by Brock Thoene
“We’re all Romans,” Marcus snapped irritably. Why did Zadok put him on the spot in front of Shomron and the stonemason? “The whole world is Rome, in case you hadn’t noticed! The chief priests at your own Temple understand the realities of life. The Sanhedrin voted money for this aqueduct. Like it or not, it’s a Jewish aqueduct. It will carry Jewish water to your Temple. I’ve made you a fair offer. We have to eat. What do you say?”
Zadok raised his face to gaze intently into Marcus’ eyes. Fingers curled around the staff. “The settlement is fair. I’ll go back now. We’ll discuss which sheep we might sell off to you legally. In the morning bring the price. Temple coin. No Roman silver in the treasury of the Tower of the Flock. Come to Migdal Eder.”
E L
Emet, Ha-or Tov, and Avel filled waterskins in the trough beside the well. They had been cleaning stalls all day, and toting water into the stable for two hours. The work was far from finished. The sun of late afternoon was hot on Emet’s back. He splashed cool liquid on his face, sighed, and gazed across the valley of the fold. Blocks of stone rose up and men, like ants, climbed the scaffolding.
The boy viewed the graceful stone arches of the watercourse with new understanding. It meant Rome was encroaching on the sacred pastures, the herdsmen said. One tower at a time Caesar was stamping his image on the face of Israel. A bad thing. A change in the way things had been since the time King David had herded sheep in this very place.
The sheep didn’t seem to notice the intrusion, Emet thought. They peacefully cropped grass among the pylons, oblivious to the tink, tink, tink of stonecutters’ hammers or bored soldiers in scarlet tunics.
Closer in, near the Tower of Migdal Eder, Emet could see the tall, powerful figure of Zadok among the lambs who were bound for Jerusalem at first light tomorrow. The old man passed slowly through the flock. One last time he checked the condition of the Paschal sacrifices. Any imperfect animal was cut from the herd by Red Dog and driven to the gate, where Jehu separated it from its brothers.
Avel said, “Look at the lambs. These are best of the lot, Lev told me. Reserved for the cohanim and Levites.”
Ha-or Tov added, “And when Zadok speaks, the sheep know his voice. Lev says in pitch-black night Zadok can call out and they’ll come to him. There!” He pointed. “They lift their faces when he passes.”
Yes. That was true. Emet agreed. The old man touched heads, scratched ears, caressed muzzles one at a time. “He’s saying good-bye. He raised them from babies, and now he’s saying good-bye.”
“I suppose.” Avel frowned and turned away. It was clear he didn’t like to think about good-byes. “He’s a odd old bird,” he muttered.
“What about his scar?” Ha-or Tov wondered aloud.
Avel replied authoritatively, “Probably got it fighting bandits. Defending the herd.”
Ha-or Tov twirled his red locks thoughtfully. “Maybe. Ask Lev.”
Avel shook his head. “Not me. You do it.”
Ha-or Tov declined. “Not me. I’m half-scared of him. He’s not as stupid as he looks. And he doesn’t like questions.”
Both boys rounded on Emet. Avel remarked, “Lev’s taken a liking to you, Emet. You’re little. He thinks you’re too young to have a brain. He wouldn’t mind someone small asking him how Zadok’s face got split open and his eye gouged out.”
“Not me,” Emet protested.
Avel threatened, “One word from me that you can’t haul water without help, and it’s the turnip patch.”
And thus it was decided that Emet would ask the questions the others were afraid to ask.
The trio hauled the watering skins back to the stable. While Ha-or Tov and Avel emptied the contents into individual troughs, Emet approached Lev, who was doctoring the umbilical stump of a tiny newborn with a mixture of wine and oil.
Emet, his expression somber, waited patiently as Lev crooned to his patient.
Avel and Ha-or Tov cast furtive glances his way, encouraging him to get on with it.
At last Lev glanced up and scowled. “Well? Does it want something? Or is it dumbfounded by the chore of fetching water?”
Emet shook his head from side to side. His heart was pounding. Avel motioned to him to speak. Emet couldn’t form words around his curiosity.
“Speak up, stump!” ordered Lev impatiently.
“Zadok.” Emet managed.
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Zadok. What?”
Emet placed his hand over his eye, indicating the old man’s eyepatch. “That.”
Lev set the baby down and drew himself up. In a surprisingly calm voice he replied, “Oh. That. Y’ think I know, do y’?” he confided. “Every day since I was a wee boy like yourself wandering around this place I’ve wondered the same. My father, who was a lambing shepherd here before me, knew about it. But he wasn’t telling. Then he died. There were times when I thought herself . . . Zadok’s wife . . . might speak of it. But she flew away with her eyes full of sorrow. She touched his scar like it was a memory sometimes when she didn’t know I saw. And they shared the sadness. So, I don’t know. I wish I did. And the old ones who are still around won’t talk about it.” Lev cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted to Avel and Ha-or Tov, “We’re in the same boat, y’ might say!” Lev snorted and laughed. “If y’ find out, tell me. Else I’ll grow old and die and go to the grave wondering what creature would dare be brave enough to strike a blow against Zadok, shepherd of the flock.”
Emet sat on the low barrier of his flock’s stall and contemplated the little ones in his care. Three white and one black. The black male had made up for lost time. He was clearly larger, stronger, and more daring than his sisters . . . and all this in less than a day!
The hitherto unknown emotion of pride swelled in Emet’s chest. These were his. What would he name them? The white triplets were identical in almost every respect. Sweet-faced and easy of disposition, they crowded around their surrogate mother like woolly sprouts on a bunch of cauliflower. How would he tell them apart?
Emet plucked at the threads of the handwoven robe supplied by Zadok until he managed to work loose the end of three strands of yarn. One yellow. One red. The last, blue. He tied a different color strand to each of the sisters.
He declared to the first, “Yellow is like the heart of a lily. You’ll be Lily.” And to the second, “Red is the color of the roses on the trellis outside the rich man’s house on the Street of the Cobblers. Sister always liked the roses. So you’re Rose.” He attached the blue thread to the last of the three girls. “Blue.” He stuck his lip out in consideration of such an important decision. Emet gazed thoughtfully out at the patch of sky beyond the mouth of the lambing cave. It came to him, plain as anything. “Cornflower.”
And what should he name the curly black male who trotted boldly among his adoptive sisters? Emet wondered. He was the first at supper, the last to lie down to sleep. It was clear from the way he nibbled at Emet’s shoe and tugged playfully at his cloak that this intrepid creature liked Emet.
Emet dubbed him the Bear.
For the fourth time in an hour Emet retied the fastenings of the white fleece cap beneath the black lamb’s chin.
The most important task assigned to Emet was to keep the lamb-skin coats secured to the four babies in his care. Emet’s fingers were clumsy. Not having had proper shoes, he had never learned to tie laces. He was afraid to admit this shortcoming since this was the one thing old Zadok assumed he was capable of. It was, he soon discovered, not as easy as it seemed at first.
Lambs, being like children, gamboled in the stall, nipped at one another, and jostled for position at Old Girl’s udder. In these activities the strips of fleece on Lily, Rose, and Cornflower would slip sideways, become tangled, and be torn away. As for Bear, every time he butted against Old Girl for a squirt of milk, the cap would work loose and be trampled by tiny cloven hoofs before Emet could retrieve it.
Lev was no help when asked how the coverings might be better attached. “There’s not enough of
it to do it any other way!” he growled. “One hide! Four lambs! Old Girl’s the only ewe who’d accept a shared fleece like this! See to it!”
And when Ha-or Tov, watching Emet’s struggle, inquired why the things were still necessary Lev replied, “What! Are y’ a total idiot?”
Lev clearly didn’t like being questioned. Nor did he wholly approve of the intrusion of the three boys into his domain.
Emet remained silent the rest of the day. He turned the straw and fetched the required amount of grain, which he hand-fed to Old Girl as the babies nosed her flanks to find their meal.
As Emet, Avel, and Ha-or Tov were gulping down a morsel of flat bread, milk, and cheese, their break was interrupted. There was a ruckus in the pens. Old Girl began to bark and stamp her feet.
Lev sighed, stuffed his cheeks with the remaining bread, and in clear disgust rounded on Emet. “Now you’ve done it. Something’s come loose. Don’t y’ know how to tie a proper knot?”
Avel and Ha-or Tov watched sympathetically as Lev clasped Emet by the arm and dragged him to Old Girl’s pen. An altercation was in process between Old Girl and the black lamb, who was once again cap-less. Bear frantically attempted to dash in between his sisters as Old Girl whirled to face him, charging, threatening, and stamping a warning. Lily, Rose, and Cornflower huddled together, trembling, behind Old Girl’s broad rear end.
Had Old Girl gone off? Emet wondered in astonishment at the rage in the aged ewe! She acted as though she had never seen Bear before! As if he were an interloper!
Lev snapped up the fallen scrap of fleece and scooped the terrified lamb into his arms. He bellowed at Emet, “You’ll have to do better than this, stump!”
Tears of shame pushed at Emet’s lids. His throat constricted. He had failed. Losing the covering of fleece had nearly resulted in injury to Bear.
Lev tugged the lamb’s ears through the holes in the cap and secured the leather strap in a double knot. He held his handiwork out to Emet. “See here! That’s the way you tie a knot!”
Emet’s hands shook. He nodded in silent acknowledgment of his failure. And then, worse than anything, the shadow of Zadok fell across them.
The old shepherd glowered down like a thundercloud. He reached out to touch Bear, who was panting in terror and confusion. “What’s this, Lev?”
“The runt let the fleece come off the black one,” Lev complained. “And, sir! Look at herself, will y’! Old Girl’s in a fright. Her udder will shrivel. She’ll go dry, and then we’ll have a time keeping these alive. This boy’s not old enough for the lambing barn. Can’t even tie a knot.”
Zadok stooped till his face was level with Emet’s. “Is that true, boy? About the tying?”
A tear escaped. Emet nodded. No, he did not know how to tie.
Zadok scooped up Emet’s tear on his index finger and studied it. He held it to his lips as if to drink it. Then he almost smiled. Not quite, but nearly. “Then you shall learn.”
Leaving the aqueduct behind, Marcus rode toward Herodium. In addition to the castle on the summit Herod the Great had created a palace for his guests at the foot of the hill. An enormous artificial lake stood amid an orchard of date palms and transplanted balsam trees. In the midst of the otherwise barren surroundings and perched on the edge of a wilderness, it was a place where members of the monarch’s entourage took their ease.
Marcus wondered how much ease was possibly experienced by a visitor to Herod’s brooding tower. The suspicious monarch was apt to see hidden meanings and secret plots behind innocent observations . . . and a stay at Herodium could easily move from palace to dungeon in short order.
A trio of legionaries were bathing naked in the pool. They did not stop their diving and spouting when Marcus rode up. Since Marcus was not their officer, they apparently recognized no need to show respect for his rank.
Idumeans, Marcus guessed from their swarthiness; bazaar toughs hired to make up the complement of a legion. Certainly not soldiers Marcus would have permitted to remain part of First Cohort when he commanded.
The low wall enclosing the pool was marred with chalked graffiti. Lucius likes goats, read one scrawl. Pythias used to be hot-blooded, ran another, but now there’s only hot wine in his veins.
None of it was very clever or original. Marcus had heard the witticism about Pythias applied to the aging Emperor Tiberius.
There was an air of seediness and decay about the place. Two of the palm trees had been sawn down, their ragged stumps left to rot. The trunks of the balsam trees were scarred with the slashes of those who stole the valuable sap. Lawns and shrubs were dead. Dust was heaped in the corners of the sunken garden paths, and a thin green slime floating atop the pool was ignored by the bathers.
Since Judea had been made a province ruled directly by Rome rather than a client state, Herod’s palace belonged to the emperor for the use of his representatives. But Governor Pilate seldom left Caesarea on the clean seacoast. He rarely forced himself to visit Jerusalem; Herodium, never.
Leaving the crumbling guest facilities behind, Marcus urged Pavor toward the hill’s north side. Here Marcus found a legionary who at least was in uniform and knew how to salute. Entrusting Pavor to the legionary’s care, Marcus entered the underground tunnel that pierced the cone and was the sole entry to the fortress. A walk of several minutes took him through a black tube poorly lit at irregular intervals by smoldering torches.
Emerging from the tunnel, Marcus found himself beside another pool likewise surrounded by trees and garden, but located inside the basin of the hollow cone. Five stories of fortifications stretched upward above him. It was rumored that additional, secret levels existed below him in labyrinthine tangles.
Cities, monuments, temples, and towers had all been constructed by Herod and named to venerate the emperor, deceased relatives, or powerful friends.
But this lonely mountain, this malevolent symbol of arrogant authority poised on the skyline like the broken fang of a monstrous beast, Herod had chosen to name in honor of himself.
Herod had built the place to last for the ages, as an outpost against marauders coming out of the desert, a palace, and a retreat of last resort from revolution. It was also the royal mausoleum.
On the far side of the colonnade encircling the garden was a marble dome as large as a small house. It was placed so beams of sunlight would penetrate even the two-hundred-foot depth of the hill, illuminating Herod’s crypt.
On the carved sides of the tomb were representations of everything Herod believed worthy of remembrance from his reign: leading military campaigns, receiving a coronet from the hand of Augustus, designing the harbor of Caesarea, laying out an aqueduct. All the scenes offered chiseled depictions of the king of the Jews as a heroic figure. Given a particular pride of place was a profile of Herod beside a view of the front of Jerusalem’s renowned temple.
Clearly Herod wanted his memory linked both with what he had done to honor the man-god of the Romans and the favors he’d performed for the unnameable God of the Hebrews.
Sometime in the thirty-odd years since his death and burial here, someone had hacked off Herod’s nose. Vengeful relative, vicious rebel, or idle soldier?
A voice spoke from behind Marcus. “My grandfather worked on this place a half century ago.” It was Oren, the Jewish stonemason. He was covered in lime dust, and there was a bloody scrape down one shin. The man appeared to be exhausted. “My father labored on Herod’s tomb there, and the two of us on the Temple.” He gestured toward the detailed outline of the sanctuary.
“The workmanship is very fine,” Marcus praised.
“Now I wonder if I’ll ever worship there again.”
“Why?” Marcus inquired. “There’s no shame in building an aqueduct.”
“May have to take my family and move away” came the reply. “Alexandria, maybe. There is work to be had there for stonecutters. You heard what the shepherd said: I’m apostate, defiled, cursed.”
“That’s paid for,” Marcus corrected him
. “Soon forgotten.”
Oren shook his head. “As long as the aqueduct stands, it will divide Jews like me who worked on it from those like Zadok who hate it. Temple money or Beth-lehem sheep, it doesn’t matter. Once declared Korban, they belong to the Almighty alone. I knew it but took the job anyway . . . my family has to eat, don’t they? Don’t they?”
Uncomfortable in the presence of so much unmanly emotion, the stoic Roman changed the subject. “You’re hurt,” Marcus said, indicating the leg wound.
“It’s nothing,” Oren replied. “Bad piece of stone. It cracked as we lowered it into place in the arch and tumbled down. I jumped clear just in time . . . almost,” he concluded ruefully. “My own fault really. I inspected the blocks for soundness, but I must have missed that one.”
“Will you be going up to the City for your Passover?” Marcus asked, knowing that the Jewish laborers could be excused for the religious holiday.
“Not me,” Oren argued. “I’m defiled, remember? It’s already too late to get cleansed in time for the ceremony.”
“Because of a Roman waterworks and a Jewish lamb?”
Oren disagreed. “We’re all defiled anyway. All of us stoneworkers.” He pointed over Marcus’ shoulder. “We’re sleeping in a tomb.”
There was an indecipherable air of evil and decomposition about the place. Marcus sensed it, though he wasn’t given to superstition. Could it be a remnant of the malevolent executions Herod had carried out? Or was the smell of death really coming from Herod’s tomb?
“Where’s the harm in a grave?” Marcus maintained stoutly. “He’s only food for worms.”
Oren looked grim. “They say he was eaten up by worms before he died. If there is any lingering wickedness connected with any tomb, surely it must be this one.”
