The Artifact (50 page)

Shortly after the amphitheater seemed to have filled to excess capacity, the undulating din pounding our ears suddenly reached a greater crescendo as a the high notes of a hundred
tuba
⁷⁹
announced the entry of Emperor Tiberius Caesar standing with his smiling young wife in his regal chariot of emblazoned gold drawn by a dozen prancing black Arabian stallions driven by a massive charioteer in full military armor. The paunchy, balding figure waved laconically to the crowd with one hand, the vehicle rail grasped in the other. His entourage included at least fifty smaller racing chariots preceding his own, as they rolled majestically around the arena perimeter followed by seven white mares pulling as many personal chariots, a demure, waving Vestal Virgin in each.

The jabbering spectator excitement diminished from maximum volume to expectant hush when the Emperor ascended to his throne in his box. He raised his arm and voice to the sponsoring
editor
across the arena behind us: “
Ludi incipien!
.
⁸⁰
”

I had never before seen a
pompa
⁸¹
or participated in the opening event for a day of games, which is usually reserved for
bestiarii
killing wild animals, chariot races, and the mass slaughter of
noxii,
nor had I ever seen a crowd so large and so savage until that morning. The sweat was already pouring into my headband as Fabian took our weapons to the
editor
Julius Cronius for
probatio armorum
⁸²
seated out of our sight above and behind us, then inserting my double edge
pugio
in my belt, while Nubian hefted his long
scutum
and Fabian ushered us out from behind the barricade into the arena to the unrestrained yelling, screaming horde of 250,000 sadistic men, women and children around us.

We two marched across the arena side by side, massive Black
secutor
and short
retiarius
, bare toes digging into the cool, clean, early morning
harena
before the Emperor with clenched fists on our chests, shouting the tribute, “
Ave Caesar, morituri te salutamus
!
⁸³
” At which Tiberius removed his attention from a conversation with a man beside him to give us a feeble wave of his hand with a distracted nod. Nubian gave me a wan smile before lowering his helmet down over his face, then turned to jog ahead of me to center sand. I followed at a pace that would minimize my limp, and to the startling realization of the incredible chant erupting from the crowd:
“Sine missus! Sine missus! Sine missus!
⁸⁴
”

That was what Fabian seemed so guilty about! He had signed us up for a match in which the loser would be killed, regardless of the qualities most admired by that blood lusting mob, courage or
virtus
⁸⁵
. Nubian stood awaiting me to the continuing roar of the spectators, completely unaware of the fate of one of us, ready to perform in a manner he believed might spare both our lives.

I could not think what to do. If I tried to best him, he would falter and the crowd would call for me to kill him. If I held back and fell under his might, they would call for my death, which Nubian might refuse, and a team of gladiators would be loosed to kill us both. In total frustration, I began to execute our agreed strategy, shouting the Aramaic instructions that only he could hear over the cacophony from the stands.

We managed to maintain the enthusiasm of the crowd in that manner, until they tired of close calls and began calling for blood. We were both working hard at our farce under the incipient heat of the rising sun, though something had to change or the crowd would turn ugly against both of us. In apparent anticipation of that, the
editor
must have made a signal to an associate near a
carcer
e, because two mounted
hoplomachae
came trotting out from under the stands with their long javelin spears resting casually on their shoulders, without helmet or shield, circling us. Nubian realized immediately why they had come: if one of us did not make a kill very soon, the horsemen would dispatch us both. The spectators became more animated at the sight of the prancing stallions and began
s
houting the word usually reserved for a kneeling loser: “
Igula! Igula! Igula
⁸⁶
.
^.
”

There was nothing for it; yet I had to try something to keep us alive.

“Thrust!” I told him, and when he did, I moved only slightly and took his sword point in my upper arm. A moderate ovation went up from the stands, yet clearly they were in the mood for more than a bleeding gash from this highly publicized contest.

“Helmet,” I yelled, and flung my net at his head, which he did not move, actually tangling himself more thoroughly in it by straining back as he fell to the ground, dropping his sword. The

crowd was now fully animated, screaming, “Habet! Hoc habet!
⁸⁷
”

My obvious move was to kill my entrapped opponent with trident or dagger, but I stood there holding him firmly in the net, my mind a total blank. The crowd began yelling again for the kill, a quarter-million fists jabbing thumbs in the air, screaming me to action as I stared down at Nubian who had removed his helmet, struggled to his knees, wrapping his arms around my legs as he exposed his neck for my knife.

I jerked the
pugio
from my belt and slashed the wrist cord to the net, pulled away from Nubian, letting my dagger slip from my fingers to the ground. The crowd was in a frenzy, screaming for a double kill, just as one of the
hoplomachae
loosed his spear from horseback in a low arc sinking into the back of the Nubian’s neck, out his throat, imbedding the tip in the ground beneath him, its stout shaft holding that poor man in his kneeling position beneath my net, lifeless, arms dangling, dripping blood into the scuffed sand.

I quick-stepped to my left as I turned to face the spear already airborne from the arm of the second
hoplomachae
,
pure instinct raising my trident to slam the spear aside as it flew a hand’s width from my head.

The fickle voices in the stands screamed their delight at the attempt of a doomed man battling certain death as several gladiators ran onto the sand. My mind was filled with anger as I grabbed Nubian’s sword and long shield, determined to take as many of those brutes with me before falling under one of their lethal blades. I crouched and waited as they formed a circle, planning to move on me from all sides at once to dispatch me quickly, when of sudden, the repeated notes of a single trumpet called my assailants to halt, their attention turned to look for a new signal from the
editor.

I also cast my eyes for the first time at the abominable wretch who had caused the death of my simple Nubian, as he would my own. The crowd growled in wonder at this turn of events, half of them still urging my murder, the other impressed by my tenacity. The
editor
was a tall man with a full head of dark hair, wearing the purple toga of the Senate, standing with outstretched arm in the sign for his gladiators to lay down their swords and let me live. The spectators continued to murmur their ambivalence until a woman with long black hair, wearing a bright saffron
stolae
stood beside the
editor
to match his signal: Tanya! Her sarcastic grin aimed directly at me, a protective arm around a seven or eight-year-old boy with a head of tightly curled orange-red hair.

“My God! Oh, my God!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Nazarat, Palestine

3781
Cheshvan
(CE 35 October)

It is not easy to be a Jew. Hard enough on our own, trying to observe the perennial dictates of the Torah, the daily prayers and rituals, dietary laws, plus countless restrictions and prohibitions. We seem to devote an inordinate time attempting to interpret the ancient dictates of religious law to exhaustion, so that it is a minor miracle that there are any hours left for profitable endeavor. No wonder we are stricken by poverty and oppression. Our lot is especially difficult among Gentiles. My first encounter of the latter was during my childhood association with Vespasian, which required a constant subterfuge with my family, particularly James and Yehoshua; then my years of total immersion in the pagan world of hedonistic Romans.

Why other religions attempt to prevent us from following ours is beyond my ken. To my knowledge we have never imposed restrictions on any other manner of worship or initiated wars against other nations because of it. When forced to associate or conduct commerce with different peoples, we are accused of sharp trading practices, usury, selling at inflated prices, monopolizing trade segments such as lending money and the sale of precious gems. Is their criticism built on their own incompetence, sloth or envy? If their complaints were successful in routing us from commerce, would they not seek to replace us to conduct business in the same way? For a race favored by Yahweh, we are certainly a beleaguered tribe. Why have our roads been laid up steep mountains when lesser, pagan nations prosper on the plains below? Where is the messiah promised in the inspired writings of our holy ancestors? When will we find relief from constant drudgery and oppression? Why do our fervent prayers and sacrifices fall on the apparently closed ears of our revered God?

These thoughts and unanswerable questions plagued my mind on my journey south through Italia and across the
Mare Magnum Veinternum
⁸⁸
in a merchant galleon to Haifa, where I purchased a young black mare I named Nubia to ride to Nazarat. Those imponderable considerations left me for a time as I embraced my mother, first making an effort to temper her elation at my unexpected return, then calm her distress at my scared visage. Once her near-hysteria had been assuaged, though it was mid-afternoon, she insisted on preparing a meal for me, as she attempted to extract my every action during every hour of my seven-year absence, both of which, I have learned, are common traits of the female gender.

Before launching into a somewhat improvised account of my absence, Mother gave me the sad news that Father had died three years before, apparently succumbing to a lifelong weariness and his advanced age of fifty-seven years. My sister Sarah had married a merchant from Zefat where they lived with their two children. Rifka had wed a sandal-maker in Shefar’am some ten months before, who had made her with child during the previous summer. And Mary was away with Yehoshua, after being widowed by a baker in Magdala some three years previous, who had been unable to give her children.

Since I knew the truth would cause her great consternation for the remainder of her days, I explained away my absence by telling her I had been conscripted into the Roman army as a scribe to a fictitious general, who allowed me to ride from campaign to campaign in a supply wagon because of my leg and never required me to enter into battle. The scar on my face, I lied, was a great embarrassment due to the fact that I received the wound when I fell asleep on the back of the wagon and fell off onto a sharp plate on the metal road outside the city of Athens.

I had been home for six weeks feeling restless and uncomfortable. Mother told me that Yehoshua had returned from exile in Nicosia several months before and had not resumed Father’s carpentry trade, claiming he had a calling to preach the word of God. I rode into Sepphoris to see if I could regain some of the carpentry customers we had worked for in the past, only to learn that Father had the good reputation and I was only a boy then. During my long absence and since Father’s death, his customers had established other trade relationships.

While in Sepphoris, I decided to ride by the home of Yentl and Steven, with no intention of cuckolding that good man again after he gave me the honest advice that I did not take. When I saw that the house was empty, I inquired of a neighbor to learn that Steven had died some years ago and his widow had moved to a new address. I was surprised that the location specified was in a marginal, if not unsavory, section of the city, yet quelled my hesitation, spurred my mount, and shortly arrived at a square where Vespasian and his friends were wont to carouse in their youth. Obviously, the woman had fallen on hard times, and I almost continued past her humble dwelling to save her the embarrassment of my visit. That was the old Shimon, I realized, who had resumed his youthful discretion and deference upon his return to Judea. I reined in Nubia with an audible laugh, turned back to her house and gave the rickety front door a thorough beating with my fist.

The familiar feline voice from within was as bold as my knock. “Why don’t you break the walls in while you are about it!”

The portal burst inward, and that lovely ferocious Jewess looked as dangerous as the big cats I had seen on the sands. “I would break down the gates of hell to get at you, pretty woman!”

“Shimon!”

She leapt at me like the cat I had imagined, leaning down to my height, throwing her arms around my neck as I twirled her about on the threshold, screaming and laughing ourselves to tears. After a brief introduction to her daughter of five years, she escorted that inquisitive pixie next door to spend the night at the home of a neighbor with a child who was a playmate of Yentl’s daughter, Hezibia.

There was no need to dissemble with Yentl, so after a prolonged romp on her thick pallet, we lit lamps, dined on olives, bread and wine, telling each other all, my first conscious mental journey through those horrible years of enslavement, the nights of absolute terror, the forced murder of my fellow human beings, including several men in my
familia
with whom I had lived and eaten, commiserated our fate and contemplated suicide, minimizing the immutable blood stains on my own hands.