On its roof some three hundred children gathered. But the striking part of the crowd was the old men and women, come to the cave for mystic reasons, shouting and praying in the steaming sunlight. Some were camped on the ground and had been there for two days. Some sheltered themselves under eaves of the condemned building, while thousands of others milled back and forth, listening to anguished speeches in which old men reviewed the life of Elijah and the low state into which Sephardi Jews had fallen. It was a wild, mournful, gay, beer-drinking mob, but its inner significance could be appreciated only when Shulamit led Cullinane into the cave itself, a deep, plastered cavern that looked more like a subterranean room than a cave. It was jammed with the maximum number of people—perhaps five hundred—perspiring hideously in the dank air, lighting thousands of candles in the prophet’s hiding place, and bowing their heads for blessings from the various rabbis and holy men who clustered inside, breathing not air but some strange mixture of ozone, piety and religious frenzy. Cullinane had always thought that only Catholics indulged in priestly blessings, but now Shulamit knelt before one of the purple-clothed rabbis and kissed his hand, which he then placed on her head, giving her Elijah’s blessing, while in another corner a group of ten men formed themselves into a congregation, listening to an eleventh who conducted formal prayer services, perspiring, jostling, drowned out by the haunting war cries of some women at the entrance.
“What has happened to our beloved Sephardim?” a man in still another corner shouted, while in the center a group of women from Morocco sang and beat on drums precisely like the ones which had been used at Makor four thousand years before. The music was wild and imperative and four little girls danced beautifully, throwing their arms in the air and captivating the men, including Cullinane, as Jewish girls had done for generations out of mind.
“Where are the great Sephardim?” the man in the corner lamented, and the women at the entrance repeated their mournful cries as pilgrims lighted their candles in the murky cave.
At dinner that night a much-sobered Cullinane sat silent. Tabari explained, “He got caught up in the celebration at Elijah’s Cave.”
“How’d he do that?” Eliav asked, as if the Irishman were not present.
“He wandered into the Sephardi synagogue at Akko,” the Arab laughed.
“Pretty soon we’ll halt this wretched business of Ashkenazi and Sephardi,” Eliav said stubbornly. “It started only because the Jews were driven out of their homeland by Vespasian and forced into separate groups. Now that we’re reunited we’ll soon be one again.” And Cullinane, looking up, saw to his surprise that the tall Ashkenazi was speaking seriously and believed what he said.
• • •
In the spring of 67 C.E., when Vespasian, Titus and Trajan were bearing down upon Makor, the olive worker Yigal was fifty-three years old, still employed at the olive press and still a man of little significance in the community. His three sons were married and his principal joy was in playing with his eleven grandchildren, sitting on the steps of the Venus temple as they ran back and forth across the forum.
In Makor, Yigal’s earlier success in protecting Judaea from the statues of Caligula had won him no lasting honor and he was considered by his neighbors to be an honest, simple-minded man skilled neither in business nor in government. He was a respected member of the synagogue, prayed regularly and sought no distinctions in the religious hierarchy of the Jews. In his older years he had become slightly stooped and his frail frame now seemed gaunt where before it had been spare. His hair was thin and gray and his shaven cheeks were hollow. His gray-green eyes often contained the hint of a smile, and he lived happily with his wife Beruriah, showing no envy for the more successful members of his community who were always going off to important meetings in Jerusalem or Caesarea.
By a curious chance it was his companion Naaman, the farmer, who had succeeded Simeon as head of the community, and if one had asked a dozen citizens of Makor who had been the hero of the resistance against the Romans a quarter of a century before, all would have replied, “Rab Naaman. He marched to Ptolemais and warned General Petronius not to bring graven images into Judaea.” It was understandable that Naaman should be so remembered, for when Yigal returned from that penetrating experience he was able to forget it and to resume his life as an olive worker; Naaman on the other hand had come home transformed by the miracle he had seen God perform. Without hesitating, and without seeking counsel even from his wife, he had abandoned at the age of thirty-eight the life of a farmer and had surrendered himself into the hands of cautious old Simeon, saying to that learned man, “Make me a scholar, that I may understand the ways of God.” For many years this uneducated farmer had memorized the holy books, had argued their precepts and had transformed himself into a learned sage with a real vocation for religious leadership. He was now, at the age of sixty-five, a venerable old man with a white beard, a muffled voice and clear blue eyes. Throughout the Galilee his wisdom was respected and many from distant villages sought his solutions to the problems that confronted them. He was a learned man and the Jews called him “Rab.”
He had retained a sort of friendship with Yigal, whom he recognized as one of the stable Jews in Makor, but it would never have occurred even to him to put Yigal into any position of eminence, for whereas Naaman had grown into a new man with new responsibilities, Yigal had remained what he would always be: an honest workman who interfered with no one. In fact, had one been seeking the typical Jew of the Galilee he might have selected Yigal: devout, quiet, dedicated to his family and secure in his relationship to God.
But in the spring of 67 even such phlegmatic Jews were worried. For nearly a year the nation had been in rebellion against Rome, for Judaea had determined to accept no more abuse from its rulers. In response to Roman provocation Jews had revolted in Jerusalem and slain the garrison and had ravaged other areas, and in retaliation the Romans had killed twenty thousand Jews in Caesarea and fifty thousand in Alexandria, the capital of Egypt. Even in a smaller city like Ptolemais two thousand had been slain and darkness hovered over the land. Through the valleys of the Galilee armed bands swept at will, first Jew, then Roman, then zealot, and finally mere brigands, killing and plundering most barbarously.
Because of its effective wall Makor was spared the violence of this period and it was the hope of Rab Naaman that the little town would continue doing so until such time as Emperor Nero’s troops appeared bringing order to the district. Makor would then offer its allegiance to Rome, stupid governors would be withdrawn and conditions would be stabilized. In fact, it could be said that Rab Naaman was impatient for the coming of the legions.
But in his plans he did not take into account his friend Yigal, for to Naaman’s surprise the olive grower said at a meeting in the synagogue, “Again we must withstand the might of Rome.” When hecklers asked what nonsense he was speaking, he explained, “You either protect God or you don’t.”
Rab Naaman intervened and said, “We must not oppose Rome, for it is her duty to put down this Jerusalem revolt. I promise you that when she has done so we’ll have peace as before. Jews will live in religious liberty under kings assigned by Rome.”
“There will be no liberty,” Yigal said. “Bit by bit they will consume us.”
“What does this man know of public matters?” Naaman asked through his venerable beard. “Has he met with the Romans at Caesarea? Does he know the evil our side has done in Jerusalem?”
“I know only that the fate of our land lies in the balance,” the stubborn little olive grower said. “I know that if we do not resist now we shall be hauled as slaves from Makor. We must resist Rome.”
Throughout the debate, which encompassed many days in late March, Yigal refrained from alluding to the success he had known in opposing Roman power a quarter of a century before, for he recognized that the two conditions were different: then Rome had sought merely to import statues of a demented emperor and the armies could with honor retreat from such nonsense; but this
time the legions had come to punish an armed rebellion, and once Vespasian marched out of Ptolemais it would not be easy to coax him back. Acknowledging the gravity of the situation Yigal engaged in no cheap demagoguery such as crying, “We turned them back twenty-five years ago and we can do it again.” Instead, he spoke as an honest farmer, beseeching his townsmen to face the situation before them.
“If we can resist Vespasian here in Makor, we may force him to reconsider.”
But Naaman countered, “I’ve been warned by a merchant from Ptolemais that Vespasian already has three legions there, the Fifth, Tenth and Fifteenth.”
“Three Roman legions are a terrible force,” Yigal conceded, “but two hundred years ago in this town Jews like us finally had to defend themselves against Antiochus Epiphanes, and under the leadership of Judah the Maccabee they succeeded.”
“Who will lead us this time?” Naaman asked contemptuously.
“A leader is always found,” Yigal said.
“Do you know what three Roman legions mean?” Naaman pressed. “They could crush Makor like an almond shell. Our only chance is to surrender and to trust in their compassion.”
Stubbornly Yigal argued, “When evil thunders down upon a town there is only one thing to do. Resist. We have food. We have walls and we have water. I say resist.”
The Jews of Makor, whose lives depended upon the outcome of this debate, wanted to know why a mild man like Yigal suddenly wanted to oppose the armed might of Rome, and in a quiet voice, fumbling for words and exact expressions, the farmer explained, “You know me as a man of peace. My desire has been to see my grandchildren marry so that I might live with four generations in this town. I don’t know enough to seek office, and Rab Naaman takes care of the synagogue. I don’t want to oppose Rome, but Rome insists upon opposing me.”
“Rab Naaman says that once they punish the zealots in Jerusalem, they’ll go back home and leave us in peace. What about that?”
“He may be right,” Yigal admitted. “But I think they’ll stay. And wipe out our faith.”
“What do you want, Yigal?”
“What do I want? To be a Jew. Why do I say, ‘Fight Rome’? Because if we don’t we’ll be forced into other faiths. Why am I so stubborn? Because if we can make Rome respect us, we have a chance to remain Jews.”
“Then you think we should fight?”
The perspiring farmer wiped his forehead, for it was no trivial question this man had asked: Should an unimportant town try to resist three Roman legions? Squaring himself he said, “Yes. We should fight.”
Then Rab Naaman rose, speaking through his beard with the force of a wise old man, and he said deprecatingly to the citizens, “You and I know Yigal as an honest farmer. Where olive oil is concerned, we respect his judgment. But of Rome he knows nothing. He cannot imagine what a modern legion is like. Macedonia, which swept Europe. Fretensis, which humbled Asia. And he wants us to fight Apollinaris of Egypt as well.” The audience began to laugh as Rab Naaman marched three long fingers of his right hand through the air. Then, with a voice that breathed authority, he said, “We’ll surrender to Vespasian before he reaches the walls. And your children and mine will live in peace with the Romans.” And this was the procedure agreed upon.
Ashamed of his neighbors Yigal followed old Naaman home, and when the two men sat together in a room filled with parchments the olive worker asked, “Rab Naaman? Why do you forget the valor we once showed?”
“Because a quarter of a century has passed, and I have learned wisdom,” the old man said.
“You’ve learned cowardice.”
This was an insult which ordinarily the rab would have resented, but tonight the old scholar ignored it. “You’re thinking of Makor, but I’m thinking about the future of the Jews,” he explained, speaking slowly, for he wanted Yigal to grasp his reasoning. “We live in an age when Rome can eliminate us … erase us from Judaea forever. Yigal, do you know what that means?”
“I only know that we are faced with the destruction of our religion. Worship graven images? Strange gods? These abominations I can’t accept.”
The old man nodded. “You’re right. We are faced with the loss of our religion, but not if we stay here. But if the Romans move us from this land … There’ll be no synagogue in the land of our slavery. We’re in terrible peril, Yigal, and you want to fight over a little farm.”
“God lives on a little farm,” Yigal said.
Rab Naaman bowed. He supposed that if God were a farmer, a small olive grove would be most precious to Him, but he also knew that this was not the question under discussion. “Like Gomer, I am afraid that if we Jews are driven from Israel we’ll forget Jerusalem,” he said. “We’ll break into groups. In exile we’ll be Jews no more, and God will be alone with no people to adore Him. Our only responsibility now is to stay together … to keep our foothold in Eretz Israel.” Then he added in a low voice, “And to protect our foothold in Eretz Israel, the land of Abraham, I will accept any indignity from the Romans.”
“Even Nero as a god?”
Aware of the terrible thing he was about to utter, Rab Naaman lowered his voice and confessed, “To save the Jews I would accept even Nero … as a god … but not in my heart.”
“I would accept him never,” Yigal said, and he left the rab.
The gulf between the two men was now too great to be bridged. Throughout Makor, Yigal preached the necessity for resistance, but old Naaman moved persuasively from house to house, explaining the idiocy of the olive farmer’s position. “Macedonia, Fretensis, Apollinaris,” he recited, and the musical names struck terror into the hearts of the Jews.
Rab Naaman would have prevailed and the conflict with Rome would have been avoided had not one of the most extraordinary Jews of all time stormed into Makor—hot and dusty from a long march and accompanied by a cadre of picked assistants willing to undertake any assignment. The newcomer was Josephus, appointed by Jerusalem to govern the Galilee, a man only twenty-nine years old, descended from those Maccabean patriots who had won Jewish freedom from Antiochus Epiphanes, and a priest of the highest order, a scholar trained in Greek, a habitué of the imperial court in Rome, and one of the finest writers the Jewish nation would ever produce. Striding like a young god into the middle of the Roman forum, he cried, “From this town we will hurl back the Romans.” He looked at the walls approvingly and shouted, “Men of Makor! You have been chosen!”
Within a few hours he persuaded the citizens that Yigal’s plan to fight Rome was sound, and the mob swung from Naaman’s counsel of reasoned surrender to one of impulsive belligerency. “As general in charge of the north, I tell you that if we oppose Vespasian with all our power, the Roman legions can never dislodge us.” The crowd continued to cheer, and before the cautious warnings of Rab Naaman could be voiced, Josephus had divided the citizens into military units, had appointed his captains, had sent Yigal like a lackey to bring all available olive oil from the press, and was identifying new constructions that would strengthen the walls. Houses whose sides projected above the walls were given two severe tests by Josephus: Could their roofs support fighters? Could their sides resist Roman siege engines? If they failed either test he said simply, “Tear them down.”
To the homeless ones from outside the walls Josephus said, “Sleep in the Roman temples. We are at war.” When these matters were settled late in the afternoon, he turned to Yigal and explained, “We’ve chosen to meet the Romans at Makor because we know you have hidden water. I’d like to see it.” So Yigal led the fiery young leader down the shaft, through the sloping David Tunnel and to the well, where to his surprise Josephus looked not at the sparkling water, clear even by the light of flares, but at the roof.
What’s he interested in the roof for? Yigal asked himself.
“Solid?” Josephus asked, tapping the ceiling with a piece of broken water jug.
“Very thick.”
“Good,” the young general said, and he led the way back to town. At the shaft he w
ent up the exposed flight of stairs as swiftly as if he were an athlete, while Yigal trailed behind.
Wherever Josephus moved in the next few days his energy was infectious. On the wall he convinced the workmen that they could build a little faster, a little higher, and he helped them do both. With the women who were passing stones from the dismantled houses he joked, and soon had them laughing. He inspected all water cisterns to see that they were filled and announced that each house must in addition keep jugs of fresh water available in case of fire or the Romans’ taking the well. He even went to the synagogue to persuade Rab Naaman and the old scholars that Makor was doing right in resisting the Romans, and although he had no success with Naaman, he was not surprised when he cajoled the other bearded leaders to support him. On the eve of battle there was hope in Makor, generated by this charismatic young general, and the town went to bed on the night of April 4 satisfied that it had a chance of withstanding the legions.
Two citizens of Makor failed to be impressed. The first was Rab Naaman, who sat alone in the synagogue reflecting on the days ahead and praying: “Almighty God, Your children are about to launch a war which few understand and into which they have stumbled blindly. Destruction is upon us and the scattering of tribes. O God, protect us in the years ahead, and if the Romans are to be the new conquerors after the Egyptians, Assyrians and Babylonians, let us find some way to exist as prisoners within their camps.”
And Yigal, in spite of the support which Josephus had given him, also viewed with suspicion the sweeping success of the adventurer, for he saw in the young general many things he did not like: the man’s energy was vulgar; his enthusiasm was of constant force, regardless of the subject; he acted as if he could persuade any man to his conviction, if only he could talk with him long enough; like a clever Greek he could marshal facts to support any position he had taken; and his desire to see the well and to inspect the roof was in some unspecified way suspicious. With apprehensons of disaster, where he had once had hope, Yigal walked through the evening twilight on this last day of peace and entered the small home where Beruriah, their three sons, their wives and the eleven grandchildren were waiting, and there he placed about his shoulders a white woolen shawl in which he conducted family prayers: “Almighty God, we are about to fight on Your behalf, but I am worried. When I tried to explain this war on Your simple terms nobody understood, but now everybody’s ready to follow the young general who gives them no reasons at all. They go to war not from faith but from arrogance, and without appreciating the consequences. Father and director of our destinies, guide us. Let every person in this room gird his courage for the days ahead.” He prayed in silence for some moments, and in the quiet room his wife imagined that she could hear the tramp of Roman feet. She, better even than her husband, realized that Yigal had sought to enlist his townspeople upon a holy mission, and they had refused to comprehend what he was talking about: the defense of their faith, no less. But under the influence of General Josephus they were willing to engage the Romans in an act of plotless warfare, the end of which could only be death. She bowed her head and echoed her husband’s prayer: “In the days ahead let us have courage.” And in the small room the nineteen members of this family prayed that as good Jews they might prove faithful to their God. When darkness came they did not light their lamps, nor did they put away the dishes, but they prayed as a unit, and when the babies fell asleep they were placed on the floor, and all remained in the room.
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