by David Blixt
“Yes. You're home.”
Asher squinted at her. “I know you?”
She dazzled him with a smile. “You used to laugh while your brother pulled my hair. I'm Deborah.”
“Phannius' sister?”
“Yes.”
Aghast, Asher said, “You married father?”
Shocked, Deborah laughed. “No! Your brother…” She paused, biting her lip as her brow furrowed.
“Judah's married?!”
“Certainly not,” came a tart answer from across the room. Blinking in search of the sound, he saw an old crone with a humped shoulder and frizzy white hair seated in a corner, a loom in her hands. When Deborah had insisted on helping Shalva nurse Asher to health, Euodias had grudgingly come along, refusing to let her daughter come into this house unchaperoned.
Now gazing at Asher as if he were fouling the air, she made a sour clucking noise then returned to her weaving. “Tch.”
Deborah ladled some water from a bucket, and Asher drank it down eagerly. Just that much motion was exhausting. He sank back, gasping.
“I'll fetch Judah,” said Deborah, rising. “He's been hovering like a mother hen.”
“Or a vulture,” said Asher, the image of Euodias still with him.
♦ ◊ ♦
IT HAD TAKEN three days for Apollion to secure an audience with Matatthais (Matityahu! Matityahu!). The old priest had never held the larger offices. But he was a power behind the power, a kingmaker of sorts. For the last seven years he had been the Amarkalin, the priest in charge of Temple property, and the keeper of the storehouse keys. A humble office, to hear it spoken. But in practical terms the Amarkalin wielded huge power, doling out the grain, oils, spices, and other necessaries for the daily offerings. There were so many priests working in the Temple, any given one might make the sacrifice just once in his lifetime. So to him, the elements of his sacrifice had to be perfect, both to honour the Lord, and also to advance his career. If a priest wished to wear the robes of one of his ancestors that resided in a place of honour within the bowels of the Temple vaults, then he had to petition Matityahu, who would sometimes make excuses, demur, exclaim the impossibility of finding the garment in question. But with enough pleading, the grave man might lend his aid – in exchange for a favour sometime in the future. Matityahu was a man owed a thousand favours, and owed none himself.
One of those favours had been called in to achieve his second son's mission to Rome, which in a different world might have gained him great praise. But freeing a handful of men from Nero paled in comparison to Beth Horon. All a matter of timing. Alas.
Matityahu was an important man in more than just his office. Within the veins of his children mingled the blood of Aaron and the blood of the Makkabite kings, the Hasmoneans. His younger son, the scholar, had even written a stirring and bold account of the Makkabi uprising. Almost a call to arms. I wonder how old Matatthais feels about that now. But Apollion would never ask such a question.
He found the Amarkalin sipping a sweet wine that had been heated, for the days had been bitterly cold. “Shalom.”
“Shalom, I hope,” answered Matityahu. The greeting literally meant 'Peace.' So commonly used, it was easy to forget this simple fact. An auspicious beginning.
Sitting together, they filled the air with pleasant words and sipped pleasant drinks, Apollion working hard for the careless amiability such meetings required. Finally Matityahu said, “I am gratified to have such a genial guest. Too many of my noble friends have seen fit to absent themselves from the city – or have vanished against their will. Did you hear about old Nachum the glass-maker?”
Apollion had heard. The poor fellow's elder son had been kidnapped and ransomed by Zelotes in the city. “It's whispered that Nachum's younger son arranged it.”
“I wish I could disbelieve it, but alas,” the Amarkalin spread his hands, “in these dark days, human nature is fickle. As fickle as they call the Roman goddess Fortuna.”
Now they were in it. “Did I tell you of a guest I had under my roof?” asked Apollion lightly, as if still making conversation. He breezily laid out all that had transpired – the injured man met on the road and nursed back to life, hunting up his twin brother, who happened to be the Hero of Beth Horon. He made rueful mention of his misstep regarding the battle. “I fear I insulted him, all in ignorance.”
“I'm certain his gratitude outweighed any insult, as one of his stone blocks would a speck of dust.”
“He was very grateful,” agreed Apollion. “And as gracious as a baseborn man could be. I understand his brother has some learning. A scholar – not at the level of your son, of course. But he went to Alexandria in pursuit of pure learning.”
“He was blessed, then. There's nothing greater to own than that which cannot be stolen.” The Amarkalin touched a finger to his temples.
“Yes. Though sometimes I wonder if too much learning may lead one astray. If the young man I rescued was turned rebel by some poet's words…” He trailed off, leaving an opening for his host to fill.
“Then he acted foolishly. But if instead his learning helped him survive his ordeal, as you say it did, it was a blessing. To live, when so many others did not – that is a feat as great as his brother's, in its way. The key to Judea is the survival of the Jews. We must all, I think, carve out a means of survival.”
“I am of the same mind,” replied Apollion carefully. “But how? We are like a piece of metal caught between the hammer and the anvil. The hammer is Rome, and the anvil…” Again he trailed off, hoping.
“…are the Zelotes. These new Makkabites, the so-called Avengers of Israel. Yes, that is a dire predicament. But you know what happens to the metal that is so caught? It is forged into a sword. That is what is happening to us, I think. If the hammer falls, we will become a sword. If it does not, there is nothing to fear from the anvil.”
“Forgive me, father,” said a deeply musical voice from the door, “but I disagree.”
Matityahu only raised his eyebrows. “Apollion, you remember my younger son. Yosef, what point do you dispute?”
“The roles of anvil and hammer. The anvil is Rome. It is immovable. The hammer is the rebels, the Zelotes and agitators. It is they who force us against Rome, pushing us to war. If the hammer falls, we must indeed become a sword. But it is not Rome that was urging us to war. The hammer has long beat the martial march. Makkabi, Makkabi, Makkabi.”
It was a pretty point, and artfully made. In Hebrew, Makkabi meant 'Hammer'. Matityahu smiled and nodded, steepling his fingers before him. “You are clever, my son, and perspicacious. That is a more suitable metaphor. Regardless, we must befriend both the hammer and anvil to survive.”
Apollion was a trifle confused. “How?”
The Amarkalin smiled. “First, tell me of this bodyguard the one brother commended to you. I should like to meet him. Then tell us more of these remarkable twins.”
♦ ◊ ♦
WHEN DEBORAH APPEARED in the yard and said that Asher was awake, Judah dropped the stone saw and entered the house at a run. But when he reached the door, Asher's eyes were closed.
Creeping in, Judah sat on the stool beside the low bed. After waiting a moment, he cleared his throat.
Without opening his eyes, Asher smiled weakly. “Impolite, waking a sick man.”
Judah let out a relieved breath. “You want to talk about impolite? What about making us think you were dead?”
“Maybe I am.” Asher opened his eyes, blinking them clear. “You look older.”
“You age me.”
“This is father's room.”
“We turned yours into a storeroom. Water?”
“Yes.” Wincing, Asher leaned forward and let Judah ladle some to his dry lips. “Dust on top. Tastes like home.”
“The great traveler. How does Jerusalem stack up against Alexandria?”
Asher's smile faded. Stupid! He doesn't want to talk about Alexandria. Judah's predicament was made worse when his brother asked, “Whe
re's father?”
Judah was saved from answering by Deborah, watching the reunion from the door. “Judah, don't tax him. He needs rest.”
“Right.” Judah patted Asher's shoulder and stood to go.
“Where is he?” Suspicion was creeping into Asher's voice.
Judah couldn't find the words. But he didn't have to. Old Euodias took the bull by the horns. “Dead, the old fool.”
“Mother!” Deborah looked furious, and Judah felt a rush of anger – was she trying to kill Asher with such a shock? But the old crone just kept on working her little hand-loom, ignoring the angry looks aimed at her.
Asher had sunk back into the bed, his eyes pressed tight. Deborah crossed to kneel beside the bed, just the way she'd done for their father. “His heart. When he thought you were dead… Then Judah went off and fought at Beth Horon. The strain was too much.”
“Beth Horon? Judah, you fought?”
“Yes.” He tried to say it neutrally, but pride shone through.
“I should have been there,” murmured Asher.
“You're an idiot.”
Deborah turned on him. “Judah!”
“What? He is! He shouldn't be here at all! He should've gotten on a ship and gone to Greece, or Hispania! There's nothing but trouble for Jews here.”
“There's nothing but trouble for Jews everywhere, now.” Asher seemed suddenly stronger. “I want to fight.”
“Why, when you're clearly so bad at it?” Judah pointed to Asher's wound. “And who taught you to be a doctor?”
“I did it fine! I've read everything written since Hypocrites.”
Judah threw up his hands. “Reading isn't doing. Just because you know Homer doesn't make you a soldier!”
“That's father talking,” retorted Asher.
Deborah laid a hand on Judah's arm. “Judah, lower your voice. Asher, he's really relieved. He thought it was his fault you were dead.”
Asher snorted. “Because the whole course of human history is about him.”
“I thought you stayed there because I told you to,” exclaimed Judah. “Turns out you didn't listen to me, as usual.”
“Why should I? You make such terrible decisions—”
“Me? I'm not the one gallivanting off to foreign lands to read poetry and get stabbed!”
“No, you're too busy chasing a whole Roman legion. Tell me, did you kill them all yourself, or leave some for the others?”
“If you must know, I took their eagle!”
Asher's skeptical expression was echoed in Euodias' snort from the door. “Of course you did,” said Asher. “Men may say, 'He is far greater than his father,' when he returns from battle…”
“Don't throw fancy quotes at me. I thought I was avenging my poor sweet brother. I forgot what a nattering, nagging little pest he—”
“Stop it! Stop it!” Clambering to her feet, Deborah threw her arms up in the air. “Can't you two do anything but fight?”
The twins stared at her for a moment, then burst into laughter. Asher winced at once. “Oh, that hurts!”
Judah held out a hand. “Happy to be home?”
Asher grasped it weakly. “Overjoyed.”
Deborah stared at them. “Idiots. You're both idiots.” From the doorway came a loud grunt, as Euodias finally found a statement she could agree with.
VIII
AS SOON AS ASHER could walk, Judah began the work of rebuilding his brother's strength. He set his twin on a backed chair in the yard working the clay, mud, and straw for new bricks, freeing the apprentices for more vigourous work. Then, before the sun reached its zenith, Judah would hand Asher a stout stick and together they would walk about the yard, tracing a circuit again and again until Asher felt strong enough to venture into the streets.
They stayed close to the workshop at first. At the start, Asher was sweating too much to really note their surroundings. The strain was immeasurable, and he spent most of the time watching his feet. But after a few days he could focus on something other than the effort.
“Lots of people,” he gasped. “Is it a holy day?”
One arm supporting his brother, Judah shook his head. “The war. Country folk are flocking to the city. Want to be well inside the walls when the Romans come.”
A parcel of young men walked truculently past. All were about the same age as the twins, and each bore an arm-band of blue cloth with white stitched letters: Makkabi. It was more than a harkening back to an ancient hero, or the simple word 'hammer'. The word was also made up of initials, the first letters of the ancient Hebrew prayer: “Mi Kamoka Be Elire, Jehovah?” Who is like unto Thee among the gods, O Lord?
Asher said, “What are those?” He meant the arm-bands.
“That's the mark of the Avengers of Israel,” answered Judah. “They fashion themselves as the new Makkabi, and fight the war a hundred times a day in the Blue Hall.” The Blue Hall was a gathering place of the nationalists upon the Temple Mount. “Phannius is one, I hear.”
“Remind me not to join, then,” said Asher, chest heaving. Hearing the tale, he had naturally sided with his brother in despising Phannius. He would have, regardless–Phannius had taunted him too often as a boy for Asher to have any friendly feeling.
One of the men made a face when he saw Asher, thinking him a cripple. Then he noticed Judah, saw the resemblance, and gave a respectful nod. So some of the fame had lingered after all.
Soon they were venturing further out into the city, traversing the steep, narrow streets around the Valley of the Cheesemongers. “Amazing.”
“What?”
Asher shook his head. “The lack of statues.”
“Statues?” said Judah, perplexed. There were dozens of carvings and statues – all of fruits or plants, or geometric shapes. “There are plenty—”
“In Alexandria, the streets are lined with heroes and gods, Romans and Aegyptians. Busts and phalluses fill every niche, adorn every doorway.”
It was the first time Asher had mentioned Alexandria. Judah resisted the impulse to ask more. Asher would talk about it when he was ready, not before. Instead he chuckled. “Well, you know how it is. Every few weeks some Roman-lover tries to put up a bust to Nero Caesar, but it mysteriously disappears the next day. There must be a house around here somewhere filled with Caesar heads.”
“Ha! Ooo. Don't make me laugh.”
Each day after their walk, Judah would return to work while Asher fell into bed, exhausted. But when they got home that day there was a note from Apollion asking if he might call to check upon his former charge. Surprised, Judah sent back a welcoming message, inviting Apollion to call whenever he chose. Then they spent the afternoon cleaning the yard and making it presentable.
The spice-trader arrived the following morning. Greeting Judah as an old friend, he then went to shake Asher by the hand. “It is odd to think that we have traveled miles and miles together, you've shared my house and my bread, and yet we've never truly met. I am Apollion.”
“I – am grateful. Not many men would have done what you did.”
“We must all stand together,” replied Apollion gravely. “No one knows that better than I. Well, except perhaps your brother here. Judah, you must forgive me–when we met I had no idea you were the Hero of Beth Horon, the Taker of Eagles and Scourge of Rome.” And he bowed low, as he might have done to the Kohen Gadol.
Judah was visibly shocked. “Master Apollion. I – those are not names I use. I fought, like so many others. We were very lucky.”
“Blessed,” corrected Apollion. “Blessed. And you are humble, as befits a hero. But if it embarrasses you, I'll say no more. I just did not want you to think your great deed has gone unremarked. We are in your debt.”
Judah put his hand on his brother's shoulder. “I think you have that the wrong way around.”
“No no! Believe me, I am happy to have been of some small service. But your brother would certainly have survived on his own. So resourceful! Sewing up his own wounds. May I ask – I confess
, I've been burning with curiosity – how did you come by your injury?”
Asher frowned, but could not refuse to answer this man. “A dagger. Fighting in the streets. I was foolish,” he added, feeling Judah's eyes on him.
“Brave, more like,” replied Apollion. “And blessed as well. Clearly you are a family beloved by the Lord. And for such men, it is a privilege to assist you, in every way I can. What do you require?”
“No,” exclaimed Judah, then hastily added, “I mean, sir, you've done quite enough already.”
“Nonsense! First, Judah, I've made inquiries for your friend, the bodyguard. There are many men in need of such services, but I'm trying to find him the choicest position. Secondly, I must ask you – you have been to my house. What do you think of its security?”
Judah's lips twisted as he framed his reply. “You are perfectly safe in the Upper City. I'm sure you need no further protection.”
“Ah! Damning, damning! You are too honest to lie to me, and I thank you. But we live in dangerous times. I have a mind to raise my walls and put in a proper gate. Might I hire the services of the noblest mason in Jerusalem? I can pay a full talent of silver.”
Both Judah and Asher's mouths fell open. A talent was as much as a strong man could carry. It was the income of several years of labour, an unheard-of sum for a private commission of just raising the walls. “That's too much!” protested Judah.
“Is there a price too high for security? For peace of mind? No, my wife will not rest until we are secure in our little home. And I am sure when they see the quality of your work, our neighbours will likewise wish to raise their walls.”
The House of Matthais had never wanted for work, but the jobs they were hired for had always been local – new bricks for a falling-down wall, cornerstones for a new shop in the Bezetha. Sometimes, as now, they had government commissions for large stones to raise Agrippa's Wall, which their father and grandfather had helped build. But never in five generations had they done work in the Upper City. They didn't have the blood. Now it seemed they had elevated themselves.
Their genuine thanks warmed Apollion's heart, and as a down-payment he left a purse of silver shekels – no one was using Roman denarii at the moment. After sharing a cup of juice in the house (“Charming! Charming!” their guest had declared upon viewing their spare, eternally dusty home), Apollion departed, well satisfied.
