by Angela Hunt
A small man stood a few steps away, his face crinkled in a wide grin. He seemed to have no concerns as he reeled in his rope and wound it in a circle. I lifted my sword, expecting him to fight. Instead he shrugged and stepped aside for one of his brothers-in-arms.
That had been the point—to get me on the ground. I found myself at the center of a knot of warriors, each of them armored and armed. One of them put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, and before I knew it the knot had enlarged to eight men, all of whom had their attention set on me.
The last man to arrive wore splendid black armor and a plumed helmet, which he removed so that I could see his face.
Bacchides.
“Tell me if I’m wrong,” said the general, “but aren’t you Judah Maccabaeus?”
I raised the point of my sword to the level of his eyes. “I am.”
“Ah, boys, we have won,” Bacchides said with a smile. “We end it all by ending this one.”
While I circled carefully, keeping my eye on the general, someone sliced the back of my knee. I felt warm blood dripping over my skin, though I did not turn.
“That’s one,” Bacchides said. “For Apollonius, the first general you killed.”
I grunted. “He would still be alive if he hadn’t come against Israel.”
The general took another step to the right. I turned and felt a matching slice across the back of the other knee—but this one went deeper, for something in my leg gave way.
“Two,” he said. “That was for Gorgias.”
I gritted my teeth against the pain. “That blind fool? Gorgias marched past us in the dead of night, and our God would not let him see us.”
I raised my left arm to balance the weight of my sword, then I heard a blade sing as it cleaved the air. I felt pressure at my uplifted arm, and when I turned to look, it was gone. “Ahhh!” I couldn’t stop a scream as the sight of a spurting stump sent a tremor down my spine.
“Three.” My tormenter smiled. “For Nicanor.”
“That blasphemer?” Breathing through clenched teeth, I forbade myself to falter. This would be over soon enough.
The general slipped to the left, moving as lightly as a dancer. “You have fought well, Judah Maccabaeus, but your time is over. You and your people must realize Judea is about to change.”
One of the men behind me stepped forward and severed my sword hand with a hatchet. I stared numbly at my hand—lying on the ground a few inches from the sword I had used for HaShem’s glory.
“Four,” Bacchides said more softly. “For Lysias. And this”—he brought his heavy sword up to my eyes and then shifted it until the blade was at my neck—“is for me.”
I lowered my head. Oddly enough I felt no fear or sorrow, only a single regret—that I would die looking at this pagan and not at Leah.
He drew back his arm, gathered his strength, and swung.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Leah
I knew the truth before they told me. I could hear it in the sound of the wind blowing low and forlorn over the plain, and feel it in the way my heart slowed when I stepped outside and faced the rising sun. I saw it in the raven circling endlessly overhead, and in the deer that stopped and stared at me with wide, compassionate eyes.
My Judah no longer lived.
The villagers who returned from the battle avoided my gaze as they trudged back to their homes. Ona, Morit, and Neta looked at me with sympathy, for they had also intuited the truth.
I straightened my spine, pulled my cloak tight against a sudden chill, and went to the well to wait. As I watched our battered men returning, I wondered how I would tell this story. Most of my stories about the heroic Maccabees ended in victory.
Finally, Simon, Johanan, and Jonathan came through the village gate. They huddled for a moment, then Jonathan and Johanan went to their wives. Simon came toward me, Morit hurrying after him.
My knees turned to water, and only the solid stones beneath me kept me from collapsing. Simon must have seen something in my eyes, for he caught my arm and turned to Morit. She stepped up and put her arms around my shoulders, holding tight as Simon gave me the news I dreaded: “Judah was killed today.”
Those four little words seemed to hang on the air, then they vanished, leaving a trail of grief in their wake. I shook my head, not wanting to believe them. What small words they were! They were nothing compared to the power Judah had wielded, and they meant nothing compared to the man he had been: champion, commander, chief encourager. He motivated, inspired, and led by example. He taught his people to believe in the impossible, and he challenged them to do more than they ever dreamed they could. His name shone so brightly, even in the halls of his enemies, that those four little words could not possibly dim his luster.
“Leah, are you all right?” Simon studied me as Morit continued to hold me. “Would you like to lie down?”
I gave Simon a blank look, wondering why he was so concerned about whether I stood or reclined. Why did such things matter now? Judah was gone.
My husband had been everything my father was not: truth and loyalty and love. My lover, protector, and friend. My priest and king.
I met Simon’s gaze and saw the gleam of tears in his eyes. “Thank you for telling me,” I said, attempting a smile. “I think I will go inside now.”
By sunset, Judah’s body had been returned to his family. We women stitched him back together, washed and anointed him, and prepared his shroud. But before we wrapped his body, I stroked the scar I had put on his face and felt tears burn my fingers like hot wax. This was not Judah. It was only a vessel that had once housed one of the brightest lights in all Israel.
I leaned closer, though I knew he was not listening from this empty husk. “You once told me that HaShem had never sent you to do anything. But He sent you to save me, Judah. In so many ways.”
I ran my fingers through his damp hair, then unfolded the linen cloth that would cover his face. When I stepped back, the other women lifted the shroud and respectfully wrapped his body.
We buried Judah next to his unnamed son in the family tomb.
Then all Israel mourned him, saying, “How is the mighty fallen, the savior of Israel!”
Morit and Ona did not want to leave me alone, but I insisted. Their husbands needed tending after the day’s defeat, and I had never been afraid of solitude.
As the members of my family promised to come at once if I should need anything, I bade them good-night and stepped out into the gathering darkness. I unlatched the door and dropped my cloak on the bed, then felt my way to the table in the corner of the room. I lit the lamp and sat on the edge of the bed. “Adonai, what am I to do now?”
My voice echoed in the emptiness as my eyes traveled over so many ordinary sights, made ghostly in the lamp’s flickering light. Judah’s sandals in the corner. His cloak on a peg in the wall. Dark hairs on his pillow.
The resolve that had held me upright all day snapped and I fell over onto the bed as grief erupted within me. “My God, my God,” I cried, “why did you forsake him?”
But even as I said the words, I knew Adonai had never left my husband. HaShem created him to be a warrior and gave him a warrior’s death. How could He have done anything else?
I sat up, wiped my face, and stared at the practice shield Judah had hung on the wall. Eneas had been using it, trying his best to emulate his father’s friend.
“A little Judah,” I whispered. “But no one can ever take his place.”
I lifted my face toward heaven. “What are we to do, Adonai? I do not understand why you have taken Judah when we need him most—”
A reluctant smile twisted my mouth, for when had we not needed the Hammerhead?
In the silence I heard the answer:
He is not gone . . . as long as his story lives.
This time I knew Who put the words in my mind.
I tilted my head, listening for more, and heard nothing but the murmur of voices outside the house. Friends, family, and warriors
who had come for the burial were saying their farewells. They would mourn Judah’s loss, and his men, even his brothers, would for a while be like sheep without a shepherd.
But Judah would continue to live through his story, and I would faithfully tell it. He could continue to lead his men through his example. And as long as his story lived, the people of Israel could take courage and know that Adonai had not neglected them.
I knew I would mourn deeply and for a long time, but Judah had not left me alone. He had introduced me to HaShem, who had never been more than an angry figurehead to me until Judah showed me that Adonai listened, cared, and acted on behalf of His people. Judah also taught me that a single person, when inspired by HaShem and committed to the task for which Adonai had formed him, could change the world.
So I would tell his story. “With my dying breath, Adonai, I will tell them everything.”
Then I stretched out on Judah’s side of the bed, because I could not bear to lie across from that empty space.
Epilogue
Leah kept her promise to the Lord Adonai. She became a source of strength for the remaining brothers and often traveled with the army, doing whatever had to be done in the fight for freedom. When the battle was not raging, she told the people of Israel everything she and Judah had learned. Eneas, who became her surrogate son, traveled with her and grew to become an outstanding advocate for Israel’s freedom.
From 161 BC, the year of Judah’s death, to 155 BC, Bacchides continued his campaign of persecution, but his target shifted from pious Jews to Judah’s family. The Hasmonean name had become so identified with the cause of national and religious freedom that the Seleucids sought to stamp it out.
One by one, Judah’s brothers gave their lives for Israel: after Eleazar and Judah, then Johanan, Jonathan, and Simon.
The year after Judah’s death, Jonathan was chosen as Israel’s high priest and leader. He led the nation for eighteen years, and only after he was murdered in 142 BC did Simon assume that position. He served as high priest for seven years, until he and two of his sons were murdered by his treacherous son-in-law. Simon’s wife was also brutally murdered.
All five of Mattathias’s sons gave their lives while working and fighting for the nation of Israel. Judah and Eleazar died on the battlefield. Johanan, Jonathan, and Simon were murdered by treacherous foes. But because of their sacrifice, the tiny nation of Israel united in fidelity and faith, clearing its Temple of all pagan abominations. Because Judah Maccabaeus and his courageous brothers sacrificed their lives, Israel was finally able to enjoy religious liberty and, for a brief period, political independence.
Author’s Note
I sent a proposal about the so-called “silent years” to my publisher because I didn’t know much about the four hundred years between the Old and New Testaments. For me, half the fun of writing a book is learning new things. I was thrilled to discover Judah (or Judas) Maccabees, whose name had only stirred a vague memory before I began writing. What a hero!
Readers always want to know how much of a historical novel is fact, so here’s the scoop. The battles described in this book are factual. The male figures in Mattathias’s family are historic. The women, however, are shadows, unmentioned in the history books.
But Mattathias certainly had a wife, and his five sons probably had wives, so I fleshed out and named those forgotten women, including Leah, Judah’s wife.
Many of the battles and events have been condensed, and other events have been omitted in order to write a novel of readable length. As the author of 1 Maccabees tells us, “Now the rest of the acts of Judas, and his wars and the brave deeds that he did, and his greatness, have not been recorded, for they were very many” (1 Maccabees 9:22).
The first paragraph of the Epilogue is fiction, but all the other paragraphs are historical facts.
Those horrible accounts of torture by Antiochus Epiphanes? Historic and recorded in the First and Second books of the Maccabees. These books are part of the Apocrypha, which are not part of the canon of Scripture. But though they are not considered inspired, they are historic and should not be summarily discounted.
Philander, the sympathetic scribe who worked in the court of Antiochus Epiphanes, is fictional. I added him because I needed the viewpoint of a character who knew what was happening in the royal court. But many of his letters contain information found in 1 Maccabees, including the king’s deathbed letter to the Jews.
Below are a few odds and ends you might find interesting:
Q: What happened to those old stones from the profaned altar?
A: “So we placed the stones in a chamber at the northwest corner of the altar court, in the great gatehouse called Moked, there to remain until a prophet should arise.”
The stones of the desecrated altar remained in that gatehouse through the time of Christ until AD 70 when the Romans destroyed Jerusalem and the Temple. The prophet with the necessary authority (Yeshua/Jesus) came but was not recognized, so the stones of the original altar were scattered with the other stones of the Temple. They are now lost to us.
Q: Who were the Hasidim?
A: The Hasidim (aka Hasideans or Chasidism) were Jews who were loyal to the Law of Moses and the Torah. The name derives from the Hebrew word hasi dim, usually translated “saints” or “faithful ones.” They were active during the time of the Maccabean Revolt, but then disappeared from the historical record, probably because they were absorbed into either the Pharisees or Essenes, later groups that existed along with the Sadducees.
What sort of Judaism did Judah and his family practice? I believe it was similar to that practiced by the Karaites, Jews who believe that the original religion of ancient Israel is prescribed by God in the Bible or Tanakh. Unlike most contemporary Jews, Karaites do not accept the Mishnah or Talmud as the basis for religious law and theology because those works were derived from various rabbis and oral tradition. The Karaites cite Deut. 4:2 and Joshua 8:34–35 as part of the basis for their belief. Karaism (or Qaraism) began in the first or second century before Christ, the time of the Maccabees, and still exists today.
Q: Did Judah really have prophetic dreams?
A: I doubt it. I included three in the story because supernatural elements need to be established as part of the story world if they are going to be credible. The last vision—the one about Onias and Jeremiah—has been recorded in some versions of the battle at Adasa, but it is not mentioned in 1 Maccabees, so it is probably an apocryphal addition.
Q: I’m confused by the Levites and priests, as well as the high priests from the line of Zadok and Aaron.
A: The priestly lineage can be confusing! The Levites were men from the tribe of Levi. They were considered lower in status than the priests, and they were not permitted to offer sacrifices. Four senior Levites served in the Temple: the director of music, the director of singers, the chief doorkeeper, and the director of Temple assistants. The Temple police (a group of them arrested Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane) were also Levites.1 Every priest was a Levite, but not every Levite was a priest.
The high priests were descendants of Aaron, the brother of Moses. In 1 Chronicles 24, we read that the two surviving sons of Aaron produced the kohanim priests. Jehoiarib (or Joarib) was one of those priests, and Mattathias and his sons were among his descendants.
Under the Seleucid kings (who cared nothing about following the hereditary line), the office of high priest went to the highest bidder. During the time of the Romans, the high priest was appointed by the Roman prefect or governor. The powerful high priest was very nearly, but not quite, a king.
Q: Are any events of the “silent years” foretold in the Old Testament?
A: Yes. Antiochus Epiphanes and the suffering he caused in Israel are described in Daniel 11:29–35. I won’t quote it all here, but I will quote one of my favorite snippets: “. . . but the people who know their God will stand strong and prevail” (Daniel 11:32b). That verse could apply to any believer anywhere.
Q: Why did
n’t you mention the miracle of oil at Hanukkah?
A: Because it probably did not occur. It is not mentioned in the books of 1 or 2 Maccabees, nor is it mentioned in Josephus’s history of the Maccabean Revolt. The story does not appear anywhere until the Talmudic period, which occurred about six hundred years later.
The traditional story is based on this Talmudic commentary:
For when the Greeks entered the Temple, they defiled all the oils therein, and when the Hasmonean dynasty prevailed against and defeated them, they made search and found only one cruse of oil which lay with the seal of the High Priest, but which contained sufficient for one day’s lighting only; yet a miracle was wrought therein and they lit [the lamp] therewith for eight days. The following year these [days] were appointed a Festival with [the recital of] Hallel and thanksgiving.2
The first mention of the “miracle of oil” is found in a single gemara, a rabbinical commentary on the Mishna, forming the second part of the Talmud. It is not found in the Jewish Bible, the Tanakh.
The following opinion may be valid:
“Whatever the reason, the so-called miracle of oil was invented long after the first Hanukkah, probably as a children’s story, by rabbis who needed to find a way to make the existing commemoration of Hanukkah into something that meshed with their own theology . . .
“With that they downplayed the forced conversions, the brutal attacks against Hellenized Jews by the Maccabees, and the war itself.
“And now Hanukkah is the ‘Festival of Lights,’ even though no miracle of oil ever really happened.”3
I include this information not to attack a much-loved Jewish tradition, but simply to be faithful to the historical record. After all, many Christians believe that the angels sang at Christ’s birth (Scripture says they spoke, not sang), that Mary rode to Bethlehem on a donkey (she probably didn’t, as the donkey would have been carrying water and supplies), and that the wise men arrived the night of the child’s birth (they probably came much later, as Scripture says the child was no longer in the stable, but in a house). Apocryphal stories tend to attach themselves to history, but my job as a historical novelist is to adhere to the facts as closely as I can.
