His story had the desired effect. All around the campfire, heads nodded in approval. The leader flipped back his hood, smiled broadly, and sat down beside Viktor, his movements lithe and catlike. Viktor looked into the man’s face, a face so strangely familiar.
“I have told you what you want to know. Now you tell me. Whom do I have the pleasure of sharing this meal with?”
“I am Shimon,” the man replied. “Son of Judas of Gamala, the Hebrew patriot and defender of the Law. A man of incorruptible virtue who was murdered by the Roman dogs for leading a righteous revolt against the tax collectors…those filthy collaborators who demand that we, God’s chosen ones, pay homage to that pagan thief in Rome. There is only one King. We will submit to no one but the Almighty. We will obey no law but God’s Law.” Everyone around the campfire vigorously nodded their approval. “It is our duty to expel the pagans and reestablish God’s reign here in our homeland…our Israel. We will not rest until Israel is free. We will fight until we draw our last breath. To do less is treason. Treason against the Almighty. Treason against the one true God. The God of our fathers.”
As Shimon spoke, his voice swelling with emotion, the men rose to their feet, drew their daggers and swords, and held them aloft in silent affirmation of their holy mission. Moved by the display, Viktor stood with them, a shiver passing through his body. It was an echo of his previous life, so much like his initiation into the Israeli Defense Forces on the barren hilltop of Masada. These were his people, his comrades. So little had changed in two thousand years. The children of Israel perpetually fighting for survival, outnumbered and outgunned, but always confident of their purpose. Caught up in the moment, Viktor reached out and embraced Shimon. Then remembering where he was, he abruptly released the man and stepped away. Surprisingly, Shimon was not displeased with the show of emotion, grasping Viktor’s arm.
“I knew you were one of us from the first time I saw you. I could see the spark of a patriot and a warrior. I saw a true son of Israel. Look at me.”
Viktor looked.
“Do you not remember me?”
Viktor searched the man’s face, racking his brain to recall. Wondering now what he had gotten himself into and where the conversation was leading, he warily shook his head.
“I am not surprised,” Shimon said, a sad smile touching his lips. “We have all been through much these past years. Sit down and I will tell you a story. Then you can tell me if my memory serves me well.”
Everyone around the campfire sheathed their weapons and sat down, their undivided attention on their commander. “A while back, during a raid on a pagan settlement in Samaria, I got separated from my men and was captured by the Romans. When I refused to cooperate with the tribune, he sent me to the prison in Caesarea. There is a guard in that awful pit who loves to torture false confessions out of innocent Jews.” Shimon’s eyes hardened, focused on some point out in the darkness, out into the past, or perhaps the future. “Someday I am going to get my hands on that butcher…and then he is going to discover what suffering is all about.” Slowly, Shimon’s face softened and his gaze returned to the present, came to rest on Viktor’s uneasy face. “When the guard came to take me away for torture, they could not identify me. We Jews all look alike to them. And no one would point me out. So to save face, they selected a prisoner at random, said he was me, and pulled him apart with a team of horses out in the prison courtyard. We could hear the Romans laughing as the innocent man screamed in agony. They are vicious, wicked beasts. A few days later, as I made plans to escape, the Romans dragged in a beaten wretch. I did not think this man would last the night. But he did. I could tell this man was different. He was tough and intelligent, and he had the qualities of a true warrior about him. But he was still weak from the beating so I kept watch over him, made sure he got his share of the bread and water, made sure no one mistreated him. As the days passed, he gained strength, but I could see he was losing heart in that stinking dungeon. So I resolved to take him away with me. Before I could make good my escape, the pigs announced that we were all charged with treason and would be crucified the next day. I had to act fast. I knew my compatriots were near. So I caused a stir. And when the guards took me out to flog me, my men used their swords to set me free. I remained hidden outside the gate, waiting for them to bring you out, when a doddering old Roman went in and purchased you from the guard like an animal. I figured you would be safe for the time being and rejoined my men. I never thought I would see you again. But here you are. It is the will of the Almighty. And we can surely use you. You are a brave man, Viktor. Or maybe a crazy man. You looked like you were ready to take on that whole Roman patrol by yourself. A man like you is born to fight. I can see it in your eyes. I can hear it in your voice. You are one of us. You know it and I know it. We are heading south to meet up with my brother James. Together our combined forces will destroy the Roman garrison at Qumran. We will throw the beasts out of Israel. Are you with us Viktor?”
“I am.”
CHAPTER 44
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
The roads were filling with pilgrims and merchants and beggars and thieves, their numbers increasing daily with the approach of Passover. A wary Roman military, anticipating trouble as the holy days grew near, had expanded their presence dramatically. The prefect, presuming to maintain the peace with an overwhelming show of force, often provoked quite the opposite reaction, their very presence mocking the forthcoming celebration of the Jewish people’s deliverance from Egyptian slavery, many Jews seeing Tiberius Caesar as just another incarnation of the pharaoh. Tempers were running hot and confrontation was inevitable. The 10th Legion responded with brutal efficiency, swiftly crushing any disturbance. As the people of Israel prepared for the Seder, devotion filled their hearts, hope imbued their prayers, and deliverance from tyranny fueled their dreams.
As they worked their way south, Shimon’s forces kept to the high desert that bordered the green trace of the Jordan. Concealed from view by a barren ridgeline, the freedom fighters advanced unseen. But it soon became impossible to resist all the juicy targets that presented themselves down in the valley—the isolated Roman checkpoints, the fat Roman merchants, the pagan idol-worshipping settlements. The warriors needed food and supplies and weapons, and it was all there for the taking. Met with unerring success, their falcon-quick raids became increasingly brazen.
As rumor spread of a Zealot army moving toward Jerusalem, liberating the countryside, their ranks swelled with newcomers, dreams of throwing off the yoke of Roman occupation drawing both the faithful and the faithless, the dissident and the adventure seeker. In a matter of days, the band of freedom fighters did indeed become a small army. And that army attracted a following of noncombatants as well, as a straggling camp of kinfolk, holy men, and merchants joined the procession. This, in turn, was soon shadowed by a sordid contingent of human scavengers and predators.
Shimon’s fighting force quickly doubled and doubled again. The support of his people was heartening, but control was slipping away. There was a time when he had handpicked every one of the fighters under his command. He knew their fathers and their mothers, their uncles and grandfathers. Now the force that surrounded him was strangers. Even worse, most of the newcomers were untrained and untested, which seriously diluted his fighting capability. Some didn’t even possess a weapon. These raw recruits sorely needed discipline and they needed leaders. Leaders they could trust, leaders they could learn from, and leaders that they would follow unquestioningly into battle. So using the Roman military model, Shimon organized the newcomers into small units and placed his veterans in command. It worked well. Many of the new squads performed admirably in small scale raids. But now with so many squads, he needed to devise a way to organize and control them in a larger battle. Further following the enemy’s example, he began drilling the growing ranks in battlefield tactics. They were still unbloodied, but out in the empty wilderness of Judea, they were beginning to behave like a real army.
/> His was not a battle-hardened force. Shimon knew that. But looking out over the broad sweep of firepits glowing in the brief desert twilight, he couldn’t help but feel the strength of their numbers. No longer would he have to be satisfied with nipping at the heels of the Roman beast, no longer contenting himself with small raids and ambushes. Maybe it was time to go for the throat of the beast. Maybe the time was right to drive the pagans from his homeland once and for all. When he joined up with his brother James, surely their combined force would be unstoppable.
Shimon was no longer leading a lean band of marauders. And that presented a whole different set of problems for him. It was an army, not of professional soldiers but of common people, Jews of all economic and social and religious classes, people with diverse customs, needs, and desires—needs and desires of the mind and the spirit and the flesh. These were things he couldn’t just command away. He tried to send the growing camp of noncombatants away, but found it was impossible to do so. The wives, the cooks and the herders, the teamsters and the metal workers, the rabbis and the mystics, even the prostitutes, they kept his army functioning. He didn’t like it, but they were an integral part of life and he needed them.
He was learning something the Romans had learned long ago. For every soldier an army put into the field, many more were required to keep the soldier clothed, supplied, and fed. A small band of marauders could live off their booty. But a marching army required a support network. The camp of followers provided for much of that. But it was not enough. A couple of goats a day did not fill many bellies. Fresh water was a constant need. Meals had to be cooked, latrines dug, sandals mended, weapons repaired. Shimon was forced to delegate the management of those matters to a collective of merchants from the Galilee. He was a fighter, not a manager. He preferred to leave such mundane tasks to others. He hoped they were trustworthy. If it proved otherwise, the Almighty himself would not be able to blunt his vengeance, and he told them so. They believed him.
With the growing army came a new and unwelcome notoriety for Shimon. The Romans now knew who he was and they wanted him stopped, placing a substantial price on his head. That itself did not trouble him. But it did confirm that there were informers in the ranks. Someone was talking too much. Someone was consorting with the enemy. He began to wonder if there might be assassins lurking in their midst. He wasn’t afraid to die. But he preferred to die in battle with Roman blood staining his sword.
Withdrawing from contact with the rank and file, he became increasingly isolated, keeping consul only with members of his original band. As he became less and less accessible to the troops, it only served to fan the flames of his legend, transforming him into a superhuman figure among many of his followers. Inspiring renewed loyalty among the veterans and near fanaticism among many of the new recruits, the blossoming cult of Shimon began to spawn a false sense of invincibility within the army of freedom fighters. They, too, became convinced that it was time to strike, to throw off the yoke of oppression. With the Almighty shielding them and Shimon leading them, how could they fail?
The army continued to work its way south. Encumbered by their growing numbers, progress was slow. Leaving the valley and bypassing Jericho, Shimon led his troops into the inhospitable desert that lay to the east of the Dead Sea. As far as the eye could see, a barren desiccated landscape lay before them. Somewhere out there, James waited. Together they would formulate a plan to defeat the Romans. They would meet the beast on its own terms and they would prevail. Together they would be victorious. Together their combined forces would liberate Israel.
CHAPTER 45
Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)
The sky above the desert glowed a deep sapphire blue, brightening to crimson at the horizon where the setting sun touched the crest of a distant ridgeline. As the oppressive heat of day escaped into the atmosphere, a cool breeze spread its tendrils into the labyrinth of canyons that scored the barren landscape. On a rocky ledge high above the rebel encampment, Viktor reclined on a throne of sun-warmed boulders, watching a huge bird ride the thermals overhead, a black silhouette against the darkening sky. Across the canyon, a small herd of ibex worked their way along the steep cliff, moving toward a spring at the bottom of the wadi. Down below in the deepening shadows, he could still make out the grove of trees that grew where the life-sustaining waters collected in a pool. Pulling his cloak tighter, Viktor opened his spirit to the serenity of the desert twilight, drinking in the peace and solitude, seeking relief from his troubled thoughts.
To the east, Herod’s fortified palace blazed brightly in the gathering gloom. Perched high atop a towering spire of jagged rock, torches placed along the battlements illuminated the fortress like a beacon in the crystalline desert air. Built in a tortured and forbidding landscape of nothingness, the luxurious citadel stood like a challenge to nature itself, like a defiant fist raised in the face of the Almighty. In the stillness Viktor thought he could hear something…snatches of music…and laughter? Or was it screams? Shaking his head, he realized his imagination was probably just running away with his reason. It was probably nothing more than the wind rushing through the wadi, or the far-off cry of a night creature. Still, he could not tear his eyes away from the palace. Machaerus. If legend was correct, it was where Herod imprisoned the Baptist. Where he beheaded the prophet at the whim of a girl. John might be there right now, rotting in the dungeon. Right there, so close he could hear the music…or imagine it.
“Viktor? Viktor? Is that you, my friend?” A gruff voice sounded behind him, snapping Viktor out of his reverie as a hulking form materialized on the steep, boulder-strewn hillside. “Is that you, Viktor? They told me you were up here somewhere. It is Tamir. Do you not remember me?”
“Sure I do,” Viktor replied as he was lifted up like a child by the huge man and wrapped in an affectionate embrace.
“I knew you would join us. I knew it. I was visiting Shimon’s camp and they spoke of a strange young man with a strange accent who had joined them. A fighter with the heart of a lion and the mind of rabbi. I knew it had to be you. Do not ask me how, but I just knew it. So I come out here and sure enough, there you are, alone in the night. My friend Viktor, the thinker. It is good to see you.”
“It is good to see you, too, Tamir.”
“I have come with James’s army. Is this not grand? We are so many. We are a real army now. A great Jewish army. Now we have the strength to push the Romans back into the sea. Do you not feel it?”
Viktor let his silence speak for itself.
“Why are you out here by yourself? Why are you not enjoying the festivities?”
“I see no reason for rejoicing. I fear for this great Jewish army.”
“How can you say such a thing? We are a great force. Look out there, look how many Jews have come together. We have the numbers, we have great leaders, and we have the Almighty on our side. We even have archers. I have seen them for myself. And James commandeered two catapults from the garrison at Pella. Just pulled them away in the night. The Romans are lazy, dim-witted asses. Every one of our fighters is worth ten of those jackals. We will crush them at Qumran. Then on to Alexandrium. And after that, Sepphoris and Caesarea…even Jerusalem. How can they stop us?”
The question hung unanswered in the stillness. Viktor picked up a stone and tossed it out into the darkness, listening as it skipped and bounced down into the canyon. Finally, he broke the silence with a lingering sigh.
“They can stop us…and they will,” he said. “Tamir, my friend, listen to me. The Romans are not lazy, nor are they dim-witted. You cannot know this, but their power will flourish long after we are dust. Long after the Temple lay in ruins.”
“The Temple in ruins? Viktor, you speak nonsense. What is wrong with you, my friend? Can you not see what lay before your eyes?” Tamir waved a huge hand toward the rebel encampment, where hundreds of firepits dotted the darkened hills. “Look at all those patriots. This is our land. The Almighty gave it to our fathers. How can the Romans defea
t us?”
“Yes, I can see the might of Israel out there, and so can the Romans. That is one of Herod’s palaces up there on that rock. By tomorrow, every garrison in Judea will know we are here. They will dispatch cavalry to watch our every move. Wherever we go, they will be waiting for us.”
“Let them wait for us. We are unstoppable. We have known only victory.”
“Yes, Shimon and James have been victorious, there is no denying that. But they were mere skirmishes, not full-scale battles. We are the masters of surprise. We hit the enemy and run before reinforcements can arrive. We have lost that advantage.”
“Before we were few. Now we are many.”
“The ranks were once filled with fierce, dedicated warriors. Jewish patriots willing to die for their cause. When I look out over that encampment down there, I do not see fierce warriors. I see rabble. I see a mob of untrained, untested, cannon fodder. Shimon and James have traded away their strength for numbers. And those numbers add up to nothing.”
Tamir looked perplexed. “Cannon fodder? What is this you speak of?”
“Oh, it is just a manner of speaking. It means expendable soldiers. Like a military sacrifice. That force down there is a lumbering giant. We think our righteous cause will bring us glorious victory. But we will be slaughtered. Sacrificed to James and Shimon’s ambition.”
“Viktor, have you drank too much wine tonight? Why so sorrowful? It is true, many of us are not soldiers. But we are learning, and learning fast. And we are not afraid to die. Our leaders are great men. We have good weaponry. And we have the numbers. What garrison can withstand this force?”
“There is more to winning a war than just numbers. We are slow and we have lost the element of surprise. From now on, the Romans will watch our every move. They will maneuver and choose the setting of the battle. They will choose good, defensible ground. They will fight as a disciplined force. And they will defeat us. We are nothing more than a pale imitation of the Romans.”
The Emmanuel Project Page 14