by David Blixt
“It's why I survive,” said Pethuel. “The Romans can't even see me.”
Atlas continued to fume about his title. “It's a Greek name. I hate them Greeks almost as much as I hate Romans.” The big man had been born in Sha'b, near the coast. But his family had been driven from their trade by an influx of Greeks, and he'd become a rude labourer in Jotapata. It was here that he met Chava. They were an amusing pair. He was as large as a city, while she was small like a child, barely reaching up to his waist. Her pregnancy had progressed despite all the marching, and she was due sometime in August. Zamaris had offered to sneak her out before the Romans came, but she had refused. “My child will take his first breath in Jotapata.” So Atlas fought each day to protect her and his unborn child, and looked like he could defeat the whole Roman army himself.
Netir said to Atlas, “Eleazar is too elegant a name for you.”
“True,” echoed Philip. “We seem to be down a few oxen, so maybe we should just call you Ox.”
“Maybe I should call you pig,” countered Atlas hotly. “For being unclean.”
Chava slapped his wrist like a naughty child. “Husband!”
The giant bowed his head. “Sorry.” For such a frightening mountain of a man, he was meek as a kitten with her.
“But Chava, he speaks the truth!” exclaimed Netir with loud bravado. “We have been unclean lo, these twenty-three years!”
“Yes!” exclaimed Philip. “The only answer is to wash ourselves in Roman blood!”
Judah had developed a grudging admiration for their relentless cheerfulness. Netir and Philip had spent the last twenty-three years as agents of the publicani – tax collectors – making them reviled by every Jew living, giving them long years of practice at deflecting insults.
“Where's Deuel?” asked Gareb. The silent soldier had slipped away, as usual.
“Probably off talking the Romans to death,” suggested Philip. Everyone laughed.
“He's certainly missing a good meal,” observed Pethuel, chewing happily. “Judah, are you already finished? Damn, you eat like a snake, all in one bite.”
“Always has,” observed Phannius.
Judah shrugged. “Comes from growing up with stone-dust covering all your food. Best to just get it down.”
“Pity,” said Gareb. “This is a rare treat.”
“What do you think the general has in mind?” asked Netir.
“No idea,” said Judah. “Asher?”
Asher shook his head. “I guess we'll see.”
♦ ◊ ♦
IN THE MORNING they saw, and cheered. Inspired by the screens protecting the Roman engineers, Yosef had taken the hides of those six oxen and put the tanners to work overnight, curing the skins with salt and sand. “Let them retain some of their moisture,” Yosef had instructed. Sewing the skins together three by three, he had them affixed to poles and stretched across the top of the wall where the work was to be done.
“Clever!” laughed Judah as he watched the flaming Roman arrows extinguish themselves in the damp hides. There was enough slack in the skins that ballista balls sloughed harmlessly to the ground.
Behind this screen, the Jotapatans raised their wall an extra thirty feet. Vespasian set his catapults to work, meaning to knock down the wall's additional height. But Judah knew his work. The new stones did not fall. Coming up against this heightened wall, the Romans gave up their ramp entirely. Vespasian even sent his compliments to Yosef at a job well done.
“General Yosef is rising to the occasion!” observed Gareb.
Judah nodded, impressed. He hadn't thought the ambitious young priest had it in him.
♦ ◊ ♦
HOWEVER SMALL THE VICTORY, this defiant feat was deemed a wonder by the citizens of Jotapata. They hailed Yosef almost as a king, parading him through the streets, bringing children to be kissed by him. He was offered the favours of several well-born women of the city, which he politely declined. Not for lack of desire. Yosef had remembered the words of the old Essene hermit, Bannus: “When a man lies with a woman, Jehovah does not speak out of his mouth for seven moons.” Yosef had need of divine inspiration, and so practiced chastity.
This had a curious effect. The admiration of the Jotapatans turned into something like reverence. Walking briskly through the city one day, an old man bowed to him, tugging his long square beard. “Blessings upon you, Mahsiah.”
Faltering, Yosef gazed at the man with a curious kind of awe. “You mistake me, sir. I am not the Mahsiah.”
The ancient man bowed more deeply, but did not retract his words. Yosef hurried on, his eyes turning inward.
Mahsiah? The prophecy of the Mahsiah was from Isaiah: For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace. He was supposed to be the savior of Israel, a warrior descended from David who would again revive the greatness of the Lord's chosen people.
Galileans cherished Isaiah above all prophets, even Abraham or Mosheh. And it was true, Yosef could trace his lineage back to the House of David. But there had been so many false mahsiahs, with whole sects created to follow their teachings.
Yet Yosef now recalled the visions he had experienced when living in the wilderness as a youth. Had that been hunger, or divine communication? Reason said the former. But faith was beyond reason. Was the Lord attempting to speak through Yosef?
Could I be the Mahsiah?
No, he told himself at once. The Romans have a word for such fancies – hubris.
Nevertheless, the seed was planted.
♦ ◊ ♦
INVITED FOR A PRIVATE dinner, Titus stepped into the general's residence and discovered his father at his ease upon a couch, eating melted cheese with bread and reading a large scroll. “Dispatches?”
“Literature.”
“Truly?”
Vespasian chuckled. “Your surprise wounds me. I'm reading Josephus' book on the Makkabi rebellion.”
“Ah.” Titus sat on the next couch over, bringing him head-to-head with his father. “And?”
Vespasian laid the scroll aside. “Can't make heads or tails of it.” Both men laughed. Neither had intellectual pretensions. “Damn, but it's hot! Never in my life thought I would miss Britannia's rain.”
“I've asked some of the engineers. They think we're closer to the sun here.”
“Makes sense.” They settled down to the first course. The conversation wandered a bit, then Vespasian said, “Had a letter from Caenis. She's planted herself in Rome.”
Titus removed a lamb shank from his lips. “Doing what?”
“Silly cow thinks she's building me a faction. I'm too old for that sort of thing. But it might do you some good. She hints you should marry again.”
“Why?” asked Titus lightly. “I've got a daughter. If I need a son, I can adopt one. What use is a wife?”
“She could do what Caenis is doing for me – work the women of Rome. Influencing the wives of senators is a strong lobby that costs you nothing.”
“Then I shall follow your example and find an excellent mistress to do it for me. Hypocrite,” he added with a grin.
“Hah! You have me there! Very well, son, no more pressure from me.”
Titus was glad to escape talk of marriage. His eyes were on a woman that Roman society would not embrace. Thinking of her, he had an idea. Casually dipping some flaky bread into the melted cheese, he said, “Father, if you like, I can read Josephus' book.”
Vespasian looked up. “Really? Why would you want to do that?”
“It can't hurt to have a better understanding of the Jews.”
“You mean one Jew in particular. No, don't deny it. I hear things. Son, she's a foreign queen, and an Eastern one at that. Remember, these are her people we're fighting.”
Titus was appalled he'd been so transparent. “Berenice is on our side.”
“Foreign potentates are like the god
s, son. They're on no side but their own.”
Titus looked mulish. “Are you telling me not to see her?”
Vespasian sighed. “I'm only saying stick to your resolve – have her as a mistress, not a wife.”
“So,” said Titus, changing the subject. “What do we do now?”
Vespasian's natural frown turned to something like resigned disgust. “We do nothing. It won't be quick, but it looks like we're here until the end of the season. We have to win, and victory goes to the one with more patience. They're trapped. If we can't get in, we'll have to wait for them to come out. So tell everyone to hold their ground. Don't try to advance. Lure them out. I guarantee you, inactivity will drive them mad.”
XXVI
JOTAPATA, GALILEE
1 JULIUS, 67 AD – 27TH DAY OF SIEGE
OUTSIDE THE BESIEGED CITY, the Second Cohort of the Fifteenth Legion had the night watch. Shortly after midnight, amid the eerie desert silence, the Judeans struck.
“Lights! Lights, and at them!” shouted Barbarus. It was ritual by now – every night the defenders snuck out to harass some part of the Roman lines. Tonight the bastards had again come to where Barbarus and his men were standing guard. Torches were lit, swords scraped from hard scabbards, and everyone raced to engage the foe.
Barbarus fixed upon a giant of a man with a huge axe, a walking wall who tossed Romans aside like children, creating a gap in the line. He whooped. “There's my fight!” Expertly, the centurion cut a path towards the giant. A stocky Judean guarded the huge man's flank. Barbarus feinted left, then stabbed the short man in the right shoulder. Pulling his blade out, he leapt past the wounded Judean to attack the giant.
Impossibly, the massive figure twisted aside. How could a man of almost seven feet and several hundred pounds move so swiftly?
The giant smashed his axe into Barbarus' shield hard enough to scar the metal. The blow sent Barbarus sprawling. Rising, he slashed his sword left and right, clearing away encroaching Judeans. Regaining his feet, he pivoted to find the giant. “Here, you bastard!”
The brute turned and was surprised to find the centurion still alive. Hefting his mighty two-handed axe, he brought it crashing down again. Barbarus angled his shield and the great blade skidded sideways, bouncing off the boss. Barbarus stabbed and the massive Judean jumped back, surprised again. Few men survived one of his blows, let alone two.
Their eyes locked and both men smiled in recognition. Here, each said to himself, is a worthy foe.
“By Jupiter, you're a prize,” murmured Barbarus in Latin.
“Come get me, little man,” growled Atlas in Aramaic.
Soldiers from both armies came to help. The giant yelled for his men to back away. Barbarus did the same. “I'll crucify anyone that touches him!”
Fighting in the area ceased as men turned to watch the duelists begin to circle each other. Twice they leapt, clashing and retreating. The armourless Judean had to be careful of the small Roman's expert cuts, while the Roman had to beware the Judean's near-Herculean strength.
They set to blade-work, the giant twisting away from a swipe at his hamstring even as Barbarus ducked a blow that shaved the horsehairs from the plume of his helmet. “Do you know how hard it is to weave those damned hairs into place?”
Laughing, the giant was about to engage again when someone on the Judean side called out, “Atlas! Time to go!”
Giving Barbarus a rueful smile and a shrug, the giant turned and started back for the walls.
“No you don't!” cried Barbarus, hot in pursuit.
“These Jews are like vermin,” snorted Curtus. “Spark a light, they scurry off.” He hefted a pilum. “Now can I kill the coward?”
“Don't you dare!” snarled Barbarus. “He's mine!”
It was a half-mile to Jotapata's walls. Unhampered by heavy armour, the Judeans quickly widened the gap, leaving Barbarus puffing behind. In a few moments he would be within range of the slingers on the wall. Chest heaving like a bellows, he pulled up short. “Barbarus! First Century, Second Cohort of the Fifteenth Apollinaris!”
There was a startled noise from one the Judeans, but Barbarus was watching the giant, who turned, running backwards with a grin as broad as his shoulders. “Eleazar, son of Samas, of the city of Sha'b! They call me Atlas! We'll meet again, Roman!”
“I look forward to it, Atlas!” With a friendly wave, Barbarus trudged back to the lines.
♦ ◊ ♦
NOT FAR OFF, Asher had heard the centurion call out a name he remembered well from Alexandria – Barbarus. His step had faltered and he'd released a surprised grunt. This was the centurion who had saved his life!
“Yes, I heard,” said Judah, shoving his twin forward. “Now get inside the walls, you ninny!”
Once safely through the small gate, Zamaris ordered Asher to do a headcount. Two men were missing. “One of them is Pethuel.”
Zamaris interrogated every member of his century. Everyone remembered Pethuel being injured in the shoulder, but no one knew if the stocky man had died or been taken captive. It wasn't the first loss the century had endured, but it was the first from their tent. Judah took it particularly badly.
♦ ◊ ♦
AS THE SIEGE dragged on, water was fast becoming a real concern. In a city with many Essenes who practiced an intense form of ritual cleansing, it was difficult to say which was more distressing– lacking drink or forgoing the washing of hands, feet, and head.
Yosef gave up pleading with the people not to bathe, and instead made the onerous order to ration the water supplies. Guards were posted at every well, both public and private. As soldiers required more water than average citizens, resentment built on both sides.
The Romans quickly learned of Jotapata's thirst, and legionaries took to quaffing off their canteens in full view of the walls, pouring cool water over their heads, or even watering the dirt at their feet. Yosef tried deceiving the Romans by hanging sheets soaked with urine to make the enemy believe they had water enough to spare. But without drink, it was difficult to maintain strength.
“General,” said Levi in his role as bodyguard, “you should eat.”
“Not today.” Despite an abundance of food, Yosef was denying himself all but the barest meals in an attempt to regain the clarity of his time in the wilderness. And it was working. Sight blurring and occasionally spinning, he was starting to experience the hazy sense of being part of something larger than himself.
His first vision occurred when staring at the Romans across the burnt and trampled ground. In the near-blinding sun, a reflection off a Roman's armour became a flock of doves. Yosef knew it was not real, but he smiled at it nonetheless, secretly waving to them.
What does it mean? That the Romans bring peace? Or that peace flies from Rome?
There were more visions after that, some fanciful, some disturbing. They were all more intense than during his time with Bannus in the woods, which made perfect sense – the Lord had more need now to communicate with him.
♦ ◊ ♦
WHENEVER THE WATER rations were handed out, Judah noticed that Deuel took only a small sip, then disappeared with his clay cup. When not on duty, the man was never around. As he had never shirked his responsibilities, Judah had let him go, suspecting there was a woman somewhere in the city. Most of the men had women.
But the fool couldn't be allowed to give away his water, certainly not to some whore. With Pethuel lost, the whole needed Deuel at his best. So on the third night of the rationing, Judah followed Deuel to see where he was depositing his precious water.
The trail wended deep into the heart of the city, far from the fighting and out of range of falling stones – the Roman siege engines had been hurling rocks without let for days. Keeping his hand over the cup's top so as not to lose a drop, the silent Deuel finally came to an exterior stairway to a three-story building. Climbing to the highest floor, he pushed the curtain aside and entered.
The top floor of any building was the least desirable
. Even without the Roman bombardment, many buildings were liable to collapse, and the threat of fire made the top floor a death trap. Whoever lived up there, they weren't wealthy.
Judah counted to ten, then climbed the stairs. If it was a woman, Judah didn't want to give the pair time to undress. Without knocking, Judah stepped through the curtain and in.
A single chamber, with a rude bed at one end and cushions around a low table at the other. Hardly a courtesan's nest. The room stank of fever and illness.
Deuel was kneeling next to the bed. In it lay an old woman, faded and withered, naked above the sheets and covered in sweat. She bore Deuel's features on her withered face. He was raising the clay cup to her cracked lips as Judah entered. Deuel's head came around, but his careful hand didn't falter as he gave his mother some of his precious water.
Dropping his gaze, Judah stepped outside again and waited, wondering what he could say. To waste precious water on a dying woman was not only foolish, it was criminal. Judeans manning the walls had far more need of it. Deuel himself needed it. Fainting while fighting would not only doom him, but endanger every man around him.
When Deuel emerged a few minutes later, he just stared at Judah. Finally Judah said, “I'll get Zamaris to give you an extra half ration. But you drink all your own. If you die, she'll lose even that half.”
Deuel said nothing. He nodded once, then turned and went back to his dying mother. Judah released a long breath then threaded his way back through the city.
♦ ◊ ♦
AT THE LARGE HOUSE Zamaris' century had taken for their own, Philip and Netir were telling more ridiculously low jokes. “I saw the Romans roasting a boar last night,” said Philip.
“Wild?” asked Netir.
“Well, he didn't seem too happy about it!”
As the rest of the men roared with laughter, Asher shook his head. It was a very old joke. But these two had set themselves up as the clowns of this century, and laughter was certainly better than contemplating Pethuel's fate.
