The Daggerman

by Glenn Starkey

  “Ascended? I don’t understand.”

  “He’s gone, Hanan. Yeshua is gone. He went to sit at the right hand of our God, Elohim. Forty days after his resurrection, he talked to his disciples and vanished into a cloud with a bright light about him. No one has seen him since that day.” Simcha paused and stepped closer to his leader. “Sir, you’ve been waiting two months to see him. He’s gone, master. I hate seeing you so troubled. I’m sure he had good reasons for not coming to you.”

  The days of frustrated hope and anguish at everyone but himself seeing Yeshua, at last reached a boiling point within Hanan. He reached out with the speed of a striking cobra and jerked Simcha to him by the robe. “But I was his friend... He told his disciples that I was almost like a brother to him. Why would he forget me? Why would he turn away from me?” There was more pleading than anger in Hanan’s tone.

  Simcha looked into Hanan’s green eyes and observed something he’d never seen before in this cold-blooded man; deep, emotional hurt.

  “Sir... I don’t know.” Simcha’s reply came in a gentle voice that tapered off to silence.

  Hanan opened his fingers and released his hold on Simcha’s clothes, allowing him to step back. Muddled thoughts spun in his mind. He needed a reason why his friend had abandoned him. Then Yeshua’s words as they walked along the shore of the Sea of Galilee, came with clarity.

  ... I have prayed for you since we were boys in Nazareth, but Elohim will not allow me to cast out the evil that has marked you. He says if your victory is ever to come, you must find it yourself in the living water. Such is the word of my Father and I must obey....

  “Maybe Elohim told him to stay away from me.” Anger filled Hanan’s eyes as he looked at Simcha. He raised his left forearm and gazed at the long scar. “If evil brought me into this world, then I’m destined to die with it.” The Sicarii leader spoke his thoughts aloud.

  “I... I don’t understand.” Simcha’s head canted and his brow lowered.

  “It doesn’t matter. You were right. Yeshua is gone and I will not see him again.” Hanan motioned Simcha to follow and they started toward the wine shop. “I’ve wasted two months and there is much work to do. My men have grown restless and thirst for action. Now I will overflow their cups.”

  ***

  The order was dispatched across the land, and they responded, arriving at all hours in varying sized groups. Within days the assassins numbered almost four-hundred, and their tents and campfires carpeted the land. Men came who had not been requested, but for most, this would be their first time to see the warrior who led the Sicarii; the man who had become legendary for his skills and number of kills.

  Their encampment sat in a secluded region northeast of Jericho near the Jordan River where canyons and rolling hills protected them from sight and afforded privacy. Escape would be simple if Roman soldiers attacked, but patrols rarely ventured into this land and lookouts watched from surrounding hilltops.

  Hanan let Simcha remain by his side, not in a leadership role, but as his additional eyes and ears. The little man had proved his worth in Jerusalem and would be valuable again where many among the ranks were unknown to Hanan yet vouched for by their commanders.

  “When do you intend to talk to them?” Simcha asked, his gaze drifting across the camp as they walked.

  “Tomorrow morning. I’ve had word passed that we leave after I have spoken to them. We risk too much attention remaining here any longer than necessary.” The Sicarii leader glanced at the men sitting around small campfires, talking with one another or suspiciously eyeing others that moved about them. “Even now among their peers some keep watchful eyes, distrusting the openness of our meeting.”

  Glancing at the setting sun, Simcha grinned as he looked at the stone-faced expressions of the hardcore assassins. “I believe it would be safe to say that most of these men have slept more with their knives than they have with women.”

  Hanan laughed. “It might be safer to sleep with their knives considering the type of women they bed.” He clapped Simcha’s back in good humor. The little man flew forward several steps before catching his balance.

  ***

  At sunrise men waited in groups, anxious for Hanan to appear. The campfires had been doused and the ashes spread. Tents were struck, ready for departure. Lookouts signaled all was clear then the wide-shouldered, heavily muscled leader walked out of the morning shadows. He found a wide boulder, climbed onto it, and stood silent, letting the men gaze at him. Commanders of the cells ringed the boulder, looking up at Hanan while their subordinates edged closer behind them to better hear.

  “In twenty-five days the Sicarii will strike in a unified attack from one end of this country to the other.” Hanan drew his Sica from beneath his robe and held it in his right hand high above his head. Men began to shout approval, but their leader raised his left hand to quiet them. “We will strike as we always have; with stealth and steel then return to the shadows leaving fear to spread like a plague when the dead are found. We are not ready yet for formal battles with the legionnaires. That will come in time, trust me.”

  Glancing at the sullen faces among his younger commanders, Hanan knew it wasn’t the orders they had hoped for, but enough blood would be spilled to satisfy them for now.

  “In this last year you have gathered names of corrupt priests, sadistic soldiers, sympathizers, collaborators, and those who have turned traitor against our people. You were told to plan their deaths and wait until the order came to strike... Now you may execute those plans.” Hanan slowly turned to let his gaze drift across the grinning, smiling men encircling him. They nodded and shook knotted fists in the air. Some began to shout but others hushed them so Hanan could be heard.

  Simcha stood away from Hanan, watching the young lion commanders as he had been instructed. To eyes trained to note every minute detail of a person, the little man knew their true thoughts would eventually be displayed. The three sons of Ezekias the Zealot leader, Menahem, Judah, and an unknown son, stood near Eleazar ben Jair; each man scowling and frowning. But Menahem was the worst. Fire raged in his eyes from the want of retribution for his father’s death by one of Herod the Great’s sons. Many in the Sicarii believed Menahem was as fanatical as his father had been, willing to slaughter and torture at a whim.

  Hanan spoke for another hour and chose thirty of the best men for a mission in Jerusalem. After talking with his commanders to approve their individual plans, Hanan stood tall on the boulder, preparing to close the meeting.

  “If you undergo a mission and are about to be arrested, do not be taken alive. It is better to kill yourself than be brutally interrogated by Roman soldiers. If anyone among us is heard speaking our names to the Romans, take them into the desert and kill them. You will be paid twenty-five silver coins. If anyone among us is heard speaking my name to the authorities, come tell me. You will be rewarded fifty silver coins then I will personally seek out the traitor.” The muscles in Hanan’s arms rippled as he crossed them over his massive chest. His iron gaze at several of the men made them swallow hard and lower their heads. “This is why I do not fear showing my face to you. There is a bounty on anyone who turns traitor within our organization.”

  “Commanders, twenty-five days from now execute your plans as you have told me then blend into your towns. Consider this training for what will come in time.” Hanan gazed at them for several seconds then jumped off the boulder. As the small army dispersed, he could hear their contented words and the high-spirits in their voices as they talked among themselves.

  Simcha approached and waited for the majority of the Sicarii operatives to leave before speaking.

  “You’ve thrown raw meat to the lions, but that will only appease them so long.”

  Watching Menahem in the distance, Hanan nodded, never taking his eyes off the man.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  From dawn of the twenty-fifth day
until long after dusk, targeted men and women fell to Sicarii assassins from as far north as Capernaum and Caesarea Philippi to Hebron and Arabah in the south. Few clouds passed over the land and the blood spilled in pools across the land glistened in the intense sunlight.

  Jewish mistresses of Gentile officials died in their kept homes. Tax collectors were discovered with throats slit, draped over their desks with coins still clutched in hand. Children found collaborators hung from walls, many viciously mutilated. Corrupt priests were gutted like fish, and two six-man patrols of auxiliary Samaritan soldiers vanished outside of Caesarea, their bodies, equipment and horses never to be seen again. Yet the highest death toll resided in Jerusalem. With each corpse or remains found, some connection to Yeshua’s crucifixion could be established.

  Hanan had properly timed the country-wide attacks for the Sanhedrin council’s nerves to settle and temple priests to be permitted to once again freely come and go. The two months of Hanan’s search for Yeshua, in addition to the Sicarii’s twenty-five day wait, had adequately returned complacency to the daily habits of the priesthood and the Romans.

  At Hanan’s request, Simcha identified at least seven of the low-ranking priests that had stood outside the prefect’s gates, shouting for Yeshua’s crucifixion. Throughout the day as they left the temple, one of Hanan’s hand-picked, thirty-man team fell in behind them. By nightfall, none of the priests returned.

  Of the six soldiers in the Crucifixion Guard, Hanan gave orders that only one was to live—Longinus, the Roman legionnaire. His eyesight had been healed by Yeshua’s blood and in Hanan’s warped logic, his friend had shown mercy upon the Roman and Hanan would do no less. The remaining five Samaritan soldiers were trailed to their favorite brothel. There well-paid sinners lured them to undress and wait in the beds of separate rooms. Wine would be fetched, and their pleasures would begin. But the only pleasures anyone received came at the hands of Sicarii operatives and Damascus steel.

  The four Greek Syrian lictors, though, received no swift end. They were captured separately in darkened areas of the city, knocked unconscious, gagged and loaded into donkey carts. When they awoke, they were in the wilderness, stripped naked with hands tied high above their heads to branches of trees. Moonlight silhouetted the men around the lictors, but clearly shone on a wide-shouldered, half-naked, muscled man. He stood like a statue carved from stone with a whip hanging from his right hand. He raised it for them to see. The nine thongs with embedded broken sheep bone and pieces of jagged metal swayed before their flared eyes.

  Hanan stepped back, held the whip out to measure his distance then with the greatest strength he could muster, swung and laid the first lictor’s back open in gaping wounds and bloody streaks. The bones and metal buried themselves deep into the lictor’s body. Hanan’s back and arm muscles rippled as he tore the thongs free. His fury rose and with each driving strike of flesh, he recalled their glee while whipping Yeshua. The lictor’s screams became Yeshua’s cries of agony. Hanan could still hear their mocking voices as his friend wept and endured their torture. Then Hanan whipped the man harder, purging himself of the anger at Yeshua for turning away from him.

  His white-knuckled grip upon the whip’s handle tightened as insanity took control of him. He swung until his massive arms grew heavy.

  “Hanan... Hanan!” an assassin shouted. He waved his arms trying to get the crazed man’s attention.

  The Sicarii leader halted and stood breathing heavily to fill his lungs. His mouth was agape, and his eyes were wide with a wild, glazed stare. He glanced at his chest and saw it glimmering in the moonlight from the lictor’s blood.

  “Hanan, he’s dead.”

  Gazing at the bloody pulp of meat hanging by its hands, Hanan handed the whip to one of his men standing near. “Scourge the other three until they are dead. And while you whip them, remember how many Jews they’ve flogged.”

  He turned and walked several paces out into the wilderness, gaze drifting across the moonlit landscape as he stoically listened to the screams of the lictors.

  ***

  In the hour after sunrise, the morning air still held enough chill for Sarah to wrap herself with a thick shawl. She stood at the doorway of her home and watched a shepherd walk past with his flock on the way to the market.

  “I’m sorry to see you go, Hanan, but I understand you’ve been away from your home too long. You’ve helped me through my grief, and for that I will always be indebted to you.” Sarah turned and stood gazing at the hard-muscled man. Her eyes were wet, but she did not cry.

  Sarah’s young servant girl, Jamila, carried a large water bag to Hanan, its weight forcing her to walk leaning forward. Hanan grinned. He reached out and took the bag with one hand and eased its strap over his left shoulder. The servant sighed in relief and stepped to Sarah.

  “All should be in order now. You have a home, the wine shop and good servants to assist you. I’ve secured money in your name so that your needs will be met.” Hanan lightly smiled and walked to her. “It may be long before I return to Jerusalem, but one day I may surprise you with a visit.”

  Sarah moved forward and kissed his cheek. “You’ve been so kind to me. Yosef would be proud of you. Half of the profits from the wine shop will be set aside for you. It is only right that I do so.”

  Shaking his head, Hanan laughed. “No, I have no need for more money. After I sold the different trade businesses, it left me with more than I will ever spend. Keep your profits and live a full, happy life.” Having spoken, he warmly smiled at Sarah then nodded to Jamila. “Look after my aunt. She is the only remaining family I have,” Hanan said. Without waiting for a reply, he turned away and left.

  ***

  The old woman’s cane tapped lightly on the stone floor as she made her way through the house. She glanced left and right, nodding at times in approval of its cleanliness. Her wrinkled hands brushed the tops of furniture then she looked at her fingertips. She smiled at not seeing dust on them.

  Ruth walked into the room, broom in hand. She abruptly halted and looked at Elizabeth with a questioning gaze. Her two-year-old son, David, trailed her closely, one hand holding onto her tunic. The child peeked around his mother to see the old woman, his wide round eyes a picture of innocence.

  Touching thumb to fingertips, Elizabeth barely shook her head. “You keep our master’s home so clean that I have yet to find dust upon anything.”

  Bowing her head in embarrassment, the young woman smiled. “I want our master to be pleased whenever he returns.”

  Walking stoop-shouldered in measured steps, Benjamin leaned inside the door from the front porch and motioned the two women to him. He turned back to face the road leading to the stately home. When his wife and Ruth stood beside him, he pointed toward the road.

  “A man is coming. Do you see him?” he asked, squinting against the glare of the noon sun. The figure of a wide-shouldered, strong man drew closer.

  “It’s Hanan!” Ruth immediately brushed her tunic clean and ran fingers through her long black hair. She smiled and moved off to one side of the elderly servants as they anxiously waited to greet their master. The child stood beside her, never more than an arm’s length away.

  “He looks tired. See how slow he walks.” Elizabeth adjusted her shawl about her head.

  Ruth watched his approach. “He walks like a man with a great worry.”

  They stood waiting for him and bowed as he climbed the porch steps.

  “It has been too long since we last saw you, Hanan. Welcome home,” said Elizabeth.

  Hanan wearily rolled his head on his shoulders and stretched his back. “The walk from Jerusalem grows longer each time. I’m glad to be home.” He handed his empty water bag to Benjamin and glanced at everyone. His gaze stopped when he looked at the young woman with a child by her side. His brow lowered in momentary confusion then he relaxed when he remembered her.

  �
�My name is Ruth, sir. You employed me in Jerusalem to be one of your servants,” the young woman quickly said. A pleasant smile formed on her lips. “And this is my son, David.” She urged the child forward, but he leaned against her as if afraid of the giant.

  “You made a wise choice in her. Ruth keeps your home well and does the work of three people. I could not have chosen a better person myself for your household,” Elizabeth remarked, tenderly laying a hand on Ruth’s shoulder.

  Lowering chin to chest, Hanan looked down at the curly haired, wide-eyed child that had moved to behind his mother. “And you are David, right?”

  The boy leaned out and canted his head back to look up at the giant. He leaped back behind his mother to hide.

  “He will not be a bother to you, sir. I will ensure he stays out of your way,” Ruth stated with urgency.

  “He’s an excellent child, Hanan. Rarely do we hear him talk and he’s shown himself to be quite intelligent.” Elizabeth laughed. “I believe he’s better mannered and smarter than Benjamin.”

  The old man snorted and shook his head in feigned anger. “Oh, sir, I’m glad you are back. This woman is driving me mad. The older she gets, the meaner she becomes.”

  Hanan laughed and winked at Elizabeth. “I find that hard to believe, Benjamin.”

  Removing his robe and rope belt from his tunic, he gave them to his head housekeeper and stretched his arms. “Would someone bring me wine? I’ve tasted nothing but dust for days and would like to sit on the veranda.”

  Elizabeth looked to Ruth, but the young girl was already entering the house to go for a wine jar and a cup. “She has been a breath of fresh air for us here, helping where ever needed. Such a nice girl. Thank you for choosing her.”

  Leaning forward, Hanan patted Benjamin’s shoulder then kissed Elizabeth’s forehead. He straightened his posture and a seriousness painted his face. “You have both been loyal and I am most appreciative of your service.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry to tell you, but my uncle Yosef was killed in Jerusalem by temple guards.”