The Artifact

by Quinn, Jack

  Our eventual graduation to the heavy steel broadsword proved my beginner’s ability to be far beneath Vespasian’s developing competence. Though it did enable his trainer, Fabian, to observe the errors of his primary pupil more readily, providing better instruction than when he opposed Vespasian himself. After permission for my participation in these combat lessons had been sought from and approved by his Vespasian’s father, Fabian tried to meliorate my own skills in order to accommodate his student with a competent sparring partner. The end result of these lessons was my ultimate expertise with sword and shield, which I kept not only from father, but all other Jews of my acquaintance, especially Yehoshua.

  One day as we were sparring with wooden swords again, Vespasian knocked my practice weapon from my hand onto the ground, which was not an unusual occurrence. In this instance, however, I heard a shrill whistle, and looking to it’s origin, saw Fabian throwing a wooden practice sword in a low parabola, twirling end over end in the air in my direction. Vespasian had his back to Fabian and stood with his sword at his side chiding me, unaware of the action behind him. But even realizing that Fabian meant to rearm me, I was wary of grasping the scarred, dented shaft of wood in mid-air, knowing that it would almost certainly impale my palms with stout splinters, and

  allowed it to land at my feet before bending to pick it up. By that time, Vespasian had seen the ploy, stepped forward to place a sandal on the wooden shaft, pinning it to the ground and slapped the back of my neck with the broad plane of his.

  Fabian joined us, speaking as he walked. “You may be disarmed in battle some day with a comrade unable to come to your rescue, but capable of throwing a weapon to you. Learning to retrieve it swiftly could save your life.”

  Bolder then, with weeks of tutelage by the old soldier, I addressed him thus: “I would have wounded my hands on the wooden shaft, never mind cutting my fingers off with a steel sword.”

  “If you were foolish enough to grab the sharp metal length of it,” Fabian replied, mindless of my insolence.

  “The handle is only six inches long and revolving tip over grip,” Vespasian said. “How do you expect us to clutch that out of the air?”

  “Would you rather face death without a weapon or chance losing a few fingers?”

  “Not a decision I would care to make,” Vespasian laughed.

  Fabian’s gaze moved from his prime student to me. “The secret in battle, like much in life, is concentration.”

  During the next hour, and when the occasion arose in practice sessions thereafter, Fabian showed us how to focus eyes, mind, limbs and being on the short grip of rapidly looping gouged wood, and later sharply honed steel swords soaring through the air toward either one of us. Both Vespasian and I viewed the exercise more as a game than serious preparation for combat, because we found it hard to imagine the terrifying situation that would necessitate its application. Little did I realize then, that perfecting our skill at that ‘game’ would change the course of my existence.

  Besides those lessons in physical combat, a good deal of conflict came with my association with

  Romans, not the least of which were the Laws of the Torah. Vespasian’s mother and sister were in Rome for the season and his father away most days on business, so servants served our noon meal to the two of us. On the occasion of our first midday repast, I was astounded by a table replete with more food than I had ever seen gathered in one place except holyday feasts, most of it contrary to our dietary laws. Cheese from the goat, the hock of a pig, bread, mutton, fish, olives, fruit, and heavily watered wine. I could sense Vespasian’s subtle glee at my dilemma, wondering if I would allay my almost constant hunger by succumbing to a repast I had never experienced or abide by the rigid laws of my religion. Until that day, I had been taught that Torah law was not a yoke we must bear, but a collection of assigned rules Yahweh has provided his chosen people to live by to prepare us for eternal salvation. Now I was faced with the taunting choice between silencing my growling stomach or remaining true to my instilled beliefs.

  At our first meal together, I chose a piece of fish, some fruit and bread with a cup of wine, dismissing Vespasian’s malicious encouragement to partake more fully of the meal with the falsehood that I was not hungry. That challenge and my dissembling went on for more than a week until Vespasian became annoyed at what he viewed at my stupidity.

  “What do you gain by your ridiculous rules?” he asked me.

  “The favor of God by obeying His Laws.”

  Vespasian emitted a dismissive chuckle. “We won’t debate why your one God allows Jews to be so downtrodden and our gods permit us to rule half the world. What I ask is why you do not eat to gain strength for your body and experience the pleasure of delicious food?”

  “Because denial is repentance for all our past transgressions.”

  “What are you repenting for, Shimon?”

  “Our sins, to cleanse our souls for admission into the Kingdom of God.”

  “Rejecting the small pleasures of this life seem a high price to pay for some uncertain

  concept of a future existence,” Vespasian said. “And your laws: who made them up, your one God?”

  “Abraham, Moses, Hillel,” I answered. “Prophets and holy men inspired by God.”

  “What must I do for you to partake,” Vespasian swept an arm over the plates full of food, “of a meal like this?”

  “I cannot eat from a table with meat of cloven-hoofed animals and the products of milk.

  Nor the flesh of a pig. All permissible food must be prepared Kosher and blessed by a Rabbi.”

  “By Herod’s beard! I speak about a simple midday repast, not a holiday banquet.”

  “You asked,” I answered.

  “But who would know if you ate a piece of ham and cheese? I would never tell.”

  “God would know. As would I.”

  Temptation is an insidious thing. I did resist Vespasian’s chiding during our meals for some time. One day the servants had set a table according to Jewish law, and their master asked the head man a pointed question for my benefit.

  “This food has all been prepared according to kosher and blessed by a rabbi, as I ordered. Is that true, Hager?”

  “Yes, Master, just as you instructed.”

  Vespasian turned to me. “Now, there is no reason for you not to eat anything on the table to your complete satisfaction, am I not correct?”

  “I suppose not,” I replied with some hesitation.

  “Good! Then from now on, we will eat kosher, and you shall enjoy yourself for a change.”

  Not only did I find great pleasure in our meals from then on, in fact for the next three years of our youthful friendship, but I grew to my full height, albeit still short of stature, yet broad of chest and firm of limb. The prospect of growth into a stalwart man, save for the damnable shriveled

  limb I had suffered from birth.

  By the time I had reached my thirteenth year, my studies with Vespasian and Rabbi Moshe had taught me to master the skills of calculating, reading and writing in Aramaic and Hebrew. The basis for my lessons were of course the Torah and selected tracts of the Greek philosophers, for there were few other written words appropriate for Jews. Although reading and writing came quickly to me, I encountered many difficulties with the content of the text itself. Looking back, I believe it has always been my nature to seek the meaning behind an idea, to evaluate its veracity and qualify its source. My regular association with pagans in the Prefect’s household and my exposure to their occasional derision of my religion did nothing to reduce that self-imposed confusion. Nor did their profession of the logic of their myth-based beliefs as opposed to the often incredibility of ours. In our reading the Torah, Rabbi Moshe had emphasized the significance of the religious stories and importance of our laws with which I began to take issue. Arguing with a rabbi, I soon realized, was a certain means of making time stand still: nothing progressed, including my primary lessons, until he had worn me down to a point where I was
forced to accede to his interpretation. Therefore, I learned another lesson: never argue with a rabbi.

  During that period of my youth, I began spending quite a bit of time in the Roman quarter with Vespasian in his Aramaic lessons taught in Latin, training with Fabian and consorting with his friends, which was initially awkward, until their natural leader made it clear that I was to be an accepted member of their band. In my observation of Vespasian alone and with others, it was not long before I recognized that his boisterous, commandeering manner was more a facade for a calculating mind than his real persona. At three years my senior he began our initially forced relationship by treating me as a sort of damaged pet or curiosity, until he took me more seriously, then into his confidence, until he became a friend I could rely on, yet not always trust.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sepphoris, Palestine

  3765 Sivan (CE 18 June)

  Upon reflection, I have many regrets in my life, but with a single exception, none as great as my first love, whose rejection left me with a sadness that I have carried in my breast through all of my days.

  That same year in which I celebrated the twelfth anniversary of my birth contained a great deal of change for me: I undertook my bar mitzvah, publicly assuming responsibility for the strict observance of my religion, completed my tutelage by Rabbi Moshe, and both Vespasian and I had all but mastered our respective languages of Aramaic and Latin. Although we continued to sharpen our grammar and vocabularies during our training at swords with Fabian, there was no structure to it, except for the occasional conversations with Vespasian’s father. As a matter of course, the Prefect was so pleased with his son’s facility in my language and impressed by my ability to spar with Vespasian with broadsword and shield, that he invited my continued presence in his home, extending my small stipend without mention.

  Vespasian was far ahead of me in maturity and daring, to the end that we had altogether ceased playing at games some months before, exchanging that innocent pastime for sojourns with a few of his older friends into the lower depths of the city. At first we merely observed the hawkers of stolen goods, beggars and prostitutes, then boldly harassed them until the Roman boys finally partook of unwatered wine and the illicit favors of tawdry women.

  On the one hand, I acknowledge these excursions as stimulating yet harmless escapades, but our behavior also embarrassed and made me feel guilt; for the victims of our taunting were inevitably the poorest of Jews and foreigners. Although the purity strictures of my religion prevented my full participation in those ventures, I must confess a youthful relish of the detailed description of those sexual encounters by the older boys that lingered in my head until late at night when the rest of the family slept, and I could quietly release the painful tension of mind and groin.

  It was also the same year that Vespasian and I drifted apart. Our difference in age, his greater maturity, my refusal to engage completely in the city excursions, plus my silent tenacity regarding my religion clarified our basic differences. Those issues also delineated our disparate interests, thus setting us apart as ruler and ruled and from one another as individuals.

  Although he no longer invited me to join his Roman friends in their evening forays into the city, he still seemed to enjoy my company alone, whereby I visited his home for swordplay, a swim in his pool and leisurely lunch of intellectual bantering, which I suspected was absent from his relationship with friends of his own class.

  One hot summer morning Vespasian’s restless obsession for action instigated his challenge to me for a duel with lightweight steel broadswords as was his wont during frequent moods of boredom. Fabian was not present to monitor our engagement that day when Vespasian became overly aggressive, and I was torn between my options of a quick surrender, which could save me from painful bruises and cuts, yet could also incite his anger to force the match to continue to my greater damage. I decided to hope for the best by putting up a vigorous defense.

  Some weeks prior, Vespasian had mentioned that his mother and younger sister would be sailing from Rome to take up residence in their Sepphoris mansion with him and his father for the summer. He did not know the precise date of her arrival, particularly that their entourage from the ship in Ptolemais would roll into the courtyard on the same day of our memorable duel.

  We had begun easily, parrying thrusts, using our shields for defense more than our usual offensive sword attacks, my tactical decision held in abeyance until I saw how Vespasian would pursue this exercise. We were stripped to the waist, a sheen of perspiration covering our torsos, panting rhythmically in the hot sun, circling one another in a dance of combat, my back to the gates, when Vespasian suddenly dropped his guard, and my instinctive reaction slammed the flat of my sword against his ribs, bending him forward, whence I was able to smash a power blow to his raised shield, throwing him off balance to the ground. He winced for a moment at the pain in his side until an expression of fury came to his face, and I knew I was in for a trouncing at his superior skill. I heard the sound of wagons behind me, which I realized had drawn Vespasian’s attention causing him to lose his concentration. At the same instance, thankful that Fabian’s training had served me so well, I girded myself to apply it to prevent a slashed arm or worse from my enraged opponent. Retribution came swift and hard as Vespasian thrust his blade beyond my defensive parries, smashing my shield with such power that it splintered my shield and made my arm behind it tingle painfully, causing me to pull it aside from the blows that it should have taken. My sword arm was heavy from the constant hammering and his strikes to my body increasingly frequent as Vespasian forced me back into an obstacle which surprised me, preventing further retreat. My exhaustion and incompetence forced me to drop my defense to allow a frontal jab from the tip of his blunted sword that pierced my side almost to the depth of a man’s finger.

  I felt suddenly faint and disoriented, for the next thing I recall was a clamor of sound and movement around me, perceived from my dazed perspective on my back, looking up at the blurred faces of strangers crowding above. My hand went to the pain in my lower abdomen to feel a sticky fluid seeping from the gash thereon. The countenance of a beautiful woman hovered over me for several moments, her fingers pushing my hand away from the wound, pressing a thick cloth firmly against it, at which point I passed out again.

  My next recollection was from the small room in which I had slept on the many occasions I had remained overnight in Vespasian’s home, in this instance with Shana, a young household servant sitting beside my bed. When I queried her regarding my circumstances, she told me that her Mistress, Lucrentia, had summoned a surgeon to sew my wound. I had slept through the remainder of the previous day, and the sun was setting in the west as we spoke. After propping me up with pillows, giving me water, and a plate of fruit, she left me.

  By the time I had eaten the fruit, the beautiful dark-haired woman I recalled from the courtyard entered my room in a flowing, sleeveless robe of beige trimmed in green, a gold brooch imbedded with jewels clasped upon her shoulder mantle, her low bodice revealing the top of prominent breasts, her narrow waist cinched with links of gold chain. The regal woman stood some distance from my bed as she introduced herself as Lucrentia, Vespasian’s mother; who had surely seen many more seasons than my own, but looked not much older.

  She inquired politely about my wound but did not offer any consolation for it, ignoring the obvious malice of her son in its infliction. She had evidently learned the history of Vespasian’s and my relationship, announcing that certain changes would be instituted in the household and family priorities, which meant that Vespasian would have less free time to spend in leisure activities, a pointed implication that my visits to their home would henceforth be curtailed. Lucrentia told me that her message to my parents regarding my absence minimized the minor accident of our swordplay to prevent their needless concern. She had assured them that I was well cared for and would return home on the morrow. So much for malingering Jews, I thought.

  No fur
ther mention of Vespasian was made until the following morning after the surgeon examined my stitches, gave me instructions for their removal and re-bandaged the wound. I had just finished dressing in the clean toga laid out for me by Shana and was adjusting my leg brace when a girl about my age walked into the room wearing a short lemon colored scoop-neck toga hemmed in red, a narrow silver belt pulled tight, stretching the silky fabric down from her left shoulder across small round breasts whose nipples pressed into the cloth, culminating in a young female body far more enticing to me than my curiosity about my sister Sarah’s. Her broad countenance presented a high forehead from which thick auburn hair was swept atop her head and casually tied with a yellow ribbon. A prominent nose between wide-spaced eyes reflected a familial resemblance, all in all possessing the nascent hint of her mother’s beauteous features.

  “Only incredible stupidity,” she said in Latin, “could account for a small crippled Jew fencing with an accomplished Roman swordsman.”

  Her presumptuous attitude immediately confirmed her as a family member who could only be Vespasian’s sister, Tanya.

  “You saw it,” I replied, embarrassed at being caught by this lovely girl completing the task of lacing my brace.

  “Does that contraption,” she asked, pointing to my brace, “aid you to walk like a normal person?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Let me see.”