“Our people are ready for the coming of the Messiah who will be a political leader and rally us against the Romans. The scriptures have foretold it in the prophecies. We have spies for our businesses. I say we use them properly across this land to extract the information we need and recruit the best clandestine operatives. Organize men willing to revolt against the Romans, yet not do so openly as Judas of Gamala did or become involved in a direct fight with the soldiers. The legionnaires are better equipped and trained for such confrontations—but eliminating key political figures and corrupt priests one by one. Assassinating them with a secret organization will strike fear in their hearts as they’ve never known.”
“What secret organization?” Yosef asked, finishing his wine in a single drink. “Does one exist that I haven’t heard of?”
Micah lightly shook his head. “No, not yet, but soon there will be when we make it. One that will surpass even Zealotism. It will take time—possibly years. With the right planning and training, though, I believe we can do it. We can draw on men from across the country and...”
Eyes narrowing, Yosef waited for Micah to finish speaking but the younger man’s attention was focused on a disturbance in the marketplace. Yosef turned in time to see vendors and residents swinging their arms through the air and angrily shouting. The two men rose from their chairs and walked out into the dirt street.
Two sturdy, darker skinned, black-headed boys of about twelve years rushed out from an alley chasing after a much shorter boy. The lithe, brown-haired younger boy, appearing to be no more than nine or ten, raced through the marketplace, weaving through the crowd with a cloth-wrapped bundle clutched to his chest, never looking back at his pursuers. But sweat streamed down his flushed face and his breathing was labored. He must have realized further evasion was useless and slid to a dust rising halt, turning about to confront them.
The older boys stumbled as they tried to slow their speed, unprepared for their prey’s sudden stop. They crashed into the light-skinned, smaller boy and all three tumbled to the ground in a rolling heap of flying dust. The crowd about them formed a large ring and while there were women who cried out for the boys to stop, the men shouted encouragement and laughed at the fight, enjoying the spectacle.
When the three came to a halt in the dirt, the smaller boy lay on his back still clutching his bundle while one of the larger boys climbed astride his chest. Backing and yelling encouragement the other boy watched his friend pummel the younger boy with balled fists and try to rip the bundle from his hands.
Yosef started forward through the crowd to halt the fight, but Micah caught his arm and lightly shook his head. The merchant kept watching the younger boy with interest. It was then, as if it were all part of a plan, that the smaller boy turned the tide of the battle.
Smashing his bundle into the face of the boy atop him, he knocked him aside, into the dirt, and nimbly jumped to his feet. No sooner had the brown-haired boy risen than he planted his sandaled right foot between the taller boy’s legs. A sickening expression spread over the taller boy’s face as he writhed on the ground and twisted into a ball, crying out in agony as he pressed both hands against his groin.
The smaller boy spun to confront the remaining older boy but froze.
The dark-haired boy had drawn a short, curved knife from within his robe and clumsily launched an attack. Like a mongoose fighting a cobra, the younger boy deftly moved past the gleaming blade and unleashed his own attack. He blocked the knife arm, and his balled hand smashed the nose of the older boy, momentarily stunning him when blood flowed. The young boy struck again, grabbing his attacker’s knife hand. He twisted the wrist and crossed beneath the arm, sending the older boy flying forward, flipping head over heel onto the dirt.
A cloud of dust rose but there was no hesitation in the brown-haired boy. Teeth clenched, breathing hard, he grabbed the knife in his right hand and with his left, wrapped fingers in his opponent’s thick hair. He yanked the older boy’s head back to bare his throat. Bystanders shouted and raised their arms in panic of what was about to happen. The smaller boy was oblivious to the crowd and drove the knife toward the older boy’s throat. But a man’s hand clamped about the wrist of the young boy’s knife hand with an iron grip and held fast.
Micah didn’t release his hold and with his free hand took the knife from the boy. Chest heaving like a smith’s bellows, the brown-haired boy stared at Micah with fire in his dark green eyes. Pulled away, it forced him to release his hold of the older boy’s hair.
Walking to the two boys on the ground, one still rubbing his groin as he moaned, Yosef jerked them to their feet and held them by the rear of their necks with his own hard grip.
The younger boy quickly lifted the bundle from the ground and after dusting dirt from its cloth stood protectively holding it against his chest.
Micah studied the youths. Dirt and dust had mingled with their rivers of sweat to make splotches and streaks of mud over their faces, hair, and clothes. But the heat of the day was already drying the mud into thin, crusty cakes.
The knife’s owner waited with trepidation in his eyes while his friend appeared on the verge of crying as he held his groin. Yet it was the rage still burning wildly in the younger boy that captured Micah’s attention.
Turning the knife in his hands, Micah examined its wide, strong blade that tapered down into a slight curve. Well-worn leather wrapped the slender wooden handle and from tip to hilt, the knife was the length of a man’s forearm. Its weight and balance were exceptional and made him smile inwardly. A Sica... Made with a Damascus blade... The best weapon for close quarters fighting, he thought.
Letting his gaze drift about the ring of onlookers, Micah shook his head as his brows drew downward. Annoyance flashed across his face.
“Move along,” he growled. “There will be no blood shed today for you to gawk at.”
After the crowd dispersed, he let his gaze drift to the older boys.
“Why were you chasing him? Does it take two of you to bully one boy?”
Slowly rising from his bent stance, the larger of the two pursuers stopped rubbing himself and pointed to the bundle held against the younger boy’s chest.
“He’s a thief. He stole that loaf of bread from my father’s stall.”
“What is your name?” Micah asked the brown-haired boy. He motioned Yosef to release his hold on the two older boys but kept the knife.
“Hanan.”
“Did you steal the bread?”
At first no answer came then Hanan gradually raised his gaze to meet Micah’s.
“I left a coin to pay for the bread. It was all I had.”
“Why would you take it without paying the full amount?”
Silence followed for several seconds as Hanan stood defiantly staring off into the distance. “I have not eaten for two days and needed food. His father laughed and shoved me away when I asked to buy anything with my only coin. So, I left the coin and took the bread.”
Yosef gave Micah a slight nod of approval and raised his eyebrows.
Lips pursed, Micah’s eyes narrowed. He nodded agreement, appreciating that the boy had first attempted to be honest with the merchant, and truthfully answered Micah’s questions.
“Give me the bread,” Micah ordered, looking into Hanan’s eyes.
The boy stood motionless then reluctantly handed the bundle to him.
Still holding the knife, Micah opened the bundle to examine it. Half of the large loaf of bread was crushed and broken from Hanan smashing it into his attacker’s face. Micah tore the bread in two, handed the damaged half to the merchant’s son and the good half to Hanan.
“He will keep the portion he paid for,” Micah said, looking at the merchant’s son who stood with eyes wide and mouth agape. “Return the other half to your father. If he has problems with my decision, tell him Micah ben Netzer is at Aharon’s wine shop ready to
discuss his displeasure.”
The friend of the merchant’s son spoke out. “What about my knife? It’s my father’s.”
Micah carried his unsympathetic gaze to the dirt stained boy and leaned toward him.
“I should take a stick to your back for stealing your father’s knife and trying to use it on someone over a loaf of bread! And after I beat you, I should beat your father for not teaching you better... No, the knife is now mine and will remain so.” Micah straightened and crossed his arms as he stared down at the ashen-faced boy. “Leave my sight before I change my mind and beat you both with a stick. Go!”
The two older boys raced away, arguing over who was to blame for the damaged bread and loss of the Sica.
“I’m hungry. Are you, Yosef?” Micah asked, his voice carrying a light, casual tone. He glanced at Hanan and nodded. “Come along, I’m sure you’re hungry too.”
The two men started toward Aharon’s wine shop without looking back at the boy. They grinned at one another when they heard him running to catch up.
Making their way through the crowded marketplace, they returned to their table. Micah ordered wine, more honey flavored figs, slices of spit-cooked lamb, and two bowls of water.
Within minutes the servant girl arrived with the water. Micah looked at Hanan and pointed to the bowls.
“You’re filthy. Wash your face and hands as best you can. You know our laws about being clean before eating.”
Laying his bread on the table, Hanan appeared confused about the laws but obeyed. He washed his face in one bowl and cleaned his hands in the other. Finishing, he sat back in his chair to await the food. Neither of the two men spoke as they sat drinking their wine and looking about the street, unconcerned with the boy’s presence.
The food had barely been set before them when Hanan began to eat like a starving wolf pup. Micah poured a cup of wine for him and watched the boy wash down pieces of lamb with it. Yosef shook his head and glanced at Micah.
“Easy, boy. You’ll make yourself sick eating so fast. No one will take your food away,” the burly aide said. He exhaled in relief as Hanan nodded while eating a fig.
Micah sat in deep thought turning the Sica in his hands, examining it with a gaze that told of his interest in the knife being more than about its construction. He laid it before him on the table and crossed his arms as he studied the boy. Hanan reached out for a fig with his left arm.
“That is quite a scar on your forearm. Is it from another knife fight?” Micah asked, watching Hanan’s green eyes for signs of deception.
“Johanna told me I received it the night I was born, but she would never speak of how it happened,” the boy said, selecting another slice of lamb.
“Who is Johanna? Your mother?” Yosef asked, elbows resting on the table as he listened.
“No, the woman who raised me.”
“Where is she now? You said you haven’t eaten in two days. Did she abandon you?” Micah glanced at the passersby and let his gaze drift to across the street. An aged, gray-bearded man in the ragged tan robes of a shepherd, stood leaning against a stone wall, gazing in their direction. The shepherd lowered his head when Micah stared at him.
“She died a year ago when Akiba discovered the money she had been hiding. He killed her and left me on the streets,” the boy answered.
“Akiba? Her husband killed her and left you on the streets?”
Shaking his head, Hanan frowned. “Akiba was her lover. He’s a Syrian.”
“Who taught you to fight?” Micah asked, sipping his wine. He glanced across the street, but the shepherd had left. He turned to face the boy again.
“I learned from Akiba and...” Hanan replied, voice growing hard. “... and living on the streets. There are more bullies in this city than those two boys. I would have beaten them if you hadn’t stopped me. They were slow and stupid.”
Yosef shot a quick look at Micah and gave a piecemeal grin.
“You would have killed that boy if I hadn’t stopped you,” Micah said, tapping the Sica on the table.
Hanan glanced at it and shrugged with indifference. He returned to his food but paused. “May I have the knife?”
“Why?”
“One day I might find Akiba. He’s a vendor sometimes in this market.”
“You seek revenge for him killing the woman?” Yosef asked, straightening in his chair.
“For killing her, stealing her money, and leaving me to starve on the street,” Hanan said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Micah liked the boy’s courage. “You are rather small to be hunting a man that is, I’m sure, much bigger than you. And if he taught you to fight, then he already knows your tactics.”
Hanan had eaten his fill and leaned back in his chair. He looked at Micah. “My size doesn’t matter if he doesn’t see me.”
Nodding agreement, Micah smiled. “But tell me, how will you know where to strike him? One chance to attack may be all you have.”
“Johanna taught me about the body. She was a mid-wife and I helped her... with the sinners in the brothels.” Hanan abruptly grew glum. “Thank you for the food. May I go now?”
Micah glanced at his aide. “Do you remember our earlier conversation, Yosef?” He let his gaze drift to the Sica. Lifting it off the table, he held the knife up for his companion to see. “I believe we have the seed that will grow to become the tree I want.” Micah looked over the knife to Yosef and saw him smile.
There were fewer patrons in the wine shop now, but none paid heed to the two men and young boy sitting in the center of all the tables. Casting a quick look about the area, Micah thought he saw the shepherd again, standing across the street watching them. But in the next moment the old man vanished behind a vendor’s stall. Micah returned his attention to the boy.
“Tell me, Hanan. Do you wish to live on the streets as a beggar or come to work for me and learn a special trade? I will raise you as if you were of my blood, let you live with us at my home in Nazareth, and teach you to read, write, and learn the scriptures. If you say yes, I promise to resolve your problem with Akiba. If you say no, well, you are free to leave and return to the streets, stealing food to exist.”
“I can read.”
“Oh? Can you read Greek, Latin, or any other language than Aramaic?”
The boy shook his head.
“Then you will learn if you accept my offer?”
Hanan sat staring at the slices of lamb remaining on the table as he considered his two options. One held promise for the future while the other led to starvation and death. In time he nodded to Micah.
Laying several coins on the table to pay for their food and wine, Micah stood and motioned Hanan to rise. “Wait for us over there until we return.” He tucked the Sica into his belt and pointed to a location along the wine shop’s wall.
With Yosef close behind him, Micah crossed the busy market street and walked to the stall where he had last seen the old shepherd.
“I’ll check the right side and you go left. An old shepherd should be behind the stall curtains. He’s been watching us while we were talking to the boy.”
Yosef nodded and moved to the left side of the stall. He waited until Micah was in place then they both swung behind the stall’s curtain to look. All they found was a clean-shaven man in his thirties, dressed in a fine knee-length, gray tunic and long robe, girdled with a golden braided rope and wearing a keffiyeh headdress of quality make. A jeweled necklace with a large, deep red, polished stone hung down onto his chest. The man’s yellowish tinted eyes flared at Yosef’s sudden approach from the front and Micah from the rear.
Raising his long, slender hands in a surrendering motion, the unknown man shook his head. “If you are robbers, I have no money.”
“No, we are not robbers. Our apologies for startling you.”
Micah and Yosef returned to Hanan at the wine sho
p, but the stranger lightly grinned and watched them walk away.
Chapter Four
8 A.D.
Nazareth, District of Galilee
The horizon was embracing the setting sun when Hanan walked across the ancient olive orchard to rest against the gnarled bark of his favorite tree. He waved to Micah’s men in the round, stone watchtower at the edge of the large field who ensured the valuable crops remained untouched until harvest time. The trees were known to be the oldest and finest producers of olives throughout the country. When the watchmen acknowledged him, he continued his walk.
A light, spring breeze swept the field and only the occasional, distant bleat of goats being herded home broke the quiet. It was the best time of day for Hanan, allowing him to think about Micah’s exhaustive daily lessons and rest from Yosef’s grueling physical training. Micah insisted upon at least three hours of study every morning whether it be learning numbers for contracts, reading from Greek and Latin texts or discussing the Mosaic Law. The one thing Hanan realized most about Micah over their two years together was that his new uncle’s abhorrence of the Romans matched Johanna’s. After having seen legionnaires cruelly crucify Jews along the roads, Hanan was coming to understand Micah’s aversion.
Hanan stretched his weary back and shoulders before sitting beneath the wide-spread branches of his favorite olive tree. Today’s training had been one of Yosef’s preferred afternoon exercises; rock lifting. With a countryside of unlimited stone resources, Hanan would lift and carry the largest he could manage to different mounds in a field while Yosef sat in any available shade relating tales of the endurance training Spartan warriors underwent. But Hanan enjoyed the house courtyard exercises the most, dodging swinging sandbags as he deftly approached straw dummies draped in Roman armor to stab them with his Sica.
All that Micah had promised him in Caesarea Maritima were being fulfilled. He ate well, wore good clothes, had been educated and was treated as if he were of Micah’s blood. The Syrian, Akiba, had vanished from the face of the earth, and money stolen from Johanna was returned to Hanan as if it were his inheritance. He was growing taller and ‘filling out’ as Yosef often stated. Soon Hanan’s training would expand to the art of spying on selected people in the crowded markets, but only after successfully completing his education in numbers and languages.
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