by David Blixt
Judah and Asher were satisfied too. “It means hiring out the work we already have, and sub-contracting to other masons.”
Asher was leaning against the wall. The effort just to take part in the conversation had exhausted him. “But it's our name that will be on the work.” He closed his eyes. “A blessing. Maybe something good came out of me being an idiot.”
“Oh no, it was my idiocy that brought us this. When we met, he was prattling on about the folly of Beth Horon. Changed his tune today. I think he's afraid I'm a Zelote, and he'll end up tried for treason. But with us working for him—”
“—we can't speak against him. You have a devious mind.”
“Or he does. You know what this means?” asked Judah suddenly.
“You can ask for Deborah's hand again.”
Judah's brow darkened. “No. If they wouldn't give her to me after Beth Horon, this won't do it. I'll not ask for her hand again. They'll ask me.” He lingered for a moment on that thought, then shook himself. “No, what I was thinking is that, when you're strong enough, we should host the Shabbat dinner.”
It was a tradition that when a mason received a large contract, his house would host the weekly dinner. Judah had been to many over the years, but the House of Matthais had hosted very few – the contracts they had were small, never sizable, never needing the goodwill of other masons to join in and help.
There had been several such dinners since Beth Horon, and Judah was a sought-after guest. But after the first he had declined all invitations, preferring to stay at home and eat with Shalva and her son, and now with Asher, who provided the perfect excuse. As much as they wanted to praise him for his act of valour, there were also too many knowing looks from his neighbours, too many sorrowful shakes of the head. Among his fellow masons, the refusal of Deborah was more weighty than the taking of the eagle.
But now it was time for the House of Matthais to open its doors, and after all the kindness of their neighbours – gifts of food, help with the wash, even some books for Asher to read – it would be churlish to avoid being hospitable. Besides, this contract was a huge leap in prominence, and a swelling feeling of pride to be able to provide work to others in their field. Perhaps I'll even hire Phannius… That thought made Judah grin wolfishly.
He noticed a hesitant look on Asher's face and quickly said, “If you're not feeling up to it…”
“No no. It's just – no, it's fine.”
Judah understood. Everyone would ask about Alexandria. He'd just have to shield his twin from questions.
♦ ◊ ♦
THE CALL WENT OUT, and Judah used a fair portion of the silver in the purse to buy new furnishings and fill the larder. Shalva was excited to be cooking for the event – she had taken over the kitchen since Judah had invited her in, a change from a pair of bachelors who were used to cooking for themselves, or eating in the common market.
In one way it was fortunate that everyone knew about Judah's deep passion for Deborah. It prevented any rumours about him and the widow Shalva. It was instead looked upon as a great mitzvah, taking in the slain mason's widow and son. It was what a man should do, but too few did.
Besides, Shalva had her eyes on another potential husband. “Will Levi be coming?”
Technically the evening should have been just for masons and their families. But Judah had already decided to stretch a point. Asher hadn't met him yet, and there was certainly no shame in inviting a man who had saved his life. “I've asked him.”
“Good,” said Shalva. “Do you know if he has a favourite dish?” Laughing, Judah confessed it had never come up.
The evening of Shabbat arrived as it did each week, honouring the day of no labour decreed by the Lord in the Fourth Commandment. From sunset to sunset, there would be only prayer, family, and friends. Or at least, thought Judah wryly, neighbours. The gate to the yard was opened, and a curtain was drawn across the door of the house, a sign that the meal had not begun and guests were welcome. In the corner of the room were the chests containing food for the next day, ready-cooked, packed round with straw to hold in warmth. The room was filled with a rich and welcoming aroma.
As the sun began to set the guests arrived. Most were masons, with their wives and daughters. Everyone greeted Asher as the prodigal son, asked after his health, and told him how proud his father would be that he was home. Judah wondered how Asher managed to answer them all so politely.
Suddenly there was a tall man ducking under the lintel and looking around. Judah's face broke into a huge grin. “Levi! You came.”
Levi arched an eyebrow. “How could I refuse the Hero of Beth Horon?”
“Oh no,” groaned Judah. “Not you, too.”
“Not me what?”
“Nothing. Come here. Asher! This is Levi ben Patroclus.”
The times Levi had called, Asher had still been unconscious and fevered, or else resting. Introducing them now, Judah tried to see Levi through his brother's eyes. At least twice the twins' age, Levi was an odd mixture of proportions, with long arms and small eyes, bald head and jutting beard. And so tall!
“He saved my life at Beth Horon,” explained Judah.
Asher extended his hand. “Why would you do such a foolish thing?”
“I promise you, I've been asking myself that every day since.” Levi's tone was so flat that it took Asher a moment to realize he was joking.
Just behind Levi came Phannius, broad and brash as ever. Euodias was on his arm, her face in much the same expression as his. Deborah came just behind them, glowing and giving Judah a beaming smile of congratulations.
Seeing Asher, Euodias looked him up and down once. “Tch.” With that pronouncement, she passed to her place at the far table.
But Deborah made up for her mother's lack of warmth, and more. She greeted Asher, remarking how well he looked. Judah introduced her to Levi, and when she learned that he had saved Judah's life she kissed his hand. How a sweet creature like Deborah had escaped such a sour womb was a wonder.
Deborah's presence made it easier for Judah to play the role of host. Seventeen years old, he was technically a man. But this was the first Shabbat dinner his home had hosted since his father's death, and the largest in years. Judah found himself unconsciously aping some of his father's habits and words. Fortunately there were ritual greetings and traditional phrases to fill the awkward pauses.
I feel like a child wearing his father's shoes. Too big, and every step is awkward. He wondered if Asher felt the same.
But Asher was experiencing a wholly different sensation, of having stepped back in time. He had not been to one of these neighbourhood gatherings in two years and more.
When everyone had arrived, but before the prayers, Judah formally announced the contract with Apollion. He was cheered by the assembled masons, all of whom would see new work – either hired by Judah and Asher, or else picking up the work they would be too busy now to perform. Deborah's smile was as bright as a full moon. Whereas Euodias' scowl was as dark as a new one. Doubtless she thinks this should have been her son's contract, and I've cheated him again.
The sun set, the curtain was pulled open, and the women and children retired to their table. The twins took their place at the head of the low table, sitting side-by-side on cushions. As the dining room was not overly big, they were all cramped, rubbing elbows, but that was nothing new – no one here was rich.
Judah invited Asher to lift the wine of Eskol and recite the Shabbat prayer of consecration. O Lord, does Asher remember the prayer? But Asher's phenomenal memory saved them from embarrassment. The beaker of wine went from mouth to mouth, the bread was broken, and the feast began.
Shalva had outdone herself. With money at her disposal, she had purchased the best food available in the Bezetha. There was chicken smothered in raspberries, grapefruit, oiled olives, a salad of fresh spinach, and challah fresh from the ovens – the same ovens used to bake the bricks, having been assiduously and ritually cleaned. There had been no masonry work this day
, as the men and apprentices had all been pressed into service for the dinner.
Not only were there new cushions to sit upon, but also new bowls and servers, all bearing the emblem of Israel, a cluster of grapes.
Judah and Asher had both undergone a personal overhaul as well. Washed in a bath-house instead of a barrel, they were dressed in tunics of fine cloth with crimson and black stripes, not their usual rough-spun. Judah had refused to submit to a haircut. As hosts, they cut fine figures, sitting cross-legged side by side at the head of the long low table.
As befit his birth, Phannius sat just to Judah's left. He wore the blue Makkabi cloth about his bicep. As the meal began, he pointedly said to Judah, “You still aren't wearing an arm-band.”
“No. Pass the olives, please.”
Phannius ignored the olives. “Why not?”
Judah reached for them himself. “Because I am a mason, not a joiner.”
It was an old masonry joke, and all the men laughed – all save Phannius, who looked past Judah to Levi. “What about you? You were there. You should be with us!”
He was there, on the other side, thought Judah. But no one else needed to know that.
Levi's answer was bored – he had little time for fools. “I'm a professional. My sword is for hire, not for free.”
Phannius was incredulous. “For hire?”
“Of course. No one values a thing given for free.”
“A damned mercenary. Your country burns and you want money? What were you doing at Beth Horon at all?”
“Following my employer. Sadly, he did not partake in the fighting.” Levi shot a covert look at Judah, who said, “Have you found a new one?”
Levi shook his head ruefully. “Poor references.”
“I may be able to help. I know someone who is interested.” Raising his cup to his lips, Judah took a sip, then set the cup down, reminding himself to set it down twice more before finishing the wine, as the Law proscribed. Judah tended to eat and drink like a wolf, hardly bothering to chew. But he was trying moderation.
“Money!” Phannius continued to be outraged. “How can you want money? We're talking about freedom!”
Levi shrugged, tearing some bread. “Can you eat freedom? You are a mason, that is your trade. Do you cut stones for free? Even if your country needs walls?”
Finding that question uncomfortable, Phannius rounded on Asher. “Surely you'll join, Asher! After what you've been through? Come to the Blue Hall and see how right we are!”
Asher shook his head. “I don't need a piece of cloth. If the Romans come, I'll fight to my last breath.”
“Well said,” answered several men down the table.
“They'll come,” asserted Levi, passing a dish. At the women's table, Shalva was watching him, making sure he ate some of everything.
“They wouldn't dare!” declared Phannius hotly. “We destroyed their legion. They're too frightened to wage a war.”
It was unseemly for the host to disagree with a guest, and the enmity between them was too well known for Judah to be impolite. So he forced himself to hold his tongue, saying only, “I pray you're right.”
Asher had no such qualms. “They have to come. If they don't, other provinces will follow our example and rise up. The Romans fear that far more than they do a war with Judea.”
A twenty-five year-old mason by the name of Ezekiel ben Shimri chimed in. “Which is why the priests should be forming a massive army. A national army – the army of Israel. When the Romans come, we should push them back into their sea.” He looked to his father for agreement, but Shimri was far less enthusiastic about their prospects, and said nothing.
“They won't come,” insisted Phannius. “They fear our Lord.”
“All the more reason for them to come,” argued Asher. “Romans have always adopted the gods of their foes – Carthage, Greece, Aegypt, even Parthia. If they believe Jehovah has power, they'll try and take Him to live in Italia, changing Him to suit their needs.”
A new and particularly horrific thought for the others. Jehovah in Italia? Unthinkable!
Levi swallowed his mouthful. “If we're fortunate, they'll attribute our victory to luck. That way, they won't send an overwhelming force. No offense, Judah.”
Judah grinned. “None taken. It was luck.”
“Luck?” gaped Phannius. “The Lord gave us that victory. It was a miracle!”
“Rome has twenty-eight legions,” observed Levi coldly. “Should we expect twenty-eight miracles?”
Phannius gripped his cup so tight it threatened to shatter. “If we are righteous, the Lord will see us through! But we must have the will to purify ourselves!”
From the far table there came an assenting noise. By custom the women could not address the men's table unless asked. But with every bold statement her son made, Euodias grunted in loud agreement.
Judah covered his frustration by trying to take another bite, only to find his dish empty. He'd done it again – scarfed down a whole meal almost unchewed.
Leery of where this war talk among the young men would lead, Shimri changed the subject. “Asher, do you plan to return to your father's business? Or will you continue your studies?”
“I – to be honest, I hadn't considered it.”
Judah tried to rescue his brother. “You sound like our father, Shimri. Though his letter to Asher was more pointed.”
Asher surprised his brother by saying, “That letter probably saved my life. I got it the day of the massacre, and left the Delta to walk and think. If I had stayed…” He shrugged and every man took his meaning.
Several men offered up prayers for the dead of Alexandria – a bitter hypocrisy, as Jerusalem Jews never had a kind word for their brothers in Aegypt until they became the honoured dead.
“Tell us about it,” urged Ezekiel. Phannius nodded, leaning his elbows on the low table.
Judah was ready to intervene, but Asher had a deflection ready. “I'd rather hear about Beth Horon. Judah hasn't said much.”
“He's just being modest,” said Ezekiel.
“Funny,” replied Asher, cocking his head, “that doesn't sound at all like him.”
After a ripple of laughter, the young men at the table laid out the events, using the dishes and salvers to represent cohorts and bands of rebels. Judah and Levi refrained, letting the others tell the tale. “The Romans attacked during the Feast of the Tabernacles,” said Ezekiel, “when the city was full. Many of the visitors were Galileans – you know the type, lots of anger, little sense.”
There were knowing glances, for even the labouring men of Jerusalem viewed men from Galilee as uneducated and curiously fanatical. They were called 'am ha-arez – 'the people of the land' – and even the great Rabban Hillel had viewed them as criminals at best, beasts at worst.
“Not to mention our friends with the arm-bands,” added Judah. “The honoured kanaim, the Avengers of Israel.”
“The Greeks call them the Zelotes,” observed Levi.
Judah pulled a face. “Greeks have to rename everything.”
Phannius waved this off. “Whatever you call us, you can't fault our passion. One of our leaders is called Eleazar ben Simon…” His eyes took on a far-away look.
“He's an Idumean with a way with words,” explained Judah. “When he starts in on that kanai cant – one nation, one Lord, one rule – it's like standing on a cliff and being told that jumping is the only way down. The Kohen Gadol tried to calm things down, but no one listened.”
“The Kohen Gadol is a traitor,” exclaimed Phannius, repeating a common refrain from the Blue Hall. His mother let out a fierce grunt.
“He's a wise man,” said Shimri.
“He's a traitor and a coward.”
“And your whole band are criminals!” countered Shimri. “Zelote, Makkabi, Avengers – fancy new name for Sicariots! I remember all too well the trouble they caused! Murderers and fanatics!”
The Sicariots was a title given to the previous generation of zealous ext
remists. It meant the knifemen, a title the Sicariots earned by approaching their targets and stabbing them up close. They had murdered Roman officials, Roman citizens and, most horribly, any Jew who collaborated with the Romans. Men and even women died on the streets, in their homes, some even having their throats slit while they slept.
“We aren't murderers!” countered Phannius hotly. “We're patriots! We face the Romans in the open, not in dark alleys!” Grunt.
Shimri wagged a finger. “And the Kohen Gadol is the High Priest of the Sanhedrin, youngster! You do not casually slur him!”
Before Phannius could answer, Judah continued with the story. “Eleazar and another priest, Simon bar Giora, led us to Beth Horon. Men are already declaring Eleazar the Mahsiah.”
“He is!” declared Phannius. Grunt.
“I think,” said Judah carefully, “the Mahsiah needs to win more than one battle.”
Phannius was undeterred “If he's not, then why did you follow him?”
“I didn't even know who he was!” He'd tried to keep his temper, he really had. But Phannius had a way of nettling him. “Jocha's blood was still cooling, the city was a shambles, people were screaming and dying. I went to bloody some Roman noses.” I thought they'd killed my brother, you ass!
Phannius leaned close. “Yes, we all know you like to fight. But what do you believe in? What are you willing to die for?”
“My family.”
“Pity, then, that there are so few left.” Grunt.
Everyone tensed. Judah was ready to overturn the table, but caught himself. Breathing deeply he unballed his fists. “As you might recall, I wanted to expand my family.”
He held eyes with Phannius, daring the lout to speak of the refusal. Any explanation would shame him. Any act save striking Judah would hurt his honour, but striking his host was forbidden. Swallowing his pride, Phannius returned to his meal.
