Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  “That’s the one.” Eliab had trapped a shepherd family in this canyon earlier in the spring and extracted twenty sheep before he would let them go. “We’ve got them.”

  The Fox stared at the canyon’s mouth, picturing the man who had just ridden into it. “Simeon,” he called softly, triumphantly, “only a fool runs when he doesn’t know where he’s going.” Then to Eliab, he barked, “Signal Shaul. Bring everyone up. It’s time.”

  V

  Sextus Rubrius moved along the edge of the cliff, stopping at each coil of rope to make sure it was secure and had no tangles in it. Six of the ten coils were secured to large rocks along the edge of the escarpment. The other four were tied to stubby acacia trees that were thick enough to hold the weight of a man. From where Sextus stood, he looked almost straight down to where the canyon ended abruptly against the cliff face.

  Satisfied, he stepped back, then walked to Marcus Didius, who waited in the sparse shade of one of the acacia trees, squatting on his haunches, staring moodily at the ground. “Everything is ready. Do you want me to have some men help pull them up?”

  Marcus didn’t answer, and for a moment Sextus thought he hadn’t heard him. Then the tribune straightened slowly and stretched, rubbing at the backs of his calves. He turned, surveying the men who sat or knelt in a large U surrounding the canyon below them. He started counting by twos, then quit after a moment. He already knew what he had. There were close to a hundred that he could see from here. That was his first century. The second and third centuries—two hundred more—were out of sight, lining the ridge tops for another quarter of a mile down both sides of the narrow draw. The remaining three centuries, giving him a fully staffed maniple, were poised more than a mile down the canyon, completely hidden behind a huge rock outcropping. Once Ya’abin passed their position, they would drop down into the canyon and seal the trap.

  Sextus wasn’t sure why his commanding officer hadn’t answered his question, but he decided not to push it. As he started to turn away, Marcus finally spoke. “Suppose we don’t drop the ropes,” he said in a low voice, not willing to have the other men hear this discussion.

  Sextus turned back very slowly. “Pardon, sire?”

  “Think about it,” Marcus said, musing, not meeting Sextus’s gaze. “Suppose we hadn’t gotten here in time. Simeon’s band is caught by Ya’abin before we can pull them out. That makes one less band of Zealots to worry about in the Galilee. Then we spring the trap and Ya’abin is ours as well.”

  Sextus watched him steadily, the disbelief heavy in his eyes.

  “You don’t approve?”

  After a long silence, Sextus finally said, “Is this what it means to have a Roman’s word of honor?”

  Marcus’s face flushed with anger. “Simeon is a thief and a rebel. His band has killed Romans in the past and will again. If we don’t finish this today, someday we’ll have to do it and it will cost us blood, possibly a lot of blood.”

  Sextus said nothing.

  “Come on, Sextus,” Marcus said hotly, “you know I’m right about that. Shouldn’t we consider the greater good of Rome here?”

  For a long moment their eyes held; then Sextus turned and spit over his shoulder. “Are you asking me these questions because you don’t dare ask them of yourself?”

  Marcus stiffened. “You dare to challenge my authority?” Several heads lifted and turned to watch the two officers.

  “You haven’t given me a command yet, sire.”

  Marcus dropped his voice, almost pleading now. He had come to feel great respect for this grizzled old veteran. They had stood back to back at the Joknean Pass and had barely avoided being massacred. “I know what we promised them. But this is too rich an opportunity to pass up. If we don’t take Simeon now . . . ” He let it trail off. He could hear how weak it sounded.

  “Sire,” Sextus said, his face like a rock, “Are you ordering me not to drop the ropes when Simeon and his band arrive?”

  “In the name of Jupiter, Sextus! Think what this could mean for us.”

  “Not for us,” Sextus said softly, as close to contempt as Marcus had ever seen him. “For you! And if that’s what you want, you’re going to have to give me a direct command.” He whirled and started away, then stopped. “They saved our lives, Marcus,” he said, calling him by his given name for the first time. “Your life. Why? Because Simeon gave his word.” He spat again. “You almost make me wish I were a Jew.”

  Marcus could feel the heat in his face as he watched the broad back of the centurion as he stalked away. Marcus squatted back down, muttering angrily to himself.

  It was almost ten minutes later when the runner came dashing up. All up and down the line, men reached for their swords and spears. “Report,” Marcus barked.

  “Two groups are moving rapidly up the canyon, sire. The first is a smaller group, about twenty men. Their horses are almost ready to drop.”

  “How far back is the second group? And how many?”

  “The signal flags say somewhere around a hundred men. Judging from the dust cloud they’re kicking up, they’re not making any effort to hide themselves, and they’re coming hard. Perhaps ten minutes behind the first ones.”

  “A hundred?” Marcus looked at Sextus. “I thought you said Ya’abin was down to fifty or fifty-five men.”

  “That was the last report we had, sire.”

  Marcus turned, looking over the rim of the canyon. The number wasn’t a worry. He had six times that amount with him. Then he felt shame as he realized he was glad. Simeon’s twenty wouldn’t last for long against those numbers.

  He turned as a low rumble sounded faintly. It was horses. He ran forward a few steps, then dropped to his stomach, crawling up behind a rock that secured one of the coils of rope. He peered over the edge down into the canyon. The sound was increasing rapidly, rolling up the narrow canyon as though in a barrel. He felt and heard Sextus drop down beside him, but didn’t turn to look at him.

  Two minutes later, the first two horsemen thundered around the bend and reined up short. Simeon was in the lead, with the big Galilean right behind him. They were off their horses even before they stopped, running forward toward the cliffs. Marcus saw that the horses’ necks and flanks were white with lather. Foam dripped from their mouths. The animals stopped where they were, dropping their heads, bellies heaving.

  As a dozen more came into the narrow defile, dismounting on the run, Marcus slid back, lowering his head so he couldn’t be seen.

  There was a hoarse cry from below. “Where are the ropes?” They could hear frantic footsteps running back and forth. Then someone bellowed out. “Sextus! Marcus!” It was Simeon’s voice, filled with desperation.

  He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t stop himself. Marcus turned his head and saw Sextus watching him steadily. His eyes were like two hooks, drawing him inexorably into the pit of Sextus’s contempt.

  “I have taken the sacramentum,” Sextus said in a low voice, “the sacred oath taken by all legionnaires to be obedient under any and all circumstances. If I violate that oath, I am subject to death.”

  He stood up, and there was another hoarse cry from below as Simeon saw him. “Sextus!”

  His eyes never left Marcus. “The last direct order I received from you was to ready the ropes to throw down to them. I am going to do that unless you give me a direct countermanding order.”

  He turned and darted to the nearest coil. He picked it up in one hand. His arm came back, poised to throw, then he turned to look at Marcus.

  Marcus’s mouth opened slightly as he too got slowly to his feet.

  “Sextus!” It was Simeon. “Throw the ropes! Ya’abin’s right behind us!”

  For a long second the eyes of the two Roman soldiers locked. Marcus opened his mouth as though to speak, then suddenly clamped it shut again. He looked away. Sextus gave a mighty heave. The rope sailed outward, uncoiling as it dropped. “Get those ropes over the side,” he bellowed. He darted to the next coil, snatched it up, an
d hurled it outward in one fluid movement. “Pull them up. Get those men up here.”

  VI

  Moshe Ya’abin had his sword out as his horse raced around the last bend and into the blind canyon. Simeon was his. He had made that clear to all his men. But as he entered and saw the sheer walls, his ringing battle cry choked off into a strangled shout of dismay. He reined in sharply, gaping at the sight before him. Eliab and Shaul and the rest of his men poured in around him. They too reined up to stare. There were horses everywhere—soaked with sweat, heads down, totally beaten—but there was not a man to be seen.

  The old familiar prickly sensation shot through Ya’abin as his head jerked back and forth, eyes searching. There were a few boulders here and there around them, and clumps of brush, but nothing was large enough to hide a man. And there was no one there. His head lifted and he scanned the cliff face. Nothing! Twenty-one men had magically vanished. Almost dizzy with heat and thirst and shock, he dismounted, sheathing his sword. He walked forward, still unwilling to believe what his eyes were telling him. There wasn’t anything here large enough to hide a dog, let alone a man.

  Shaul saw it first. “Look, Moshe!” he cried, pointing upwards.

  Turning, Ya’abin saw it instantly. Fresh marks against the rock, deep gouges in places where there were patches of soil on the rock face.

  “They had ropes,” Shaul said.

  Ya’abin swore savagely. They had done it again. But as quickly as the anger flared, his natural cunning kicked in. The canyon walls didn’t smooth out enough to get a horse up them for almost half a mile back, but his enemy was on foot now. There was still another two hours before dark. They had gotten away, but they had not escaped.

  He swore again, yelling at his men to mount. It wasn’t over yet.

  It was then that the last of his horsemen came pounding around the bend. They were Ya’abin’s rear guard, told to lay back just in case someone escaped the slaughter. “Romans!” the lead man shouted.

  “What?” Ya’abin roared. The shock rocked the men around him.

  “Coming up the canyon on the run,” the other confirmed. “Hundreds of them.”

  “Moshe Ya’abin!”

  Every man whirled, their heads jerking up. Where before there had only been empty cliffs, now a hundred men stood in silhouette along the edge all around them. The sun was behind them, but that only sharpened Ya’abin’s view of the plumed helmets, the drawn bows, the rigid spears. He shrank back, his knees suddenly weak.

  “Recognize my voice, Ya’abin?”

  He couldn’t have answered even if all of heaven itself depended on it.

  “You last heard it about a year ago. In the Joknean Pass. My name is Tribune Marcus Quadratus Didius.” There was a short, mirthless laugh. “Welcome to Hades, my friend. We’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

  Chapter 26

  God hath dealt graciously with me.

  —Genesis 33:11

  I

  The wilderness, southwest of Ein Gedi 18 June, a.d. 31

  Simeon stood off to one side watching quietly as the cohort moved into final formation. Sextus and another centurion were walking up and down the line, barking commands, rebuking soldiers for seeming too lax in guarding their prisoners. Simeon was pleased to see that while some of his men seemed to think that Ya’abin was completely subdued, Sextus did not. Each of the eighty-one prisoners was bound tightly at the wrists, hobbled at the ankles, and stood between two legionnaires. That number still shocked Simeon. The last count they had received from one of the clans of wandering shepherds was around fifty. That had seemed like an acceptable risk if something went wrong. But eighty-one? Four to one. It left Simeon cold to think what might have happened if those ropes hadn’t come sailing down.

  His eyes turned. Behind the column of prisoners and their guards, a group of mounted soldiers were keeping the herd of horses in a loose circle. It was obvious that several of these legionnaires were not cavalrymen, and it was almost comical to watch them try to manage their own horses while keeping more than a hundred others in check.

  This was an unexpected boon for the Romans. Almost one hundred and thirty mounts had been taken. Simeon had asked for a share of those spoils—one additional horse for each of his men. He had received them from Marcus without comment. The rest of the animals would eventually be taken back to Caesarea and added to the governor’s stables. At ten to twenty shekels apiece, that many horses represented a significant treasure.

  One century of soldiers had already been dispatched to Ya’abin’s main camp to see what other stolen booty they could find.

  “Sextus?”

  Simeon turned to see Marcus standing in his stirrups near the head of the column.

  The centurion raised a hand. “Ready, sire.”

  “Then move them out.”

  Up and down the line, commands rang out. The lead soldiers, carrying the maniple’s standards, moved out at four abreast, the flags flying majestically in the stiff afternoon breeze. Legionnaires prodded the prisoners, and one by one they began shuffling forward. As Ya’abin passed, he shot Simeon a murderous look. “It’s not over, Ha’keedohn,” he hissed. “We will meet again.”

  The soldier beside him cuffed him sharply, almost knocking him down, and his head turned back to the front. Simeon just watched him go by, his expression somber. He wasn’t sure—Marcus had certainly not said anything to him—but Simeon suspected that Ya’abin and maybe his two chief captains would be executed, and the rest of these men would be sold as slaves, another welcome contribution to Pilate’s treasury.

  Behind him, Simeon’s men were all on their feet watching the column leave. There were no friendly calls of farewell, no wishes for a speedy journey between Roman and Jew. An ironic twist of fate had made them allies this day, but none of that changed the fact that Rome was still the enemy. Nor had the Romans forgotten that these were Zealots and that there was a strong likelihood that some day they would meet again under decidely more antagonistic circumstances.

  Sextus Rubrius left his place and came over to Simeon. Seeing that, Yehuda came up as well. “What now for you?” Sextus asked.

  Simeon shrugged. “There’s a small spring not far from here. We’ll stay there for a day, maybe two. Our horses are badly in need of a rest. Then back to Capernaum. I haven’t been much help to my father this past year, and there’s the matter of three talents I need to help restore.”

  Sextus nodded. “My best regards to your parents.”

  “I’ll tell them. And what about you? Will you be posted back to the Galilee?”

  The leathery face turned toward his tribune, who sat on his horse, face inscrutable as the column moved by him. “It’s hard to say,” Sextus replied. “The tribune has suggested that I may be kept on here in Jerusalem for a time.”

  “What happened up there on the cliffs?” Yehuda asked Sextus. “Why weren’t the ropes ready when we first came?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation; then Sextus just shook his head. “Something always seems to go wrong at the last minute.”

  A movement caught Simeon’s eye, and he was surprised to see Marcus riding toward them. The three of them fell silent as he came up. Marcus looked down at Simeon, a thin smile on his face. “This ends it, then,” he said.

  Simeon nodded gravely. “Our year wasn’t up for another few weeks.”

  There was a short laugh at that. “I’ll remind Pilate.”

  “You could also remind him that he owes me three talents of gold.”

  Now the laugh was genuine. “You’re welcome to come with us and tell him that yourself.”

  Simeon smiled. “It’s not everyday you get invited to the palace of the governor. I’ll give it some serious thought.” Then after a moment he looked up at Marcus again. “I suppose you can write Mordechai now and tell him it’s safe to come home.”

  “Mordechai is already here. He returned over a week ago.”

  Simeon noted that Sextus seemed as startled by that news
as he was. “Oh?”

  “And no, Miriam is not with him.”

  “I don’t remember asking,” Simeon said easily.

  “Actually, Miriam has decided to stay in Rome until the wedding.”

  That had the desired effect. Simeon stared at him. “Wedding?”

  “Yes, Mordechai and I will be drawing up the final papers when I return to Jerusalem. Miriam and I will be wed in December.”

  Suddenly Simeon began to laugh, soft and mocking. “Excellent try, Marcus. Very good.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know why you’ve been trying to draw me into a fight since you returned from Rome, but I have to admit, that was a noble effort.”

  Marcus’s eyes were glacial. “You don’t believe me?”

  Simeon shook his head. “No, Tribune. I don’t believe you.”

  Marcus sneered, realizing what had just happened. Now it was Simeon trying to goad him. “Some things are just too painful to accept, is that it?”

  Simeon’s own voice went cold. “I don’t know Miriam that well, but I know her well enough to know that if you are truly serious, then you are living a fantasy. That is something I would never have guessed about you.”

  Marcus sat stiffly in the saddle, glaring down at Simeon. “If I were you, Simeon ben David, I would return to your home and settle into the merchant business with your father. Pilate’s pardon does not cover any further folly on your part.”

  “You won’t believe this, Marcus Didius, but that is exactly my plan.”

  Marcus looked at Yehuda. “The same goes for you.”

  Yehuda smiled his bearish grin. “Oh, I am sure we shall meet again, Tribune. I am sincerely hoping that it shall be under circumstances that are—” A gleam lit his eyes. “How shall I say it? Less restrictive.”

  Wheeling his horse around, Marcus started away. “Sextus,” he barked over his shoulder, “shouldn’t you be with the column?”

  The centurion jerked to attention and slapped his arm across his chest in salute. “Yes, sire.” He glanced once more at Simeon, his expression unreadable, then trotted off to join the moving line of men.