Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Then the sooner we’re back in Judea the better.”

  “But suppose something went terribly wrong,” Ya’abin went on, half musing now. “I’ll bet old Mordechai might come in for a little share of the blame, don’t you think?”

  Eliab had no idea what his leader was talking about. “I suppose.”

  “And as for our friends, the Zealots? Well, can you think of anything that would enrage the Romans more than having one of their cohorts massacred after they had been promised safe passage by the Jews?”

  Now Eliab was gaping at his leader.

  Ya’abin uttered a hard laugh. “And can you think of anything more likely to take the Romans out of Judea, leaving the field open for us, than a full-scale war in the Galilee?”

  Ya’abin spun around, his mind made up. “Pass the word among the men. We’ll wait until the moon comes up so we can see what we’re shooting at.” He glanced up at the sky. “Quarter of an hour. No more.” He chuckled happily. “When I give the word, I want them to gradually surround the column. You tell ’em I said no survivors.”

  Eliab licked his lips nervously. “Yes, Captain.”

  II

  Sextus Rubrius moved up beside his commanding officer. He came up behind the horse like a wraith, keeping the animal between him and the men who rode at the front of the column.

  “Yes, sire?”

  “Something strange is going on.” Marcus spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. Just behind them on the other side of the road, one of Ya’abin’s men marched along with his head down. Marcus didn’t want him to overhear.

  Sextus nodded. “The way the men have changed position?” he asked, just as softly.

  Marcus nodded, keeping his eyes straight ahead. When they had first met their escort, Ya’abin formed his men into two main groups, one at the front of the column, one at the rear. There were only a couple of men in between, just enough to give warning if the Romans got out of line. But in the last fifteen minutes, one by one the lead group had fallen back and spread out up and down the line. They stayed clear of the soldiers, but they had definitely spaced themselves out more strategically. “What about those in the back?” Marcus asked.

  “Same thing. Some of them are up in the trees, moving along parallel with us, but they’re spread out all up and down our line.”

  The old familiar prickle started up Marcus’s neck.

  “Sire?”

  “Yes, Sextus?”

  “I cut the lashings on the fifth wagon just before we joined our escort. The canvas is still on, but we can easily get inside now. Unfortunately, there’s nothing but swords inside, but—”

  “But swords are better than bare hands,” Marcus finished for him, immensely relieved to hear that. “Good work, Sextus. All right. Fall back and quietly alert the men. I’ll try to distract the enemy a little.”

  As Sextus slowed his step, Marcus reined his horse sharply to the right, nearly running into the man walking there. “Hey!” he shouted in Aramaic. “The men are getting tired. How about stopping for a time?”

  At the head of the long line, Ya’abin turned in his saddle, startled by the sudden cry. When he saw Marcus on his horse, he turned back around. “You’ll be stopping soon enough,” he called over his shoulder. “Now shut up and get back into line.” Marcus heard him say something to the man riding beside him; then both laughed.

  “Once the moon’s fully up,” the other man shouted, “we’ll be able to see better. We’ll stop then.” Again both roared at their private little joke.

  The prickle quickly moved from Marcus’s back to his stomach and became a hard, tight knot. So much for the word of a Jew!

  III

  Simeon said nothing more. He fell silent, moving through the forest as quietly as possible, no more than three or four feet away from Yehuda. The moon was just making its first foray into the upper branches of the trees, but it was not yet enough light for Simeon to see his friend’s expression.

  “When are you going to tell the rest of the men?” Yehuda finally asked.

  “Tomorrow, when all of this is over with.” Simeon turned his head, trying to read Yehuda’s face. Here and there, all around them, dark shadows moved in the same direction and at the same pace as he and Yehuda. These were the very men they were talking about—good men, brave men. “They’ll accept you as the leader without question,” Simeon added.

  “Did you think that was my concern?”

  Simeon shook his head. “No.”

  “I know you want me to say that I understand all of this,” Yehuda went on. “But I don’t. I don’t know how to explain what you’ve seen or heard, but I think you’re being duped. I think that you’re going to find out that this Jesus proves to be nothing more than a puff of wind on the water. One minute he’s here, the next he’s gone, and someone else will take his place.”

  A great sadness moved over Simeon. What he and Yehuda had shared for the past three years was difficult to describe. Other than his own family, Simeon was closer to this man than anyone else on earth. “I understand,” he said. “I wish there were some way that I could help you see and feel what has happened to me, why I’m done with this now. I—”

  He stopped, his head jerking around. One of the men on his left was waving frantically. “Someone’s coming!”

  Instinctively, Simeon and Yehuda dropped into a crouch, reaching for their bows. Then a second cry came. “It’s Daniel!”

  They straightened, cutting an angle toward the man who had called out. As they reached him, they saw a figure coming toward them, darting back and forth through the trees. “Over here,” Yehuda called softly.

  In a moment Daniel was with them. He stopped, bending over to catch his breath.

  “What is it?” Simeon asked, feeling a sudden coldness.

  “Ya’abin!”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure. Something’s wrong.”

  Yehuda took his younger brother by the shoulders and straightened him to face them. “What is it, Daniel?”

  He blurted it out between gulps of air. “I wasn’t sure at first. Too dark to see. All together, then spread out.”

  “Who was spread out?”

  “Ya’abin’s men.” He shook his head. “All up and down the line. Ambush.”

  Yehuda gave a low whistle, but it wasn’t necessary. The rest of the men were already gathering in around them to hear Daniel’s report. “They plan to ambush us?” Yehuda demanded. “I didn’t think they even knew we were following them.”

  “Not us.” Daniel turned and looked at Simeon. “The Romans. I think they’re going to kill the Romans.”

  Simeon fell back a step, his face filled with horror. “Are you sure?”

  Daniel was finally getting his breath. “They’ve stopped the column. I heard Ya’abin shouting something about taking a rest. But his men are moving into position all around the column. Several were stringing their bows. Others have their swords out.”

  Simeon started moving. “Come on. We’ve got to stop this.”

  “No!”

  Stunned, he swung back around. Yehuda had planted his feet. “This isn’t our fight, Simeon.”

  “It is!” he cried. “My father gave his word that if they surrendered their arms, the Romans could go in peace.”

  “And your father kept his word. This isn’t his doing.”

  “You would massacre men who have laid down their arms?”

  “No! This isn’t my doing either. This is Ya’abin’s doing. But neither will I risk the lives of good men to save the lives of the very ones who came out here to destroy us.”

  Simeon turned and looked at the others. There was no telling what they were thinking in the dim light. “Stay then,” he said bitterly, “if you have no more honor than that!”

  He turned and started running, stringing his bow as he ran.

  “Simeon!” Daniel’s low cry pierced the glade. Then he spun on his brother. “You’ll let him go alone?”

  Yehuda wa
s staring after the disappearing figure as well. He uttered a low curse and leaped forward. “Let’s go!”

  IV

  “Stand where you are!”

  Marcus turned to look at the man who was confronting him. “I have a sick man back in the column. I need to see to him.”

  The man turned his head, trying to see his chieftain, looking for direction. Marcus kept edging forward. He motioned with his hand for the others to do the same.

  “I said don’t move!” The man’s voice had gone shrill.

  “We’re just going to—”

  Off to the right, someone shouted. “Now!”

  The soft whir of a shaft came almost instantly. It whacked into the wagon just above Marcus’s head. Just ahead of him there was a cry of pain, and he saw a man spin around, clutching at his throat.

  “To the wagons!” Marcus screamed, leaping forward. He felt a brush of air go by his ear. There was a solid thud and a soft gasp. He turned to see the legionnaire directly behind him doubled over, an arrow stuck just beneath his left arm. He looked at Marcus, his eyes filled with surprise, then toppled over.

  “Form a line! Stay together!” But his words were lost as a mighty shout went up. Figures came crashing down the hill, swords flashing in the moonlight. Somewhere behind him there was a terrible shriek of pain. To his right another man jerked convulsively, then bounced off the wagon and went down.

  “Here!”

  Marcus looked up to see a dark figure atop one of the wagons. He saw a glint of metal; then a sword in its scabbard came flying past him. It was Rubrius. He was pawing at the canvas, pulling it back with one hand and jerking out weapons with the others. Marcus felt something hit his shoulder. There was a dull clank as a sword hit the ground. In an instant, he snatched it up and whipped it out of the scabbard. “Legionnaires. Over here! Get a sword!”

  A movement in his side vision brought him around. A man with a thick beard was bearing down on him, his hand held high and filled with a sword. Marcus sidestepped, then thrust hard. His attacker screamed and rolled away, one hand grabbing at his stomach.

  In the moonlight figures darted back and forth in a dark blur. Pitifully few of them wore helmets, a marker of his men. Everywhere he looked, Marcus could see other shapes lying on the ground, some writhing back and forth, others perfectly still. There were screams and shouts and cries. Swords clanged, horses neighed wildly. Something bumped against Marcus’s leg. He looked down and saw a soldier cowering beneath the wagon. He grabbed him by the edge of his armor and jerked him violently to his feet. “Get a sword!” he bellowed, pointing up at Sextus.

  He could see others of his men pressing in, grabbing the swords that were pitching out in every direction and littering the ground. Perhaps fifteen or twenty of his men were with him now, backing up against the wagons. “Form a line! Form a line! Stay together!” His throat felt raw, and yet he could barely hear himself over the din.

  He looked up again. “Sextus! We’re being cut to pieces. See if you can get more of the men together.” He grabbed the man he had pulled to his feet. “Get up there and keep those swords coming.”

  Sextus scuttled across the pile of weapons and leaped to the ground. He had a sword in his hands and ripped it from its scabbard. The greatest attack was coming from the right side of the column, so he ducked quickly to the left. He tripped and nearly stumbled on a fallen legionnaire and wondered if it was one of his century. As quickly as the thought came it was gone. He ran in a crouch, screaming at the top of his lungs. “There are swords in the next wagon. Form up. Keep your backs together. Legionnaires, swords two wagons up. Get up there. Stay low!”

  He found three men cowering behind one of the teams and waded into them with the butt of his sword. “Get up there. Third wagon up. Get a sword. Move!” As he kicked at them, they broke into a run. He whirled at the sound of running footsteps. Whirling, sword coming up, he saw a small man with a sword slide to a stop at the sight of him. “Come on!” he shouted in Aramaic. “Come and get me.”

  The man fell back, and Sextus rushed at him, swinging the double blade in a vicious arc. He made it only two steps when an arrow came out of the darkness and drove deep into his upper thigh. He grunted and went down on one knee. He dropped his sword and clutched at his leg, gasping in pain. The little man stopped, eyes wide, then with a shout of triumph raised his sword and moved in again. Sextus fell forward, rolling and grabbing for his sword at the same moment. He braced himself for the blow even as he tried to ward it off.

  As the man raised both arms high, there was a soft thud, and the air whooshed out of him. The bandit stumbled forward, his eyes wide open, his teeth clenched. The sword fell from his hands, and he sank to his knees. He stared at Sextus, his eyes not seeing, then pitched forward to the ground. To Sextus’s utter astonishment, he saw an arrow buried in the man’s back, the shaft still quivering.

  V

  Simeon whipped out another arrow from his quiver, nocked it even as he raised the bow, and took aim. There was a bowman on a horse, facing the line of wagons, taking aim. Simeon let his arrow fly. In the light of the half-moon he couldn’t follow the flight of his arrow, but a moment later the man gave a cry and pitched sideways off his horse.

  Simeon turned as someone came pounding up beside him. It was Daniel. “Watch for helmets,” he shouted as Daniel dropped to one knee and loosed off his first shot. “Everyone else belongs to Ya’abin.”

  “Archers! Take your marks!”

  Simeon felt a rush of joy as he recognized the bull voice of Yehuda. He turned to see him waving his arms at the figures that were running with him. And then, just as they had drilled so many times back in Beth Neelah, Simeon’s men spread out, dropping to one knee to form a single line.

  “Ready?” Yehuda bellowed. “Go!” Off went the first volley of arrows. All up and down the line of darting figures below, men screamed or went down without a sound.

  “One! Two! Three! Four!” Even as he counted, Yehuda was reaching for the next arrow and nocking it in the string. “Five!” Again there was one simultaneous rush of air as more than twenty arrows shot out into the night.

  VI

  Moshe Ya’abin saw three of his men go down almost as one and whirled in shock. He had been watching the Romans arm themselves, yelling and screaming at his men to cut them off from the wagon filled with swords. He stared, kicking his horse forward. Then it hit him. There were arrows protruding from his men. This was not from the Romans.

  He threw himself off his horse and dropped into a crouch. “Attack!” he screamed. “On the hill.” He rolled away as an arrow thudded into the ground a foot away from his face. “Eliab! On the hill! Get some fire up there!”

  Thirty paces away, Marcus had just reached Sextus Rubrius and was taking him under the arms when he heard Ya’abin’s shouts. “Attack?” he exclaimed. He laid Sextus down again and peered up into the trees. He could see nothing, but suddenly arrows flashed in the moonlight and four more of Ya’abin’s men went down.

  “They’re not shooting at us,” Sextus said, gritting his teeth. “Someone killed the man who was about to kill me.”

  Marcus’s head came up with a snap, and he shouted aloud. “It’s the other maniple. They’re here!”

  “No!” Sextus turned himself enough to reach out and snap off the arrow buried in the dead man’s back. “Look. It’s not Roman.”

  Marcus stared at it, not understanding. “Then who?”

  “I don’t know,” Sextus said grimly, “but they’re our only chance.”

  Marcus saw instantly that his officer was right. The tide of the battle had suddenly shifted. Ya’abin was screaming for his men to fall back. Several had turned and were shooting up the hill at their unseen enemy. Two more cried out, and one went down.

  Suddenly Marcus realized that the Judeans had forgotten all about his men. He leaped to his feet. “To the swords, legionnaires. Move! Move!”

  VII

  Simeon was on his feet, peering down at the scen
e below them, trying to make out what was happening. He heard Ya’abin’s voice and knew instantly who it was. “Get Ya’abin!” he shouted.

  “Go! Go!” Yehuda yelled, waving at the men. “Stop those men on horses.”

  Simeon started forward. “Come on, Daniel. I want Ya’abin.”

  Daniel sent off one last arrow and leaped to his feet. “We did it!” he cried. “We did it! They’re on the run.”

  Simeon grinned at his exuberance, then bolted down the hill, taking great leaps over the undergrowth as he dodged through the trees. But suddenly he realized he was alone. He slid to a stop, whirling to look back up the hill. “Daniel?”

  He was nowhere. Looking around wildly, wondering if he had passed him in the darkness, Simeon called again. “Daniel!”

  “Simeon?” It was like the cry of a child.

  He turned and raced up the hill, trying to retrace his steps. And then he saw him. Daniel was sitting up. His bow was still in his hand, though his quiver was twisted at a crazy angle over his shoulder. Then Simeon drew in his breath sharply. An arrow was protruding from Daniel’s stomach. Simeon flung his bow aside. “Daniel. I’m here.”

  His head came up. There was a look of bewilderment in his eyes. “I didn’t see it, Simeon.”

  “It’s all right. Here, lie down.” Simeon put a hand behind his back and winced as Daniel groaned between clenched teeth.

  “Let me see.” Simeon pulled back the tunic, exposing the flesh. The arrow was low in the abdomen and buried at least half a handspan into the flesh. If it was barbed . . . He pressed his fingers gently around the wound. Daniel screamed in agony.

  Simeon shot to his feet and cupped his hands to his mouth. “Yehuda!” He listened, but there was nothing but the sounds of the battle down below. He could no longer hear his men running through the trees. “Yehuda!”

  Daniel clutched at his leg. “Don’t leave me, Simeon.”

  He dropped back down beside him. “I won’t, Daniel. I’m here.” He laid a hand against his cheek. “I’m here.”

  As he bent over him, in the moonlight Daniel’s eyes were filled with tears—of pain, of surprise. “Why, Simeon?” he whispered.