by David Blixt
“Is that true?”
“It may have only been a dream. But here we are.”
Tearfully, Chalafta looked at his sword. By the rules, it was his turn to kill. “If I try to finish this you'll kill me.”
“No. I am in the hands of the Lord. Let Him speak through you.”
Chalafta did not know what to do. Had Yosef deceived them? Had the others died so that Yosef might live? Did it even matter? They had wanted to die – but Yosef had not. Nor, in truth, had Chalafta.
“If the Lord spoke to you, I can't – I mean, I'm not the one to decide. But if you're lying, general –”
“If I am lying, He will punish me.”
“Yes,” said Chalafta. “He will.” His sword splashed loudly as it hit the water.
Yosef sheathed his own and crossed close, holding out his hand. “Come. Let us call for Nicanor.”
♦ ◊ ♦
JUDAH AND THE OTHERS were brought into the main chamber of Berenice's palace. “Stand here, traitors,” said the captain of her guard. His contempt was palpable, and it was echoed on the faces of the other men. Judah felt his anger rising. They weren't the traitors here. They weren't the ones collaborating with Romans. They were the patriots in the room. He decided that before he died, he would tell them so.
Then all at once his rage vanished as two women walked into the tall polished chamber. In the lead was Queen Berenice. She was dressed plainly today, in the Hebrew garb of mourning. But nothing could hide the sensuousness of her gait.
Beside her was–“Deborah!”
“Judah! Phannius! What's happening?” She was wide-eyed with surprise, joy, and fear.
“So these are the men,” said Berenice coldly. “Your names?”
“Asher ben Matthias.”
“Phannius ben Samuel.”
“Judah ben Matthias.” His eyes were only on Deborah, his breath coming short. He wondered how quickly he could murder everyone in this room. Because if that was what it took to set her free…
“Very well,” said Berenice. “Rest assured, your names I will remember. Now take your prize.” With that, the queen shoved Deborah towards them.
Unable to hear anything for the pounding in his ears, Judah rushed forward and clutched her in his arms. “Deborah! Thank the Lord!”
Phannius was the same, coming forward to stroke his sister's hair. But Asher heard the queen's words and frowned. “What do you mean, our prize?”
“Watch how you address her majesty, traitor!” snarled her captain.
But Berenice was happy to talk. “What do I mean? I mean this is your blood price. A foolish girl rescued from a fate worse than death. I hope that you treasure her, for all that she has cost this nation.”
Judah had been whispering endearments back and forth with Deborah. But now he looked up, his face a mirror of his brother's. “What are you talking about?”
She gazed at them scornfully. “Do not pretend. You bargained with Nicanor – her life and your freedom for an entrance to Jotapata. So instead of surrender, there was a bloodbath. The Romans are pleased. We are not. But the bargain was made in our name, so we will honour it. We didn't know whom to expect. Only that someone would call for her. And here you are. I hope she is worth it. Myself, I doubt it.”
♦ ◊ ♦
AS JOSEPHUS WAS a blood-soaked horror after the ordeal in the well, Vespasian allowed his captive to bathe and dress before their interview. The Roman general was in good spirits for the first time in weeks. The capture of both Jotapata and Josephus was vindication that he was the right man for this war.
Expecting Josephus, he frowned when Titus entered his quarters. “What are you doing here? You should be on your way to join Marcus Ulpius.” Ordered to reduce another nearby city, Trajan had sent word that his target was about to fall, but he required another troop of horsemen. Would Titus be available to lead this force? A blatant and admirable attempt to curry favour.
But here was Titus, slipping into an out-of-the-way seat. “The cavalry is still assembling,” he said preemptively. “I'll go as soon as they're ready. Just wanted to see him.”
Vespasian huffed. “Fancy all of them killing themselves.”
“Killing each other,” corrected Titus. “They view suicide as a grave offence against their god.”
“Do they?”
“So Nicanor tells me.”
Vespasian was genuinely surprised. To a Roman, suicide was proper, even desirable. There was no greater control in life than choosing the time and means of ending it. Baffled, the general latched onto something else. “You've been talking to Nicanor nearly every night. I don't recall you studying so hard with your tutors.”
Titus grinned. “If my tutors had dangled Berenice before me, I might have become a scholar.”
Vespasian scowled. “The general's son consorting with a Judean queen. I can just hear the senators. They'll accuse you of being the next Mark Antony.”
Titus looked smug. “I can think of worse fates.”
He was spared his father's cutting reply by Nicanor's arrival. “General Josephus is here, sir.”
“Show him in.”
Yosef entered dressed in a Roman tunic and sandals. Nicanor moved to another corner of the tent, sitting as unobtrusively as Titus to watch this meeting. Cerialis, too, slipped in to listen.
Until this moment, the two generals had only seen each other from afar. Face-to-face, each paused to evaluate the other. The Roman with the straining, worrying face and placid eyes. The Jew, with the hawkish nose and haughty chin.
Vespasian was the first to extend his hand. “Well fought, sir! If we are truly judged by the strength of our enemies, I have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Thank you, Titus Flavius,” answered Yosef. “Allow me to congratulate you on a most thorough victory.”
“What a remarkable voice you have. Nero Caesar would kill to have one like it.”
“Then perhaps you should not send me to him just yet.” A plea couched as a jest.
Vespasian offered his guest some wine. “I have that horrible sweet stuff you people drink.”
“Thank you, no. In my present state, I would lose my head.”
“Can't have that! Now sit, Josephus, and let us talk.” They sat in the Roman style, on couches. “Forty-nine days. You are quite the prophet. But then, I have heard that you Hebrew priests are gifted with the Sight.”
The prisoner's brows knit, but he said nothing.
“And an author, as well,” continued Vespasian, gesturing to a book-bucket across the room. “Your history of the Makkabi. No wonder the people looked to you for inspiration. You made their heroes come to life.”
From across the room, Titus hid a smile. The old man makes it sound as though he's actually read it through.
“All this makes me look upon you as a most unique visitor.”
Yosef was not crass enough to point out that a thing could not be 'most unique'. It was either unique, or not. Instead he took issue with another word. “I am a prisoner.”
“Pardon?”
“I am not a visitor. I'm a prisoner.”
“Let us say, guest. You understand, Josephus, Rome will win this war. Jotapata has assured it. But I don't want to leave the place a desolate, simmering cauldron of hate waiting to boil over again. I want to pacify the Judeans. There are two ways – the fur glove, or the hammer. I can either convince your people to submit without further violence, or I can do to you what we did to Carthage – salt the earth so nothing will ever grow there.”
“That last would be a tragedy. For Rome as well as Judea.”
“I agree. Therefore you must help me prevent it. I mean to harness your skill with words and ideas. To start with, please tell me – what does Judea want?”
“Freedom.”
“That's rather vague. Certainly Judea will not be allowed to exist as an autonomous state, not after slaughtering Roman soldiers and citizens. Let's be reasonable here.”
Yosef said, “Judea is a Roman construct. When m
y people die, they do not praise Judea. They praise Israel.”
“Yes,” said Vespasian, having heard Titus' reports on the Hebrew faith. “The land of your people, given to you by your god. But if your god has entrusted you with the well-being of this land, does it matter who rules it?”
“Yes, Titus Flavius, it matters a great deal.” Prepared to hear taunts and crowing, this meeting was not at all what Yosef had expected. “Our people are not allowed to worship freely. This all began, as you recall, with the profaning of one of our temples.”
Vespasian's head bobbed. “Yes, I see that. So Judea must have more respectful government.”
Yosef bowed his head. “Perhaps a better class of governors. Senators, not rapacious knights.”
Vespasian grimaced. “Senators are more rapacious, not less. But your point is well taken. What else?”
“The freedom of our religion is vital to us, paramount both as a nation and as a people.” Yosef went on in great earnestness. “Rome and Judea are similar in many ways. Like you, our religion is integral to running our state. The difference lies only in the, ah, elasticity of that religion. It is vital that our religion remain pure and untampered with. Otherwise our government descends into chaos.”
“Very reasonably put,” said Vespasian. “What else?”
They continued talking for some time, with Yosef making specific demands as though he were the victor of Jotapata, not the vanquished.
Finally a silence descended, broken when Yosef suddenly said, “Would you like to know, Titus Flavius, why I surrendered? Why I did not join the others?”
Vespasian raised his brows. “Only, Josephus, if you would like to tell me.”
“I know the duty of a defeated general. I assure you, I am here at the behest of the Almighty. He sent me a vision,” said Yosef carefully. He would tell the truth, but in a way that might please the Roman. “Or rather, a divine inspiration. I knew the Lord would ensure my preservation, so that I might carry a message.”
“To whom?”
“He did not say.”
“And what is this message from your god?”
“Only to repeat what several of our prophets have foretold.” He summoned all the musicality of his voice, using it to frame one single sentence. “A great man will come out of the East, and rule the world.”
Vespasian's eyes slid momentarily out of focus as he pictured himself wearing the corona civica, the laurel wreath that was far better than any crown in existence. Then he laughed aloud. “Am I to believe that I am this prophesized hero?”
“I do not know,” answered Yosef. “The message was clear. The meaning was not.”
“But I am a Roman. I am not of the East.”
“You are in the East.” The corners of Yosef's cracked mouth twitched. “You know the careless nature of prophecies.”
“Indeed I do. Especially their ability to be twisted by clever men. Credat Judaes Apella, non ego!” Horace had written in his Satires a reference to the credulity of Jews, coining a phrase popular among Romans protesting their lack of gullibility: 'Let the Jew Apella believe it, not I!'
Yosef was unoffended. “Tied up with that prophecy is another, that of the Redeemer who wields an iron broom to sweep Israel clean again.”
“Now that sounds more like me, doesn't it?” Vespasian turned to Nicanor. “Do you know of these prophecies?”
Nicanor was scratching his chin, his brow furrowed. “I do, general. Both are very old, and have been interpreted many ways. The man out of the East was once taken to mean Caesar Augustus, after his victory in Aegypt.” Knowing how Romans viewed the Chrestiani, he did not add that his own belief about the meaning of that prophecy. Instead he shot an angry glance at Yosef, who was playing a dangerous game.
“I've heard of it, too,” said Titus. “Some said that Josephus here was the Mahsiah.”
“Clearly not,” answered Yosef with genuine humility. “I make no claim on the title, nor do I know to whom it belongs. I merely state its existence.”
“Well, thank you for delivering this divine message,” said Vespasian briskly. “Time alone will tell if I was the intended recipient. For the moment, you shall travel with us.”
Yosef blinked. “You're not sending me to Rome?”
“I think you might be of more use to us here. But have no fear, you will eventually be sent to Rome. The people will want to look upon so formidable a foe.”
Yosef rose and bowed. “As you say, Titus Flavius.”
“One more question – Cestius Gallus and the Twelfth. Where is their eagle?”
“Ananus claimed to have melted it down. But he said that to an enemy. To Rome, he may have a different answer.”
“Thank you.” As Yosef was led away Vespasian pulled aside Titus, Cerialis, and Nicanor. “Not a word of this prophecy business to anyone. The last thing I need after a summer of success is to let this kind of talk reach Nero. Besides, I'm sure that if it were you in command, Titus, or a Tingitanian ape, our clever Josephus would have seen the laurel there as well.”
But Titus wanted it to be true. “Pater, what if the prophecy does refer to you?”
“Far too convenient. A more blatant currying of favour than Trajan's offer to you!”
Still Titus was loathe to let it go. “Who's to say how a god – any god – works? A Man out of the East, who will Rule the World.”
Vespasian shook his head. “There is only one ruler of the world. His name is Caesar.”
♦ ◊ ♦
IT WAS A DREADFUL scene in Berenice's palace. Judah had almost gotten them all killed as he launched himself at Phannius, fists flying. “You bastard! You bastard!”
“Me?” roared the larger man, swelling with contempt and indignation. “This was you! I would never betray our people! I am a Zelote, an Avenger of Israel! But you, you have no cause, no belief, you just love to fight—!”
Deborah was shouting, Asher too, as the guards separated them. Berenice looked on, her face a mask of contempt. “I do not believe either of you. You are both here to claim this woman. That makes you equal in guilt. This man, too,” she said, pointing to Asher. “But I have given my word that you will be spared and set free, with a letter of safe conduct. So speak quickly, where do you wish to go? I want you out of my sight.”
Holding Deborah in his arms, Judah stared at Phannius. The large oaf seemed genuinely befuddled and surprised. He wasn't smart enough to be that good a performer. A horrible feeling creeping up his spine, Judah turned to his twin. He didn't want to, but the accusation in his eyes spoke for him.
Asher saw it and went pale. “Judah – no! No! I never – how can you..?” His face displayed everything it should have – shocked realization, horror, hurt, indignation, betrayal. But then he was smarter than Phannius…
“Speak up!” snapped Berenice. “Where shall you go?”
There was only one answer. “To Jerusalem.”
♦ ◊ ♦
EXITING THE GENERAL'S QUARTERS, Nicanor hurried to catch up to Yosef. That their words might be kept private, he spoke in Aramaic. “What are you doing? Making him think he's the Mahsiah – are you mad?”
“Everything I said was true,” answered Yosef. “I know in my bones that I am meant to go to Rome, and bring our faith with me. Rome is the center of the world, and our faith must go there to grow.”
Nicanor's question had been hyperbole, he had not thought Yosef to be truly mad. But hearing him speak with such passion, Nicanor wondered – was Yosef's mellifluous voice disguising the loss of his wits?
Well, who can blame him? A year ago he was a promising young priest. Six months ago he was the general of a great army. A day ago he was a refugee, surrounded by men determined to make him take his own life. So many ups and downs – it's no wonder if he's gone mad.
But Yosef felt far from mad. He was thinking of himself as a scholar once more. He was not built to fight with soldiers and tactics. His battlefield was the mind, and his skill was with a stylus, not a sword. He would w
rite another book, and in it he would win this war for the Jews. A word written lasts forever. Jotapata would not be forgotten.
“I am glad of your company in this moment,” said Yosef. “As I told the general, my mind has been filled with the Mahsiah. I would like to hear your thoughts on the subject.”
Nicanor studied Yosef carefully. “You're serious?”
“The Lord has seen fit to refuse us His aid. There must be a reason, and perhaps it is the one that you claim – that we ignored your Y'eshua. I'm not claiming to be a convert. But I am interested in learning more.”
Nicanor pressed his lips tight. “We must be careful. The Romans despise the Chrestiani. They were blamed for Nero's fire.”
“I remember,” said Yosef. “I was there. Now, tell me everything.”
Epilogue
JUDAH'S LITTLE BAND was traveling faster now. They'd built a rough litter to bear Levi's unconscious form, and bought an ass to drag it. For money, they had traded news and their armour. But they'd kept their swords, returned to them contemptuously by Berenice's men. Their attitude was now clear. They thought the trio was responsible for the slaughter in Jotapata.
Worse, Judah thought it, too. He could hardly bring himself to look at his twin. Who was avoiding him just as assiduously, angry that his own brother thought him capable of such base betrayal.
It doesn't make sense! He didn't want to leave. He wanted to fight!
An unworthy voice said, But he ran away from Alexandria, too. And he was out in the hours when the betrayal must have occurred. Walking, he'd said.
No. I can't believe it. It has to be Phannius. Who looked as surprised as I was…
The sole comfort was Deborah. She walked with him in silence, holding his hand and squeezing it back when he needed reassurance. She'd already been full of apologies.
“I'm such a fool! I should never have come! But I didn't want you to die without me. I was sure I'd keep you safe, or else die with you. I never thought—”
“You didn't do this,” Judah had told her. “Of anyone, you are blameless.” He'd stroked her hair. “I'm so happy. That's the worst part. Everyone is dead, and I don't care. I half wish I had been the one. Then I could have died, and let Phannius take you home.”