Chapter 10 | The Collector’s Shadow
“Talia!” Lavi’s voice came shrill from the gate. “Riders—three of them. Two Romans. And Silas.”
My heart dropped like a stone into a well.
Of course. Taxes.
I wiped my hands on my skirt and forced my spine straight as the men approached, dust rising from their sandals. The Romans flanked Silas, their leather straps creaking, iron at their sides glinting in the sun.
Silas wore a look of exaggerated pity. “Talia,” he said smoothly, “you know why we’ve come.”
“I paid my tax at the last feast,” I replied evenly.
“You paid late,” he countered, lips curling. “And when Rome waits, it charges for the inconvenience.” He paused and then added, “Double.”
“Double?” My voice cracked sharp. “That isn’t the law—it’s robbery.”
One soldier adjusted, moving his hand to the hilt of his sword. Silas’s smile only deepened.
My stomach lurched. “We don’t have double,” I said, my voice tight but steady. “You know that.”
His eyes returned to mine, sharp now, intent.
“Then perhaps,” he said slowly, “it is time to consider other arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” I repeated.
His gaze drifted past me, toward the vineyard beyond. “I have acquired much of what borders you. It would make sense to bring this land under the same hand.”
He looked back at me, his voice softening, almost persuasive.
“You could come under my household. The land would remain cared for—and you would not have to strain yourself so.”
A small pause.
“Or, if you prefer, I could relieve you of it entirely—the land, the burden. You have carried it long enough.”
What he offered sounded like kindness, like help. But something coiled beneath it, quiet and dangerous.
“Rome values stability,” Silas continued, lowering his voice as though offering counsel rather than threat. “Households with proper oversight. Strong hands. Male leadership.” His smile thinned. “You wouldn’t want the land reassessed. Or your abba’s condition examined too closely.”
Something inside me went cold.
Heat rushed to my face—not only anger, but humiliation. Fear. The sickening sense of being weighed and found vulnerable.
Behind me, I heard movement. Voices hushed.
James stood at the edge of the rows, shoulders rigid, jaw set. I felt his attention like a hand at my back. Then he stepped towards us.
“She said she doesn’t have it,” he said, voice cutting clean through the air. “There’s no need to threaten her.”
I spun toward him, fury rising. “Stay out of this!”
Silas’s smile faltered a fraction. His eyes narrowed. “And you are?”
James didn’t hesitate. “Someone who doesn’t like brutes.”
For a moment, I almost—almost—welcomed James’s fury. He looked ready to tear the man apart for my sake. But before the tinder could catch fire, another voice broke through.
“James.” The teacher’s calm voice cut through the tension like cool water.
James’s chest rose and fell hard, nostrils flaring, but he stepped back half a pace, fists still clenched at his sides.
The teacher’s gaze moved on. “Matthew.”
One of the disciples—dressed more finely than the others, his manner precise—stepped forward. “Yes, Rabbi.”
The teacher spoke something low, too quiet for me to catch.
Matthew listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a small nod and turned towards Silas and the soldiers.
“Shalom, Silas,” he said evenly.
Silas’s eyes narrowed slightly, recognition flickering there. “Matthew,” he returned, the name carrying a trace of old familiarity—and something harder beneath it.
Matthew did not smile. He inclined his head just enough to acknowledge it, then gestured lightly toward the vineyard.
“You know how these things go,” he said, his tone measured, almost conversational. “Press her now, and you risk losing more than you gain. Give it time—let the harvest come in properly.”
He paused, then added, a shade more firmly, “Give her until the next feast. You’ll be paid.”
Silas studied him, then let his gaze drift back to me, slow and deliberate.
“Another month,” he said at last.
His smile curved, thin and sharp. “But if you fail…”
His eyes held mine.
“You won’t like the cost.”
The soldiers turned their horses, dust rising again, and Silas followed with a satisfied smirk.
I stood trembling, heat rising in my face.
Only when they were gone did I realize I was shaking.
James turned toward me, voice rough with everything he hadn’t said. “You shouldn’t have to face men like that alone—”
And, then something in me broke.
“I don’t need your help!” The words tore out of me, too loud, too sharp, but I couldn’t stop them.
Fear, shame, anger—all of it funneled straight into him because he was there.
Because he had seen it. “I will never need your help. This vineyard could be burning to the ground around me, and I still wouldn’t need it.
” My breaths were ragged, my chest burned.
I knew tears were coming if I didn’t get away from them, from everyone.
“Leave. Me. Alone!” I forced out through burning lungs.
James held my gaze a moment longer. His jaw tightened, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “Have it your way.”
He turned first, motioning to the others without looking back.
I turned toward the vineyard, and when I looked back toward the road, they were already out of sight.
Only later—when the dust had settled and the quiet returned—would I admit the truth to myself:
I wasn’t only angry. I was terrified.
Terrified of the way the ground beneath my feet no longer felt steady.
Terrified of how quickly everything I had built could be threatened.
Terrified that he had seen it—that flicker of fear I worked so hard to bury.
I stumbled between the rows until my legs gave out, sinking to my knees among the vines. The earth pressed cool and damp against my palms, grounding and accusing all at once. I bowed forward, my forehead nearly touching the soil, my body unsteady.
“Oh Lord,” I whispered, the words scraping out of me like they might cost something to say. “What have I done?”
The question echoed into the space they had left behind.
“They were only trying to help… weren’t they?” My voice wavered, doubt threading through it. “So why did it feel like a threat? Why does his insistence feel like a blade at my throat?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, my jaw trembling. “He moves with the confidence of someone who has never had to count the cost. Quick to act. Certain of the outcome. He speaks of faith as something simple.”
A bitter laugh slipped out, sharp and low. “While I have spent my whole life holding everything together with calloused, bleeding hands.”
Tears spilled freely now, blurring the green of the vines into a wash of color. I swiped at them, but more followed.
“What will I do?” I cried. “I have followed Your Law. I have obeyed. I have sacrificed. I have kept the Sabbath when it cost me work, coin, and rest.” Heat rose in me as the words poured out. “I have done everything You asked of me—and still the weight never lifts.”
My hands curled into the soil, fingers digging in to try to anchor myself there.
“Why is it always a struggle?” My voice cracked. “Why does obedience feel like carrying stones uphill while it seems everyone else walks freely?”
I sucked in a breath that shuddered all the way through me. “Jehovah Jireh,” I whispered, the name heavy with longing. “My Provider—where is Your provision?”
The words dissolved into sobs. I waited—pleaded—for something.
A warmth, a sign, even a rebuke. But the heavens were silent.
The only answer was the hiss of wind threading through the leaves, the faint rustle of vines heavy with fruit I could not afford to lose—fruit that still demanded tending, pruning, protection.
And I had sent away hands I could have used—because of my own stubborn pride.
Now, the vineyard did not feel like a refuge.
It felt like a yoke I could no longer bear on my own.