The Solid Rock and Shifting Sands (Built Upon The Rock Series #1)

Well, here’s an attempt for my first Biblical fiction series. Hope you enjoy. Please feel free to share your thoughts.

Chapter 1:

A vineyard in the town of Bethsaida in the Galilee region had been thriving from generation to generation, tended by the same family for centuries, their hands calloused from the work but their hearts restless. It had been known for its trade with Cana, a town nearby, especially when the loyal customers consisted of wine merchants who had been buying the harvests of grapes to make wine for weddings.

Gideon, the current owner of the vineyard, stood beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient olive tree, his sun-leathered face tilted toward the horizon. The wind carried the scent of ripe figs and dry earth, but his thoughts were elsewhere—on the two sons who would inherit this land, and the silent rift between them that grew wider with each passing season.

Gideon had taught his two sons the importance of pruning back the vines, not just for yield but for survival. They also have been tutored by a rabbi named Samuel, a member of the Sanhedrin and he taught them the Torah, the Prophets, and the Writings. Yet Sahara saw only profit in the harvest—his fingers itching to strip the branches bare the moment the grapes turned purple, while Thomas would press his palm against the fruit, testing its readiness with the patience of a man who understood time as something more than coin.

Besides the vineyard, Gideon also owned a lot of sheep, cattle, horses, oxen, donkeys, camels, and goats. His livestock was tended to by shepherds named Yacov and Barak, and they were hard working men who did their job well. Gideon was pleased with their work, and he trusted them with his animals, knowing they would take care of them as if they were their own.

Thomas, who had recently turned 13 and was now considered a man under Jewish law, stood beneath the westernmost vine. His father had taught him to wait until they yielded without force, when the sugars ran thick and slow as honey. Sahara, already broad-shouldered at 16, paced the perimeter with a merchant's impatience, tallying rows under his breath.

“Sahara, remember when we were boys we used to run around the vineyard pretending to be Joshua spies, like in the story Rabbi Samuel taught us?”, Thomas asked, rubbing grape juice between his fingers. Sahara didn’t slow his pacing.

Sahara chuckled as he glanced over at the watchman’s tower where they used to hide as children. "That was before we had responsibilities," he said, plucking a grape without checking its ripeness.

“But those were good times, weren’t they? We weren’t just pretending. We were learning—how to navigate the land, how to spot the weak vines. Father said even games could be lessons.”

"We were terrible spies. You always stepped on every dry twig within a mile."

Thomas grinned, nudging his brother with an elbow. "And you used to eat all the evidence. Remember when we stole figs from the neighbor's tree and left nothing but stems?"

“Yes, and Mother made us replant his entire garden as punishment.”

The sheep bleated in the distance as Yacov's voice carried over the hillside, calling the flock to fresh pasture. Thomas watched the dust rise from their hooves, thinking of how his father always said livestock were easier to manage than sons—they only needed grass and water, not wisdom.

“Those sheep have to follow Yacov and Barak whether they like it or not,” Sahara said, cracking a dry vine between his fingers.

“Sahara, you know that sheep aren’t the brightest creatures,” Thomas said, watching Yacov gently guide a stray lamb back to the flock with his staff. “But even they know better than to stray too far from the shepherd. Remember what both those shepherds taught us about how they use their staffs- one end helps bring in the sheep back to the flock while the other end keeps predators away?”

“And what does that make us, then? Just another flock for Father to herd?”

“Remember what our nurse Drusilla and tutor Rabbi Samuel taught us how David wrote about the Lord being his shepherd in the psalms?”

Sahara rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, we lie down in green pastures and walk through valleys.”

Before Thomas could say anything else, the steward, Gideon’s major-domo, came striding down the row, and said, “Master Sahara, Master Thomas, your father wants to see you both. He’s waiting by the olive press.”

Sahara and Thomas exchanged glances—the kind that carried years of unspoken tension beneath the surface. Thomas wiped his hands on his tunic again, though the juice had already dried. "Did he say why?" he asked the steward, but the man only shook his head and turned back toward the olive press, his sandals kicking up little puffs of dust.

The brothers walked in silence, the vineyard's familiar paths suddenly feeling unfamiliar. When they arrived, there stood Helene, Gideon’s wife and their mother, Nehushta the steward’s assistant who also served as Helene’s personal attendant, who although kind, was often over anxious, and Drusilla, a kind woman who was the brothers’ nurse or nanny, and some servants, all gathered around Gideon. The olive press beside him stood idle, its heavy stone wheel poised above the trough.

Gideon's gaze flickered between his sons. “Harvest will soon be upon us,” he said, voice rough as the olive press’s stone. “And I have something to say.”

Nehushta wrung her hands, her sandals shuffling against the dirt. Drusilla touched Thomas’s shoulder lightly, her fingers calloused from years of mending scraped knees and smoothing stubborn boys’ hair. The scent of crushed olives still clung to the air, though the press hadn’t turned in days.

Gideon lifted a clay cup to his lips—water, not wine—before setting it down with deliberate care. “The vineyard will go to both of you,” he said, gaze steady.

“But doesn’t Jewish law say that the oldest will receive two-thirds?” Sahara blurted out.

“Yes, Sahara, and you’ll be in charge of the vineyard when I’m gone,” Gideon said, his voice low and deliberate as he rubbed his thumb over the rim of the cup. “But half of it belongs to Thomas—his hands have bled into this soil just like yours.”

“Great. More weeding, pruning, plowing, and planting for both of us,” Thomas said, “I’d much rather work with tending the sheep than working in the vineyard.”

Sahara’s jaw tightened. “You think this is about work?” he hissed, low enough that only Thomas could hear. “This is about inheritance. About what’s mine.”

“What is it to you, Sahara? You idle with your friends by the shore while I prune the vines and tend the flocks. By the Law, it *is* yours. But Father’s still breathing, and you’re already counting his silver. It will be a long time before either of us inherit anything.”

“That’s enough, boys,” Gideon interrupted, pressing his palm flat against the olive press’s wooden beam. “A vineyard divided against itself cannot stand. That’s not just farming—that’s Torah. You know, like what Rabbi Samuel taught you. But you don’t have to worry about inheritance yet. I’m still as strong as an ox.”

Nehushta fluttered forward with a clay jug, her sandals whispering against the dirt. “Your father’s right,” she murmured, pouring water into Gideon’s cup. “Plenty of time for you boys to work together, yes? Like when you rebuilt the terraces after the winter rains.”

Sahara's fingers uncurled slowly. The midday sun burned the back of Thomas’s neck, but the silence between them felt colder than winter rain in the Galilean hills. Drusilla’s hand lingered on Thomas’s shoulder, her thumb brushing the fabric where grape juice had stiffened the weave into something rough as sackcloth.

Gideon leaned against the olive press, his weight making the ancient wood groan. “You boys remember the Law about inheritance? The older son gets two-thirds and the younger gets one. But this vineyard—it’s more than land. It’s legacy. Sahara, as the oldest, you’ll not only be tasked with being in charge, but also caring and providing for your mother, your brother, your household, and any servants who depend on you. Thomas, half of it is yours—not just for profit, but for stewardship. You’ll also care for your mother and ensure she’s honored in her widowhood.”

“But it’s usually the oldest son that is tasked with caring for the widowed mother, isn’t it?”, Thomas asked, glancing at Helene, who stood motionless beside the press, her fingers worrying the frayed edge of her shawl.

“It is, but I’ve seen how you tend the vines. Patience isn’t just for grapes. It’s for people, too. The Law says a widow is to be provided for, but it doesn’t say *how*. Only that she shouldn’t go hungry.”

“Understood, Father.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.”

"And if Thomas disagrees with how I run things?", Sahara asked, voice low but edged.

“That’s perfectly normal, but you’ll talk it out like brothers. This vineyard has been in our family for generations—not because every decision was perfect, but because we learned to listen. Even when the grapes are sour.”

Helene stepped forward, her shadow falling across the press. “Your father didn’t inherit peace with this land,” she said quietly, her fingers brushing the edge of Gideon’s sleeve. “He built it—row by row, season by season.”

Drusilla's hand lingered on Thomas's shoulder, her grip tightening slightly as if she sensed the tension coiling beneath his skin. The olive press loomed behind Gideon, its stone wheel casting a jagged shadow that split the ground between the brothers like a crack in the earth.

“Master Gideon, perhaps you should rest,” Nehushta murmured, her fingers fluttering toward his arm like sparrows uncertain where to land. “I got a meal to prepare for tonight. Mistress Helene and Drusilla will help me.”

“There’s no hurry, Nehushta,” Gideon said, pressing his fingers into his lower back as he straightened—the same gesture he’d made after harvests for twenty years.

“I insist… I..I just want to be sure there’s enough to feed all of us.“

Nehushta disappeared into the kitchen courtyard, her sandals scuffing against the dry earth like a startled hare. The silence between the brothers thickened, punctuated only by the distant bleating of sheep and the rhythmic creak of the watchman’s tower swaying in the breeze.

“Wow! Is she really that anxious?”, Thomas asked, watching Nehushta disappear into the kitchen courtyard.

“Yes, she’s always been like that since she first came here,” Helene said, her fingers smoothing the folds of her shawl with a practiced motion, though her eyes remained fixed on Gideon’s face.

“Perhaps, Mistress Helene, we should go help her with supper preparations as she requested”, Drusilla said, her fingers brushing Thomas’ shoulder one last time before she turned toward the kitchen courtyard. “The boys can stay and help their father and the steward with the olive press, and the servants can continue with their duties.”

Helene nodded, and Drusilla followed her toward the kitchen courtyard where Nehushta's frantic muttering could already be heard—something about lentils boiling over. Gideon exhaled, pressing his knuckles into the small of his back as he studied his sons.

Later that evening, supper was served in the house's dining area—a long wooden table laden with roasted cattle, steaming lentils, and flatbread still warm from the oven. Gideon sat at the head, Helene beside him, the brothers opposite each other like reflections warped by time, the steward at Gideon's right hand, Nehushta at Helene's left, Drusilla beside Thomas, Jacov and Barak on each side of Sahara, and the servants serving the food and drink—water mixed with wine, olive oil for dipping, and a small bowl of salt for seasoning—the scent of garlic and thyme thick in the air.

“Let us pray and give thanks,” Gideon murmured, bowing his head as the servants stepped back. Helene’s fingers twined with his, her knuckles pressing against the rough wood of the table. “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech haolam, hamotzi lechem min haaretz, borei minei m'zonot, borei p'ri ha'adamah, ve shehakol nih'yeh bidvaro.”

As soon as the prayer ended, Sahara reached for the bread first, tearing a piece with his teeth instead of waiting for Helene to distribute it. Gideon's eyes flickered toward him but said nothing; Nehushta's fingers trembled as she poured wine-water into Thomas's cup, the liquid splashing onto the polished cedar.

“I guess our oldest son isn’t exactly the patient type”, Helene whispered to Gideon, watching Sahara tear into the bread like a man who’d forgotten what hunger felt like—only the act of consuming mattered.

Gideon sighed. “Patience is bitter,” he murmured, tearing his own bread carefully along the seam, “but its fruit is sweet.”

As soon as the meal was finished, Nehushta scurried around the table collecting dishes, her nervous fingers nearly dropping a clay platter before Barak steadied it with a quiet chuckle. The brothers helped gathered firewood outside—Thomas stacking the logs with careful precision while Sahara hurled them into the pile with sharp, careless thuds.

“Thomas, remember when you were little, you used to stand in the watch tower, pretending you could see all the way to Jerusalem?”, Sahara asked suddenly, tossing another log onto the pile with more force than necessary.

Thomas chuckled. “I used to squint so hard I’d see double. Though Jerusalem way down south in Judea, isn’t it?”, he said.

“It is, and we travel there for the festivities like Passover, the Feast of Tabernacles, and the Feast of Dedication,” Gideon said, “Even if we have to travel by going the long way to avoid Samaria, it’s still worth it, though going through Samaria would make the journey shorter.”

“Wait, Father, we’d have to go through *Samaria*?”, Sahara asked, “That’s a vile place—half-breeds and heretics. It’s bad enough that the Romans tax us, especially with Ceasar Tiberius in his 5th year of reigning as Roman emperor. But the Samaritans—they twist Torah, mix bloodlines. Why risk it?”

“You know, I never quite understood the hostility between us Jews and the Samaritans,” Thomas said, stacking another log carefully onto the pile. “Rabbi Samuel taught us we both trace our lineage back to Abraham—just different tribes, different histories.”

“That’s because we’re pure-bred Jews and they’re a mix! We worship in Jerusalem, and they worship some mountain called Gerizim! We have the whole Law and Prophets, and they only have the Torah and their twisted version of it! Samaritans will always disagree with us Jews, and that’s all there will ever be to it!”

Gideon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose where the skin had long since darkened from sun and strain. "Samaritans are still our neighbors, Sahara. Didn’t Rabbi Samuel taught you boys that Moses commanded us to treat foreigners among us with fairness? The Torah wasn’t just written for Jews."

Thomas tossed the last log onto the stack, watching as Sahara ground his sandal into the dirt like he was crushing an imagined serpent. “Father’s right, Sahara. The Torah says even strangers have rights—gleaning rights, justice rights. Remember the story of Rahab who was a Canaanite or Ruth the Moabitess? Both women weren’t Israelites, yet they became part of our lineage. When Jericho fell, Joshua and the Israelites spared Rahab and her family, and she married Salmon and they have a son named Boaz, who married Ruth, a Moabitess.”

“But didn’t the Law say that Israelites were NOT to marry Canaanites or Moabites or any other foreign nations?”, Sahara asked, kicking a loose stone toward the woodpile.

“It does, because in most cases, they led our people into idolatry,” Gideon said, “But there were numerous exceptions— Judah, even though there was an incident with his daughter-in-law Tamar who was a Canaanite and he wanted to burn her alive, she proved herself by giving him a cord, a seal, and his staff, and she gave birth to twins named Perez and Zerah, and I believe even as a Canaanite, Tamar chose the God of Israel and His ways even before her own father-in-law realized it; Joseph married Asenath, an Egyptian priest’s daughter, and she supported him when he was in Pharaoh’s court, and their two sons, Mannesseh and Ephraim, were adopted into Jacob’s household as heirs; Moses married Zipporah, a Midianite, and she saved his life when he neglected to circumcise their son. Even before Jericho was conquered, Rahab, a Canaanite, chose to hide Joshua’s spies—she trusted our God more than her own people, and when Jericho was conquered, with the scarlet cord tied to her window, she and her household were spared; she even married Salmon, and their son Boaz married Ruth—a Moabitess—who chose Naomi’s people and Naomi’s God, and they had Obed, who had Jesse, who had David. So you see, though the Law forbids marrying foreigners who worship other gods, those who chose our God—like Rahab and Ruth—they were welcomed.”

Thomas nodded, though Sahara's jaw remained set like a gate barred against invaders. The woodpile cast long shadows in the fading light, each log a silent witness to the unspoken rift between them. When they were young boys, the brothers used to share everything and ran around in the vineyard, pretending to be spies while Rabbi Samuel taught them the Torah and other stories about their ancestors, from Abraham to Isaac to Jacob, from Joseph to Moses to Joshua, from the Judges to Ruth to Samuel, from David to Solomon to Josiah, from the prophets to Daniel to Esther, to Ezra and Nehemiah. And even Judah Maccabees—and how he freed Judea from oppression. They were inseparable—until now.

Chapter 2

One day, Sahara’s friends have come to the vineyard to see him—three older boys from nearby estates, their tunics embroidered with threads too fine for field work. They lounged beneath the olive tree, tossing dice while Sahara boasted about the coming harvest—how his father’s wealth would soon be his to command.

“Someday, my friends, this will all be mine," Sahara declared, tossing a handful of grapes into his mouth as his companions chuckled.

“But what about your brother?”, one of Sahara’s friends asked, rolling the dice between his fingers before letting them clatter onto the packed earth.

“Thomas?” Sahara scoffed, flicking a grape stem toward the vines. “He’d rather count sheep than coins. Let him tend flocks while I handle trade. I’ll buy his share when Father’s gone.”

“But what if your father divides it?” one of Sahara’s friends asked, rolling a fig between his fingers before tossing it into the dirt. “He can do that, you know? And not just the vineyard, but the animals too.”

Sahara's laughter cut through the vineyard like a sickle through ripe wheat—sharp, final. “Father wouldn’t dare. Torah’s clear—firstborn gets two shares.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” a third friend murmured, running his thumb along the edge of a silver coin.

Just then, Thomas approached and hesitated at the edge of their circle, his sandals scuffing against the dry earth. "Sahara, you were supposed to help mend the western terrace before sundown," he said, eyeing the dice scattered near his brother's feet. “Father asked twice.”

Sahara rolled his eyes. “Father worries too much. The terrace will hold.”

“If you think the terrace will hold, you haven’t seen the cracks.”

“Who put you in charge, Thomas? You’re the younger brother—you don’t tell me what to do.”

“True, but now that I’m 13, I’m as much as a man as you are, Sahara! Although there is a three year difference between us, I’m not a boy anymore!”

Sahara smirked, tossing a dice high into the air where it caught the afternoon sun—a fleeting glint before disappearing into his palm. "A man doesn't prove himself by counting sheep tracks in the dirt, little brother."

However, the steward approached, his shadow slicing through their circle like a sickle through chaff. "Master Sahara, Master Thomas, the Romans are at the gate," he said, voice low as crushed olives. "They've come for the harvest tax—early."

“But we’ve already paid Tiberius’ tax last month,” Sahara stated, “Why would they be coming now?”

“No time for questions—they’re already unloading scales by the gate!”

Sahara and Thomas followed the steward back toward the main house, their sandals kicking up dust in sync despite the rift between them. The scent of impending rain mixed with sweat clung to the air, thick as the tension mounting in Thomas's chest.

The Romans stood just beyond the vineyard gate, their polished armor gleaming unnaturally against the muted earth tones of the countryside. Their leader—a centurion whose name no one bothered to remember—leaned against his spear with the casual arrogance of a man who knew no one would refuse him. Behind him, two legionnaires shifted uncomfortably in the heat, their eyes darting toward the vineyard’s abundance with poorly concealed greed.

“Father, what are the Romans asking for?”, Thomas whispered as Gideon strode forward.

“Another levy,” Gideon answered, “How about the steward and I take care of this and negotiate with them? You know well that the steward is my most trusted man when it comes to handling negotiations, especially with the Romans.”

Thomas nodded, but his fingers curled into fists at his sides as the centurion adjusted his grip on the spear, the iron tip catching sunlight like a cruel joke. The steward stepped forward, shoulders squared—a farmer’s frame trying to fill a diplomat’s role—but Gideon placed a hand on his arm, murmuring something lost beneath the Romans' clinking armor.

Meanwhile, Thomas noticed a Jewish little girl about 8-years-old crouched behind a clay storage jar in the courtyard, her thin shoulders hunched beneath a tattered shawl. The way she stared at the Roman soldiers with wide, fearful eyes made something twist in his chest. While everyone's attention was fixed on the negotiations, he approached quietly and crouched beside her.

“Hi, what’s your name?”, Thomas whispered, his hand hovering near the girl’s shoulder without touching her.

“Mary”, the girl whispered, flinching as the Roman’s boot scuffed against the courtyard stone.

“Mary. What a beautiful name. I’m Thomas. I won’t hurt you. What happened?”

“The Romans killed my mommy and daddy in a raid. I’ve been wandering for days until I came here where I saw the grapes and I was hungry.”

“I’m so sorry, but you’re safe here. My father, who owns this vineyard, is a good man. He won’t let anything happen to you. How about you stay with us? My nurse, Drusilla, will make arrangements for a room for you. She’s a kind woman, almost like my second mother.”

Mary’s fingers slowly unclenched from the jar’s rim, her wide eyes flickering between Thomas and the Romans. Without hesitation, Thomas unclasped his cloak and draped it around her shoulders, the fabric swallowing her small frame whole.

“Here,” he murmured, “it’s not much, but it’ll keep you warm.”

Mary clutched the cloak’s edge with fingers still trembling, though her breath had steadied. Thomas glanced toward the Romans—now haggling over wine jars—then back at her. “Stay close to me,” he said, low enough that only she could hear. “I’ll get you bread when they’re gone.”

As soon as the Romans were gone—their pouches heavier with Gideon’s silver— Sahara stalked to the storage room and slammed his fist against a barrel. The sound echoed like distant thunder.

“Thomas, what are you doing?”, Sahara snapped, his voice sharp as a whip crack. He strode forward, eyes narrowing at the sight of Mary clutching Thomas’s cloak. “Who’s this?”

Mary shrank back, her fingers twisting in the rough wool. Thomas stepped between them, shielding her with his body. “She’s hungry,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “Her parents are gone. She needs shelter.”

“You and I are the sons of a wealthy vineyard owner, particularly princes of this land, yet you’re associating yourself with peasants?”

“What is it to you, Sahara? She’s just just a child. Have you forgotten what the Torah says about orphans? It’s our duty to protect her.”

Thomas pulled a small honey cake from his pouch—the one Nehushta had often sneaked both him and Sahara when they were children—and pressed it into Mary’s palm.

Sahara scoffed. “You’ve always been the soft one, Thomas. You think wrapping her in your cloak or feeding her your honey cake will change anything?”

“She’s got nowhere else to go. Didn’t Rabbi Samuel teach us to share our blessings with the unfortunate?”

“If you’re so keen on charity, give her your inheritance too!”

“Why would I give her my inheritance? She doesn’t need land—she needs safety.”

“That’s enough, boys”, Gideon said as he stepped in between them. “Thomas, I admire your kindness. You get that from your mother, which is one of the reasons I fell in love with her. Sahara, have you forgotten that your mother and I give the extra grapes to the poor, and even take them to a leper colony? Even though we are wealthy, we must never forget that kindness is our heritage. My father and grandfather knew that.”

“Are you taking Thomas’s side, Father?”

“No, Sahara, I am not taking sides—I am reminding you of who we are. One day, as the oldest son, you will be in charge of this vineyard, and half of it will belong to Thomas. So it will be my wish for both my sons to work together, as I have taught you. Thomas, the girl stays. Drusilla will see to her needs.”

Drusilla stepped forward then, her hands outstretched toward Mary. The girl hesitated, her fingers clutching Thomas’s tunic, but something in the nurse’s gentle smile made her release her grip.

“You’re safe,” he murmured. “And you’ll never be hungry again.”

“Master Gideon, why are you doing this?”, Nehushta asked as she gestured toward Mary. “She’s skin and bones. She looks like she hasn’t eaten in weeks.”

“Yes, but I gave her my honey cake, Nehushta- the one you used to sneak me when I was little,” Thomas said, his fingers brushing Mary’s hair—dull with dust but still soft as lamb’s wool. “And I’ll see that Drusilla makes her a proper meal.”

Sahara’s laugh was sharp as a whip crack. “Ah yes, Drusilla—the soft-hearted fool who raised you to be just like her.”

“She helped raised both of us, Sahara. She was our nurse when we were children, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. That girl will be dead before winter anyway. Orphans always are.”

Gideon sighed. “Son, haven’t I taught you that compassion is the true measure of a man? We don’t turn away the hungry—even if they’re strangers.”

“I have a room all ready for her,” Drusilla murmured, smoothing Mary’s tangled hair with fingers that remembered every childhood knot they’d combed from Thomas’s head. “It’s actually next to yours, Thomas, so she won’t feel alone. Nehushta, how about you, Mistress Helene, and I prepare a meal for her, then draw a bath?”

Nehushta nodded, her fingers still fluttering like startled sparrows as she glanced at Mary’s sunken cheeks. "I’ll warm the lentil stew," she murmured, already turning toward the kitchen courtyard.

Thomas smiled as Mary finally let Drusilla take her hand—her small fingers twitching like a bird unsure whether to trust the branch beneath it. He watched them disappear into the shaded archway leading to the house, Mary casting one last glance over her shoulder at him.

Later that evening, dinner was served, and everyone sat around the low wooden table, and Mary was perched on a cushion between Drusilla and Thomas, while the servants served. Sahara snorted as the servants placed a bowl of lentil stew and fresh bread before Mary.

“Mother, Father, why are you allowing this girl to eat with us?”, Sahara demanded, “She doesn’t belong here.”

“She’s a child, Sahara. She’s just as welcome here as anyone else,” Gideon said, his voice low but firm.

As soon as Gideon gave thanks, Thomas noticed Mary’s hands hovering uncertainly over her bowl and plate, and without hesitation, he piled her plate with extra bread, spooning lentils carefully onto the soft center where they’d soak into the warmth. The steward smiled at the boy’s kindness, and Nehushta, although she appreciated Thomas’ gentle nature, couldn’t help but glance at Sahara’s hardening expression. She knew that one day he will be the master of this vineyard, and she feared for Mary’s future—and Thomas’ too, as well for Helene’s, as Nehushta had been her personal attendant for years, much like how the steward had been Gideon’s most trusted man.

Helene smiled as she observed Thomas tearing a piece of warm flatbread and pressing it gently into Mary’s palm. The girl’s hesitant nibble turned into ravenous bites when she realized no one would snatch it away, crumbs scattering like tiny prayers across the cedar table.

“Gideon, dear”, Helene murmured, watching Thomas guide Mary’s hands around a clay cup of water, “Do you think our son knows he’s stitching his own cloak into her shroud?”

“What makes you say that, dear?”, Gideon murmured back.

Helene traced the rim of her cup with a fingertip calloused from years of spinning wool. “He drapes his cloak over her like he’s planting a vine—as if kindness could take root in salted earth.”

Gideon studied Thomas, who was now showing Mary how to dip bread in olive oil without dripping. The boy’s movements were patient, his voice low as he explained which herbs grew by the kitchen garden wall.

“You’re right, Helene. He doesn’t realize it yet,” Gideon murmured, watching Thomas adjust Mary’s cloak where it slipped from her bony shoulder. “I wish we had sheltered more children—perhaps then Sahara wouldn’t see kindness as a liability.”

“Give Sahara some time, Gideon. Maybe he’ll soften when he sees Mary blossom under Thomas’s care, with Drusilla’s help,” Helene said, pressing her fingers gently against her husband’s wrist.

Gideon smiled at Helene’s words, watching Thomas lean toward Mary as she hesitantly pointed to the honey-soaked dates arranged on a clay plate. "That one?" Thomas murmured, plucking the plumpest date and pressing it into her palm. Her fingers closed around it like a fledgling clutching its first twig. Across the table, Sahara’s knuckles whitened around his cup, his gaze darting between his brother and the orphan as if calculating the cost of every morsel she consumed.

As soon as the meal was finished, Nehushta and some female servants began clearing the table while Thomas lingered near Mary, his fingers absently smoothing the frayed edge of her borrowed tunic where it draped over her knees.

“Thomas, is your brother really that cruel? I don’t think he likes me”, Mary whispered.

“I think he’s either forgotten how to be kind—or never learned,” Thomas murmured, “Or perhaps he’s too anxious about losing everything to even see you. Don’t worry about him. I’m sure he’ll come around.”

Drusilla approached and said, "Mary, your bath is ready—I've added lavender from the garden."

Thomas watched Mary hesitate—her fingers still clutching the hem of his cloak—before she nodded, letting Drusilla guide her away. The lavender's scent lingered in their wake, mingling with the faint aroma of dust and sweat clinging to Mary's tattered clothes.

While Drusilla was bathing Mary, Thomas went out to see Sahara, who was leaning against the vineyard's low stone wall, tearing grape leaves into tiny shreds. He glanced up, scowling. "What do you want?"

Thomas shrugged, leaning against the wall beside Sahara but keeping enough distance so their elbows didn’t brush. “You know, Rabbi Samuel used to say kindness costs nothing but means everything,” he murmured.

“What a day this has been, little brother! First you came and confronted me about helping you with the western terrace while I was conversing with my friends—which I had every right to do— then the Romans came unexpectedly—and Father didn’t allow me to handle it—then you just up and decided to bring home this peasant girl and even gave her your cloak, then gave her extra food—food that could have been stored away for winter, food that could have been sold in the market, food that I could have eaten—and now you come to lecture me about kindness?”

“I know it seems like that, Sahara. But she’s just a child—smaller than we were when Nehushta used to sneak us honey cakes when Mother and Father and even Drusilla weren’t looking.”

“Next thing, you’ll be giving her your inheritance too or even marry her when she grows up!”

Thomas’s eyes widened as Sahara’s words hung between them like a blade mid-swing. He cared about Mary—of course he did—but the thought of marrying her had never crossed his mind. She was just a child, lost and alone, needing shelter. Although he was considered a man at 13, marriage wasn't even something he'd considered yet, and the accusation felt absurd.

“She’s a child,” Thomas said. “And you sound like a Roman counting coins in a temple.”

The steward approached, his sandals shuffling against the gravel path. "Master Thomas, Master Sahara, your father and I have gathered firewood for the night, and we already have it going. Master Thomas, Mary’s bath is done—she’s been asking for you."

Thomas nodded to the steward, brushing grape leaf dust from his tunic before turning toward the house. The courtyard stones still held the day's warmth beneath his sandals, and he caught the faintest trace of lavender lingering near the washroom entrance—Drusilla must have used extra from her prized plants. Thomas helped Drusilla tuck Mary into her new bed—a real bed, not some roadside ditch—and smoothed the blanket over her shoulders.

“Thomas, can I ask you something?”, Mary’s whisper was barely audible above the cicadas humming outside her window.

“Sure, Mary. What’s on your mind?”, Thomas crouched beside her bed, the lamplight flickering across her face.

“Do you like working in the vineyard?”

“Yes, though I get tired of it. I prefer to go and help Yacov and Barak with the sheep instead. Drusilla even made me a figure from cloth and wool in form of a shepherd when I was little. I actually even still have it.”

“You have sheep? Real ones?”

“Yes, we do. Hundreds of them. Would you like to see them tomorrow? The little lambs are playful and they spring around like young children."

Mary’s fingers uncurled fully from the blanket, her thumb brushing the edge of the wool as if testing its reality. “Would Sahara let me?” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the rustling of the olive branches outside the window.

“He’s usually busy with his friends, bragging about how he’ll run the vineyard one day,” Thomas murmured, smoothing Mary’s blanket. “He could probably care less about what we’re doing.”

Mary nodded eagerly. “Yes, I’d like that. I’ve never seen lambs up close.”

Thomas quietly left Mary's room, the soft pad of his footsteps swallowed by the thick clay walls. He paused outside his own doorway, pressing his forehead against the cool stone—the same spot where Drusilla used to find him curled up after nightmares, his knees tucked tight to his chest. The scent of crushed rosemary still clung to the mortar between the stones, a remnant of the sachets she would slip beneath his pillow. He stepped inside, and his fingers traced the rough wool shepherd figure perched on his shelf. Tomorrow, he would introduce Mary to the lambs, and perhaps, just perhaps, he'd let her hold it.

Chapter 3

The next morning, breakfast was serve—fresh bread, cheese, and figs—and Thomas noticed Mary hesitating before reaching for her food, her fingers twitching as if expecting someone to snatch it away. Without a word, he tore his bread in half and pressed the larger portion into her hands, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles—rough from scavenging roots and sleeping in ditches. Sahara watched from across the table, his lip curling as Mary clutched the bread like a treasure.

“Thomas, you’re overindulging her,” Sahara muttered, grinding a fig seed between his molars. “She’ll grow soft.”

Thomas turned to Sahara, his fingers stilling on Mary's shoulder where he'd been absently rubbing small circles with his thumb—the same motion Drusilla used to calm him during storms. "Soft?" he said, voice low as crushed olive leaves underfoot. "She's eight winters old and slept in a bed for the first time last night. Should we measure her bread by the weight of her suffering?"

"You'll ruin her. Turn her into one of those beggars who expects handouts."

The steward placed a hand on both boys’ shoulders before they could escalate further, his grip firm but not unkind. “Master Sahara, Master Thomas, perhaps you both need fresh air. Your father is inspecting the harvest today. How about you finish breakfast and then start your duties? Plus, the flock needs tending—Master Thomas, I think Yacov and Barak could use your help.”

“Ah, yes. I promised Mary last night that I'd show her the lambs,” Thomas murmured, watching Mary’s fingers slowly relax around the bread crust she’d been clutching—her knuckles no longer white with tension.

“Great, Thomas. You’re going to waste time showing her lambs,” Sahara sneered, pushing his plate away with a clatter.

“And you’re going to waste time, Sahara, bragging to your friends about how it will all be yours someday. At least Mary will appreciate the lambs.”

As soon as breakfast ended, the brothers started their day. Sahara had gone over to the olive grove where he lounged with his friends, tossing dice while Sahara boasted about the coming harvest—how his father’s wealth would soon be his to command. Thomas, meanwhile, had taken Mary’s hand—her fingers still stiff with lingering fear—and led her toward the pasture where Yacov and Barak tended the flock.

Thomas led Mary past the olive press, where the scent of crushed fruit clung to the stones, and toward the low stone enclosure where the sheep bleated.

“Mary, I should tell you something about Nehushta”, Thomas murmured as they walked past the olive press, its wooden beams still damp from the morning’s pressing.

“You mean that lady who keeps staring at me like I stole something?”, Mary whispered, her fingers tightening around Thomas’s wrist as they passed a cluster of workers sorting olives into baskets.

“She’s my mother’s personal attendant—been with us since before I was born. She’s nice when she wants to be, even sneaked both Sahara and me honey cakes when we were little. But she can be rather anxious, so it would probably be advisable to stay out of her way.”

Mary nodded, her bare feet kicking up little puffs of dust that clung to her ankles like powdered gold. The scent of wool and earth mingled with the faint tang of lanolin as Yacov opened the wooden gate, revealing the sheep grazing and the lambs frolicking. There were also two rams charging at each other playfully—their thick horns knocking together with dull thuds. Mary instinctively stepped back, clutching Thomas’s sleeve.

“It’s alright, Mary. Rams do that when it's mating season,” Thomas murmured, crouching beside her to match her eye level. “A ram is a male sheep—strong and stubborn, but not cruel. A ewe is a female sheep—gentle, but smarter than you’d think. And a lamb is a baby sheep—soft, cuddly, and playful. Look!”

About a dozen or so lambs were hopping around, their spindly legs kicking up dust as they chased each other in looping circles, bleating in high-pitched excitement. Mary giggled—a sound Thomas had never heard from her before—as she watched the lambs bounce and twist midair like leaves caught in a sudden breeze. One particularly bold lamb trotted right up to her, its nose twitching as it sniffed her outstretched fingers, its woolly coat still clumped in places where its mother had yet to groom it thoroughly.

“They’re so cute!”, Mary squeaked, her hands hovering over the lamb’s fluffy back—too afraid to touch, too enchanted to pull away. Thomas grinned, guiding her fingers gently into the wool, warm from the morning sun and vibrating with the lamb’s quick breaths. When the creature nuzzled her palm, Mary gasped—her laughter lighter than the wind chimes hanging by the grapevines.

Barak chuckled, tossing a handful of barley into the trough. “She’s got the touch,” he murmured to Thomas, who was watching Mary’s face—her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide as if she’d been handed a secret.

Thomas scooped up the smallest lamb—the one with a crooked ear—and settled it gently against Mary’s chest. The creature squirmed for only a heartbeat before melting into her arms, its heartbeat rapid but steady against her ribs. “Hold her like this,” he whispered, adjusting Mary’s hands beneath the lamb’s belly. “See how she trusts you?”

A splinter of sunlight caught the tears clinging to Mary’s lashes as she buried her nose in the lamb’s wool, breathing in the scent of warm milk and crushed clover. Thomas watched her shoulders relax—the same way his own used to when Drusilla would hum old lullabies after night terrors.

“Perhaps one day you’d like to have a lamb of your own,” Thomas murmured, watching Mary press her cheek against the lamb’s wool—her fingers flexing slightly as if memorizing the shape of warmth.

“Really?”, Mary whispered, her voice muffled against the lamb’s wool as she peeked up at Thomas. “I could have one?”

Thomas smiled, watching Mary cradle the lamb like she'd never held anything precious before—her fingers hesitant at first, then curling protectively around its woolly sides as if memorizing the shape of safety. "Of course you can," he murmured, plucking a sprig of clover from the pasture and tucking it behind the lamb's crooked ear. "Perhaps you could help with the sheep—learn their names, their habits. Barak just said you have the touch. Plus, you can even learn to make things with wool—like Drusilla does."

“Every summer, we shear their wool- it’s like giving them a haircut so they don’t get too hot,” Jacov said, kneeling to show Mary the lamb’s softest spot—behind its ears where the wool curled tight like baby hair.

“What is wool used for?”, Mary asked, her fingers still buried in the lamb’s fleece, her voice threaded with curiosity.

"Warmth," Thomas said, crouching beside Mary as the lamb nibbled her sleeve. “Wool becomes cloaks and blankets—like the one you slept under last night.”

“Little girl, have ever heard of a boy named David?”, Yacov asked, nodding toward Mary while gesturing to the lamb she cradled. Her fingers paused mid-stroke against the wool as she glanced up—eyes wide with curiosity.

“No, I don’t believe so”, Mary admitted, her fingers stilling in the lamb’s wool as she glanced between Yacov and Thomas.

Thomas grinned, plucking a smooth pebble from the dirt and rolling it between his fingers. “David was a shepherd boy—just like us—before he became king. He wrote songs about lambs and green pastures while watching the flock.”

“‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,’” Yacov recited, his voice rough as the sandstone beneath their feet. “‘He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’”

“What does it all mean?” Mary whispered, her fingertips tracing the pebble’s smooth surface—like a prayer she hadn’t learned yet.

“As David was a shepherd boy himself, he understood that sheep don’t just follow strength—they follow kindness,” Thomas said, brushing a stray curl from Mary’s forehead as she leaned closer, her fingers still buried in the lamb’s wool.

“Our job as the family shepherds is to be sure the flock are well cared for as well as to protect them from predators—wolves, foxes, and jackals,” Barak explained as Mary hugged the lamb tighter, her fingers gripping its woolly back as if she understood the threat firsthand. “You know why shepherds have staffs?”

“No”, Mary whispered, her fingers tightening slightly against the lamb’s wool as she glanced up at Barak.

Barak chuckled, plucking a pebble from the dust and balancing it on the staff’s curved end. “See this hook? It’s for pulling the sheep back when they wander—like so. And the pointed end drives off wild beasts.”

“Sheep are not the brightest creatures, and are vulnerable to danger. That’s why they need shepherds to care for them—to keep them safe”, Yacov murmured, nodding toward Mary as she traced the lamb’s velvety muzzle with one fingertip.

“Just like you, Mary”, Thomas murmured, watching her stroke the lamb’s wool with fingers that had learned gentleness too young. “When I first saw you hiding behind that storage jar yesterday, I knew I needed to take care of you—just like Jacov and Barak watch over the sheep.”

Mary blushed at Thomas’s words, pressing her face into the lamb’s wool to hide her smile. The creature’s heartbeat thrummed against her chest—steady and trusting—so unlike the panicked drumming of her own when she’d first crouched behind those jars.

Jacov and Barak smiled at the way Thomas adjusted Mary's grip on the lamb—his fingers lingering just long enough to ensure she wouldn't drop it, but not so long as to make her feel incapable. The lamb's trusting nuzzle against Mary's collarbone seemed to startle her, her breath catching in that fragile space between fear and wonder. Thomas watched her eyelashes flutter—once, twice—before she pressed her nose into the wool, inhaling deeply as if memorizing the scent of safety.

“See how she leans into you?” Thomas murmured, watching Mary’s posture soften as the lamb’s warmth seeped into her arms. He plucked a sprig of wild thyme from the pasture edge and tucked it behind the creature’s ear—the same way Drusilla used to adorn his childhood pillow sachets. “She knows you won’t drop her.”

Mary giggled as the lamb licked her fingers—a wet, ticklish sensation that made her toes curl in the dust. Thomas watched her eyes crinkle at the corners, the way her shoulders relaxed inch by inch, as if the lamb's warmth were melting some frozen part of her he hadn't even known was there.

“So, Thomas, how do you like helpin’ with the sheep?” Barak asked, rubbing lanolin into a cracked leather strap as he watched Thomas adjust Mary’s grip on the lamb. The boy’s fingers were patient against hers—no hurry, no frustration—just steady guidance like Rabbi Samuel teaching Torah letters in the dust.

Thomas shrugged. “It’s better than plowing, weeding, and pruning—though tending sheep isn’t exactly easy, either. Though I enjoy working in the vineyard, I much prefer helping with the sheep—they’re gentler than olives.”

The lamb bleated softly as Mary shifted her grip, her fingers finally relaxing—no longer clutching the wool like she expected it to vanish. The other lambs bounced closer, their curious noses sniffing at her dusty hem, and Thomas chuckled as one nibbled her sleeve. "They think you're one of them now," he murmured, brushing a stray curl from her forehead.

Mary giggled as the lamb nibbled her fingertips, her laughter bright and unguarded—a sound Thomas hadn't realized the vineyard had been missing until now. He watched her press her cheek against the lamb's wool, her fingers flexing slightly as if memorizing the shape of comfort, and something in his chest loosened like a knot he hadn't known was tied.

“It’s sure good to hear a child’s laughter out here again,” Yacov murmured, watching Mary’s fingers uncurl from their habitual tightness as the lamb nuzzled her wrist. “Thomas, you were like that too—always gentler with the lambs than with the pruning hooks.”

Thomas chuckled. “Sheep don’t hold grudges,” he murmured, watching Mary tentatively pet another lamb that had wandered close—her fingers pausing mid-stroke when the creature sneezed. “See how they forget the moment after you startle them? That’s what kindness does—lets you begin again.” He plucked a sprig of wild mint and crushed it between his fingers, letting the scent drift toward Mary’s nose. “Breathe deep. That’s what new beginnings smell like.”

Mary giggled as she inhaled the crushed mint—her nose wrinkling, then smoothing in surprise when the scent lingered sweetly at the back of her throat. Thomas watched her eyelids flutter shut for a brief moment, her fingers still tangled in the lamb’s wool, and recognized that expression: the quiet astonishment of someone tasting kindness for the first time. Thomas could tell that Mary wasn’t the same scared child who had hidden behind the storage jars yesterday but was beginning to trust—just like a skittish lamb learning to nuzzle an open palm.

“Where do they get their water?”, Mary asked suddenly, watching the lambs lap from the trough—their pink tongues flicking against the water’s surface like tiny, thirsty flames.

Thomas smiled and pointed toward the rocky hillside where a thin stream glinted silver between the stones. “See that cleft in the rock? Moses struck one like it when our people wandered the desert—water from stone when they needed it most.” He plucked a flat pebble and skimmed it across the trough’s surface, sending ripples that made the sheep blink. “Kindness is like that—finding what’s needed where no one thought to look.”

Mary’s brow furrowed as she watched a ewe nudge her lamb toward the water. “But what if the stream dries up?”

Thomas crouched beside her, picking up a handful of pebbles—some smooth, some jagged—and let them trickle through his fingers one by one. “See how the smallest stones stay wet underneath? That’s why shepherds know to dig here.” He tapped a spot where the soil darkened in a crescent shape. “Even when the surface looks dry, there’s water if you’re patient enough to find it.”

“And we lead them to a still waters stream—not the rushing river where the current could sweep them under,” Jacov added, running a calloused hand along the curve of his staff.

“As shepherds, we make sure that the sheep graze on fresh pasture—moving them before they overgraze, and lead them by still water,” Barak said as he scooped up a lamb with one arm, pointing toward the brook where willow branches dipped into the current. “But the best shepherds know their sheep by name—which ones stray, which ones limp, which ones need shade when the noon sun gets too harsh.”

Mary looked over at Thomas. “Thomas? Do you really mean it? Someday, I could have a lamb?”

Thomas smiled, watching her fingers trace the outline of the lamb’s ears—soft as worn linen. “Yes, Mary,” he murmured, brushing a stray curl from her forehead with his thumb. “But first, you’ll need to learn how to feed them. Let me show you.”

He guided her hand to the trough where barley grains shimmered like tiny golden coins, and when the lamb’s wet nose bumped her palm, Mary gasped—not from fear, but from the quiet thrill of being trusted by something so small.

Jacov and Barak observed Thomas's hands—calloused yet careful—as he guided Mary's fingers through the trough's barley, adjusting her grip whenever the lamb's eager nibbling startled her. His thumb brushed her knuckles once, a fleeting reassurance when she hesitated—not correcting, just reminding her she wasn't alone. The mid morning sun caught the dust motes swirling between them, gilding the scene like an unspoken parable.

Chapter 4

*****
Gideon and the steward were inspecting the vineyard, and the grapes were luscious, ripe, and abundant—yet Thomas lingered in the pasture with Mary and Sahara lounged with his friends under the olive grove, rolling dice on a plank of cedar wood.

“Today we harvest, my faithful steward. The grapes are heavy with promise”, Gideon said, wiping sweat from his brow with a sleeve already darkened by grape juice. “Go inform my sons to come and help with the harvesting.”

“But Master Gideon, I’m afraid the boys are already gone”, the steward murmured.

“What do you mean?”

“If my guesses are correct, Sahara’s likely lounging under the olive grove again and Thomas is in the pasture with that girl, showing her the sheep.”

Gideon sighed. “I’m grateful for you, Steward, and for the servants, for I am getting older and weak to do it myself. But if my sons don’t help, then we’ll lose everything—and what will Sahara inherit if the vineyard fails?”

“Do you want me to go find them?”

“Oh, no, steward. You and the servants get started—I’ll find them myself.”

The steward nodded, and he and the servants began harvesting the grapes. Gideon walked through the vineyard, his sandals kicking up dust as he searched for his sons. In the distance, he saw Sahara lounging beneath the olive tree with his friends, tossing dice and laughing loudly. Gideon sighed, shaking his head, then turned toward the sheepfold.

****
Thomas and Mary sat on the soft green pasture with the sheep and lambs grazing peacefully around them. Mary laughed as the little lambs frolicked and skipped in the sunshine. She gently stroked the head of a lamb that had settled beside her, marveling at the softness of its wool.

“What did I tell you, Mary? The lambs are playful”, Thomas murmured, as one particularly adventurous lamb butted its woolly head against Mary’s knee before scampering off. Mary giggled—a sound like water trickling over stones—and wiped her hands on her tunic, the lanolin from the lamb’s fleece leaving her palms shiny.

Just then, Gideon approached from between the vines, his shadow stretching long across the pasture as midday sun haloed his graying hair. Thomas stiffened—his father rarely came to the sheepfold himself—but Mary didn’t notice, too absorbed in the way the smallest lamb kept nudging her elbow with its damp nose.

"I see you've found our best lambs," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a man who measured words like grain—careful, never wasted.

"Father, Mary's never seen sheep up close before," Thomas said, his fingers pausing where they'd been combing burrs from a ewe's fleece.

Gideon studied Mary—her sunburnt cheeks, the way her fingers trembled slightly against the lamb's wool—before crouching to pluck a sprig of wild oregano crushed underfoot. He rolled the fragrant leaves between his fingers. "You've a gentle touch with them," he observed, watching the lamb press its forehead into Mary's palm.

“Thomas said I could have a lamb of my own someday,” Mary said suddenly, her fingers stilling in the lamb’s wool as she glanced up at Gideon—her eyes flickering between hope and wariness.

Gideon smiled—a rare, slow unfurling like sun-warmed parchment—as he watched Mary’s fingers knead the lamb’s wool with unconscious rhythm. “Did he now?” he murmured, plucking a burr from the ewe’s flank and flicking it into the wind. “Thomas always did have an eye for the ones needing extra care.”

Jacov cleared his throat, shifting his stance so his staff cast a thin shadow over the lamb’s crooked ear. "Master Gideon, the flock’s grown since last season—thirty more lambs at least. Strong ones, too." His fingers flicked toward the far pasture where the new ewes grazed, their coats still thick from winter.

“Nice! Well, Thomas, I need your help with the vineyard. It’s harvest day today!”

“Oh, Father, do I have to?”, Thomas groaned, his fingers lingering in the lamb’s fleece as Mary’s hopeful expression dimmed.

Gideon sighed, rubbing a grape-stained thumb along his palm—the callouses there thick from years of pruning. “The harvest won’t wait, son. The steward and the servants are already getting a head start. But if you don’t help, we’ll lose half the harvest before sunset.”

“I’m staying here with Mary and the sheep!”

“Say that again?”

“The vineyard is all I ever do, Father! And Sahara just lounges with his friends, bragging about inheritance like a Roman counting coins! Well, he can have the vineyard, and I’ll take the sheep!”

Gideon’s hand twitched—not quite reaching for his belt, but close—as a vein pulsed near his temple. A cicada shrilled in the sudden silence, its buzz sawing through the air between them. Mary shrank back, her fingers tightening in the lamb’s wool until it bleated. Gideon sighed and walked away without another word, his sandals kicking up small puffs of dust that settled on the grapevines like a thin layer of ash. Thomas watched his father's retreating back—the slump of shoulders that had once carried him piggyback through these same vines—and felt something harden in his chest, like sap turning to amber.

****
Under the olive tree, Sahara and his friends, as they rolled the dice on the worn wooden board—each clatter sounding like distant hail—didn't notice Gideon’s approach until his shadow fell across their game.

“Father?” Sahara asked, his dice frozen mid-toss as Gideon’s shadow swallowed the gaming board.

“Sahara, it’s harvest day”, Gideon said, his voice low—not angry, but heavy like the olive press beams after the season’s first pressing.

“Oh, Father, I didn’t know.”

“Sahara, I need your help with the vineyard.”

“I’ll come right away, Father.”

“See that you do or we’ll lose half the harvest,” Gideon murmured, flicking grape pulp from his fingers.

“You’re not going?”, one of Sahara’s friends asked, nudging the abandoned dice with his sandal.

“My father gets excited sometimes, but the job always get done whether I go or not,” Sahara said, plucking another grape from the cluster and rolling it between his fingers before crushing it against the olive tree’s trunk.

***
Gideon returned to where the steward and servants were already harvesting, their curved knives flashing in the sunlight as they worked through the vines. The steward glanced up at Gideon’s approach, his forehead glistening with sweat, and shook his head slightly—a silent question about the absent sons. Gideon sighed and rolled up his sleeves, the muscles in his forearms tightening as he reached for a cluster of grapes heavy with juice.

"We'll manage without them," he said quietly, snapping a grape from its stem with more force than necessary—the juice trickling down his wrist like a thin purple vein.

“I honestly don’t know what has happened, Master Gideon”, the steward said, wiping grape juice from his hands onto his tunic as he glanced toward the empty path where neither son had appeared. “Sahara and Thomas were good boys, even inseparable—but now, Sahara lounges while Thomas frolicks with sheep and an orphan.”

Gideon’s fingers tightened around a cluster of grapes, their skins splitting under the pressure—the juice running down his wrist like spilled wine. “They’ll learn,” he murmured, though his voice lacked conviction. A bee, drawn by the sweetness, landed on his stained sleeve before buzzing away toward the hives.

****
Thomas looked over from the pasture, watching his father bend among the vines—shoulders slumped beneath the sun’s weight—while the steward and servants worked double-time to compensate. Dust clung to Gideon’s sandals as he moved between rows, his fingers lingering on unharvested clusters like a man counting losses.

“Mary, have you ever pick grapes?” Thomas suddenly asked, watching his father disappear between the vines—the old man’s silhouette bent like a hook under the sun’s weight.

“No”, Mary asked, her fingers still buried in the lamb’s wool, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Well, how about you come with me and help Father, the steward, and the servants pick grapes?”, Thomas asked, watching Mary’s fingers twitch against the lamb’s wool—her hesitation mirroring his own reluctance.

Mary frowned, her fingers pausing mid-stroke against the lamb’s flank. “But won’t Sahara be there?” The lamb nuzzled her wrist, its wet nose leaving a cool spot on her sun-warmed skin.

“Sahara could probably care less. Come on.”

Mary gently placed the lamb back onto the grass, her fingers lingering as the creature scampered off to join the flock. She wiped her palms on her tunic—streaked now with dirt and lanolin—and stood, the hesitation in her stance mirroring Thomas’s own conflicted posture. Dust motes swirled between them as Thomas reached for her hand, his callouses rough against her smaller fingers, yet his grip was careful—the way one might hold a bird’s egg plucked from a precarious nest.

*****
Gideon sighed as he worked his fingers under the grapevine's twisted cordon, lifting a heavy cluster with his palm—the fruit's weight pressing into his skin like a silent rebuke. The steward hesitated nearby, his pruning knife hovering over a tangled shoot before murmuring, "We could send for Mistress Helene. She always—"

Just then, Thomas and Mary approached the vineyard, their footsteps muffled by the thick dust of the path. “Father, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” Thomas murmured, his fingers twisting nervously around a scrap of wool still clinging to his tunic.

“Well, then, Thomas, I’m glad you came,” Gideon said, pressing his grape-stained fingers into the boy’s shoulder—not squeezing, just holding—as if testing whether the bones beneath were still soft enough to bend.

“Do you still need help, Father?”

“Yes, of course I do. And I see you brought help,” Gideon said, nodding toward Mary, who hovered a step behind Thomas—her fingers twisting the hem of her tunic into knots. A grape leaf drifted between them, landing in the dust near her bare feet.

Thomas nudged her gently—his elbow brushing her shoulder like a sparrow alighting—and her hesitant nod sent Gideon’s smile deepening into the creases of his sun-weathered face.

The steward handed Mary a small willow basket, its weave loose enough for grape juice to seep through. “Here, child—gather the fallen fruit,” he murmured, guiding her fingers to grip the handle properly. Mary’s palms, still rough from scavenging, tightened around the smooth wood as if it might dissolve like morning mist.

The work on the harvest began—slowly at first, with Thomas awkwardly adjusting his grip on the pruning knife until Gideon corrected his hold with a murmured word. Mary darted between vines, her small basket already brimming with fallen grapes that had split open in the heat, their juice staining her fingertips purple.

The harvest work lasted until sundown—Thomas's knife strokes growing steadier with each cluster cut, Mary's basket dipping lower with each trip to the press where grapes split underfoot in sticky bursts. At one point, Gideon paused mid-row, watching Thomas adjust Mary's grip on a cluster too high for her reach—his fingers guiding hers to twist rather than tear, their shadows braiding together in the slanting light.

“I guess your brother never came to help”, Mary whispered to Thomas as she deposited another basket of grapes at the press.

"He actually said he would, but he never came", Gideon said softly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.”

They approached the main house as dusk settled—Gideon’s shoulders sagging deeper with each step, his sandals scuffing grooves in the dust. Through the open courtyard gate, the scent of charred bread and simmering lentils curled into the twilight, undercut by the sharp tang of spilled wine.

“Sahara, where you’ve been?”, Thomas asked, watching his brother lounging at the courtyard table—his fingers sticky with honeyed dates, his sandals still dusty from the olive grove.

“Just hanging around with my friends,” Sahara muttered, flicking a grape pit toward the courtyard wall where it pinged off the stones.

“You’ve told Father you would come and help work the vineyard, but you never came!”

“You know how excited Father gets about harvest, but the job always gets done whether I help or not,” Sahara said, flicking another grape pit toward the courtyard wall—this one bouncing off Thomas’s sandal with a dull *tock*. The scent of cooling lentils wafted between them, mingling with the sour tang of fermenting grape must clinging to Thomas’s tunic.

Mary flinched as Sahara’s gaze slid over her like a blade being tested for sharpness. “Still playing nursemaid to strays?” he murmured, plucking a date from the bowl and rolling it between his fingers until the honey oozed over his knuckles. “Careful, brother. Even lambs grow teeth.”

Thomas stepped between them, his shadow swallowing Mary’s smaller frame. “She gathered more grapes today than you ever have.”

“If you prefer sheep to grapes, why don’t you sleep in the pasture tonight?”

“But it will be cold tonight, Sahara! Why would you even say that?”

“Boys, please,” Helene interjected, emerging from the house with a clay pitcher that trembled slightly in her hands. “Haven’t your father and I taught you better than to quarrel like jackals over carrion?”

“Yes, Mother”, Sahara said, “but I don’t see why Thomas keeps favoring a peasant girl over his own brother.”

“You know that’s not true, Sahara. You and Thomas used to be inseparable. Why can’t you at least treat each other with kindness, and this girl like a sister?”

“And I’ve been doing so, Mother”, Thomas said, his voice quieter than Sahara’s—not weak, but deliberate—as he brushed grape pulp from his tunic sleeve.

Mary's fingers tightened around Thomas's sleeve—her grip hesitant but insistent—as Sahara's laughter curled through the courtyard like smoke from a dying fire. The honeyed dates on the table gleamed in the lamplight, their sticky surfaces catching the glow like small amber warnings.

Thomas picked up a honeyed fig from the bowl, turning it slowly between his fingers before pressing it into Mary's palm. “Here, eat,” he murmured—a quiet defiance against Sahara’s sneer. The fruit’s stickiness clung to Mary’s skin like a second set of fingerprints, its sweetness sharp against the bitterness still hanging in the air.

Mary pressed the honeyed fig to her lips, its sweetness clashing with the salt of Sahara’s scorn still sharp in the air. The courtyard’s lone lamp flickered as a night breeze stirred, casting shadows that stretched Thomas’s silhouette taller—almost shielding—while Sahara lounged back, his fingers drumming the table like a judge awaiting confession.

The steward observed Thomas handing Mary a honeyed fig—his fingers lingering just long enough to ensure her grip before withdrawing—and noted how her posture softened as she nibbled its sweetness, her wary eyes darting to Sahara only once before settling again. Gideon sighed, pressing his thumbs into the hollows of his temples where the day’s heat had settled like a stubborn fog, while Helene’s fingers tightened around the pitcher’s neck, its clay surface still warm from the hearth.

Later that night, as the last embers of the hearth dimmed to ash, Mary traced the grape stains on her fingertips—purple half-moons like fading bruises. Thomas sat beside her on the courtyard's edge, his knees drawn up as he picked at the frayed hem of his tunic where Sahara's disdain had snagged it earlier.

“Thomas, why doesn’t your brother like me?” Mary whispered, her fingers hovering over the grape stains on her knees.

“I think he’s just forgotten how to be kind,” Thomas murmured, plucking a fig leaf and shredding it between his fingers. “Our tutor, Rabbi Samuel, used to say anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”

A nightingale called from the olive grove—two sharp notes followed by a liquid warble—as Mary studied the grape stains on her knees, darker where the juice had dried in the creases of her tunic. Thomas noticed it was getting late, and Mary was getting sleepy, her eyelids fluttering like moth wings against lamplight.

“Come on,” Thomas murmured, nudging Mary’s shoulder with his own as he stood—his shadow stretching long across the courtyard’s worn stones. “Let’s get you settled before the dew sets in.”

Mary nodded, and Thomas led her to her room where Drusilla was patiently waiting with an oil lamp and a fresh linen tunic folded neatly beside her. The woman’s hands hovered near Mary's shoulders as if unsure whether to embrace or simply guide her to the pallet. Thomas lingered in the doorway, watching Mary’s fingers trace the hem of the new tunic—its fibers rough but clean, smelling faintly of thyme and sunlight. Thomas stepped in and adjusted the blanket over Mary's shoulders, his fingers lingering just long enough to smooth a wrinkle near her collarbone before withdrawing.

Thomas went out into the hall, his sandals whispering against the stone floor as the night’s chill crept through the cracks in the walls. Then he went to his own room, where the scent of cedar from his childhood bed still lingered faintly beneath newer layers of sheep’s wool and vineyard dust. He sat on the edge of the pallet, staring at the darkened window—the moonlight casting faint silver streaks across the uneven surface. He laid on his back, fingers interlaced behind his head, and listened to the distant bleating of the sheep—the sound carrying clearly in the still night air.