by David Blixt
Judah recalled the most contentious of the battles his brother had fought, a war over the First and Second Commandments: I am the Lord thy God. Thou shalt have no other gods before me. You shall not make for yourself an idol. This was generally agreed to mean there was but one God, and that He was Jehovah. But Asher had argued a different meaning, using the very language of the commandment as his proof.
“'No other gods before me' – Yahweh is claiming pre-eminence, not exclusivity,” the fourteen year-old Asher had declared. “By even using the phrase 'other gods,' He implicitly acknowledges that other gods do, in fact, exist. He's just denying us, His Chosen People, the right to worship those other gods. Or rather, the right to pray to them more than to Him. He is claiming us as His own, but He does not deny that other gods exist.”
“The Lord does not peddle in semantics!” one of his teachers had argued hotly.
“The Lord is the Word,” Asher had replied in earnest astonishment. “And the Word is Law. Therefore His words matter, and His choice of words are of the utmost importance.”
Such exchanges led to reprimands, even threats. To please their teachers, other pupils took to assaulting Asher, forcing Judah to escort his twin to and from the Temple. With Judah beside him, Asher became a better fighter, and the other boys soon learned to fear the pair.
Where once the Temple priests had ignored Asher's ignoble birth, it now became a way to discredit him. Despite his family's long roots in Jerusalem, they unjustly called him 'am ha-arez, a peasant. They were at the point of casting out the fifteen year-old troublemaker when, to the relief of the priests and the fury of his father, Asher suddenly departed to study in Alexandria.
Judah had helped his twin slip out of the city, and secretly sent money ever since. In return, Judah received letters. There was much in them he didn't understand – references to Aegyptian authors, Greek philosophers, Roman poets. But it was clear that Asher was flourishing. So when their father dictated his scathing letter, Judah had added his own coda to keep his brother where he was both happy and safe.
It had been a cruel joke. Shortly after the letter had been sent, news came from Alexandria that the Aegyptian and Greek citizens had risen up against the Alexandrian Jews. The Jews had fought back, causing the Romans to sack the whole Jewish quarter. Instead of saving Asher, Judah had condemned him.
Or so he'd thought.
♦ ◊ ♦
THEY REACHED THE WALL to the Upper City and were forced to wait, as the Fish Gate was jammed with worshippers heading to pray at the Temple. Ever since the battle, the city had been flooded with pilgrims and penitents praising the Lord for their great victory.
Even in normal circumstances, the Temple was the center of life in Jerusalem. For one day a year it was also home to Yahweh Himself. Before King David, the Lord had owned no home, traveling alongside His wandering people. Then the city had been founded, and David had lain the foundations for this monument to the Lord. But David had shed too much blood in life to be allowed to finish so glorious an edifice. That honour went to his son, Solomon, who enclosed the area around the massive unhewn stone where Abraham had bound his son for sacrifice. Ever since, generations of the faithful had emulated Abraham by leading their finest lambs to the huge rough altar.
The original Temple no longer existed. The Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar had razed the Temple of Solomon and enslaved all the Hebrews of the city. When they'd returned from their captivity they set about building the Temple anew.
That second Temple had been a humble palace until just a hundred years before. Determined to build an undeniable legacy at any price, Herod the Usurper had doubled the size of the Temple complex, fortifying it with new walls. The interior he entirely remade in Greek fashion, adding Corinthian columns, coloured panels, floral and geometric motifs, marble, paint, and gold – gold stolen, it was said, from David's own tomb. As Herod infamously quipped, “David can pay to finish what he started.”
Herod had been no true Jew himself, of course. His mother had been an Idumean princess of Nabataea, and Hebrew blood was always traced through the mother – the half that could be proved. But the Romans had given him the throne anyway. After all, what did they care for Hebrew laws and traditions? In return he was their puppet, going so far as to place a graven image of a Roman eagle above the Temple doors. Taken down after Herod's death, it was restored by the procurator Pilatus, and taken down again by the Kohen Gadol Caiaphas.
Aware of his own people's enmity for him, Herod had become the greatest builder in Hebrew history. Palaces, fortresses, monuments, temples for Jews, temples for gentiles, theatres, arenas – he built these and more all over Judea in the hope of winning both Rome's approval and that of his own people. He succeeded in the former, but had been disastrously unable to purchase the love of the Jews.
Yet, in the greatest of ironies, Jews of all stripes had embraced Herod's Temple. The reason was simple: no Hebrew was immune to beauty. And the new Temple was undeniably beautiful.
Twenty-five thousand men toiled within the massive Temple complex daily. Not just priests, but musicians, poets, money-changers, teachers, janitors, cantors, treasurers, even shepherds. With pools for cleansing, stalls for the purchase of grain or animals, areas for teaching or debating, the Temple was like a city unto itself.
A city with a single purpose: worship.
♦ ◊ ♦
JUST NOW A SPECIAL order of priests were singing psalms. Trumpets blared and the sweet smell of spices wafted into Judah's nose. Four times a day the silver trumpets announced sacrifices on Abraham's altar. The wind caught the smoke from the special mix of flesh, herbs, ointments, and incense, dispersing the scent through the city, making Jerusalem the sweetest smelling city on earth.
Suddenly an unwelcome stench filled Judah's nose, the odor of an unwashed body. His path was blocked by a straggle-haired ancient known as Y'eshua the Prophet.
The title was mocking. For years the beggar had wandered around the city speaking only four words: “Woe! Woe unto Jerusalem!” He did not thank those who fed him, nor did he curse those who beat him. Early on, he was taken by the authorities and scourged. He never cried out, and just continued to repeat his refrain. Eventually he was declared a madman and released to stalk the streets, shouting his lamentable cry.
Judah tried to step around the old man, but Y'eshua grasped his wrist. In a crackling tone he spoke in Judah's ear. “A voice from the east, a voice from the west, a voice from the four winds, and a voice against Jerusalem and the Sanctuary, a voice against bride and bride-groom, a voice against the people!”
Judah had no time for insane rambling. The trader had kept on, and Judah was in danger of losing sight of him. “Move aside, old fool!”
Y'eshua hauled Judah closer with surprising strength. “Destruction comes from within! The Iron Broom sweeps the lost into the Well of Blood – so many faces, all looking down! Do they cheer or weep? Clemency begs Caesar, but Caesar murders Clemency! The wondering faithful must be Clement, but the heretic brother dies in his place!”
The old man spat three times, then blinked and looked around as if startled to find himself there.
“Move!” Shoving past Y'eshua, Judah forced his way after his guide.
The merchant had turned right, away from the Temple, and was waiting just inside the Gate of Ephraim. Catching up, Judah remarked, “Sorry. Old Y'eshua, raving again.”
The man sighed. “Poor fellow. I feed him, when he allows it.”
“Kind of you.” Judah suddenly registered his own rudeness. “I didn't even ask your name.”
“O, forgive me! Apollion ben Zakkai. I am a spice trader.”
A successful one, thought Judah, noting the neighbourhood they were entering. Between the houses there were hanging gardens, olive groves, and small orchards of various fruits and flowers. “So you travel the Aegyptian route often?”
“I used to,” said Apollion darkly. “This was my last trip. I'm closing my business. Too much uncertainty.”
Judah eyed the pair of bodyguards. “I see.” He had a sudden thought. “Are you in the market for another bodyguard? I know a man. He was the protector of King Agrippa, until Beth Horon.”
“Beth Horon,” said Apollion tartly. “What madness that was. The fools! I'm half tempted to run to Caesarea and throw myself on their mercy. Otherwise my business will perish, and for what? Patriotism? What's that? Can I eat it? Will my daughters wed it?” He gave Judah a sudden, wary glance, his eyes scanning for the mark of a Zelote. But Judah wore no blue. “I am sure, my friend, that you were much too wise to partake of that insanity.”
You saw my scars, friend. Did you take them for the marks of masonry? Or do you not have eyes? “I wish my brother was that wise.”
“Yes, well, what happened was a shame, to be sure. He did well to get away. I'm sure he was not involved in the uprising.” Apollion paused before a finely wrought gate with spikes at the top. Gilt spikes – the gate was more ornate than functional.
Ornate was also the word for the small garden that led up to the house. Brick walls enclosed a narrow walkway of flowering plants and pomegranate trees. The path itself was a mosaic of lapis tiles, making Judah think he was walking upon a stormy sky. How rich can one man be?
Apollion had priestly connections. There was no other explanation. By rights he should be dwelling in the Lower City among the others of his ilk. Yet here he was, among the palaces of the priests and kings and barons of wealth. A small house here was worth half the Bezetha, and the people in it.
Stepping up to the finely carved door, Apollion didn't have to knock. A servant was waiting to open the door to a world of pleasant smells, sparkling cleanliness, and wealthy appointments. Judah might have felt bad about tracking dust with every step had he not been focused on the purpose of his visit.
Instead of leading Judah up the stairs, his host took him to a rear room. Softly he said, “He is within. Please, keep your voice low. He's often delirious.”
They entered a large room with tall slatted shutters over massive windows, tall enough for a man to step through into what was probably a rear-garden. The angle of the slats could be controlled, and they were opened just enough to illuminate the room, no more. The interior held carved chairs, hanging rugs, and marvelous statues of fruits and trees. Despite the chill December air, the room was blazing hot. Beside a sumptuous bed, a brazier burned.
In the bed, skin healing from sun-blisters, was a man tightly wrapped in blankets, the better to burn the fever out of him. Despite the layers of cloth and the paleness of his face, the face was unmistakable. It was like looking in a glass.
Hardly breathing, Judah crossed to his brother's side. Asher's eyes were closed, but his mouth was moving. Remaining by the door, Apollion said, “He keeps repeating a name. Edith. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No,” said Judah. Then he was struck by a vague memory. “I think – he wrote of a neighbour in Alexandria whose daughter was named Edith.”
“Ah.” For Apollion, it was a mystery solved.
Kneeling beside the bed, Judah leaned in close. “Asher? Asher, it's me, Judah.”
Eyelids fluttered. There was an indeterminate noise as the chapped lips moved. Then, more clearly: “Judah.”
A gaping hole suddenly became whole as Judah pressed his forehead against his twin's. “Yes, you idiot. It's me. You're home.”
VII
THE YARD had a massive cart for hauling stone, though they didn't own a mule to pull it. Throwing aside the pulleys, wedges, and joists, Judah and his apprentices hauled the vehicle up to the spice-trader's house and loaded Asher into it. Judah offered to pay Apollion for his troubles, but the rich spice-trader adamantly refused. “Just see you make the walls strong.”
It was a long journey down into Bezetha, and slow, with Judah cursing every uneven stone in the road. He was hauling the cart himself, with a boy on either side to watch and Benayahu riding with Asher to make sure he didn't roll or shift. Asher was oblivious to the world around him, moaning even when the road was smooth, living in a private fevered torment.
The moment the cart rumbled across the threshold into their father's yard, Judah called out to the doctor Chaim had fetched. The man hurried forward. Behind the doctor he saw something that made his heart lift even higher – Deborah was rushing out in his wake. “What are you—?”
“Shalva sent for me.” The wooden walls of the cart were too high for her to see in. “Is he..?”
“Fevered, but alive.” Judah noticed that she had a chaperone – her brother. Judah flexed his fingers, but swallowed his pride. The lout was better suited for what came next than the boys. “Phannius, can you help me get him upstairs?”
They took hold of the bed of the cart and together they lifted the whole contraption up the stairs and indoors. It was the first time he'd ever been grateful for Phannius' strength.
Once Asher was transferred into a far less ornate bed than he'd been in that morning, the doctor examined the wound. “Months old. From the angle of the stitches, I'd almost think he sewed it up himself.”
“Typical.” Judah could easily imagine his brother trying to replicate something he'd read. “Is it healing?”
“Very well, actually. His rescuer clearly had doctors tend it, but it would have already been too late had Asher not used maggots.”
Judah, Shalva, Deborah, and Phannius all shared horrified looks. “Maggots! Why?”
The doctor laughed at them. “Disturbing, I know, and hardly kosher. But the foul little buggers do clean wounds. The Romans use them often. They eat dead flesh, but don't touch living tissue. The maggots, I mean, not the Romans – though I wouldn't be at all surprised!” He chuckled, then advised heat, water to drink, and repeated cleansing of the stitches. “And rest. Lots of rest.”
Judah grimaced. “If the fool will keep to his bed. He's always been willful.”
“Not at all like his brother,” murmured Deborah with a smile.
♦ ◊ ♦
BACK IN THE UPPER CITY, Apollion's sickroom was being swept out and thoroughly cleaned. Apollion's wife Naomi was overseeing the work, but when she saw her husband passing up the stair she couldn't resist calling out to him. “I told you we should never have gotten involved.”
He paused to look down on her before continuing up the stairs. She was forced to follow. When they reached his study he closed the door. “Now, Naomi. What is it?”
“That man. His brother. You know who he is?”
“Some mason. Low-born, but decent. He was properly grateful, and clearly loves his brother.”
“And his country. Some of the girls told me – he's the one who took the eagle.”
The blood drained so swiftly from Appollion's face it turned a blotchy yellow. He recalled his words during the climb, damning the rebels and their folly. His voice was almost a whisper. “You're joking.”
“Yes, that's very likely. A funny, funny joke. You're a fool. You saved one man who defied the Romans in Alexandria, and in so doing did a great favour to the man who doomed us to Rome's wrath. I told you and told you, leave him by the side of the road!”
Apollion thought back to the sight of that comely youth crumpled and ailing in the dust. He might have been mistaken for a corpse, but he'd moved just barely as the wagon rolled past. “No. It was a mitzvah. The Lord will look kindly upon us for it.”
“The Lord may,” replied the white-haired Naomi, “but the Romans won't. They'll deem us rebels. Zelotes!”
Apollion frowned. “This may be a boon. There is more danger at present from the Zelotes, half of whom are Sicarii. They'll be knifing anyone they think is a Roman collaborator. But we've now done a good turn to two of their number. Only – what a fool I was to let my tongue run away with me!”
It was Naomi's turn to pale. “What did you say?”
“I talked of the foolishness of this war. He said nothing. Perhaps he didn't hear me…. No, he did, I'm sure of it.” The middle-aged man frowned. “He also m
entioned a friend, one who was looking for work. A bodyguard. Perhaps if I find him employment, that may make up for my tongue's treachery. And he's a mason – I could employ him to build something…”
Naomi was exasperated. “Now we have to do more favours for this rascal?”
But Apollion wasn't listening to her as he considered his path. “I shall visit my friend Matatthais. His elder boy has been seen in the Blue Hall. His younger son has just been made a priest of the First Order. His advice will see us through. Yes, I'll go see Matatthais – no, he's calling himself Matityahu now. Should I change my name, I wonder? Apollion might be too Greek in this current climate…”
“I told you! I told you, I prayed for you not to get involved!”
“Yes, my dear one, you did. But not all prayers are answered. The man who lives by the labour of his own hands is more admirable than the man who fears God. Now leave me, I must write a note requesting a visit. The man who took the eagle,” he said to himself as she withdrew. “And he seemed such a nice fellow.”
♦ ◊ ♦
ASHER'S WAS AN uneasy rest. Deep in delirium, he twisted and fretted, seeing unknown images, muttering disjointed words. Sometimes he called for Judah, sometimes for his father, and sometimes for someone called Edith. In those cases he was answered by Deborah, who insisted on coming each day to nurse him. This allowed Judah to continue labouring in the yard – the walls had to be built.
On the third day the fever broke. Judah was working below, so he missed the moment his brother's eyes finally unfogged. The first thing Asher saw was a woman with dark hair pulled back to frame her teardrop face. But what made a greater impression on him were her marvelously full bosoms.
“Did I die?”
“Nearly,” answered Deborah, mopping his brow with a cloth.
Asher turned his head. “Father's room.”
