by Alan Gold
For two months, they said, General Titus and his second in command, Tiberius Julius Alexander, had laid siege to the city, starving the inhabitants. First to die were the children, then the elderly, then the women. Those who managed to escape through holes in the walls or in the underground tunnel told of men eating the dead bodies of their neighbors.
And the Romans were employing ballistae to hurl rocks the size of a large dog over the walls of the city. Not only were countless men and women killed in the carnage, but most buildings were badly damaged or destroyed. There were almost no streets that weren’t strewn with blood and bile and limbs and torsos.
One morning, after one of the Jerusalemites fleeing had ridden off to escape to a distant land, Samuel was approached by his son, Raphael.
“Father, I was awake when that man was telling you about the Romans. I heard what he said. When my wounds are healed, when I’m better, I’m going to become a Zealot and fight the Romans. I’m going to become one of the Sicarii.”
Samuel looked at his beloved son, not yet old enough to be a bar mitzvah, and smiled. He was young enough for Samuel to indulge him in his fantasy. “Good, Raphael. Then you will have to be called Raphael Iscariot, so the Romans won’t know whether you’re one of us or one of them.”
They both laughed, and Abraham turned and observed them, wondering what the father and son had to be amused about.
Their progress toward the Galilee had been long and slow. At each village and town, Abraham had earned money as a doctor, and the others had lived quietly so as not to cause people to talk, until it was time for them to move on. After many weeks on the road, they were in sight of the safety of the hills and valleys of the Galilee.
They rode in silence, thinking about the Jerusalem they’d left behind. Abraham’s children, initially in a state of shock, had grown accustomed to spending just a few weeks in a new place and then moving on. The children normally laughed, but they felt the seriousness of the adults, and their voices were stilled.
No matter how Abraham and his wife tried to normalize the children’s lives, they often talked about those days in Jerusalem as they’d gathered themselves to leave. They’d left before the mayhem, but they imagined the stench of death; the screaming and terror of people being hacked to death in the streets of the city morning, noon, and night; and the heart-wrenching sound of the massive stones of the temple and other buildings being torn apart and crashing to the ground. Though far away, in their despair, they imagined that they could smell the burning—burning flesh, burning wood, even burning stone. When he closed his eyes in an attempt to sleep, Abraham saw Jerusalem aflame, its once pristine blue sky now a jaundiced yellow from smoke and fire.
To cheer them as they trudged out of Jerusalem, Abraham had told the children that they were going to a new life, a better life, and so they had to give new names to their donkeys. His son Joshua called his Nero, and his daughter Maryam called hers Caligula, but Abraham, though laughing, told them never ever to use those names in public or disclose their names if they were stopped by a Roman patrol. And when they saw how serious their father was, the children’s laughter stopped.
Travelers who met them on the road continued to speak of patrols of Roman soldiers who slaughtered almost anybody they came across. It was no longer the Jerusalem of David or Solomon, of Ezra and Nehemiah, of the Hasmoneans or of Herod the Great. It was the Jerusalem of the Romans, a destructive plague on the world who had turned a wondrous city into a pile of stones, broken bodies, and streets knee-deep in the blood of countless tens of thousands of men, women, and children. The cadavers of Jews were strewn everywhere, torn apart by sword and axe. Heads, arms, legs, and torsos were left lying about like food thrown to dogs. Where a road had to be cleared so that General Titus’s troops could move from one part of the city to the next, they’d piled the trunks and limbs and heads one on top of the other beside the walls of houses, in gullies, at the bottoms of wells, in drains, beside the blackened walls of the ruins of the temple—everywhere.
Now in the Galilee, even Sarah began to feel some sense of safety. As night fell, Abraham, who was more accustomed to the country and its terrain than the urbane and sophisticated Samuel, found a path leading up the hillside toward a series of caves that appeared as they climbed higher and higher. Samuel was astounded by Abraham’s connection with the land, seeming to know what was around bends in the road or what landscape was available to them, though invisible from where they rode beside the river. Yet, to Abraham, who’d traveled these paths for many years since returning from his training as a doctor in Rome, the sudden appearance of invisible caves was not surprising; the entire area of the Galilee was rich with such features.
That evening they made a fire deep in one of the larger caves. They’d first checked carefully that the cave wasn’t home to some large beast that wouldn’t welcome their sudden arrival. Then Abraham sent his children out to find a quantity of large sticks and, if they could manage, even larger branches. Well inside the cave, Abraham said a blessing and struck a flint four times. Each time, sparks fell onto the tinder-dry leaves. Once these were alight, despite the irritation that he knew the smoke would cause until the cold night air sucked it out, he blew gently on the nascent flame until the entire interior of the cave was warm and cheerful. The children made fun of the shadows of the rocks and outcrops on the walls of the cave while Sarah prepared the food for the night. Abraham walked out of the cave’s mouth and checked that the fire couldn’t be seen from down below. The smoke against the night sky would look like a fast-moving cloud to a platoon of soldiers beside the river, looking up.
The little party of escapees from Jerusalem traveled northward from cave to cave, riding their donkeys toward the part of the Galilee where they were certain the Romans were few in number. In this part of Israel, there were not many large towns, especially inland, and so it was less and less likely that General Titus would waste valuable troops or war equipment on villages without a significant population. The only cities of any size north of Jerusalem were Jericho, Emmaus, Shechem, Scythopolis, and Sepphoris, so it wasn’t difficult to blend into life in a village.
“Where are we now?” asked Samuel as they entered a valley that seemed to stretch ahead as far as the eye could see.
Abraham sighed. “Samuel, every time we round a bend or see a mountain, you ask the same question. ‘Where are we now?’ I don’t know. I once traveled in an area close to here because of an old lady who makes wonderful potions from the olive that grows in abundance in this area, but it was many years ago and I only remember the name of her village. It’s called Peki’in. I’m hoping that if we climb over that hill over there,” he said, pointing to an imposing ridge to their right, “we’ll find the village. The lady was kind to me and gave me a lot of her medicines without asking for payment. I used them for curing skin diseases, ailments of the head, and even scrofula, though I also added sulfur from the Dead Sea. It seemed to work. I would like to see this woman again if she’s still alive, for she might give me more of her potions and then I can treat the sick in this area if we settle here. She’s a good woman, but she wouldn’t tell me how she prepared the olive oils. She said that if they were for the benefit of Israelites, then she was obeying the will of God, but that God had shown her the way, and she wouldn’t show anybody else.”
“And this village, Peki’in,” said Samuel, “is it a nice village?”
Sarah smiled and turned around to face Samuel as her donkey trod the uneven path. “What do you hope to find there, Samuel? A Roman theater? A Roman bath? Shops that sell the latest style of toga?”
The children burst out laughing. Even Samuel, normally dour, chuckled. But Abraham unexpectedly held up his hand for silence. The others instantly obeyed.
“Off the track. Immediately. I heard the neigh of a horse. Romans. Hide! Quick, ride toward that copse of trees,” he ordered.
Suddenly terrified, the children pulled the reins and turned their donkeys’ heads toward the dista
nt mountains. The copse of trees that their father had spoken of was near the foot of the hill, a long distance away. Between them and the trees was a stretch of open field. Riding across such a field would make them immediately visible, and the slow-moving mounts felt no urgency to trot faster, nor did they have a horse’s ability to gallop.
Abraham turned to ensure that his family and Samuel were riding as quickly as they could toward the foothills. But when he looked backward, he saw a century of Romans running across the valley floor. Had they not turned off the path, they would have met the troops head-on. But regardless, Abraham knew that the centurion and his second-in-command, the only troops who were mounted, might see them. Abraham had to distract them, to make the soldiers on horseback look elsewhere and give his family a chance to reach the trees and hide in the undergrowth. So he made an immediate decision. He called to his beloved Sarah, “Head toward the trees. I will return and distract them.”
“No,” said Sarah. “We will hide in the trees—all of us.”
“Sarah, go now. There is no time. I have to return. I have to distract them. They’re too close. Save the children. I beg of you.”
Without another word, Abraham turned his donkey; but before he rode off, he quickly took two stone tablets out of the baskets strapped to the sides of the animal. He handed them to Samuel, saying, “I took these from the temple before we descended into the tunnel. Do not sell these, merchant. They are our devotion to Adonai. Treat them well and give them a good place to rest, now that their home in Jerusalem has been destroyed.”
Samuel took them and nodded to Abraham, who rode back to the path they had taken. Sarah, too, began to turn her mount, but Samuel put his hands on the reins and said firmly, “No! Your husband is right. He will be fine. He is a clever man and will know how to deal with them, for like me he speaks their language. But we must protect the children.”
He pulled at her donkey’s reins and forced Sarah and the children to follow him quickly, Sarah constantly turning to try to see what was happening, far away now, in the path across the valley.
It took Abraham moments to return to the path and continue northward as though nothing had happened. Abraham’s heart was beating wildly. He’d met many Romans in the years since he’d returned from studying the arts of healing and medicine, and rarely had spoken more than a few curt sentences. Now he would have to use their accursed language to save his family—and himself. When the centurion on horseback was just coming into view, Abraham began to sing a song he’d learned years earlier in Rome. At the top of his voice, he sang in Latin,
“Julius was the first of his gens, a noble gentleman
Augustus followed after him, with Livia in command
Then came Tiberius, slayer of many
Though Livia ruled the land,
Not even Sejenus could save Tiberius,
Killed by Caligula, mad as a snake,
Dressed in his little boots
But who will mourn for Claudius,
Yes, who will mourn for Claudius
And who will mourn for Rome . . . ?”
He sang it so loudly that it almost filled the entire valley. He was halfway through the second verse, outlining Caligula’s evil deeds, when he stopped singing and brought his donkey to a halt on the path, waiting for the centurion to ride up to him.
“Greetings, noble centurion,” he said in a voice that was loud and firm and, he hoped, confident. “I am Abraham, a friend of Rome and personal physician to the General Titus in Jerusalem. And who might you be?”
The moment the centurion heard the name of the commander of all the forces in Israel, he became cautious. “Antonius Marcus Spurio, centurion of X Fretensis. We’re on our way to Sepphoris.”
By the time he’d told Abraham who he was, his troops had run up to where the centurion had stopped and stood there, panting and puffing, desperate for a drink after their exertion but knowing that regulations didn’t permit food or water between rest periods. The men bent over double, trying to catch their breath, supporting themselves on their spears.
“Where are you going, Abraham the doctor?” asked the centurion.
“I’m going to Caesarea Phillippi on the coast, to gather those herbs and spices that grow in abundance there, in order to cure those ailments that plague our beloved commander.”
The centurion took a flask from a pocket in his cape and looked suspiciously at Abraham. “And what ailments are those, Doctor?” he asked, a note of distrust creeping into his voice.
Abraham smiled and said in a lower voice, “A doctor doesn’t discuss with others what ails his patient.”
“Some years ago, Doctor, I attended the General Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus in Jerusalem. This was at the time when he was still pleasuring the Jewish queen, Berenice, and I was his cupbearer in services to the god Jupiter. I spoke to him once or twice, and I learned of his ailments. What particular ailments that he suffers are you treating our commander for?”
Abraham began to sweat, but it was nothing to do with the heat of the day. “Centurion,” he said, trying not to show panic in his voice but rather composure, “I have sworn by the Hippocratic oath when I learned my trade of medicine in Rome. It says in part: ‘What I may see or hear in the course of the treatment or even outside of the treatment in regard to the life of men, which on no account one must spread abroad, I will keep to myself, holding such things shameful to be spoken about.’ So I will not discuss the ailments that our commander suffers with you or anybody else.”
Abraham looked sternly up at the centurion from his lowly vantage point on his donkey. The Roman officer nodded but continued to look closely at Abraham.
“You speak Latin with a Jewish accent. You’re not dressed like a noble Roman. You’re dressed like a farmer and you’re riding a donkey. So I’m thinking to myself that you’re a Jew.”
Abraham shrugged. “Yes, I’m a Jew. But a Jew who knows how to sniff the winds of fortune, and my nose tells me that fortune lies with the Romans and not with the Jews.”
But the centurion wasn’t persuaded. As they rode south, he and his men had killed many a Jew fleeing from Jerusalem. So he asked, “Why is a Jew allowed to treat our commander? We have Roman doctors with us.”
“Because, centurion, your Roman doctors, no matter how skilled, do not know the plants that grow in this land, nor the herbs that I brew to relieve General Titus’s suffering.”
“And what herbs are these?”
“Herbs that grow on the coastal fringes of our land. We have in our land many things that are unique to this area. Your emperors wear togas fringed with the color purple. This is obtained from the crushed shells of the murex sea snail, found only on our northern shores. And there are herbs that grow nowhere else, which cure aches in the head, inflammations of the guts, and eruptions on the skin,” he said. But he could hear that his voice was becoming more and more infused with the panic that was rising inside him.
The centurion sneered. “Jew,” he said menacingly, “I have your life in my hands. I could have you killed like I’d swat a fly, throw your body into those trees over there, and nobody would miss you. Why should I believe that you’re my commander’s physician when you’ll tell me nothing except that you’re a doctor? I’ve spent the past four months killing any Jew I came across. You claim to be my commander’s friend, yet where are your fine clothes and where are your horse and servants? So I’m wondering, Jew, what kind of a healer are you who touches the sacred body of General Titus Flavius Vespasianus? You could be one of these Zealots or a common thief or murderer. Which is why I command you to tell me what ailments my commander suffers, or I’ll skewer your body like I skewer a pig before I roast it. If you value your life, Jew, you’ll forget this oath and tell me. And remember that I know my commander and what ails him.”
Abraham knew he couldn’t ride away, as he’d be run down by the centurion. Nor could he talk his way out of this hideous situation. He needed to play for time to allow his wife and childr
en to hide in the copse of trees.
“I will tell you this, centurion, to save my worthless life, but understand that in doing so I am betraying a sacred oath, and for this sin I will have to suffer the punishment of fasting for three days. Your general,” Abraham said imperiously, trying to sound as arrogant as possible, praying that his imagination had some basis in reality, “is suffering from marsh effluvia, which he contracted when he was tribune with the army in Germania. The effects are still with him, and at night he suffers pains in the gut, foul wind, and ulcerations on his foot, possibly by inadvertently stepping into some foul miasma in Britannia when he went to reinforce your legions fighting Queen Boudicca of the Iceni.”
Abraham held his breath while still staring in anger at the centurion, high up on his horse. If he’d chosen the wrong diseases, his next breath would be his last. If he’d chosen correctly, the centurion could just as easily force him back to Jerusalem and certain death. He looked steadily into the centurion’s eyes but couldn’t read the man’s mind. All the centurion did was stare down at him as though Abraham were a dog obstructing his path.
From far away, in the copse of trees, Sarah sat on her donkey, watching Abraham speaking to the Roman commander. She couldn’t hear what was said but held her breath in terror for her husband’s safety. For without him, how would they survive in this village of Peki’in? And for his part, Samuel lay on the grasses between the trees, peering at the distant scene of Abraham speaking to the Romans. Why had he done it? Why risk his life? Why hadn’t he tried to escape with his family? Was it an act of martyrdom?
* * *
November 7, 2007
ABU AHMED BIN HAMBAL bin Abdullah bin Mohammed, the imam of the village of Bayt al Gizah, sat quietly listening to the voice on the other end of the telephone. Had he not secretly met this man more than a dozen times, he would never have recognized the voice as belonging to Eliahu Spitzer, one of the most senior spies for the State of Israel. This voice sounded more like a geriatric Mickey Mouse as it was disguised through a series of filters and was beamed by covert microwave transmission signals to a satellite in geosynchronous orbit twenty-seven thousand miles above the island of Cyprus in the Mediterranean Sea; a satellite that had been decommissioned by the Israeli government a decade earlier and was no longer monitored. The voice was calm and controlled.
