by David Blixt
“Again,” snarled Asher. But he turned with the others and ran along the western ramparts back the way they had come, to the northeast corner of the city.
Judah lingered. It is a strange phenomenon that overcomes a man in battle. Not every man feels it, but the true warriors do. When self no longer matters. When he feels a part of something larger than just his petty existence. In a horrible way, it is enlightenment, divinity, freedom.
But like all such connections, it fades over time, leaving only the memory. Having experienced it once, a man will throw himself into the worst situations to feel it again. It gives a man that thing he longs for most in life – purpose.
Judah had felt such a connection to the divine twice before. Once at Beth Horon, and once a week earlier, fighting beside his twin. It was so tempting to let them go, to sacrifice himself to cover their retreat. Even wounded, he could hold his narrow rampart for precious minutes.
Then Judah thought of Deborah.
With a final look back, he followed the others towards escape.
♦ ◊ ♦
BELOW, THE MAIN GATES of Jotapata were thrown open and Vespasian entered the city on horseback, flanked by Trajan, Sextus, and Cerialis. “Well done! Well done, Fifteenth! You've broken the back of this war and no mistake!” The general looked truly cheerful for the first time in months. “Now go find Josephus. Alive! The rest are yours. Only remember – alive, they can be sold. By Bellona I swear here and now that I shall donate half the slave sales from Jotapata to my marvelous legions!”
They cheered him, for by rights the sale of slaves went directly into the general's private purse. Knowing how tight-fisted the old man was, it was an incredible gesture of largesse.
Streaming into the city, the soldiers of the Fifth and Tenth tried to use their swords sparingly. But the Jotapatans were determined to fight to the death. Everywhere there was heavy fighting. Despite Roman restraint, Jotapata was a bloodbath. Because, as ever, the Judeans refused to submit.
♦ ◊ ♦
JUDAH, ASHER, AND the rest raced along the wall's inner parapet. They were joined by more survivors – soldiers, mostly, with a handful of women and children fleeing the city's center.
“This is the spot!” called Levi, looking down. The wall here was low, broken by a catapult. It was a fair drop – twenty feet or more – but the ground below was soft, and the lee of the wall hid them from the circling cavalry. “As good as it will get.”
“Over the wall! Over the wall!” shouted Judah, running in an awkward skipping step due to the pain in his thigh.
“Ware right!” cried Gareb, spying Romans racing for them.
Zamaris threw himself forward, and the last remnants of his century's best squad stood beside him, dealing out death to defend the narrow walkway while others made the leap.
Judah fought the way he liked, with a sword in each hand. He worked his way to the center of the rampart, allowing Asher and Zamaris to defend his sides while Phannius and Levi used their longer reach to attack overhead. Behind them, Gareb was helping women and children drop to the soft earth.
Suddenly one lucky blow struck Levi on the helmet. The tall, thin bodyguard fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut, collapsing on Judah's back, who thought for a moment he was being attacked. Then he felt Levi slide and hit the stone walkway, exposed. “No!” Asher blocked the blow that would have taken his life while Judah killed the man who had felled him.
Judah pushed deeper into the Roman ranks, creating space behind him. “Pick him up and jump!”
Phannius obeyed, throwing the bodyguard over his shoulder like a sack of wheat and dropping off the wall down to the earth below. Gareb shouted, “Come on!”
Judah was in close, using pommels and elbows and his own weight to drive the Roman shields back. “Asher, go!”
“We go together!” shouted Asher.
Zamaris leapt in front of Judah, knocking two legionaries into each other. “Go, both of you!”
“Not without you!”
“Damn your eyes, you disobedient wretch! Go! That's an order!”
Feeling the need to disobey, Judah stabbed hard at one last Roman, severing his chin from the rest of his mouth. Then he turned and, together with his twin, leapt from the battlements.
They landed rolling, dispersing the impact. Judah cursed as enormous pain shot through his thigh.
“You all right?” asked Asher, rushing to his brother.
“Fine.” With an effort of will, Judah forced himself upright and turned to look upward where Zamaris was now alone. “Jump!”
Zamaris shook his head as if he were troubled by a persistent and annoying fly. Then he disappeared in a wall of shields. Yet still he shouted orders. “Go go go!”
There was nothing to be done for him. At least they could obey the hoary old soldier's last command. Judah tried to take a step, but his leg went out under him. I should have stayed up there! I can't run, but I can fight.
Asher was already beside him, taking some of his weight. With Levi over his shoulder, Phannius was moving off towards the nearest incline of the mountainous bowl. It was at least a mile away. Men, women, and children ran with him, Gareb shepherding them along.
Asher helped his brother walk. “Stay together!” he called to the rest. “Cavalry won't charge into a tight mass!”
“You read that somewhere?” said Judah, his arm over Asher's shoulder.
Asher shook his head. “I think I made it up.” Which made Judah laugh.
Forming up tight, Judah and Asher brought up the rear as over a hundred survivors ran towards the hills and safety.
♦ ◊ ♦
DECURION EBUTIUS KICKED his hot-blooded mount up to where Placidus sat atop his dappled stallion. “Tribune! There's a large band of Judeans just dropped from the wall and running for the hills!”
“Where did they drop?” asked Placidus sourly.
“The Northeast corner. Permission to engage?”
Placidus grunted, then spat. “Permission denied.”
“Sir?”
“Orders from the general himself. That band is to be let free. The rest are fair game. Tell your men.”
“Sir!” Ebutius saluted and rode quickly away. Whatever was going on, Placidus was unhappy, and as likely to take it out on a subordinate as the enemy.
♦ ◊ ♦
REACHING THE SAFETY of the mountains, the parcel of escapees collapsed, waiting for their breath to return. Judah and Asher finally had time to inspect Levi's injury. It was a bad clout on his head. As Asher bandaged it, Judah asked, “How are we still alive?”
“More to the purpose,” replied Phannius gruffly, “where are we going?”
The answer was obvious. “Deborah.”
“Good.” Tearing Levi's shirt to wrap his bloodied head, Asher clenched his teeth. “One thing's certain. I'm never running away again.”
XXXII
THE CITY was completely under Roman control before noon. Receiving reports from his legates and centurions, Vespasian said, “And Josephus? Do we have him?”
Their silence spoke for them.
“Do you mean we've taken the city by complete surprise and still managed to lose their commander? One lone man, eluding twenty-thousand – what a credit to the efficiency of Rome!”
“We'll find him, sir!” cried Trajan.
Vespasian looked feral. “If you don't, I'm taking your share of the spoils and giving it back to the Jews! Cacat!”
♦ ◊ ♦
FROM ABOVE, THE WELL looked narrow. But as Yosef discovered, fifteen feet down the space opened wide to one side, hiding him from view. The water in the cavern was ankle high.
The moment his feet touched the watery floor, Yosef was seized by several hands and dragged into the shadows. Someone hissed in his ear, “Your name?”
“Yosef ben Matityahu.”
He was answered with a gasp, and a second voice said, “General – it's me, Chalafta. Nechum's son.”
Released, Yosef trie
d to see faces in the rippling light reflected from above. “Is your father here?”
“No.” The young man was hangdog. “I left him.”
Yosef said nothing – there was no balm to cowardice. His own presence likely branded Yosef a coward as well.
Eyes adjusting, Yosef saw the face of the man who grabbed him, a brave old warrior called Yaron. “What will we do, general?”
“First, we drink. No need to ration water now. Drink deeply.” He joined them, cupping water to his lips and having his fill for the first time in a month. It was an odd sensation, to be guilty and grateful at once.
Above them, the sounds of death ceased. As day turned to night their bellies began to betray them. He encouraged them to drink plenty of water, but by midnight they were prepared to dare anything to find food.
Under cover of darkness, Yosef and four chosen men swarmed up the rope. Most Romans were back in their camp, leaving only a skeleton force within the city. More fortunate still, they had not touched Jotapata's quantities of bread and vegetables. Yosef and his companions returned with enough to last two, perhaps three days. They also brought arms – every man now had a sword.
What they forgot were chamber pots. While hungry, they had not needed to relieve themselves. With full bellies came the press for evacuation, but they couldn't risk fouling their drinking water.
The next night a second party set out. Deciding Yosef was too valuable to risk, the four men climbed the rope, taking with them a menstruating woman who required certain necessities that no man felt comfortable fetching.
Three of the men returned almost at once, bearing the coveted commodes. They waited, but neither the woman nor the man assigned to accompany her returned. “We must hope they took refuge in some other hiding place.”
That hope was dashed at dawn when a polite voice echoed down from the top of the well. “General Josephus? General Vespasian sends his compliments.”
♦ ◊ ♦
“HE'S DOWN THERE,” reported Gallicanus, one of the two tribunes alerted to Josephus' whereabouts.
“We could go down,” offered the other, Paulinus. “But you know what happened to Antonius.” A tribune of the Tenth had been negotiating with rebels in another of the many caves under the city. Offering his hand as surety of their lives, they had run a knife under his ribs.
Vespasian snapped his fingers. “Send for Nicanor. He knows this Josephus. Perhaps he can talk sense to him.”
♦ ◊ ♦
SO FAR, THIS war had been a quiet nightmare for Nicanor. Fighting his own people was against the Mosaic Law, and like all Chrestiani he disliked violence.
Nor did he like his part in the taking of the city. He'd hoped the defenders would see sense and give up. Instead they'd fought hard, preferring slaughter to slavery. He hoped that the bargain he'd made had been honoured – he'd been too busy to check. Besides, he wanted nothing more to do with that traitor.
Here at last was a task to his tastes – convincing a defeated scholar and priest that he should surrender, forgoing more bloodshed. An honourable mission. Leaning down over the lip of the well, he called out, “Yosef? Yosef. It's Nicanor.”
After a pause, he heard the familiar musical voice. “Nicanor?”
“Yes, Yosef. If you step into the light I can show you my face.”
He heard a brief argument below. Yosef appeared. “Nicanor. I'm pleased to see you well. A blessing upon you.”
“And upon you, my friend.” Had he not known to whom he was speaking, Nicanor would never have recognized this unshaven, wild-eyed skeleton gazing up at him. “I am here, as you can guess, at the behest of General Vespasian.”
Yosef's wry smile cracked his lips. “I surmised as much.”
“But first, is there anything you require? Is anyone injured? Do you need food? I imagine you have enough water.”
“All we lack, Nicanor, is a candle and a flint.”
“I shall see to it. Then, if it pleases you, we may discuss how matters stand.”
♦ ◊ ♦
AS YOSEF STEPPED out of the light, Yaron demanded, “What are you doing?”
“They know we are here. There is no need to sit in the darkness.”
Nicanor returned, and candles were duly lowered. “Thank you, Nicanor.”
“It is my pleasure. Now let us illuminate your situation.”
“I confess,” said Yosef, “I am surprised to find a Nazarene in service with the Romans.”
Nicanor hoped none of the Romans could follow their verbal mixture of Koine Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic – he did not want it generally known that he was a Chrestiani. Yet his answer was sincere: “We prize independence.”
“Then should you not fight for it?” Yosef paused. “Forgive me. That was unworthy.”
“Understandable. I would be bitter too, having fought so hard and so well. But you must see that this is a part of the Lord's plan. Judea may be in Israel, but it is not of Israel. The Judeans have betrayed their faith. If Judea as a whole were still faithful, the Romans could not have won. This defeat is the Lord's punishment for not heeding His words. Thus there is no sin in admitting you've lost.”
“We might not have lost if we had been united. That is observation, not accusation.”
“You mean the Nazarenes? But we knew this war was lost from the start. We recall the words of the prophet Daniel – the Seventy Weeks. In three more years, the Temple will cease to exist. Yahweh has decreed it.”
This prediction left Yosef thunderstruck. “Yahweh spared the Temple! Florus and Gallus brought their armies right to the Temple gates, but they retreated. Disaster was averted.”
“Momentarily. It was a warning. Our nation's path ensures its eventual destruction. It has been foretold.” Nicanor closed his eyes and recited: “'Seventy weeks are determined for thy people and for thy holy city, to shut up the transgression, to seal up sins, and to cover iniquity.' We Hebrews had this time to reform, to purge, and embrace the Lord once more. We failed. The Temple will fall.”
Amazed, Yosef shook his head. “I read the words of the prophet Daniel differently. He speaks of weeks, but means decades. Dating from the destruction of the Temple, our second Temple was built in seventy years. The prophecy was fulfilled centuries ago.”
“Daniel speaks in weeks,” agreed Nicanor, “but means weeks of years. You say centuries, but to be precise, it has been exactly four hundred eighty-seven years since the death of Ezra, who was appointed by Nehemiah to be the scribe of the refounded Temple.”
Yosef could not help laughing at such a back-bending interpretation to the prophecy. Yet Nicanor carried on, again quoting from Daniel: “And after the sixty and two weeks, cut off is Mahsiah, and the city and the holy place are not his, the Leader who hath come doth destroy the people; and its end is with a flood, and till the end there is war…”
“…desolations are determined,” finished Yosef. It was the old prophecy of a Redeemer. Different from the Mahsiah, who would come to lead Israel, the Redeemer would sweep Israel with an iron broom, purging the unholy elements of society. “I could always quote as well as you. And interpret better,” he added.
“Oh? Seven weeks of years, then sixty-two, and then one more. In that sixty-second year, the Mahsiah is cut off. By our counting, that event happened four years past. Who was executed four years ago that carried the Mahsiah's message?”
Yosef grew stony. The reference was to the execution of Yacob, the brother of this troublesome sect's founder. “Yacob was sentenced to death by stoning.”
“Yes, for the crime of breaking the Law. Wonderfully vague. But at least this time the priests did the deed themselves, didn't get the Romans to do it for them.” Disguised for so long, Nicanor's true faith began to show. “Yacob's death marked the beginning of the final week of years. We are in the fourth year. In three more years, the end will come. Wrack and ruin. Desolation. The Redeemer shall arrive, and sweep all away. You know the portents support us.”
For the last five years, San
hedrin priests were witness to bizarre astrological signs and unnatural phenomena, usually around the great holy days. One year war chariots were seen surrounding the sun, and legions in the clouds. Another year a star shaped like a gladius had hung over the great Sanctuary, an astrological Sword of Damocles. During Passover the next year, a sacrificial cow gave birth to a lamb before the holy altar. Two weeks later, the great bronze doors, so massive that twenty men could hardly move them, had opened of their own accord during the night. Priests Yosef knew and respected swore they had heard a voice say four words: We are departing hence.
“But there are always portents,” protested Yosef. “Eagles and doves in the air, shaking of the earth, soured milk inside a woman's breast – the world is never in a state of perfection. How can it be, when we are imperfect reflections of the Lord?” He smiled wanly. “I've missed these talks of ours.”
“I hope to have them for many years to come.” Returning to his purpose, Nicanor praised Yosef's valor, and told how it had birthed respect in the Romans. Vespasian merely desired to meet a man of such courage. Nor, Nicanor said, would the general have sent a known friend to lure Yosef out on false terms – Nicanor's honour would not allow it.
What a pleasure to speak to an educated man! A man whose dialect was pleasingly urban, not rustic. A man who talked sense as well as patriotism. Yosef felt a stab of guilt over Asher, who must surely be dead.
That Nicanor's aim was Yosef's willing surrender was never in doubt. But in the hours of talk, he allowed the idea to come about of its own accord. In fact, it was Yosef that first mentioned the word. “Put in your terms, it seems that surrender is the only sensible option.” There was a barely human growl from behind him. “I am not entirely alone down here.”
“I surmised,” said Nicanor. “I promise them their lives as well.”
“Thank you. I must now discuss matters with my colleagues. Will you allow us privacy? And give me your word that, until we make up our minds, we are not to be molested? I do not wish to set a guard.”
“I give you my word, insofar as it is mine to give,” said Nicanor. “I promise that this day and night, you will be left alone. But Romans are an impatient race. Past tomorrow, I cannot say.”
