Page 16 of Unveiled Tamar’s Story (Mysteries & Wonders of the Bible #1)

T amar sat on the shelf meant for the dead, still not sure how she’d ended up here.

One moment she’d been listening with a strange band of pressure around her chest as Bithnia and the Roman woman spoke of following the teachings of Jesus, and in the next moment they’d somehow decided that the best way to assure Tamar’s safety was to learn why, exactly, Caiaphas had decided she was the one to blame.

“There will be gossip at the temple,” Bithnia had pointed out. “When they gather for the Sabbath teaching, word will spread.”

“You are right, of course.” This wasn’t something the priests could keep secret, especially given that they’d been searching openly for Tamar. “But Bithnia, neither of us dare show our faces at the temple today.”

“On the contrary,” Mariana said. Her eyes had been dancing in a way that made it clear where little Livia, who had once again claimed Tamar’s hand, got her enthusiasm for life.

“You just cannot show them the face they expect to see. But arrive with a different face—or rather, a different mode of dress altogether—and they will look right past you. Trust me.”

Her gesture toward her own clothing made clear what she meant. A moment later she’d unfurled another Roman tunic and stola from her bag. A gift, she’d claimed, from Claudia, the governor’s wife.

Bithnia’s eyes had bulged. Tamar’s throat had gone tight.

Her family was by no means poor—but neither were they rich enough that she’d ever even considered draping herself with silk.

It didn’t seem right, somehow. Granted, there was no law against silk, nor one that stated she must wear only the largely shapeless garment she usually did.

But shouldn’t there be? Shouldn’t there be some prohibition against wearing clothes not your own so that no one would recognize you?

Yet she’d found herself pushed into the back chamber, the cool silk as smooth as water in her hands. She’d fumbled putting the long tunic on, knowing it had looked blue in the faint morning light stretching into the main chamber, but seeing nothing but darkness in the rear.

Vision hadn’t been required to flinch at how the silk draped and clung in ways wool never did.

She’d been grateful for the stola to put on over it, even if she’d had no idea of how to fasten it.

Mariana had made quick work of that the moment Tamar emerged again, beaming a smile so full of gratitude and joy that Tamar had sealed her lips against the objection she’d intended to make.

It was the gratitude that had silenced Tamar. There was no reason in the world for this rich Roman woman to want to help her—a perfect stranger, a Jew, wanted for a crime against heaven. Yet she was clearly grateful for the chance to help.

Hence why Tamar sat now on the stone table, letting Mariana first brush through and then style her long hair in the Roman fashion while Tamar ate some of the unleavened bread, apple clay, and cheese Bithnia had brought her.

It seemed she had to walk farther than she ought to today anyway, she might as well have sustenance for it.

She cast a longing glance toward Illana’s yellow-and-blue patterned head covering, but she couldn’t wear it with this Roman attire.

If she was going to attempt to remain invisible as a Roman—which it seemed she was—then she must not give herself away with something so obvious.

Perhaps Mariana had read her mind somehow, because as she finished with whatever braided vanity she’d been doing, she smiled and said, “I know your people consider us immodest, but our clothing is also meant to demonstrate our morality. The stola is worn by married women over our tunic to signal propriety, as are the vittae .” She indicated the long bands of fine wool she was using to secure Tamar’s hair in place.

Then she pulled the last item from the bag the governor’s wife had sent with her—another length of cloth that matched the set of clothes Tamar now wore.

“Now the palla . Perhaps you have noticed. We wear them like shawls most of the time, but the moment we enter the temple complex, we will draw them up over our heads.”

Relief washed over Tamar as Mariana draped the new piece of cloth around her.

“Oh good.” She didn’t know how she’d managed to set foot on temple grounds with her head bare.

It would have been too disrespectful. But honestly, she’d never studied what Roman women wore.

Whenever she’d seen one in Jerusalem, she’d looked the other way, just as her father had taught her to do.

Bithnia swayed into view, the baby having somehow ended up on her hip while Tamar was facing away to give Mariana access to her hair. “I suppose even Roman gods demand such respect?”

Mariana hesitated, strange clouds settling on her face. “It is less respect than fear of a curse falling upon us if we are not protected by something. The evil eye. The men will also lift their togas over their heads when they offer prayer or sacrifice, lest a curse land upon them.”

Bithnia frowned. “They really think a bit of wool will protect them from a curse?”

Mariana spread her hands wide, shrugged.

“Respect…fear—they are not so different in appearance sometimes. I have noticed that many of our practices have similarities to yours but different reasons to explain them. I have often thought that the similarities point to our common origins. We are all descended from Noah and his sons, are we not? But the differences demonstrate the time and forgetfulness of the many generations separating us. We have clung to certain things without knowing why, and so we write our own explanations for them. The kernel of truth is there, just as it is in the very world God created. We simply have to peel back the layers to find it.”

Tamar darted a glance toward the centurion to see what he thought of his wife’s opinions, but she had to look away again when she saw the expression of open affection and pride on his face.

It was one she knew well, the same one Abba had reserved for Imma .

That her brothers reserved for their wives.

It showed her the truth of Mariana’s words.

Different as they were, God had created them all. He’d created them for the same purpose—to love. One another and Him. Perhaps Romans failed at the latter most of the time…but so did plenty of Jews. Certainly the whole of mankind failed at the former more often than they succeeded.

How strange and sad it was, that the thing most fundamental to humanity—love—was also their greatest failing.

“There.” Mariana made one last adjustment to the palla and stepped away, her smile soft but strong. It reminded Tamar suddenly of her mother’s touch, which had always paired those same qualities.

Her throat went tight again. Not so different. Yet so very different.

Little Livia bounced on her toes, clapping. “You look beautiful!” she proclaimed. Lifting her own skirts, she twirled around. “Someday I am going to wear pretty things like that too.”

Her mother laughed. “You need no silk to make you beautiful, my little love. Only your bright smile and your love of the Lord.”

Another pang shot through her. Her mother had said similar things countless times to Tamar and her sisters, whenever they focused on the exterior instead of the interior.

“Now.” Mariana crouched down, pulled her daughter into a hug, and then nudged her toward her father. “You go with Tata and Felix back to the house so Tata can rest. I will go with our new friend Tamar to see what we can learn.”

Had anyone asked Tamar yesterday if a Roman centurion would ever consent to such an arrangement, she’d have scoffed. They were military machines, weren’t they? Monsters. They cared only for torment and power and might.

Yet Valerius took the baby back from Bithnia with a smile, held out a hand for his daughter, and looked to the old slave, Gaius. “Stay with them.”

Gaius nodded. “Of course, Master.”

Tamar sought some excuse, some objection, but she didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t offend these people, and that was the last thing she wanted to do right now. They were still Roman, yes. But not pagan. That counted for something, didn’t it?

Bithnia stepped closer to Tamar, her face an uncompromising mask. “I will come too.”

“No.” Tamar used the same tone of voice she did in the workshop, the one that didn’t ask for agreement but rather brooked no argument. “It is too dangerous. If you are recognized—”

“I will follow behind the two of you with my head down, like a slave. No one will even glance at me when I am in your shadow. You know they will not.”

Tamar opened her mouth to argue again but stopped.

Bithnia was right. The moment a Jew spotted a family of Romans, they looked away.

They didn’t pause to wonder which unfortunate Jew had been forced into their service.

She ought to be glad, relieved to have a friend along.

It took her a long moment to identify why she still wanted to argue.

Tamar had decided when her betrothed died, well before she reached marrying age, that she would never marry.

She would serve the Lord in the temple instead, serve Him with the skill of her hands.

She had worked diligently all these years not only to prove her devotion to God but also to deserve the position she now held.

Bithnia, Illana, the other weavers—they were the family she’d built, rather than one from her womb. They were her daughters. She wanted to send Bithnia home to safety just as Mariana was doing with Livia.

Yet this young woman had already risked much to help Tamar, and Tamar must honor that too.

She must grant that every daughter had the right to choose to protect her family.

She must be grateful and honored that Bithnia chose to do so when she’d not even been in the weaving room a full month.

She must accept it with humbleness of heart.

Why was that so difficult?