse, but they would not.

  “I think,” Eleazar shouted in my ear, “they want you to speak to them.”

  I frowned. “And say what?”

  “Encourage them. They have waited a week for your return; now they are ready for action.”

  I blew out a breath, then climbed back into the wagon and stood on the driver’s seat. I held up my hands, and this time the men quieted.

  “Men of Israel,” I said, looking around, “thank you for remaining true to the charge you accepted under my father. We have buried him in his family tomb, and we have hurried back here to be with you. The work is not finished, but we will continue. For the sake of Adonai and His people, we will gird on our breastplates and pick up our swords. We will search for the invaders who have turned the hearts of Israel to foreign gods, and we will strike them where they stand.”

  Voices erupted in a mighty roar as the men pumped their weapons in the air.

  “As for the children of Israel whose hearts have hardened against Adonai,” I went on, my throat tightening, “like Joshua who went before us, we will defend Adonai and purify this land so its inhabitants may remain true and holy before their God.”

  Another cheer rose from the crowd. With nothing further to say, I looked for Simon and gestured for him to stand beside me in the wagon. When he joined me, I saw that his eyes were wet, either with enthusiasm or sentiment.

  “Speak to them,” I yelled above the shouting. “Father would want you to say something.”

  For a moment Simon floundered, and then he lifted his hand and waited until the men grew quiet. “I am not the warrior Judah is,” he began, “but I am a son of Mattathias. If you have any problems, if your wives or children have trouble in the camp, bring those concerns to me. I will administrate justly before Adonai and all Israel, and I will do my best to honor your sacrifice for this cause.”

  Cheers wrapped around us like water around a rock as eager hands helped me and Simon from the wagon. We were enthusiastically escorted to our tents where bread and cheese and dried meats waited. We ate our fill with Johanan, Eleazar, and Jonathan, then we stretched out, eager to refresh our bodies for the struggle ahead.

  But as I drifted off to sleep, I thought of my wife and wondered what she was thinking as she lay on her pallet.

  As for me, I had put my hand to the plow and there was no turning back.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Leah

  With Mattathias’s other daughters-in-law, I sat by the fire and relived the moment when Judah left us at the caves. He had pulled me aside to say farewell, and his broad hand held my face as he promised struggle, trial, and victory in the days ahead. As he spoke, the hair on my arms had risen with premonition.

  The man I married—the hulking, tender, protective middle son—had changed. I married a strong young man who could keep me safe, but practically overnight my husband had become a commander. He was already thinking first and foremost of his men and he was leaving me, going off to battle with his brothers-in-arms.

  His first thoughts every morning would not be of me, but of his warriors. His last thoughts at night would not be of me, but of his men . . . or possibly HaShem.

  An icy finger touched the base of my spine. What had Mattathias been thinking when he singled out my husband? Had he named Judah as leader of the army simply because he was the largest of his sons, or had he done it for some other reason?

  Judah was not warlike. Though I had never been part of an army, I knew war and warriors. Living in my father’s house taught me how to anticipate the moves of an enemy. I understood the importance of being vigilant and why a survivor had to remain strong and alert. For years I stayed awake at night contemplating my enemy, striving to understand his motivations while bracing for the next attack. I was not beaten nearly as often as my mother, but I felt every blow he ever landed on her.

  Yes, I knew war . . . and I knew Judah would spend the coming weeks, months, and years living for the struggle. His life would be spent on a new purpose: keeping his men alive until they achieved victory.

  I studied the faces of the other women in our small circle. Rosana seemed content; her eyes shone with a mother’s quiet pride as one of the women remarked on Judah’s leadership. Ona and Morit spoke of him with open admiration. None of them seemed perturbed by the prospect of bloodshed ahead.

  Then again, none of them had spent their childhood with an enemy that could not be avoided.

  I looked away and considered my course. I would remain here as long as I had to, but when I had opportunity to see Judah, I would find a way to draw him back to my side. I did not want him to die and I wanted him with me.

  Would HaShem think me greedy for wanting so much?

  Perhaps, but surely the Almighty knew I was not like the sons of Mattathias. I was not willing to give everything to serve a God who had given nothing to me.

  Part III

  Then Judah his son, who was called Maccabaeus, took command in [Mattathias’s] place. All his brothers and all who had joined his father helped him; they gladly fought for Israel. He extended the glory of his people. Like a giant he put on his breastplate; he girded on his armor of war and waged battles, protecting the host by his sword. He was like a lion in his deeds, like a lion’s cub roaring for prey. He searched out and pursued the lawless; he burned those who troubled his people. Lawless men shrank back for fear of him; all the evildoers were confounded; and deliverance prospered by his hand.

  He embittered many kings, but he made Jacob glad by his deeds, and his memory is blessed forever.

  1 Maccabees 3:1–7

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Judah

  My father had named me commander, but never had any man felt more unequal to the task. Until Father’s passing, my brothers and I had simply followed him into the fray. Our attacks had always been spontaneous, specific, and effective.

  Now everyone waited for me to command—and how did one learn to do that?

  I considered the great military leaders of our history: Moses. Joshua. David. They were as different as chalk and cheese, yet they had one thing in common: each of them had waited on Adonai and heeded His voice. When they failed to wait and listen, they suffered defeat.

  The night after we returned from Modein, I ordered our fighting men to meet me on the plain at sunrise. I rose in darkness, ate a bit of bread, and slipped out of my tent as the sun broke through the eastern horizon. Striding forward with a confidence I did not feel, I zigzagged through the tents and walked to the edge of the plain, then turned.

  I stood alone. The sun had risen, the air was warming, but none of our fighters had ventured out of their tents. How were we to defeat our enemies if we could not get out of bed?

  Biting back an oath, I sank to the ground and sat cross-legged, determined to wait.

  For a long time I remained the only man on the field, then others began to straggle out of camp. I counted many men of my age, a few lads of fourteen or fifteen, and several who were probably born in the same year as my father. Two rode up on horseback, one sat astride a mule, and several Hasidim led donkeys loaded with water jugs, bread, and blankets.

  I stifled a burst of cynical laughter. Were we such weaklings we could not survive a few hours in the sun? Joshua and Moses would laugh if they evaluated my fi
ghting force.

  When most of the men had assembled, I climbed up on a nearby boulder, crossed my arms, and stared out across a ringing silence.

  “Behold!” I called, extending an arm toward the assembled group. “The army of Adonai!”

  My men looked at each other with questioning faces.

  “Yes, you,” I answered, pulling the words from my gut. “Adonai has called forth an army to fight those who would eradicate the Law of Moses. He has called us to crush those who would destroy and enslave our people. Adonai has called us, and we have answered. We are here, and we are ready.”

  The men cheered and brandished the weapons they carried—swords, shepherds’ staves, whips, and pitchforks.

  “Do you feel unqualified?” I asked. My words echoed in the open area as the men regarded me with grim faces. “Well, brothers, let me assure you—I feel the same way. I may be a big man, but I have never led an army. I am not the eldest of my brothers, not the smartest, and definitely not”—I grinned—“the most charming. But my father walked with HaShem, and he chose me to lead you, so I will obey. And I will promise you three things. First, when we are training, I will never ask you to do anything I am not willing to do. Second, when we go out to fight, I will always go with you. And third, we will never go out to fight unless I have begged HaShem to go with us and give us the victory.”

  Then, as my pulse pounded in my ears, the men roared, the noise lifting toward heaven in a deafening surge of spirit and enthusiasm.

  As the cheering continued, I lowered my head and felt my stomach twist. What should I do now? These men were farmers and shepherds, skilled with livestock and hoes and spades. A few of the hunters could handle a bow and spear, but none had military experience. Generations had passed since our people took possession of the Promised Land. We fought for our kings during the time of the divided kingdom, but years of living under the rule of Babylonians, Persians, and Greeks had gelded us.