by David Blixt
Yosef decided to remain a few days in Tarichaeae, staying in the house of Eneas – another Jew with an unfortunate name, a variation of the founder of the Roman people, the Greek hero Aeneas. How can we defeat them when they invade not only our lands, but our customs, our minds – our very names!
But Eneas was a good man, if timid – he'd offered up gold rather than join the ranks himself. It was Eneas who brought Yosef the sealed roll of paper with Yohanan's mark, a reply to his latest letter:
I have heard the same complaints. Alas, every man under my command is engaged already. For myself, I am taken suddenly ill, a weakness of the belly that renders me useless in a fight. I might journey to Tiberias for the waters there. Have to be ready when the Romans come!
Meantime, perhaps you could bring some of those men you are training north to blood them against these 'impious souls' as you call them. We would welcome the sight of you!
A frank response, however unwelcome. These bandits had to be dealt with before the Romans left their camp. Must I do everything myself?
Levi entered the chamber. “Trouble.”
“More like the constant nettling of gnats.”
“No. I mean there's trouble coming.”
Sighing, Yosef laid aside the letter. “Yes?”
Levi's long black beard bristled as if he was grinding his teeth. “The Dabirians.”
“What now?”
“They've gone through the region telling everyone that you kept the money to betray us to the Romans.”
Yosef dropped his head into his hands. “I want to weep.”
“Weep while you run. The people are inflamed. A mob has come from the country. We must fly.”
Yosef stood. “What, and be the leader who runs from his own people? I shall reason with them.”
Fearless, sardonic Levi arched an eyebrow. “You cannot reason with the irrational, general.”
Yosef's reply was acid in his mouth. “Then I shall shame them.”
On his way out of doors he paused at a still-smoldering fireplace and rubbed soot into his hair. Lifting a sword, he waited on the steps to Eneas' house and watched as the promised mob spilled into the street in front of him.
“That's him! The traitor from Jerusalem! Tear him! Tear him!”
Before they could rush up the steps to lay hands upon him, Yosef fell to his knees and tore open his shirt, bearing his naked breast to the winter air. Visible on the top step, he pulled back his hair and raised the sword's keen edge to his neck.
“Men of Galilee! Here am I, your servant Yosef, son of Matityahu, priest of the Great Temple, general of the armies of the Two Galilees! If you decide I must die, then I will do the deed myself, that none but I might sin! For it is a sin to assault a fellow Jew. A sin! So much is my love for you, my devotion to your well being, that even betrayed by envious, impious liars, I will protect you from harm. For your cause is mine! I die to save you – even from yourselves!”
The mob faltered, lost its momentum, turned from a flood into a tide, lapping the edges of the wide steps.
Yosef pressed on. “Tell me, though, for what crimes I am to die!” Even as he threatened self-slaughter, his tone proclaimed his defiance, his contempt. “For in all truth, my brothers, I am ignorant of any transgression!”
“The money! We want the money!”
“What money?” Yosef asked in wide-eyed confusion. “Do you mean the money here in the house of my friend Eneas, leading citizen of Tarichaeae? The money taken off the servant of King Agrippa? Is that the money you want?”
The crowd swelled. “Yes!”
“Why?” He allowed the question to hang in the air, wondering what they might say.
“You were going to steal it!” There were cries of assent. “You were going to give it back! To our enemies!”
“Well, which is it?” Yosef demanded. “Was I sending the money back to Agrippa, our foe? Or was I keeping it for myself? I could not do both.” Observing the crowd's confusion, he shook his head pityingly. “You see? The liars cannot even settle upon a single lie to smear me with! They call me traitor in one breath, and thief in the next! But I am neither, men of Galilee – I am neither!”
As one speaking to a troublesome child, he began his lie with the words most liars use. “In truth, I had no intention of sending this money back to Agrippa, nor of keeping it myself. I have never thought that a man who was your enemy could be my friend! Nor could anything that would disadvantage you be to my advantage! But I saw that Tarichaeae stands in greater need of fortification than any city in Galilee, and that it needs money for the building of a greater wall! I was concerned that men of other cities might lay claim to this fund, a fund that Tarichaeae so desperately needs. Cities such as Tiberias!”
Tiberias, further up the coast of Lake Gennesar, was an ancient rival of the Tarichaeans. The people responded with predictable vigour, shaking their fists at their neighbours to the north.
Yosef had to struggle not to smile. They were so simple! It was like being back in Rome, riling up the followers of the White charioteers against the Blues. Sword still at his throat, he reached out a pleading left hand. “So you see, I have thought only for the good! But I am your servant! If my plans displease you, I shall step aside and you may make whatever divisions of the spoils you desire. Or else you may, if you choose, revenge yourself upon one who meant to be your benefactor!”
He bowed his head even as the Tarichaeans roared their approval of him. The Dabirians in the crowd tried to rush him, whereupon the two groups fell upon each other in a mass of fists, clubs, and knives. Some locals, who had just moments before been howling for his blood, now rushed Yosef back into the house, guarding him against all dangers.
Levi barred the door and shortly thereafter the fearful Eneas arrived, drenched in a sweat of anxiety. “That was quite a performance.”
“You forget, I'm a priest. I know how to sway a crowd.”
Levi looked shrewdly at Yosef. “This is not over, you know.”
Nor was it. After the contented Tarichaeans dispersed to their homes, some Dabirians and others not of the city gathered and rushed the house of Eneas in full armour, shouting, “The money! The money!”
“They are determined, you have to give them that.” Yosef climbed to the top of the house and stood in full view, cupping hand to his ear. “I cannot understand you! There are too many voices! Choose leaders, men to speak for you, and I will entertain them within these walls! Once I have heard their words, I will be able to comply!”
As they descended, Levi asked, “What are you about, general?”
Yosef answered one question with another. “Do you have a stomach for distasteful things?”
“My tongue may not like it, but if they must be swallowed, I have an iron stomach.”
“Excellent. Find a windowless room, preferably at the back of the house.” To this, he added a few more instructions. Then he went to receive the deputation of malcontents.
The leaders were admitted just a few minutes later, eleven men in all. Yosef greeted them with courtesy, begging their pardon for searching them for weapons. Once they were comfortably disarmed, he led them to the chamber Levi had found. “Far from prying eyes or ears.”
The room contained several of Eneas' servants, as well as Levi and the rest of Yosef's bodyguards. All stood in rigid formality, hands behind their backs.
The eleven men had taken seats on the cushions before they realized Yosef was still standing. They watched him turn to the huge bearded bodyguard and hold out his hand. Levi offered him a short, viciously barbed lash with a stout handle. Yosef turned, eyes hard.
The deputation began to protest, but their words were cut short by the crack of the whip. It was a signal to the servants and bodyguards, who all produced whips, crops, and canes from behind their backs. They waded into the deputation, lashing and beating them until both clothes and skin were ragged tatters. Not a whisper of their shouts, cries, or screams escaped the chamber.
“Wh
at shall we do with them?” asked Levi, bemoiled with blood.
His face a mask of disgust, Yosef dropped his whip. “I've heard their complaints. Escort them out. I must wash and pray.”
The mob of Dabirians without waited, believing the long delay was due to intricate negotiations within. So when the doors opened and the eleven men were heaved unceremoniously onto the upper steps, they did not quite know what they were seeing. The doors closed quickly, leaving a twitching, moaning, weeping pile of raw and bloody flesh. None were dead, though some would certainly expire soon. Several had organs exposed. None had faces.
Instead of tending the wounded, the Dabirians fled. Yosef would have no more trouble in Tarichaeae.
“Though I would like to know,” he said in savage frustration as he washed the blood and ashes from his hair, “who has been stirring them up against me!”
XVIII
AT THE START of spring, Judah sat down to write a letter to Deborah. It wasn't his first, but he hadn't been as diligent as he had promised to be. It was just that he wasn't as good at stringing words together as Asher. And since he didn't know if Euodias was reading these as well, he couldn't be as frankly open as he wanted to be. The closest he could come was in his opening address of her:
My dearest Deborah,
I write to you from our camp. I can't say where it is, because this letter might fall into Roman hands. Not that they don't know where we train, or how many we are. If the general is to be believed, they have spies everywhere. He's got us seeing Romans under rocks and flying overhead. It's tempting to ridicule him, but he and Asher are still thick and I don't want to ruin that. I don't want to be whipped either.
Please forgive these clumsy letters. I ache everywhere. It's an effort even to move this reed pen. I could have asked Asher to write this out, but then it would be his words, not mine.
Actually, Asher was off enjoying the favours of one of the camp followers. Evidently he'd become quite the lady's man in Alexandria, and developed an appetite for feminine companionship. Ever since arriving in Galilee he'd been quietly but assiduously chasing any young skirt that would have him. The fact that he was so successful made Judah a little envious. But he didn't think he should put any of that in a letter.
He continued to write.
Our 'centurion' Zamaris is a true [he almost wrote 'bastard'] taskmaster. He's got us up drilling from before dawn until after sunset, with only a few breaks for water and one meal. He calls it conditioning. I call it doing the Romans' work for them. But we're all getting better at obeying orders. At least I can pick out the notes that mean turn left from the ones that mean turn right. Trust me, that's an improvement.
There's so much about being a soldier that has nothing to do with actual fighting. It's like a completely different skill-set. Asher compared it to the difference between being a mason and a sculptor. Both work with stone, but one is rude while the other is refined.
Not that the other soldiers here are refined. If there's an opposite to refined – I guess that would be unrefined, right? – these men are it. I won't go into their habits, I don't want to repulse you. Let's just say that they wouldn't be allowed into the Temple on their best day. Still, I'm beginning to see their charm. The way the Upper City looks down on Bezetha, we look down on these Galileans. But they have their own sense of honour, their own pride, and they can fight. Which is good, as the Romans have at least three legions in the field. Not that I'm worried. I took down one legion myself. The eight of us should be plenty to send Vespasian back across the sea.
I miss you. I want the war to start so it can end and I can come back. I wish we could be together.
Be well, and know that I am surviving, if not thriving. There, that's almost poetic!
Yours,
Judah ben Matthais
He laid his reed pen aside and read it over. He sounded like an idiot. But his last three tries hadn't been any better, and this was his last sheet of paper. Worse, it was cheap stuff, and if he tried to add or correct anything he'd certainly tear it. Dashing a handful of sand across it to dry the ink, he rolled it up, sealed it, and went off to find the messenger heading for Jerusalem. One benefit of having the general's ear was that Asher and Judah could make use of the official couriers to and from Jerusalem.
Letter sent, Judah returned to his tent and was about to fall into a blessed sleep when Atlas offered to play him at dice.
“Sure. What are we playing for?”
“Your greaves,” said Atlas at once.
“Not a chance,” answered Judah. The silver leg greaves he'd taken off the aquilifer were lucky, he knew it. “You don't have anything half as nice to put up.”
“Fine. Then I'll take tomorrow's dinner.”
“Done.” Unlike the Roman soldiers, Judeans didn't use pig's knuckles for dice. Unclean. Instead they took the knee-joints of deer, or else the joints of wolves. But Atlas had somehow come across a real set of dice, properly weighted and cast in baked clay. Judah had studied them hard, wondering if he could make a set when he got back to his kiln.
Other men drifted over, and soon there was a good-natured rivalry. Judah lost, but didn't care – if Zamaris stayed true to form, he'd be too tired to eat tomorrow night anyway. Instead he tried to fit in with these rough, uncouth Galileans. He told a few jokes, though his couldn't compare with the winding and elaborate tales of Philip and Netir. They all sang a little, and when Asher returned he started telling the fables of Aesop, making them all laugh at the antics of foxes and grasshoppers.
At last Zamaris walked by, eyeing them all without a word. Everyone knew that he would drill their little band extra hard come morning, so they bedded down almost at once.
On his blanket, Judah whispered to his brother. “I sent a letter to Deborah.”
“Nothing too indiscreet, I hope.” Asher had a smile on his face that made him look ridiculous.
“I told her all about my brother the whoremonger.”
Asher sat up sharply. “What? You didn't!”
“Don't be stupid. I just told her I was tired and wished we could be together. Go to sleep.”
♦ ◊ ♦
YOSEF'S NEXT SPATE of trouble came, unsurprisingly, from the city of Tiberias. A week after he had whipped a handful of its citizens raw, Yosef received a missive from the commander he had put in charge of the city, one Silas:
Beware! I've heard tell of a plot against you! Several men – prominent men – have been overheard scheming to murder you and give your command to one of their own. Who the usurper is, I do not know. But he is a man within our walls, so much is clear.
That troublemaker Justus again! Yosef left at once for Tiberias, taking only Levi and twenty others. He had no fear of allies, for he'd given Yohanan of Gischala permission to leave his wall-building duties to cure his belly ills in the famous Tiberian baths. How fortuitous! He sent word ahead for Yohanan to muster his men and wait in the town's theatre. There, Yosef would address the citizens and get to the bottom of this new trouble.
Yohanan's response was prompt:
I am confined to my bed with a great illness. But my men are at your disposal, and will await you at the amphitheatre.
It was a newer theatre, less than seventy years old, one of Herod's many regional constructions. Instead of being built upwards, the deep bowl was dug along the slope towards the shores of the huge lake. At the bottom was a barrier made of jagged rock, against which had been built the rudiments of a theatre's back wall.
Arriving with the dust from the road still upon him, Yosef found the citizens gathered as for a show. Indeed, the stage was set with rich eastern trappings, as if for a potentate or king. Then he saw a banner bearing the name Xerxes and knew what play he had pre-empted today. The Persians by Aeschylus.
Ill-omened? wondered Yosef. Or a boon? In the play, the wealthy Persian elders await news of their king, Xerxes, who has led an overwhelming force to conquer Greece. But the news that comes back is of defeat:
MESSENGER: O cit
ies of all the land of Asia, O realm of Persia, and bounteous haven of wealth, at a single stroke all your plenteous prosperity has been shattered, and the flower of the Persians has fallen and perished! Ah, it is a terrible task to be the first to deliver news of disaster. And yet, Persians, I must relate the entirety of the calamity – the whole barbarian host is lost.
CHORUS: Grievous, grievous disaster, strange and cruel. Alas, Persians, weep now that you hear of this calamity.
Thinking of the play, Yosef was bemused. Are we the Persians, or the Greeks? Then he shook his head. It was too easy for a priest to look for omens and portents in every little twist of fate. More important, surely, was that Yohanan had kept his word. His men ringed the back of the stage like pretend soldiers. But unlike the actors, the swords in their scabbards were doubtless unbated.
“Levi?”
“General.”
“Let's enter through the crowd. Show the people I am not afraid.”
Levi escorted Yosef down the steps into the hollow bowl. Reaching the stage, Levi's handful of men spread themselves across the front.
And there, right in the midst of the crowd, was that honey-tongued Justus. Braving Yosef's withering glance, Justus interposed himself to momentarily block Yosef's path. In Yosef's ear he murmured, “I have no idea what's happening. Be wary.”
Frowning, Yosef stepped down onto the stage. What did that mean? Was it a ploy? Was Justus toying with him? Or were things really so confused that even the rabble-rouser had no idea where the trouble was coming from?
Shaking himself free of pondering, Yosef began to address the crowd. “Citizens of Judea, of Israel, children of Abraham, hear me speak. I command the army of Galilee, both Upper and Lower. For those who do not know me, my name is Yosef ben—”
“Behind you!” Justus called out.
