Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  The boy—who could have been aged anywhere between twelve and sixteen—looked back over his shoulder. “You keep up, Excellency. Bad place to get lost.” His Latin was broken and spoken haltingly.

  “Really?” Simeon said, feigning innocent surprise. He had made the fifty-some miles from Capernaum to Damascus in two days, arriving just a few hours after sundown. He was tired, but not too tired to get right to work on the reason he had come.

  The boy only grinned and turned another corner, pushing ever deeper into this quarter of the city. The lad was the third guide to lead Simeon. Each time, Simeon had repeated the password he had been given and dropped a small stack of coins into the outstretched palms. It could have been an elaborate ruse meant to take his money, but he sensed it was not. There was a seriousness of purpose that let him know he was moving ever closer to the man he needed to see. All the precautions were fine with Simeon. It greatly bolstered his confidence. It meant no Romans were going to drop in while he was transacting his business with the man whose real name he did not know—nor would he ever.

  Finally, the boy stopped before a low door. It was a two-story house, with all of its windows shuttered. The upper walls seemed to bulge outward, as though the building had to see what was below it in the street. The moon was up, but in these narrow streets little light filtered down to ground level. Simeon sensed that the place was filthy.

  Again the hand came out. Simeon had the coins ready and handed them to the boy. As they clinked softly, the boy nodded. He didn’t need to count. The worth of money was always determined by its weight, and Simeon suspected this boy could judge the worth of what was in his hand within half a denarii.

  There was a brief flash of movement; then the boy was at the door. He rapped once, hesitated, rapped again twice more, more sharply this time, and stepped back. Simeon heard sounds of movement from inside. The boy called out softly, then turned and walked away. “I’ll take you back when you are ready,” he said without looking back.

  After a moment, the door opened. For an instant, Simeon was illuminated in the flickering light of a small, hand-held lamp. The man’s head jerked sharply and Simeon followed him inside. There was a solid thunk as the door was barred behind them.

  Turning slowly, Simeon surveyed the room in the dim light. It was bare except for two wooden stools and a rough-hewn table in one corner. A tunic hung on a peg behind the door. So this was not where the man did his work. Again, that little piece of information reduced Simeon’s anxiety. If the authorities broke into this place, they would find nothing.

  “Well?” the man said abruptly. His beard was heavy and his eyes suspicious. He spoke in Latin. Good, Simeon thought. He had accepted Simeon as a Roman without question.

  Knowing that no small talk was expected and would actually send the man’s suspicions rising, Simeon plunged in. “I am in need of eight complete uniforms for a regular legionnaire, and one for an officer, preferably a tribune.”

  If the man was surprised, his eyes did not show it. Simeon couldn’t see his mouth in the tangle of beard. “Delivered to where?”

  Simeon thought for a moment. He obviously couldn’t go staggering through the streets with piles of Roman uniforms stacked in his arms. “At the inn near the south gate. It is called the Jackal’s Lair.” That was not the inn where he had taken his lodging, but it was close at hand.

  The man nodded curtly. “I know of it.” A moment’s pause. “A hundred denarii for each legionnaire—that includes sandals, shield, sword—everything.”

  Simeon had tried to anticipate what the uniforms would cost him. He had already exchanged his money to the Latin coinage. The Hebrew shekel was worth four denarii, so it would cost twenty-five shekels per uniform. That was steep, but not exorbitant. His father had given him the equivalent of about three thousand denarii. “Go on.”

  “The tribune’s is much more difficult. Half again for that.”

  “And they will be completely authentic?”

  “Totally.”

  That was nine hundred fifty denarii. “Make it seven hundred for the lot,” Simoen said firmly.

  The man’s head jerked back and forth quickly. “Nine hundred, and that is only because you order so many.”

  Simeon frowned. He was really in no mood to bargain, but he didn’t want the man to think he was too eager. Besides, it was the way of his people. “It isn’t every day you get an order of this size. Eight hundred.”

  Stubborn resolve hardened the features. “Nine hundred. That is my last offer.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Simeon said, as if he had a sudden idea. “I will need a cart. I have some distance to travel. One thousand for everything.”

  “A cart?” the man said. He pulled at his beard. “What about a horse?”

  “I have a horse. Also, I will need a bill showing that these uniforms are destined for one of the Roman garrisons—let’s say Ptolemais, on the coast. I don’t want any customs officials getting suspicious and confiscating them.”

  The man sniffed contemptuously. “Do you think Iknow nothing about my work? A cart will not be easy,” he said, trying to look dubious. But his eyes had already given him away. A thousand denarii did not often walk through his door. “Twelve hundred.”

  Simeon just raised one eyebrow.

  “Eleven hundred, and that is my final offer.”

  “Nine hundred, and that is my final offer.”

  There was an unctuous smile. “All right, Excellency. A thousand denarii, and may you be cursed for taking food out of the mouth of my children.”

  Simeon just chuckled. This was how it was done. This man was probably in his fifties. If he had any children at all, the youngest was probably Simeon’s age or older. “Agreed.”

  “There is one more thing,” Simeon added.

  Both hands flew up. “No, sire, the price is set.”

  “This would be additional.” He reached within his tunic and withdrew a roll of parchment. “I was told that you can create official Roman documents of high quality.”

  There was no expression in the beady eyes. “Civil or military?”

  “Military.”

  “Depending on the level required, the cost can be very steep. It is a great risk for me.”

  “I understand.” Simeon was not inclined to bargain on this part. He handed the scroll over and waited patiently while the man unrolled it, and quickly read it.

  In spite of his attempts to mask his feelings, the man’s eyes registered shock. “Oi,” he cried when he finished. “Are you mad?”

  “Can you do it?”

  “The governor of Judea? Why not just ask for the signature of the Emperor?”

  “The governor will be sufficient. Can you do it?”

  The greed was almost naked now in the dim light. “You are a man of very good fortune, Excellency. I just happen to have an authentic copy of the governor’s official seal. Five hundred denarii more.”

  It was clear the man expected Simeon to gasp at that, but he didn’t flinch. “How soon?” was all he said.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “I assume you came to me because you were told I am the best.”

  “Yes.”

  “Something this important must be done very carefully. Give me a week.”

  “I cannot wait a week. Two days and I’ll give you the full five hundred.”

  He waved the parchment at Simeon. “And this is what you want the document to say?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are mad, you know.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  To Simeon’s surprise, there was admiration in the dark eyes now. “But it will work. With what only Rashah is able to prepare for you, you can march straight into that prison at Caesarea and bring out whomever or whatever you wish.”

  Simeon was satisfied. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” He reached for his purse. “Half now, the other half when the goods are delivered to the Jackal’s Lair?”

  “Done.”

  II

>   On the Mediterranean Sea, near Joppa 20 June, a.d. 30

  Ezra, Miriam, and Livia left Joppa early on the morning of the fourth day after their return from the Galilee. Joppa was on the seacoast, about thirty miles west and slightly north of Jerusalem. They left at dawn in order to reach the capital by nightfall. By midday, they were well up the Beth-Horon pass, and the Great Sea had long since passed from their view. Had they been able to see that far, they would have seen a small ship about a mile offshore. It flew the flag of Tyre and moved slowly northward, already well past Joppa.

  This wasn’t one of the massive, big-bellied Roman grain ships that made the run between Alexandria and Rome. The Astarte was a much smaller ship, not even a hundred feet long. Named for the ancient goddess of the Phoenicians (whom the Greeks had embraced and renamed Aphrodite, goddess of love), it had one large square mainsail and two smaller triangular sails to help it maneuver. Its draft was shallow so it could put in at even the smallest ports. It made its passage in an endless repetition up and down the eastern coast of the Mediterranean between Alexandria in Egypt and Seleucia in northern Syria, carrying a few passengers who slept on the deck and anything and everything someone was willing to pay to have shipped to the next port.

  Usually the voyage from Alexandria to Caesarea, a distance of about three hundred miles, took about five days, depending on the amount of cargo to be loaded. It had cost Mordechai ben Uzziel of Jerusalem a hefty sum to convince the owner-captain of the vessel to forgo his usual route and sail directly to Caesarea. Mordechai had already been delayed in Alexandria longer than he wished, and he didn’t have the patience for the usual methodical trip.

  On the morning of departure, it had taken another hundred shekels to hold the captain to his original plan. The sacrifice, required before any ship could sail, had gone off well. The soothsayer—a horrid woman with long, black fingernails and hair that was like a rat’s nest—had seen no bad omens in the sheep’s entrails, and so the captain had given orders to cast off. Then, just as Mordechai’s manservant was stowing his things in the captain’s cabin, the steersman appeared, a look of horror on his face, to announce that he had dreamed of a black goat the previous night.

  The whole body of superstitions that were prevalent among sailors so vexed Mordechai that he had barely been able to contain his temper. The pre-sailing sacrifice had to be just right. The day of the week and month had to be fortuitous. If a raven happened to light in the rigging, that was bad. If someone sneezed while walking up the gangplank, some kind of trouble was in store. On the other hand, if someone sneezed to the right during the sacrifice of the sheep, that was good. But dreams were especially worrisome omens. To dream of wild boars meant there would be violent storms. Bulls were the same—but if they gored someone, then shipwreck was imminent. Goats meant large waves or bad weather, and if they were black goats, it would be particularly bad. As long as the weather was good, no one was allowed to cut his nails or his hair. If the weather turned bad, then nail clippings and locks of hair were tossed into the sea to appease the daemons, or spirits that ruled the great deep. There were a few good omens as well, but Mordechai had learned they were not nearly so numerous as the bad ones.

  Disgusted, Mordechai had pointed out to the captain that every year the province of Judea went into six months of virtual drought from late spring to early fall. There would be no storms. To get rain even in the highlands of the Galilee or around Jerusalem was very unusual at this season. Later, he wondered if the captain didn’t know all this already, and had used the occasion to squeeze additional money from his wealthy passenger. Gratefully, greed was a more powerful driver than superstition, and they had finally cast off only an hour or so later than originally planned.

  This was their fourth day at sea. Now, less than a day from his destination, Mordechai was at the end of his patience. He paced the decks, stopping occasionally to peer through the haze at the land that slipped slowly past them. He had recognized Joppa about an hour before—he had even been able to pick out the home of Ezra and Lilly, his wife’s cousin. Joppa was about thirty miles south of Caesarea, so if all went well, they would dock tomorrow a little before sunset.

  He felt the familiar surge of excitement mixed with nervousness. Had things gone off as he and Marcus had so meticulously planned? Was Pilate finally satisfied that the members of the Sanhedrin really were anxious to keep their relationship with Rome positive?

  He wiped at his brow with a scarf. The sun was hot, and Mordechai ben Uzziel was a big man. He had spent far too many nights in front of sumptuous tables and too many days riding around Jerusalem in a litter or by carriage. He didn’t mind. A little girth, especially when covered by robes made in Jerusalem’s finest tailor shops, bespoke wealth and prestige. He cultivated that image by keeping his thinning hair and adequate beard—both graying now—immaculately trimmed. He even had his personal manservant trim his heavy eyebrows each week so he would not appear to be one who let things go unnoticed.

  “Sire?”

  He turned as his servant approached him.

  “The sun is getting very hot, sire. I have put up the covering near the captain’s chair. The captain asked me to convey his good pleasure if you should join him there.”

  Mordechai bit back a muttered retort about the captain being a crass fool, and simply shook his head. “Tell the captain that I have much to sort out in my mind before we reach Caesarea tomorrow.” He glanced upward. He was already in the shade of the main sail. “If the heat becomes unbearable, I shall retire to the cabin. Otherwise, I would prefer to walk about for a while.”

  “Yes, sire.” He bowed and quickly backed away.

  III

  Caesarea, capital of the province of Judea 21 June, a.d. 30

  When Marcus Quadratus Didius, senior Roman tribune in the province of Judea, entered the small marbled room, he saw instantly that Pilate was in a foul mood. That wasn’t terribly surprising. Pilate had been in a bad temper ever since they had returned from the Joknean Pass almost a fortnight before. Even though it could have been much worse—they had lost only four wagons out of the more than forty and had recovered all but two bars of the gold—the disaster lay in the opportunity lost. Had things gone as planned, the Zealot movement, and with it the number one danger to Rome in this province, would have been eliminated once and for all. Instead, their enemies had only been emboldened the more.

  So far, the governor did not hold Marcus responsible, but knowing how mercurial his commander’s temper could be, Marcus was anxious not to displease him. And that would be difficult tonight.

  “Have you seen him?”

  Marcus didn’t have to ask who “him” was, though the question came out of nowhere.

  “Briefly. The centurion on duty had me come down to the gate and confirm Mordechai’s identity. I took him to his room.”

  “Did he ask you how things went?”

  Marcus shook his head. “Mordechai is far too shrewd to violate protocol. I could tell he is very anxious to know, but he will wait and learn it from you.”

  The governor’s face, lean and weathered by too many days in the sun and too many years of political life, tightened even more. The dark gray eyes glittered with anger. “And you’re still convinced that he had nothing to do with the betrayal?”

  “Absolutely,” Marcus responded without hesitation. “I think when Mordechai hears what happened, you’ll see it on his face. It is going to be a bitter blow for him as well. The last thing the Sanhedrin wants is war with Rome, and the Zealots are the greatest threat to peace.”

  “You’d better be right. If I find out that he had anything to do with this, even if he was only careless about those he told, I’ll march him naked through the streets of Jerusalem at the point of the spear. I don’t care who he is or how rich he may be.”

  Marcus said nothing. This was just Pilate blowing off his anger.

  The governor suddenly slammed the flat of his hand against the polished marble armrest on his chair. “By th
e gods! Who betrayed us? I want to know!”

  “I don’t know. Not yet.” Marcus spoke grimly. “But I lost almost thirty good men that night. I will find out.”

  “And you’re convinced that rebel Jew knows nothing?”

  “Yehuda of Beth Neelah?” Marcus hesitated. This ground was no more than a thin crust over a seething volcano. “Oh, he knows a great deal, but I am convinced he doesn’t know how Simeon—the one they call Ha’keedohn, or the Javelin—”

  “I speak Aramaic, Marcus,” Pilate snapped. “Don’t patronize me.”

  “Sorry, sire, that was not my intent. Anyway, I’m convinced that this Yehuda doesn’t know how Simeon learned of our plans. In fact, I received a dispatch from our centurion in Capernaum. He says one of our informants swears that no one but this Simeon knows who our betrayer is.”

  Seeing Pilate’s frown deepen, Marcus went on hastily. “We put the man on the rack for an hour today and got very little.”

  There was a grunt which could have meant anything.

  “This Jew is no coward. He refuses to say anything that would compromise his followers, but he feels he was betrayed that night too. He has nothing to gain by holding back, and so far everything he’s told us fits with what we’ve learned from the other prisoners.”

  He paused, watching the governor closely. Pilate at least was listening.

  “Anyway, according to this Yehuda, Simeon had decided not to participate in the ambush.”

  Pilate stirred impatiently. “And all because of this fanatic from—” Pilate waved a hand.

  “From Nazareth. Yes. I find it hard to believe, but evidently Simeon of Capernaum has decided Jesus is a man of God. Jesus teaches peace and love and submission, including submission to your enemies.”

  Pilate gave a sarcastic grunt. “Maybe we ought to hire the Nazarene to preach for us.”

  Marcus smiled and went on. “Perhaps. Anyway, Yehuda says Simeon was supposedly out of the game. Then this someone, whoever it was, brought information to Simeon about our plans. That’s when he rode out to the pass and tried to stop what was happening, to save his own men from being caught and killed.”