by Adam Palmer
“I have a letter from your father,” said Morgan when he reached the top. He handed Bar Tikva the letter in the sealed white envelope.
Morgan had arrived from Israel and taken a black taxi here right away. As soon as he had told the driver that his destination was Stamford Hill, the taxi driver had regaled him with tales of life in London’s East End in the nineteen fifties. The driver was a war baby, now pushing retirement age. But he was the kind of man who wanted to die with his boots on.
Although not Jewish himself, the cabbie assumed, erroneously, that Sam Morgan was, and spent the entire journey rabbiting on about his “nice Jewish neighbours” including “the booby” who used to give him and his brother “lockshen soup” when they got home from school while their parents were both out working.
It amused Morgan to listen to the driver. Presumably he was hoping for a big tip at the end. Morgan obliged him, on the pragmatic grounds that in a worst case scenario, he didn’t want this man talking about him to the police and the best way to ensure a man’s silence was to make him your friend. If subsequently there was a report on Crimewatch in which his description came up, Morgan didn’t want the taxi driver rushing to the nearest phone and grassing him up.
Morgan looked around at the sparsely furnished room. The furniture was old and the atmosphere musty and smelly — with odours from the past that had accumulated in the poorly ventilated room. The room itself was over a shop and had a view of the high street.
While Morgan stood looking around, Bar-Tikva tore open the letter and read it. In fact, Morgan had steamed it open to try and find out what it said. But it was in Hebrew — or Yiddish, using the Hebrew alphabet at any rate — and he couldn’t make head or tail of it. So he re-sealed it, hoping that Bar-Tikva wouldn’t notice. Given the enthusiasm with which Bar-Tikva tore the envelope open — determined to get to the contents — Morgan suspected that he didn’t.
The only thing that Morgan didn’t understand was why HaTzadik had given him a letter in the first place. Why not a phone call. HaTzadik had a mobile phone after all — even if it didn’t have internet connectivity. Then again perhaps he was afraid of being monitored. Shomrei Ha’ir were not too popular in Israel, because of their virulent anti-Zionism. One of their former leaders had once said that if he had a nuclear bomb, he would use it on Israel. In the eyes of some ultra-Orthodox Jews, this had put him beyond the pale — even some of those who were themselves anti-Zionist.
Casting a brief glance at Bar-Tikva now, Morgan noticed him smile as he read the letter. It was so unusual to see Baruch Tikva smile — he was usually such a misery-guts — that Morgan couldn’t help but wander what had brought this mirth to his face.
“Okay,” said Bar-Tikva after he finished reading the letter. “My father wants us to work together. He says that you know this country better than I do, so you are in a better position to avoid mistakes than I am.”
What Bar-Tikva didn’t tell Morgan was that the letter also cautioned his son not to trust Sam Morgan because there was evidently a traitor in the camp and until they knew who it was, he should be very wary of “that greedy Englishman.” But in any case, Morgan was no longer thinking about the letter. He was thinking about his own plans to take this matter further.
“That’s right. And I’ve been thinking about what we need to do. The way I see it, it also starts at the dig. That’s where Martin Costa found the parchment and that’s where Daniel Klein is bound to go sooner or later of he wants to get any more information. So that’s where we have to be to intercept him and to find out what he’s up to.”
“You mean… what.. we just turn up at the dig site?”
“No obviously we need a cover story. We need to find a way to worm our way in. But it isn’t going to work if you turn up there dressed like that. You’re going to have to ditch the religious garb.”
Chapter 42
“ ‘On the day Third of the week, the 28th day of the month Iyar in the year three thousand eight hundred and twenty one since the creation of the world according to the reckoning which we are accustomed to use here in the city of Verulamium in the land of Brittania…’ ”
Daniel was reading in his mind and translating slowly, as Sarit listened in amazement.
“And this is in Aramaic?” asked Sarit.
“This is in Aramaic. And the script is right for the time.”
“And what time is that?”
“By my reckoning some time in the first century of the Common Era?”
Daniel was an atheist rather than a practicing Jew. His insistence on “Common Era” and “Before the Common Era” — rather than AD and BC — was based on academic rigour, not theology.
“Can we work it out exactly?”
“Sure, but we’ll have to go online.”
Daniel minimized the image and did a search for an app or website that could convert from the Jewish calendar to the civil calendar. The first few that he came up with could only go back as far as the introduction of the Gregorian Calendar. Eventually he found one that worked and entered the information, while Sarit went into the kitchen to make coffee.
“Good God!”
“What?” Sarit called out.
“It’s from the year 61.”
Sarit had come rushing in, holding a mug that she had just rinsed out.”
“What date?”
“May… May the forth.”
“Anything particular about that day?”
“No, but the year’s particular enough. Wasn’t that the year that Boudicca fought with the Romans?”
“Wait a minute. Didn’t Professor Hynds say that the site had something to do with that?”
“Not exactly. All he said was that it was a Romano-British site. That covers a five hundred year period.”
Daniel minimized the calendar conversion app to get on with the translation. Sarit stood there, realizing that the coffee could wait.
“ ‘Simon son of Giora said to this maiden Lanevshiah daughter of Farashotagesh ‘Be thou my wife according to the law of Moses and Israel.’ ”
“Are those Jewish names?”
“Simon and Giora are. In fact there was a very famous Simon son of Giora at the time of the Judean uprising 66 CE.”
Daniel froze suddenly, as he realized how close that date was to the date of this document.
“What about the others?”
“They don’t sound Jewish. Heck they don’t sound anything in particular. Assuming I’m pronouncing them properly.”
“What because of the vowels you mean?”
Aramaic, like Hebrew and Arabic, was written in an Abjad — a consonant alphabet with no vowels.”
“No vowels?”
“I mean no written vowels. Obviously they sounded out the vowels when they spoke. But the vowels were never transcribed in the written form. That came with later developments in written language. In an Abjad, The vowels are implied by the context and the rules of grammar. To those familiar with the language, this is no problem.”
“Which you are.”
“Which I am. But when it comes to names, it can be problematical, especially if they’re old names or foreign names and uncommon ones at that.
“Maybe we can get some advice from Professor Hynds.”
Daniel looked pleased at this.
“But we’ll have to be careful,” she added.
“Okay let’s get on with this. ‘and I will work for thee, honour, provide for, and support thee, in accordance with the practice of Jewish husbands, who work for their wives, honour, provide for and support them in truth.’ He looked up at Sarit, who was still standing there expectantly.
“So what is it?”
“It’s a standard ketuba — a Jewish marriage agreement in which the groom asks the woman to become his wife and undertakes to support her and provide for her.”
“So it’s like a contract?”
“Sort of. It’s written in the third person from the point of view of the witnesses, whose names are… Barach
and Aristobulos. They’re essentially attesting to the fact that this is what the man said to the woman. And after that, the document is given to the wife as her protection.”
“But why would there be a Jewish marriage certificate at a Romano-British site?”
“That’s just one of the big-mysteries, Sarit.”
Chapter 43
The incident room was a hive of activity when the report came through. The young WPC saw it on her computer and realized instantly what it was. With a click of the mouse, she sent it to the printer. And then got up from her desk and walked a few feet to retrieve it. There were maybe half a dozen computers in the room. But they all shared one laser printer.
She scooped it up from the printer’s Out tray and carried it over to the corner of the room where DCI Vincent was working.
“Sir we’ve got a trace on that call to Julia Sasson’s phone.”
The WPC handed the printout to the Chief Inspector.
“Great!” said the DCI, bristling with enthusiasm. “Let’s pay our friend Daniel Klein a visit.”
The WPC squirmed with embarrassment.
“I didn’t explain very well Sir. It’s not actually the full address.”
Vincent looked up, irritably.
“What do you mean?”
“The phone doesn’t have GPS. They could only trace it by the ground stations. They’ve go an approximate address but not an exact one.”
Vincent looked at the printout annoyed. It showed the area and explained the degree of accuracy. That meant they would have to search several streets.
Chapter 44
“So who was this Simon, son of Giora — the famous one I mean?”
“They were sitting down drinking coffee. Daniel had decided that he needed a break from translating of the Aramaic marriage document, and Sarit took the chance to flesh out her knowledge of ancient Jewish history, continuing the odyssey that had began when she was caught in a suicide bomb explosion by a Palestinian terrorist and continued when she served in Sar-El and the Israel army, before being recruited into the Mossad and trained as a Kidon — a deadly assassin.
“Simon Bar Giora was one of the rival leaders of the Jewish uprising against the Roman’s that began in the year sixty six.”
“What do you mean rival leaders?”
“You have to understand, Sarit, that the Jewish struggle for freedom from Rome — just like the struggle of the ancient Britons — was riven by factionalism and rivalry.”
“Sort of like the Judean People’s Front and the People’s Front of Judea?”
She had said it with a cheeky grin on her face — a look that softened her and briefly replaced the hard, tough killing machine that he knew her to be with the giggly schoolgirl that she could have passed as, if such camouflage had been necessary. But Daniel simply nodded approvingly, confirming that there was more than an element of truth to her flippant rejoinder.
“Not much is known about his early life. The name Giora can mean a stranger or convert. It may not be his father’s name at all. Anyway he first became known round about the year 66 when he was a young soldier who fought against the Romans in what Josephus called the ‘Jewish war.’ It was actually the first full-scale war between the Jews and the Romans.”
Joseph ben Matityahu — as he was originally known — was a Jew who changed sides when he saw the writing on the wall. In the early stages of the Jewish rebellion against Rome, he had been trapped in a siege in the town of Yodfat, which fell to the Romans despite allegedly being defended by thousands of Jews. Josephus, according to his own account, suggested that they salvage their honour by committing mass suicide. But suicide was forbidden in Jewish law and so they drew lots and killed each other, leaving one last man… who just happened to be Josephus. He was taken prisoner, used by the Romans as an interpreter and ultimately came over to the roman side fully and given citizenship and a role as an official historian.
“And the second was the one with Bar Kochba,” said Sarit, determined to show that she was not completely ignorant of these matters.
“Technically that was the third. But anyway, from what little we know about Bar Giora, he was probably quite young at the time, but he proved himself to be a resourceful strategist and military commander. He attacked their flanks and concentrated his forces on capturing their beasts of burden. A bit like capturing undamaged enemy tanks these days and then using them against the other side.”
“Sounds like Arik Sharon,” said Sarit with another cheeky grin.
General Arik Sharon was a famous — if somewhat controversial — Israeli military commander who had distinguished himself in numerous battles, including turning the tide of the Yom Kippur War, which Israel was losing, by crossing the Suez Canal and cutting off the Egyptian Third Army, whilst threatening also to cut off their Second Army.
“That’s actually quite a good comparison,” said Daniel. “Anyway. The point is that despite Simon Bar Giora’s military prowess, the leaders of the Judean uprising were reluctant to promote him to a senior position. This was partly due to the fact that they were afraid of him, both because of his powers and his popularity, but also possibly because of his parentage. If he was the son of a convert, they may have been more sceptical of him.”
“I guess amongst some people in Israel, I’ll never be accepted.”
Daniel heard the pain in her voice and although he couldn’t really speak for others, he wanted to reassure her.
“As an Israeli, I’m sure you’ll be accepted.”
“But I didn’t even consider converting to Judaism. I’m still a Roman Catholic at heart, whatever my politics.”
“Yes, but you served in the Israel army. And to secular Israelis, that’s the important thing. Anyway there was another factor at work in the case of Bar Giora. The priestly authorities at the Temple were realistic enough to know that they could never defeat the Romans outright and they wanted to negotiate with them. Bar Giora didn’t give the impression that he was a man who wanted to negotiate.”
“The same divisions as Israeli politics today.”
Daniel smiled. He didn’t profess to be an expert on modern Israeli politics, but Sarit’s point jelled with what little knowledge he had on the subject.
“And there was yet another reason why they were against him. In addition to his hardline stance against the Romans he was also a bit of a social revolutionary. He robbed the rich Jews as well as attacking the Romans.”
“It sounds like he was the Robin Hood of his day.”
“Exactly. And you have to remember that the Sadducee priests — or Tzadokim — were the aristocrats of Judean society. They were effectively the wealthy class. So by attacking the rich, he was attacking their constituency.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t kill him.”
“Oh, they tried. In fact for a while, he had to hide out in the mountain fortress at Masada with the zealots.”
“So he was part of the mass suicide?”
The Masada legend was writ large into Jewish national history. But the story was a lot more complicated that most people believed.
“He wasn’t there at the final siege. You see the man who was really out for his blood was the High Priest at the Temple: Ananus ben Ananus. But then Ananus — or Hanan in Hebrew — was deposed soon after that. Then later Hanan was killed by the zealots who hated the Sadducees because they thought of them as traitors and collaborators with the Romans. In fact he may have been killed by Edomites who were Gentile allies of the zealots.”
“So what then?” asked Sarit. “Bar Giora joined the zealots?”
“Well, sort of.”
“What do you mean ‘sort of’?”
“Well he came down from Masada and joined the fray, staging raids, robbing the wealthy and even killing them — and his social agenda of freeing the slaves and giving financial rewards struck a chord with the underclass.”
“So now he’s the Lenin of Judea.”
“You could say that. And by this stage, he
was building up a huge following. But his strength was also his weakness. According to Josephus he had 40,000 civilian followers in addition to his soldiers and the other zealots — like John of Giscala — were beginning to get worried about him.”
“But what was their ideology?”
“Good question. If anything it was closer to his than to the Sadducee priests. They were against collaboration with the Romans — or even compromise — just like Bar Giora. They opposed luxurious living, just like Bar Giora. Some people have even described them as ascetics, although that may be an exaggeration. But ideologically there was nothing to separate Bar Giora from John of Giscaala, as far as we know. But as ever, with ideological movements, there’s always a personal element. It was the cult of personality. It was less like Stalin and Trotsky, and more like Hitler and Ernst Roehm — ”
“That’s a horrible analogy!” Sarit snapped. She had heard enough of this from Anti-Semites, without having to hear it from a Jew.
“Don’t take it literally Sarit, but you have to remember that war always was an ugly business. And there are always personal rivalries. Anyway Bar Giora was considered such a threat to John of Giscala that John’s men sat a trap for him.”
“What trap?”
“Well they knew that militarily Bar Giora was too savvy to beat in a pitched battle, so they lured him into an ambush and captured his wife. They tried to use her as a bargaining chip to get him to lay down his weapons and stop fighting, but instead, he went berserk.”
“In what way?”
“Well he raided Jerusalem — holding the ordinary population responsible for what their leaders had done and he pretty much went on the rampage. When his men caught those who tried to flee, they either killed them or tortured them. In some cases, he cut off their hands and sent them back, telling them to warn the Jerusalem authorities that he’d do the same to everyone in the city unless they let his wife go.”