by David Blixt
The hard planes of his muscles moved like a wild animal. He ran with a lithe step, almost weightless, and he flew over the terrain as if he were one of the deer, barely touching the earth.
There was one difference. Deer didn't carry spears.
Judah shifted the weapon in his grip. From sawing stone to swinging a stick, he had capable hands, strong and large. He didn't have his brother's way with books or words, nor his father's sarcastic streak. He didn't have his grandfather's fabled patience, nor his dead mother's sweetness. Judah was just an angry man who was good with his hands.
Passing the grove of apricot trees, he remembered bringing Deborah here in the summer months. It had been sweet smelling then, but in the time between, the fruits had all been stolen and the trees stood denuded as if by locusts. These trees were lucky. The larger trees of Ajalon had all been ravaged, knocked down for the invaders' fort or made into siege engines.
Thinking of the invaders fed his anger. Thinking of Deborah made him angry, too, but not in a way that would help. Pushing thoughts of her from his mind, Judah ran on.
Past a small village, Judah and the rest arrived at the great ancient highroad, newly covered with paving stones. This same road had brought the Canaanites, Israelites, Philistines, Aegyptians, and Syrians. It was the road of pilgrimage, and the road of invasion. But unlike all other invaders, the Romans had not only used it, but made it their own, repaving it as they marched. They put their mark on everything they touched, like some hideous nation of Cain.
Breathing hard, Judah ignored the road. Instead, he scrambled up the ancient goat-paths on the southern hill ridge. He'd spent countless hours among these hills with his brother, quarrying stone for their father. Normally he might fear a panther or a wolf lurking in a shallow cave. He remembered a nasty fright as a boy when he'd encountered a lone hyena. But tonight the noise from the road had driven all such beasts away.
Behind him, hundreds of men followed as fast as their feet could carry them. Others crossed the road to ascend the northern slope, racing to get ahead of their prey in the valley below.
The Valley of Beth-Horon.
It was here that another Judah, son of another Matthias, had led a revolt against foreign overlords. He had been called the Makkabi – the Hammer of the Lord. Whimsically, Judah wished he had brought one of his father's stone-working hammers. He liked symmetry.
Across the ridge ahead, Judah heard the uniform stamp of hobnail boots, the clatter of hooves, and the creak of wagons and siege machines. The sound of a Roman army on the move.
Racing and stumbling over the rocks, his free hand groping up the rest of the slope, Judah clutched the spear haft. Apart from this lone spear he'd plucked from a dead man, Judah's only weapon was a sling. Traditional, almost poetic. He didn't even have a sword, and there'd been no time to go home and take his father's. Things had happened so fast! One moment the Romans were attacking the Temple, the next they were pulling up their stakes and marching smartly back the way they'd come. And the whole city, it seemed, had given chase.
Judah was no rebel. He paid his taxes. He'd had no part in the riots, the kidnappings, the murders. Those had been the agitators, the Zelotes and Sicarii. Even when word came of the massacre in Alexandria and the death of his twin brother, Judah hadn't taken to the streets. But the anger, seething and boiling, had built. And built.
Then, this morning, the Romans had attacked the heart of his faith, the most sacred site in all the world. In answer, the common men of Jerusalem, men like Judah, had poured into the streets. No shouts, no cries. They were more fearsome for their silence. After a few brief skirmishes, the wary Romans had retreated, and the Jews had followed. As fast as the Romans ran, the Jews ran faster. Without shields, without helms, without armour of any kind. Nothing but their righteous rage.
Judah started among them, then suddenly he was ahead of them, leading them out of the city after the fleeing Roman legion. Anger gave him inexhaustible strength, his lungs filling and collapsing like the bellows under the brick-furnace in his father's yard. The spear in his grip weighed almost nothing. It was crimson, still covered in the lifeblood of his neighbour Jocha. Poor Jocha, so eager, so slow. The short Roman pilum had pierced his throat and knocked him from the rooftop before he could loose his first sling-stone. Kneeling beside him, Judah had plucked the spear forth, and a welter of blood had pulsed out behind it, speeding Jocha to his death.
“Fool,” his father had said, closing the dying man's eyes. “Brave idiot. Now who'll look after your mother and son?”
“I will,” said Judah, clutching the spear so hard his knuckles turned white.
His father had laughed. “Which means me, since I look after you. You're awfully free with my largesse. Now come inside before some Roman makes us pin-cushions as well. They'll be gone soon enough, then we can bury our dead.”
“No.” Judah had stood and headed for where the fighting was.
“Where are you going? Judah! Judah, no…!” The old man's voice had been lost to the thunder of voices crying for vengeance, the thunder of Roman boots and trumpets, the thunder hammering in Judah's ears.
Forgive me, father. I can't be anything but what I am.
Now, under the heavy and pregnant moon, he scrambled to be first to launch his weapon into the Roman ranks. But that honour went to another. The short man wore a priest's robes and looked wild as a desert jackal. His hair and beard were all disordered, and spittle was on his lips. This man had led the charge out of the city, and barely stopped for breath the whole way. Reaching the top of the ridge just three steps ahead of Judah, he screamed like a lunatic and threw his spear blindly into the disordered Romans below.
Judah took pause to aim. He'd seen spears thrown, but he'd never handled one himself. Planting his feet wide, Judah raised his weapon to his ear. Taking a huge breath, he stepped into the throw and heaved. The spear vanished into the shadowy depths below. For a moment there was nothing. Then he heard a cry, followed by the crisp orders of the centurions. “Testudo! Testudo!” The Romans were forming their tortoise, using their shields to build a wall overhead and along their flanks.
Judah was already unwrapping the sling from his waist. Not allowed to carry knives in the streets, the young men of the city had improvised. Wearing the wide leather band as a belt kept the Romans from noticing it if they stopped you. And the sling was a holy weapon, the choice weapon of kings and shepherds alike.
As more Judeans clambered up to launch their spears, Judah knelt and found a rock no bigger than his palm. He nocked it into the leather sling and started the weapon spinning.
“For Jerusalem!” shouted the wild man, throwing a second spear. “For Israel!”
“For Asher,” murmured Judah. Three months ago his twin had vanished in the riots at Alexandria, when a Roman legion massacred the entire Jewish district. Shaking, Judah sent his stone hurtling down into the Roman ranks. Recovering his balance, he found a film over his eyes. He blinked it away and bent down, feeling around for his next missile.
The next time he cast his sling loose, his bullet was joined by dozens more, raining down a ragged but deadly volley into the disordered Twelfth Legion below.
The Valley of Beth-Horon was a legendary place in Hebrew history, a place of revolution, of the casting off of tyranny and oppression, conjuring visions of heroic deeds and noble causes.
Judah's cause this night was avenging his brother. Blood thundering in his ears, he reached down for the next stone.
♦ ◊ ♦
IN THE VALLEY BELOW, down among the Romans, a woman called Cleopatra screamed. Dressed in a gown more fit for feasting than flight, the Roman woman buried her head under a goose-feather pillow and spit curses at the invisible Jews above, employing the only Aramaic she had bothered to learn in her three years here. “Raca! Adhadda kedhabhra!”
Her husband, Gessius Florus, dismounted and dragged her out of her litter. Pushing her head down, he made her kneel down behind a dozen stout Roman shields, far b
etter protection than goose feathers.
It was a full moon, and by the light leaking through the chinks in the upheld shields Cleopatra saw she was crouching by the foot of King Agrippa, titular ruler of Judea. The king stood upright and unflinching under the patter of stones on the shields.
“Typical Judeans,” spat Cleopatra, “assaulting their own king. And typical of a Jewish king, to be so ineffectual! Aah!” Another volley of rattling stones made her throw her hands over her head.
On her other side, Florus patted her shoulder. “Now now, Cleopatra. Just keep your head down.” He shot a grin at the king, who ignored the despicable Roman couple.
All around them the Twelfth Legion struggled with an unseen foe, known only by the rattle of stones and the screams of wounded legionaries. A second shower of stones had started from the other side of the valley as well – the Judean rebels now held the high ground on both sides and were decimating the legion with their slings.
Having run out of Aramaic curses, the Roman lady switched to her native Latin. “Cunni! Verpae! Mentulae! Fellatores!”
“Quiet woman!” snarled King Agrippa, unable to contain himself any longer. “Florus, control your wife!”
But Gessius Florus, Roman knight and Procurator of Judea, ignored the king's order. Despite the danger, the plump governor was improbably gleeful. Under a hail of sling-stones, he was thinking, O, thank you, Jews! Thank you! You have saved me!
Florus had spent the last three years raping this land. He'd hated the Judeans from first sight of them, having dealt with enough Hebrews in Rome. From the moment he'd arrived he had set out to enrich himself at their expense. He'd raked in taxes and bribes in unheard-of quantities. Those Jews who could not pay were tortured and crucified.
Early on, the complaints had been easy enough to ignore. But eventually even the Hebrew priests had expressed their displeasure, opening up an avalanche of complaints and accusations that had gone all the way to Rome. If it had gone on any longer, Nero Caesar would have taken notice, threatening the grand fortune Florus had stolen from these heathen Hebrews.
The only way for Florus to hide his deeds (and his gold!) was to start a war. Not that he could declare one himself – he was only a knight, not a senator. But what he could do was bait these silly Jews into starting one. For decades there had been fear of a revolution in Judea. All he had to do was fan those flames.
He began by adding more taxes. The Jews bent, but did not break. Then he demanded the gold from their great Temple. Even that insult hadn't been enough to move these dullards. So he had struck them where they were most sensitive – their lonely god. Noting their reaction to any sacrilege, he had placed the image of Nero inside their precious Temple, to be worshipped alongside their god.
Predictably, the citizens of Jerusalem had gone wild, sacking the Roman garrison there and burning King Agrippa's palace. Best of all, they burned all the contracts and deeds lodged in the governor's palace, thus removing all proof of his chicanery. The uprising provided Florus with a pretext to demand reinforcements. The governor of Syria had dutifully marched on the city, and now the Judeans were responding just as Florus had hoped. When news of this attack reached Rome, Nero would wage all-out war. And Florus' gold would be safe.
Noting the cold stare of the Judean king, Florus said, “Invigorating, is it not, your majesty?”
Agrippa turned away. Florus grinned until he noted the look on the face of the king's bodyguard. A thin man, taller than any Roman, he was a fearsome sight. Unlike the king, this man eschewed Western dress, and grew his beard in the old Hebrew way, long and neatly squared. But his head was shaved, and the moonlight reflected off a deep scar along one side of his scalp just above the ear. He carried an enormous sword, half as tall as himself and as wide as an outstretched hand, but crooked halfway down the blade. Not a soldier's blade. A gladiator's blade. A barbarian's blade.
This fearsome monster, so foreign and “other”, was staring down at him with undisguised scorn. Like any coward, Florus felt a burning resentment and consoled himself with thoughts of revenge. I can't kill your king, but I can have you killed easily enough, my friend. In fact… “My dear king, should not your man here be helping? Such a fierce warrior should be in the thick of things, not hiding with women and old men!”
“Levi is my bodyguard,” replied Agrippa. “He does not need to be fighting his brothers, my own people.”
“Even when they're calling for your royal blood?” asked Florus lightly. Beside him, Cleopatra hissed, “Cowards, all of them.”
Disgusted, Agrippa stalked away to find a horse. The bodyguard Levi lingered a moment more, gazing down at Florus. Then he followed his master. Watching them go, the governor of Judea stifled a laugh. Romans bowed to no king, and especially not a client king who needed Rome's protection against his own people. Thinking of all the insults he'd heaped upon the king and his sister-queen, Florus laughed outright.
The laugh died in his throat as one of the sling-stones punched through the edge of a Roman shield and struck the paved road just inches away. Florus reached out and felt the pit in the road it had made, and imagined what that would have done to his flesh. He called up to the Syrian governor, still astride his horse. “Gallus! Get us out of here!”
From his saddle, Gaius Cestius Gallus scowled at the squat, pudgy knight. A consular senator and general, it was inconceivable to him that a Roman man should cower with women and foreigners.
He had Florus' measure, to be sure. But duty to Rome had compelled him to bring the Twelfth Legion to Judea and patch up whatever crisis Florus had caused.
However, he had misjudged the situation entirely. The resistance he had encountered in Jerusalem was fierce and bitter. This wasn't anger at a few years of abuse. This was the boiling resentment of generations.
Even this retreat was going poorly. Already he had lost dozens of men, including his entire cavalry. These damn Judean sling-stones were usually no more than a nuisance, but his men were exhausted, thirsty, and on uncertain terrain. And the Judeans had their blood up.
Gallus issued crisp orders to his senior legate. “Find five centuries to push up the slopes and guard our retreat. Four hundred men should have room to deploy. They're to drive them back and buy the rest of us time to make an orderly retreat up the valley.”
Mid-note, the bugler issuing the order was struck by a hail of stones, destroying his instrument along with his life. The five centurions had to be given their task by word of mouth. Obediently they started their men up the rise to meet the enemy, with the good lady Cleopatra still spitting curses behind them.
The Twelfth Legion had a proud legacy to maintain. They had fought with Caesar against the Nervii, had made history at the siege of Alesia, and defeated Pompey the Great at Pharsalus. They would not fall to a pack of Judean rabble throwing stones.
♦ ◊ ♦
JUDAH WAS SCRABBLING for another stone when the whizzing sound of the slings stopped. Looking down the slope he saw legionaries climbing to meet them. “That's right, bastards,” said someone nearby. “Come on.”
A sword scraped from its wooden sheath, and Judah turned to stare enviously. The blade was held by an Idumean, to judge by the dark skin and long hair. The hairline was receding, making this man an incongruously comic figure. But his voice was all angry defiance. “For Israel!”
On Judah's other side, the wild priest Simon bar Giora beat his chest with his hands. “For Israel!”
“Israel!!” Howling and keening, the Judeans surged down to engage the Romans.
Adding his voice to the battle cry, Judah leapt down the slope, thrilling. This wasn't like the fighting he had done in the stews of Jerusalem, brawling with friends and neighbours, clouting the occasional priestly snob. This was man's work. This was the Lord's work.
A Roman soldier lunged at him, the wicked point of the blade angling up towards his bare ribs. Judah didn't even flinch. He slapped it aside with the flat of his hand and punched the Roman full in the face, kn
ocking the man off his feet to tumble into his fellows.
A second Roman stabbed at this handsome fool of a Judean. Judah threw himself back from this blade and lost his footing. Worse, the angle of the slope was so steep that his fall had him skidding and slipping down into the Roman ranks. His feet struck a legionary's ankles and brought the Roman crashing down on top of Judah. Suddenly the two men were rolling, careening into other men, a mass of limbs. Romans leapt out of the way, cursing in Latin as the two combatants hurtled through the ranks, down towards the road.
Judah was taking the worst of it, crushed and buffeted by the Roman's breastplate, shield, and greaves. But he ignored the pain as they continued to tumble, struggling for dominance. The sword! Judah stopped fighting to be on top, and instead used all his strength to grasp the legionary's wrist. As they slid, he held the hand against the rocks, knocking the weapon free.
The Roman answered by bashing at Judah with his shield and kicking with a nailed boot. The stinging pain made Judah gasp – his back was already bloody from the fall, and now his left leg was awash with blood. But the ground was evening out, slowing their descent. Judah twisted around, still kicking and elbowing. His hands grasped one of the Roman's legs at the knee. He twisted, hard. The Roman screamed, crying out in some guttural Latin dialect for some distant god. Using his hands to slither to a halt, Judah cursed at him and shoved him away.
He put a hand out to rise and discovered it wasn't earth under his hand, nor rocky outcroppings of jagged stone. This stone was flat and smooth and even. He had fallen all the way down to the road. Alone, among a whole Roman legion.
I'm a dead man.
Somewhere higher on the hill behind him the balding Judean leader released a feral shout. “Israel! Death to Rome!”
