by David Blixt
Though they had allowed an hour for the walk, they still arrived late. Asher was pale and sweating profusely. “Just – need a minute…”
“I'm expected,” said Phannius tartly. He was obviously annoyed at being delayed, and he pushed his way into the chamber, leaving the twins outside while Asher caught his breath.
Judah peered inside the packed building. The Blue Hall was so called for the perfectly blue tiles that adorned the floors, a colour matched by the paint on the tall cedar columns and high roof, making the whole chamber appear to be hovering in the sky, or floating on the sea. In contrast, the dais at the far end was fashioned from pure white marble, a floating cloud or foamy wave amid all the blue.
Finally Asher's breathing eased. “All right – let's go.”
They pushed in as far as the first series of columns. Taller than most of the crowd, Judah nodded at Phannius, now standing near the dais. Atop the marble platform stood two men Judah remembered well – Eleazar ben Simon and Simon bar Giora. The taller of the two, Eleazar's handsome Arabic features made him look youthful and vigourous, whereas Simon radiated fury, with his wild-eyes and short bristling black beard. Both now wore the garb of minor priests, though somehow any clothes Simon bar Giora wore looked rough and disheveled. He stalked the dais as restless as a desert lion while Eleazar smoothly addressed the assembly:
“The Kohen Gadol and his priests mean to make peace with the Romans!” There was an answering growl from the crowd. “They have no stomach for war, no pride in their nation, no faith in the Lord! One nation, one god! We are His chosen people, and this is the land He gave to us. Land our fathers, our fathers' fathers, fought for, bled for, died for! But rather than raise an army, the Kohen Gadol hides behind the city walls like a cowering child, hoping the bully doesn't come!” This was answered with boos, hisses, and shaking fists.
Eleazar took a step forward, gazing imperiously down at the crowd. “There are those here who think the Romans are not coming. That they would be fools to try, after the beating we gave them at Beth Horon. But, my countrymen, my brothers, you are deceived! Just today we've had news that Nero Caesar has appointed a general, and dispatched three legions to tame Judea. Yes, three legions!”
Simon bar Giora leapt forward. “And do not think, friends, that is the extent of their might! Our ancestral enemies will certainly join these bastard Romans. They'll have Syrian horsemen, Phoenician slingers, and Samaritan soldiers – for who here thinks the Samaritans will stand with us? If history is any guide, those heretics will side with Rome! They're only too proud to proclaim themselves Hebrew when we are on the rise. But in times of trouble, they're suddenly Greek, or Roman, or whatever wolf's skin they need to don to hide the fact that they are sheep!” There were more raised fists and angry shouts – to a Jew, there was no such thing as a good Samaritan. “I've heard tell, too, that the Nazarenes are fleeing the city, refusing to take part in this war. And let us not forget our 'king', Agrippa! Will that Roman puppet and his whore sister stand with us? Or will they bring their army to bear against us, forcing Jew to fight Jew, like Cain and Abel! No longer will it be the Mark of Cain! It will be the Mark of Agrippa!”
Displeased at being diverted by his partner's venting of spleen, Eleazar skillfully brought the crowd back to his main point. “Yet despite all these forces arrayed against us, the Sanhedrin of Jerusalem has not yet lifted a finger to raise an army. There are no training camps, no allotment of swords and arms. There is not even a full garrison for Fort Antonia – a fortress we ejected the Romans from! Instead of preparing, High Priest Ananus means to make peace with the Romans – crawl to them, beg for forgiveness, and no doubt hand over me, you, and all other patriots to Roman 'justice'!”
Judah listened to the roars of outrage, uncertain what to think. Eleazar was a stirring speaker, and Judah could already feel his fingers flexing for a fight. But the rational part of his brain added three legions to whatever aid Agrippa and the foreign kings would send, and came up with somewhere between fifty and a hundred thousand soldiers. Turning to Asher, he whispered, “What do you think of the numbers?”
“I think if Judea stands together the way he suggests, as a single nation, we might possibly win. If,” he added.
Judah understood. When has that ever happened? “That's the problem with idealists. No grounding.”
“They have all the characteristics of popular politicians,” said Asher vaguely. “Horrible voices, bad breeding, and a vulgar manner.”
A nearby figure in a cloak turned curiously, and Judah's gut filled with panic. He had no idea Asher was quoting a dead Greek playwright, nor did he care. If someone took his brother's words wrong, they might end up beaten to death in this very hall. “Asher, you'd best – are you alright?”
“Fine…” Asher was clearly lying. He was swaying, dazed, a hand on the nearest column for support.
“Let's get you out of here.” But as he took his twin's arm, Judah was interrupted by a shout from the dais. “There! There stands Judah ben Matthais, Hero of Beth Horon! The taker of the Roman eagle! Legion-slayer!”
With Phannius whispering in his ear, Eleazar was pointing to the back of the chamber. The whole assembly turned to cheer, and Judah felt hands pulling him towards the dais. He struggled until the cloaked man reached out to support Asher. “Go, placate them. I'll help him.” Under the heavy robe, his voice was deep and musical, and he spoke Aramaic with an aristocratic accent.
“Go,” agreed Asher, staggering for the door. “I'll be fine.”
Judah reluctantly let himself be dragged forward towards the dais. He looked back and saw the cloaked stranger escort his brother outside. I hope he's in good hands. We might be here awhile.
Arriving at the dais, he noted Phannius' smug smile, Eleazar's eager grin, and Simon's scowl. The short wild man was not at all pleased at Judah's appearance, though for the life of him Judah couldn't imagine why.
Eleazar grasped Judah's hand and hauled it into the air. All around the Blue Hall men cheered, shrieking like eagles and making chains of their fingers, symbolizing capture.
Judah's discomfort multiplied when he was told to make a speech. He had no idea what to say. He opened his mouth, but the only word that came to him was the one that had been shouted on the battlefield. “Israel!”
The assembly echoed him, screaming their answer. “Israel!”
Suddenly Judah was back on the battlefield, his blood surging through him. He felt powerful, necessary, full of life and purpose.
This is what I am made for. This is my purpose. I am that I am, says the Lord. And I am a warrior. Put a sword in my hand right now and I'll cut off the legs of Atlas and bring the whole world crashing down.
♦ ◊ ♦
OUTSIDE, THE STRANGER helped Asher to a stone bench not far from the hall doors. Asher had pushed far too hard on the climb, his world was tilting and beginning to spin. “Thank you, I'll – I'll be alright.”
“Not if you continue tossing off smart remarks so recklessly,” advised the musical voice. “Few in there would see the humor.”
“It's – a quote,” gasped Asher. “Aristophanes.”
“Be that as it may, if you can't curb your tongue you shouldn't be here. But then, neither should I.”
Seated, his world slowly returning to focus, Asher noted that under the cloak the stranger wore a robe of white, with long white tunic and trousers underneath. Around his waist was a blue sash embroidered with red flowers. On his left hand shone a gold ring. “A priest?”
“Exactly,” said the man, sitting down beside Asher. “Though there are priests who favour the war, few dare come to the Blue Hall.” He threw back the cowl of his cloak, revealing his face. In his late twenties, the man was good-looking in a particularly Semitic way. Under his curling black hair, his dark eyes were deeply set. His upper lip was almost twice the size of the lower, and his beard was neatly squared, extending to the bottom of his neck. The only mar to the handsome face was a scythe-like nose – too sharp, it cleaved his visag
e in two.
“You've been ill,” observed the man in his wonderful baritone.
“Don't worry. Heat-stroke isn't contagious. Neither is hunger.”
“I disagree. The hunger for rebellion has swept through all Judea.”
“To the hungry soul, every bitter thing is sweet,” replied Asher absently.
“A crust eaten in peace is better than a banquet partaken in anxiety,” answered the stranger with a smile.
That startled Asher. He'd quoted Scripture, and the priest had produced a phrase straight from Aesop. Brightening, Asher invoked Aristophanes. “But who knows whether living is dying, and breathing is eating, and sleep is a wool blanket?”
He was countered with Heraclitus. “God is day and night, winter and summer, war and peace, surfeit – and hunger.”
Asher chuckled slightly. “Who's to say the hunger will be ours? The Roman hunger for war may swallow them up. Scripture says, 'If thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat, and if thirsty, give him water to drink, for thou shalt heap coals upon his head'.”
The priest looked Asher up and down. “I did not notice an armband. But if you are determined to fight, 'Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we shall die'.”
Asher extended his arm. “I am—”
“— Asher ben Matthais. I know.”
Asher felt an odd shiver. “You know me?”
The stranger smiled. “For all its size, Jerusalem is a shockingly small place. My father is friend to Apollion the spice-trader. He's mentioned you – you, and your remarkable twin in there. We are a matched pair, it seems. Both our brothers are in there, while you and I are out here quoting heathen texts.” Grasping Asher's half-extended forearm, he gripped it tightly. “Yosef ben Matityahu. Priest of the first rank.”
Asher was impressed by both the man and the title. There were over eighteen hundred potential priests in Jerusalem, each one able to trace his lineage directly back to Aaron. Phannius, for example. But only a handful of potential priests were noblemen. Of over thirty ranks of priests, this Yosef came from the most prominent. No doubt his father was in the Sanhedrin, the religious council of aristocratic judges that ruled Jerusalem very much the same way the patricians of old had ruled Rome.
Asher's appreciation wasn't just a result of his high rank. “It's rare to find a priest so well-read,” he observed. Priests not only memorized Scripture, but also the oral tradition of interpretations that had grown over centuries. A lifetime was hardly long enough for a priest to learn it all. Outside reading was considered a waste of that precious time.
Laughing, Yosef confessed, “I write for a wider audience than priests.”
Asher suddenly knew who this Yosef was. “You wrote the history of the Makkabi revolt!”
“Yes,” admitted Yosef, pleased.
“It was excellently constructed.”
Yosef's smile revealed handsome dimples. “Thank you for not pointing out how flawed my Greek is. Still, it was some small attempt at bringing our history to the Western world.” The learned young priest studied Asher quizzically. “Your brother is a mason, and your frame and hands declare you the same. But your words would do any scholar proud. How did a mason's son come to quote both Aristophanes and Proverbs so perfectly? You enjoy learning?”
“Enjoy it? I hunger for it.”
They grinned at each other, and Yosef nodded. “And you fear starving now that war has come.”
This statement summed up all Asher was feeling in just nine little words. He answered one insight with another. “What about you? The priests of the Sanhedrin are said to be against this war. But the prospect of war excites you.”
Yosef's brow furrowed. “Because I write of one revolt, I am in favour of another?”
“Why else risk coming to the Blue Hall?”
Yosef looked rueful. “You hunger for learning. I, for freedom.”
“Freedom to do what?”
“Succeed. Advance. Grow. Prosper.”
Asher nodded. “'War brings opportunity.' You wrote that.”
“Because it's true. A man can prosper. So may a nation. A clever nation.”
Asher was thinking of Alexandria. “War also brings destruction.”
“Which is why there must be moderation in how we fight Rome.”
“Now you sound like a priest.”
“What does that mean?”
“There cannot be half-measures in war.”
Yosef pointed back towards the Blue Hall. “Their talk in there is all well and good, but we must live with the Romans when this is over. Aristotle – 'We make war that we might live in peace'.”
“Anacreon,” countered Asher. “'War spares not the brave, but the cowardly.' If we don't plan to win, we'll lose the war before it begins. We can't have half a war. War is like a woman with child – she either is, or is not.”
“Wars can be fought civilly,” insisted Yosef, “with respect for both sides.”
“Then it's not war, is it? It is a game, with men as the pieces. And the wager is all Judea.”
Yosef again indicated the Blue Hall. “That's what they want. Risk it all. The priests take the more moderated view. If we fight well, we'll win Roman respect. Then we can negotiate a reasonable peace.”
“I've seen the Roman legions at work.”
“As have I. They are efficient, disciplined, and orderly. War is their business. Even their entertainments are a form of war.”
“Which is why we either fight to win, or accept destruction!”
“I disagree. If we fight to win, we will invite destruction.” Yosef became animated, leaning forward and using his hands. “I've been to Rome, Asher, I've lived among them. Fierce tempers, but short memories. If we endure this one year, a single season, we shall outlast their anger.”
“We may not survive a single season if we don't fight,” challenged Asher. “Carthago delenda est.”
“Yes, precisely! Carthage provoked Rome many times over! If we stop poking a stick in the she-wolf's eye, she may find other prey.”
Asher sat in utter bemusement. The truth was that he wanted to fight the Romans – after Alexandria he wanted to strike a blow for Jews and Judea. But his desire to fight was visceral, not logical. Yosef's arguments were compelling. It was a strange sensation, being out-reasoned. It had not happened to Asher in a long time.
Yet there was something off about the priest's arguments. “I don't understand. You say that to survive we must not provoke Rome, but you come to the Blue Hall in secret and rub shoulders with the most eager revolutionaries.”
“Perhaps I'm a spy?” mused Yosef with a smile.
But Asher was thinking. War brings opportunity, he mused. Aloud, he quoted Homer: “ 'You will certainly not be able to take the lead in all things, for to one man a god has given deeds of war, and to another the dance, to another the lyre and song, and in another wide-sounding Zeus puts a good mind.' Or as Virgil put it, 'We are not all capable of everything'.”
Yosef inclined his head quizzically. “I don't follow you.”
“In the last ten minutes, you've been priest, author, soldier, patriot, and pragmatist. Someday you will have to choose.”
Yosef's face became grave, and Asher was suddenly reminded of the vast social gulf between them. He had gone too far. Yet the priest answered Virgil with Virgil. “Each of us bears his own Hades.”
Asher should have remained silent, but his lips formed a reply even before his mind had framed it. “Another way of saying that destruction comes from within.”
“The very definition of sin.”
Asher pressed the idea. “Does that mean that the true peril for Judea lies within, not without?”
“Certainly. To believe otherwise would mean we have no control over our destinies. And that I refuse to accept. There is always a way out.”
There was a deafening cheer from the Blue Hall, and the eager rebels began to emerge. It was too stuffy within to hold a long meeting, men would start dropping like flies. Judah soon emerg
ed, Phannius at his shoulder. Both were grinning. Seeing Asher safe, Judah crossed to the bench. “How are you?”
“Fine.” Asher was about to introduce Yosef, but the priest had plucked his cowl up over his head. “I must be off. Gentlemen, blessings upon you. Asher ben Matthais, it has been a rare pleasure.” Turning, he walked briskly away.
Judah jerked a thumb. “Who's he?”
Asher stared after the priest, already lost in the throng. “An interesting man.”
And indeed, Asher stayed interested. For days after, he found himself thinking of that conversation. Asher wasn't certain if he agreed with Yosef, or even liked him. To his credit, Yosef hadn't dismissed the words of a mere mason's son. Whatever contradictions lay with him, he was fair. There was a great mind in there, a questing mind. Certainly an ambitious one. Asher spent a long time wondering which would prove victorious – reason or ambition?
XI
JUST AS ASHER found it impossible to forget Yosef, so too the priest continued to reflect on his conversation with the learned mason's son. He was especially reminded of their talk on the occasion of Eleazar ben Simon's audience with Ananus, the High Priest of Jerusalem.
After resisting for weeks, eventually the Sanhedrin had no choice. The members of the Blue Hall had grown too powerful. Beyond their daily rabble-rousing sessions, they'd also held on to a vast supply of weapons and gold looted from the Roman baggage train. The combination of wealth, weapons, and popular support meant that a public meeting between the Avengers of Israel and the Kohen Gadol was inevitable.
At least the Avengers had the sense not to send Simon bar Giora, who in recent days had frightened even his most ardent supporters with his angry rants. Elected to be their official leader, Eleazar ben Simon came alone to face Ananus ben Ananus, holy warrior to High Priest.
The audience took place in a grand palace courtyard high atop Mount Moriah. Men clustered under the open sky to hear a fascinatingly bitter debate between two men who should have been allies, but were not.
Ananus, Kohen Gadol of the Sanhedrin, sat sipping a brew of hot water and lemon as he was harangued by Eleazar. They could not have looked more different: Ananus the classical Hebrew, with a long forehead over his deep-set eyes and neatly squared beard, and Eleazar, a roguish figure with long hair, clean-shaven Arabic face, and eager energy. Ananus had cunningly arranged for them to be seated, making the debate seem less urgent from the start.
