In a city built for fugitives, is anyone truly innocent?

When I first see Elihu, I think he might be a murderer.

The trouble with living in Ramos is that I don’t know who might have killed someone. The Gadi woman who gives me extra milk at the market. The old man from Reuven who walks with a stooped step to the houses of learning each morning. Our Menasheh cousins who have de facto adopted my brothers into their family.

It’s impolite, in an ir miklat, to ask the question, though I know that so many people here must be. The law is that you must announce your crime at the gates, in front of the elders, but who is always at the gate to listen? Maybe Achinoam bas Zecharyahu, who’s a famous busybody. Sarah, she used to tell me in her creaky voice, her fingers like claws digging into my shoulder, you’re all alone here. No parents, those three little brothers to raise. You need a husband.

A husband. From where? For 14 years, there were few Israelite men on this side of the Yarden River, only guards who patrolled the borders and had little time to go home. The rest disappeared with Yehoshua bin Nun into Canaan, armed and marching at the forefront of the invading force. As they experienced miracles beneath Hashem’s Hand, I went from an orphaned 24-year-old with no prospects and three adolescent and teenaged brothers to feed, to a 38-year-old on her own with even less to offer.

Now, they’re back, powerful men, tall and strong and fierce, their beards dark and their faces still glowing with Heavenly Providence. After years of women and children, long-haired boys grown to young, fresh-faced adults, this is something new.

I avert my eyes from the men out of modesty, though Yemimah, with her bread stand beside me, has no such compunctions. “Do you see him?” she hisses. “Elihu ben Asri. Over there! Near the wines.”

I busy myself with my wares. I buy wool from my cousin Avtali and spin it into thread, then weave rough-spun clothing that I sell at cheap prices. With the return of the men, I have been selling more, and I take some money from a rosy-cheeked woman and glance in the direction where Yemimah is pointing.

There is a man standing at the wines, speaking to the vendor there. And my first thought when I see him is dangerous. He is tall and broad, powerfully built, unmistakably a warrior. That’s not unusual in recent days, but there is something about how he stands that makes me look twice. Something about how he speaks, his eyes flashing and dark. Something about how he moves, like he is a moment away from striking someone.

“They say he was part of Yehoshua bin Nun’s personal guard,” Yemimah whispers beside me. “He was at the front of the army in Yericho, when the walls went down. He ambushed the city of Ai.”

I could imagine this man defeating entire cities, clearing the land like a giant’s sweeping arm. I could imagine him striking someone else, killing them without intention, fleeing to Ramos, the closest ir miklat, for shelter.

I have seen death in my life. I can recognize someone else who has seen it, too.

I look back down, swallowing, and am distracted by a plaintive voice. “Sarah? Sarah, please.” It’s two poor children, orphans who often come to my table. They watch me hopefully, and I sigh.

I’ve already given them blankets this season, and new clothes to the girl. But they are so skinny, so hungry. I dig into my bag and offer them the extra cheese that was meant to keep me for the week. Then, under their hopeful gazes, a little jar of honey and a bag of dates. “This isn’t tzedakah,” I warn them, and they grin at me. I used to talk to my brothers like this, when they were young and thrilled to be needed. When we were still close. “You’ll earn it! You’re going to watch my stand while I go shopping.”

“Yes, Sarah,” they chime together, and I resolve to give them a little bit more. I am barely getting by, but I don’t need much. They’re growing children.

I head to the next stall to examine Yemimah’s bread, but as I do, my eyes flicker back to the wines, to that tall, frightening man there. Elihu ben Asri.