To the Death

by Peter R. Hall

  Bile rose in Eleazar’s throat. His normally dark face flushed with blood, his whole being filled with hatred. Tearing his eyes away from the scene below, he gave the prearranged signal which rippled down the line of hidden Zealots.

  Absolom, who had readied his forces, nodded to a trumpeter who blasted out the signal.

  Archers who had crept along the Temple balconies stood up, arrows notched. They volleyed flight after flight into the Temple court. As this murderous hail fell on the unsuspecting Sicarii, hundreds of heavily armed men poured across the Temple steps, to attack the gates leading to the inner court. As these gates were breached, the archers received a signal to stop firing.

  As Eleazar’s soldiers burst into the court they were reinforced immediately with hundreds of citizens armed with stolen Roman weapons. Eleazar, knowing the value of the Roman short sword - the gladius - had made certain every one of his followers had one. They also carried the light round shield favoured by Arab cavalry. Outnumbered and caught unawares, the Sicarii were overrun. Few of them even had weapons for they had respected the Temple law.

  They were cut to pieces. Eleazar’s orders had been specific. No prisoners, nobody to be spared - except Menahem who was to be taken alive.

  The great swirling mass of attacked and attackers pulsed like some enormous jellyfish with an energy of its own. Eleazar found it difficult to pick out individual figures. He was about to leave his vantage point, when a flash of gold made him concentrate on a knot of figures that had broken away from the main group. Eleazar hissed with rage. It was Menahem, surrounded by his personal bodyguards, who was fighting to reach one of the exits. Eleazar screamed orders but could not make himself heard about the roar that filled the court.

  Helpless to stop it, Eleazar watched Menahem edge nearer and nearer to an exit. With a curse of his own the Zealot leader ran towards the staircase. It would take him back into the Antonia. Pausing only to snatch up a sword, he shouted at the officer left in command of the fortress, “A hundred men to me now”. Without waiting for confirmation he sprinted for the entrance to the Temple.

  It says much for the Zealots’ training, which owed much to Rome, that the officer who had received Eleazar’s order had fifty men under a competent officer at Eleazar’s heels within seconds, and was busy organising a second fifty before the first had cleared the door.

  As he burst out of the Temple, Eleazar hurtled down the steps in time to see several stallholders at the end of the road picking their goods out of the gutter. They were also cursing and shouting, fists raised in anger.

  Without a second’s hesitation Eleazar ordered his men to continue the pursuit. He would wait for the rest of the attack force. Impatiently he started commandeering horses. “Get him”, he roared, “but alive. Succeed and you can name your own reward”. He grabbed the captain of his men by the throat “Fail and I will have you flayed and staked”.

  The young officer led his men in frantic pursuit, upsetting for a second time the merchandise of the street vendors. More of Eleazar’s men arrived. “Horses!” he snapped. “I want them fast, no arguments. Kill anybody who argues; anybody. Now go”.

  The captain nodded and turned his men away.

  Menahem and a dozen of his closest companions, the remains of his personal bodyguard, had escaped the city through the gate close to the Hinnom valley. The track they were on cut through dense scrub. Turning and twisting, the path snaked around the base of the city wall. Massive boulders and huge outcrops of rock flanked both sides of the narrow path, creating a tunnel effect. Loose scree, slipping underfoot, slowed the fleeing men down.

  Menahem knew that his only hope was to reach Masada. His plan was to secure horses from the pilgrims camped on the plain. As he and his men scrambled along the floor of the ravine, they stopped from time to time to listen for sounds of pursuit, but so far none had come.

  A young boy, who often grazed the family’s skinny black goats along the canyon rim, was perched in the shadow of a rock. He watched the fleeing men with interest. They were taking more chances than was safe on the rough ground. Whoever is after them, he mused, is feared.

  He watched for a few more minutes before scrambling to his feet. He was thin as a rake, his sinuous body deeply tanned and uncut dark brown hair secured with a leather thong tied round his forehead. His only clothing was a tattered woollen smock belted at the waist ending at his knees. At his waist was a pouch that held a dozen or so carefully selected round pebbles - ammunition for the sling shot looped through his belt and his only other possession, a cheap wooden handled knife, kept in a homemade leather sheath on his belt.

  Barefoot and as nimble as one of his own goats, he flitted over the tumble of boulders and rocky outcrops, making his way to the gate leading back into the city. Here he looked around for a vantage point. Scrambling onto a low roof of one of the many buildings that butted the wall, he settled down to wait.

  Benjamin Bar Levi and a dozen young men burst into the main street at a dead run. Panting heavily, sweat streaming down their faces, they shouldered their way through the crowded street to the gate. “Two minutes”, he snapped to his winded men, who took advantage of the rest to gulp water from a public fountain.

  Benjamin’s gaze scoured the street with its many intersections. Automatically his eyes ran along the windows and rooftops. The boy was watching him, perched like a thrush, black eyes bright with interest. Benjamin spotted him. “Did you see men run this way?”

  The boy tipped his head, a slight smile curling his lips. “I have to watch my goats; my family rely on me to eat”.

  “Which way did they go?” Benjamin was positive that the boy knew.

  “My family is poor; my herding a few goats will not change that”.

  Benjamin’s eyes narrowed, there was more to this boy than most, but he was in a hurry. He reached into the pouch in his belt and took out some coins. “Payment now for information. Later, you come and see me. Decide if you want to join us”.

  Without a second’s hesitation the boy leapt off the roof, a naked brown foot landing as light as a feather on a veranda. With the skill of an acrobat the boy bent and grabbed the balustrade and dropped into the street. “Come”, and he was gone through the gate and clambering over the rocks. Slightly dry mouthed, for he was not good with heights, Benjamin and his men followed.

  Squatting on top of an outcrop, the boy pointed to the barely discernible path. “They went that way. They will come out in an old wadi almost opposite the eastern gate. From there they will make their way to the pilgrim camp. They can hide there, a few fish among many”. Bar Levi sucked his teeth.

  “Or get horses and flee”, his second-in-command said.

  “But to where? Menahem would surely not give up - he still has hundreds of loyal followers”.

  “Masada!” Of course, that’s where Menahem was heading for. Bar Levi turned to his men. “Back. We must catch up with Eleazar. They are heading for Masada”.

  The boy watched them go. The coins firmly clenched in his fist would feed his family for weeks and, he thought joyously, his sister would have to look after the goats. He had been promised man’s work. The Zealots would give him a sword.

  Mounted on sturdy horses, Eleazar led his men northwards, travelling along a ridge running parallel with the slightly higher skyline to avoid detection. They had travelled through the hills, climbing all the time, to try and get a view of the men they were pursuing. As evening approached they looked across the arid wasteland of upper Judaea. Suddenly beautiful, the hills turned a deep violet in the last of the day’s light. Eleazar eased himself in the saddle. The harsh cry of a raven caused him to look up. The summits of the mountains furthest away were reefed in a shawl of scarlet cloud. In the gulf between them, the Dead Sea lay like a sheet of beaten silver.

  Gambling that Menahem was heading for Masada, Eleazar and his men had taken the route across the high country, hoping to intercept his quarry and trap him with a well concealed ambush. The rebel leader knew t
hat they would have to stop soon. His men and, more importantly his horses, were desperately tired.

  He called to his most trusted lieutenant “We will stop soon, look for a spring”. Absolom lifted a hand to acknowledge the order, knowing he would be lucky to find water. Little grew in the parched pebbly dirt that passed for soil. Apart from a scattering of thorny scrub, the rocky ridges were gangrened over with grey thistles that only wild mountain goats would eat. A few stunted shrubs offered little to the horses and mules, but it was better than nothing. On the skyline a few cacti were clumped defiantly.

  Eleazar raised an arm. “Dismount. We will camp here”. He had chosen a high spot from which their fire could be seen. If Menahem saw it, he would assume it belonged to a shepherd. It was doubtful he would associate it with pursuit. More importantly, Eleazar had sent scouts ahead. Riding with two spare horses they would not only see the fire, they would know it was his.

  With night fast approaching, Eleazar ordered his men to the tasks of making a night camp. Already the sun had gone, the sky lit by its afterglow. As the day tremulously faded, a huge red disc of a moon floated round the shoulder of the mountain, its soft light bathing the whole plateau. With the sun gone, a blast of icy air swept down from the high plain of Moab, shivering the tiny spring Absolom had found, bubbling clear and cold through the snail starred stones.

  The tired men quickly chopped a few branches from the desiccated shrubs, and started a fire. Sparks swirled upward into the dark sky. The horses and pack animals were hobbled and turned loose to find what sparse grazing was to be had. After a simple meal the rebels, wrapped in woollen cloaks against the night’s bitter cold, huddled round the fire, discussing their chances of intercepting Menahem.

  They were up in the dark, kicking the embers into life for something hot before they took up the chase. As they stood yawning the scouts returned, prudently calling out a warning of their approach. Covered in dust, their horses’ heads drooping with exhaustion, necks slathered with dried sweat, the weary scouts slid out of their saddles, easing aching backs. They had travelled overnight across dangerous ground and had been glad of the full moon.

  Eleazar embraced them. “Come my brothers, warm yourselves, take some food”.

  Isaac, who had led the scouting party, stretched his shoulders. He appreciated the courtesy of a welcome taking precedent over his report. As a cup was thrust into his hand he had one quick swig before speaking. “They have traded horses gone lame, for camels from the Bedouin”. He paused to clear his throat, spitting a gobbet of phlegm into the glowing embers, where it hissed furiously. “They are not using the track which is a direct route, but swinging in an arc across country. I anticipate they will re-join the road where it becomes a pass, skirting the cliffs on which the fortress stands”.

  Eleazar shot out a hand and gripped his officer painfully hard on his shoulder. “We have them”. His voice was low but vibrant with triumph. “You have done well my brothers. Rest here for a few days and then return to Jerusalem”. Isaac protested. He and his men wanted to join in the fight, but Eleazar shook his head. “If you won’t admit to exhaustion your horses will. They would drop under you before we reached our objective and” he continued ominously, “we have no spare mounts. No. Rest up here and make your way back to the city. We won’t forget the work you have done this day, nor the reward you and your men are entitled to”.

  Two days later Eleazar and his men had reached their objective - the massive rocky heights that towered seventeen hundred feet above the western coastline of the Dead Sea, on which Herod the Great had built his fortress.

  Within sight of the safety of Masada’s unassailable position, Menahem found himself suddenly surrounded. His assailants, who had lain in wait for him behind the protection of a low hill, suddenly appeared. An ominous frieze of dark figures poured like bitumen across his path. In desperation Menahem turned to flee, but to no avail. Men hidden in a fold in the ground galloped into view, lining up across the road behind him. For several minutes nobody moved, nobody spoke. The only sound came from the beasts - a gentle clearing of nostrils tickled by dust, the chink of harness and the stamping of an impatient nervous foot.

  Menahem’s supporters felt a sudden chill. The dark host encircling them not only outnumbered them twice over, they were mounted on horses. Quicker to turn than camels they could prove decisive in a battle. Unspoken, fear ran like quicksilver through the ranks of Menahem’s followers. They could see safety tantalisingly close.

  One man suddenly panicked, lashing his camel into a furious gallop. The rest followed - bolting in every direction, unreasoning fear urging the fleeing mob to desperate speed. The deserting Sicarii had one collective idea. In the dusty confusion they might slip through their enemy’s ranks, which many of them did. Confused and disorientated by the swirling dust. Menahem’s mount was knocked off balance and he was unseated. His startled mount, snarling and spitting, raced off into the cloud of dust its departing companions had raised.

  Throughout the day they tortured him by applying red hot irons to his feet. As evening approached, a man took a pair of shears with heavy blades. These were used to cut away the thick horny growth of the feet of sheep and goats. They were now employed to snip off Menahem’s fingers and toes, joint by joint. Each crunch of the heavy blades biting through bone as easily and as crisply as a carrot, was accompanied by shrieks of agony.

  The next day, men who were butchers by trade carefully removed most of his skin. When they had finished, they spread-eagled and staked him well clear of any shade. Before leaving, Eleazar poured a jar of honey over his weeping flesh as an added attraction to the cloud of insects already gathering above the moaning Menahem, who begged for death.

  16

  Agrippa’s horses and camels moved northwards. As they climbed out of the Samarian hills, they could see banks of green on different levels. They passed flocks of sheep and goats, interspersed by female camels moving with stately dignity in comparison to their leggy young, who skittered uncertainly after their mothers. Small herds of cattle, marked on their rumps with tribal signs of identification, raised their heads as the long column of mounted men passed between them. The camels’ plate-like feet moved silently over the sand, the only sound the creak of saddles, the tinkle of metal on metal and the slosh of the water skins.

  In the distance they could see Jericho, drowned among its palms. Beyond the hill they were crossing, a swirl of golden cliffs caught the sun.

  Riding with Agrippa at the head of the column, Berenice admired the wild flowers that grew among the sparse grasses. “A beautiful land” said Agrippa.

  “Yes my Lord, but its beauty is like that of a woman, it attracts many suitors”.

  The King smiled but didn’t reply.

  Towards the end of the day, as they reached the outskirts of Caesarea, Agrippa had expected to be met outside the city gates. Custom required the city fathers to welcome him with the traditional offering of bread and salt.

  With his general Philip, Agrippa studied the city walls which lay about half a mile away. The gates were open, the normal daily traffic could be seen coming and going. “The traffic is light my Lord, there should be much more movement”.

  Agrippa pursed his lips. Berenice, who had dropped back to ride with Amal, spurred her horse forward. “Philip is right my brother - and where are the city fathers?” She pointed “And the guards on the walls? We are in full view but they have simply ignored us. Something is wrong”.

  The King cursed softly. He had expected to be able to enter Caesarea without delay. He turned to Philip. “Send Nathan and a dozen men to ride into the city. Hopefully the Roman procurator is in residence. Nathan is to find out what he can and return. I will expect him back by mid-afternoon at the latest”. Philip saluted and hurried away to organise the party he would send to reconnoitre the city.

  Berenice nudged her horse closer to her brother’s. “If the procurator is in the city my Lord, he will be holed up in the palace”. The palace s
he was referring to had been built on a massive rock that stood at the centre of the superb harbour, built by their kinsman Herod the Great, for Caesarea was the principal port by which products entered and left Palestine. Luxury goods from the east were exported to Rome from this port, which had no equal in the region.

  Philip approached Agrippa and saluted. “Majesty, I recommend we build a secure camp. Not here, of course, but four miles back there was a small oasis with fresh water”.

  Agrippa fingered his beard absentmindedly while he thought about his general’s advice. He grimaced. More time would be lost. He knew what Philip’s idea of a secure camp would be. After all, the King himself had introduced the concept, which was part of the standard Roman military manual. A secure camp meant one that was capable of withstanding a serious assault.

  “It’s odd”, he mused, “that nobody has come out to greet us”.

  “All the more reason to stay away”. It was Berenice who interrupted his thoughts. “The Greeks are tricky bastards”. Agrippa smiled bleakly at this disparaging remark. Hasmonean dislike of Hellenism went back a long way.

  Philip was grateful for Berenice’s interjection. “Sire?”

  “Very well, we will wait here while you check out the oasis as a suitably defensive position”.

  “Sire, that has already been done as a contingency. I ordered it when we passed it by”. Agrippa nodded. He would have been surprised if Philip had not already considered that option.

  Before sunset Agrippa’s men had built a substantial camp. Constructed along Roman lines, it was surrounded by a ditch ten feet wide and four feet deep, topped with a six feet high wooden palisade.

  Copied from the Roman model, Agrippa’s army included a pioneer corps of engineers who had their own draught animals and baggage train. The prepared timber for the camp’s perimeter was designed to be portable. Along with the army’s artillery, a variety of catapults that hurled specialist ammunition – stones, fire pots, lumps of iron - there were giant bows that required three men to operate them. When fired, a nine foot iron tipped javelin was released with devastating effect against close order infantry or cavalry.