by David Blixt
The inference that Phannius was not her best son didn't seem to affect the big man, he'd heard it so often. Judah almost felt sorry for the lout. At least he understood why Phannius had told his lie. No doubt she had flayed him for not bringing the eagle back himself.
It was clear she had no intention of granting permission for Judah and Deborah to marry. Technically, of course, that refusal should have come from Phannius, the senior man in the household. But there was no doubt as to who ruled here.
Still, Judah wasn't about to slink away like a whipped cur, his tail between his legs. He would make her say it. “Lady Euodias. I have come to humbly ask your permission to take your daughter's hand in marriage.”
Tears stood in Deborah's eyes. She didn't look at her mother, but tried to convey as much as possible before he was made to leave.
Euodias let the moment drag out as long as possible. Then she jerked her chin at her son. “Phannius is the man of the house. You should be asking him. Insulting! Imagine, asking an old woman's permission when he's standing right there. First you keep him from his just desserts, then you heap scorn upon him by placing a woman over him. Or worse, acting like he doesn't even exist!” She looked to her son. “And what kind of man are you, that you let him treat you so? Are you afraid of him? He always was a bully, even as a boy. Well, Judah ben Matthais, you can't have your little prize. Stupid as she is, she is comely – almost as pretty as I was at her age. She's made for a better husband than a common mason – even a hero! Her maidenhead will go to a wealthy man of the Lower City, maybe even the Upper. But don't worry, hero, you won't have to see it. We won't want common folk at the wedding. Come, Deborah!” She took her daughter's hand and physically led Deborah deeper into the house. She took the goblet with her.
That left Judah alone with Phannius. Judah wanted to say something insulting, but decided that the best thing to do was to treat him just as his mother had described. Ignoring him completely, Judah left the house with his head held high.
He didn't remember the walk home, and the weeks since seemed a blur. Work, work was the answer. He pushed his body past enduring, taking up the worst physical labour he could find, straining so hard he tore open the scabs from the battle and bled afresh.
Fortunately there were many orders to fill, mostly from the priests wishing to fortify the city walls. Priests. But Judah swallowed his anger and worked from dawn till dusk. When he fell into his bed each night – alone – he had to be too tired to think. Because thinking made it worse. In his unworthier moments he wished he'd succumbed and bedded Deborah the night after the battle. Euodias would have had to agree, or else complain to the priests that the hero of Beth Horon had deflowered her daughter. But Judah didn't wish that kind of shame on Deborah. And on the night his father had died…? Everything conspired against them.
Among the neighbourhood, the refusal reflected poorly on everyone. Deborah's family had denied her to the hero of Beth Horon. But some said they must have had reason. People began looking at Judah as an upstart crow, a man with ideas above his station. The luster of his great victory was a little tarnished. Not that Judah cared. He threw himself into work, imagining each hammer-fall a blow against his enemies.
His other respite was his new friend, Levi. The gaunt and bearded bodyguard appeared one day in the yard, a mocking smile on his lips. “So this is where you learned to fight. Pity you didn't have that hammer at Beth Horon.”
“We did well enough without it.” Judah dropped the hammer to embrace the taller man. Seen in normal circumstances, not covered in dust and blood, Levi ben Patroclus looked to be in his middle thirties, though the shaved head made him seem older. His skin was weathered, too, aging him further. Judah couldn't say what the original hue had been, but the man had some northern features – a slightly wider nose that flared when he talked, a jutting chin under his neat square beard. The massive sword hung in a baldric upon his back, too long to be carried at the waist.
“Thank you,” said Judah when they were sipping water and lemons in the house. It wasn't empty anymore. He'd kept his word to his dead friend and taken in Jocha's widow and son. The woman kept house for him, and the boy earned their keep as his third apprentice. It was the widow, close to Levi's age, who brought them the fruit drink, and then returned with small wafers frosted with sugar. She smiled at Levi, who thanked her, then said to Judah, “As for your thanks, hothead, I'll do without them. You thanked me once, which was more than was required. Thank me again and I'll make you eat that rock in the yard.”
“I'd enjoy seeing you try. Though I suppose if I had to have just one man protecting my back, I'm glad it was a bodyguard.” He paused, then said, “I feel bad. You lost your position because of me.”
“No. Because of me.”
“I never asked who you were guarding. Some priest?”
“No,” replied Levi, swirling the cup in his hand. There was a patina of dust floating on the surface – everything in the house was inevitably covered in grit from the yard. “I was the bodyguard for King Agrippa.”
Judah choked on his drink and Levi grinned. For a moment Judah didn't know whether to believe him or no. Then he started laughing and invited him to supper.
They supped together three more times in the last two weeks, and Levi kept Judah informed as to the course of the war. “Not that there's much to tell, yet. The murders have ended on all sides – no one left within reach to kill. Now everyone waits to see what Nero Caesar will say.”
“Is there any doubt?”
Jocha's widow, Shalva, had made them a thick stew this time. Her cooking inexplicably improved whenever she knew Levi was coming.
Picking out a hunk of lamb meat and lifting it to his lips, Levi shrugged. “From what I heard the king say, one never can tell with Nero. He thinks he's an artist. He might just compose us a ballad and let it go.”
Judah pulled a face. “You don't believe that.”
“No,” agreed Levi. “I don't.”
♦ ◊ ♦
NOW, CHEST HEAVING, Judah paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. He was working shirtless today, wearing just a kilted wrap about his loins. It was cold, but Judah's anger warmed him. That, and the heat from the kilns, which was good for Judah's hands. It was dangerous to work large stones with numbed fingers.
Just as he lifted his hammer he heard an ugly sound and turned to see one of his apprentices standing over a badly-chiseled piece of stone, with jagged shards littering the ground. “Damn it, Benayahu! Limestone isn't granite, you can't just hack away at it!”
Young Benayahu stepped fearfully back. His father, Jocha, would have had his hide, and Judah's mood these last three weeks had threatened as much. Everyone knew why.
But Judah was a fairer man than the boy's father. Taking a deep breath, he stepped close and merely relieved Benayahu of his hammer and chisel. “Try again. Start by pouring the water over the stone. Look for cracks. There's nothing worse than cutting into a stone only to have it shatter from some hidden flaw. That's happened to me too often. The worst damage is always inside, waiting. Which is why we need to be careful.”
Once all the creases had been identified, Judah raised the chisel into place. “Remember, new-quarried limestone's soft, more likely to crumble. So you have to guide it, give it form. One bad stroke and you'll have wasted the day. Malachi, Chaim, step back.”
His two older apprentices obeyed, having seen this lesson several times but still enjoying the skill and raw power that Judah brought to the work. Judah neatly struck the stone in five separate places, then five more on each side. As he worked, he talked. “I know we're in a rush. The Sanhedrin is breathing down our necks. But we're masons, not magicians. We can't rush just because they're scared.”
“I'm scared, too,” admitted Benayahu softly. He was only nine years old. Chaim snorted, but Malachai put a hand on the boy's shoulder. “So am I.” Normally Malachai sang while he worked, but not lately. Part of it was the images of the war, still carved into his eyes. Part
was Judah's mood.
“No shame in that. Only a fool doesn't feel fear.” Shirtless torso caked in airbourne grit, Judah took wedges and gently tapped them into each of the holes. “But think of this – properly fitted stones make all the difference against a Roman battering ram. This stone could be here a hundred years from now. Five hundred, a thousand, even. But if we rush, if we leave cracks or weaken the stone by going against the grain, it will shatter when hit. One shattered stone leads to a breach. A breach means the city falls and the Romans win.”
The three apprentices listened intently. Here was a man still bearing the marks of battle, treating this stone as gently as he would a child.
Hefting a large mallet, Judah started hitting the wedges – lightly at first, then with growing intensity. “You have to be calm – with stone. Patient. Within this slab – there's a perfect square held prisoner, yearning to be free. We must help – it – emerge.”
His final blow was answered with a tremendous crack! A large chunk of limestone fell away, leaving a nearly flat surface underneath.
Grinning, Judah tossed the hammer to the ground. As always, the work made him feel better. “That's the way. When you're bigger, I'll let you use the stone-saw. But for now, get the pumice and start smoothing out that end so we can turn it and do the next side. Take your time. Forget about the war. Think of the prisoner in the stone.”
A sharp rap made the apprentices jump, thinking there was indeed someone trapped within the limestone. Laughing at them, Judah crossed to the door in the yard's wall and yanked it wide. To his surprise he saw bodyguards outside, surrounding a bald stranger of middle years and rich attire. “Shalom. Can I help you?”
“I – I hope so.” The fellow was clearly taken aback by the muscled young man in the kilted cloth. He produced a piece of slate with a chalked marking on it. “Is this the marking of this house?”
Judah looked at the insignia, the name Matthais with the letters forming a pyramid. “It is.”
“Are you Matthais?”
“His son.”
“Ah. I should have known.” The man squinted hard out of watery eyes. “He looks just like you.”
Instantly Judah's heart began to hammer against his ribs. “Who?”
“Don't know his name. We found him on the road from Aegypt.”
Judah had a hundred questions, but only one mattered. “He's alive?”
“Alive? Oh yes – barely. We didn't know how to find his people, but he had a letter on him bearing this mark –”
Judah was already moving, fetching a tunic and hauling it over his sweating, grimy frame. “Boys, let the fires dim. Chaim and Malachai, fetch doctors. Benayahu, tell your mother to prepare a sickbed. Then wait here, I may need you.” Returning his attention to the man at the gate, he said, “Where is he?”
“At our house in the Upper City. I'll bring you to – what's his name?”
“Asher. His name is Asher.”
VI
SITUATED AROUND three hills, Jerusalem was divided into four parts. Most prominent was the Upper City, also called Zion, or the Old City, because it was here that King David had built his walls. Sloping down from the heights of Mount Zion, the Upper City was home to the priests and wealthiest citizens, and held palaces of kings all the way from David to Herod the Usurper. The latter had made certain it contained such Roman constructions as an amphitheatre and hippodrome.
Just east of Zion, yet apart from it, stood Mount Moriah. A fortress in and of itself, this was the most ancient and holy of sites, where Abraham had offered up his son Isaac to the Lord. Here David had lain the foundations for the Lord's home on earth, the heart of the city. Here David's son Solomon had completed the great Temple. Here, too, Herod had built a great Roman-style fortress called Antonia, after his patron Mark Antony.
The last hill was called Acra, so named for the fortress that had once stood here, also built by Israel's enemies. Slightly south of Mount Moriah, it was shaped like the horned moon. Built on the slopes of Acra was the Lower City, where lived the populous and prosperous middle-class. Centuries of enterprise and hard work had made this area a gleaming crossroads for traders, craftsmen, and artists of all kinds.
But in the centuries since David's reign his city had continued to sprawl. With deep gorges of Hinnon and Kidron running south and east, settlers had built homes north and west. Thus was born Bezetha, the New City. Enclosed by a wall named for Herod's son Agrippa, here lived the poor, the rough labourers, and the peasants who toiled and scraped together means to survive.
The rich Zion to the west, the Temple to the east, the prosperous Lower City to the south, and struggling Bezetha to the north. This was Jerusalem.
Judah's masonry yard was in Bezetha, just inside Agrippa's Wall. If the trader's home was in the Upper City, they had a trek ahead. Going anywhere in Jerusalem meant a climb, which was why pilgrims always referred to 'going up to Jerusalem'.
As they set out, the wealthy man's gait was maddeningly relaxed. Judah had to resist the temptation to pick him up and carry him. Instead he pressed for information. “You said my brother was on the road from Aegypt. Where? When did you find him?”
“Nearly two weeks ago. He was sick with fever, and sun struck. And—”
“And what?”
“He had a wound in his side. It had been doctored, but not well. I don't know how he managed to keep his feet for such a journey, all the way from Alexandria.”
They were only just passing the Clothier's Bazaar. “How do you know he came from..?”
The squinting man reached into his belt and produced a dirty piece of papyrus. “The letter. I've been trying to trace the mark for the last week. I'm sorry it took so long…”
He handed the letter over, and Judah unfurled it to behold his own handwriting. As they turned right at Potter's Square and climbed the steps through Second Wall leading to Fort Antonia, he scanned the words he knew far too well, words dictated by his father:
Son,
Perhaps amidst your piles of scrolls and book-buckets you have failed to note it, but your Nation, the pride of King David and the Prophets Abraham and Mosheh, is under siege. Perhaps, tucked away in your precious Alexandrian library, you are oblivious to the shedding of your country's Blood. Perhaps, engaged in deep thoughts of gentile heroes and their deeds, you have been blind to the true Heroes that now fight to free your People from Tyranny. Already the People in their righteous wisdom have risen and sacked the enemy garrison at Fort Antonia.
There is a time for Study. Any father would laud a son's investment in Learning, even if that Learning is not of matters properly Hebrew in nature. Education is to be valued and cherished.
But is it valued higher than Patriotism? Than Fidelity? What would your philosophers and poets say? Do they not say 'Better to die Free Men than live as Slaves'? Would they deem him a Righteous Man who went gadding off to foreign lands while his father, brother, and country burned? Or would they accuse him of Neglect, Cowardice, even Treason? Have you, in all your reading, ever come across a poet who extolled the virtues of the Timid? Perhaps you have. Poets can write whatever they please. But men must act!
There is a time for Study, and there is a time to defend your Nation, your Family, and your G-d.
Perhaps this letter will miss you. Perhaps you are already on your way home. I pray this is so. But if this letter finds you on Yom Rishon, and you are not aboard a ship on Yom Sheini, you are No Son of Mine.
These were the words of Judah's father. But just below, marked with a star, was an appendix Judah himself had added, a private message to his twin:
Don't listen to him. He just wants you home. But Jerusalem is dangerous these days. Stay there, brother, and stay safe.
This letter had been sent three months earlier, when all the trouble with Rome was just starting. Judah had been proud of his advice. His brother did not belong in war. Asher was meant for better things.
Twins, Judah and Asher had both been raised to follow the trade of th
eir father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. But while Judah could happily spend his whole life among pulleys, chisels, and grit (so long as there was the occasional fist-fight in the yard to liven things up), Asher had shown signs of a greater future. Where Judah loved pummeling stones, Asher pummeled ideas. Learning was his passion – and his undoing.
Blessed with an astonishing memory, at nine years old Asher could recite the whole of the Torah with word-perfect accuracy. Despite the fact that they did not come from a priestly family, he began to elicit interest from the educators at the Temple. Ability, they said, was a gift from the Lord, and never to be ignored. He had even been called before Jochanan ben Sakkai, Rector of the Temple University, to answer questions. Judah remembered that day, because Asher had suggested they switch places, for fun.
“You're an idiot. They want to take you off and teach you, make you a priest, even.”
“A priest's clerk, maybe.” Even at nine, they had both been aware of the deficiencies of their birth.
“So? It's a good life – especially for someone so in love with books!” Judah made it sound like a taunt. There was a small, unwelcome part of him that envied his brother. But he made sure never to show it.
At Judah's urging, Asher had gone. Whatever he had said to old Doctor Jochanan, it had impressed the white-bearded scholar. The next day Temple rabbis came to press Matthais to allow the boy to come study with them in a beth hasefer, a House of the Book. Matthais had reluctantly agreed – so long as the boy did not neglect his duties in the workshop. He was afraid his son would become rarified in the company of priests.
That hadn't happened. Instead, Asher gradually became a problem for the holy men. After four years of teaching, he showed he owned more than a great memory. He also had a questing mind, and no stopper to dam his thoughts – he spoke them right out. The Temple scholars found themselves facing uneasy questions of philosophy and faith, and did not enjoy having their own words thrown back at them to make Asher's points.
