Chapter 4 | The Capernaum Order
A few weeks later, word came from Capernaum.
A merchant there—one who supplied wines for the synagogue and festivals—was requesting our wine again. The last shipment had been well received. He wanted more for an upcoming gathering: a small wedding or a celebration of some sort. The note was vague, but the coin promised was real.
It was good news. We needed it.
Abba was reclining in the shaded corner of the house when I brought the news.
“Baruch can take it,” he said after a moment, rubbing his temple as though even the decision weighed on him.
I stilled. “Baruch?”
“He knows the road,” Abba said. “He’s made the journey more times than either of us can count.”
“He knows the road,” I agreed, “but this order is too important to risk. The merchant asked for careful handling and quick delivery—not cracked jars and apologies.”
“You do not have to carry every burden yourself,” he said quietly. “If you would allow it. Baruch is capable.”
I met his eyes. “Capable, yes. Careful enough for this? I will not gamble our standing on maybes.”
His mouth tightened, not in anger, but in resignation. “You would go yourself, then.”
“If something must be done correctly,” I said, “it is best done by the one who will answer for it.”
He said nothing more, but the truth of it settled between us like dust after a long road—heavy, unavoidable.
“You do have help, you know,” he said at last. “Not from me,” he added, a flicker of shame passing over his face. “But Baruch. And the others. If you let them.”
I did not look at him. “If I want things done right, I do them myself.”
The words came out too easily. Too practiced.
Abba sighed and dropped onto the bench with exaggerated weariness, making a show of the effort. “You think I enjoy seeing you carry the weight of ten men? You’ve taken on too much.”
“Because someone has to.”
He flinched.
I felt it immediately—the sharpness of it, the way it landed—but the words were already loose between us.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” he said gently. “And perhaps you’re right.” He stared at the packed earth beneath his feet. “But even a strong vine still needs rest. Even the best-kept rows suffer when the keeper never steps back.”
I folded my arms, the familiar armor settling into place. “Rest doesn’t keep the roof standing. Oversight does.”
He looked up then, and there was no accusation in his eyes—only weariness and something like sorrow. “Oversight is not the same as control, Talia.”
I turned away before he could say more.
I busied myself with the list in my hand. Inventory. Seals. Wrappings. Things that did not argue with me.
Lavi came up from the storeroom off the courtyard, hair tousled and eyes too hopeful. "Is it true? A Capernaum order? Can I come?"
I turned to him. "Not this time."
His face fell. "I know the road now. I can keep up. I won’t slow you down."
"Lavi."
He opened his mouth again, then shut it with a small nod.
I saw the disappointment fall over him, sharp and undeserved, and guilt pricked at me. I drew him aside and lowered my voice. “I need you here,” I whispered, “to keep an eye on Abba.”
A slow, unmistakable thud sounded behind us. I did not turn. It could only be Baruch.
“And,” I added, raising my voice just enough to carry, “to help Baruch.”
Lavi sighed heavenward. “Just perfect,” he muttered.
Baruch harrumphed, the sound full of offense and pride in equal measure.
I reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Next time. I promise."
He nodded again, this time more firmly, and turned to go back to helping Baruch polish the jugs.
The next morning, I rose long before the sun. I pulled my shawl tight and loaded the cart alone in the gray half-light—amphorae of wine, their long necks dark against the gray light, sealed and set carefully in place.
Abba came out to the gate as I fastened the rope.
"You should wait until full light," he said.
"And let the merchant wait? We need this coin."
He leaned on the gatepost, expression unreadable. "Capernaum is full of Romans and fishermen. Keep your eyes open."
I gave a tight nod. "I always do."
I waited at the olive press until the Bethsaida merchants gathered—two carts, three donkeys, a knot of neighbors wrapped in cloaks and conversation. We went out together, the way our imas taught us, a small caravan of names and watchful eyes.
As the wheels turned onto the main road, I didn’t look back. This delivery had to go well. Accounts balanced on it. Reputations, too. I told myself the vineyard could stand without me for a day—that Baruch knew the rows, that the men knew their tasks.
And yet my mind kept reaching backward.
What if a trellis failed? What if Abba faltered? What if they needed me and I was not there to see it?
My hands ached from gripping the reins too tightly. I told myself it was the weight of the cart. But I knew better.
They could manage one day without me, I decided.
They would have to.