Page 12 of Unveiled Tamar’s Story (Mysteries & Wonders of the Bible #1)

T he cold of the spring night wasn’t what caused her trembling.

Tamar couldn’t convince herself it was. It had begun well before the temperatures dropped, the moment she heard the centurion announce he was going to check the rest of the garden and its tombs.

She’d known he would find her, but she couldn’t just let him, without even trying to hide.

So she’d felt her way into the deeper darkness, toward what had appeared to be a rear chamber.

It was. Without light, she couldn’t say how big it was or how deep it went, and she’d been afraid to walk too far into it lest she get turned around and never find her way out again—foolish, probably. This was a garden of tombs, not a system of caves that would connect to others…right?

She hadn’t been willing to risk it, especially as the trembling took her over. She’d heard the stranger’s footfalls, deliberate and heavy. She’d seen the light of his torch stretch to the end of the main chamber and light the opening of this corridor or second chamber she was in.

He would come back here. Of course he would. He was a Roman soldier, thorough and determined. Tamar held her breath and prayed he wouldn’t hear the pounding of her heart.

But then the light had vanished, and the sound of his steps had tracked his retreat.

She hadn’t dared to relax, nor to creep out into the main chamber again, not until she heard his return many minutes later, heard him bypass her tomb again, heard the confrontation—if one could call it that—with the temple guard.

She’d stayed hidden away in this chamber darker than shadows while they spoke, but she had no trouble hearing their words. Their voices carried through the garden and seemed to echo their way to her.

Only once the temple guard left did she dare to inch her way back into the main chamber, after first stashing both the list of weavers and her cousin’s money pouch in the rear chamber, in a carved-out nook she’d found.

The Romans were unlikely to search the tombs again.

As long as she stayed quiet, she would be all right.

Probably. Perhaps for safety she ought to have remained in the deeper darkness, but she just couldn’t.

At least in the main chamber, moonlight spilled through the opening, along with the dull, flickering gleam from the torches at the next tomb over.

Before she’d realized what this place was, she’d thought that she’d use the hewn shelf as a bed.

It would be hard, but no harder than the floor, and at least it would be off the ground.

But now, knowing that it was a slab intended for a corpse?

She settled onto the floor across from it instead, trying to ignore the chill that threatened to make her shivers even worse.

She listened, her brows knit, as the Romans talked in low tones about the temple guards’ search, their words in Greek now rather than Latin, making it easy for her to understand them.

Why would they look to one of their own for an explanation of it?

She was fairly certain it was the voice of the centurion who answered, who said, “Only perfection is allowed in the temple of God. No blemish can be excused,” as if he actually knew the Law and held it in reverence. As if he understood.

Her lips curled away from her teeth in a silent snarl.

He was a Roman. What did he know of the covenant between God and man?

Nothing. If these pagans had any reverence for covenants at all, they wouldn’t be in her land.

They’d have respected the treaty struck between Judas Maccabeus and their own senate nearly two hundred years ago.

But they could all see now how little that friendship had meant. The Romans cared nothing for peace, and their word carried no more weight than a feather. This centurion spoke of perfection? He couldn’t possibly know the meaning of the term.

She knew, though, and just as she knew it was beyond her as a mere human, she’d worked so hard to attain it—first in her work and then in life outside the weaving room.

Her eyes burned, but she drew in a long breath and willed the tears away.

She didn’t dare cry. Crying would make her nose run, and a sniffle was certain to get the attention of the Romans.

No, she must stay silent. No crying, no sniffling, no gasping for breath. Hold yourself together, Tamar , she silently demanded.

But though the tears retreated, the thoughts didn’t. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw again the tapestry underway on the loom, the one they’d removed amid groans. She saw that single thread, dangling and broken.

Imperfection. One strand of imperfection, and it had ruined three weeks of work. Only weeks, not years, but even so.

She ought to have caught it sooner. Bithnia ought to have. Earlier, and they could have salvaged their work. Tamar closed her eyes, shutting out what little light reached her, yet still she saw that thread. Imperfection .

Only perfection is allowed in the temple of God . No, the Roman couldn’t know what that meant. Nevertheless, his words were true. Had there been imperfection in the veil that had ripped? Had the earthquake been God rejecting it?

A new shudder, more severe than the underlying trembles, coursed through her.

She didn’t know how else to explain it. But she’d gone over every fraction of an inch of that veil before it was deemed acceptable for its task.

She had looked for any frays, any weaknesses, any flaws, any mistakes.

She had been fully prepared, if necessary, to declare it unworthy and cast it aside, to start over from the very beginning.

But there had been none. Nothing. She was sure of it. She was certain, not just because she had gone over it but because others had too. Some of the women and then some of the priests. They had all agreed.

The veil had been perfect, suitable for its holy purpose. She could still remember the feeling that had surged through her when it received approval—the same feeling she got each time a new veil was carried from the weaving room and into the temple.

She had felt… clean . Worthy. Suitable. She had looked at the women surrounding her and thought with satisfaction that this holy work had made them all a bit holier.

That by bending day after day over the rods, tracing the lines of colored thread with their gazes, they had sloughed off a bit of their imperfect natures and eased a step or two closer to the divine.

They had done good work for the Lord, and in turn, He would smile upon them.

What, then, did this disaster mean? Was the high priest right—was it a condemnation of her?

She closed her eyes, barely hearing the occasional words the Romans exchanged. They’d drifted back into Latin, and though she knew a few words, she was by no means fluent. Most of what they said floated right past her, as incomprehensible as the whole day had been.

Her fingers knotted in the length of bold colors in the head scarf Illana had lent her.

If Tamar was guilty of sin serious enough to have warranted such a dramatic action, what of the other women?

Was Illana guilty too—for helping Tamar, if for no other reason?

Was Bithnia? Would God pour more judgment out upon them? What about Levi and their family?

Stories from sacred Scripture crowded her mind.

Stories of the earth opening and swallowing whole families for the sins of their patriarchs.

The women and children hadn’t been spared when the sons of Korah rebelled against Moses.

Had they all been guilty? Or was the association enough to condemn them?

Another bone-jarring shiver coursed through her. If she had been sinful enough to warrant this very overt chastisement from the Lord, what chances did her family have of surviving His wrath?

“Forgive me.” She put no breath behind the words, simply moved her lips and tilted her head toward heaven. She knew, because the Psalms told her so, that no matter where she was, the Lord was there. He could hear her.

Before today, that had felt like a comfort. Just now, it seemed more a threat. She could hide from the priests in this tomb, but she couldn’t hide from God. If He was the one out to punish her, there would be no escape.

“Forgive me,” she mouthed again. They felt like only words though.

Words couldn’t be enough. For forgiveness, she’d need to bring an offering to the temple and confess to the priests what she’d done.

She had to make recompense. Blood needed to be spilled so that she had a visual, visceral reminder of the cost of sin.

She didn’t even know what she’d done wrong. The curtain had torn, yes. Did that mean she’d overlooked a flaw, failed in her duties as head weaver? Or did it point instead to some other, deeper sin, as Caiaphas had indicated when he’d called her a sinful woman?

Had she put something before the Lord? Worshiped Him in a displeasing way? Had she treated His name too casually? Dishonored her parents or family? Accused someone falsely? Coveted what wasn’t hers?

What— what had she done to warrant this?

She made mistakes, yes. Of course she did.

She had snapped at her family members, sighed over some of her father’s edicts over the years, and lied more than once in her life.

Perhaps sometimes she was too harsh a taskmaster in the weaving room.

But for the most part, she did everything she was told.

Obeyed every law and encouraged others to do the same.

Her family belonged to the Pharisees and worked always to preserve the importance of the Law, so that Israel would never again find itself torn apart, its people sent into exile.