Page 13 of Unveiled Tamar’s Story (Mysteries & Wonders of the Bible #1)

As if mocking that thought, a burst of laughter came from where the Romans stood guard.

She frowned. Her people hadn’t been led away captive again, but they were held captive nonetheless, despite the work of the Sanhedrin to keep Israel obedient to the Law and the Prophets.

Her father had always said it was not a punishment for sin but rather setting the stage for the promised Messiah to come and deliver them once and for all.

But what if he was wrong? What if the Lord was displeased with them? What if the veil hadn’t torn just because of Tamar’s sin but because of everyone’s?

What if it was God’s way of saying He would commune with them no more?

“No. No.” Again, her words had no voice, only desperation.

Suddenly aware of how cold her hands had grown, she knotted them in the fabric of her garment and wished for the comforts of home.

Her room, her bed, her blankets. Her family, crowded around, laughing and telling stories. Warm food, spiced drink.

But she had none of that. None of them. She sat in a tomb, more alone than she’d ever been in her life. No family gathered around her, no friends…and if even God had turned His face away from her, from them all perhaps, then what did that leave her?

In the darkness, she could easily call up the image of that now-ruined tapestry.

After studying it for so many hours, she knew every thread, every weave, every image.

Sometimes she wished she’d been there when the children of Israel first left Egypt, when the first veil was woven for the mishkan.

They had the instructions Moses had given them, of course, so she knew that the original veil was made of threads of scarlet, purple, blue, and gold.

According to the stories, it had been striped, though that wasn’t specified in Scripture.

When Solomon built the first temple, however, the veil took on new life, and that had set the stage for the centuries thereafter too.

The veils she and her weavers created still used the same colors as the original, with all their significance, but they weren’t simple stripes any longer.

As Solomon had instructed, they wove the Garden of Eden into their veils.

The Tree of Life, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, even the cherubim guarding the entrance with their flaming swords.

The veil wasn’t just a masterpiece of craftsmanship.

It was a masterpiece of artistry as well.

A beautiful reminder of the last time God and man walked together in perfect harmony.

A reminder of the perfection they had forfeited, but which they must strive always to regain.

A reminder of the God who created them to be holy as He was holy.

Exhaustion rolled over her, and Tamar let it urge her down to the cold, damp floor.

She didn’t expect to sleep. It was bound to be the most uncomfortable night she’d spent in many years, given the solid stone she’d call her bed.

But if she could doze even a bit, it would pass the time.

Maybe things would be clearer in the morning.

If she could get enough sleep to put it all in perspective, anyway.

But she didn’t want to sleep too soundly, regardless.

She didn’t want to risk making a noise or not hearing it if the soldiers made another round of searches.

She really should forgo the small bit of comfort given to her by moonlight and flickering torches and sleep in that rear chamber.

That would be wise. She would get up and move in a few minutes… after she’d dozed for just a bit.

When she next blinked her eyes open, the light had changed from fire-kissed black to soft gray.

Tamar had no moment of confusion—the hard ground beneath her made it clear from the first moment of regained consciousness that yesterday had been no nightmare.

Which was why it was all the stranger that dawn had come already and brought with it a sound at once familiar and far too foreign to this place.

A child’s laugh.

At home, that would mean nieces or nephews, and she would have the luxury of smiling at the morning greeting, scooping them into her arms, and starting her day with a hug to warm her. Here, though? A child’s laugh had no place in an empty tomb.

Yet there it was again, from right beside her, and little fingers reached out to pat her cheek too.

Maybe she was dreaming—now, if not before.

A small voice whispered, “Why are you sleeping here? Do you not have a bed?”

Tamar turned her head enough to see little toes peeking out of well-crafted sandals, a tunic of fine linen pulled up a bit to reveal small legs, bent in a crouch. She sat up as quickly as her aching muscles allowed.

The little girl didn’t move, just kept crouching there, smiling at her. “Good morning,” the girl said. “Mango?” She held out a bag with dried strips of the fruit in it.

All logic said Tamar should refuse the offer of food from a child she’d never seen before, especially when she was supposed to be hiding here in this tomb. But maybe it was a sister or cousin of Bithnia’s? Had she been sent here to bring her food?

Odd—the girl couldn’t be more than four. But perhaps she’d come with Bithnia and had simply beaten her into the cave?

Regardless, Tamar’s stomach was hollow, and she reached out, with a careful smile, for a slice of mango.

“Thank you,” she said. She answered in Greek, because that was what the girl had spoken.

Though now that she thought about it, that made her frown.

If this was a relative of Bithnia’s, Aramaic would have been her instinct.

She had forgotten her determination to refuse any food that caused her friend to break the Sabbath, which she didn’t even realize until she’d taken her first bite of it.

“Livia?” Another voice broke the stillness of the morning now, feminine but much older than the child’s. “Where have you gone, sweet one?” It was amusement in the woman’s voice, not panic or frustration.

Instead of noting that, she should have been trying to sort out how to escape the situation. Because amused or not, the voice wasn’t Bithnia’s.

Tamar got as far as her knees before the soft light of dawn from the cave’s opening was half eclipsed by the figure. The woman looked perhaps thirty years old, and the baby boy on her hip could be no more than one.

The stranger didn’t scream. Didn’t shout for her daughter to get away from the madwoman sleeping in a tomb. She didn’t react much at all to spotting her little girl crouching beside a total stranger in the oddest of situations.

But Tamar did. Because the woman wore a stola over her tunic—a stola! She was Roman. Surely that made her the worst person in the world to happen upon her.