by David Blixt
Zamaris nodded at the old brothers. “You two fought well today.”
“Thanks!” called Netir. “We're skilled at letting blood.”
“Letting blood?” asked Gareb.
“Yes,” quipped Netir with a smile. “As tax collectors, the Romans even had us wringing blood from stones.”
The laughter now was darker. But these two men always made a point of poking at themselves to diffuse the anger over their life-long profession.
Wherever it ruled, Rome demanded taxes. Rather than create an official tax collection agency within the Roman government, the Senate leased the rights to collect taxes to private individuals. One man might have the right to collect in Greece, or Spain, or Bithynia. Each year a sum was agreed upon, and as long as the private individual paid that sum to Rome, he was free to keep whatever else he collected.
Some of these tax-farmers were fair, collecting only a small portion for themselves. Others, like the Brutus who had murdered Julius Caesar, were rapacious, wringing every last silver drachma or shekel out of those unfortunate enough to fall into their clutches. Those who couldn't pay were sold into slavery, their lands confiscated and sold at auction. Thus the rich got richer, the poor poorer.
True, the taxes collected by the publicani were usually less than the one-tenth owed to the High Priests in Jerusalem. But the one had been set down by the Lord, the other by Caesar. After parting with a tenth of one's earnings for God, it was painful to offer up almost as much for Rome.
The Roman tax-farmers had once employed private armies to collect the money. But over time they had started to rely on hiring locals to rake in their monies. This made open rebellion less likely, and divided the locals into factions – those who collaborated with Rome, and those who did not.
Driven at first by crushing poverty to become tax collectors, Philip and Netir had quickly discovered that this work excluded them from all other kinds. No one would hire men who had worked for the Romans. Forced to continue in this work, they became wealthy, but could only associate with other men in the service of Rome. They were shunned at religious service and on the street, with men and women spitting and cursing, refusing to even look them in the eye.
It was not just the idea of taking money for Rome that made tax collecting odious. Dealing in money itself was considered unclean by the vast swathes of Hebrew society. Having money was acceptable, and earning it admirable. But making a trade entirely of money was usury, and unclean. Sadly, in foreign lands it was often the only trade permitted to Hebrews, and they were reviled for it.
To combat the insults hurled at them, Philip and Netir had become almost jesters, laughing in the face of their unhappiness. Despite the dogged nature of the publicans' banter, they had tired of living on the fringe of their native society. When the war came, they decided to throw off the yoke of their masters and join the Galilean army, donating all their wealth to the cause. Hopefully through a sacrifice of gold and blood they could expunge the sin of trading in anything as dirty as money.
“It's a pleasure, after all these years of collecting blood for them, to collect it from them,” observed Philip.
“And if we're good at it, they have only themselves to thank,” added Netir.
♦ ◊ ♦
“FATHER,” SAID TITUS, venturing into uncomfortable territory. “The men…”
“Yes, what about them?”
“They're getting bored.”
Rather than rail, Vespasian smiled knowingly. “Ah. The soldier's greatest enemy – tedium.”
“I've rotated the watches, and we've been drilling them silly. But the lack of real fighting is driving them mad.”
“It would be better if we had some women. Round some up.”
“Yes, general.”
Vespasian chuckled. “In the meantime, I know what to do.”
♦ ◊ ♦
PETHUEL STUMBLED ALONG silently cursing his injured shoulder, his captors, and his fate. The only reason the short man's mouth was not conveying his curses to the air was that he'd been beaten already for mouthing off, and his jaw now refused to work. Half of his teeth were gone, giving his left cheek a slack, hollow appearance and making his swollen face lopsided.
He expected to be crucified, the traditional punishment for angering Rome. Instead the legionaries in charge of him brought him to a rough circle of earth maybe twenty yards in diameter. There was another Judean standing in the circle, dressed like Pethuel, naked but for a loincloth. Pethuel didn't know the man, but he looked familiar – another captured defender, most likely.
A whole cohort of Roman soldiers moved in, ringing the two Judeans round, the front row kneeling behind their shields, the second ring standing, with a third ring seated upon risers, a fourth tier standing behind them.
Seeing the Romans form an audience, Pethuel grasped the awful meaning. He was to dance before his death.
Two short Roman swords were tossed into the center of the ring. Slowly he crossed and picked up one. His partner picked up the other. The Romans cheered and started making bets. Pethuel was shorter and injured, but broader and well muscled. It was speed versus strength in this mock-gladiatorial game.
Pethuel wasn't interested in playing. Meeting his partner's gaze, he lifted his chin, then ran his free hand across his belly. The other man nodded. They took up a fighting stance, the way the Romans expected. Racing together, their swords didn't even touch. Pethuel gasped as his stomach was gored from side to side, but kept driving his own blade up through the soft spot under his partner's chin.
The Romans roared in anger, cheated of their sport. As he fell, Pethuel forced his jaw to move one last time. Raising his head heavenwards, he cried out, “Hear, Israel, one and eternal is our God, Jehovah!”
To Romans ears the name of the Hebrew god sounded like the braying of a mule. One witty legionary started imitating Pethuel's cry. “Juh! Juh! Juh!” Soon the whole cohort was braying, mocking the god of these defiant Jews who wouldn't even put on a good show. “Juh! Juh! Juh!”
Pethuel lay, his blood pouring from him, mixed with the offal in his intestines and the urine in his bladder. He forced his eyes shut, closed his ears to the world, and tried to hear the Lord instead.
XXVII
“YOU'RE BECOMING RECKLESS,” observed Asher to Yosef.
They had taken to walking the ramparts at dusk each day, when the fighting was done but before the nighttime watch rotations began. Yosef had repeatedly said that he valued Asher's opinion. And so far there had been little for Asher to criticize. They were enduring. But for the lack of water, they showed every sign of continuing to do so.
Yet in the last couple days Asher had grown concerned as Yosef sent out larger and larger sorties to attack the Romans.
“Not reckless,” countered Yosef. “It's a calculation. We're best when we're fighting. And we need to fight now, while we're strong, before thirst saps us completely. So I've been trying to sting Vespasian into mounting an assault. But the Romans merely fend us off and return to their business. If we don't give them a proper battle, they're content to wait us out.” Turning to face the Roman camp, he shook a fist. “Come on, damn you! Attack us! You love to fight! You live to fight. It's in your blood. So fight!”
From behind them, Levi said, “They are fighting.”
Yosef turned. “What?”
“They've organized sports,” replied Levi. “You can see them from the towers. While we groan with thirst, they amuse themselves with boxing, wrestling, mock races.”
“Even gladiatorial games,” added Asher. “With captured Jews as combatants.” How had Yosef not noticed this? Yet this was clearly news to him. The general blanched, turning a sick shade and his flesh standing on end. Asher grew frightened. “What is it?”
Yosef grasped at the wall, hiding his face against the warm stone. “Romans exist on a diet of bread and blood. Vespasian has ensured his soldiers have plenty of both. Damn. Excuse me.”
Straightening, Yosef walked quickly away. Asher looked to Levi, who
shrugged as he followed his charge at a discreet distance. Asher returned to his billet. Obviously the general needed time to think.
♦ ◊ ♦
HAD ASHER KNOWN the thoughts running through Yosef's mind, he would have taken a stone and hammered them away.
It's over. The city is doomed. The Romans have the resources and the skill. I was hoping to try their patience, force them to waste lives trying to get in. But now they're entertaining themselves while we waste away in here.
Yes, the city is doomed. But how is that possible? I know the Lord has plans for me beyond this. He's shown me so time and again! He can't mean for me to be doomed!
His fevered certainty arose not only from his many visions in the wilderness, but also from the first time he had faced certain death, three years earlier, on that endless night paddling in the Adriatic, with Yahweh whispering live, live, live in his ear.
I must survive. But how, if the city is doomed? Seeking assurance that he was right, he rounded suddenly on his bodyguard. “Levi, tell me – can the city hold?”
Levi made the mistake of telling the truth. “It will last some time longer. But it must fall.”
Yosef nodded, looking pleased. “Just so. Just so. Please tell the city elders that I must speak with them at dawn.”
When the elders met behind closed doors the next morning, they beheld a Yosef they had never seen. For weeks he had been sunburnt and hollow-cheeked, but with relentless good cheer and infectious optimism. Now he was unshaven and unkempt, and wouldn't look them in the eye. “Is there a way to leave the city undetected?”
Nechum and the rest gasped, looking stricken. “You can't leave us!”
“I've done all I can within these walls. What Jotapata needs now is reinforcements. Those will not come on their own, I must fetch them. Once the Romans learn I've escaped, they may even depart. Certainly their bombardment will end.”
The elders all started gabbling at once, protesting. But Yosef remained calm – he knew what must be done.
At the back of the chamber, Nechum's son Chalafta quietly exited.
♦ ◊ ♦
OFF-DUTY, FATIGUED AND THIRSTY, Judah, Asher, Phannius, and the others were sitting in the shade. A stray Roman ballista stone achieved extra height and came crashing down not far from them.
“But may you give me back my own daughter and take the ransom,” said Asher, watching the chiseled stone roll to a stop, “giving honour to Zeus' son who strikes from afar, Apollo.”
“What?” said Gareb.
“Just saying that stone probably came from the Fifteenth – Apollo's legion.”
“Was that some kind of quote?”
“The Iliad. Appropriate fare for a siege.” He spied Chalafta racing towards him – they were much of an age, and had become friendly. “Ho, Chalafta! Running between the raindrops?”
“Wish they were raindrops,” murmured Netir.
Chalafta wasted no time. “Asher, you need to stop him. He'll listen to you!”
“Who?”
Judah knew. He sat up. “You mean the general?”
“Another sortie,” guessed Phannius.
“No,” answered Chalafta, shaking his head violently. “He's convincing the council to help him escape.”
“What!?” cried Asher, leaping to his feet. No you don't! he thought furiously. You brought us here. You don't get to leave.
Aloud he said, “You're wrong, Chalafta. He doesn't actually listen to me. I won't sway him – but I know what will.”
♦ ◊ ♦
IT TOOK AN HOUR, but in the end Yosef convinced the council to let him go raise reinforcements. Despite the Roman blockade, a few messengers had gotten in and out. Covered in sheepskins, they had crept away at dawn, when the Romans were the least watchful and when a wandering sheep would rouse no special interest. At dawn tomorrow Yosef would do the same.
In his heart he suspected he would fail to bring back reinforcements. Seeing what Jotapata was experiencing, no city would allow its soldiers leave. But he would try. Regardless of success, he would be free to do whatever work the Lord planned for him. His destiny did not end at Jotapata.
Satisfied, Yosef emerged triumphant from the council chamber to behold a shocking sight – an angry, desperate, fearful mob shouting:
“Don't leave us!”
“We won't surrender! We came to fight!”
“If you leave, you'll break our hope!”
Yosef addressed them, giving calm and rational reasons for his departure. They answered by pleading, cajoling, weeping, begging – and threatening. “Don't be afraid of dying at Roman hands. We'll kill you first!”
They would not listen to reason. These people looked to him as their protector. Rather than allow him to depart, they would tear him to pieces.
At the back of the mob, Yosef saw Asher and Judah. They weren't shouting, just watching. He didn't know they had organized this display. He only knew that there was more threat in their grim faces than in any of the crowd's shouts.
Live, the voice said again. But it was not the Romans that threatened him now, nor the sea. He could very easily die here, on the swords of his fellow Jews, unless he did something to prove his devotion.
Drawing his sword, he shouted, “You want me to die here with you? Very well! But I won't die cowering behind walls, waiting for my strength to fail me! I'm going out there to show the Romans what fighting an Israelite means!” He loosed a ragged, unmusical scream and ran for the city gate.
Thirty thousand voices howled behind him, charging with him to join in this impossible counter-assault.
At the back of the crowd, Asher snorted. “Well, we saved him from himself.”
“Yes,” said Judah. “Now it's time to save him from the Romans. If they decide to fight,” he added.
♦ ◊ ♦
BARBARUS HEARD THE SCREAMING, saw the gates open, and watched the Judeans pour out. “About damned time.” Fitting his helmet on his head, he cinched the chinstrap and picked up his shield. “Come on, lads!”
“We haven't had the order,” protested his optio.
“By the time the order comes, Thorius, we'll be on 'em. No more pussyfooting, lads! They're coming out for a battle, a proper slog! Come on! I want another crack at that giant!”
But already the trumpets were blaring: Fall Back. At the same moment, the Arabian archers began firing, driving the Judeans to retreat behind their walls.
♦ ◊ ♦
WHEN THE LEGIONARIES WITHDREW, Yosef couldn't believe his luck.
Luck? No. This is divine favour, yet another instance of the Lord's love for me. I am his beloved, his David. He preserves me even in the face of certain death. I don't need to run from Jotapata. He'll protect me right here. Just as the Lord let a sea of men drown but spared me, so too will He let this whole city perish, and still preserve me. I must trust Him.
“Call the men back,” he ordered. “These Roman cowards won't fight!”
♦ ◊ ♦
“Cacat!” It was so very tempting to disobey the trumpets – Barbarus had spied the giant among the Judean throng. But orders were orders. Reluctantly retreating, Barbarus watched as the frustrated Judeans were forced back to safety.
“What's the use of being a soldier if we're not going to do any soldiering!”
♦ ◊ ♦
VESPASIAN WAS IN the latrine when the sudden sortie issued forth from Jotapata. Still wiping his arse, he heard his trumpets blowing the Roman retreat. Dropping the sponge, he let his leather skirt fall and ran outside to see what had happened.
“So many,” he said, watching the Judeans retreat once more to the safety of their walls. “That was no raid. That was an invitation to battle!” He rounded on Titus, Trajan, Placidus, and Cerialis. “Why didn't you fight them?”
There were disadvantages to being the general's son. The other legates allowed Titus to answer the general's wrath. “We were obeying our orders, sir. No engaging the enemy. Dispirit them.”
Impossibly,
Vespasian's face became even more pinched. “Those orders were for petty skirmishes. This could have been a real battle! We could have eaten them and won the siege right here!” He stretched his hands for the skies, then slumped, fuming. “Show some initiative, can you? A general can't be everywhere. Wars are won and lost in the chain of command.” Shaking his head, Vespasian stalked away, leaving his legates cursing these mad Judeans who were so perverse in their war-making.
♦ ◊ ♦
LATE THAT NIGHT, as he sat honing his blade with a stone, Judah suddenly said, “Tell me the Iliad.”
Asher looked up from his own sword's edge. “Pardon?”
“You keep quoting from it, and I'm tired of not knowing what you're talking about. So tell it to me.”
“You already know it,” objected Asher.
“I know there's a horse. And there's a man whose name means 'lipless'.”
“Achilles,” said Asher, knowing he was being goaded. “Judah, I don't have a copy.”
“What,” scoffed Judah loudly, “are you going to plead a poor memory? I'm not demanding a word-perfect recitation. Tell me the story.”
As Judah intended, he'd gotten the attention of the other members of their unit. Philip and Netir joined in pestering Asher, and Gareb. Phannius said it would be better than listening to Judah's snores. Even Atlas' pregnant wife Chava piped up. “Please, Asher. I need something to take my mind off this.” She waved at her swollen belly. “He's like his father, a massive brute eager to break out and fight Romans!”
“That's right,” agreed Atlas, hand on her belly to feel the baby's kicks. “Maybe a story will soothe him. Go on, Asher.”
Bemused, Asher began relating the story of the siege of Ilium. He told it as Homer had, starting in the tenth year with the dispute between Achilles and Agamemnon over a captured girl. Within a few minutes he'd found his stride, and ended up speaking late into the night. Other men from their century came in to listen, even Zamaris. Every time Asher tried to stop, others urged him on. When his voice began to croak, they shared their precious water with him.
