Stone and Steel

by David Blixt

  Yosef had heard of this Justus, a known favourite of Queen Berenice. Therefore his loyalty was suspect. Yet here he was, rousing the Tiberians to unite against the foe. Yosef was heartened – until he heard the enemy in need of blooding wasn't the Romans but another Hebrew city! Justus was calling for the sack of Sepphoris. His reason? Coastal Sepphoris was more Greek than Hebrew, and would therefore go over to Rome at the first sign of trouble.

  Rather than put the man in chains, Yosef climbed onto the speaker's platform and engaged Justus in public argument. A mistake, as he found Justus' rhetorical skill was equal to his own. Yosef used reason like a knife, where Justus wielded passion like a mallet.

  “Surely you see that Galilee's sole hope is to unite,” said Yosef, employing his deep baritone to carry his words through the forum. “Like the Roman fasces. A single twig will surely break. A bundle of twigs will endure. Strength in unity. United, we have a chance that individual cities do not.”

  “Individual is the word,” replied Justus, relaxed and ironic. “We Galileans value our individuality and our independence. You've taken taxes from us here and poured that wealth into the walls of Sepphoris.”

  “Sepphoris will be the first target of any Roman attack. Their walls needed strengthening.”

  “As do ours!” cried Justus. “If the Romans come, as you say they will, we will need our money to bolster our own walls. We will need our own men to defend them! Leave our cities alone, Yosef! We can take care of ourselves!”

  “At the expense of your neighbours? You say, Justus, that you do not support stealing from one city and giving to another. But that is just what you propose doing – only at the end of a sword!”

  “Tiberias has a right to defend itself! And it shall!”

  The crowd began cheering, ignoring logical contradiction in favour of local patriotism. Inwardly admitting defeat, Yosef beat a haughty retreat and ordered Justus watched. Such a gilded tongue might lead to future problems.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  MORE THAN DEMAGOGUERY, the greatest problem in Galilee was banditry. Small bands of robbers were springing up everywhere, beating and even murdering fellow Judeans for the smallest shekel. War brings opportunity, thought Yosef sourly.

  His military commanders suggested mustering the recruits against the thieves. “It'll blood them, and easily.”

  But Yosef objected. “Against their own brethren! Hardly an auspicious beginning. No, I have a better way.”

  Yosef's better way was to buy the bandits off. If they refrained from making him look bad, they'd receive a monthly stipend. Surprisingly, this tactic worked. Some bandits even joined the army, expecting plunder. Thus Yosef was able to settle down and focus on training his army.

  Announcing a general muster, Yosef had hoped for over a hundred thousand volunteers. Barely a quarter of that number came. The other free men of Galilee, it seemed, preferred to raid neighbouring villages to shore up their own fortifications. Nonetheless, he took his volunteers and started drilling them.

  Yosef now encountered an unforeseen obstacle, one he couldn't blame on the Galileans. While living in Rome, he'd watched young Romans drilling on the Campus Martius. He'd toured the arms manufacturers' warehouses. And mostly he'd seen the games, the multiplicity of sports that were actually martial exercises made public. Many gladiators were disgraced soldiers, and even in disgrace they showed tremendous courage and skill.

  It was an odd blend, Rome. The hedonism of the court against the diligent work of the people, but under it all there was a martial fervor that was almost unconscious. Living among them, the strengths and virtues of the Roman legionary had so invaded Yosef's mind that he could not imagine a Galilean soldier beating one in fair combat. Even if he had owned greater numbers, Yosef had long ago dismissed the notion of meeting the Roman army in pitched battle. His instructions from Joshua had been clear: “Don't try to win the war. Just don't lose it.”

  But he could not dispense with an army. Painfully aware of the irony, he based his training regimen the Roman model, dividing his men into groups of decuries and centuries, cohorts and legions. He gave the raw recruits into the hands of soldiers who knew the Roman way of fighting. Some had even served in the legions as foreign auxiliaries in such places as Syria, Germania, and as far away as Spain.

  As the days advanced into weeks, it was heartening to see twenty-five thousand men drilling with wooden swords and practice spears. Walking among them as they drilled with ancient weapons collected from every corner of Galilee, Yosef urged them on, unconsciously filling his men's hearts with his own awe of Rome.

  “The Romans can do this in their sleep! To them, drilling is bloodless battle, and battle is only a bloody drill! They have no anger, no fear! You may think of yourself as a cobbler, a farmer, a mason. Those are your trades. But for the Romans, war is their trade!”

  “Your encouragement is a double-edged sword,” warned Levi privately. “It pushes the men to work harder, true. But it also fills them with an image of Rome based not in a healthy respect, but in fear. By all means challenge the men, general. But don't defeat them before they've even seen the enemy.”

  “Isn't it proper that we respect our enemy?” demanded Yosef.

  “Not if that respect is greater than our anger.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  STILL DUSTY FROM the road, Judah found the general watching the training. “Judah ben Matthais! Welcome back! Asher with you?”

  “He is, general. He's seeing the horses right.”

  Yosef grinned. “Still don't care for them?”

  “They're the ones who don't care for me. I'm not made for a saddle.” Judah drew a breath and said, formally, “General, we've spent the last three weeks surveying. That work is done. Request permission to join the ranks?”

  Yosef cocked his head. “I'd hoped you would join my personal bodyguard. You and Asher both.”

  “So you can have a hero as your right arm. I understand. But I know two things – building, and fighting. I'd be a lousy guard.”

  Yosef's mouth twisted wryly. “I appreciate your candor. Very well, I'll have you assigned to a century. I suppose this means I'll lose Asher's company as well?”

  “You'll have to ask him.” But they both knew that where Judah went, Asher would follow.

  Yosef was as good as his word. The next day the twins were assigned to the training unit of his First Legion. As they found their billet, Judah was frowning. “Why are we calling our army by Roman names?”

  “The Romans set the standard,” replied Asher.

  “Makes us feel less ourselves,” grumbled Judah. “Not Hebrew soldiers, just imitation Romans!”

  “I know,” said Asher. “But if we called ourselves by other words, we'd just be disguising the fact that we're modeled after their example. This way we can show we've learned from them.”

  Judah remained unconvinced. But he was glad enough to be a part of the army, preparing to fight.

  They were put under the command of a hoary old soldier called Zamaris ben Jacimus. Descended from a famous horse-archer of the same name, he had grown to age in a soldier settlement at Batanaea. The town had been founded by Herod, and had a long history of collaborating with Rome, producing soldiers of all kinds to serve in the legions. Zamaris himself had seen fighting in Britannia thirty years earlier, under Vespasian of all men. Nothing would have been more natural for him than to go over to the Roman camp and enlist. Indeed, his brother had done just that. But Zamaris had instead packed up his kit, ridden to Galilee, and offered his services to Yosef.

  Dressed for his first day of training in boiled leather armour (his stolen Roman armour was back in his tent), Judah felt confident and cocksure. He knew his natural skill combined with the training Levi had given him would let him far exceed the rest of his century. After all, they were farmers and labourers from rural nowhere.

  In many ways, he was correct. He could out-fight, out-throw, and out-sling every member of his group of eighty men. When they dueled indi
vidually, he was invariably the victor, even with men larger than himself. But to his great surprise and deep chagrin, Asher made a better soldier.

  “No no! Damn your eyes!” Zamaris ben Jacimus slapped Judah hard on the face and shoved him off the fallen man. “You fight like a drunkard – no thought, no sense, no reserve! All about landing the next blow, nothing else matters!”

  Judah leapt to his feet, ready to start a brawl with his 'centurion'. “What's wrong with you? I beat him!”

  “Oh yes, you beat him, hero.” The sneering Zamaris helped the defeated man onto his feet. “But to do it you had to step forward and break the line.” He pointed to the wall of shields behind Judah. “Creating a gap. A gap in the line means the enemy can get in. So the hero's won his duel, but he's exposed every one of his comrades to danger. Is that worth it?” The veteran pointed at Asher. “Why can't you be like your brother? He understands! And the Romans understand! There's strength in unity! Only when we break ranks do we die! As individuals, we're finished! So get back in line and hold!”

  Pride smarting, Judah returned to the line. Asher grinned at him. Judah pulled a face. “Not a word, brother, or I'll rip off your nose.”

  Asher laughed. “Then at least people could tell us apart.”

  The horn sounded, and they returned to their drills.

  XVII

  MARCH WAS UNSEASONABLY cold, and Judah was glad they were training in a city – even if they were forced to sleep in tents, the nearby buildings were windbreaks.

  There were eighty men in a century, which made no sense to Judah. Shouldn't a century be a hundred? In their little cluster of ten tents, they slept eight men to a tent. Just like the Romans.

  Judah didn't think much of their tent-mates. Given his choice of men, Zamaris had gone through the ranks and picked an unlikely assortment of soldiers. Sometimes his reasoning was obvious, as with choosing tall muscular men who were good with a sword. But sometimes his picks were curious. One of their tent-fellows was called Pethuel, whose barrel-chest did not alter the fact that he stood almost two heads shorter than Judah. Another was a fellow called Gareb who was so lean he seemed nothing but skin stretched over bone.

  The virtue of one of the tent-mates was obvious. He was a giant, nearly seven feet tall, literally head and shoulders above the rest. As he bore the common name of Eleazar, it was tempting to nickname him Goliath, but too obvious. So one night when Asher referred to him as Atlas, supporter of the world, the rest of Judah's century had adopted the name.

  The awkward part of Atlas' presence – beside the fact that his head always scraped the top of the tent – was that he'd brought his pregnant wife with him. Chava by name, she was so tiny it was comical to see them together. They had come from a city called Jotapata, with him refusing to leave the mother of his child out of his sight. Due at the end of the summer, she wasn't even swollen yet. The giant was calm and steady when she was around, and she'd offered to do the mending and cooking for the tent, so the men had quickly acquiesced to her presence – despite the annoyance of their coupling each night. At least it was over quickly.

  There was another set of brothers, though not twins. Philip and Netir were the jokers of the tent, always teasing and mocking, hiding Judah's sword or putting grapes in Atlas' socks. But once Judah found out they had been tax-farmers for the Romans he cut them dead, refusing to speak to them. He was not alone.

  Last among them was a dour Galilean called Deuel, who refused to speak but was clearly eager to fight. He sat silently night after night, and only seemed to rouse himself when it was time to pick up a weapon and train. Asher tried several times to engage him in talk, but invariably the man stood and walked off.

  An odd crew. Atlas and Judah were much alike, having trouble accommodating the rules and structure of army fighting. The rest settled in fairly well, none better than Asher.

  It did not occur to Judah that while he was judging his mess-mates, they were also judging him. Sitting behind their tent one morning, Judah was honing his blade when he heard one of the brothers talking to Pethuel.

  “Just like a Jeru,” grumbled Netir, meaning a man from Jerusalem. “All airs and no sense. But he didn't really take that eagle. Just took credit from better men.”

  Judah sat very still, straining to hear more.

  “His brother's a bit better,” answered Pethuel. “Listens, at least. But he's always using fancy words, isn't he? Needs to keep us peasants in our place.”

  Judah wanted to storm in and bloody their noses. Instead he rose and stormed off to find Asher.

  Who laughed at him. “Of course they think we're haughty! Half the nights we're being called over to the general's tent for supper. You're the best fighter among the lot of them, including Atlas.”

  “He's stronger than I am,” protested Judah irrelevantly.

  “Could you take him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Right. So, you fight better, I talk like a poet, and we're the pets of the general. How are they not going to despise us? You've beaten each one of them in sparring matches. You know what Levi said about General Yosef? That he leaves no room for other men's pride? Well, that's you all over. You face one of them and they're on the ground with a spear at their throat before they've blinked. They're scared of you, and the only way to combat that is to hit you with words when you're not there.”

  Judah was shocked. “Really? Am I that – arrogant?”

  Asher laughed again. “You don't have to work at it, it's very natural! I'm the same – I don't mean to put on airs when I talk about Aristotle or Cicero. I just get so excited about them, their ideas, I have no idea I'm being condescending. You and I are both single-minded when it comes to the things we love. It isn't meant as arrogance. It just is.”

  Judah rubbed his chin, his brow furrowed. “How come you've thought about this so much?”

  Asher sighed. “Judah. I had to puzzle through all this when I was twelve. You've never been resented for your skill by your peers. As kids, when there was a brawl, you were always on their side! But I was always showing up other students without meaning to. Rather than hide my light under a bushel, I decided to accept it. But I also made an effort to teach, and be so helpful that they couldn't hate me outright. Let them have their pride. After all, we Jerus are a prideful lot!”

  Judah thought hard about what Asher had said. That day he was quiet in the ranks as they drilled, careful to obey and not break the line. Then it was time of sparring. When he was paired with Netir, the other man groaned to his brother, “Why me?”

  “The Lord hates you, is why,” replied the other tax farmer, with a sour look at Judah.

  It was tempting to bloody Netir's nose for him. Instead Judah beat him with a quick, methodical series of moves. But the moment the other man was on the ground, Judah stretched out a hand to help him up. “Want to know how not to let that happen?” He spent the next ten minutes talking Netir through what Judah had done to disarm him and send him sprawling. The man was grudging, but at least muttered a quick “thank you” before they switched partners. It was a start.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  WHILE JUDAH WAS LEARNING the hard lessons of the ranks, Yosef was dealing with the headaches of a governor-general. Money was the perpetual problem, of course. Men coming to complain of money, or lack thereof, brought on a deep pain above his right eye. Men complaining of preference of one city or group over another made his jaw hurt from clenching it.

  One headache arrived in the form of a letter from Yohanan of Gischala. Like the man, the missive was blessedly blunt, plainspoken and practical:

  I'm hearing troubling reports from across the Syrian border. Many of our brethren – those who have been allowed to live – are being charged outrageous rates for their winter oil. Women and children are freezing in their homes. And this during a time when one amphora of good Galilean oil is selling at the piddling price of four Attic drachmas! It's an outrage.

  Here's my dilemma. All of Gischala's funds are going i
nto our fortifications. Could your coffers spare a few hundred drachmas? Not as a gift, but a loan. I'll purchase the oil here and take it across the border. The faithful in Syria have the money to buy oil at a reasonable rate, so the money will all be recouped by Passover at the latest.

  It's not precisely a warlike request, I am aware. But it's the right thing to do.

  Indeed it is, thought Yosef, setting down the ink of his reply.

  I hope the enclosed sum is answer enough to your noble request. In truth, I can ill-afford to spare this money, but neither can I allow fellow Hebrews to die of cold.

  There's another matter, one I hesitate to mention. I've heard reports of marauding thieves in the north. I'm told these are not Syrians or Tyrians, but men of Galilee, taking sore advantage of their countrymen in time of crisis. After the money just I've given you, I can't afford to buy them off. Could you peel off some of your excellent force of men, track down these impious souls, and end their evil practices?

  Again, I applaud your sense of charity. Even in time of war, we must not forget the least among us.

  Setting his seal to the letter, Yosef found himself wishing that there were more Jews like Yohanan.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THE NEXT RIDICULOUS HEADACHE began in Tarichaeae, a city on the southern coast of Lake Gennesar. The young men of nearby Dabira had decided not to enlist, preferring instead to form their own small army. This 'army' had captured and robbed the steward to King Agrippa as he traveled the road east. This deed earned them a mere six hundred drachmas, at the price of their honour – even in times of war, messengers were sacrosanct.

  Deploring the deed, Yosef seized the money and deposited it with a trusted friend in Tarichaeae, one Eneas, whom Yosef knew from his days studying with the hermit Banus. Eneas would hold the money until the end of the war, then return it to King Agrippa. After all, whatever the war brought, Agrippa would still be king. Yosef had his career to think of.