The Daggerman

by Glenn Starkey

  Benjamin sat beside his wife and rocked in his chair, affectionately patting her hand. Ruth watched them and fondly smiled. She let her gaze drift to her son in Micha’s chair beside Hanan. The boy turned a small wooden horse, a gift from Hanan, in his hands. But when she glanced at Hanan, she found him quietly watching her. Again, as he often did, he appeared to briefly smile before turning his head.

  An hour passed then the elderly couple rose from their chairs. They wished peace upon everyone for the night and left for their nearby home. Ruth stood as well and walked to her son.

  “Time for bed, my little man,” she said, lifting him from the chair. He wanted to stay with Hanan and lightly struggled in her arms, but she turned to leave.

  “Your mother is right, David. It is time for bed. Your body grows strong when you get a good night’s sleep.” Hanan smiled at the boy and nodded. As if by magic, David settled against his mother’s shoulder and closed his eyes, the wooden horse clutched in his right hand.

  When quiet returned to the veranda, Hanan sat drinking his favorite Damascus wine as he savored the night. It was one of the few times his thoughts didn’t travel to the past and leave him frustrated and angry. An hour later he stood, stretched his muscled body, and walked to his room.

  He left the window open for the breeze to blow through. Moonlight filled the room in a soft glow yet not bright enough to hinder his sleep. Laying on his back, naked upon the thick blankets of his mat, he rested his right arm behind his head and closed his eyes. His fingertips brushed the hilt of the Sica dagger and soon he was asleep.

  He awoke to a light noise he couldn’t place. Unsure of how long he had slept, he realized he was laying on his right side and the dagger was behind him. Without turning his head, he slowly opened his eyes. In the moonlit room he could see a slender, nude form moving toward him but felt no danger when he recognized the woman. No weapons were in her hands. He rolled onto his back and looked up at Ruth.

  “This is not one of your duties,” he said in a low voice.

  “I know... It’s of my own will if you’ll have me,” came the reply as comforting as the night’s breeze.

  His hand rose and she laid her fingers in his open palm. She knelt onto his mat, settling her body next to him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  33 A.D.

  Nazareth, District of Galilee

  In the three years passage of time after Yeshua’s resurrection and sightings Hanan lost hope of ever seeing his friend again. He accepted the fact that his abhorrent life as a Sicarii had been the reason Elohim kept Yeshua away. After all, how could the Son of their God, Elohim, be expected to befriend a murderous animal as Hanan had become. But neither did Hanan lay blame upon Micha for making him a professional killer. He bore the mark of the demon, and for that, would be forever damned.

  Each year Rome demanded tax increases across its empire, some slight while others proved to be major. The Prefect Pontius Pilate ensured the emperor always received Judea’s full payments. But, before Rome grew rich with his tax payments, Pilate spent a portion of the collected funds for construction projects such as the twenty-four-mile-long aqueduct to bring water to Jerusalem’s Solomon’s Pool. To replenish those diverted funds, Pilate took money from the temple’s treasury. Caiaphas walked a deceitful line by blaming Pilate for the treasury’s loss, but quietly took credit for the much-needed water brought to the city. With the prefect’s history of an iron-fisted rule, no one cared to see through the corrupt priest’s lies for the truth.

  But of all, it was the young lions of the Sicarii that wore heavily on the mind of the thirty-eight years old leader of the assassins.

  ***

  The Nazareth wine shop was Simcha’s favorite site to meet his leader. Always arriving early, he ate and drank, then told Uriah to place it on Hanan’s account believing the rich man would never know. Yet Hanan did, and paid the debts, but permitted it because of the detailed intelligence reports the little man provided.

  At midmorning on the third day of the week, Simcha finished his second cup of wine and glanced down the dirt street. He observed a well-muscled man walking with a young woman half his height, and boy of no more than five or six years. When the attractive, dark-haired woman and boy turned toward the city market, Simcha watched Hanan continue to the wine shop.

  “What news do you have for me today?” the Sicarii leader asked, grinning as he took a seat across the table from his operative.

  A wicked smile crossed Simcha’s lips as his gaze followed the young woman. He watched the sway of her walk and was still smiling when he turned to face Hanan. But his smile melted when he observed the fury in his leader’s eyes.

  “Speak the wrong words now and you will never speak again. Look at her once more in such a vile way and your eyes will never see the sun again.”

  Simcha swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to nod yet it came in jerky motions.

  The shop keeper brought Hanan a small jar of wine and filled his cup. Observing Hanan’s stern stare at Simcha, Uriah kept quiet and slipped away.

  “The times are growing worse in Jerusalem by the day,” the informant nervously said. “Tension is always in the air wherever you go. The arguments between the Romans and the Sanhedrin only increase and draw us closer to conflict. The Sadducees keep petitioning Tiberius to remove Pilate because of his cruelties. Pilate’s problem, though, is that he no longer has any support in Rome to protect him since Sejanus was tried and executed for tyranny two years ago.”

  Hanan slowly drank his wine and remained stone-faced. “I’ve heard Pilate has executed Jews without trial. The roads leading into Jerusalem are often lined with crucified men. Is that true?”

  A nod came in reply. “They are mostly Zealots stupid enough to be caught after setting fires in the streets to protest against the Romans.”

  “Have any of our men been arrested?”

  “One that I know. He was innocent and happened to be in an area when a fire was set.” Simcha glanced at Hanan. “The soldiers were not able to actually arrest him because he committed suicide with his Sica before they could capture him.”

  “Sounds like he did what was best. The soldiers would have whipped him until he confessed to anything, especially our organization.”

  Nodding agreement, Simcha displayed a sickened expression at the mention of the whip.

  “What about Menahem and the other commanders? Anything I should know?”

  The little man’s gaze gradually rose to Hanan. “The majority of your commanders remain loyal, understanding how our stealth and secrecy have protected us. But from what I’ve been told, Menahem continues to secretly gather men to do his bidding. They believe they are Sicarii working under your authority and he tells them no different.” Simcha wet his bottom lip with his tongue then drank a sip of wine. His eyes narrowed as he leaned toward Hanan. “To finance his actions, Menahem has begun to kidnap officials and wealthy men. He ransoms their freedom for a hefty purse.”

  Rubbing his forehead as if it ached, Hanan briefly closed his eyes and sighed. He raised his face again and shook his head. “If he’s done that then there’s more we haven’t heard about.”

  “There is, sir. I’ve heard about them. He’s raided villages, killed, stolen shepherds’ flocks as punishment for any help they gave the Romans, and beaten wives and children of suspected sympathizers as a warning.” The operative finished his wine and dejectedly sat back in his chair. “The people in the southern villages no longer rejoice when they hear the name ‘Sicarii.’”

  “I feel he’s trying to push the Romans into a war that will only end with our people’s annihilation,” Hanan replied, scraping the table’s top with his fingertips. He glanced about the street.

  The noon sun reached its zenith and the heat of the day grew worse by the hour. Little breeze blew and the air felt as if it flowed from a baker’s oven.

&nb
sp; “What ever happened to the disciples that followed Yeshua? Last I heard they were going to Damascus.”

  Simcha nodded with apprehension. Hanan had not spoken of Yeshua and his followers for years, and the Sicarii leader never asked questions unless he had reason.

  “They went to Damascus, but once there they separated and went to the four winds, each man to a different country to spread Yeshua’s teachings. Some of the disciples have been killed.”

  “And what of the man who persecuted them?” Hanan’s brow lowered.

  “Do you mean Paul? The one that was originally called Saul of Tarsus?”

  Hanan nodded.

  “Saul was on the road to Damascus when—.” Simcha drew silent, not wanting to bring up a bad memory for Hanan.

  “When what?”

  “When Yeshua appeared to him, blinded him, then let him travel on to Damascus.” Simcha’s voice lowered. “Once there a follower of Yeshua found Saul and said the teacher had ordered Saul’s eyesight to be cured. On that day Saul became a believer and has been spreading the teachings of Yeshua ever since. But he is no longer called Saul. Now he’s known as Paul.”

  “Yeshua blinded him? I remember when Yeshua destroyed the money-changers’ tables in the temple. Now you say he blinded this Saul or Paul, or whatever the man is called. I’d never have believed he would do such things.” Hanan slowly shook his head once as he lowered his gaze to the table’s top and stared, lost in thought. Several minutes passed then he rose from his chair to leave.

  “Do you remember the centurion from the day of the crucifixion?” Simcha asked, looking up at Hanan. “Before the disciples left for Damascus, he sent soldiers to find Peter and escort him to his house. Peter thought he was being arrested, but the centurion wanted to be baptized by him.”

  “The centurion?” The disbelief in Hanan’s voice was thick. He let his gaze drift to the ground as he turned to leave.

  “There’s more you need to know, mas-I mean Hanan.” Simcha spoke with a tone of remorse.

  The big man groaned as he took his seat in the chair again.

  “Why do I have the feeling this will not be good?” Hanan rested his forearms on the table’s top and leaned forward.

  The odd scar on his leader’s forearm came into view. Simcha paused and stared, his thoughts distracted by it.

  “Simcha? What were you going to say?”

  The operative raised his gaze to meet Hanan’s eyes, momentarily lost for words.

  “I—I was told Menahem is considering an attack on the town of En Gedi.”

  “An attack?”

  “No, not just an attack, but a slaughter. Kill all seven hundred men, women, and children there.”

  Hanan stared with mouth slightly agape. “That’s ridiculous. Why would he do that?”

  “From what my source said, in Menahem’s warped logic, he believes the entire village has become puppets to the Romans because they treat the soldiers well when they pass through on their way to Masada.”

  “But they treat everyone good who passes through the town. It’s an oasis in the wilderness with a waterfall and palm trees. The people make their living from selling food, wine and supplies to travelers that stop to rest for the night. They’re not sympathizers.” Hanan shook his head. Menahem’s insanity was beyond comprehension.

  Travelers referred to En Gedi as the ‘city of palm trees.’ With its Hebrew name translating to the ‘spring of the goat-kid,’ travelers found ‘palm trees’ to be more favorable to speak of as a place to rest. Thirty miles southeast of Jerusalem and west of the Dead Sea, En Gedi was along the route to Herod the Great’s mountaintop fortress of Masada where the Romans kept a garrison. ‘David’s Waterfall’ cascaded down a mountain, fed from a spring far up its side. Solomon had often spoke of the fertile soil and vineyards with fine grapes. David had taken refuge in one of its many caves when King Saul pursued him with three thousand men. Although, a beautiful place surrounded by desolate land, En Gedi had a violent history of ancient battles—and Menahem now wanted to add his own to its record.

  “I’ve never doubted your reports before, but I must ask... Is your informant reliable?” Hanan’s brow rose as he looked at Simcha.

  “Yes. A sinner woman that slept with him told me he was drunk and bragging about leading his men against a town of traitors. It took all night and several jars of wine, but he finally said the name—En Gedi.”

  Glancing down the street, Hanan observed Ruth and David standing in the shade of a building, patiently waiting for him. He rose from his chair and nodded to Simcha.

  “I must go but meet me here tomorrow morning.” He tossed coins on the table. “Those are for the information.” He dropped a coin atop the others. “And that is for you to pay for your food and wine.” A wry grin formed on his lips. “Stop putting your wine on my account.”

  Simcha had smiled when he first saw the coins but grew pale when he realized Hanan had known about the bill all along.

  The leader of the Sicarii walked four steps before Simcha called out, making him stop. Hanan turned to face him and waited.

  “I remembered what I was going to tell you earlier. That scar on your forearm. I’ve seen it before.” Simcha raised his left forearm and ran a finger over it.

  “Where?” Hanan’s face drew cold and hard.

  “Menahem. On his left arm.”

  Hanan stared at his operative for several seconds, gravely nodded and walked away.

  ***

  The walk home had been long; not because of its distance but from Hanan’s moody silence. Gazing at the ground or staring off at the horizon, his thoughts appeared to be everywhere other than with Ruth and her six years old son.

  Once home Hanan walked to the veranda and settled in his chair, eyes focused on the distant mountains. Elizabeth glanced at Ruth and raised her brows in question, but the young woman shrugged in reply and carried a cup of wine to him. His gaze drifted to her and she heard a mumbled ‘thank you.’

  David raced past her to sit in Micha’s chair. She reached out to catch him but Hanan waved her away.

  “He’s fine.”

  Ten minutes later, Hanan finished his wine and stood. He looked at the dark-haired boy. “I’m going for a walk. Do you wish to stay or go?”

  The boy slid from the chair. “Can I throw rocks?”

  Hanan faintly smiled. “Of course, and I may throw some with you.”

  They found David’s mother in the kitchen and asked permission for the boy to go.

  “Are you sure, Hanan? You look troubled.”

  The big man softly nodded. “I’m only going to the orchards. He won’t be a bother.”

  ***

  Every fifteen feet along the road the boy found a new rock to throw. At times Hanan tossed a rock to land near David’s, making the boy laugh.

  “My mother can throw better than you,” David said, smiling wide as he craned his neck back to look up at Hanan.

  Waving to the men in the watchtower, Hanan walked along the orchard rows and stopped at his favorite gnarled olive tree. He gazed at it several seconds before sitting in the shade of its limbs.

  The sun was lowering on the horizon as he glanced at the drifting clouds overhead. The air was changing, losing its extreme heat and becoming pleasant. Scraping a handful of dirt into his right hand, he mindlessly let it sift through his fingers then swiped his palm clean. Twenty feet away David walked along, studying the ground for the best rocks. When found, he reared his right arm back and cast the rock with as much strength as he could muster. He watched it sail through the air then bounce across the ground to a halt.

  Depending upon the quality of each throw Hanan applauded or laughed. But his thoughts kept returning to Menahem, and what must be done.

  “Stay where I can see you,” he called out when the boy kept edging further away along the orchard r
ow.

  Leaning his head back against the bark of the tree, Hanan stared at the passing clouds outlined with a golden orange by the setting sun.

  “Where are you, Yeshua? If you came back, why didn’t you show yourself to me as well? Am I so bad that Elohim forbade it? I thought of you as a friend, my only friend. Why have you turned away?” He spoke to the sky, hoping that Yeshua was listening, yet no response came. The ache sweeping through him was like none he’d ever known or could explain to anyone.

  “Are you all right?” David’s gentle voice held worry.

  Hanan let his gaze drift to the boy standing near. “I was talking to an old friend.”

  Looking up at the sky, David turned back. “But you’re crying...” He raised a hand and pointed a finger at Hanan’s cheek.

  Swiping fingertips over his right cheek, Hanan was surprised when he felt a tear. “I must have gotten something in my eye.” He wiped his eyes and inhaled deeply.

  Hanan rose from beneath the tree and stepped to David. He pressed the boy against him and stroked his head.

  “I’m going away for a while on business. Will you take care of your mother, Elizabeth and Benjamin until I return?”

  “Yes, sir. Will you be gone a long time?”

  “I hope not. But while I’m gone, I expect you to continue with your studies. Read the Torah like we’ve been doing together.” Hanan let his gaze carry across the orchard. “I’m going to miss this place.”

  He patted David’s shoulders. “We better go home before it gets dark and your mother starts to worry.”

  ***

  The hour had reached mid of night when Hanan heard a light tapping against the door frame. He turned from Micha’s desk and the papers before him to see Ruth standing barefooted in her sleeping tunic.

  “Are you hungry?” Worry filled her eyes. “You’ve been here all evening and haven’t had anything to eat. I could prepare a plate for you and bring it if you wish.”

  “No, I don’t have much appetite this evening,” he replied, covering several documents, although, he knew she couldn’t read. “I’m almost finished for the night.”