Chapter 5 | A Wedding by the Sea
The road to Capernaum curved between olive groves and barley fields, then widened as I reached the outer edges of the city.
The smell of fish grew stronger and stronger.
Somewhere past the roofs, the lake caught the light and threw it back at me—bright, insistent, claiming my attention whether I wished for it or not.
They called it a sea. Standing there, I understood why.
Near the lake road, a toll booth stood beneath a swaying awning.
The collector squinted at my amphorae, chalked a quick mark on his board, and flicked his hand.
“Go on.” A pair of soldiers passed farther down, speaking to no one, their sandals scuffing dust. I kept to the merchants, eyes forward, mind on the task.
Capernaum buzzed like a hive. Donkeys shouldered through bags of onions and baskets of dates.
Fishermen flung wet nets onto stone with a smack.
Children leapt between legs, laughing, bare feet slapping cobbles.
Smells came to me from all sides—a whiff of roasted fish, bread warmed with spice.
I hated cities. Too loud. Too many people who didn’t know how to walk in straight lines.
And yet… color swung from balconies—dyed cloth catching the breeze—and pigeons burst up like tossed handfuls of ash. At the town’s heart, the dark basalt synagogue stood against the light, its columns catching the sun.
I asked after the merchant who had ordered our wine and was told to find the house near the water. I followed the directions through a narrow lane until a courtyard opened before me—servants hurrying, cushions spread, platters laid, clay lamps arranged along the edges.
A celebration was coming.
I pulled my cart around to the rear and had just secured the reins when a voice called out behind me.
“Need help?”
I turned, already forming a firm no, when I saw him.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. A strong, sun-worn face with an easy grin and thick dark hair falling untamed around his temples. He looked like someone who didn’t realize how big he was—both in size and in personality—or else didn’t care.
He was already reaching for the amphorae.
“Don’t touch those,” I snapped. “They’re sealed and balanced. If you drop one, you’ll pay for them all.”
His grin widened, undeterred by my warning. “I don’t drop things.”
Before I could stop him, he hefted two jars with ease. My jaw tightened.
“You work for the merchant?” I demanded.
“No.” He adjusted his grip easily, as though to prove a point. “Just arrived. Friends of the family.”
“You shouldn’t take what isn’t yours to carry.”
“Or maybe you shouldn’t take everything on yourself,” he shot back, already turning toward the doorway.
I glared at his broad back as he walked, his shoulders moving with effortless strength. Irritating, yes—and the truth in it stung more than I cared to admit.
From the doorway, a man called out, voice bright and even. “James. Bring them inside.”
So that was his name.
I bent down and gripped one of the amphorae, bracing my knees before hoisting it up against my hip. The clay pressed hard into my ribs, heavy enough to dig into bone if I shifted wrong. My arms trembled under the strain, but I forced my expression smooth.
James glanced back over his shoulder, two jars balanced easily in his arms, his grin infuriating.
I muttered, “Show off,” and marched after him, refusing to let him see how much I struggled with the one.
At the doorway, I saw an older man and woman. The man was broad like the younger one, beard mostly gray, hands rough enough that I guessed he had spent his life hauling nets. The woman’s face was open and kind, her eyes bright as sunlight on water.
“Shalom, my dear. What’s your name?” she asked.
“Talia,” I answered—curt, professional.
“I’m James,” the show-off said as he set down the two amphorae of wine. “Son of Zebedee.”
“I guessed.”
He laughed. “You don’t like people, do you, Talia?”
“Depends on the people,” I said.
The older woman stifled a giggle. James shot her a look. “Sorry, son,” she murmured, eyes still warm.
The man cleared his throat and stepped forward with a smile. “Well…” he started. “I am Zebedee,” he said, clasping my forearm in greeting. “This is my wife, Salome. Thank you for bringing the wine yourself. That is no small task.”
Before I could answer, Salome took my hand in both of hers. “And alone, too? God has given you strength. You must love your family to work so hard for them.”
The words pierced deeper than I expected. My family would never have spoken them aloud. I murmured something polite, but my throat felt tight.
James, of course, chose that moment to smirk. “She didn’t even want help carrying them in, Abba.”
Salome swatted his shoulder again. “Don’t tease her.”
“I’m not teasing! She nearly bit my head off.”
“You probably deserved it,” Zebedee said mildly. Then the whole family laughed—loud, free, unguarded.
The love and… friendship between them was palpable. They were loud, boisterous, smiling, laughing, and they seemed to truly enjoy each other’s company.
My family didn’t embrace or speak that way. We passed bread, said blessings, obeyed the Law. Love was quiet duty, not laughter and hugs. I stood stiffly, not knowing what to do with such warmth. It didn’t feel wrong, not at all. But it felt awkward. And I wished it didn’t.
Another young man entered from the far side, moving quieter than James, his gaze sharp and steady.
“This is our son John,” Salome said proudly.
John inclined his head in greeting, seeming lost in his own thoughts more than what was happening in the world around him. He didn’t smile, but I found myself respecting him instantly. A man who listened before speaking. Rare indeed.
“We’re preparing for a wedding feast,” Salome said, her voice alive with cheer. “Our friends’ daughter is to be married. You’ll stay, won’t you? Rest after your journey, and share in the celebration.” She said it like the matter was closed.
I opened my mouth to decline, but James spoke before I could.
“She should stay,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth. “She’s already worn out from carrying a single jug of wine—and from all the daggers she’s been throwing my way.”
My eyes narrowed in his direction. “I hope they cut deep.”
“Ohhhh,” he groaned, clutching his chest and staggering back a step, as though mortally wounded.
I shook my head, holding in the laughter that threatened to escape.
~
The courtyard grew busier, voices overlapping, bodies brushing past one another in a way that made my shoulders tighten.
At one point, I caught sight of the bride and groom Salome had pointed out to me earlier.
Simon was broad and rugged with a fisherman’s gait, his laughter booming even above the noise.
Mira was slender and soft-eyed, with a calm grace that seemed to anchor him.
Their fingers brushed as they moved through the preparations, easy and unguarded.
I looked away quickly, heat rising in my face. I did not know how people stood so close and made it look natural. Vines I understood—how much space they needed, when to bind, when to let them run free. People were far less predictable.
Near the door, I bumped into an older woman arranging flowers in clay jars. She had Mira’s features, only lined with age and softened by wisdom. She steadied me with a gentle hand, sensing my unease.
“Forgive me,” I said, already stepping back. “Crowds make me clumsy.”
Her smile was tired but kind. “No harm done. Weddings are like storms, child—both remind us how little we truly control. Best to move with what comes.”
I blinked at her, caught off guard—not by what she said, but by the way she said it.
There was no hesitation in it, no apology.
Yielding, in her voice, sounded less like weakness and more like wisdom.
Before I could ask her name, someone called her Liora, and she slipped away, carrying her jar of blossoms with an ease that made it seem she belonged wherever she stood.
I stood a moment longer, unsure where to place my hands or my gaze. There was no row to tend, no task to claim. Only people, and the expectation that I might join them.
Then a laugh burst across the courtyard, deep and loud. A woman entered—broad-shouldered, taller and larger than any I had ever seen. Her arms looked strong, her cheeks flushed, and she smelled richly of figs, as though she had just come from picking them.
She is the largest woman I’ve ever seen, I thought—and not just in size. She filled the space without apology.
“Who’s this?” she asked, her eyes sharp with interest as they landed on me.
“Talia,” I said. “I brought the wine.” It felt safer to identify myself by my work.
“I’m Malka,” she said, grinning wide as she gave a little twirl. For someone her size, her steps were surprisingly nimble, her skirt flaring around her ankles. “I brought the fun!” I stared blankly at her. I couldn’t tell if she was hoping for laughter or something else.
“You look like someone who works too much,” she said after a moment, eyes narrowing on me in assessment rather than judgment.
“And you look like someone who doesn’t mind saying exactly what she thinks,” I replied dryly.
She threw her head back and laughed. “Ah, I like you already.”
And despite myself, I smiled back.
~
Later, the music quieted; chatter softened. We turned toward the canopy. Mira and Simon stood hand in hand, their families drawn close. The Sheva Brachot—seven blessings—rose one by one, weaving promise through the air. My throat tightened; a single tear slid hot down my cheek.
“Didn’t think you were the crying type,” came a voice at my shoulder.
I scrubbed at my cheek.
James. Of course.
“I’m not,” I said.
“Mm.” He sounded unconvinced. “Just like you have no need of help in anything.”
“I don’t.”
“Mmhmm,” he said, the word lazy with amusement. “Because struggling with one jar while I carry two is the truest mark of strength.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “Are you always this arrogant?”