Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  “He is like a young boy. It is hard to believe it is the same person.”

  Miriam’s head turned slightly. Not far from where her father was, Simeon sat with his two men and their families. “It is interesting,” she mused softly to Livia. “Yehuda and Daniel and Azariah dance. My father wishes to. But Simeon sits. It is almost like the music has not even touched him.”

  Before Livia could respond they were both startled by a figure looming over them. It was Yehuda, smiling down at them. “You have escaped the hands of Moshe Ya’abin,” he said, his breath coming quickly from his exertions. “Is that not reason for celebration?”

  “Indeed,” Miriam answered with a smile. “But unfortunately my feet have danced over too many pathways for one day.”

  Yehuda’s face fell, and he instantly dropped to one knee to examine her feet. There was a quick intake of air, and he gave a low whistle. “No wonder you walk with pain in your eyes. We must put something on them or you will have infection tomorrow. I will have Shana get it.”

  “No,” Miriam said, aware now that Simeon was watching the interchange. Then more softly she added, “It can wait until after the dance.”

  Yehuda hesitated, then nodded. He turned to Livia, who was suddenly staring at the fire with intense concentration.

  Miriam smiled. “Your feet are not blistered, Livia.”

  She looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting at her sash.

  “Well?” Miriam persisted. “Does your head still hurt?”

  “No, but I—” Her eyes flicked to Yehuda then dropped again, and she colored even more deeply. “I have not danced for many years.”

  “Aha!” Yehuda cried, grasping her hands and pulling her up. “Blistered feet are an acceptable excuse. Leaden feet are not. Come! I shall teach you.”

  From the dancing villagers came a warm cry of approval, and the women quickly made a place for Livia in the line. The pace of the music slowed as Yehuda boomed out instructions, and Shana took Livia’s hand and began to walk her through some steps. Miriam watched, first in pleased amusement, then in growing thoughtfulness. Perhaps it had been years since Livia had danced, but either she had danced a great deal in her youth or she had an abundance of natural talent. Very quickly, to the delight of the villagers collectively and Yehuda in particular, Daniel brought the music back up to full tempo, and Livia was one with the others.

  This was a night for new insights, thought Miriam. Azariah enthralling the crowds with his stories, then dancing like a young boy. Her father clapping his hands in time to the music. Livia, dancing like a sprite.

  Miriam jumped slightly. A figure had moved over to stand in front of her. Her dark eyes widened as she looked up and saw who it was.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Simeon said.

  “Oh . . . I was just watching the dancers.” Her voice trailed off, and she looked away just in time to see Shana miss a step and flash her a sharp look. It was an unmistakable signal. “Stay away.” But Miriam was trying to cope with the fact that Simeon was standing there, watching her steadily. She didn’t have time to worry about Shana.

  He dropped into a crouch directly in front of her. “How are your feet?” he asked. He was between her and the fire, which left his face in deep shadow and impossible to read. Nor did his voice give any clue. Was he compassionate? angry? irritated?

  “I . . . They’ll be all right,” she murmured. “They just need a rest.” She started to draw her feet back up and under her, but he reached out quickly and grabbed an ankle. Before she had time to react, he was probing at them gently. She winced, biting her lip. As he gave a low whistle, she looked up at him. “I walk all the time in Jerusalem. I don’t understand why they are so tender today.”

  “Thirty miles?”

  “What?”

  “Do you walk thirty miles in one day?”

  He was closer now, and she could see his features more clearly. They were not angry or irritated, only filled with gentleness.

  “Is that how far we came?” she murmured.

  He nodded. “I’m sorry. We had to be sure we were clear of Ya’abin.”

  She shuddered. “I would walk sixty miles to be clear of him.” Then, suddenly aware that he still held her ankle, she pulled it away, and he sat back on his heels. At that moment one of the young boys came trotting up, a small clay jar and some thick folds of cloth in his hands.

  Simeon nodded, and the boy squatted down next to Miriam’s feet. “This will help,” Simeon said. Then to the boy he added. “Be gentle. Her feet are very bad.” Then to Miriam he said, “This is Adar, Yehuda’s nephew.”

  Miriam wrinkled her nose as Adar swiped out a smear of dark brown, foul-smelling paste on his fingers. “What does it do?” she asked.

  Adar shrugged, smiling shyly. Simeon answered for him. “Deadens the pain, fights the infection, toughens the skin.” He flashed her a quick look. “It may hurt a little.”

  It didn’t hurt a little. It hurt a lot, so much so that Miriam had to dig her fingernails into the dirt to stifle the cry that welled up in her throat. The boy worked swiftly but with surprising gentleness. “You can cry out if it helps,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” she muttered between clenched teeth.

  Simeon’s eyes widened slightly. “Why not?”

  Because I don’t want you to think that I am a soft and coddled woman of Jerusalem. But aloud, forcing a lightness into her voice, she said only, “It might throw the dancers off their step.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he gave her a long, scrutinizing look. Gratefully, the paste was now taking effect, and the pain diminished rapidly once she had endured the searing agony of having it smeared on. Finally Adar finished and sat back on his heels. “There.”

  Miriam took a deep breath and tipped her head back, letting her long hair brush the ground. She was aware that both Adar and Simeon were watching her, but she didn’t care. A delicious numbness was stealing across the soles of her feet, and that was all that really mattered. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” she sighed. “I can’t believe how quickly it works.”

  Simeon nodded, then to the boy motioned with his head toward where Mordechai was sitting. “I think her father is also in need of treatment.” Nodding, Adar handed Simeon one of the folded cloths, then left them and walked over to Mordechai.

  “Thank you,” Miriam said, watching as Adar began working on her father’s feet. “His blisters are worse even than mine.”

  “This will fix them.”

  “What is it, anyway? It smells terrible.”

  Simeon tore the cloth into two equal strips, then handed them to her. As she started to wrap them around her feet, he smiled faintly. “Fuller’s soap, tanning acid, myrrh. It is also mixed with a touch of camel’s milk and three measures of powdered pomegranate seed.”

  Miriam’s head came up slowly, and she just stared at him in disbelief. “Really?”

  “It is a secret formula that has been in Yehuda’s family for generations. It’s good for blisters, sunburn, toothache, leprosy, and gout. It can also be used for softening saddle leather, killing scorpions, greasing the winepress, or—”

  “Stop!” Miriam cried, breaking into laughter. Could this be the same man who just a few hours earlier had lashed at her for keeping Livia as a servant?

  A tiny smile finally cracked through his somberness, and he looked steadily at her until she regained her composure.

  “You don’t know what’s in it, do you?” she finally said.

  “Am I so transparent?” he said sadly.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He turned to watch the dancers. Miriam finished wrapping her feet, then looked over at him. The firelight played on his face, softening the line of his jaw and smoothing the chiseled features. She dropped her eyes quickly when he turned back, then let her gaze move to Adar, who was just finishing his administrations to her father’s feet. The young boy looked up, saw her watching him, and flashed her a quick smile.

  “Adar obvi
ously thinks a great deal of you,” Miriam said, returning his smile across the fire.

  Simeon turned to look, and she could see the muscles along his jaw soften. “He is at an age when he is easily impressed.”

  Miriam didn’t think that was the only explanation but didn’t say anything. In the shadows she could see the top portion of the terrible scar across Simeon’s chest, and she noted again the three parallel scars down his one leg. When a man carried badges such as these, she thought, it was no wonder that the eyes of young boys were wide with adoration. She was tempted for a moment to ask about them, about what terrible thing had happened to leave him so marred, but of course she didn’t. She finally settled for a safer question. “Do you have other family?”

  He nodded. “I have a younger brother the same age as Adar. His name is Joseph, after my grandfather. I also have a sister, Leah. She is fifteen, just two years younger than Shana. She and Leah are best of friends. And then I have an older brother who is married with two children.”

  “And your father is a merchant in Capernaum?”

  He gave a quick nod. “He and my mother will both be at Sepphoris tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” Then the impact of his words hit her and her eyes widened. “In Sepphoris? At the meeting?”

  He stood abruptly. A smile was on his lips, but it had a certain grimness to it. “Yes. My father is a member of the local Sanhedrin in Capernaum. He will represent our city with your father and Azariah. My mother will accompany him.”

  She was staring, completely astonished. “So your parents are leaders in the Zealot movement as well?”

  He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “My father would not agree with that assessment. In fact, he would vehemently object, but my mother would take it as a compliment.” Now he turned sardonic. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? On the outside we Zealots look just like normal, ordinary people, not the fierce barbarians that we really are?”

  She flushed instantly. He was not angry, but there had been a slight edge to his jibe. “I—” Still reeling, she decided to change the subject. “A woman is allowed to sit in on the meetings in Sepphoris?”

  “You will be there,” he reminded her with a touch of irony.

  “I will sit in the back corner and record the proceedings. You sound as though your mother will be a representative at the table.”

  For several seconds he just stood there and looked at her, and now she could feel the coldness returning. “Does the name Judah of Gamla mean anything to you?”

  That caught her off guard, but she immediately nodded. “Of course. I assume you refer to the Judah who was a priest somewhere up here. About twenty-five or thirty years ago, in partnership with a Pharisee named Zadock, he started a revolt against Rome when the Syrian legate called for a new census. As I understand it, he was the founder of the whole Zealot movement. Is that the Judah to whom you refer?”

  “It is.”

  “Then I know of him. Who doesn’t? Why do you ask?”

  Again there was a long pause, as if he hadn’t made up his mind whether to say more. Then he went on quietly. “Judah of Gamla was my mother’s uncle.”

  “What?” she blurted.

  “Her father and mother, another uncle, and three cousins—all in addition to Judah—were either killed in the war, captured and crucified by Quirinius, or died while being hunted down like jackals.”

  Miriam’s mouth was open a little. She had thought she had gone beyond surprise when she learned that Simeon was the Javelin.

  “As a fifteen-year-old girl, my mother fought the Romans along with the other surviving members of her family.” Again there was that mocking smile. “I think she will not be asked to leave if she comes to the meeting.”

  Miriam didn’t know what to say. Here again was this stark contradiction. The Zealots were tearing the nation apart, throwing them into a crisis of national concern. Could they really be the same people she saw now—the likeable Yehuda and his brother, the lovely Shana, and the rest of the warmhearted villagers of Beth Neelah?

  He watched her, seemingly amused at the reaction he had triggered.

  “And while I am expanding your education, there is probably something else you ought to know.”

  “What?”

  “Did you wonder where the parents of Yehuda and Daniel and Shana are tonight during all this celebration?”

  “I—” While they had been eating, Livia had noted that the brothers and sister didn’t seem to have any other immediate family here. Then she realized what he was suggesting. “Not them too?”

  Simeon nodded gravely. “Though not directly related, Yehuda was named for Judah of Gamla. His father also fought in the rebellion. Though he escaped that initial defeat, he was killed about ten years ago when his band was ambushed and caught by a Roman cohort in the Jordan Valley. The Romans tortured the men to try to learn the names of other resistance leaders. When they refused to betray their companions, the Romans crucified them, then took their wives and children and sold them into slavery.”

  Miriam closed her eyes, feeling sick. Simeon’s words were slamming into her like missiles from a catapult. Yehuda had told her his mother was dead, but . . .

  “On their way to Ptolemais, where they were to be put on a slave galley headed for Rome, Yehuda killed one of the guards and got away with Shana and Daniel. He was fourteen years old. Daniel was twelve. Shana was seven. Yehuda learned later that his mother and younger brother never made it to Ptolemais. They don’t know if they were executed as punishment for the escape, or if they died under the shock of it all.”

  Miriam sought for something to say. She felt as if she had just swallowed a powerful emetic and was going to throw up.

  Any anger in Simeon was strangely gone. Instead there was a deep, lingering sorrow now in his voice. “You can rest for most of the day tomorrow. We won’t leave for Sepphoris until afternoon. It is only two hours from here.” His eyes held hers for a moment, dark and gloomy in the firelight. “But for tonight, enjoy the welcome of this simple village. I fear that tomorrow you shall learn just how truly far apart Galilee and Jerusalem really are.”

  Chapter Notes

  Beth Neelah is a fictional village but is pictured by the author to be in the general vicinity of Jotapata, Sepphoris, Nazareth, and Cana in the hill country west of the Sea of Galilee. All other places mentioned thus far in the novel are actual places from that time period.

  The common unit of distance in New Testament times was the Roman mile. The Roman mile is somewhat shorter than our modern statute mile, the former being 1,620 yards, the latter 1,760. In most places in the novel, the difference doesn’t matter and the term mile is used without trying to be exact to either.

  Judah (or Yehudah in its Hebrew form) of Gamla, a town in northern Galilee, is credited with being the founder of the Zealot movement. The Zealots’ beginnings seem to have been triggered by the census taken by Quirinius around the beginning of the Christian era. We know from contemporary historians such as Josephus that Judah and many in his movement were eventually caught by the Romans and killed but that others in his family carried on the Zealot tradition he started (Brandon, pp. 634–35).

  Chapter 5

  He has placed before you fire and water; stretch out your hand for whichever you wish.

  —Wisdom of Sirach 15:16

  I

  23 March, a.d. 30

  “Simeon, wake up!” Joseph shook his older brother roughly. “Wake up!”

  It said a lot for how safe Simeon felt in Beth Neelah that he was not instantly awake and reaching for his sword. When the last dance of the night before had been finished and the fire had died down to glowing embers, Simeon had taken his bedroll down to the far end of an olive orchard. He had no wish to be bothered by someone still loquacious from too much wine. There beneath the stars he promptly fell into a deep, untroubled sleep. He now rolled over, staring up at the face above him.

  “Joseph?” He rubbed his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
<
br />   “Mama and Papa are here. I came with them.”

  He rose up on one elbow with a jerk. “Here?”

  “Yes. They arrived a few minutes ago. Papa wants to speak with you.”

  Simeon threw back his blanket and tied his tunic around him. He noted that the sun was still behind the hill, though out in the valley to the west of them the land was bathed in full sunlight. That meant his parents could not have come from Capernaum this morning. That was a six- or seven-hour walk from here. They had to have come to Cana or one of the other nearby villages last night. He wondered why. His mother had said only that they would meet him in Sepphoris at the Zealot council.

  He threw back his bedroll and reached for his sandals. As he laced them up, he looked at his youngest brother. “Will you roll up my stuff and bring it up to the house?”

  “Can I shoot your bow, Simeon?”

  He smiled and ruffled Joseph’s hair. “If you promise to get everything back to the house, we’ll go shooting after we eat.”

  “Great!” Then he pointed. “They’re at Yehuda’s house.”

  II

  When Simeon came around the corner of the home where Yehuda and Shana lived, his father and mother were both waiting for him outside. His mother gave a low cry and ran to meet him. He held out his arms and gave her a vigorous hug. “Good morning, Mother.”

  “Shalom, Simeon.” She kissed his cheek. “Are you all right? Yehuda said you had some unexpected trouble.”

  “Yes, but nothing we couldn’t handle.”

  “Good morning, Son.”

  Simeon released his mother and grasped his father’s outstretched hand. “Shalom, Father.”

  “Yehuda said it was Moshe Ya’abin.” His father’s face was grim.

  “Yes.” Simeon frowned. “I’m going to recommend to the brotherhood that we send someone after him and the others like him. They run at will in Judea, and the Romans do nothing. It is our people who are being bled by that swine.”