Stone and Steel

by David Blixt

  The yard outside the palace in Sogane was busy – servants were scuttling in and out with water and food for the visiting Roman delegation, who was having a very different feast at present, if Berenice's shouts were anything to judge by. Nicanor wished he'd brought something to read. Perhaps there was a library in the palace?

  “Ho, Nicanor,” said one of Berenice's guards, recognizing him.

  “Ho, Dror,” said Nicanor. They fell to talking of the siege, both shaking their heads. This war was a fool's notion, and both had strong things to say about the leadership of the priests in Jerusalem, who couldn't control the hotheaded Zelotes in their ranks.

  As they talked, Nicanor felt the tingling awareness of being watched. Glancing around, he saw several of the serving girls drawing water from the well or shuttling to and fro on their various errands. One of them was watching him, and Nicanor had the idea that she was deliberately stalling, waiting for a time when she could catch him alone. Either that, or she was interested in Dror.

  Eventually Dror was called back to duty, giving the handsome young woman her chance. Nicanor smiled as she approached, trying to think of something clever to say, then deciding it was best to let her start the conversation.

  “Pardon me, my lord,” she said. “Your name is Nicanor – is that correct?”

  “It is, lady,” replied Nicanor, trying not to study the magnificent breasts under her homespun dress.

  “You serve the King?”

  “I do.”

  “Then do you by chance remember a bodyguard by the name of Levi ben Patroclus?”

  That startled him, but he answered truthfully. “I do. I remember him well. A fierce warrior, if something of a pragmatist. He's fighting on the other side now.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “At a distance, yes. He's in Jotapata now.”

  She nodded at him, her large brown eyes filled with hope and fear in equal measure. “Then perhaps you are the man to help me.”

  “It would be my honour. How could I help you…?”

  “Deborah,” she told him. “My name is Deborah.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  13 Julius, 67 AD – 39th Day of Siege

  AT DAWN THE ENGINEERS lovingly hefted a giant battering ram upon its guy-ropes. As soon it was wheeled forth from the camp, the whole Roman army began to cheer. “Ju-lius! Ju-lius! Ju-lius!”

  Siege technology had hardly changed since the heyday of the Greeks. Any of the engineers employed by Demetrius Poliorcetes at the siege of Rhodes would have been quite capable of managing the mechanism Vespasian's men now employed. The ram was a single massive beam of wood, very like the mast of a ship. It was slung on a web of ropes attached to a square frame on wheels, two stories high and covered with an iron roof. The men who worked the ram were inside the frame, guiding it to its destination. One end was fitted with an iron head shaped like a snarling beast. Tradition said that the first such device had carried a ram's head, from whence it took its name. The battering ram of Vespasian, however, was deliberately shaped like a snarling, sneering mule. “Juh-juh-juh-Julius!”

  Cerialis gave the Arabian archers and Syrian slingers a single command. “Clear those walls!” Under the merciless bombardment that followed, any Judean who lifted his head above the crest of the wall lost that head in a moment. Beneath this covering fire, Big Julius rolled forward.

  “Thank the gods, the general's lost patience!” cried Barbarus in delight. “Now the bitch will see what sizable mentulae we really are!”

  “Move the ballistae and scorpions forward,” Vespasian told the artillery commander. “Send out the siege towers.” They would commit everything at once and overwhelm the Judeans.

  While the artillery devices were hauled forward, tossing stones and shooting thick bolts into the city, legionaries took their places inside the siege towers. Constructed long before, these towers were like monstrous rearing caterpillars. Four stories tall, they were armoured on three sides, with a ziggurat of stairs and ladders within to allow Roman troops to swarm up in safety, then spill out over the Judean walls.

  “We'll lose men,” observed Titus. He didn't sound perturbed at the idea – in fact, he'd been in a splendid mood since returning the previous evening.

  “Your father's got it right,” answered Trajan. “Better a few lose their lives than they all lose heart.”

  Thirty men guided the ram to a perceived weak-spot in Jotapata's walls – they had been throwing catapult stones at it for weeks. In place, each grabbed hold of his strap that hung from the ram. Upon the order, they heaved backwards, then released. The ugly mule's head swung forward to strike Jotapata's walls at just above head-height.

  The first blow of the ram shook the city to its very foundations, making every man, woman, and child in Jotapata shudder in unison.

  But Yosef had not been idle. Having plenty of both grain and corn, he filled large sacks with both, then attached them to the ends of ropes. The moment the ramming began, crews heaved the sacks over the wall to create a buffer between the ram and the wall.

  Again Yosef's ingenuity brought cheers. Among the crowd, Judah said, “Where did he get the idea?”

  “I don't know,” shrugged Asher. “The Mahsiah doesn't talk to me anymore.”

  Yosef waved in acknowledgement of his genius. So thin now that one could see the definition of each rib, his mind felt clearer than ever. He was hearing the Lord, he was sure – who else could give him such clever ideas? As Asher noted, Yosef no longer demurred when people called him Mahsiah.

  The Romans tried another spot, but the defenders simply hauled up their sacks, moved a few yards, and lowered them again. This farce continued until Vespasian sent forward a hastily-built scythe on a long pole to cut down the sacks of grain. The ramming continued until dusk, when Big Julius was wheeled back to camp.

  To combat both the ram and the siege towers, Yosef instructed several brave men to sneak out at night and bury themselves just below the dirt. In the morning when the siege towers rolled past, they leapt up and used their slings from behind. The little stones ricocheted around inside the towers, each one slaying or wounding several men. Naturally these brave slingers died. But they were so effective that Vespasian was forced to order the backs of the siege towers armoured as well, enclosing his men to swelter in an airless coffin. “These damn Hebrews.”

  Yosef next employed boiling oil. Despite the ram's protecting roof, the liquid sloughed over the sides, scalding several Romans in their own armour. Their screams angered the Romans so badly they ran forward, determined to swarm over the walls out of pure rage. Barbarus was at their head, Curtus and Thorius beside him.

  What stalled them was a feat of daring so heroic that both armies were forced to lay down their arms and cheer.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  JUDAH'S CENTURY WAS stationed just above the ram. He watched other men dragging away the giant vats of oil, empty now, and shuddered – it was a horrible death they were delivering.

  Asher saw the shudder. “Awful.”

  Judah nodded. “Give me a sword any day.” Looking down, he saw angry Romans racing for the walls. “Brace yourselves! They're coming!”

  “I hope the wall crumbles under them!” answered Netir, staggering as the ram continued to hammer the wall below. “It feels ready to shake apart! See?” he added, pointed to a nearby stone that had been dislodged by the pounding below.

  “I'll stop it.” Kneeling, Atlas wrapped his arms around the huge stone.

  “Atlas!” shouted Zamaris. “What are you doing?”

  “I'll stop it,” repeated Atlas as, with a mighty effort, he rose to stand with the massive stone held over his head.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  FOR WEEKS CENTURION Barbarus had been eager to catch another glimpse of his giant. Racing now towards Jotapata, intent on scaling the walls by hand and delivering these Jews up to their precious donkey god, he caught sight of the behemoth. Atlas stood upon the wall above the ram, holding a stone large enough to impress He
rcules himself.

  “Yes!” cried Barbarus, running harder. “That's right! Look for me, you big bastard. Come on!”

  But the giant wasn't searching for Barbarus. He was looking down at the ram below him. Squatting low on the wall's edge, he watched the swing of the ram, finding its rhythm. Then with a grimace of effort, he pitched the stone down just as the ram swung forward.

  There was a resounding crack. A moment's pause. Then the steady rhythm of the ram began again.

  “Ha! Nice try, Jew!” crowed Curtus.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  ON THE WALL, Judah peeked down at the ram. The stone had ricocheted off the metal roof, only nicking the ram. “Damn. It was a good try, Atlas.”

  Zamaris grunted. “Good tries are consolation for losers! We're not going to lose, are we, boys? They're coming! Everyone, get ready!”

  “No!!” Atlas began shaking his head, swinging it from side to side like an angry ox being annoyed by flies. “No!!” He began beating his chest with his massive fists. “They do not enter these walls today!!”

  Everyone stepped back from this ferocious display, and Philip said, “Atlas, what are you—?”

  “Atlas?!?” The look he turned on those near him was terrifying. Judah had heard of red-eyed rage, but never imagined it was real. The man's eyes seemed to be coals. “You want Atlas! I'll upend the world!!” Bending down, the giant lifted his great two-headed axe. Swinging it once, twice over his head, he stepped up onto the parapet and jumped.

  Judah, Asher, and the rest lurched forward, watching the massive wall of a man drop two stories to land on the tall roof of the battering ram.

  On the ground, the running legionaries shouted warnings to the men inside the machine. But Atlas didn't bother with the engineers. Instead he walked calmly towards the front of the siege engine, heaved his massive axe over his head, and dropped into the gap between the roof and the wall, chopping down hard.

  His blade passed through the massive beam as though cutting water, neatly separating the ugly iron head from the wood. The rhythmic pounding of the ram ceased at once, replaced by a pathetic clunk!

  On the top of the wall Judah screamed with joy, joining hundreds of his fellow defenders in lifting his tunic to flash his genitals at the advancing Romans. Atlas had just circumcised the Roman ram.

  Amid the cheers, the giant lashed out at the men in the siege engine, who all fled before him. He then dropped his axe, bent over, and grasped the ram's head in his arms. Using a rope still dangling from the ploy with the sacks, he began to scale the wall. It was a slow business, one-handed. He grasped the rope, hauled up his legs, let his toes find purchase, then leapt up higher.

  “Come on!” urged every Jew along the wall. “Come on!”

  Below, Barbarus watched in mingled joy and regret – joy for the impossible feat, regret because he would never get his rematch. Already the giant's back was riddled with arrows. Blood gushed forth from those amazing muscles. Already dead, he was just too stubborn to admit it. It was impossible that he would reach the top, but still he tried.

  “Come on, you big bastard!” cried Barbarus, cheering the giant on. “Come on! You can make it!”

  The archers and slingers ceased casting missiles and combat stopped as every man – Roman, Judean, Syrian, and Arab – turned to watch Atlas' final act.

  He was slowing now, sapped of his great strength. Judah, Asher, Philip and Netir hauled on the rope, trying to drag the great man to the top. They could hear his laboured breath.

  “You're almost there!” shouted Judah! “Come on!” Only three more leaps and he would reach the top. Two more! One!

  Atlas paused. Then, with a massive effort, he heaved himself up onto the wall's edge and hauled himself over.

  Both armies, Roman and Judean, cheered themselves hoarse. Bravery was a gift to be treasured, whichever god bestowed it.

  Struggling to stand, Atlas shook off the hoards of helping hands and turned to face the Romans. Lifting the iron ram's head above his own, he cried, “Hear, O Israel, one and eternal is our God, Jeh–!”

  A lone pilum struck him in the heart and the giant Atlas keeled over stone dead, the ram's head still clutched in his hands. There was a gasp from ten thousand throats, a sigh of sadness that such a man should die in so churlish a way.

  One voice was not lamenting. Barbarus heard Curtus say, “Got him.” The centurion was tempted to strike the man. But instead he began beating his sword rhythmically against his shield-boss. Thorius picked it up, then the rest of his century. In moments the whole Roman army was doing the same, a ringing acclaim for the bravery of their fallen foe.

  Tomorrow there would be more battle. But for the waning hours of this day the fighting ceased as soldiers from both armies honoured such an heroic act.

  “Now that,” said Barbarus, chest swelling in pride, “is an enemy Mithras would be proud to own! Never seen a finer!” He glowered at Curtus. “Shouldn't've done that, boy. Disrespectful.”

  “Sir!” answered Curtus.

  It was the oldest trick in the military handbook – when you disagree with a superior, just clam up and say 'sir'. Curtus had not cheered with the rest of the army, nor would he repent. Mithras, he felt sure, had no love for the Jews.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  INSIDE THE WALLS, no one was allowed to carry Atlas' body except the men from his century. Judah, Asher, Zamaris, Gareb, Deuel, Philip, and Netir bore the giant's corpse down from the ramparts in a throng of citizens desperate to touch their hero.

  There was a howl as little Chava came running as fast as her swollen belly allowed. Seeing her husband held aloft, she pitched to her knees and wailed. “Nooooo!”

  Judah let other hands bear the body away as he knelt to wrap his arms around the little widow. Tears were streaming from his eyes. A crowd formed around them. No longer cheering, they stood in silent appreciation of this little woman's loss, and of the great sacrifice her husband had performed. The body was laid on a table covered in cloth, blood still flowing freely.

  Philip sank down nearby with his back against a wall. “He's earned more than his share of Kleos.”

  Sliding down to sit beside him, Asher cuffed at his eyes. “I've never heard of a finer death.”

  “Because no matter how skillful a poet is,” answered Judah over Chava's head, “he cannot bring such a moment to life.”

  Asher proved him wrong. “As long as rivers shall run down to the sea, or shadows touch the mountain slopes, or stars graze in the vault of heaven, so long shall your honour, your name, your praises endure.”

  Chava lifted her head and through gasps of breath asked, “Who..?”

  “A Roman,” answered Asher, embarrassed. “Virgil.”

  But she was not insulted. “Good.” It was all she could get out before the spasms of breathless weeping overtook her again.

  “It's true,” said Judah, holding her tight. “He died a great death. He died so that we all might live another day.”

  “It's a blessing,” said Deuel softly.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THERE WAS AN UNDECLARED truce that evening. Vespasian even sent five barrels of wine to the city, a mark of how impressed he was with the giant's feat. Nicanor was allowed to go with it, to translate. While he was at the gate, he asked for a man by name. The defender looked suspicious, but Nicanor was a Hebrew, and gave his word this was no trick. “Purely a personal matter.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  YOSEF ARRIVED WHERE Atlas had been laid out to find a silent crowd. Worried that the moment might turn their thoughts to defeat, he declared a celebration. “Better we celebrate his great victory than mourn his loss!” The widow was escorted away, the body removed. The ram's head was placed upon the bloody table and torches were lit. Still the evening threatened to be grim until Yosef declared an extra ration of water for every man, woman, and child present. That raised spirits, and soon there was music and dancing.

  For the first time in days, Yosef sought out Asher and Judah. “A great loss.�
��

  “Yes,” agreed Judah, unconsciously flexing his hands still covered in the giant's blood. “Forgive me. Don't feel much like celebrating.”

  “Let's head back to the billet,” said Asher.

  “I'll walk with you,” said Yosef, surprising both twins.

  They left the square and headed towards the large house near the city's heart. For a time they walked in silence. Then Asher said, “Who steps into his place tomorrow? Who follows his example?”

  “Funny,” said Judah, “I was thinking exactly that.”

  “Really?” asked Yosef, frowning in puzzlement. “I was wondering if your friend's great deed even matters.” Both twins stopped and stared at him. “Don't mistake me! I honour his bravery, to be sure! I admire him – Lord, my admiration is boundless. But tomorrow there will be another head attached to Big Julius. His sacrifice earned us a reprieve of a few hours, nothing more. For that he gave up his life?”

  Asher shook his head. “You don't understand. That was the stuff of legends!”

  “He showed the Romans true bravery,” agreed Judah. “They respect us more because of him. He died a good death.”

  “What is a good death?” countered Yosef. “If his death meant his country survives, I grant that's a good death. But if he sacrificed himself for a delay of mere hours, what does it matter? Isn't it better that he were alive, fighting off the Romans the way he always did, than to throw his life away in an empty gesture?”

  “Empty..! Single-handedly he stopped the Romans from making an all-out assault on the walls!”

  Knowing Yosef, Asher tried a different tack. “You keep using the word sacrifice. Think about what it means – in Latin, it means 'to make sacred.' The Hebrew word is Korban, from karov, meaning…”

  “Yes, I know. It means 'To come close to God'. As a priest I make sacrifices every day.”

  “And when you sacrifice a lamb or a bird, the animal has to be clean, right? Unblemished, whole – perfect? That's because to sacrifice less than the best is an insult to the Lord.”

  “But when is sacrifice a wrong act?” demanded Yosef. “Can sacrifice ever be a sin? What if we sacrifice something we need, truly need!”