Stone and Steel

by David Blixt

  Yet Eleazar was doing well, leaning forward and declaiming loudly. He seemed to have taken a page from Simon's book as he said, “You must let me organize the men of Jerusalem into an army! And where is our eagle?”

  “Whose eagle?” said Ananus archly over his cup.

  “The standard we took from the Romans. And when I say we, I mean the true patriots, the common people of Jerusalem.” Though too well-mannered to cheer, there was a murmur of approval from his supporters.

  “Whatever do you want it for?”

  “I want to display it for all to see, right on the Temple gates.”

  Ananus' face became pinched. “It is a graven image. Man is allowed to name the beasts, not carve them. The right to fashion creatures of the earth belongs to the Creator alone.”

  “I don't mean to worship it!” snapped Eleazar. “I mean to parade it, show the men it isn't to be feared!”

  “That is a form of worship. I refuse to allow such acts anywhere near the Sanctuary walls. Besides, I've already had it melted down.”

  Amid gasps from the crowd, Eleazar turned ashen. “You had no right. We won that in battle.”

  “You?” Ananus radiated power. “The Lord won that battle. You were merely His instrument.”

  Sensing he was losing ground, Eleazar abandoned the subject of the eagle. “Then let me be His instrument again! I tell you, we cannot sit and wait here. We must go out and crush the Romans before they mobilize!”

  From the front ranks of the crowd, a new voice spoke. “We have poked the hornet's nest enough. When the swarm comes, it will find our windows shuttered, and will buzz away in impotence. Then we may negotiate with the queen.” Smiling at his metaphor, Joshua ben Gamala stepped forward to pour himself a cup of wine. A former high priest, one of the most respected men of the age, inventor of a system of universal education in Judea, Joshua took pride in being a calming influence in any debate.

  “I didn't realize we were allowed a second voice,” said Eleazar coolly.

  “The Sanhedrin speaks with one voice, young man,” answered Ananus.

  “Perhaps you feel you need someone else to do your debating for you.” Eleazar turned theatrically. “And are you, Joshua ben Gamala, so naïve to think Romans will keep to any agreement they make?”

  “Romans have a healthy respect for law, if not our Law. They are not unreasonable.”

  Eleazar snorted loudly. “Did you meet Florus?”

  “Rome is made up of its best and worst. That is true of any nation,” added Joshua with a pointed smile. “We must show sense. Rome is coming. We must earn their respect.”

  “By lying down beneath their nailed boots?”

  Son to one Kohen Gadol, brother to another, Ananus was obviously weary of this upstart. “Not at all. We will fight them. But in a measured way. We shall show them that we are not weak, that our demands are not unreasonable. Then, having earned their respect in battle, we shall treat with them. As equals.”

  “You're the father of all fools!” exclaimed Eleazar. “We must make the Romans fear us the way they once feared their Germans, the way they still fear the Parthians.”

  “Ah, the Parthians,” said Ananus, as though pleased by this turn in conversation. “What if we do as you suggest, and muster every man in Judea to battle the Romans, toe to toe? What if we succeed beyond our wildest imaginings and expel them from our borders? How many of our men will have died? How many wounded? How many would still be alive to defend us from the slathering Syrian and Parthian hordes that would descend upon us like the Babylonians of old?”

  “I don't have the gift of prophecy. I can only see the enemy right before us. That enemy is Rome.”

  “The wise man makes his enemy into his friend,” observed Joshua ben Gamala.

  “David did not win the world by speaking meekly to Goliath!” Eleazar paused dramatically, then rose to his feet. “I will muster every man of fighting age, and offer to lead them into the field against the Romans as soon as the campaigning season starts! I will march until we reach them in their own camps and toss them back into their sea!”

  Now there was outright cheering from the Zelote-supporting priests and jeers from the moderates. The numbers were surprisingly even.

  But everyone fell silent as Ananus rose from his seat and approached Eleazar. “You may try. But I am the Kohen Gadol. I am the supreme authority in all things religious, political, and sacerdotal.”

  “Appointed by Rome's puppet king! I have been voted the command of the war by the people of Judea.”

  “You may be able to rouse the disaffected rabble with rhetoric and largess from your captured Roman gold. But the men of substance, the men who matter, will not follow you. They know which of us hold their interests at heart.”

  “Their property interests, you mean! That's the truth here, isn't it? The wealthy like the Roman way, where the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer! Well, if it's a pauper's army, it will at least be rich in courage. We shall see who holds Judea's best interests at heart!”

  “You speak of Judea's best interests. Is it in our interest to have our friends, our sons and daughters, parents and cousins, kidnapped?” The High Priest was referring to a recent phenomenon. After the banning of knives in the streets, the rebels had resorted to a different kind of violence. Family members of prominent Jews were kidnapped and ransomed for huge sums. Begun months before Beth Horon, the practice had only grown – the rebels had discovered a milk-cow, and were filling their war chests with the wealth of Judea. “If you wish to have a voice in the running of this land, you should not condone fleecing our own people for Sicarii coffers.”

  “As opposed to the Sanhedrin fleecing the poor to fill Roman coffers?”

  Upper lip trembling, Ananus strove to keep his voice even. “Eleazar ben Simon. You might have been a promising priest in your native land. But your radical ways are not welcome in Jerusalem. We thank you for your services in our time of crisis – a crisis, I must add, you helped create. My advice is this: do not gainsay me. I tell you again, you are the leader of one battle. I am the Kohen Gadol.”

  “That appointment is only for life, old man!” With that rather naked threat, the rebellious priest departed, followed by dozens of followers.

  Watching the crowd disperse, Yosef shook his head. The mason and I did it better. The same debate, but without the resentment of class, birth, or history.

  His father appeared at his elbow. Matityahu the Amarkalin had sat closer to the heart of the exchange, in a place of prominence. Now he whispered in Yosef's ear, “Wait here, and be of service to Joshua. Do not fail.”

  Yosef nodded. He itched to say it was what he planned to do already – he was, after all, his father's son. But he knew that petulance would gain him nothing. So after his father moved on he waited patiently for Joshua ben Gamala. The wise old teacher was one of the men who owed favours to the Amarkalin, and had repaid his debt by acting as Yosef's patron within the Sanhedrin. It was Joshua who had recommended Yosef for the embassage to Rome, a mission to release four priests wrongly accused of treason against Rome.

  As Yosef waited, he considered the state of the world, weighing not his country's prospects, but his own.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THAT THERE WAS greatness in store for him, Yosef had no doubt. He'd known it all his life, and had become sure of it the night he'd almost drowned.

  On his way to Rome to free the prisoner priests, the ship he was on had foundered. To this day he didn't know why – the sky had been clear and there was no jolt as from hitting a rock. Perhaps the ship was over-encumbered. Six hundred men, women, and children had been aboard.

  On a sudden there was water below decks and everyone was shouting. All six hundred were cast into the chill waters of the Adriatic. As he pitched towards the edge, Yosef plucked up a large basket woven of rushes. In the sea, he turned the basket over and used it to keep his arms and face above the water. Thankfully, the tar of the basket had held the rushes together.


  He remembered the moon reflecting off the water, showing the great many dark shapes bobbing in the unruly water. Many souls cried to him to share the basket, but he knew too well that even one other would sink him. So he'd hardened his heart and closed his ears, kicking further away from the other desperate swimmers. As he swam, he prayed – for forgiveness, for guidance, for salvation.

  As the number of voices crying for aid slowly decreased, Yosef could hear the Lord more clearly. It was but a single word spoken to him, as if in his ear: Live.

  That voice kept Yosef swimming all through the cold night. In the morning, a Cyrene ship found the survivors. Of the six hundred passengers tossed into the Adriatic, only eighty still had their heads above water. Most, like Yosef, had retained some device to float upon – boxes, crates, broken bits of ship wood. All were exhausted. And none could look each other in the eye – save Yosef. He arrived in Puteoli with his head held high and a renewed purpose.

  To Yosef, that night spent in the Adriatic waters was a crucibulum, just like the earthen pot used for melting metals. Heated past endurance, the metals became stronger, turning to bronze or steel. So Yosef had been tempered by the Lord. And Yahweh would not have forged him without a purpose. That night the Lord showed He has plans for me.

  And in Rome, he'd risen right to the top. A man of culture and learning, he'd felt right at home among the Roman Jews. But the real bequest, the greatest joy, was the two years spent outside his father's shadow.

  Free to be himself, left with nothing but his own charm, cunning, and ingenuity, he had applied himself to determine how best to present his case to the Romans. It had taken time, but with all due modesty, he had to admit his solution was brilliant. Knowing Nero Caesar's love of the theatre, Yosef had worked his way through a famous Hebrew actor to an audience with Nero himself. The Princeps had little interest in Yosef's mission, but he'd been fascinated by Yosef's voice. “It's natural talent, you say? But what do you eat? What do you drink? I must copy your diet, exactly!”

  Chance had also been at his side. It so happened that Nero's wife Poppaea was just then dabbling with the Hebrew religion, the way some Roman women did with Isis. She made it fashionable to be seen with Hebrews. Suddenly Yosef had found himself dining and sporting with the highest level of Roman society. He'd even had to fend off several offers of marriage, both from Roman Jews and proper Romans as well. Not that he was unwilling to put aside his wife for one better, but rather he did not want to tie himself to any one petitioner. That way, he could enjoy all their favours.

  He'd had little experience of women before Rome – just his wife, and before that a shepherdess in the wilds of Galilee. He had accepted a beating for that, not from her husband but from his master, the priest Banus. “When you lie with a woman, the Lord will not speak to you for seven times seven weeks!” the old man had hissed as he scourged his pupil's shins raw. And for years thereafter Yosef had prided himself on his chastity, even in the marriage bed, sleeping with his wife only four times a year. His purity, he thought, showed his dedication to the priesthood. I am pure! See? Speak to me, Lord!

  But in Rome he had not needed the Lord to speak to him. Things were so clear, and he was free to be himself, indulging in pleasures he had never imagined. He was no Epicurean, but he had tasted the sweet nectar of women's lustful juices, and felt the thrill of coupling in public. His own manhood was something of a sensation – Roman men were not circumcised, and his naked head caused women to ogle and fondle it.

  Several women of Nero's court were neglected by their husbands, whose tastes ran in other directions. So, under the amused eye of Nero's wife Poppaea, Yosef found himself passed among her Roman friends like chattel. Because he was ardent, flattering, learned, foreign, and most of all expected nothing, he was able to gain their good graces, and through them the support of their husbands. It was not at all difficult for him to extract the release of his poor prisoners and have them shipped back to Rome.

  He'd done it just in time. The Great Fire that swept through Rome was blamed on the Jews. Many were rounded up and executed publicly. Yosef had never feared for his own safety, as the bulk of Nero's wrath had fallen upon the small sect of Jews called the Nazarenes, whom the Romans called Chrestiani. Yosef had been able to continue on with Poppaea as his personal patroness.

  It was during this time that Yosef wrote his book on the Makkabi Revolution. In it, Yosef had written glowing words about King John Hyrcanus, a Makkabi ancestor. He was the ideal Jew – ruler, high priest, and prophet all in one. Gifted with visions of the future, Hyrcanus was blessed by God to lead His people. Yosef, too, had once been gifted with visions, and for a time he'd felt a similarly great future lay before him. In Rome the visions had gone, replaced by an assurance that he was indeed destined for greatness, not just another man clawing his way up the priestly ladder.

  The success of his book only brought more praise. Hailed by Hebrew scholars in Rome, he was on his way to becoming a fixture, despite the rising anti-Jew feeling in the city. Then Poppaea had died, and with her Yosef's protection. He suddenly realized that, though they had no interest in their wives themselves, no Roman enjoyed being fitted with a pair of horns. With no powerful patron to keep him safe, Yosef prudently decided to follow his rescued priests home.

  After two years in Rome, Yosef had expected a hero's welcome. After all, he'd bearded Caesar in his den, obtained the favour of the court, and freed the four captive priests – a great achievement by any standard.

  But instead of being a hero, Yosef arrived just in time for war.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  YOSEF SAW THE elderly Joshua making for a private chamber. He did not need to be beckoned to know he was supposed to follow. Falling in step with his mentor, he remained silent and watchful as Joshua led him through a series of halls to a small, finely appointed room and shut the doors. Out of earshot of the mass of priests, Rabban Joshua cocked an eyebrow. “You are remarkably silent.”

  “I had no remarkable remarks to make.”

  Joshua made an appeal heavenwards. “Your literary bent is unneeded at the present. I would hear your thoughts.”

  It was on the tip of Yosef's tongue to point out that thoughts could not be expressed without words, and spoken words were literature of the air. But he restrained himself. “The Kohen Gadol handled things as well as could be expected. But Eleazar knows what was not said: the wealthy are in hiding, and they took their gold with them. We need his money as much as we need his influence. Eleazar has all the wealth that was in the Roman baggage train, which contained the combined spoils of Aphek, Lydda, and our own suburbs.” Yosef spread his hands. “However long his money lasts, so will his power.”

  Yosef tactfully left aside all the truthful arguments Eleazar had made. Under Roman rule, rich Judeans grew richer. It was a new application of an old Roman idea, that a man of property would defend that property to the death. By extension, if Rome had granted that property, then Roman rule must be defended. It was an arrangement that had benefitted a very few Judeans. But those it had, benefitted hugely.

  Joshua had an uneasy way of watching a man, as if reading his thoughts. But whatever he was perceiving, the moment was interrupted by the arrival of Ananus himself. Closing the chamber door, the High Priest gave vent to his frustration. “The fool! He will bring destruction upon us! He, and all these Avengers of Israel. O, the sons of Ishmael are a scourge!”

  He was referring to his foe's ethnicity. Eleazar was an Idumean, an Arabic Jew descended from Abraham through his slave-girl, Hagar. It was common for the legitimate offspring of Abraham – the sons of Isaac – to look down upon the sons of Ishmael.

  “Romans feel the same way about Italians,” Yosef observed.

  Only then did Ananus notice Yosef's presence. “And you, Yosef ben Matityahu? What do you think of our self-appointed Mahsiah?”

  Yosef temporized. “You must admire his passion.”

  Ananus grave face tautened. “Must I?”

  “What Yosef
means,” explained Joshua smoothly, “is that Eleazar's passion is the only way he was able to compete with you. Reason was on your side, as you displayed most magnificently.”

  “It's odd,” mused Yosef. “Just the other day I had much the same conversation with a mason's son. He too thought that we should fight full out.”

  Ananus was dismissive. “A Zelote, no doubt.”

  “He did not wear the arm-band. And he was learned, argued well.”

  Ananus' expression became severe. “Did he convince you?”

  “Not at all. I merely point out that Eleazar's sentiments are far from unique. He will not lack for followers.”

  “How then, my son, would you prevent all-out war?” asked Joshua. It was a Socratic question, where the teacher posed a query in such a way as to lead the pupil to discover the correct answer. But Yosef understood Joshua's true intent. This was a council of war, disguised as a student's essay.

  Allowing the question to hang for a moment, Yosef collected his thoughts. If he spoke well in this moment he would go very far, very fast. “I see three immediate courses. Firstly, we must be seen as active. Show the people we are in control, afford them no time to think.”

  Ananus stroked his long, squared beard. “Just so. The walls. Refortifications. New towers. Infrastructure. All this is already in the works.”

  Joshua bowed to the Kohen Gadol. “When peace does come, Jerusalem will be the stronger.”

  “We are also minting new shekels that read, The Freedom of Zion.”

  “Excellent,” said Yosef. “The Romans use coins for propaganda. So should we.”

  “And your next course of action, Yosef?” prompted Joshua.

  “We must reach out to those sects that have traditionally stood apart – the Essenes, the Sadducces, even the Nazarenes.” That clearly made the Kohen Gadol unhappy, so Yosef hurried to explain. “At the moment there are two camps, the Zelotes and the Sanhedrin. The Pharisees are evenly divided between the two. To show our side is in the right, we must show a great coalition. Bring in the religious sects that think themselves purer, less material and earthly, more devout. Do this and we show that Jews of all beliefs side with us.” Yosef turned to his mentor. “What was it you told Eleazar? It is the wise man that makes his enemy his friend.”