Premonition

by R. S. Ingermanson

  When the eight-day feast ended, the city emptied of its visitors, but anger lay like a fog on the streets. Ari decided there was nothing more to be done in the matter of the eclipse. He had warned the people, and as expected, nothing had come of it. The streams of history would bring what they would bring, and no amount of precognition could change that. If there would be a panic, then there would be a panic.

  The day after the feast, Ari walked with his friend Gamaliel up the slopes of Mount Scopus toward a threshing floor. It was a dazzling spring day, and the bright bowl of the sky filled Ari’s heart with peace. To the east, an endless series of rounded hills dropped like steps toward the Jordan River, thirty kilometers away.

  Gamaliel pointed toward the top of the hill they were climbing. “We are late. They have already begun.”

  Ari squinted. He could see a huge pile of barley—the tithes that had been paid for the upkeep of Temple priests. In truth, the tithes could never keep all the priests of Jerusalem from starvation, but they were all that many of the poorer priests had. A priest himself, Gamaliel did not need tithes, but Ari knew many who did. Ari hoped to design a machine that could thresh the barley faster and with less waste. Gamaliel was fascinated that such machines existed in Ari’s far country.

  When they reached the top of the hill, Ari saw a dozen priests spreading the barley in thin layers on the hard floor of stone. The sun shone warm on the backs of the men. It was a fine day to work outdoors.

  Gamaliel spent an hour showing Ari each phase of the threshing procedure. After spreading the barley on a natural limestone floor, they dragged a heavy threshing sledge over it several times to break the grain out of the barley heads. Then they scooped it all into winnowing baskets and tossed it in the air, letting the stiff springtime breeze blow away the chaff. Ari saw that most of the effort was wasted. A machine powered by one man could accomplish far more than several men working by hand.

  Ari knew there were threshing machines in his far country. He had never seen one, so he must invent one, keeping within the manufacturability constraints. It was one thing to design a machine. Quite another to design one that the craftsmen of Jerusalem could actually build with bronze and iron and wood.

  He closed his eyes and enjoyed the simple delight of sun and wind on his face. It was a different sort of life here. Very little wealth, but much joy. The morning prayers brought him more contentment than he would ever have guessed. The rhythms of the week, the month, the year. Life here was good. Even for a stranger from a far country who did not believe in foolish superstitions. A man whose life was shards.

  Perhaps half an hour passed in which Ari did nothing. That was enough of a break for one day. There was a problem to solve, and his head felt clear now, ready to work. He tried to visualize what must happen to a single head of barley in order to thresh it. The sledge was ridiculously inefficient for this task. In fact—

  “No! Go away!”

  Ari turned to look.

  Several priests had gathered at one end of the threshing floor.

  He went to investigate.

  A number of hard-faced strangers had come up the hill with a caravan of mules. One of them was talking to Gamaliel while the others waited, smirking. The strangers outnumbered the priests, and they carried clubs. The priests fingered their wooden pitching forks.

  Ari picked one off the threshing floor.

  “You will leave now!” Gamaliel said to the leader of the strangers. “The tithes are for the priests of the living God.”

  The leader sneered at him, then turned to his men. “The short one says we must leave. Very well. We shall leave.” He whirled around and swung his club at Gamaliel.

  Gamaliel ducked under it and slugged the stranger in the gut.

  The man staggered back.

  The priests behind Gamaliel surged forward, swinging their weapons.

  Ari charged after them and cracked one of the strangers across the back.

  The man dropped his club.

  Ari dove for it and came up swinging.

  He hit a man in the belly.

  The man screamed and fell to the ground.

  All around him, men shrieked.

  Gamaliel and one of the strangers wrestled in the dirt at Ari’s feet.

  Ari swung his club back for another blow.

  Someone grabbed it from behind and yanked.

  Ari spun around.

  One of the thugs held the other end of his club.

  Ari pulled, but the other man would not let go. Ari yanked again.

  The other man released it.

  Ari staggered back, twisted around.

  He saw a club swinging toward his head.

  He threw up his left hand to block it.

  Pain shattered his arm.

  Ari lost his grip on the club. His arm was on fire. No, it was numb.

  Somebody slugged him in the kidneys.

  He toppled forward, watched the ground wobble toward him, the world spin out of control, the bright sunlight stipple to gray. The ground pulled him into a stony embrace.

  A club smashed against his leg.

  He covered his head with his good arm, felt a kick to his ribs.

  Then darkness.

  Ari

  * * *

  When Ari came to, the sun hung low in the sky and his head throbbed without mercy.

  One of the priests bent over him.

  Ari tried to speak, but dust coated his tongue and his lips felt thick.

  “Wine!” said the priest. “Bring Ari the Kazan some wine.”

  A wineskin appeared in Ari’s face.

  Grateful, he guzzled a mouthful. It stung his mouth and burned his throat. “Thank you.” He blinked several times, trying to focus. “Where are the men?”

  “Gone.” Gamaliel’s voice, somewhere behind him. “They stole the barley.”

  Ari could not believe that. It made no sense. “Why?” He struggled to sit up. Pain stabbed through his left arm.

  “Your arm is broken, Ari the Kazan,” said a priest.

  “Help me sit up.” Ari put up his right hand.

  Several hands helped him up.

  Most of the muscles in his body screamed. Ari gasped. He had never imagined how much pain one body could feel. “Why?” he said again.

  “They were Hananyah’s men,” Gamaliel said. “I have seen them at his house.”

  Hananyah? Ari turned to look at Gamaliel. “The high priest Hananyah ben Nadavayah?”

  Gamaliel nodded. “The father of Brother Eleazar. The men said his farms in the Sharon Valley had a poor harvest, and he wished for compensation.”

  Rage flooded into Ari’s heart, rushed through his veins. “But ... he cannot do that!” His head felt stuffed with cotton and he could not seem to find his balance.

  “The high priest does as he wishes,” one of the priests said.

  Ari leaned forward and forced himself to his feet. His right knee wobbled beneath him.

  Gamaliel caught his arm and steadied him.

  Slowly Ari straightened his battered body. “Who appoints the high priest? The Sanhedrin? We must complain to the Sanhedrin.”

  Gamaliel shook his head. “You do not understand. King Agrippa appoints the high priest. He will not listen to us.”

  Ari felt a slow smile slide across his face. “He will listen when he learns how loud Ari the Kazan can shout.”

  Rivka

  * * *

  Rivka sat at her stone kitchen table tightening the splint on Ari’s left arm. “I hope I set that right. I’m not very good with broken bones.” She turned to Gamaliel. “Gamaliel, are you in much pain?”

  Gamaliel shook his head. “Ari, you will please tell your woman that I am fine.”

  Rivka did her best not to laugh. The tight set of Gamaliel’s mouth told her he was lying. Fine, then. If he wanted to be Mr. Macho, afraid to let a woman help him, unwilling to even talk to a woman, then let him live with his pain.

  “The other priests believe there is nothin
g to be done,” Ari said.

  “I wonder ...” Rivka tried to concentrate. “Hananyah is going to be deposed sometime soon. Maybe this year, maybe next. Josephus is really fuzzy. But there’s a doublet about this episode.”

  “Doublet?”

  Rivka felt nausea rising inside her. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? “Ari, I’m so sorry, but ... I knew about this. It’s in two places in Josephus.”

  “And you did not warn me?” There was deep hurt in Ari’s voice.

  “Ari, I didn’t know it was coming so soon. Josephus puts it later. Of course, that may just be a thematic ordering, rather than chronological—”

  “Rivka, do you care that ten men are injured?” Ari’s eyes shone with black fury. “Perhaps you are concerned with thematic ordering, but I have a broken bone and one of our friends lost an eye. This is not an intellectual exercise.”

  Rivka felt like he had slapped her. Didn’t he get it? “Listen, Mr. Important the Kazan, I’m doing the best I can. If you’d just let me finish, I’m telling you there aren’t any dates in Josephus. Hardly any. This incident with Hananyah stealing the tithes is well known, but nobody in the world could tell you what year it happened. Now I know, but it’s too late. You keep going on about how I’m supposed to know everything, but look at you! You’re in the same boat without your instruments, aren’t you? You have the same problem I—”

  “Rivka, peace.” Ari put up his hand. “I ... apologize.”

  She sighed. “I’m sorry too. It’s just ... you’ve got to understand. All I know is a little and it’s very confusing. It’s a jigsaw puzzle, with most of the pieces lost. I have to make this an intellectual exercise, or I’d go crazy. If I knew every broken bone and broken heart that was coming, I’d just ... die.”

  He patted her hand. “Rivkaleh, I was wrong to put that burden on you. Now let us think what to do. You said Hananyah is to be deposed.”

  She rested her hand on his. “Agrippa will name Ishmael ben Phiabi as the new high priest.”

  Gamaliel shook his head. “Ari the Kazan, please explain to your woman that the sagan of the Temple will be the next high priest. Hanan ben Hanan.”

  Rivka stamped her foot, furious that Gamaliel was talking past her, as if she were a child. “No! Ishmael is to be the next high priest. I know this with certainty.”

  Gamaliel merely smiled at Ari. “Ishmael is a man of slow wits and he was never sagan. It is not possible that he should be high priest.”

  Ari’s eyes narrowed to slits. “My woman says that Ishmael will be high priest next. She says also the sun will fail to give his full light on the day of the next new moon. I believe HaShem has given her to know these things. I propose a test. We must form a delegation to King Agrippa and demand a new high priest. Then we will see whether my woman is a true prophet of HaShem.”

  Rivka’s throat tightened. Ari was playing a risky game here. One mistake and she’d lose whatever credibility she had.

  “It is too late to seek an audience with the king today.” Gamaliel drained the last of the beer in his stone cup. “But I will speak to Rabbi Yohanan and the priests.”

  “Tomorrow, then,” Ari said. “We will give Agrippa a taste of democracy.”

  “What is this thing democracy?” Gamaliel said.

  Ari smiled. “It is the most dangerous weapon in the world. You will like it.”

  Rivka shivered. The problem with weapons was that they were just as powerful in the hands of a bad person as a good.

  “You will show me this democracy,” Gamaliel said. “And you will show it to Brother Eleazar and the brothers of my havurah. Tomorrow.” He went to the door and opened it. “Be well, Ari the Kazan.”

  “Shalom, Brother Gamaliel,” Rivka said, wishing just once he would speak to her.

  The door clicked softly shut.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hanan ben Hanan

  * * *

  THE STREETS WERE ALREADY BUZZING with early-morning foot traffic when Hanan stepped out of his palace. Four bodyguards surrounded him. He never went out on the street without bodyguards, not since his brother Yonatan had been murdered a few years ago by the dagger-men.

  Things would be especially dangerous after that foolish move the high priest Hananyah had made yesterday, and with the feast hardly over. At this time of year, the people’s passions always ran high. The fool! Stealing tithes from men who had nothing—what sort of craziness was that? Many indigent priests lived in Jerusalem. They served a few weeks per year in the Temple, but their pay would not keep them from starvation. They depended on the agricultural tithes.

  And the drought in the Sharon Valley this past winter meant the tithes were less. Hanan himself had felt the pinch. The barley harvest on his farms had been hurt, but that was the nature of farming. Some years, the second rain failed and there followed a poor harvest. It was of little consequence to him personally. He would not go hungry, and prices would rise because there would be a food shortage.

  But ... stealing tithes! A high priest could not do that! The Temple depended on the labor of many ten thousand priests. To steal from them meant to destroy the goodwill of those who offered sacrifices to the living God. If they refused to labor in the Temple, then the sacrifices would fail. Hananyah had not stolen merely from a few indigent priests. He had stolen from the Temple. A high priest who did not love the Temple did not deserve to be high priest. Hanan intended to lodge a protest with the king and see what came of it.

  King Agrippa was scum and Hanan hated him. Agrippa’s father had been a swindler and a cheat, a man who came of Edomite stock only four generations back. Agrippa shaved his face and wore a toga—he was a Roman citizen, and did not understand that this was a disgrace. In public, his sister had the sense to dress conservatively, but inside her palace she dressed like a Roman society woman. Which was to say, like a prostitute.

  As he approached the palace gate, Hanan slowed. The public square was very crowded. In just such a rabble, the dagger-men loved to hide, waiting for a chief priest to happen by. Pesach was the most dangerous time of year.

  But he had no choice. If he wished to speak to Agrippa, he must go this way. Hanan spoke to his bodyguards. “Gather close and force a way.”

  His men squeezed in around him and they pressed forward. He heard the murmurs of the common folk, the whispering of his name. Felt their anger. Smelled their sweat. Tasted their ... rage. It took some time to push through to the gate of Agrippa’s palace.

  The iron gates were shut, and that was not usual at this hour. Many hundred men pressed against the gates, shouting at the palace. Noise pummeled Hanan’s ears.

  He and his men pushed through to the stout wooden door beside the gate.

  The shutter hung open and one of Agrippa’s palace guards stood just inside, looking out with frightened eyes.

  Hanan put his mouth to the shutter and shouted, “Hanan ben Hanan, sagan of the Temple, to see King Agrippa!”

  The guard flinched and stepped back. He shouted something in the ear of a messenger boy.

  The boy ran toward the palace.

  Hanan waited. This was good. The people were angry. Agrippa was a weak king who worried about what the people thought. A strong leader would not care for the opinions of street rabble. By now Agrippa must know that he had to depose Hananyah.

  The messenger boy came running back across the empty courtyard. He shouted something to the guard. The guard turned to Hanan. “You may come inside, but your bodyguards will stay outside.”

  Hanan nodded. That was not usual, but he did not fear Agrippa. He heard the grinding sound of a bolt sliding back. The door thrust inward. Hanan slipped inside. The door slammed shut behind him and the guard threw the bolt.

  Hanan strode across the courtyard toward the palace. He had come here before and he always felt soiled afterward. He would not touch Agrippa, of course. And he would immerse in his ritual bath when he returned home.

  He ascended several broad, shallow steps and walked inside
the open doors of the palace. Two large men with yellow hair and blue eyes stood inside, one on each side. Germans. Agrippa kept just such unnatural men for his palace guard. Hanan felt ill in his belly. He walked to the center of the receiving room and waited.

  Presently, Agrippa’s chief of staff arrived. He was a young Syrian who shaved his face like a Roman and wore perfume like a Greek. “The king will see you now.” He spoke Greek, a language Hanan had learned from his Egyptian Jewish nursemaid before he was old enough to know that it was a language fit only for dogs.

  Hanan followed him through a door and down a short corridor into the Hall of the Hasmoneans. Here, the Hasmonean kings, sons of the Maccabees, had ruled two centuries and more ago. A few drops of their rich Hasmonean blood flowed in Agrippa’s veins, but he was not worthy of his ancestors. Agrippa was a Herod, worthy only to be spit on.

  The king sat on the Hasmonean throne. A secretary knelt on the marble floor beside him, holding a writing board on his thighs, his reed pen ready. Two bodyguards stood in the background.

  “Hanan ben Hanan to see the king,” said Agrippa’s chief of staff.

  “A pleasure to see you again.” A smile played at Agrippa’s lips. “No doubt your duties have prevented you from coming to see me as frequently as you would like.”

  Hanan tipped his head forward the smallest fraction, the nearest thing to a bow he would make to this ... cockroach. “Your majesty will have heard of the disgraceful conduct of Hananyah ben Nadavayah yesterday.”

  Agrippa’s eyebrows raised. “I understand he was officiating in the Temple.”

  Hanan put his hands behind his back where Agrippa would not see his clenched fists. “Hananyah’s men beat a number of the lower priests and stole their tithes.”