The Wooden Sword Read online

  The campsite was a dismal affair located a few leagues south of Damascus, comprised of a few mud-wattled huts and tents, with Simon's tent staked out in the middle. Here there could be seen rickety cages filled with the half-starved big cats captured so far, tended by unfortunates in bandages, hobbling about on rude, makeshift crutches. They were the ones who had suffered by their inexperience in handling large carnivores. With only months allotted to him, Simon had been forced to take what he could find in a hurry in the way of help. The expedition had to cover a hundred-mile swath of the Syrian wilderness, and Simon could not afford to be choosy.

  Mrymex hand-signaled a halt and ordered Drusus to bivouac the men at the edge of camp. Dismounting, he gave his horse to an aide and followed Jonas to the main tent. Once inside and out of the view of his men, Mrymex collapsed into a wooden chair. He eased his helmet off his head and let it plop in the dust.

  "You don't happen to have any cold wine handy. do you, boy? My throat feels like old Egyptian linen."

  Jonas laughed, knowing his paternal friend's love of the grape and a soft bed, which was almost always occupied by one or another of Jerusalem's harlots.

  "No cold wine, but we have a skinful of good Falernian that we bought in Damascus. My father is probably out checking the last of the traps and will be back soon."

  "My backside aches!" complained Mrymex, relaxing further into the chair. "A command's a hard thing, younker. You can't ever relax or show weakness around the men. First thing I learned when I got my commission. Otherwise discipline goes to pieces."

  "I'll see if I can find that skin," Jonas answered, turning to go.

  "You do that. It'll fortify me for when Simon gets back. Don't know quite how to put it to him."

  Mrymex was overly fond of the trapper and his son having no family of his own left. The last five years he had seen a lot of them for Simon's headquarters were in Jerusalem, not far from the Fortress of Antonia, where the Roman detachments and Herod's Household Guard were quartered. Simon was a rather influential man in Jerusalem. It was there that he contracted with shipping agents in the ports of Joppa and Caesarea and various animal factors throughout the eastern Mediterranean coast.

  As Jonas ducked outside for the wine, Mrymex reflected on the five years he had known his friends. Here was no ordinary Jew, he thought, comparing the rough-and-ready ways of Simon to the pious and psalm-singing ways of his brethren -- the kind who would spit when they passed a roman soldier. He recalled how Simon, when they had first met, had joined in on his side in a tavern brawl that resulted from Mrymex's being drunk and insulting to the Jewish patrons. Simon was the only man in the place who forgot he had seen a drunk, insulting Roman, and instead saw only one man facing four siccarri armed with the daggers of their trade. They had approached him menacingly in a body and would have killed him surely had not Simon picked up a table and sent it crashing down on their backs. Mrymex had always admired strength, and to see a veritable Atlas holding that oaken table above his head galvanized his own prowess. Simon had realized that Mrymex was in his cups and not master of his tongue. But the centurion had not been too drunk to recognize in Simon a Roman love of fair play. The big Jew had felled them all with one blow and helped the officer back to his barracks. The next day Mrymex had sought him out, apologizing profusely for his remarks about Jews in general and inviting to stand Simon to a lavish dinner and as much good Syrian wine as he could hold. With a hearty laugh, Simon had accepted, the start of a staunch friendship over the years.

  “Hey, Mrymex! Are you that tired, an old veteran like you?"

  Mrymex brought his head sharply up and looked up into Jonas’s merry eyes. He was holding the wine-skin and some cups. As the wine was poured he studied Jonas’s youthful face, thinking bitterly that it was ironic that the old king would send the one person in the world to whom this job would be anathema. Mrymex knew the trapper would not hold the mission against him, realizing he had orders to obey. But he was still at a loss for a gentle way to tell him. He was on the point of leaving and going back to his command at the edge of camp when a lusty slap on the back almost knocked him from his chair.

  “Mrymex! You old blaspheming gladiator! Did you think to find a wench in the desert?!”

  He turned to see Simon standing arms akimbo and grinning effusively.

  “I can bed you down tonight with a she-lion who’d be better company than the hag I saw you with last month!”

  Mrymex started to rise. “Simon, I ....”

  “No! Sit down and rest your bones,” the old trapper interjected. “Jonas, refill his wine cup. He looks as dry as the desert!”

  Mrymex tried again to state his mission but was cut off by Simon’s insistent hospitality. In this, Simon was like the rest of his nation. To refuse proffered hospitality would be an affront so Mrymex settled back and the three talked over old times, good times and everything but what Mrymex had come to say. Finally, the load became too much, and Mrymex blurted it out.

  “Simon! Listen to me! I’m here to arrest you!”

  Simon blinked, looked at his son, and then back to Mrymex. “Well,” he said, “can’t it wait till we’ve had supper?”

  Incredible, thought Mrymex. “Simon, didn’t you hear what I said?”

  “I heard,” he answered affably. “Now, let’s have something to eat.” He went to the larder in a corner of the tent and selected a large piece of smoked jerky, slapping it onto a wooden platter and carrying it to the table. “Mrymex, old friend,” he said, starting to carve it, “for thirty years I’ve worked around lions and big cats of all kinds. Such a man learns never to panic.”

  Jonas ducked outside and returned quickly with a bowl of dried figs and a loaf of hard bread, seating himself at the table. Simon jammed a carving knife into the rough-hewn table and beckoned for Mrymex to join them. The centurion hesitated, marveling at the trapper’s composure, but then, Simon’s behavior had always included surprises. Mrymex was truly hungry, and after seating himself was all for starting in, but Simon’s upraised arm stopped him.

  He intoned in a somber voice, “Blessed be Thou, our God, King of the Universe, who bringest forth bread from the earth!”

  When the three had eaten their fill, Simon belched loudly, looking quickly at Mrymex, who worked up a good one himself -- at least it was passable for etiquette’s sake -- whereupon Simon smiled and leaned back in his chair.

  “Now then,” he said, “you’re here to arrest me. What for?”

  Mrymex explained what he and his men were doing so far from Herod’s jurisdiction, hoping that Simon would continue to take such a mild attitude.

  “Why would Herod send a whole century to arrest one old animal trapper?” Simon asked good-naturedly. “Did he think you’d have to fight a pitched battle? If so, against whom? A handful of ne’er-do-wells hastily procured in Damascus to aid us in the trapping?”

  Mrymex explained that Romans were so hated these days that a smaller force would have risked annihilation by zealots. “And,” he added, “it had to be Roman troops because Herod has no legal authority outside Judea so he couldn’t send his own personal Guard. He reasoned that Romans have the authority to travel anywhere in the Empire.”

  “We made no deal with Quirinius,” Jonathon interjected. “He knows better than us there are few lions here. He’s exempted from such quotas anyway, else we’d not have gotten a permit to hunt in his district for Herod.”

  Mrymex squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. “You don’t have to convince me, boy. Why would a peddler make up a story like that to tell Herod?”

  At this, father and son looked at each other and broke out laughing, which led Mrymex to wonder if the desert sun had addled them.

  “Don’t look at us like that, Mrymex, “Simon said, leaning over the table and cuffing him. “My son and I taught that peddler a lesson he’ll not soon forget!”

  “It was a real morale booster around here for days afterward,” said Jonas. “He tried to sell us bad meat for the cats and
we decided to teach him a lesson. We had just caught the biggest and meanest we have out there and we strung the fellow up by his legs over the pit. It was so funny, him dangling like that and screaming his head off. He never was in any real danger; he was much too high out of the cat’s reach.”

  “The only thing injured was his vanity, “Simon added. “He showed up here all decked out in silks and putting on airs. Just before he was to be paid, we opened several casks and found them rotten. So, we told him that he would make a good meal instead.”

  The recall seemed to trigger more paroxysms of laughter in the two that didn’t let up until Mrymex interjected a sobering thought.

  “Well, the peddler can count himself more than even with you. You know Herod’s condition of late. What could you expect from a man who would murder his own son? The night the peddler left he called me in and gave orders that if I found you did not have his quota, I was to bring you back in chains.”

  Simon knew enough of Herod’s justice to consider flight. He had no doubt that Mrymex could be persuaded to help him, even though such a move on his part would put his own head in jeopardy of the block. It was well known these days that Herod was deranged and saw enemies in every shadow. Anyone who had the misfortune to be accused was usually put to death without trial of any kind. He glanced at Mrymex’s worried countenance and then decided. He was a citizen of Rome. Herod would not dare move against him for every citizen had the right of a personal appeal to the Emperor himself for justice. He was confident enough that Herod would not interfere with that right. It would do little for the old king’s cause if it came to light at Rome that he was denying Roman citizens their rights.

  “We shall be ready to start first thing in the morning,” said the trapper, jumping up from his seat. He went to the tent entrance and called for his camp steward.

  Mrymex was torn between his passion for obeying orders and his regard for his friends, and it was with difficulty that he worked up the courage to tell Simon that if the trapper and his son were to pack up and leave in the night, he would have no choice but to tell Herod that they had escaped the net.

  “Yes, Mrymex, and then what” Simon posed. “Jonas and I would merely have to return anyway to take your body down from the cross and give it decent burial.”

  Simon turned back to Mrymex with an acknowledging smile. “No, Mrymex, my son and I know the king well enough on that score. Besides, you’re a bad liar.”

  Mrymex stood up and Simon laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder, stifling a protest. “We thank you, “he said, “but there’s no need. Though a Jew, I am still a Roman citizen and will appeal to the Emperor if necessary.”

  They clasped forearms in the Roman manner and the centurion said, “I know the garrison commander well, and one thousand Roman legionnaires at his disposal will make sure you have that right.”

  As Mrymex turned to go, Simon added with a twinkle, “And Mrymex ... I don’t think chains will be necessary .... do you?”

  At this, the three laughed and bid each other good night.

  Chapter II...

  Jerusalem.... Despite the many crimes and tyrannical behavior of which Herod the great was guilty, his stupendous building plan Hellenized and greatly enhanced the beauty of the city. At the time that Mrymex returned from his journey into Syria to find and arrest his friends, Jerusalem had been for many years a great cultural and trade center, boasting many libraries, baths, and even an amphitheater, which drew huge crowds despite the injunctions of the Jewish religious authorities. Herod had just managed during the last several years to make his animal quota to Rome by drastically cutting down the number of beast hunts in his own arena, replacing them with bloody spectacles between poorly trained gladiators.

  It was after dusk when the weary ménage of troops, animal handlers and caged lions entered the suburbs and proceeded to Jerusalem’s north gate. Mrymex’s task would be completed when Simon and Jonas were handed over to Herod’s Household Troops.

  Inside the walls, the procession found its way barred in many places by crowds of pilgrims. The feast of the Passover had begun and the city was jammed with visitors. The streets were filled with demonstrators, both peaceable and otherwise, carrying signs painted in Greek, Aramaic and Latin, protesting the hated Roman presence in Judea.

  Mrymex and his troops had to use the flats of their blades to clear the way, urging their plunging horses into the crowds. The lions, out of sorts to begin with from their cramped cages, added to the din by venting their spirits in loud roars that increased as they caught scent of their fellows in the city animal compounds. Finally, they found passage through sparsely populated side streets. The revelers they encountered quickly made way for the horses, cursing and spitting as the troops passed by in an orderly file.

  Simon noted with sadness that particular practice of his countrymen. His wide travels throughout the Empire had made him tolerant and had engendered a philosophy in which there was room for everyone. In the past he had dealt quite profitably with the Romans, although recently business had not been too good owing to the shortage of animals in the provinces and the expense of trying to outfit an expedition. All in all, he thought, the Romans had not done badly in ruling Israel. Whatever their faults, and heavy burden of taxes and tributes they imposed, they at least brought order to Israel's internal affairs. Simon, along with the rest of the rich businessmen, thought that compared to the horrible civil wars and petty struggles of various princes, culminating in Rome's takeover and the placing of Herod on the throne, the Romans were by far the lesser of the two evils. Under the imposed Pax Romana, business had a chance to flourish and improve the general economy. Besides, mused Simon, they were not half-bad fellows when one got to know them as individuals.

  The trapper and his son asked that they be allowed to stop off at their headquarters to assure their staff of employees that everything was all right despite what they might hear floating around the city.

  Mrymex boomed out his ready consent and bawled for Drusus to ride up front on the double.

  "Drusus," he ordered, "take the outfit to the fortress and wait for me there before entering. I'm taking the prisoners to their home for their effects."

  Drusus had noticed the camaraderie between his commanding officer and the so-called prisoners and was put out by it. It did not fit into his scheme of what were the proper precautions regarding prisoners. He squirmed uncomfortably in his saddle.

  "Mrymex," he said in a low tone, "is that wise? I mean you should at least take some men along with you; after all, they're prisoners!"

  Mrymex thundered an oath at the young officer that blasted him and his horse back out of their perimeter, telling him to obey the order. Drusus grudgingly raised his arm in salute, and, wheeling his horse, shouted the order to move out. The century moved on at a brisk rate, leaving Mrymex and his friends, along with the few employees Simon had taken from Jerusalem, to look after unloading the lions.

  Mrymex smiled quizzically. "You don't mind my coming along, do you?" he said.

  Simon flashed him a confident smile that bespoke five years of comradeship and a refusal to admit that anything had changed because of Mrymex's mission. Suddenly, Simon's massive arm shot out and cuffed Mrymex behind the red horsehair crest on his helmet; he accompanied the action with a booming laugh that could always be counted on to alleviate any awkward situation.

  "Ha, hah! You old rutting dog! You just want to see my son's slave girl again and feast your eyes on those wine jugs she has for breasts!" Simon roared as he put spurs to his horse.

  Jonas colored as his temper rose, but he said nothing. As much as he loved his father, he wished that Simon would not discuss what he felt was his own business among his cronies. Mrymex was different, of course; but the fact that it happened to be Mrymex he was talking to was only a coincidence. It might have been anyone. He felt his father was too open about everything. He braced himself for what was coming.

  As the three slowed their horses to negotiate a nar
row side street, Simon went into the subject more fully.

  “You'd think the boy was the girl's slave instead of the other way around! It was a sad day when you advised me to buy her for him. The girl has turned his guts to water!" Simon said jokingly as Mrymex laughed.

  Jonas eased his embarrassment by turning his mind eight months back to when he had first seen Sarai in the marketplace. He was there to buy collapsible cages to be used on trapping expeditions and had been attracted to the slave market by a disturbance. A slave dealer was beating a girl with a small quirt and she was fighting back. A crowd had gathered to watch the fun, especially since the girl’s teeth and nails had done about as much damage to the slave dealer as his whip had done to her. Although it was none of his business, Jonas had stepped in and stopped the argument; the girl was a real beauty and he wanted to get a closer look at her. He pushed them apart then looked at the panting, angry girl. She had very long dark hair that reached to the waist, full hips and breasts -- parts of which were coming out of the filthy rags she had on -- topped off with a dirty urchin's face that belied her early flowering. She could not be above fifteen. And suddenly Jonas wanted her. The argument, he found out, ensued when she would not disrobe or take a bath so the Persian merchant who was dickering for her see her true value.

  “I do not like him," the girl said angrily, speaking of the Persian, a greasy, rat-faced little man who was horrified that a woman could be so undisciplined. The dealer countered that allowances must be made for her background, which was that of an ignorant peasant girl brought up in the hinterlands of Samaria. Her father had sold her to pay some debts, a not uncommon practice among the very poor.

  Later, with the girl in tow, Jonas had wondered what had made him make such a foolish purchase. How would he ever justify writing a draft on his father's bank for seven thousand sestercii, which is what the girl had finally cost after the Persian was bid out of her. That much money would buy a host of trained house servants, and he had blown it all on this stupid girl. That she was happy with her new master she made evident. She followed behind in silence at first, but when she noticed his agitation, she tried to comfort him by telling him what a buy she was, and how she would do her best to please him.