She stood for a moment, gathered her wits, tucked her hair back once again, and stepped out into the street.
Then, slowly, an urge to move, to be somewhere else, began to stir in her. But it was an aimless urge for now. Does she go to her country, her home, or does she go into the city, to the center of her people, her culture? The routes to each destination were both so familiar, like opposite points of the swinging pendulum of her life — of their lives. She could walk them in her sleep. But as she stood pondering, she felt the greater gravity drawing her towards her home. She knew those walls would always be there. She knew they were the center of their lives, especially of her husband’s life. But her center was her home. Yes, it had only been the two of them — then the three of them for, oh, such a short time.
Thoughts swirled as her feet pressed the familiar stone streets, rising, ever rising to the south. As she climbed the breeze grew. Soft breezes that swayed her garment, her newly re-born hair.
The walk was a joy. At times, she recalled, the way was a burden, the only positive being the destination. Her home. But this time, each step was a light one. The incline held no great effort. The road with its stony way, no bother. Before she knew it, the rise revealed the familiar sight.
***
She joined the increasing flow of those heading toward the gate, some carrying single sheaves of barley. From the peace of the countryside into the ancient city. The holy city. But today she could sense it was a city of noise, violence, and fear.
Inside the towering gate, the sudden crowd pressing around her should have been frightening. She was aware that, in those times, women were little respected, especially in the press of a crowded street. She could have been easily knocked aside, even crushed between wagon wheel and wall, and no one would react. She would simply be stepped on or over.
Yet, somehow, her heart was unafraid. She seemed to nearly float, unperturbed, through the throng. No one spoke to her and she spoke to no one. The faces, though she knew they were of her own people, were strangely unfamiliar. Soldiers passed in groups, spears held high, making their own way as the chaotic rabble parted obediently to let them pass. Yet, even the soldiers held no fear for her. She continued up the narrow, winding street. The street she knew so well. The street of pilgrims. The street of saints.
***
“What will the Temple guard do now?” she heard a passerby ask of his friend.
“Forget them, I’m worried about the Romans!” replied the other in a voice of true fright. The crowd seemed to be buzzing in unison, like a disturbed hive. Yet, on she moved, a sail blown by the wind. Ever inward, ever upward.
She finally reached the steps, those great steps built by their great king. It seemed everywhere he went, every place he touched, he left steps, steps, and more steps. Whether Caesarea Maritima or Yerushalayim, massive runs of steps. He did love his steps. They rose from the street, from the noise of the Royal Stoa — another of [the Idumean]’s dreams. To her left, ascended three flights, parallel to the street below. Then she turned to the right, over that beautifully arched bridge, spanning the crowded street below and entering the side of the temple precinct. The [Hebrew name]. The “court of the Gentiles.” The vast area which had only recently been laid out by Herod, Caesar’s favorite, that man her people loved to hate. The expanse already seemed to dominate the center of the city. What would the great Shlomoh have thought? Isn’t that what her husband had always wondered?
***
As she entered the vast mall, even more glorious under a cloudless, Palestinian sky, the usual crowds greeted her sight.
As that strange urge continued to propel her, she crossed the path of one particular group of worshipers who were having difficulty with a lamb they were leading, straining again its rope. Perhaps this animal, commonly considered stupid, actually knew its future. Of course, the smell of blood and fire in the air would make even the dumbest of beasts wise to its fate.
“It was so much easier when we could just get our money changed here and buy our sacrifices here, too. Before that troublesome rabbi from Nazareth came in and shook things up.”
“Now that the Romans took care of him with their usual efficiency, maybe things will get back to normal,” another said with a sardonic laugh.
“Maybe not so fast,” a third retorted. “Haven’t you heard? Some are saying he rose from the dead.”
“Is that why both the temple guards and the Romans are running around with bewildered looks on their faces?”
“I hear they’re both stumbling over each other, making door-to-door searches, looking for the body of this one more ill-fated Messiah. I think Jerusalem’s gone crazy!”
“I overheard a temple guard proclaiming loudly to people in the street back there that the disciples came during the night and stole the body from the tomb.”
“Was that Yaqim?”
“Yes, everyone knows him! Why?”
“I also saw him in the market earlier buying himself a fine new robe from Ethiopia!”
“So?”
“On a temple guard’s wages?”
“Alright, you two.” The patriarch of the family remonstrated. “We came here to do our sacrifice. Let’s get it over with and get back out of town.”
Elisheva stood and stared aghast, overhearing this strange interchange. Fortunately, they didn’t seem to notice her presence and soon melted into the crowd.
***
Though the temple guard and the Roman centurions in the streets were everyday sights, they did seem more active than usual, hastily passing orders one to another, forming and re-forming their groups and ranks, making sweeping gestures toward different quadrants of the city. They seemed to be preparing for a battle.
But presumably, there would have been some look of order to that. Here, there was no evident foe, no distribution of weaponry. This was simply mayhem. This was chaos. Like ants from a trampled hill, they seemed hurried to rebuild their unseen, internal structure.