by David Blixt
“Are you a soldier..?”
“A bodyguard.” Levi grimaced. “Though after last night I'll need a new employer.”
Judah was wondering if he should apologize when someone shouted his name. “Judah!” The harsh voice made Levi's hand drop to his sword. But Judah knew the voice – that idiot Phannius. “I've been looking for you!”
Judah had been looking for Phannius, too. Not for the pleasure of his company, but for vindication. If anything might have earned him the right to marry Deborah…
He wondered if she had come from the city, and for a moment his heart leapt. But there was no sign of Deborah, just her loutish brother, riding awkwardly on a Roman horse beside two other men. Built wider than Judah, he was older and far less handsome. Yet the drop of priestly blood in his veins gave him a pugnacious superiority that made Judah's skin crawl. Thankfully Deborah hadn't inherited her brother's pretentions.
“They tell me you took the eagle! You! I can't believe it!” The fool was grinning, and when he dismounted he clapped Judah on the shoulder as if they were best friends. “Well done, brother! Well done!”
Brother? Your family refused me that title. Now my only brother is dead. Aloud he said, “Praise means so much when it comes from such an elevated person.”
Phannius wasn't sure if it was sincere or a jab. Before he could decide, the two men riding with him introduced themselves. One was the feral priest who had thrown the first spear. He gave his name as Simon bar Giora – an odd name, as Giora meant The Stranger. The other was the balding Idumean who had been calling out 'Israel'. His name was Eleazar ben Simon. Like Phannius, they now rode captured horses, and had been looking for Judah.
“Where is it?” demanded Simon bar Giora, dropping from his saddle. His face was a bristle of beard, eyebrows, and crooked teeth. “Where's the eagle?”
Arms too tired to move, Judah jerked his chin at the dented and blood-stained object at his feet. Instantly both Eleazar and Simon lunged. Eleazar came up with it and leapt at once upon his horse's back, the symbol of Rome's pride in his hands. Simon cursed loudly as he flung himself back in the saddle to chase Eleazar, galloping away with the eagle high aloft.
Phannius laughed. “Serves them right – the Romans, I mean. Graven images! Hah! You know where we are?”
“Beth Horon.”
“An auspicious place to start a war,” observed Levi.
Phannius was scornful. “Win one you mean! A shame Asher isn't here, eh Judah?”
Judah bit back his answer. Asher had been meant for better things.
Phannius clambered back into his saddle, which took him three tries – he'd clearly been drinking. “Good show, Judah. I'll tell my sister – you're a hero.” He kicked his heels until the mount trotted off after the leaders of this revolution.
The thought of Deborah warmed him. But Judah didn't feel like a hero. He'd thought killing Romans would fill the hole left by his brother's death. In the moment of battle, it had. Now, surrounded by thousands of dead men, he felt empty, spent. He recalled the man who had begged for mercy, and was ashamed.
I took the eagle. That's something. Judah glanced to where Eleazar was using the gold trophy to rally the men. A shadow passed overhead. Vultures were circling, forced to delay the feast as the Judeans cheered the tarnished eagle.
Levi said, “He's wrong, you know. This war has only just begun.”
Judah said absently, “Has it?”
“The Romans lost an eagle. They have to come.”
Ready to sleep for a month, it took Judah several moments to actually hear what Levi had said. “What? No. No – they'll negotiate.”
“They won't. They'll attack.”
“Augustus Caesar went crawling to the Parthians to get eagles back.”
Through the crusted blood in his beard, Levi almost smiled. “Nero is no Augustus.”
The truth of this statement struck Judah like a hammer between the eyes. He hadn't thought past the momentary victory over the Romans, hadn't considered what their humiliation would mean.
No, Nero was no Augustus, who had built the Pax Romana. Nero would attack, nothing surer. He would send a plague of legions down upon the Jews, raze the country from one end to the other. There would be no quarter, no forgiveness. Not for this.
Staring at the receding eagle surrounded by vultures, Judah felt his stomach drop. “What have I done?”
The older man was using sand to scrub blood from his beard. “You took an eagle. You'll be famous forever.”
“I've ensured that Caesar will seek revenge.”
Levi grunted. “That too. Want to give it back?”
Judah felt defiance stir at the very thought. “No!”
“Then prepare for war,” advised Levi. “Or else run. There is no middle ground.”
Seventeen years old, Judah could hardly fathom the cascade of consequences he had set in motion. Seeing the young man's confusion, Levi smiled. “Ignore me. Revel in your success. You're a hero. Enjoy it while you can.”
♦ ◊ ♦
AT THAT MOMENT, on a magnificent estate not far from Jerusalem, an old priest sat with his family. His two surviving sons were present, along with their wives. That neither had yet produced grandsons was a sadness, but understandable. The elder boy had ever been fallow, of both purpose and seed. The younger and more promising son was just returned from Rome after an absence of nearly two years.
Hunched in his chair (he could no longer rest easily on cushions), the priest Matatthais sat looking at his sons. The elder, who shared his father's name, was thirty-five now. The younger, Yosef, was nearing thirty. It was he who had entered the priesthood and studied so hard. The young man was like a calculating sea-sponge, taking everything in. He flirted with ideas only so long as he saw their usefulness. The moment he was sure there was no profit in a thing, it was discarded. There was no one as ambitious as Yosef.
“You should have let us fight,” said Matatthais the Younger mulishly. He was sitting upright on a cushion, while his brother lounged in the Roman style.
“Perhaps,” admitted Matatthais the Elder. “In hindsight, it would have been good if you were among them. But how were we to know they would not be slaughtered? It was a miracle.” His eyes narrowed. “It would also have been a miracle had you felt strongly enough to make that decision on your own, without first coming to me. A little spine would not have been amiss.”
Both his sons bristled. Good. He had spent a lifetime instilling their duty to the family. If they chafed at their leashes, all the better – so long as they continued to obey.
“It is not too late. You must go out at once and join in the rejoicing. Be seen to be there. Dirty yourselves up as though you were a part of it. In the night, in the dark, who is to say you were not present? Then, when you return to Jerusalem, you must attend meetings in the Blue Hall.”
His elder son stared at him. “A week ago you were counseling us to remain aloof and have nothing to do with the rabble rousers!”
The old man spread his hands. “Matters have shifted. Things are not what they were. The Zelotes have won the day. It should not have been possible, but it is so. Their next step is to seize power, and you must be thought their friends, not their foes. There is too much tradition of sicarii in them. They'll not exile those who stand against them, they'll do murder. Having found success in violence, I doubt they will hesitate to do more of the same.”
“If I go to the Blue Hall, I'll lose my priesthood,” said Yosef. It was not a protest, merely a statement of fact.
“Hmm. true. The Sanhedrin will see the Zelotes as a greater threat than ever, and anyone associated with them will be killed. Hmm.”
“We could speak to Joshua ben Gamala,” suggested the mother. Mariah spoke as freely as the men, which awed both her daughters-in-law. But she had always been an exceptional woman. Her father had seen that she was educated, which among some circles was heresy. But she was descended from the Makkabi, and had royal Hasmonean blood in her veins.
Matatthais the Elder considered his wife's words carefully. “A good thought, and perhaps I will. But there might be a simpler answer.” He pointed to his elder son. “Let Matatthais go to the battlefield and join the revels. Let him attend the Blue Hall. Yosef, you will remain in the good graces of the Sanhedrin. A foot in each camp will see us clear. Whoever prevails, we'll be safe.”
Yosef looked mulish. “Let me go to the Blue Hall, then. Let him hold himself aloof.”
“No no,” said Matatthais the Elder. “You're just back from a successful embassy to Rome, you actually had the ear of Nero Caesar. The Sanhedrin will try to make peace with Rome. You could be useful to them. No, this way is best.”
Yosef remained impassive as he took this in. A sign of acceptance.
Matatthais considered the vagaries of fate. The elder boy should have been the priest. But he'd been born with a large birthmark on his neck that reached up to his chin. Worse, he was cross-eyed. Such obvious imperfections would have kept him from ever attaining a high rank. He would never be one of the Kohanim, never be allowed to officiate a service in the Temple, or carry the golden censer, or blow the Magrapha. So instead Matatthais had used his namesake as a shield. Priests were not supposed to own land, but like most, Matatthais winked at the restriction. He put all his (illegal) wealth into his elder son's name, and then raised the boy to manage it while he concentrated on his younger son, filling Yosef's head with all the knowledge of the Law and Scripture that he could impart.
Gifted with a fine mind and a beautiful, musical voice, Yosef made an excellent priest – or would, as soon as he learned some orthodoxy. I should never have sent him to study with that old fool Banus. Ever since, he's had queer ideas.
“Should I keep my Latinized name, then?” In Rome, they had called him by the Latin version of Yosef.
“No! From this moment you must stop using Greek or Roman words, both of you. Patriotism will be the order of the day. In fact, Matatthais may be too Greek-sounding. Matityahu sounds more Hebrew. So I shall be called, and so shall you,” he said to his elder son. “Now get yourself out to Beth Horon and be seen!”
But it was the younger son who stood. Matatthais scowled. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, it seems.” Bitingly polite, Yosef held out a hand to his wife, kissed his mother on the cheek, then returned to his own house in the city.
After they were alone, Mariah turned to Matatthais (now Matityahu). “He's only angry because he thought his return would elevate him. He's been eclipsed by all this trouble.”
“I know. And I'm glad. That boy has no brakes inside him. He needs to be checked now and then. But have no fear, my dear. He will be a great man.”
“Yes,” agreed Mariah pensively. “I'm only afraid of what he'll do to get there.”
♦ ◊ ♦
JUDAH NEVER GOT his promised hero's reward. True, he had found a good Roman breastplate and helmet, and stripped some ornate silver greaves from the dead aquilifer – only fitting. But the sun had traveled barely an hour in the sky when reality returned. He was sitting beside Levi, resting and accepting passing praise, when he spied a familiar face in the crowd. Young Malachai, an apprentice at his father's yard. The boy was winded, frantically searching faces in the crowd. He could only be looking for Judah. “Boy! Here I am!”
Malachai's head snapped around, and he looked at once relieved and grim – a hard thing for a twelve year-old. Expecting praise, Judah was not at all prepared for the words that tumbled out of the boy's mouth. “Your father – we found him this morning. He wasn't moving. We sent for doctors. They say a stroke – and an attack of his heart.”
Judah struggled up on his weary and stiff legs. “He's still alive?”
“He was when I left, but—”
Judah glanced around. There were plenty of horses, though all had been claimed.
Levi jumped up and shouted, “Who has a horse for the hero of Beth Horon?!”
A dozen men offered their captured mounts. Grabbing the biggest, Judah threw himself into the Roman saddle, hauled the boy up beside him, and set off racing towards home.
III
JERUSALEM
JUDAH RODE hard, ironically blessing the Romans for building a decent road. He was fighting a tide of citizens, still flooding out of the city to join the celebrations. He shouted loudly for them to move aside. “Urgent business!” They obeyed, thinking him an agent for the priests or generals.
Roman saddles were large and square, with pommels at all four corners. Judah was unused to riding. He hooked his knees around the front pommels as he'd seen the Romans do, sitting close to the horse's head. Malachai rode behind him, arms about Judah's waist. About halfway there, Judah felt the boy's grip slacken. Exhausted from his run to Beth Horon, the young apprentice was falling asleep. To prevent the boy from falling off, Judah slowed long enough to sling the lad around across his lap, then continued on.
His destination taunted him, distant yet so clear, glowing white in the sunlight, like a snow-capped mountain. He seldom approached at this hour, and was blinded by the sight of his native city. The White City, it was called. Hierosolyma, Aelia Capitolina, the City of David. The Holy City, Abode of Peace. High upon the central hill was the greatest structure in the world, a golden cap to the whiteness of the walls.
Beyth HaMiqdash. The House of the Holy. The great Temple of Jerusalem.
♦ ◊ ♦
A THOUSAND YEARS EARLIER, the Hebrew king David had captured a small town on the ridge separating the Mediterranean from the Dead Sea. Renaming it Jerusalem, he'd declared it the capitol of his new kingdom, Israel. His son Solomon had built a magnificent temple there for the worship of the one true God.
After four hundred years the city was conquered, and Solomon's Temple was destroyed. It had taken another sixty years for the Hebrew people to return, building a second temple on the site of the first.
Conquered again two hundred and fifty years later by the Greek Alexander, Israel had passed from hand to hand until the leader called Makkabi led a war for independence, beginning with a battle at Beth Horon. For a hundred years Jerusalem had once more been its own master, until it was captured by the Roman general Pompey, enemy of the great Caesar. Pompey fell, and so too Caesar. After Caesar's death, Mark Antony had bestowed the land around Jerusalem to one of Rome's client-kings, Herod the Great, with a new official name – Judea.
The Romans had moved the capitol to Caesaeria Maritima, closer to sea-traffic. But to Jews, Jerusalem would always be the center of the world.
This war with Rome was inevitable. Truly, it was only surprising that it had taken so long. The Sanhedrin, the Temple's council of elders, had been preaching against it for decades, warning that Rome's wrath would bring an end to Judea, the Land of the Jews.
But Judea had been created by Rome, not Jews. Four generations of rebels and patriots had shouted 'Israel' in the hope of rallying others to the cause. Still, the unrest between Rome and Judea had only simmered, with murders and kidnappings on one side and executions and taxation on the other, but had never resulted in open revolt.
Until now.
♦ ◊ ♦
APPROACHING THE WALLS at a gallop, Judah said a mental hello, as he always did. He knew these walls. He could walk around the city and point to the stones his family had made, identify them without even searching for the scratched sign of a pyramid of bricks that was his family's mark. To another man, they'd all look the same. But there was a care, a skill, a delicate craft in shaping and placing those four-ton blocks of stone. He could name the masons in his family who crafted each one: Yoel, who had lived in the days of the Makkabi; Gideon, whose very name meant 'hewer'; Noam, who had seen Pompey the Great, and spit upon him; Eli, who had been sent by Herod to fortify Masada, a mountain stronghold to the south.
This wall, Agrippa's Wall, was more recent. It contained stones crafted by his great-grandfather Amaziah, by Judah, the grandfather for whom he was named, and by Matthais – his fath
er.
Father. Judah slowed to a trot as he passed through the Damascus gate, the large portal in Jerusalem's outermost wall. For the first time in his memory it was entirely unguarded. The same was true within. The whole city was oddly quiet, with only small knots of revelers too timid or frail to wander into the countryside. In a city of a million souls, it was eerie to see it so deserted.
The lack of people made for swift passage. The only times he had to stop was to make way for wagons leaving the city. These wagons were heavily laden with rich, expensive goods. Noble Hebrew families were fleeing the city, certain that the wrath of Rome would soon descend, and they had best be elsewhere. Judah could not hide his scorn, and actually spit on the ground as one such wagon passed.
He spied little knots of men and women who kept off the main streets and avoided the larger gates. He realized these were Romans and Greeks trying to escape the city before they suffered reprisals. He grimaced, and wondered if he should do anything. But they were no concern of his. His cause for returning was to attend his last remaining family member.
Ever since news came from Alexandria that Asher was dead, the old mason had been sulky, downcast and beaten, hardly willing to move. Brooding and irascible and hard, Judah's father had never gotten on with Asher, who would be lost with his head in the clouds for hours at a time. A true dreamer. They had parted on bad terms, and for two years there had only been a handful of letters between them.
Then had come news of the massacre. The crusty fifty year-old had barely coped with the loss of one son. And last night I just ran off with the mob. The old man must have been beside himself. A heart attack and a stroke – twin ailments for his twin sons.
Judah wended his way through the streets of the Bezetha, the New City, and slid down from the saddle at the gates of his father's workshop. He prayed he was not too late.
The workshop door was unlocked. Judah carried the sleeping Malachai inside, laid him on a slab of unhewn limestone that stood upon a wooden pallet, then ran towards their home.