The Silk Merchant of Sychar

Chapter 1

AD 21

It was the fourth watch of the night and Leah’s husband had barely cooled in his

tomb. The pain came on fast, clawing at her insides like stripping bark from a tree.

She pulled her legs to her chest, desperate to save the precious, fragile life within.

‘No, no, my baby. Please no.’ She clutched the coarse blanket to her face

and curled into a ball. If she just lay still it might pass. Another spasm tore at

her insides. Warm fluid seeped between her legs.

‘Ima,’ she cried out. The wetness spread quickly. She squeezed her eyes shut,

willing it to stop. Another tearing cramp. She rolled off the bed and stumbled

through the curtain to her parents’ pallet. It was empty—the embroidered cover

smoothed neatly in place. A final shredding spasm, a rush of blood. It pooled

on the scrubbed floor in the pre-dawn light, black and curdled.

‘Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.’

Her legs wavered and crumpled. All that remained was her mournful

moaning.

***

‘Leah, mellita, wake up.’ A soft hand smoothed her forehead. Her mother

hovered, her face easing into a relieved smile. For a moment Leah could not

recall why she was still in bed at this hour. Then she remembered: the merciless

contractions and her mother gently washing away the blood and her baby.

‘You’ve slept well, my daughter.’ She helped Leah sit up and placed an

earthenware cup into her hands. ‘A little wine with chamomile; it will restore

your strength.’

Leah grimaced at the bitter brew. It might help her body but it would not

heal her heart.

‘Ima, I failed my husband. He was so pleased that at last I was with child.

It made him smile, even in his last hours.’ She covered her face with her hands.

‘Now he’s gone, and I’ve lost our baby too.’ Her mother held her close, rubbing

her back in slow, soothing circles. ‘How can I face his family? All their hopes

rested on this one child. I cannot bear the shame.’

‘My daughter, you are young and healthy. To lose a child is tragic but it

is not the end. Your body will soon recover and you will bear many children.’

‘But who will want me?’

‘Do not fret about such things now. Today we will honour your husband

and you will remember that you have been a good and caring wife to him.’

A tear trickled down Leah’s cheek. She had cared for her husband, but

she had not loved him. Love took time, her mother had always said. Leah had

watched it with her older sisters. Like fruit on the vine, their pinched cheeks

and hard bellies had ripened into the warm blush of motherhood. She saw how

their husbands glanced their way at family gatherings—the suppressed smiles

and hungry eyes. She saw how her sisters responded—a dip of the head, a brush

of the hand, a promise of intimacy for later.

Would she ever feel that way? Her moments alone with her husband had

been awkward, clumsy attempts at what was surely meant to come naturally.

Instead of relaxing in his arms, she would recoil from his limp, clammy hands

and breath like rotting fruit. It was not his fault. He had the thirsty disease. It

sapped his strength and melted his flesh. No matter what he ate or drank, it all

drained out of him. Day and night he trailed outside to relieve himself. Day

and night she swept away the mountains of ants which swarmed over each drop

of urine as though it were honey.

Did his parents suspect that his lifespan might not be long? Did that explain

why they had arranged his marriage before he had yet reached his eighteenth

year? The pressure to produce an heir, to continue the family name, weighed

heavily upon her. The bleeding that unfailingly accompanied every cycle of the

moon tormented her. She would catch her mother-in-law beseeching the family’s

gods and her father-in-law staring at her stomach as if willing a child to grow.

It was that which drove her to the mandrake by the stone wall. The mandrake

that her ancestor, Rachel, had been so desperate to obtain that she had allowed

her husband to sleep with her sister. The mandrake that promised fertility.

In the town she had spied young wives scurrying away from the shaded house

by the willow tree, clutching the magical root. People said that it screamed when

you pulled it out of the ground, and that those who heard the scream died. She

had never believed such stories. She had ripped up that root with her bare hands

and hidden it beneath their bed. Still her womb remained closed. She started

to break off tiny pieces and chew them, praying for fertility. Whether it was the

mandrake or the prayers that eventually worked, she neither knew nor cared.

She had prepared her husband’s wasted body for burial, praising the gods for

blessing her with the consolation of new life in this time of death. She was wrong.

The gods were capricious and cruel. She pressed her hand to her stomach. Would

it ever again swell with new life?

‘Come, mellita, it is time to rise.’ Her mother stroked her matted hair. ‘We

will eat something and then we will go to the tomb together. I have arranged

with your mother-in-law that we will bring the oil and perfume. I thank Yahweh

that she allowed you to sleep here with us last night, but you must return to

your husband’s home for this week of mourning.’

‘I don’t want to leave you, Ima. I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to

see anyone.’

‘Take courage, my child. I, too, have felt at times like hiding in a cave, away

from the world, but your duty as a wife and daughter-in-law must come first. It is

only seven days and then you will return. You are strong, Leah. You will survive.’

Leah allowed her mother to brush her hair and braid it into a heavy plait.

She dressed in fresh, flowing linen and wrapped a pale shawl about her. She

would neither bathe nor cook for the next seven days but would sit on the

floor, barefooted, grieving with the parents of her dead husband and for the

baby that was no more.

When she emerged from the house, her mother was turning flatbread over

the fire. The aroma carried across the vegetable garden, catching up whispers of

coriander, rosemary and mint. The plants had wilted in the late summer heat

but now the first rains had fallen and they stood tall and green in the centre of

the courtyard. Beyond was her favourite fig tree and she settled in its shade at

the large wooden meal table.

‘This will strengthen you, my daughter.’ Her mother placed on the table

fragrant golden bread and a thick stew of lentils, garlic, cumin and herbs. She

picked up her spoon. It lay leaden in her hand and her stomach stirred in protest.

She set her spoon down again and watched her mother piling flatbread higher

and higher on the plate. The courtyard gate flew open and in burst Atticus and

Calev jostling each other like lion cubs—loose-limbed, broad-shouldered, their

faces shiny with sweat, their laughter bouncing around the courtyard.

‘Atticus, Calev. Shalom.’ Her mother set a circle of goat’s cheese on a platter.

‘I hope you are hungry this morning.’

‘We are always hungry, Ima,’ said Atticus, stealing a flatbread and stuffing

a portion in his mouth.

Despite her stern stare, Leah saw the joy in her mother’s face; her parents

loved all of their five children but especially their only son.

‘A good morning’s harvesting always stirs the appetite,’ she said, ladling

generous portions of stew onto two plates. ‘Sit over there with your sister. She

needs cheering.’

Plates piled high, they joined Leah at the table. They smelt of fresh sweat,

olives and grass; a familiar, comforting, men-of-the-soil smell.

‘Curse the gods who brought that vile disease upon your husband,’ said

Calev. ‘He was a good man.’ The sincerity of his words tightened her throat

and tugged at her tears. Calev spoke more with his dagger than his mouth, but

Atticus insisted that beyond his brooding brow he was the most faithful of friends.

‘He was,’ she mumbled, not daring to look up from her food.

‘Don’t cry, little sister,’ said Atticus. ‘Calev and I will always look after

you, won’t we?’

Calev solemnly nodded.

‘Is your father coming home to eat?’ Leah’s mother plucked several figs from

the branches above, cut them into quarters and placed them with the cheese.

‘He is eating with Marcellus. They have business to discuss.’ Atticus scooped

up a mouthful of food and wiped the back of his hand across his beard, clearing

it of a speck of stew.

‘I would wager it’s about the oil mill,’ said Calev. ‘Your father was cursing

like the cavalry this morning. He found olive paste on the milling stones already

starting to ferment. We scrubbed for hours to clean off the mess.’

‘That supervisor should go,’ said Atticus. ‘One dirty millstone will ruin a

whole batch of oil.’

‘A dagger at his throat might persuade him.’

‘As always, my friend, you are the master of delicacy,’ said Atticus.

They continued to discuss the olive harvest and where the barrels of oil

might be destined for this season: Capernaum, Athens or Rome. The oil of

Samaria was highly sought after, and especially oil from the groves of Marcellus.

His connections spread far and wide – forged during the twenty-five iron-

studded, blood-soaked years in command of an auxiliary regiment in the Imperial

Roman Army. He had marched from Galatia to Germania, from Carthage to

Cyrene. Their father had marched with him. Finally he had stopped here, in the

land of his fighting companion, in the shadow of Mount Gerizim and Mount

Ebal—where the fertile valleys, rolling hills and temperate climate nourished

and nurtured every sown seed and every wearied soul.

‘Cease filling your stomach, Atticus. It’s time to leave.’ Calev drummed

his fingers on the table waiting for Atticus to scrape up the last of the goat’s

cheese with a fig.

‘It’s a sin to waste such good food.’ Atticus licked the remains from his fingers.

‘That’s one sin we won’t have to concern ourselves with while you are

around.’ Calev slapped Atticus on the back. They broke out in laughter that

echoed across the fields as they returned to the olives; laughter that soothed

Leah’s sad heart and brought a smile to her face.

‘It is good to see you revived, my daughter.’

‘I am much improved, Ima.’ She summoned the strength that her mother

assured her she had. ‘I am ready to visit my husband’s grave.’

Chapter 2

The month of Tevet

The sky in the east cast a pomegranate glow over the mist-shrouded land. Leah

pulled on her cloak against the cold that had descended overnight, slid on her

soft leather boots and stepped out onto the roof. A door creaked. It was at the

far side of the large courtyard, where the sheep and goats were kept dry during

the freezing winter months. Was it this that had roused her so early from sleep?

She hurried down the outer steps. Her mother still slept at this early hour and

her father and brother were away. It was she who must check the animals. She

lifted the heavy wood that held in place the door to the animals’ pen. The musty

stench of enclosed animals hit her like a charging ram but amidst it was a shard

of fresh, icy air. She peered past the ruminating sheep to the door at the other

end of the shelter. It was ajar and the first goat pen was empty. She was sure she

had secured both doors last night. Had robbers broken in and taken their prized

animals, the ones set apart for the Passover sacrifice? Her father had warned of

the danger of thieves at this time of year; the rain and mist were their allies. She

carefully secured both doors, took a dagger from the alcove behind the stairs,

tucked it into her belt and hastened towards the hills.

It was the month of Tevet and snow sprinkled the mountains like salt. For

the past few months, since they had laid her husband in the tomb, the rains had

fallen in great deluges, gouging deep, muddy furrows in the roads and soaking

the ground until it was as sodden as a sponge. They had arrived unseasonably

early and had caught some olive grove owners by surprise, but not her father

and Marcellus. They had driven their labourers as hard as soldiers in order to

gather and press the abundant crop in the shortest span. Everyone had helped:

Atticus, Calev, Leah and her mother. The seasons did not slow for death.

Leah hugged her woollen coat tighter about her and blew a tiny cloud

of warm air upwards to warm her nose. Her boots crunched across the grass,

brittle with ice. Where were those animals? She strained to hear even a faint

bleat. Silence. They had melted into the mist.

She trudged through the olive trees, their barren branches patiently waiting

for the warmth of spring. Beyond the terraced olive groves were the rolling hills

where the goats loved to graze. If the mist was thin, she would see the roads and

tracks that a thief might have taken. Every so often she stopped and called and

listened. The goats knew her voice. They would surely answer if they heard her.

She reached the muddy road which led upwards to the villa of Marcellus. Her

breath came out short and hard and she stopped. There it was—the familiar,

mournful call of her goats. A faint cry from the fields below. She lifted her tunic

high, tucking it into her belt and freeing her legs to run towards the sound. She

gripped the dagger at her waist and raced down the road, dodging the furrows

and half-frozen puddles. Murder was a sin but defending your property was

not. Despite her mother’s protests that it was not right for a good Samaritan

girl, her father had taught her the secret dagger skills of a Roman warrior. She

could slaughter a sheep, she could sever a sinew, she could save her goats.

The bleats were closer now. She leaped across a deep furrow in the road,

and landed on a patch of ice. Her feet splayed out beneath her. She crashed

to the ground, the stones gouging her hands and knees. Her dagger clattered

to the side. She jumped up to grab it, an instinct born of her father’s warning:

Never lose hold of your weapon, then staggered and collapsed in pain. Her foot

would not hold her weight. Blood seeped through the mud on her hands and

welled in deep, tattered wounds across both knees. She couldn’t just sit here;

she needed to get to her animals. Bracing against the pain, she forced herself

up and limped a few excruciating steps. Her vision blurred. She slumped to the

ground again. Perhaps if she called, the goats would hear and come. She prayed

they were on their own. She called as loudly as she could, her voice piercing the

crisp winter air, and listened for a response.

Through the clearing mist she saw a dark figure approaching. She gripped

her dagger, ready to defend herself. The figure drew nearer. He was a few years

older than her, tall and lean and wearing a fine coat. He did not look at all like a goat thief. She readied her dagger under her coat, just to be sure.

‘This is not the best place to take a rest,’ the stranger said. His bold gaze

held hers until she looked away.

‘I am not taking a rest. I am searching for my goats. They have been stolen.’

She glanced at him to observe his reaction. His mouth turned up at the sides

and his eyes danced in the now rising sun. He did not appear guilty.

‘You are hurt.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘Can you walk?’ He knelt

down beside her and gently lifted one of her bloodied hands. Her heart fluttered.

He should not be touching her; she should not be letting him.

‘I ... I am more concerned about my goats,’ she stuttered.

He glanced at her ankle which had swollen purple. ‘You cannot walk on

that. I will help you. Where do you live?’

Could she trust this stranger? There was no-one around to hear her screams.

It had happened before; it was even written into the law: “If a man finds a girl

out in the country and though she screams there is no one to rescue her ...”

Trust your instinct: it is greater than your fears. Her father’s words echoed in

her mind. Instinct had saved his life in many battles. Instinct – that mysterious

knowing that surpassed logic. She nodded her head towards the terraced slopes

below them.

‘These are my father’s olive groves. Our home is just beyond, but I cannot

return without my goats.’ She struggled to her feet. He caught her by the elbow,

holding her steady. Pain seared her foot but his touch seared more.

‘Does it not say in the law that if a man finds his neighbour’s animal he

must return it and if he finds his donkey or ox fallen on the road he must help

it to its feet? I will help you find your goats and then return both you and your

animals to your home—but first you must put away your dagger.’