The Artifact (38 page)

Elizabeth was seated at her loom under the awning extending from their front door, our cousin Bielke spooling raw linen beside her. They had seen the riders also and sat motionless awaiting their arrival.

“We must run to fetch father,” I said. “The tax man will take every last dinari he can find, plus half their belongings.”

“Stay here,” Yehoshua said, picking from the ground the broad, double-bladed ax, “I will see to this.” He started running down the hill with smooth, giant strides, through the tall grass toward the house. They will thrash him, I thought, my legs moving to follow, seemingly against my will.

Even at my young age, I knew that publicans who collected taxes levied by Rome were the most visible cause of our indigence, despised by already impoverished farmers, tradesmen and peasants. I had witnessed the greed of those fellow Jews in confiscating a neighbor’s property, tools and livestock in lieu of the monetary tax. Years ago father was been beaten for his inability to pay his assessment. They had burned the home of a farmer on the outskirts of Nazarat Illit. The daughter of a destitute winemaker was raped before his eyes by soldiers enforcing the levies, then

taken away in slavery for the publican’s fee.

By the time I had reached Elizabeth’s home, Yehoshua was speaking to the collector

perched on a thick colorful rug astride his horse. A civilian assistant was seated on the driving board of a four-wheel ass-drawn cart half full of household possessions. Beside the cart, a menacing legionnaire with dull, slanted eyes sat astride a spavined cavalry gelding. The soldier was armed with a lance grasped casually by the shaft, a short sword in leather scabbard at his waist and
scutum
¹²
strapped to his back. I moved in next to my aunt and cousin who were cowering off to the side holding their veils across their lower faces.

“Then the matter is simple,” the publican said, his face flushed with anger. “If you do not pay the tax you owe, we will search your home, take the
dinarii
¹³
we find and whatever of value I deem to serve as partial payment.”

“Be on your way,” Yehoshua told him. “My uncle will pay when he returns.”

“Zakrid,” the publican said, “search the house.”

The man on the wagon dismounted and started toward the door until Yehoshua stepped before him hefting the ax in his right hand to bar the man’s progress.

The publican turned to the guard shouting, “Run him through!”

The women screamed as the burly horseman spurred his mount, charging with his spear held above his shoulder, aimed at my brother’s bare chest. Yehoshua swung the ax up to deflect the lance with such force that it spun from the guard’s hand, twirling end over end in the air to land some distance down the path behind him. In almost the same motion, Yehoshua swung the flat of the ax blade against the side of his assailant’s head as the horse trotted by, the guard toppling to earth like a sack of barley.

“Go, now,” Yehoshua told the collector, “and there will be no more trouble.”

The publican’s eyes bulged in outrage as he spurred his horse toward Yehoshua with raised

sword. My brother compressed his lips, shaking his head, stepping aside the inept thrust as he

parried the blade with his ax glinting through the air in the bright sunlight. I stood aghast as the collector’s sword dropped to the ground still clutched in the severed wrist and hand that lay in the dust like a dead fish. The horse stopped with the publican still seated slack-jawed, mouthing unintelligible epithets, his eyes bulging at the stream of blood pouring from his stump that was beginning to attract buzzing flies. I noticed also a surprised look on the flushed face of my brother. Because he refused to speak of it ever again, I will never know if he simply intended to knock the sword from the collector’s grasp in our defense or bring his ax down on the man’s arm as it happened.

The publican and his assistant had turned into statues. “Tie a rope around his arm,” Yehoshua told the assistant, “and get out of here.” Then he turned to the dazed collector. “You will pay their tax this year from your own coffers for the trouble you caused. If you ever come back here to demand your commission, they will need to tie a rope around your neck to stop the bleeding.”

The publican screamed as the driver tightened the rope around his forearm. When he had finished, Yehoshua and I helped him drag the unconscious soldier into the back of the wagon.

“Do I make myself clear?” Yehoshua asked the collector.

The publican stared at his hand on the ground with a look of horror.

“Yes, your honor,” the assistant said, touching his forelock. “I will repeat your words when he is able to comprehend them with a clear mind.” Then the man placed his employer’s hand and sword in the cart with the soldiers spear and led the unfortunate little caravan down the path.

Father could not contain his own anger that evening at supper when Yehoshua confessed his actions

of that morning, but had no answer to my question regarding alternatives. My father had fifty-six

years of his age at that instance, and I realized for the first time that he looked tired, like the old man

that he was.

During those weeks following Yehoshua’s confrontation with the collector of taxes, father refused several offers of employment, concerned that the handless publican would return with legionnaires to exact punitive retribution on our family. Yehoshua also occasionally went to Aunt Elizabeth’s home to learn if our relatives had experienced subsequent visits or threats from Roman soldiers.

Despite those feared reprisals, preparations for Yehoshua’s marriage to Rebekah continued on schedule. The women of both households ran from place to place and task to task with such excitement that their feet often seemed not to touch the ground. Food was prepared according

to tradition, Sarah Rifkin and Mary designated to bustle around town from home to home of family friends inviting them to the momentous occasion; James came back from Jerusalem to officiate; I was pressed into service to provide game for the wedding feast; all in all, total chaos reigned.

In the midst of those frantic preparations, we were all cutting small trees not far from our home, father working a short distance apart from my brother and me, when I noticed a tall man with clipped beard, wearing a hooded robe of dark color standing holding the reins of his mount at the crest of an incline to the left of the meadow.

“Who could that be?” I asked Yehoshua, who was cutting branches from a straight young oak he had just felled.

Yehoshua stood up, gazed at the man in silence for several moments, then dropped his adz. “Stay here,” he said, as he walked off toward the stranger. I gazed at my brother, who had seventeen years that summer as he greeted the tall stranger with familiarity, speaking as an equal with the slightly older man, both the same height, apparently engaged in some disagreement from which Yehoshua abruptly turned and walked back to pick up his adz, resumed his work with a

vengeance, ignoring my curiosity in silence until I too was slashing branches from a felled log with

similarly punitive blows.

Father had seemed more preoccupied that summer than he had been previously, constantly distracted from his work, shading his eyes with his hand to look down the caravan road. I knew that Yehoshua had also noticed father’s absence of mind, and during our mid-day food break after the bearded stranger had ridden away, pulled father aside under the shade of a broad oak where they shared a cool flagon of water. I sat down on the grass behind them, remaining quiet.

“Father, I know you do not fear the publican,” Yehoshua said, “but are concerned for the safety of our home and family.”

My father’s ire at his son’s aggressive behavior at Aunt Elizabeth’s home had tempered with time. “It is not your fault. I might have done the same given your youth and size.”

publican and tried to enlist me in his cause. Which I refused.”

Father became agitated. “
Sicarii
?”

“Zealots
¹⁴
at any rate. He has offered us protection from retribution by the Romans.”

Father shook his head in disagreement, apprehensive for our family, yet apparently bemused, unable to suggest alternative action.

The words popped out of my mouth before I could stop them. “What are
Sicarii
?”

approach again.”

“Judah is thought to lead a group of peasant rebels against the Romans, extreme religious Zealots, some of which are called
Sicarii
,” Yehoshua told me, “or Daggermen. They disrupt public gatherings and attempt to instill fear among Romans, sympathetic Pharisees and others who support their rule.”

“Why are they called Daggermen?”

“Because one of their methods of revolt is to infiltrate vast numbers of people assembled to hear proclamations or other Roman sponsored events. They pull a dagger from beneath their robes and stab Roman sympathizers to death if possible, then mingle with the crowd and flee.”

“Murderers!” father exclaimed.

Yehoshua acknowledged the word with a grim nod, continuing his explanation. “Sometimes a reckless few will storm the home of a Roman administrator or wealthy Jewish apologist for their rule, kill the male family members and set fire to the house.”

I was mesmerized, excited by the boldness of retribution against our military oppressors, while also appalled, thinking of the potential danger to Vespasian’s family that had been so kind to me.

Father said, “Such behavior is contrary to our tradition and the very laws of our religion

we are trying to preserve and obey.”

I had never heard this subject discussed in our family before, much less known of a gang of brigands who would offer to thwart revenge on our family by the Romans for Yehoshua wounding the publican. “What will we do if the tax collector returns with soldiers?”

“They will be opposed.”

“Oh, yes,” father said derisively, “then descend upon us with an entire
cohort
¹⁵
.”

We sat together resting against a tree in silence for several moments. “We all wish to be

free from the oppression of the Romans and their minions,” father said. “But we are powerless to become so.”

“Possibly,” Yehoshua said. “We are not powerless to act.”

Father left us to return to his shop. The disturbed expression on Yehoshua’s countenance suddenly vanished as Rebekah came into view through the dappled sunlight and saplings at the crest of a hill to the east, her long coarse hair of black curls gathered by a red ribbon lay upon her shoulder, the curves of her woman/child’s body defined by the plaited leather belt around her ankle-length robe swinging from her hips. Her radiant smile beamed at Yehoshua from the distance, black eyes fixed upon his, their love an almost tactile emotion between them as she approached to lean into his embrace, their lips brushing quickly, then stepping apart in deference to my intrusive presence.

“Good day, Shimon,” she said, handing me a packet of food from the satchel she carried without taking her eyes from her betrothed. “I broiled the fat rabbit you shot yesterday and saved the juices for you to dip your bread.”

I accepted the midday repast, setting out beyond a copse of birch to eat my meal while brother and Rebekah arranged a canvas on which to recline and consume their own. I had never observed the intimate relationship between a loving couple, so the caring affection that was clearly evident between these two was not only surprising, but disturbing. My mother and father were always cordial and polite to one another, engaging in minor differences of opinions, of course, but never adversaries. Nor did they ever demonstrate the consuming love I realized existed between my brother and his wife to be. Were the cooled embers of my parents’ existence the result of familiarity, bearing and providing for children, hard work and the burden of poverty over the years? Or had their own fathers and mothers betrothed them, strangers before their wedding, compelled to

cohabit at the will of their mortal parents and the laws of Yahweh? Perhaps their disparity in age,

which was never discussed or adequately explained, caused a certain distance between them.

Neither did other husbands and wives I saw together in town, around their homes, at synagogue or other gatherings demonstrate public affection toward one another that I could discern. In fact, I often noticed animosity between older husbands and wives, which was decidedly not the case with my parents. Perhaps that is the best most of us can hope for in marriage: a calm, friendly bond with minimal friction.

I finished my meal, lay back in the soft grass and closed my eyes against the rays of the sun penetrating the leaves and branches overhead. Tanya was the first girl who had ever quickened my blood beyond my interest in touching their soft, alluring teats. She presented a challenge of mind that I had never found in any of the Jewish girls I had known. Many had greater beauty, but for some inexplicable reason, none possessed the physical attraction of that provocative, nubile Roman temptress. Our meeting in the woods recalled the seductive half-woman, half-bird sirens of Greek mythology who lured sailors to their death from a rocky island. Like those doomed seamen, I felt equally compelled to pursue a course to an impossible goal. In my fantasy, I conjured up a dream in which my lovely Roman goddess and I would leave our respective antagonistic worlds to live together in some remote land in connubial bliss. For my own part, the ways of women learned that