Stone and Steel

by David Blixt

  “More than fair. I thank you, Nicanor.”

  “Persuade them, Yosef. Make them see sense.”

  Yosef withdrew from the light coming from above. Carefully keeping the wick dry, he carried the candle to the side chamber, wedged it onto a rocky outcropping, and struck a spark. “Let there be light.”

  The objections came in a flood. “We cannot surrender!”

  “They've killed so many already!”

  “If we swarm up, we might take them by surprise!”

  Such protests grew steadily louder, and several implausible courses of action were proposed. When they had spent their energy, Yosef addressed them. “For fifty days you've tasted Roman strength at arms. Do you honestly believe that thirty-nine people, three of them women, can rise up and over-master them? You may call it bravery, but others would call it suicide.”

  The instant it passed his lips, Yosef regretted the word.

  “Then we shall kill ourselves!” cried Yaron, rapidly becoming the spokesman for the group. “If it's a choice of death by my own hand or on a Roman cross, I know which I prefer!” Again, the muted growl of concurrence.

  “But that is not the choice,” answered Yosef. “Nicanor swears the Romans will spare us. It's me they're after. If I promise to submit to them, they have no reason to take reprisals out upon you.”

  “To do that is to tarnish the glory of our ancestors!”

  “And the alternative you propose is to tarnish our souls in the eyes of the Lord? For that is what suicide is – a direct insult to Jehovah.”

  “That,” said Yaron, “is the excuse of a coward!”

  “Coward?” said Yosef angrily. “You've seen me these last two months. You did not deem me cowardly then! If I run from death at the end of a Roman sword, then yes, I would be worthy to die on my own sword, by my own hand. For that is a coward's death. But if the Romans offer mercy, and would spare us, we must have mercy on ourselves as well. What do we gain by dying? Nothing! What do the Romans gain? Their goal! It's ridiculous to do their work for them! If we survive, we win!”

  Yaron stepped forward. “If you fear self-slaughter, Yosef, I offer you my right hand, and the sword it holds. I will take upon me the sin of your death. If you die willingly, you shall die as a priest, and general of the Jews. Unwilling, you'll die a traitor.”

  Every man present drew his sword, even young Chalafta, ready to hack Yosef to pieces rather than allow him to surrender.

  Yosef looked not at the blade, but into Yaron's eyes. “It is a brave thing to die for liberty. A man is certainly a coward if he refuses to die when necessity calls for it. But he is also a coward that chooses to die when nothing calls for it but false pride.” Yosef shook his head, tears in his eyes. “What are we afraid of? Death? And to prevent that, we mean to kill ourselves? Excellent wisdom! Any other man who tried to take our lives we call our enemy. But you wish us to be enemies to our selves!”

  “They mean to make us slaves!”

  “And if they do?” retorted Yosef. “Is that worse than our present state? How much liberty do we enjoy down here?”

  “It is a man's act,” said Yaron gravely.

  “A most unmanly act. If a captain at sea, seeing dark skies ahead, chooses to sink his own ship rather than risk the storm, he's not only a coward but a fool!” Yosef closed his eyes, as might a man weary of conversing with obdurate fools. “Self-murder is a crime against nature. No other animal in all the world even dreams of giving away our Lord's most precious gift. That is because it is impiety, sacrilege.”

  He used every argument he could imagine, from a banker entrusted with another man's money to the slave who flees his master's house – all examples of a man taking what did not belong to him. Such men, Yosef argued, were punished. So would they be, if they took what belonged to God alone – their lives. “We received our lives, our very selves, from Yahweh. And do you think that He will be pleased if you destroy what He has granted? Every man owes the Lord a death – and He will claim it in His own time! Until then, we owe Him our lives!”

  But reason failed. They rushed upon him, swords ready to strike, with even the women prepared to rend him. Pulling his shoulders back, Yosef shouted at them in his best general's voice. “Very well! If you are determined to die, we shall die. But not until morning. Every one of you, spend this night praying for forgiveness for what we are about to do. Yaron, choose three men and stand guard over the exit. Let no man leave – myself included. I shall sit in the farthest corner of the cave, unarmed, and lead the prayers. If you think it necessary to bind me, I understand.”

  Grateful that he had finally come around to their way of thinking, they did not bind him, and though they did remove his sword, they left him his knife.

  He led the prayers, beseeching the Lord to forgive, to understand, to avenge. Then the candle was blown out, and they all went to sleep.

  All, save Yosef.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “Well, Nicanor? Will he come up?”

  “I believe he would like to, general. But the choice may be out of his hands.”

  Vespasian shrugged. “If he can't come up with a way to convince them, he's not the same man I've been fighting for the last two months.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  IT HAD TAKEN two days to get the other refugees to a place of safety, far from any likely Roman patrols. Guarded by Gareb, some women were taking care of wounded Levi.

  Of course, many had not wanted to stop and hide. Most were running to the homes of relatives, or heading straight for the safety of Jerusalem. Of the hundred thirteen survivors of Jotapata, less than a third stayed. Of the ones that went off on their own, nearly all were caught and sold into slavery.

  Assured that the remaining band of thirty were safe, Judah, Asher, and Phannius went off in the direction of Queen Berenice's borrowed palace in Sogane.

  “Do you have a plan?” asked Phannius.

  Judah laughed darkly. “Ask Asher. He's the brains.”

  “Parroting words in a book doesn't make you smart,” said Phannius.

  “True,” said Asher. “But not reading them doesn't make you smart, either.”

  “Shut up, both of you,” said Judah. “Let me think.”

  But the only word that came to his mind was sacrifice. To make holy.

  XXXIII

  I DON'T WANT TO DIE.

  Fighting delirium, mind bounding from one thought to another, that lone truth kept Yosef focused. He was determined to survive.

  Socratic training kicked in. Without Asher, Yosef was forced to play both student and teacher:

  When is sacrifice a sin? he asked himself.

  When the thing being sacrificed still has value.

  That means all sacrifices should be of valueless things. But that would offend the Lord.

  What if the Lord has plans for the sacrificial victim?

  Yes, then it would be sinful to cut off the life before He was done with it.

  Not only is self-slaughter a sin, but my untimely death would be an offence against God Himself. I feel it! I have more to offer the world than a failed defense of one minor city.

  But I am not the Mahsiah. Yosef had allowed himself to believe, even hope. But he knew now he was not the promised leader of the Jews. Not even another Hyrcanus.

  Odd that Nicanor, of all men, should be present to negotiate. Nicanor believed the Mahsiah had already come: his rabbi Y'eshua, consorting with the unclean. Y'eshua the troublemaker. Y'eshua the defiant. But the Mahsiah was supposed to be as much warrior as priest, would never submit tamely to death as Y'eshua had. Besides, Y'eshua had been a carpenter's son, not a descendant of David.

  His thoughts turned to his conversation with Nicanor about the Redeemer, come to sweep Israel with an iron broom, purging it until only the faithful remained. Clearly Vespasian was the Redeemer, his legions the broom. But where was the Mahsiah? If ever Israel needed the Mahsiah, this was the moment.

  Nicanor was correct. The only reasonable explanation for the Ma
hsiah's non-appearance was that he had already come. And been put to death.

  But there were so many objections! Besides his birth, there was the fact that Y'eshua had not departed Judea. One prophecy stated that the Mahsiah would come out of the East, and rule the world. How could a dead man rule?

  Dizzy with exhaustion, the phrase resonated in Yosef's mind. Come out of the East. Come out of the East – did that mean leave Israel? And where did one go, to rule the world? Who ruled the world today?

  Rome. Travel to Rome, and rule the world. Like a lighting strike from above, inspiration struck. The Mahsiah must to go to Rome!

  Or, if not the Mahsiah himself, then his message, the story of his people. God's chosen people. The message had to be carried to Rome. And who else to do it but Yosef himself?

  It fit so perfectly! The Lord had sent Nicanor, a Nazarene believer, to treat with him. Why else, but to set him on this new path? The Lord has put this glorious task in my mind. I must take Judaism to Rome.

  Reassured that his survival was required, Yosef set aside any qualms. The problem that faced him now was mathematical, not moral. How could he stay alive?

  The others would not trust him to kill himself, except under their eyes. There was no way to fake his death. So he had to see the rest of them dead first. Which meant they had to kill each other.

  There was a sound argument to make for it. Killing another was less offensive to the Lord than killing one's self. If they agreed, only the last man standing would have to commit self-slaughter. Yosef had to be that man. But how?

  They could draw lots. But that would require rigging the lots, and he would certainly be caught. An unfixed lottery was out of the question, for Yosef would not leave his life up to anything as capricious as chance. No, he had to engineer matters so that he seemed to take part, and was yet invulnerable.

  He sat in the near absolute dark, scratching numbers and figures into the rock wall. It had to be simple, and seem random. Every man would kill some other until all but two were slain. No matter how they did the deed, there would always be two men remaining. Then it would be either a fight, or a conversation.

  The number of souls with him was the key. Thirty-nine, himself included.

  It was a simple matter of arithmetic. If everyone stood in a circle, and every man killed the man next to him, the survivors were in the sixteenth and thirty-first places. Could he position himself in either of those without drawing suspicion? Possibly. But it was hardly certain.

  He tried again, this time killing every third man. In that case, the survivors were the men placed at the fifth and twenty-third positions. No better.

  His mind kept turning the numbers over. Methodically working his way through the permutations, he discovered that with just thirty-six standing in the circle, killing every third man, the first and sixteenth men survived. He could easily be the first man – they would look to him to start the count.

  He checked his math, then checked it again. Yes. Thirty-six was the magic number. Thirty-six? There were thirty-six men here in the cave. The other three were women. Thus Yosef had to remove the women from the suicide pact.

  He could insist they be let live. But already he knew they would not consent. They had been among the most vocal of the suicide faction. He could also insist that they die first, by the hands of their lovers. They might object to that as well, demand to draw lots with everyone else.

  There was only one way to obtain thirty-six with certainty. Hands trembling, Yosef rose.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  IN THE END, no plan was necessary. Climbing through the rough, dry earth of the hills outside Sogane, they were surrounded by Berenice's royal guard a mile from the city. Disarmed, Judah, Asher, and Phannius were marched down to the Roman road and directly to the palace. For once they didn't argue, just went silently. Like willing sacrifices.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  IN THE CAVE, young Chalafta slept poorly. He dreamed of his father being tortured by the Romans while he hid and watched. The terrible part was that whatever the Romans did to the old man, he couldn't die. He begged for death, wept for it, called out for his son to come and kill him. But Chalafta was too frightened, and so the suffering continued.

  At some point in the dream his father's voice was replaced by a woman's, which only made the nightmare more horrific and grotesque. He fought to wake up, and was relieved when at last he did.

  It did not seem that anyone else was awake yet. There was barely any light reflecting on the water from the opening above. Entrusted with the flint and the candle, Chalafta struck sparks until the wick was lit. To his bedazzled eyes, the water he had been sleeping in seemed very dark. He expected this effect to pass, and was disturbed when it did not. Instead he saw clouds of crimson swirls passing by.

  Chalafta peered into the corner where Yosef sat, head in his hands. “General, something is wrong with the water.”

  “It hardly matters,” came the reply. “We won't be thirsty again.”

  Others were waking now, and Chalafta noted the women were not rising with the rest. Their bodies lay limply in the water at odd angles. Upon investigation, it was discovered their throats had been cut.

  Yaron and the others began shouting about Roman treachery, but Chalafta looked at Yosef and knew. “General – what happened to the women?”

  Yosef lifted his head, revealing eyes red from weeping. “I could not allow them to stain their souls by committing self-slaughter. Instead I took three more sins upon myself.” He struggled to his feet, cuffing the last of his tears away. “Besides, they had not the strength to kill a man surely. Better they should die at peace. What we do now is man's work.”

  Strangely, the murder of the three women calmed any lingering suspicion of the general. It also made real the act they were about to commit.

  “We shall stand in a circle,” Yosef told them. “Every second man cuts the throat of the man beside him. The last man standing will slay himself, and only he will commit that particular sin in Yahweh's eyes. I will start the count myself. Are we all agreed?”

  Trying to control his trembling fear, Chalafta joined the others as they gathered in a circle. He took up place beside Yosef, hoping to draw strength from the general's bravery.

  “Very well,” said Yosef. “All that remains is to choose which direction we should count. To the right? Or to the left?”

  It was Yaron who answered. “The direction of a sundial. Right to left.”

  Nodding, Yosef's face was grave. “A quick prayer, and we shall begin.”

  They asked forgiveness of the Almighty for what they were about to do. As Yosef spoke, Chalafta was counting around the circle, counting which of his friends would be putting an end to his life. Even the general was doing it. Chalafta felt a start of surprise from beside him – Yosef's eyes were on Yaron, who stood at the sixteenth place in the circle. Chalafta wondered if the general would be required to kill Yaron, or the other way around.

  Yosef was cursing himself. He had been so clever, lulling their suspicions by allowing them the appearance of a choice – what did the direction matter? But it had, for Yaron occupied the sixteenth place in that direction. If there was one man who might insist upon completing the mass-suicide, it was Yaron. Why had he not stood beside Yaron himself, to be certain? Why had he left anything to chance?

  Chalafta had just realized that he would be the first to commit murder, killing the man to his left. Thou shalt not commit murder. Was it murder, if the victim consents?

  The prayers ended, and the general suddenly turned to him. “One more thing before we begin. Chalafta, please go stand over there beside Yaron. I have killed enough tender souls this day.” Yosef looked to Yaron. “You can do it, can you not?”

  Yaron answered with great dignity. “If I am not already dead, I promise I will make it swift.”

  Chalafta embraced the general, then crossed to stand on Yaron's left. In the candlelight that reflected off the dark water, Yosef looked relieved. But then, every man w
as oddly cheered by this move, as it mixed up the count, changing who would kill whom. Leaving no time to count again, the general said, “Let us begin.”

  Moved from the first victim to the first killer, the man on Yosef's left raised his sword. The next man over bravely lifted his chin and bared his neck. Chalafta watched the mercifully brutal cut – blood spilled forth, and the man lived only seconds.

  From that initial spilling of blood, matters went swiftly. One, two, kill. One, two, kill. One, two, kill. Instead of surviving, Yaron was among the first to fall. Someone else's hand would have to end Chalafta's life.

  The first circuit complete, the survivors stepped in, closing ranks. Now it was Chalafta's turn to slay the man next to him. He forced himself to pull hard, but his shaking hand made an uneven cut, and the man to his left had to suffer a longer death than the others. “I'm sorry,” the weeping Chalafta said to the dying man.

  Everyone shared the same goal, now – build a rhythm that allowed no one to continue to count. But when there were only four left, Chalafta noticed that the other men were starting to eye Yosef suspiciously.

  “Quickly now,” said the general.

  The next man died, leaving only Yosef, Chalafta, and one other.

  Yosef said, “One.”

  “Two,” said Chalafta, with an apology in his voice.

  “Three,” said the third man, baring his neck. “Boy – be sure to finish this. And for my sake, strike hard.”

  Chalafta did better this time, severing the neck in half. The body fell, leaving only himself and the general.

  Yosef took a single step back, out of reach of Chalafta's sword.

  Chalafta looked down at the dead bodies all around them and shivered. “Did you know?”

  “Yahweh knew,” answered Yosef. “He spoke to me last night, told me that if I were preserved, it was because He is not yet through with my life. He has more in store for me. And clearly for you as well.”