THE TRIBUNE'S FAREWELL CHAPTER TWO- Page 1

THE SILENCE IN the room was unbroken save for the heavy breathing of Tribune Marcellus slumped in a chair near the main entrance. An empty wine glass sat on the table beside him. Papers were strewn about. The oil had burned low in the terra cotta lamp and his shadow on the wall grew fainter.

"I wonder why he is waiting there?" whispered Rebekah to her elderly maid Hannah. "Every other evening he has gone to join his staff upstairs. It is more than four hours ago that he threw his papers to the floor, and I heard him curse his gods."

Hannah could see that Rebekah's face was drained of color as she spoke, but she knew that the sleeping tribune was the least of her concerns. Ben-Lemuel had left early that morning and was long overdue.

"It is almost midnight," Rebekah fretted. "He has never been this late."

"He is finding it ever harder to discover food for the soldiers," reasoned old Hannah. "He told you yesterday he is having to go farther into the country; farther and farther."

"Yes, I know," said Rebekah. "And this morning he was so weary he could hardly stand. I felt so badly as I watched him picking up the food baskets at daybreak. I asked him how much longer could he endure this? It is not the walking or the searching that are so grievous. It is the emotional strain of asking those who know and trust him to give up their food. The only consolation is they know he will do all in his power to leave them as much as possible to sustain them. He tells them that if he, Ben-Lemuel, did not come for the food, the soldiers would do it, and they would take all, sparing nothing, not even for seed. They would take all of the ewes and there would be no more lambs. Still, it is hard to fill baskets with the best food, and let those who raised it retain barely enough."

Tribune Marcellus stirred, as though awakening, and Rebekah placed her hand over her mouth and stepped back into the room where the empty tables waited for the officers' ration. There would still be an hour's work for her and Hannah when Ben-Lemuel arrived, preparing the morning meal before daybreak. But Ben-Lemuel? Where was he?

On the previous day he had journeyed with his band of men as far as the foothills, searching for fresh fruit and vegetables and lamb. Roman appetites were hearty. Across the city, 6,000 soldiers consumed food. Along with a super human effort to find it, Ben-Lemuel had noticed that the soldiers' rations had been recently reduced. Tribune Marcellus must have issued some kind of order to that effect.

When a new cohort from Rome was found stealing food from a fellow-soldier's plate, Marcellus had quietly asked the nearest centurion to see that his arms were broken--- and it was done on the spot. It was a known fact that while some spoke of legionaries respecting their leaders, they sometimes feared their own commanders more than the enemies they faced on the battlefield.

Rebekah had sealed off her fear of the Romans in some unthinking part of her soul. She had done this soon after they had taken the city, not to mention, her home. Her fear now was simply for the safety of her husband, and her grip on those tender feelings was not nearly so secure.

She had steeled herself against the Romans' unreasonable demands for tents, and the manner in which Ben-Lemuel had been stretched to do the seemingly impossible to deliver them. Likewise she had calloused her soul against the stealing of property, land and even the children. Now, supplying food had become almost impossible. Although she had sought to retain a ray of faith and hope, with Ben-Lemuel so late, it seemed even that was fading.

She began to give in. Tears formed in her large blue eyes and found their way slowly down a face amazingly free of wrinkles in spite of her years. If anything had happened to Ben-Lemuel! She dared not think about it further.

Food could be more precious than money to those who were hungry. She had heard how Roman leaders, when in desert areas, paid out small rations of salt, and were heard to say men treasured their salt ration like sapphires. And thus, the expression had been coined about a man being "worth his salt." Had someone taken Ben-Lemuel's life in exchange for the food he carried in his basket? Had Ben-Lemuel been waylaid somewhere in the dark on a country trail or road? Or had he collapsed from exhaustion?

Rebekah pondered the thought of taking a warm shawl and starting out in search of him. But what direction would she go? He had told her, for safety's sake, he sought to take different paths after leaving the house each day. He wanted to avoid being confronted by a distraught Jewish friend haranguing him for collecting the last scrap of food for the Romans.

As Rebekah stood silently with such thoughts burning in her mind, Hannah seemed to sense what she was thinking and placed a remonstrating hand on her arm. "We will wait just a little longer," she said.

At that very moment they heard the welcome sound of the lock turning in the door. A chill of foggy air swept into the room, along with the frail form of the rabbi, bent under the weight of a large heavy basket. Never had the pitiable sight of him been more welcome to Rebekah. Ben-Lemuel was alive, and he was home! If he was not able to go on the 'morrow, Rebekah had already decided that she would go for him.

Ben-Lemuel caught sight of the tribune in the chair. What could this mean that he was sleeping there? Was he dead? He glanced quickly at Rebekah and Hannah. Had there been foul play? So many had reason to hate him after all of the atrocities. He saw that Rebekah had covered her mouth to signal him not to speak. As quietly as possible, Ben-Lemuel closed and bolted the door. He sought to walk softly across the room.

"Is that you, Rabbi?" rumbled Marcellus.

Ben-Lemuel tensed at the sound. Even though the tribune's voice was heavy with sleep, it brimmed with the threat of authority. "I am here with food," he answered wearily, as he handed the full baskets to Rebekah and Hannah. The women took them quickly to the kitchen.