Authors: Jack Quinn
In retribution for this practice, Titus crucified any captured Jew, whether nighttime assassin, civilian stealing food or deserter, eventually binding five-hundred Jews a day to horizontal branches on the trunks of trees in view of our parapets, until there were more crosses standing outside our mottled walls than trees in the forest, at which juncture executions in that manner had to cease. Our surroundings without the Temple walls were desolate to the eye, with the barren landscape in the foreground, the tents and figures of tens of thousands of Roman soldiers and their ubiquitous engines of war beyond. Enemy arrows delivered fiery, oil-soaked fleece to enflame buildings from which a hazy effluvium constantly emanated, adding to the stench of excrement and rotting bodies piled one on the other in heaps in alleys within, or thrown over the walls to lie in rot, an abomination to our sensibilities and religion, with no possible alternatives.
After the damnable burning of our food supplies, our rebel soldiers, 600,000 residents, and pilgrims who came for the Passover holy days began a forced starvation that turned them into the most unconscionable of scavengers. Having eaten their sandals, belts and accessories of leather, individuals and roving cliques accosted anyone suspected of possessing a morsel of food, killing brethren for a crust of bread. One band of Zealots reportedly broke into the home of a wealthy woman of high lineage when they smelled a cooking roast, and pulling the meat from the spit, they realized they were holding the half-cooked body of her infant child.
Many people tried to escape the city and certain death by starvation or equally horrific execution or enslavement after eventual enemy conquest. One unfortunate group fleeing their fate within came to another macabre end outside the walls at the hands of mercenaries who believed the bolting Jews had swallowed precious gems and gold to preserve them from thieves, and sliced open their stomachs to get them. To his credit and probably his father’s, when Titus was informed of this travesty, he executed an entire unit of his own auxiliary.
For my own part, I managed to secure a stockpile of food which kept starvation at bay among my own band by acquiring the battle dress, helmets and armor of Roman soldiers we had killed on nocturnal sorties. One such escapade was conducted under a half-f moon, when some twenty of my contingent dressed as Roman legionnaires crawled through the Valley Gate until the Hinnom depression, from which I marched them straight into the enemy camp addressing posted guards in near perfect Latin--better, surely, than that of most auxiliaries from the provinces. We found a grain and flour warehouse where I showed an inscribed parchment to the illiterate sergeant in charge, then peremptorily ordered his pack mules to be loaded with as many sacks of food as they could bear. I signed for the lot and we returned within the walls of the City. That adventure almost caused renewed dissention among our rebel leaders, until my men guarding the food cache were forced to slay five rebels intent on thievery. After that, their leaders ordered an end to such further attempts, which reduced, at least, the frequency of attacks on our stores.
By the month of
Av
the enemy had broached the Antonia Tower, and almost all rebel factions had retreated within the grounds of the Temple. From a military standpoint, that massive building was a well-fortified complex which Titus allegedly recognized as a sacred edifice renowned for its beauty, history and tradition throughout most of the civilized world. The Roman General, therefore, initially rejected the recommendation of his commanders to breach the Temple walls as they would any imposing fortification. But following yet another refused opportunity to surrender and our subsequent violent opposition to Roman forays scaling the ramparts, Titus ordered his officers to a relentless attack, wherein thousands of rebels, civilians, women and children climbed on the last standing Temple roof which the Romans burned to the ground, cremating every last soul.
My division fought arm to arm with the Temple defenders and assimilated within them, though most perished under the slashing steel of Roman onslaught or in the ultimate flames that reduced our sacred structure to smoking tinder. I suffered what I hope was my last near-fatal wound in that conflagration, when a burning timber fell on my good leg, searing deep into the flesh, until two of my men were able to extract me from under it and bind my wound.
Having anticipated this inglorious incapacity for some time, I realized that I could no longer fight, only await our ultimate defeat that would ensure my death one way or another, or slavery, which I could not abide. I had retained my stolen Roman battle dress, so was able to hobble on crutches in the heat of bright summer sunshine through enemy soldiers milling about in clouds of dust and soot and the din and confusion of the leveled Castle of Antonia where my brother Yehoshua had been condemned to death, past the stinking corpses piled high amid rubble, wild dogs, rats and buzzards feasting on carrion, through disorganized enemy ranks. I appropriated one of several untended horses hobbled, eating grass in an outlying field, and rode inconspicuously through the Roman camp, wending my way along narrow dirt paths pounded flat by thousands of hobnailed sandals, and lined with interminable rows of tents, casually greeting an occasional soldier in Latin. I brought my mount to a halt as we turned a corner onto a wider street with larger, more spacious tents for officers. I sensed a danger there, but my only other option was to go back the way I had come, risking the attention of some querulous sentry on my second pass; or proceed down the road before me, that seemed to lead east out of the Roman encampment toward Bethany, where the Lazarus fraud had precipitated my heated argument with Yehoshua so many years ago, dividing us until the night before his death.
My decision was made for me as a fanfare of trumpets and roll of drums erupted from a broad thoroughfare off to my left that I had not noticed. My horse perked her ears to the marching music, prancing forward despite my firm tug on her reins, enabling me to gaze down the main avenue overflowing with soldiers marching in phalanx from a parade ground filled with Roman legions to the far horizon.
From that thoroughfare came a cavalry escort of some one hundred soldiers in full battle dress bearing banners and pylons of the legions present, turning into the main
via
strutting toward me, preceding rows of trumpeters and drummers leading the way for General Titus Vespasian, mounted on a prancing black stallion, followed by at least two legions of ten thousand men. Since retreat would surely attract attention, I kicked my skittering bay to the side of the road, tugging my helmet lower on my brow, holding my breath as I raised my arm in salute, while fervently hoping to go unnoticed by the commanding general.
Officers in military tunics and togas emerged from their tents as the parade approached, slapping fists to breasts in gratulation to their passing leader, who waved or nodded, acknowledging their tribute. For a moment I thought he would move by without notice. My gawking stare from under my lowered helmet, however, drew the notice of one of his aides who broke ranks and cantered toward me until Titus spied me first with a frown, reclaimed by raised eyebrows, calling his aide back to formation. Then with a knowing grin, the Roman General turned from me to cast his glance into the distance before him.
3818
Iyar
(C.E. 72 May)
My burned leg is now mostly healed from the oil of olives, the seepage stopped, and a new scar of thin red skin grown under the moist cloth I have wrapped around it. I do not believe I can walk any distance, but I will fashion a rope to hold it away from the horse’s ribs, and should be able to travel the 130 leagues south in less than one month.
It has been three days since inscribing those last words, during which I have pondered what, if anything else of import I have to offer from my experience and observation during my sixty-three years on this earth, what wisdom I have gained. Little, I think. I cannot understand why men believe this life is supposed to be a learning process, the preparation for an after life. To what end? Certainly those great minds that leave their discoveries for future generations have made significant contributions to mankind, but what of ordinary men such as I? My knowledge and opinions are of interest to no one and will go with me to my grave. Or remain on this scroll for the perusal and probable discard of any who find this account of the life of an ordinary man of my time.
For whatever it may be worth, I have come to believe there are good and evil, intelligent and stupid men in our midst, and that it is often difficult to tell which is which. For the most part, the general population is a preponderance of sheep that follow charismatic men with attractive ideas. I shall not comment on the female gender, for if I should prevail to the age of Methuselah, I shall never comprehend the mind and ways of women.
I know I am fortunate to have reached this age with the strength and vigor to lift my sword, applying the skills and trickery practiced during a lifetime that permits my survival in battle. Yet I have incurred many disappointments and losses along the way. Tanya has caused an unrequited ache in my breast for fifty years, exacerbated by our final dalliance that resulted in Yehoshua’s death. My son whom I shall never know. The wine that drove good sense from my brain, my squabble with Yehoshua over his foolish ‘kingdom.’ The tragic death of James, who devoted his life to his religion only to offend its leaders with Yehoshua’s divergent philosophy that killed them both, and would have died with them had it not been for the fanaticism of Paul, who knows not his elbow from the orifice under the tail of an ass. My initially casual relationship with Yentl who provided more happiness in my miserable life than any other, whose great heart went unrecognized by me until the very end, as well as my final understanding of my deep love and friendship for that wonderful woman. The slaying of Nubian by my selfish machinations, if not at my own hand.
My internal emptiness at my intellectual conviction that God has abandoned us; my fear and welcome of the complete termination of my existence upon my death; yet a lonely, isolated wish for Someone, Something to reach out to, to calm my anxiety and occasional despair; to help me through the mind-sick futility of my existence.
So be it.
On the morrow, I will wrap these scrolls in the waxed cloth my succors had left me for cover against the elements, as the Egyptians preserve their dead, insert it with protective sand into an amphora, bury it beneath the mottled grass of the oasis, and begin my journey to Masada, the final stronghold of our ill-fated War, to assist our last surviving Zealots as best I can.
Shimon of Nazarat
3818
Iyar
(CE 72 May)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Rowe, MA
December 2005
Every corner of every nation in the world was in chaos. Ordinarily passive Christians with placards, swinging bicycle chains, lead pipes and baseball bats banded into torch-wielding mobs. They stormed synagogues, mosques, abortion clinics, municipal buildings--any structure of worship of divergent religions, authority and organizations whose purpose or philosophy was deemed in opposition to Christian doctrine.
The Pope in Rome issued a vehement denial of the Shimon autobiography despite almost universal scientific acceptance of its validity. He forbid Catholics to listen to or read the sacrilegious document under pain of mortal sin and excommunication. The machine-gun encyclicals issued from the Vatican compared the current attack on Christianity to the persecution of Christianoi by first century Roman Emperors, who sentenced members of the new sect to die en mass in the arenas, the Crusades, Spanish and Portuguese Inquisitions during which Christians
were forced to resort to martyrdom and violence in order to preserve their religion itself.
The Archbishop of Canterbury, Leader of the Anglican Church, denounced the Shimon document as blasphemous and contrived, an obvious exercise in devitalizing the Ten Commandments and excusing the sinful licentiousness of modern men and women. Any who would accept the irreverent misinformation in the purported autobiography that rejected the truth in the Holy Bible would be excommunicated from the protection of Christian faith on earth, and condemned to the fires of Hell.
Baptist, Fundamentalist and other leaders of Protestant congregations took to their pulpits to inflame members against the clandestine perpetrators of this egregious deception, assigning blame to every non-Christian religion, the liberal media, the United States President and Congress, plus every government bureaucracy on the planet.
Bishops, priests, nuns, ministers and clergy of every Christian denomination marched and preached right along with the riotous crowds that choked streets, avenues and highways on foot and in convoys of vehicles, yelling epithets at all and no one, blowing bugles, honking horns, banging pots, pans and the covers of trash cans. Not one Christian leader admonished their constituents to refrain from violence, the destruction of property or murder.
“I’m scared stiff, Andrea admitted.
of-a-bitch, not the merciful supreme being most religions worship. Ask Shimon.”