The Worth of a Shekel

I am not an archaeologist, but last winter I had the privilege of digging as a volunteer at Masada in Israel. Masada, the Gibraltar of the Dead Sea, is a mountain fortress on the western shore of that sea and was seized and occupied by the Jews, led by Elcazar ben Yair, in 70 A.D., at the time of their revolt against the mighty Roman Empire. It was my double fortune to be one of a group who, while digging in what the archaeologists called building IX, found a hoard of shekalim. As will become evident, I am not a numismatist. Still, let me state that shekalim (singular: shekel) are silver coins which were issued by the insurgents during the revolt against the Romans as an expression of their independence, and then issued again during the second revolt in 132135 A.D. We had finished excavating our part of the building and in fact were clearing the area prior to the visit of the official photographer, when, while cleaning back under the foot of a wall, we discovered a cache of more than thirty coins.

In previous weeks, all of us had grown blase at the discovery of coins of base metals, usually easily recognizable by their green patina, but we immediately knew that we had stumbled across something different in this find because of the bluish tinge of the coins. Professor Yigael Yadin, leader of the expedition, confirmed our suspicions that we had found a hoard of shekalim and half-shekalim. This was the largest cache of such coins found at Masada and the first of such coins found in the 1964-1965 digging season. Some had been found in the previous year. They would be of inestimable value in establishing the occupancy of Masada and in dating the site. In addition, shekalim, and even more so, half-shekalim, are very rare, and each of the coins we had found had a value of something like SI 500. By the rules of the expedition we were not permitted to keep any of our finds, and if our honesty and integrity had been in question, the rapidity and excitement of the find were too great to permit us to think of pocketing any of the treasure. Coated as the coins were with the accumulation of nearly two millennia of earth, there was little recognizable to the amateur in the way of pattern or design, but before I left Masada I was lucky enough to see the cleaned coins. They were a joy to behold, with a chalice and a Jewish letter denoting the year of the revolt on the obverse side and three lily leaves ora the reverse.

Several months later I was in Beirut in the Lebanon, and as is my wont, I was wandering in and out of stores which sold “antiquities.” Not far from the port area I chanced upon what could scarcely be designated a store but more a hole-inthe-wall. After some polite preliminaries in my best French with a gentleman in a wheelchair, I looked at his collection of icons, Roman and Byzantine lamps, votive figures, and so on. Then he showed me a cabinet and opened one of the drawers, which contained some coins. As I mentioned before, I am not interested in numismatics and barely glanced at the coins, but two identical ones did strike me as being rather beautiful, and in some vague way familiar. Still, I made no purchase.

About ten days later, when I was in Jerusalem, I awoke one night with a start. They were shekalim: the two coins I had seen in the store in Beirut were shekalim identical with those I had been lucky enough to uncover at Masada. What fantastic luck, what justice; there is a god; honesty is rewarded. I would be rich — to the tune of $3000. But I could not leave Jerusalem for at least another forty-eight hours, as I had made complicated arrangements with some acquaintances to visit Petra, and these I could not break. Would the coins still be there when I got back to Beirut? I spent the next two days in Petra constantly jarred by the reminder that the shekalim might at that very moment be changing hands.

On returning to Beirut, still not 100 percent sure of my dream, I decided to seek out a book on coins. I found a splendid bookshop near the Corniche, and a well-dressed fair-haired young man greeted me in immaculate English. I asked him if he had any books on coins, but he did not; and he proceeded to explain to me that in the Lebanon the sale of articles pertaining to Jews was not permitted. How on earth could he possibly know that I was interested in shekalim? Why not Roman coins, or Byzantine coins, or even Muslim coins? I repeated my initial inquiry about books on coins and again received the same reply, but this time he added for my enlightenment: “You see, sir, Cohens are Jews.” When I recovered from my laughter, I took a Lebanese fifty-piaster piece from my pocket and indicated to him that I was interested in books on coins and not Cohens. He shared in my merriment. Although this shop had no scholarly books on coins, it did have one suitable for children, and in it were two color drawings, one of the obverse and one of the reverse side of a shekel. It looked just like the coins I had seen some two weeks previously and three hundred yards away. Were they still there?

I ran, rather than walked, to the little store, and after some friendly salutations, started to mosey through the antiquities, but I only had mind — if not eyes — for the drawer in the cabinet in which I hoped were the coins. Finally, I pulled out the drawer, glanced at the coins, picked them up, rubbed them, turned them over, and convinced myself they were the real thing. How much did he wish for them? Ten dollars each. Pounding as my heart was, I nevertheless went through the customary Middle East bargaining procedure, and was delighted when we soon had negotiated a price of five dollars each. I paid him the money, slipped the coins into my shirt pocket, and skipped from the shop. I had done it, I was rich! What a coup! My whole trip paid for, and then some.

I made my way into the heart of Beirut to do one or two errands, and at frequent intervals took the coins out of my pocket, fondled them, stroked them, and congratulated myself on my luck, skill, and perspicacity. At about the fourth I such self-idolation, the second thunderbolt of the past few days struck me. Shekalim are silver coins. These damned things were certainly not silver. I whipped them out of my pocket and found I had two pieces of lead. Quivering with indignation, I rushed back to my little cripple in his tiny shop and in halting French told him of his horrible perpetration. “These are not shekalim, they are fakes, pieces of lead.”

Unperturbed, he stared at me, took the coins, and, giving me back my ten dollars, said, “Sir, what did you expect for ten dollars? I know as well as you that a shekel is worth fifteen hundred dollars.”