Stone and Steel

by David Blixt

  Levi was already drawing his massive sword as Yosef spun around. He saw Yohanan's men advancing on him, sunlight glinting off their naked blades. Bowels loosening in fear, Yosef leapt off the low stage into the crowd. Not bothering with aisles, he scrambled over citizens, stepping on shoulders and crawling over heads towards the exit. The crowd was as surprised as he, and as frightened. Within seconds everyone was fleeing headlong away from the swords of the advancing Gischalans, who swung them indiscriminately in their attempt to slay Yosef.

  Levi appeared beside him, shoving and throwing bodies out of their path, his greatsword bloodied. Reaching the top of the theatre seats, he called, “The docks!”

  Incapable of words, Yosef grunted and together they ran to one of the nearby quays. The owner of a small fishing boat took one look and tried to shove off, but Levi leapt across the divide and held his crimson-dappled sword at the man's throat. Yosef was just behind him, but he did not have the bodyguard's height and landed athwart the side, feet splashing into the water. Hauling him up, Levi threw down his sword and took one of the oars. Yosef took another, and the captain and crew joined them, for they had seen the soldiers racing towards them. Heaving and straining, they rowed themselves far out into Lake Gennesar.

  Only when they lost sight of the city did they pause, chests heaving. Yosef was so winded he had to lean over the side to retch. Wiping the sick from his beard, he turned to Levi. “Your men?”

  Levi shrugged. “Alive, dead, fled. We'll see.”

  “Could it have been a mistake?”

  The bodyguard gazed back unspeaking, fingers quivering with rage.

  Yosef wished he could share the fury etched into Levi's features. All he felt was a pervasive and bottomless bewilderment. “But why?”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  SOON ENOUGH THE WHOLE story came tumbling out. Yohanan of Gischala had designs on the overall command, and for months had been spreading lies about Yosef's greed, incompetence, and ties to Rome. Half the trouble with the Dabirians had begun with lying letters from Yohanan's pen. Meanwhile, Yosef's silver had indeed gone to purchasing cheap oil, but sold across the border for eight times the buying price. Still less than what the Syrians were charging, it came to a very tidy profit for the Gischalan leader.

  It was now painfully clear why Yohanan's troops were too busy to chase the northern marauders – they were themselves the marauders! While Yohanan forced the women and children of Gischala to build the walls, his men were out ravaging the countryside, stealing everything in sight. It was difficult to say which scheme had earned him more, the oil or the thieving. In only four months, Yohanan had become a very wealthy man.

  Outraged, Yosef's army demanded they march north to teach the treacherous bastard a lesson. His commanders came to him with the men's proposals, as eager as their troops to exact a measure of justice.

  “No, we do not march!” snapped Yosef. His voice had recently lost some of its melody. “I cannot waste the lives of my men in killing other Judeans. The Romans are the enemy! Not our brothers – however craven.” He turned to his scribe. “Have it announced that any follower of his that repents in the next five days will have a full pardon. Past that, their lives are forfeit, their property confiscate, their houses to be burned. With their families in them,” he added grimly.

  “And Yohanan?” asked Levi, curious.

  Yosef sniffed. “He wants command of Gischala? Well, it's his. I'll be happy to watch how he fares when the Romans arrive.” He turned his gaze skyward. “O Lord! How can we win if we're forced to war against ourselves?!”

  XIX

  PTOLMAIS, SYRIA

  VESPASIAN'S JEWISH PROBLEMS were not as serious, but aggravating all the same.

  “The trouble with accepting foreign levies,” he groused to his son, “is that foreigners then want to have a say in the waging of the war!”

  This was in response to yet another letter from Agrippa, the Hebrew king, demanding an interview with the Proconsular General Vespasian. “Tell the King I thank him for his men, and will win back his land, but I do not have time to see him!”

  “Father, you cannot ignore him. If only because we may need him.”

  “Then you do it! Don't laugh, I'm perfectly serious. Go! Give him my regards, reassure him, award him a ceremonial sword, offer him your daughter in marriage, anything to make him stop pestering me! Scoot!”

  Off scooted Titus to meet the grandson of Herod the Great.

  Under Roman law, Agrippa was not a true king, merely a governor for life, with possession of several cities and the right to appoint the Kohen Gadol. His cities were scattered, ensuring he could never create a nucleus of power from which to expand.

  Not that he had such plans. Educated in Rome and given a sizable Roman pension, he was a staunch supporter of Roman rule. Indeed, Agrippa's current anxiety was that after failing to dissuade the people of Jerusalem from rebelling, he was now being ignored by the Roman commander. All he required was assurance that Rome still thought of him as a friend and ally.

  It was a task well suited for genial Titus. Besides, this was his chance to meet the famous beauty Queen Berenice, the king's sister.

  The king was in Caesarea Philippi, on the far side of Lake Gennesar. Unfamiliar with the terrain, Titus employed one of Agrippa's own soldiers as his guide. The man in question was called Nicanor, a scholarly Judean soldier who had stayed loyal to King Agrippa. The king organized his soldiers according to Roman methods, and Nicanor held the rank of tribune.

  Titus and Nicanor traveled with a strong bodyguard, which kept them from moving at too brisk a pace – which suited Titus well, as he was able to experience the region for the first time. “For a country not much bigger than the isle of Sicilia, you have quite a varied landscape – fertile plains and lush forests on the one hand, dry deserts and hills only a goat could climb on the other.”

  “It is the land of our Lord, who provides us with all things.”

  “He certainly does.” It was particularly gorgeous at the moment – Galilee was carpeted with late springtime flowers, the orchards full of fruit. At night they were able to stop anywhere and sample a rich local wine.

  As they rode they conversed. Titus was fascinated to learn that Nicanor was of noble birth. “So you're a priest?”

  “From a priestly family,” corrected Nicanor, bowing his head humbly.

  “From what I understand,” teased Titus, “every family in Judea is priestly.”

  Unoffended, Nicanor laughed. “It seems that way. But there is a significant difference between the peasants who claim priestly blood and the few noble families who actually serve in the Sanhedrin. It's very like patricians and plebeians in Rome. There are plebeians who can trace their blood back hundreds of years, but are still not noble.”

  Interested, Titus pressed on. “So the Sanhedrin – they are like the Senate? With the High Priest as consul?”

  “An apt analogy – though only if the consul were also Pontifex Maximus,” added Nicanor, showing he knew the offices and divisions of Rome as well as his own. “Once our high priests were elected, just as the consuls were. But now our high priests are appointed by King Agrippa, just as Caesar appoints the consuls. But they are often deposed.”

  “For?”

  “Opposing the king's interests, and Rome's.”

  “Just like the consuls,” mused Titus wryly. “And then what happens to them?”

  “They are afforded all the courtesy and honours due the Kohen Gadol. They're allowed to speak first in councils, and their opinion is polled ahead of other men.”

  “They become consular.” The parallels to Rome were pleasing. But then, Roman culture had spread across the world – as was only reasonable, it being the best.

  Still, some cultures clung to their old ways. “What about the king and queen? They're brother and sister – is Judea like Aegypt of old, where siblings marry?”

  Nicanor looked repulsed. “Absolutely not! She is called queen because of her birth. Even if
it were not religiously forbidden, the King and Queen were raised in Rome, and esteem Roman culture just as highly as our own.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Titus. “Tell me about the Queen.”

  Nicanor flushed, which said more than his words. “She is a noble lady, and my queen. Though when you see her,” he added, “do not be surprised if her hair is quite short. Last year she did penance in Jerusalem, expunging her sins, and shaved her head as part of the ritual.”

  “She is religious?”

  “In her way,” was as far as Nicanor would go.

  Arriving at last, Titus was feted all the way to the palace and ushered at once into a grand audience with the king.

  King Agrippa II resembled his great-grandfather, which was unfortunate, as most men compared Herod to a bronzed toad. An Idumean, he wore the make-up and oiled hair of an Eastern potentate, appearing more Aegyptian or Syrian than Hebrew.

  Fidgeting in his high-backed eastern-style throne, the king intoned, “Titus Flavius, you honour us with your presence.” At least his voice was manly.

  Titus remained standing – Romans bowed to no foreign potentate, especially not one bought and paid for. “It is my honour, King of the Jews.”

  “We have had a letter from our beloved Antonia Caenis. It speaks well of your father that he has the devotion of such an admirable, capable lady.”

  Titus tried to hide his surprise as he cast his mind about – how on earth does the king know my father's mistress? Oh, of course. Disowned by Herod, Agrippa's father had attained the Judean throne with the help of Antonia, the niece of Augustus and daughter of Mark Antony. Caenis had been Antonia's slave, and had probably known Agrippa's father well. How well? wondered Titus idly. He'd heard tell of Caligula's wild orgies, frequented by Agrippa's father. Clever, clever Caenis. She's pulling every string in her loom, and all for my father's good – and mine.

  “It is for my father that I have come,” said Titus. “He deeply regrets his inability to come himself, but as you may imagine he has his hands full with both the war and the provinces.”

  “We understand, we understand, and appreciate him sending his firstborn son. You are most welcome, Titus Flavius.”

  Introductions over, Titus allowed his eyes to move sideways to the throne that held the king's sister. He gasped, for Queen Berenice was breathtaking.

  The oval face contained wide brown eyes that even the harsh Eastern make-up could not make squint. The short curls of her raven-dark hair perfectly framed her features. Her clothes clung to her curves in such a way as to suggest a sensual body beneath. All over her hair and neck dangled diamonds. One for every lover, Titus imagined.

  Beautiful, proud, regal, foreign, voluptuous – nothing of the toad about her! Silent through the whole formal audience that followed, she occupied her small throne better than her brother did his large one. As Titus offered compliments and assurances to the anxious king, his eyes kept returning to her.

  Finally the audience was ending, with Agrippa again offering his thanks. “Titus Flavius, your words assuage our heart. Tonight we hold a festive supper in your honour, and I hope you will convey to your noble father the general that you received all you could possibly desire at our hands.”

  This must have been a signal, for Berenice rose and descended from the dais. Just over five feet in height, her walk was mesmerizing, a sensuous swaying gait that would make Aphrodite blush. So graceful, so perfect, it could only be artifice. Three husbands and dozens of lovers had fallen under the seductive spell of those eyes, those lips, those hips. Now, at her brother's request, she was casting her spell on Titus.

  Aware of this, Titus cared only for the result. When she reached him she held out her hand. “Titus Flavius.”

  “My queen.” He kissed the offered wrist, having to bow to do it. Small price, when there was so much more promised.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  SPRING DID NOT IMPROVE Yosef's situation. There seemed no end of Galilean schemes and plots against their protector. Exposed, Yohanan of Gischala decided to wage a war of words. He wrote to the Sanhedrin in Jerusalem, complaining of Yosef's conduct, and convinced every other disaffected Galilean to do the same.

  Back in Jerusalem, Joshua and Yosef's father tried to defend him as best they could. But nonetheless a commission was sent to look into the matter and, if necessary, remove Yosef from command – by whatever means required.

  Yosef never gave them the chance. Forewarned by his father, he kept his movements secret, and the commission never found him. At the same time he used his army to sack the most recalcitrant cities. He was still reluctant to raise a hand against other Jews, but he was bone-weary of uprisings, having more important tasks than riding herd over his own people. Did no one realize the Romans were coming?

  His men looted each of the four cities on his list with orders not to kill, rape, or torture. To lessen the sting of the sacking, he returned the plunder to each of the cities. “Think of this as a taste of what the Romans will give you. Only they won't give the spoils back!”

  The sole city that did not submit to this tactic was Tiberias. No sooner had Yosef sent his army back to the front lines but the city revolted again, this time claiming that they wished to welcome Agrippa's troops and submit to the king's mercy.

  “Justus!” groaned Yosef. With his army at the other end of Galilee, he desperately gathered every ship in the harbour at Tarichaeae, be it warship, fisher, or schooner – two hundred thirty in all. He could only supply four adults to each ship, so he packed every one with helmeted children carrying short spears.

  When the ships arrived at Tiberias, the city saw a massive invasion fleet and raised a flag of truce at once. Yosef demanded Justus be handed over, along with the other ring-leaders. Those other men were forced to cut off their own right hands, so that they might never raise them against Yosef again.

  A prisoner, Justus was brought on-board the lead ship. Seeing the massive fleet was manned by children, he just laughed. “Oh, well played! Perhaps you can win this war after all.”

  “If not, no doubt you'll be there to take up the high command. But until then, you can rot in a prison. Take him away.” Yosef wished he could execute this rabble-rouser, but Justus was known to be a favourite of Queen Berenice – a dangerous enemy to make. And Justus had saved Yosef's life in the theatre. Having a conscience was a wretched nuisance.

  When Yosef finally rejoined his army in the city of Garis near the western coast, he found them distraught. Sepphoris – capitol of Galilee, the city that Yosef had defended so vigourously – had opened their gates to the Romans in welcome.

  Reaching high, Yosef clawed at the sun. “Vespasian doesn't need to stir from his camp! We're more than capable of defeating ourselves!” In his mind, he heard Justus laugh. You should have let us sack them!

  “I am Agamemnon, King of Kings,” said Yosef to Asher over supper. “Titular head of a bunch of men who all think they should be kings. I wish I could bring the Galilean leaders together to see the Romans at work. Only united do we stand a chance…” His voice trailed away as an idea formed in Yosef's mind. For the first time in weeks, he smiled.

  “What is it?” asked Asher.

  Yosef put a single finger to his lips. “You'll see.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  TITUS LINGERED IN Caesarea Philippi longer than he should have done, plying the queen with every ounce of his attention, treating her to a siege of charm and wishing he could employ his battering ram.

  But whenever he turned the topic to amorous lines, she retreated into one lament. “I cannot think of love – I am so filled with hate! Venus cannot flourish in a house of Mars. Oh, Titus, how I long to give myself over to the tender feelings of my sex. But I cannot!”

  “What vexes your majesty? Is it the war? I promise, it will be over in a few months. If I have any say – and I do – this war will be almost bloodless. So long as your people have the sense to surrender,” he added.

  Berenice lifted his hand and kissed
his knuckles. “You're sweet. But it's not the war that has me furious.” Raised in Rome, her Latin was flawless. And for a woman so short, her voice was surprisingly deep and husky. “It's the thought that Gessius Florus will escape unscathed. He provoked this war, and humiliated me.”

  Though loath to speak ill of another Roman, the thought of her humiliation bothered Titus deeply. “In what way?”

  “Last summer I was in Jerusalem, fasting and praying to cleanse myself of sin. But that was at the height of Florus' atrocities – a term I do not use lightly, Titus Flavius! I was once married to a governor of Judea, I know how hard it is for a Roman to keep our land peaceful and prosperous. But Florus was whipping and crucifying citizens – Roman citizens! – just because they were also Jews. When he stole money from the Temple, my people did not rise up. They instead mocked him.”

  “By passing around baskets for alms for the poor man who needed money so badly,” laughed Titus. “I've heard.”

  Berenice nodded. “That is the patience they showed. But Florus was so enraged, he sent mercenaries into the streets to kill any Hebrew they found. I had to hide in my palace – I, the queen! When I could, I went to see him, despite my shaved head and bare feet. I got on my knees and begged him to stop the killing. Do you know what he did, Titus Flavius? He laughed in my face.”

  Titus felt his throat close in rage. Fellow Roman or no, Florus had to pay for treating this royal lady so. And if, in punishing Florus, he was able to gain the lady's favour… “Your majesty. This fury in your breast, tell me – will it abate if Florus is brought to account?”

  “I'm afraid I would have to see the accounting with my own eyes before my heart would have room for any other feeling.”

  Titus kissed her hand in silence. Her price had been named, and it was small enough. A mere trifle, easily paid.

  XX

  SEPPHORIS, GALILEE

  IT WAS THE DEAD of night. Judah and Asher pressed themselves close to the earth, trying not to be seen. Their century was crawling on elbows and knees up a knoll across from a Roman Cavalry camp outside Sepphoris. Their commander was a Jeru called Nev, but it was Zamaris who truly led them. The centurion had them stretched out on their bellies just behind a low line of scrub, crawling as close to the fort as they could without being seen. Their armour was covered in animal hides to keep off any gleam or reflection.