This time when the High Priest paused a low murmur of agreement ran through his audience. Encouraged he went on “By the authority of our office and the high regard the people have for our wisdom, we must restore law and order and the nation to tranquillity.”
“Romans go home” an anonymous voice shouted from the centre of the crowd.
The High Priest raised his hands, his face flushed with anger at this provocative remark, only too aware of the Roman soldiers lining the walls of the colonnades who would report it to their superiors. “It is” he replied, “precisely that kind of seditious and provocative nonsense which is stirring the people up and turning the Romans against us.”
“The Procurator is causing most of the trouble”. Again it was the anonymous voice. “He presses us too hard”. This time there was a sullen rumble of agreement from the crowd.
The High Priest called for quiet, but more and more people began to shout. They hurled abuse at the Procurator Gessius Florus and cursed him.
In the end Ananus had to call on his trumpeters to restore silence. “Be warned” the High Priest grated, “Rome will not tolerate disloyalty. The treatment you have received so far is nothing to that which will come down on your heads if civil disorder continues.” Before he could be interrupted he continued hurriedly “We are subjects of Rome not citizens. We are bound by the laws of fealty that that status affords to us.” This last was a reminder - a bitter reminder - that as a subject nation they were required to pay tribute to their masters over and above normal taxation. There was also the unspoken reminder that they did not enjoy the same civil rights and privileges as citizens of Rome.
An elderly Pharisee, who was also a magistrate, respected for his piety and loved for his scrupulous fairness when administering the law, pushed to the front of the crowd. “If we are bound by the laws and rules of the Empire’s subject peoples, we are still entitled to Roman justice under Roman law”. Not sure where this was leading, but sensing battle had been joined by old adversaries, the crowd roared its support before falling silent. What reply would the Sadducean High Priest give?
Concealing his anger Ananus replied, “Roman justice goes hand in hand with loyalty to Caesar. We should all use our powers, our influence, to persuade the people to demonstrate their love for Caesar.” Jeers greeted this smooth response.
But the elderly Pharisee hadn’t finished. “It is not the people, but the Procurator Gessius Florus who tramples on Rome’s laws as he tramples on the people”. He had to pause as a deafening shout of agreement greeted this bold statement. The Pharisee continued remorselessly “Let us send our case to Caesar. Let the Emperor judge the rightness of this matter”.
Gritting his teeth and inwardly cursing all Pharisees whom he hated from the bottom of his heart, the High priest shrieked “Complaining to Caesar about his Procurator is a dangerous path to take. Does he not have evidence of his troops murdered in cold blood? Are not taxes unpaid? Do not the people of Samaria and Galilee attack each other? We would do well to be careful before we demand of Caesar the removal of his Procurator, whose duty it is to collect those taxes and punish those who take up arms against Rome’s authority”.
Much grumbling greeted this speech. Many arguments broke out. Suddenly a loud voice rang out. “The people are oppressed, and cruelly abused by a Procurator who has as much regard for them as a butcher for pigs”. This shocking statement came from a burly blonde haired man with piercing blue eyes, Benjamon Bar Simon, leader of one of the nationalist factions. It almost silenced the crowd but many found the courage to mutter encouragement.
Meanwhile on the walls, an officer who had been carefully observing the meeting, despatched a soldier to report to the prefectus commanding the Antonia that things were warming up and words were flying that, in his view, came close to treason.
Ananus was becoming desperate as he cast around in his mind how he might draw this disastrous meeting to a close, bitterly regretting having called it in the first place.
He was saved by the Pharisee. “King Agrippa will soon be with us. Is he not loved and respected, not only by his own subjects, but by the Jews of this city? Let us put our case before him and ask him for counsel, for not only is the King’s wisdom a blessing to the Jews, it is valued by Caesar, who trusts him to rule in his name”.
The High Priest, glad to be off the hook, hastily approved this suggestion, adding in a harsh voice “While we wait for the King, do nothing to provoke Roman authority. Use your influence with the people to persuade them to obey Rome’s laws”.
As the crowd broke up the High Priest, drenched with sweat and nursing a blinding headache, tottered back into the Temple silently cursing the Romans and the Nationalists in equal measure. He must, he decided, speak with the Procurator and his superior Cestius Gallus, the governor of Syria.
Before he could send a messenger to the Antonia begging for an audience with both, who had not yet left for Syria, a second message arrived. The townspeople who had gone out to meet the arriving Roman cohorts had been cut to pieces. Survivors were staggering into the city with tales of wholesale slaughter. Thousands of dead and dying Jews, men woman and children, were scattered for miles across the barren plain surrounding the city. They had met the approaching Romans with songs of praise, garlands of flowers and refreshments of fruit and water. When these and their greetings had been ignored and rejected, they had grown angry at the insult, starting to curse the soldiers. This had been the signal agreed with Florus for them to attack the unarmed civilians without mercy. Slumped in his throne, the High Priest started to think about survival. A hundred and twenty years ago the Romans under Pompey had destroyed Jerusalem and the Temple. History, thought the terrified priest, was about to repeat itself.
Amal had also gone to the Temple dressed in the clothes of a peasant. With her face veiled she mingled with the crowds in the court of the women. Horrified at what she had heard, and fearful of what must surely follow, she was on the point of leaving the court when she spotted Berenice. Pushing her way through the crowd she made her way to the Queen’s side. In a low voice she said, “Highness, I must speak with you, but we must be discreet.”
Berenice was startled by this sudden request, but gave no indication that she had been addressed, other than a quick sideways flick of her eyes to pinpoint who had spoken to her. Without turning her head she replied, “Who are you?”
“I am Amal, a slave owned by the priest Eleazar, governor of the Temple”. Berenice noticed that she did not say in Eleazar’s household. Without it being said, both women knew that the other was aware of her position as Eleazar’s mistress.
“What do you want of me?”
“Nothing, my lady. I am here to warn you of a plot to kill you”.
Berenice walked slowly down the court keeping close to the wall. Amal kept pace with her, but walked slightly behind her. Around them eddied the great mob of people. “Who wishes me harm?”
“Eleazar is the secret leader of the Zealots. He is planning to assassinate his father Ananias, the former High Priest of all Israel, then kill the current High Priest of all Israel Ananus, and assume his office. Importantly, he has been waiting for the Sicarii to attack the Romans. He will now make his own strike, but not against the Romans – he is determined to be master of Jerusalem”.
“How do you know all of this, and why should any of it threaten my life”. Berenice knew the answer to the question, but asked it to test her informant. Inwardly she was in turmoil. This unknown women was claiming that the Jews were about to start a civil war and take on the Romans as well. It was madness.
“Eleazar is no different to any other man in bed. He needs to talk to someone about his hopes, his plans, his ambitions. Mistresses are more discreet than wives; they have to be, they can be removed without any questions being asked”.
“But why am I personally threatened,” asked Berenice.
“Caesar has favoured your brother the King and enlarged his kingdom. He is known as a loyal supporter
of Rome. The nationalists want him to come over to them in the hope of getting him to change sides. Your death will be blamed on the Romans. Your murder will be laid at Florus’ door”.
Berenice turned to face Amal, “Why do you tell me all of this? If Eleazar even suspects you of betraying him, your death would not be easy”.
“Two reasons. The Romans will win in the end. I want to be on the winning side”. Amal became silent.
“And the second reason?” prompted Berenice.
“My mother”, murmured Amal, “was a slave at Herod’s court. The King bedded my mother but never acknowledged me. We are kinsmen, you and I. My second reason for warning you is the tie of blood”.
Berenice mulled this over. “You can never prove such a tie, but your guile in coming to me betrays a certain Herodian quality. How do you know I won’t betray you to Eleazar?”
“If it was in your interest to do so you wouldn’t hesitate” replied Amal, “but for the moment you will wait to see what happens and then decide what to do about me. In the meantime stay in your palace – keep your guards on their toes and send a message to King Agrippa”.
Berenice acknowledged this whispered advice with a barely perceptible nod. She knew what risks Amal had taken in confiding in her. She also knew that, if accurate, the information she had been given could save her life and probably her brother’s as well.
“It may become dangerous for you to stay in Eleazar’s house. Come to the palace. I will give instructions that you are to be admitted at any time, day or night without question. If what you have told me turns out to be the truth, we will all be struggling to survive. However I guarantee you my protection and that of my brother the King”.
“Thank you my Lady”, and Amal was gone, lost in the crowds. One thing Berenice had been right about was the power of Herodian blood. Amal had taken her first step towards freedom. As yet she had no plan as to how she could achieve power - only a burning, ruthless ambition that her father would have admired.
8
Menahem Ben Jair, grandson of Judas of Galilee the founder of the Zealot party, nursed the double ambition of ruling Judaea and getting rid of the Romans. The former would have to come first. Attempting either meant putting his life on the line. The Jewish priesthood would not hesitate to eliminate any challenge to their authority - a view the civil authority and the wealthy ruling classes had in common with the occupying Romans.
A consummate politician and a natural leader, Menahem hated the Romans and despised any Jew who co-operated with them. He and his followers had a simple policy. Assassinate any Roman whenever the opportunity presented itself. To carry out these killings, he added a separate wing to the Zealot party - a ruthless group of killers, Sicarii, who carried out the murders Menahem ordered.
The son of a merchant, Menahem’s world was that of the caravan; a world of hardship and danger, of journeying through hostile landscapes. He and his kind were handy with a sword and expert with a knife. Trading as far as India and China, away from home for two years and more, they were subject to attack from bandits. Necessity taught them proficiency in close quarter fighting and skill in the use of a variety of weapons.
At twenty six, Menahem had been accompanying his father on such journeys from the age of ten. Slight of build, he had a sinewy strength and desert bred hardiness. Respected for his business acumen, men acknowledged him as a proud, fiercely independent man, who hated the Romans. To the few that knew him well he was a religious fanatic. A fundamentalist who believed he was an instrument of God, charged with the task of cleansing the Holy land of Israel, of those who were an offence to his God - pagans who worshipped idols and the gods of earth, fire, and water, who practiced magic and sorcery. Be they Roman, Jew or Arab, they had to die. Years ago he had planned his strategy. He knew that Jewish discontent with the brutally oppressive Roman regime would eventually erupt into rebellion. When it did he would need to be ready - but to do what?
For months he had wrestled with the problem and had got nowhere. In the end he did what his ancestors had done in similar circumstances. He had gone into the desert to fast and pray. There he found the answer; the Roman stronghold of Masada, the symbol of Roman invincibility, the impregnable, totally unassailable, self-sufficient fortress built by Herod the Great. In a flash of inspiration, which he believed to be divine revelation from his God, Menahem knew what he had to do and how. He had to take Masada and arm the Zealots with the arsenal of weapons stored there. When Herod built Masada he had stocked it with enough weapons to equip an army of ten thousand men – insurance against the unforeseen.
When he returned to Jerusalem, he selected twelve of his most loyal followers. Sworn to secrecy, they were given their orders. Over a period of months, posing as cooks and butchers, they were to infiltrate Masada’s civilian staff. Sewn into the seams of their clothes were the deadly crystals of poison they planned to use. Inside the fortress they waited for Menahem’s orders.
These would come with one of the traders who delivered fresh supplies and news of the outside world. After months of waiting, convinced that God had spoken to him, he called his army of secret supporters to a rendezvous outside Jerusalem.
They came on horse and camel to bivouac in the desert away from prying eyes, their black tents set in a protective laager. Amid the whirl and rasp of summer insects, smoke from their camp fires hung like incense in the evening stillness. Menahem greeted the men individually before leading them in prayer. A sacred droning filling the air, as the evening sky darkened into night.
In the circles of campfire light, Menahem told them his secret. How six months earlier he had infiltrated the Roman garrison at Masada with revolutionary brothers, who, when they received a signal, would open the gates of their enemy.
“The time has come, the time is now. We attack in two days’ time”. Menahem’s announcement caught the gathering by surprise.
The staggering importance of what he had said was so improbable, so impossible, that nobody spoke. The only sound the whispering of a shimmering veil of dust, fluted by the wind through the scattered boulders, suddenly drowned by a throaty roar and the rasp of steel as weapons were snatched from their scabbards. Startled by the noise of the wildly cheering men, horses and camels added their own guttural sounds.
By dawn Menahem and his eight hundred fellow rebels were ready to move. As they rode into the desert to take Masada, the spark of revolution burst into flame. Eleazar as Temple Governor, abolished the daily sacrifices offered for Rome and Caesar himself. Eleazar, Priest, nationalist, zealot, had made his move. He had declared war on Rome. Before the high priesthood and city fathers had time to respond, the Zealots had seized control of the Upper City and the Temple.
Horrified at the rebels’ actions, Ananus the High Priest of all Israel, the Chief Priests, Pharisees and Sadducees, and the city’s leading citizens and many of the ordinary people, came to plead with the rebels. There followed a day of quarrelling that ended in violence. Stones and other missiles were launched by both sides. Eventually, this long range skirmishing degenerated into a more deadly confrontation. Seizing whatever weapons came to hand - axes, hammers, knives - the two sides fought hand to hand screaming, hacking, tearing and punching indiscriminately.
Horrified at what was happening, the most influential citizens sent messengers to Florus and King Agrippa, begging both to come to the city and put down the revolutionaries before matters got completely out of hand. Florus was delighted with the news, and did nothing. The chaos of civil war would provide perfect cover for him to plunder the country.
King Agrippa had civil power in Jerusalem, for he had been given the right by the Romans to appoint the High Priest of Israel. Filled with misgivings, he responded to the appeal for help, despatching two thousand horse archers from Arantas under Darius his cavalry commander, along with Philip the son of Jacimus his senior general.
What followed was seven days of mutual slaughter, the rebels showing reckless courage against the King’s horsem
en who fought to get possession of the Temple and drive out those who were polluting it.
As Eleazar battled to hold what he had taken and advance on the Upper City, he wondered if the time was right to kill Menahem; a thought that hardened into certainty when, during a lull in the fighting, one of his lieutenants brought him news of the impossible. Masada had fallen. Menahem would be hailed as a national hero when he returned to Jerusalem, bringing with him the weapons and armour looted from the fortress. That would make him more than a threat - he would be a rival. A rival for the ultimate prize. Control of Jerusalem and eventually Judaea.
His assassination had just become a priority.
9
Berenice was in one of the Palace’s many gardens when the commander of her personal guard, Nathan - an Idumaean who had been in her brother’s service since boyhood - arrived to discuss the murder of the Jews, who had formed a welcoming committee for the reinforcements arriving from Caesarea. Nathan also brought confirmation of the taking of Masada. The murder of its garrison was tantamount to a declaration of war. Roman forces in the region (which meant Cestius Gallus, Governor of Syria) had to enforce Roman authority.
A heavily laden bee hummed an erratic path in front of her face. Absentmindedly she waved it away. Nathan stood silently, giving her time to take in the report he had just delivered.
He felt the warmth of the sun on his armour. The garden was walled and trapped the sun’s warmth. He could smell the perfume of a magnolia, its sweet odour mingling with the lighter scent of the carefully tended beds of flowers and shrubs. Shade was provided by the many palms that had been carefully grouped by the garden’s Arab designer who, true to his traditions, had incorporated several fountains and softly murmuring streams that filled the garden with the delicate sound of water burbling over stone, splashing gently, its sprays dazzling in the sun. A haven of peace and quiet designed to sooth the spirit and calm the mind.
Berenice sat in an arbour with several of her personal slaves, its latticed shade protection from the sun. Her grim faced commander waited patiently for his orders.
To the Death Page 7