Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Oh, Leah, me too. I dread it. More than anything in the world.”

  “Then don’t. You can stay with us. Moshe Ya’abin won’t know you’re here.”

  This time Miriam’s sigh was filled with sorrow. “Father would never hear of it, and he’s probably right. Ya’abin is a cunning and evil man. He could track us down anywhere here. But it’s more than that. If I go with him, then Father has agreed to consider the possibility of me adopting Livia as my sister.”

  “Yes, and that is wonderful. Livia is wonderful.”

  “She’s the sister I never had,” Miriam said. “And then, there’s also her brother. There is a much better chance we can find him if we are actually in Rome.”

  Leah nodded gravely. “When you told us that her brother was still a slave somewhere, it made me sick. Mother and I were nearly taken as slaves once, and—”

  “She told me,” Miriam broke in. “That must have been horrible.”

  “More than you can imagine. If it were my brother that was lost, if Joseph was a slave in someone’s household somewhere, I would do anything to find him again.”

  “That’s why I’m willing to go to Rome.”

  To Miriam’s surprise, Leah looked away. For a moment, Miriam thought she had broken out in tears and was touched by her emotion, but when she leaned forward, Miriam was taken aback to see not tears, but that Leah’s face was flaming again. “What, Leah?”

  She responded with a quick shake of her head.

  “What is it? Tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why? I thought we were friends.”

  “That’s why I can’t say it.”

  Miriam stopped and took her by the shoulders, turning Leah to face her. Even then, Leah wouldn’t meet her eyes, her face almost glowing with her embarrassment.

  “My goodness, Leah,” Miriam said, thoroughly puzzled. “What is it?”

  “I was hoping you could stay—” she bit her lip—“until Simeon gets back.”

  Miriam dropped her hands, stunned. “Simeon?”

  “Yes.” There was a shy, tentative smile. “I was hoping that you could be here at least for a few days together again before you leave and he leaves.”

  “I—” Then Miriam just blurted out. “What are you suggesting?”

  Leah’s head came up with a touch of defiance. “Well, he is no longer betrothed. And you’re not promised to anyone.”

  Miriam had to turn away, feeling as if her own cheeks would burst into flame.

  “Well?” Leah said, stepping up beside her.

  “Well, what?” came the stammering reply.

  “Are you too particular to even look at Simeon?”

  Miriam turned to this young girl who seemed wiser than some grandmothers. She started to answer, took a quick breath, then still couldn’t find the words. Finally, she just shook her head.

  Leah nearly leaped into the air. “I knew it!”

  “Don’t you dare say a word to Simeon, Leah. I mean it. Don’t you even think it.”

  “But you do find him interesting?”

  She finally surrendered. “He is . . . ” She smiled fully now. “Yes, he is interesting.”

  Leah was deeply pleased. “I knew it.”

  IV

  A short distance south of Caesarea

  Simeon circled slowly, moving through the brush with the utmost care. In the darkness it was impossible to make any progress without making at least an occasional sound, but he was confident that the sound of the surf smothered any noise he was making. It struck him with a sorrowful irony that much of what he knew about being stealthy he had learned from Yehuda over the three and a half years they were comrades in arms. Simeon had once watched his friend—who was large enough to knock down a small tree—move to within thirty paces of a deer in the forest without its being aware of his presence. Well, perhaps now, he thought, the training Yehuda had given him would prove to be a blessing to them both.

  Stopping every step or two, Simeon peered through the brush at the solitary figure standing beside his horse on the beach. Marcus Quadratus Didius was about a hundred paces away. The quarter moon was up now, and Simeon saw it glint dully from the brass breastplate and plumed helmet. The Roman tribune kept turning his head, searching the darkness, but he was not looking in Simeon’s direction, and Simeon knew that so far he did not know where Simeon was. Simeon smiled grimly to himself. Yehuda would be proud.

  Simeon had chosen this spot—about two miles south of the city—because not only was it totally deserted, but it also put Marcus out in the open where he could be seen from any direction. And was close enough to where the sand ended and the thickets of willow and myrtle began to provide Simeon with good shelter and a quick escape if needed. What Simeon was doing at the moment was making absolutely sure Marcus was not also making use of the undergrowth to hide anyone.

  Simeon had debated long within himself whether to give Marcus a full twenty-four hours from the time he received the letter until they actually met. That much time allowed considerable preparation, more than enough to set a trap. On the other hand, if Simeon had asked Marcus to come immediately upon receiving his letter, he would have had to have chosen a place closer to the city. So he had purchased some bread and cheese and a flask of wine and had spent the day on a small hillock, making sure no one slipped in to back Marcus up. No one had appeared all day, and Simeon’s confidence increased. Now he was making one final check to make sure no one was trying to slip in under cover of darkness.

  Satisfied, he stepped out of the brush and moved swiftly across the sand to where the other man waited. At the sound of his footsteps, there was a soft whinny and the horse turned his head. The Roman turned too, clearly not alarmed.

  “Convinced we’re alone?” Marcus jeered.

  Simeon merely nodded, stopping a few feet away from his adversary.

  Marcus eyed him for several long moments, then shook his head sardonically. “That night in the Joknean Pass, I had about decided you were mad. Risking your life to save me and Sextus and the very powers you are sworn to destroy.”

  “Only a Roman would think it madness to honor one’s oath.”

  He stiffened, then forced a contemptuous laugh. “Oh, I could name many more than that who feel that way.” When Simeon didn’t say anything to that, he leaned forward slightly. “There are some who would say this is your second act of madness. You know that, at this very moment, my men could be sealing off every road out of Caesarea.”

  “Yes, you could,” Simeon shot right back, “and you know that at this very moment I could have a dozen men with bows drawn and arrows aimed at your heart. Maybe I’m not the only one who is mad here.”

  Marcus fought back a look of surprise. Without realizing it, Simeon had just given him the one piece of information Marcus was most concerned about. He was alone. He hadn’t come with his band of Zealots. There was no one out there in the bush.

  Marcus’s mind was racing, considering the implications of what he had just learned. He had come here fully expecting that Simeon would have most, if not all, of his men with him. In fact, after reading Simeon’s letter, Pilate had been convinced that this was Simeon’s way of luring Marcus into a trap so that he would have an important hostage with which to negotiate. The governor strongly warned Marcus not to go, and when Marcus insisted on doing so, Pilate flatly declared that there would be no negotiating if his guess proved to be correct. Marcus had come because, based on what had happened that night of the aborted ambush, he trusted Simeon’s integrity, foolish though it might be. And he came because his curiosity was piqued. Almost certainly Simeon was determined to free his friends from prison. But Simeon was no fool. The Jew had something he thought would be of such value to the Romans that they would consider a trade. So what was it? Was he willing to give them the name of their betrayer in exchange for the prisoners? That probably wouldn’t be sufficient, but it would strongly tempt Pilate. Was he going to offer them money? Pilate had released more than one
political prisoner for the right consideration. Marcus had gone over the possibilities many times throughout the day.

  And yet, as he had ridden down the deserted path and onto the beach half an hour earlier, he had felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He could be wrong. Simeon was probably incensed that the Romans had taken his comrades prisoner after they had tried to save Marcus and his men. Maybe he really did want a hostage. As he had stood there in the faint moonlight, he had braced himself for the silent whir of an arrow, or the rush of men breaking out of hiding. Now he felt like throwing back his head and roaring with laughter. Simeon was alone. The man really was mad after all.

  It was hard not to let the triumph show in his voice. “So what do you want?” Marcus demanded.

  “I want Yehuda and my men.”

  “Surprise, surprise! I should have thought of that and brought them out to you.”

  “You know I wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t some benefit to you.”

  “To me personally, or to Rome?”

  “I thought if you were truly Roman there was no difference.”

  Marcus grunted. For all his desire to smash this towering confidence—this insufferable arrogance!—he felt a grudging respect. This Jew not only was brave—perhaps to a fault—but he was shrewd, intelligent, a worthy foe.

  “I have come to strike a bargain.”

  Marcus laughed shortly. “A bargain suggests a mutually agreeable arrangement between two parties. I know what you want—or better, who you want—but what could you possibly bring to the table that would interest us?” One hand came up quickly. “And please. Don’t insult me by reminding me that you saved my life and by suggesting that now I am somehow in your debt. I harbor no such sense of duty.”

  Simeon wasn’t fazed by that in any way. “I understand that there were two bars of gold that night that have never been recovered.”

  The Roman’s eyes narrowed. Knowledge of that loss was a closely held secret. “So?” he finally managed.

  “A talent of gold is a lot of money,” Simeon mused.

  Marcus couldn’t help himself. “You found them?”

  Simeon watched him steadily for a moment, then finally shook his head. “No.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “I shall be completely honest with you, Marcus Didius, so you know that I mean what I say. I have brought gold with me. They are not the same bars as those you lost, but they are of the same worth.” He gave a quick shrug. “What does it matter where they come from?”

  “You are putting up two talents of your own gold?” Marcus asked incredulously.

  “Actually three. One per man.”

  This was staggering. An offer of money had been one of the possibilities Marcus had considered, but three talents! He removed his helmet and ran his fingertips through his hair. “So you’re offering us a bribe?”

  Simeon laughed softly, and Marcus was not sure why the Jew found his words amusing. “Surely a bribe would offend our noble governor’s integrity,” Simeon said with heavy irony. “I thought of it more as a ransom for hostages taken in battle.”

  Marcus’s mind was racing. This would interest Pilate very much. One talent was a small fortune. A man who knew how to invest and use money wisely could live comfortably off one talent for many years. Three talents could turn the head even of a wealthy man, especially a man who was desperate for funds, as Pilate was. Technically, the gold belonged to the Syrian legate, but Marcus knew Pilate would feel little obligation to let his superior know about this.

  Simeon waited, suspecting what was going on behind the shadowed eyes.

  “Only three men?” Marcus finally asked. “We took many more captives than that.”

  “Only three were of my band,” Simeon affirmed. “Yehuda, Barak, and Samuel. All from the village of Beth Neelah. The rest must be Ya’abin’s men. If that thief wishes to strike his own bargain, let him come forward.”

  “I would like that,” Marcus said tightly.

  Simeon started to back away. “Take my offer to the governor. Let him mull it over for a day. Tomorrow night, exactly one hour after sunset, leave the Praetorium alone, as you did tonight. Go east this time. A messenger shall be waiting at the city gate to give you instructions on where we shall meet again.”

  He turned and started away, then turned back. “Pilate’s reputation for treachery and extortion is well known among my people, Marcus Didius. I am offering more than a fair price. Encourage him not to underestimate us.”

  With that, he turned again and jogged away.

  Marcus reached for the reins of his horse and swung up into the saddle. For a moment he was tempted to race after the receding figure, run him to ground. Simeon didn’t have the gold with him—Marcus was sure of that—but an hour or two under the careful coaxing of a scourge—the multistrand whip with small pieces of bone or lead woven into the leather—would bring forth the information they wanted. But he didn’t move. In the first place, Simeon was halfway back to the thicket and would be gone before Marcus could reach him. In the second place, Marcus wasn’t absolutely sure Simeon would break under torture. It was likely, but not guaranteed. Three talents was a lot to lose. In the third place, there had to be something else. He surely had not come here totally alone with nothing but an offer of gold. If Marcus acted precipitously, he wasn’t sure what that would trigger. In the fourth place . . .

  He reached up and replaced his helmet. In the fourth place, though Marcus would never speak of it with this Jew, Simeon had pricked Marcus’s sense of honor. This Jew understood the qualities of the Roman character—self-discipline, respect, honor, integrity. Those were what had made Rome what she was today, and they were deeply instilled in the heart of Marcus Quadratus Didius. It irritated him greatly to think that Simeon had made that sense of honor part of his calculations. It annoyed Marcus even more to know that he had done so correctly.

  He watched the dark figure disappear, then clucked softly to his horse, turning back the way he had come. For now, at least, Marcus Didius would let this little drama play itself out. He would see where this would take them. He would see just what this Jew known as Simeon the Javelin was up to.

  V

  Caesarea

  “He dares to bargain with us like we were a harlot of the night?” Pilate slammed his fist down on the table, creating circular ripples in their wine cups. “That is my gold!”

  Marcus said nothing. He knew this would be the initial reaction, and until Pilate vented his fury there would be no reasoning with him. He certainly wouldn’t appreciate it if Marcus pointed out that it really wasn’t the gold Pilate had lost.

  “Why didn’t you seize him while you had the chance?”

  Marcus spoke evenly, calmly. “For one thing, he could have had a dozen men in the thicket in case I tried something.” Marcus didn’t feel he had to share his feelings about Simeon being alone. One didn’t have to bare all of one’s soul. “For another thing, we have no idea where the gold is. It seemed that we had nothing to lose by letting this play out for another night.”

  From his expression, one would have guessed that Pilate had heard none of that, but after almost a year of working with his governor, Marcus knew that Pilate was a master of masking what was going on behind those eyes. Finally, he straightened, took the cup, and drank deeply. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked at his tribune. “Do you think he really has it?”

  “Unquestionably,” Marcus answered at once.

  “Three talents!” There was naked covetousness in the man’s eyes.

  “That is his offer. Three talents, three men.”

  Pilate pulled at his lower lip, thoughtful now. The anger still smouldered, but it was no longer his driving emotion. “Did he say how the trade will be arranged?”

  “No, but you can be sure that he will be very wary of a trap.”

  “He would be a fool if he weren’t,” Pilate snapped. “But let him be as careful as he pleases. The finest of snares are never vis
ible to the prey until it is too late.”

  Marcus felt a ripple of uneasiness. “You’re not going to deal with him, sire?”

  “Oh, to the contrary,” Pilate answered with obvious relish. “I am going to deal with the Javelin once and for all.”

  Chapter 11

  I grow old every day learning many things.

  —Solon, Poetae Lyrici Graeci, 18

  I

  East of Caesarea 9 July, a.d. 30

  “Pilate accepts your bargain.”

  Simeon almost sagged with relief, but the reaction was short-lived.

  Marcus looked away, afraid that Simeon might see the shame in his eyes. “But there is one additional condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “That you give us the name of the person who betrayed our plan.”

  For a long moment there was no sound in the night silence. This second meeting was not on the beach, but on a small hillock east of the city. At the moment the air was still; there wasn’t even the whisper of a breeze in the branches above their head.

  In that stillness an image sprang into Simeon’s mind. It was Miriam. She was being tied to a scourging post. Pilate stood behind her, raging at her for betraying him at the Joknean Pass. Simeon looked squarely at Marcus, anger deepening his voice. “I have come here at enormous risk. I have brought Pilate a huge fortune in order to save my friends, people that I value highly, from a horrible death. Does your governor really think I would give him someone else instead?” His laugh was sarcastic and cold. “I had heard that whatever else Pilate may be, he has a brilliant mind. So much for that piece of information.”

  “I told him that you wouldn’t bargain on this,” Marcus said calmly, “but he won’t budge. He wants to know who sabotaged everything we had worked for.”

  Simeon said nothing. This was not a total surprise, but the bitterness was still like bile in his mouth.

  Marcus went on, his voice uncompromising. “To be honest, I had to talk very persuasively to get Pilate to even accept this much. He wants you, Ha’keedohn. He wants you very badly. But I finally convinced him that you were not the one primarily responsible for our fiasco that night. It was the person who gave you the information.”