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Chapter Twenty-Three
The Slave Auction
The remainder of the trip found me in actually
better shape than the day before when I had drunk much more wine. One cup of wine had helped me sleep
last night, whereas the flask which I nearly finished yesterday made me deathly
ill. Though I felt fit, as Hamid
wanted me to be in order to find a buyer, my mind was in turmoil. I was warned by Fawad that I would be
scrubbed clean, my face shaved, and my clothes spruced up in order to make me
presentable on the block. Already
in my garish getup, I was dressed for the role. Now I would be groomed for the auction block. There was no doubt in my mind: I had to
escape. It seemed like an
impossible task for me, considering the fact I had twenty-six well-armed men
guarding me and a limitless expanse of desert on each side. Yet, only one or two of them watched me
at time. When I compared Hamid’s
relatively small band to the men in black and men in white that had dogged
Decimus’ band, I was not impressed.
What would happen if I fled from my captors or future owner, as just
another Bedouin and found myself a friendly tribe? As long as I wasn’t a Roman soldier, who I wasn’t, the rule
of hospitality practiced by Arabs and Jews should apply. The truth was I had never been a
soldier or a Roman; I had always been a wet-behind-the-ears Jew. A plan grew in my head in spite of the
sweat pouring down my face and weariness I felt: I would find the right moment,
flee just as I was into the desert.
Hopefully I could somehow take my mule with me. If I died of hunger and thirst, God
had, indeed, abandoned me, and the voice that promised me that I would live had
lied. The notion was irrational and
foolhardy, but it gave me comfort when, at our final stop on the outskirts of
Ecbatana, two of Hamid’s men pulled me off my mount, drug me to a communal
well, stripped off my clothes down to my loincloth as they had the hag’s tent,
splashed a bucket of water over me, and sitting me down on a fold-up chair gave
me my first shave.
Traditionally Jewish beards should never be cut, yet
my captors shaved my face clean.
The curved dagger they used must have been very sharp. After smearing oil on my face, it was
scraped without incident. When I
pointed out that this would make me look like a Roman, Akhmid explained that
being cleanly shaved was the normal way of presenting male slaves. In their zeal, the bandits had placed
fine raiments on me. Because they
were now soiled with sweat and dirt, Akhmid had found a new set of clothes—a
sparkling tunic with vest, baggy Persian pants, loose fitting robe, and turban
much grander than before. Akhmid
and Hamid thought it made me look like royalty, but when I looked into the
reflecting glass that once belonged to a Greek matron, I laughed
hysterically. Hamid and his men
also broke into laughter at my appearance. I had been mortified when I was stripped almost naked,
dressed in brightly colored raiment, and forced to strut about at the point of
Uthman’s spear. What violated my
sense of decency the most, however, was the perfume sprayed on me before I
climbed back on my mule. Looking
up at me as I settled in my saddle, Hamid nodded with approval, his men clapped
with delight, and Awud, my harshest critic, said I looked and smelled like a
Syrian whore. The fact was, I
looked ridiculous, which made me wonder how I was going to be presented and
what kind of slave I would be.
Would I be a mere house slave, as I hoped, or a eunuch guarding a
harem? I had heard stories about
slaves being used for pleasure.
Around the campfire, members of Decimus’ band told bawdy stories about
such men. Now, as I recalled these
stories, I wondered if that’s what Hamid had in mind. Was I intended for a depraved eastern buyer? Perhaps this is why they shaved me and
dressed me like a clown. What if a
customer went one step further and had me clipped. I would rather be dead! If it turned out that I would be a butler or attendant
working in a fine house, I would at least not be turned into a eunuch, sold as
a gladiator or be used for pleasure in a rich man’s house.
If my family or friends could see me now! I thought
giddily, as Hamid inspected his merchandise as he might a prize horse. I was guarded more carefully now that
we were entering a city that offered the best opportunity for escape. A horseman, with lance in hand, rode on
each side of me. As I looked left
and right with precisely this notion in my head, they glared at me, as if to
say, “Don’t try it, you Roman pig!”
I would learn one day that Ecbatana had been a great city during the
Parthian empire, and became an important trading center and crossroads for
caravans from different lands. It
had the look of a dirty, untidy town at first glance. There were stalls and shops everywhere, with temples poking
up above the roofs, and merchants mulling about town. Unlike Jerusalem and Sepphoris with their gleaming white
marble buildings, Ecbatana was, due to the lack of stone in this region, made
up of mostly mud brick buildings.
As I looked more closely, however, I could see many whitewashed houses
that were similar to dwellings of my hometown of Nazareth. I wondered, as our procession continued
toward the center of town and our final destination, just what sort of place
the auction might be. Feeling more
isolated and alone than ever before, I stifled a scream as I looked ahead and
saw the wooden platform. On the
planks stood countless, listless bodies.
Below the platform, were enclosures with all manner of beasts. I reached down to pat my trusty mule,
uncertain of his future too.
Hamid’s promise that I might keep him when I was purchased seemed, after
his words and actions, hollow words.
I was sad, more than terrified.
My life was going to change so drastically in the coming hour I could
think of nothing to say when Hamid ordered two of his men to lead me to the
block.
“Where are you taking my mule?” I broke down
finally. “You said I’d keep my mule!”
“You do well on the block, and I’ll do the best I
can,” he promised, personally taking the reins.
The full weight of what was happening fell heavily
upon me now. It’s really
happening, I thought, feeling a lump in my throat. I’m going to the block. I’m going to sold as a slave. Then suddenly and inexplicably it happened. The affliction I had once suffered as a
child and once more as a member of Decimus’ band, returned as we approached the
auction block. To the horror of my
captors I collapsed onto to ground, blacking out momentarily as I thrashed
about, until I saw faces looming over me.
Hamid, and Fawad, and two other bandits were muttering excitedly.
“What’s wrong with him?” Fawad asked with concern.
“He just passed out,” Hamid said calmly. “Let’s get
him back onto his feet.”
“But he’s foaming at the mouth.” Fawad wrung his
hands.
“Yes, yes,” Akhmid, who appeared abruptly on the
scene, cried, “he’s having some kind of fit.”
“I saw this before,” one of Hamid’s men said,
shoving a dirty stick into my mouth. “It’s the falling sickness.
“This ordeal has been too much for him,” Akhmid
shook his head. “It’s a wonder he didn’t slit his wrists.”
“Nonsense,” Hamid said, wiping my mouth with a rag.
“What he went through before was much worse than this. He just fainted.” “Get up lad,” he
ordered as they reached down to pull me to my feet. “Don’t play dead on
me. You’re going to do just fine.”
While the auctioneer called out bids from the
audience for some unfortunate soul, I managed to regain my wits. As strange as it may sound, I just
wanted to get it over with. I had
heard horror stories about the treatment of slaves. Perhaps, I told myself light-headedly, I’ll be lucky and
find a kind master. The
best-treated slaves, I was told, were in the household. Much worse off than them were field,
mine, and galley slaves. Anything
was better than becoming a eunuch in a rich nobleman’s house.
The two bandits led me up the steps to a wooden
platform where a huge, bald-headed and bare chested black man stood with arms
folded. He looked like an
executioner more than a guard. The
auctioneer, who was dressed in a bright yellow toga, sported shiny gold
earrings and wore a gaudy silver wreath on his glistening curls. As I waited in line, looking around at
the proceedings, a butler, cook, and, to my surprise, a scribe, were presented
on the block. In front of me
waiting for their turns, were colorfully dressed men and women, possibly
entertainers, who had looks of resignation on their faces. There were all types of human chattel
around me, most of them with the same dull expressions. Where I found myself was, in fact, a
great staging area, no different in purpose to the stockyards below us
containing all manner of beast. I
saw at a glance four agents in similar attire and bearing, stationed at each
corner of the platform, presenting different categories of slaves. Alongside of each agent stood other
big, powerfully built guards, who might have been in bondage themselves. The most pitiful of the lot, moving, as
the walking dead onto one portion of the stage, were men, women, and children,
many of them presented naked to increase the bid. Paraded out in front of the merchants like cattle, they were
ogled and cheered by prospective buyers.
As a blond, bearded giant stood by, the agent, pulled their hands away
from their private parts, auctioning them off one-by-one. A third agent, with a swarthy
slanted-eyed monster beside him, presented a group of gladiators, who wore
animal skins, helmets, and body armor on their legs and arms.
Almost as terrible as the scenes around me, were the
sounds of auctioneers hawking human and animal cargo, the bleats, neighs, and
growls of beasts, and those maddened screams of buyers making bids. Looking back, after all these years, I
still shudder at my ordeal. Much
of the commotion around me I scarcely understood. In a far corner of the stage blocked by other groups stood a
fourth agent, with another guard, auctioning more slaves, who, judging by the
swift bid and sale must have been laborers, those poor wretches who toiled in
the field or worked in mines. The
household slaves such as myself, I noted fleetingly, wore outfits befitting
their profession, which, after the sale of the butler, cook, and scribe,
included a dancer, juggler, and mime.
My costume, “oriental prince,” was the most bizarre of them all. After some consideration, I could
eliminate myself from this class.
I didn’t fit into any of any of the other groups. I was in a class by myself. A multitude of merchants, townsfolk,
and general riff-raff surrounded the platform on which we stood; many of them
appeared to be looking directly at me.
The question reeling in my mind was “What kind of slave am I
going to be? It appeared as if I
wouldn’t be a gladiator like those men on one corner of the stage. Considering my costume, that wasn’t
likely now. The butlers, cooks,
scribes, and entertainers were the most fortunate at the market. Many of them were plain looking, not
beautiful, which was curse on the block.
More immediately, they were allowed to keep their clothes on. For a Jew, the sight of naked bodies
had been disturbing, but the women were the most pitiful of them all. Almost all of them were attractive,
many of them blonds, even redheads, captured from far corners of the
empire. A man could hide his
private parts with one hand, but for a woman it required two hands, which only
made them look more inviting to those in the crowd. I knew that their journey had been longer than mine. Unlike the frightened, pop-eyed look on
my face, most of them had dull, empty expressions on their painted faces. As I looked out upon the animal
enclosures were other auctions were being held, I also felt sorry for the
cattle, sheep, pack animals, camels, and exotic beasts dumbly awaiting their
fate.
“Place the Roman on the block!” the black man
boomed.
When my turn came to be placed on the auction block,
I was numb with fear. The two
bandits now pushed me forward.
Each step I took up the steps to the auction block seemed as though it
would be my last. When I arrived
on this smaller platform, a voice from the crowd of buyers chilled my
blood. “Is this a slave at the
auction or a prince in fine raiment?
Show us the man!” After
seeing all those other poor souls forced to shed their clothes, I knew exactly what
he meant. Looking down at one of
Hamid’s guards, who seemed taken back with the man’s request, I begged him to
stop this act, but the two bandits stood by helplessly as the big man stomped
up the steps and, with the auctioneer’s assistance pulled off my garments. Once again, as I had in battle, I
mustered up my courage and fought back.
“Thaddeus,” Hamid called from the crowd, “remember
that I have your mule. Don’t fight
those men.”
All I was really doing was flailing my arms and
kicking my feet as the big man restrained me and the auctioneer peeled off my
clothes, but I put on quite a show.
Spitting like a cat and using curse words I had heard in the Roman camp,
I tried to bite them and scratch their faces, but while I screamed out my rage,
my boots, then my pants came off, followed by my tunic and vest.
The crowd howled with laughter. “Show us the goods!”
they chanted.
“Ho-ho,” quipped the guard, “we should sell you as a
gladiator!”
“No, not a gladiator,” a voice rang out, “a
eunuch. Snip off his balls!”
It was Awud.
The two men, who brought me to the block, had slipped away like jackals,
leaving me to my fate. After
paying the auctioneer his commission, Hamid was waiting for the bidding to
begin. Because of the reaction
from the crowd, it appeared as if I was the highlight of the auction. The nudes lined up before by the second
agent were calm and resolved, a stark contrast to the maniac on the block.
“Stop this,” a lone voice rang out, “these are
people. Leave this one his
dignity. This is unclean!”
My moment of truth had come. Soon the audience would know my
secret. What would happen to me
then? Suddenly, as the auctioneer
ripped off my loincloth, it was revealed.
A gasp went up from those close enough to see. Afterwards I placed my hands on my crotch but it was too
late. The secret was out!
“He’s circumcised, just like a Jew!” a merchant
cried in amazement.
“I am a Jew!” I bellowed tearfully. “I told
those filthy beasts!”
“One thousand denarii,” came the merchant’s bid.
“One thousand and one hundred denarii,” came the
second.
“One thousand and one hundred,” the auction looked
out at crowd, “who will up this bid.”
Hamid cried out as if to give me comfort, “By the
gods Thaddeus, I’ll make sure you keep your mule, ho-ho, all of the mules, if
you wish!”
The crafty one-eyed bandit had led me to believe
that being a Jew was a liability for slaveholders. He had lied!
The bids continued: One thousand and two hundred...One thousand and
three hundred...On and on until the extravagant bidding was limited to a
few. I raised my head that moment,
wiped my eyes with a free hand and, after the big guard handed me my turban and
I placed it over my crotch, beheld the multitude of buyers from different corners
of the Roman and Parthian empires.
Everyone waited with bated breath as three rich men, a finely dressed
fellow who looked like a foreign prince, a dignified elder wearing raimants
similar to Pharisees in Galilee, and a rough-looking fellow, who looked like a
desert nomad, bid against each other.
I feared both the prince and the nomad—the prince because his purchase
might mean my manhood and the nomad, one of the lecherous voices calling for me
“to show my goods.” Even the
merchants buying livestock or exotic animals had paused to watch this event.
“Why am I so valuable?” I asked my guard.
The big man, who spoke with surprising intelligence,
whispered discreetly, “No one can predict how buyers react. Your owner told Memzet, the auctioneer,
that you were a captured Nabataen prince.
The Nabataens are enemies of the Parthians, which would have made you
valuable as a hostage. That tactic
changed when they caught sight of your privates. Now that they found out you’re a Jew, you’re still
valuable. I’m surprised Memjet
didn’t leave you your loincloth and auction you off as a Nabataen prince!”
As he
whispered to me, the bidding continued: eight thousand denarii, eight thousand
and one hundred denarii—ridiculous sums, I thought numbly, for a
“wet-behind-the-ears” Jew. At ten
thousand denarii, when the crowd had grown bored with the bidding and began to
disperse, the scruffy merchant bowed out irately, leaving the princely buyer
and rich merchant bidding against each other. I was almost certain that the man in fine raiment would
outbid the more humbly dressed buyer.
While they continued to bid, the other slaves were auctioned off on the
other side of the platform and the livestock and exotic animal auction
continued in the enclosures below.
I looked down at the older man and wondered why I hadn’t made the
connection before. I could tell by
his phylacteries and clothes. This
buyer was a Pharisee. It
was his voice I had heard earlier scolding the auctioneer for displaying the
slaves in the nude. He was my only
hope. If he folded, I might be doomed
as Awud hoped and, snip, snip, become a eunuch, which was practically death for
a Jew.
At eleven thousand and five hundred denarii, the
younger man waved his hands suddenly for the auctioneer to pause. “Why do you want this youth?” he asked
irritably, he was never a prince.
He’s a Jew. The Romans
can’t rule those people. What
makes you think you can?”
“The question is,” the elder asked accusingly, “why
would you want this young man.
You’re motives are suspect sir.
Is it because he’s a novelty?
Many Romans and Persians hate the Jews because of their unruliness. You don’t want this youth, sir, but I
do. The reason I will outbid you
no matter how high you go, is that I’m a Jew. How this unfortunate fellow wound up being on the block is
beyond me.” “I will up the bid to twelve thousand denarii,” he looked up at the
platform. “If that’s not enough, I’ll add a thousand more.”
“You’re a tough old nut,” the young man sighed. “I
have other shopping to do. He’s
not worth that.”
“Sold!”
the auctioneer clunked his staff.”
“Urcos,” he barked, turning to the guard, “bring me a scribe.”
As
Urcos helped me into my clothes, I felt dizzy with relief. Dislike of forbidden food, temperance
from strong drink, and modesty had been cast aside for the sake of sanity and
self-preservation. I had been
exposed to a crowd of strangers as a pagan prince and then as a frightened
youth wearing nothing at all, one of the worst humiliations for a Jew. Now a rich and powerful Pharisee had
purchased me. It was the best I could
have hoped for, and I had been delivered from a much worse fate. Nothing mattered but that. The scribe, probably one of many
serving the auctioneers, arrived with quell, scroll and a portable table for
signing the document. Hamid also
appeared on the platform, with his inner circle of men, to collect his
money. I noticed that the contract
had already been prepared, one of hundreds of such documents this hour. It was, I noticed that moment, filled
out by the seller, buyer, and the auctioneer, who was, I learned later, paid a
commission in addition to his auction fee.
“What is your name sir?” The auctioneer asked, as
the elder fixed his seal to the scroll.
The scribe wrote his name above the space provided
for the buyer.
“Elisha bar Simon,” the elder answered promptly.
“And your name?” he asked, as the bandit leader
turned one of his many rings around and fixed his seal on the document too.
“Hamid,” he grunted.
For all the auctioneer knew, the ring might have
been stolen off a dead merchant, but no questions were asked as the payment was
divided between himself, the scribe, and Hamid, who took most of the
coins. In order to finalize the
deal, the two men—seller and buyer—shook hands, which caused Elisha to wince at
such contamination.
“And the mules,” I blurted, looking expectantly as
Hamid began walking away with his gold.
“What mules?” Elisha frowned.
“They’re his property,” Hamid explained, giving me a
nod. “I promised him they would return to him. He’s a good lad.”
“Humph,” the elder shrugged, “I could use a few more
pack animals.”
Smiling at me, Akhmid quickly added, “One of them is
Thaddeus’ mount. It’s his pet.”
“His pet?
Very well,” Elisha stroked his beard with satisfaction. “He even has his
own transportation.” Studying the
bandit leader a moment, he added sarcastically, “I won’t ask you how you came
by this youth.”
“I wouldn’t tell you if you did.” Hamid returned his
glare.
“Well, I want all of you to know,” Elisha spoke
aloud to everyone within earshot, “I do not own slaves. What you do here is an
abomination. Even a slave should
have dignity. You treat your
animals better than your slaves!”
Except for a few men, who found his words insulting,
the crowd didn’t know what to make of Elisha bar Simon. No one, not even those who had paid
attention to his words, took issue with him. There was a magnetism and authority about him I sensed
immediately that reminded me of some of the Pharisees I met as a child. Since his insult had not been aimed
directly at them, Hamid, Akhmid, and Uthman took no offense. As an afterthought, before they left
the platform, the three bandits patted my shoulder, touched their foreheads,
bowing their heads in parting, a Bedouin jester I had seen before. I had mixed feeling for my captors,
especially the bandit leader. They
were murderers and thieves preying on innocent travelers, and yet they had kept
me alive, fed me, and, unintentionally, found me a kindly master.
I wanted to ask Elisha to clarify his position about
slaves. He just told the crowd
that he didn’t own slaves, and yet he just bought me. I was reminded of a custom I had heard about in synagogue
school whereby wealthy Jewish men bought Jewish slaves in order to liberate
them. Saluting my captors one last
time, I watched them hasten down the steps of the platform. Hamid’s raids had proved to be
prosperous undertakings, considering the stolen camels, horses, dead merchants’
goods, and gold paid for me. I
felt sorrow for my friends he and his men killed as well the merchants and
attendants left dead on the sand.
Though I understood why I was captured and why they decided to sell me
instead of killing me on that day, my ordeal at the auction was not so easily
explained. Out of nowhere, an
elderly Jew began to bid on me, out bidding everyone in the audience, including
a would-be prince. Briefly, I
looked up at the clear, hot sky, and thought about God. The voice had been silent throughout my
ordeal, perhaps waiting for this moment.
It promised me that I would survive the storm. It had been right...Yet it was silent now.
As, I followed Elisha down the steps, through the
crowd of buyers and sellers to the waiting mules, which Fawad handed
reluctantly over to one of Elisha’s servants, I bid the young bandit goodbye,
surprised at what he said before he vanished from my life:
“Had you been one of us, Thaddeus, you would have
been a great warrior. I consider
you my friend. Peace be upon you,
too, Elisha bar Simon. Treat my
friend well!”
“Peace be upon you Fawad!” I mumbled, touching my forehead
and bowing as I saw them do.
The Pharisee frowned disapprovingly at this
gesture. His caravan was, like the
other processions, assembled at edge of town. As we stood by the road, I watched as attendants lead
several fine horses he had purchased, camels loaded with goods, and the five
remaining mules released by Hamid.
To my delight, a fine carriage like the one Joseph of Arimathea had when
he came to pick of Jesus, came to pick us up.
“Please sir,” I bowed subserviently, “I want to ride
my mule.”
“Get into the carriage!” he barked. “You’re not a
bandit. You don’t think I know how
they obtained you. I thought you
understood, Thaddeus. I’ve freed
you. You’re not a slave.”
“What?
What did you say?” my voice broke. “You freed me? I’m not a slave?”
“You’re one the chosen people, young man,” he wrung
a finger. “Act like it. Now, get
into the carriage. We have a long
journey ahead of us. At our first
stop when we put this dung heap behind us, I will give you a proper set of
clothes.”
“Thank you.” I murmured, my throat constricting and
eyes filling with tears.
I sensed I would freed by him. I just needed to hear it from his
lips. We climbed into the cabin,
assisted by his coachman. The men,
who followed behind and on each side of us, now mounted their horses. They were, it was obvious, guards
similar to Joseph of Arimathea’s protectors, who would, like Loftus, Strabo,
Glychon, and Tycho, provide us with protection on the road. As I sat in my garish clothes, my
turban angled rakishly over my forehead, Elisha studied me carefully, as if he
might be having second thoughts. I
could scarcely believe I was out of the nightmare launched by Hamid’s
raid. In truth, however, it had
started before that day, beginning with the battles fought with the desert
people, when members of Decimus’ band were killed off one-by-one. On the outskirts of Ecbatana, where the
caravans heading to various points in the Roman and Parthian empire assembled,
Elisha and an attendant helped me out of the couch, leading me to a large tent
where he and his men planned to take refreshments before the trip. This station and the other tents, I
assumed were sleeping quarters, convinced me he was a pious Jew. Not only would he not sup in this city,
he would not dine there as well. I
was given a tunic, pants, and a fresh loincloth and told to change out of my
Gentile clothes. While the meeting
tent was empty, I put on my new set of clothes, and then emerged in the bright
sunlight—free.
“Humph, that’s better,” Elisha snorted, as I stood
for his inspection. “You looked like a Persian whore.”
“Thank you.” I bowed.
“Thaddeus,” he said, gripping my shoulders, “I know
you’ve been through a terrible ordeal.
What happened in Ecbatana made it much worse. Until we sup together, I want you to go back in the tent and
lie down. Take a nap. You’ll have dinner, you, my attendants
and me, within the hour. I was angry
and wanted to put that stinking city behind me, but it will be dark before we
reach the next rest stop. We’ll
still not be in the Roman territory.
So we won’t leave until the morning. I want you rested up and fit for the journey. We have much to discuss.”
“All right, I’ll take a nap. Thank you.” I bowed
again, walking backward into the flaps.
Obediently and gratefully, I lie down on a special
pallet. Though warm outside, the
silken tent was much cooler. An
attendant fanned me awhile until I fell asleep. During my slumber, I dreamed I was back on the block. A man in the crowd chanted
“snip-snip-snip, snip-snip-snip!” Then toward the end of the dream, another
voice exclaimed mockingly: “Peace be upon Thaddeus Judaicus, friend of the
Gentiles. Remember, Jude, you are
also a Jew!” I awakened because of the gentle prodding of Elisha, himself.
“Come, eat,” he said, as an attendant helped me to
my feet.
Seated around a low-lying table filled with cheeses,
breads, and various fruits, were several men, none of whom was a slave. At one end of the table Elisha was
seated, with me sitting on his right side as if I was an honored guest. My eyes immediately focused upon a
pitcher of wine in front of me. I
wanted to lift it up and guzzle it down in celebration. After a short prayer, in which the host
blessed the food, I took a portion of cheese, bread, and fruit. After practically living off them
during much of my journey, I avoided the dates. What I did do was pour myself a brimming cup of wine and
empty it before I finished my meal.
At one point, as I gobbled my food, paused to gulp more wine, then
continued gobbling everything in sight, I realized, after a poke in the ribs,
that I was behaving like a pig.
These were not Gentiles, I scolded myself; they were Jews. Those not frowning, smiled mirthlessly
or cocked an eyebrow at me.
Setting my cup down, I wiped my mouth with my sleeve and belched
involuntarily (both desert customs), and glanced with embarrassment around the
table.
“Thaddeus,” Elisha’s voice broke in softly, “are you
all right?”
“Oh yes,” I nodded, “you saved my life. So much has happened in the past week.”
“All right, we’ll get to that.” He studied me
quizzically. “You eat like an Bedouin. We shall work on that. Something troubles me, Thaddeus. What did that youth mean when he said
you’re a great warrior? Look at
me, young man, not at the table.
You’re safe now. You have
food in your belly and wine to loosen your tongue. What happened back there?”
“At the auction?” I looked up nervously.
“No, back on the road,” he said with a sigh, “when
your captivity began.”
Bolstered in mind and body by my nap and the modest
feast set before me, which included an immodest portion of fine wine, I
mustered up the courage to give Elisha and his men a summary of the events that
followed the day I entered the fort of the Galilean Cohort. It shocked and dismayed, yet greatly
impressed my listeners. From the
point I broke with tradition after receiving my father’s reluctant blessing in
order to join the Roman army and then Jesus request that I take this
opportunity to learn the heart of the Gentiles (both of which caused the men to
groan and shake their heads), I realized how horrified they would be when I
told them about the first blood drawn.
So I softened the blow by telling them about my efforts to enlighten my
traveling companions during our journey with stories about Noah, Moses, Joshua,
and King David. I didn’t tell them
that I failed to illuminate them with tales from our holy scriptures nor share
their criticism about our bloodthirsty leaders. I emphasized how thick skulled they were, however, and how
difficult it was to be accepted into their group. For a while, no one interrupted me as I went on, skipping
past the band’s rest stop, such as at the town of Cana to get to the important
points. I wanted also to skip past
the encampment at first imperial station, but I decided to get it off my
chest. I tried to include
everything. As Jesus once said to
me, “to omit part would make the whole a lie.” I began with the vision of the crosses, which I had dreamed
of many times before, then the second part of my dream when I rode my white
stallion to a clearing, dismounted, and found myself in the final phase in my
dreamscape in a duel with several men.
I knew, of course, that I thought I was asleep at the time when I killed
all those men to save my friends and myself, but Geta’s explanation that I was
sleepwalking might be easier for Elisha and the others to understand. This was my first blunder of the
evening. It was at this point, as
I expected, that the first interruptions from Elisha’s men occurred. I remembered the names of each of them
from hearing Elisha give them commands.
All of them were polite and gracious. Elisha said nothing at first. Unlike what I experienced at the Gentile feasts—rude,
boisterous, and cynical listeners, they were all courteous, following the
etiquette I had seen during Samuel’s meals.
Jacob, Elisha’s scribe, the first to raise his hand,
in order to preface his point summarized my account: “You killed six men
single-handedly and yet you were asleep.
Is that right?”
“That’s correct,” I replied, sipping my wine.
“If you were a sleep-walking,” challenged Jacob,
“how was this possible? I’ve seen
a sleepwalker. He walked
straightforward, bumping into things on the way. There’s no conscious thought.”
“Quite a feat.” Eden, the coachmen, stroked his
beard. “Are you certain you weren’t awake?”
“Oh, I was asleep,” I confessed, squirming on my
cushion. “You see I thought I was asleep. I had these experiences before. Jesus called them lucid dreams.”
“Are you serious?” Elisha asked in disbelief. “I think
you’ve had enough to drink!” He took the goblet from my hands.
The other men displayed blank expressions. The Pharisee attempted to explain his
own experience with the phenomena of waking up inside a dream and controlling
it, but quickly dismissed the possibility of displaying super-human feats,
which is what I had done that night.
One day Jesus would say to an audience, “The truth shall set you
free.” That moment, though, it was
a trap. It didn’t even make sense
to me. For one, long moment of silence,
I sank in despair. The wine had,
in fact, loosened my tongue as Elisha had hoped. Unfortunately, it had gotten me into trouble. Before I knew it, I was relating the
same fantastic excuse for my actions at the imperial station that members of
Decimus’ band found hard to believe.
Because the sleepwalking version was so absurd, all I had was the truth,
but it seemed more unbelievable than a lie.
In spite of their disbelief, my audience didn’t
insult me nor dismiss the story outright, for indeed it was not finished. Soon, of course, their tolerance would
sour. After I looked around the
table and swore by the Most High I was telling the truth, Elisha and his men
gasped.
“What Thaddeus?” Elisha sputtered. “You swear? Are you blaspheming God?”
“No,” I almost wept, “I’m desperate. I should’ve known you wouldn’t believe
me, yet my story has only just begun.”
“I think you’re
ordeal has addled your mind,” he said, shaking his head. “Why’re you telling us
this tale?”
“It’s the truth!” I cried, springing to my feet.
“You mean,” Nedinijah, the steward, corrected, “it’s
the truth as you see it. A dream
can seem real, but reality is another thing.”
“Excuse me sir.” I waved my hands. “That doesn’t
make sense. I thought I was
dreaming when I killed those men. You can’t believe I did it in a dream state. Is it any more believable that I did
this cold sober, wide awake, as fearlessly I did?”
“It’s possible,” Absalom, a guard pursed his lips,
“I heard gladiators do some amazing things.”
“Not possible.” Elisha shook his head vigorously.
“Thaddeus isn’t tall, he’s slight of build and, no offense lad, not very
brave.”
“No offense taken,” I smiled.
Laban, the second guard, looked across the table
and, stifling a giggle, raised his goblet in a salute. “I think this youth
believes he’s telling the truth.”
There was that word again: believes. I realized, after hearing Nedinijah and
Laban, that they thought I was touched in the head. So I spent a few more moments going over the details of my
battle with the six men—the sword thrusts, dodges, slicing motions, and
backward stab, seeing acknowledgement in Absalom and Laban’s faces.
“How could a Jewish youth know such words?”
Absalom’s eyebrows knitted.
“He so much admitted he’s a coward,” Laban said,
scratching his head. “Why would a coward risk his neck unless he thinks he’s
asleep?”
“Oh, Moses’ beard,” Elisha groaned, giving me a
nudge, “this is going nowhere. Proceed!”
As prompted, I finished my narrative, deciding to
briefly mention our visits to Tyre and the second imperial way station, quickly
explaining the personalities of my traveling companions, and then launching
into the most important phases of my journey with Decimus’ band. This time, the men, who thought I might
be addled in the head, kept silent for a longer period of time. Perhaps, Elisha, the scribe, and the
steward thought I should be humored. There were eyebrows raised and grunts at
the descriptions of some of the men.
Absalom, Laban, and the other guards, however, seemed more curious than
skeptical, and the laborers, who had assisted Elisha, now stood by the open
tent flap listening intently to my tale.
“And so it was,” I continued, looking fondly at the
wine jug, “instead taking the safe road with towns along the way to refresh
ourselves, we were forced, because of that rock slide, to enter the desert, a
place of quarreling tribes and robber bands. According to Decimus and Caesarius, there should be rest
stops along the road with water sources and date palms. Though it was cooler and more scenic
than the interior, the coastal road had been, after all, a rocky, perilous
route. The desert, though hot and
dusty, at least offered a flat surface to travel on, which would be easier on
the horses and mules. Of course,
we didn’t know then of the dangers ahead.
It turned out that the desert tribes were angry at the Romans. The optio believed that they resented
the new road cut through their domain.
A recent murder of a Bedouin in Raphana had sparked reprisals. Two such encounters occurred for us as
we traveled north, and a third, the worst, by a gang of thieves who, after
almost wiping out our band, took me captive to be sold as a slave.” With this introduction to wet their
appetite, I looked again at my empty mug and watched with silent gratification
as Elisha reluctantly poured me more wine.
All of my listeners sat on the edge of their
cushions and the laborers by the entrance pricked up their ears as I related
the first attack in the desert, in which Vesto, one of the Roman guards, and
Enrod, a Gaulish auxilia, were killed.
Using hand gestures as I had seen Jesus and the town rabbi do, I
explained how I left my post watching the horses and mules to join the
fight. Seeing my friends besieged
by black robed nomads with keffiyehs, brandishing lances, I lost my wits and
chased one of them down. Though,
he had already been brought down by Abzug’s arrow, I stuck my sword in him to
prove I made the kill. I gave my
listeners these details not out of honesty but because I had slipped and told
them the man had fallen down as I chased him. Unlike my previous “kills” at the first imperial station,
which were plainly self-defense, if I killed a defenseless man it would have
been murder. So I brought back
evidence of my supposed kill, a deed that caused Elisha, Jacob, and Nedinijah
to shake their heads with disapproval, but, judging by their nods, seemed
reasonable to the guards
Absalom raised his goblet in a salute. “You went after him. It wasn’t your fault he was dead. I would’ve done the same.”
“Yes,” agreed Laban, “you were robbed of your kill.”
“Humph,” Jacob grunted, “you sound like a
gladiator. He should never been in
that bunch. He’s been defiled by
the Gentiles and must be purified in the temple.”
“Of course.” Elisha nodded. “He knows that.”
“Continue.” He inclined his head thoughtfully. “You’ve captured our
attention. Even the Persian
laborers are intrigued.”
A quick swallow of wine refreshed my memory. Skipping past the grueling miles
between rest stops, I resumed my story at the point when the second band of men
in black attacked. There was so
much action this time it was difficult to give them a clear picture. Despite my reputation as a fighter,
Decimus ordered me to watch the animals again. It was here that I killed two more Bedouins in defense of
our horses and mules, before Aulus rode in to cover my back. This recollection included my first
exaggeration. He didn’t cover my
back. The fact was, I was outnumbered by horsemen, and he had saved my
life. Once again we lost men: Geta
and Langullus, who were killed on the dune, as our band seemed to make a last
stand. What saved us was the
caprice of the nomads. Evidently
tired of the effort, they gave up the fight and retreated into the desert. This time, when I admitted to killing
two more men and had proven my mettle, Jacob and Nedinijah shuddered and Elisha
took a long swig of wine. But the
guards nodded at each other in agreement, again raising their goblets in
acknowledgment as I resumed my account:
“The next episode—the death of Caesarius, my friend,
and his burial in an oasis, was followed by our meeting with the men in white,
which Decimus identified as Nabataens instead of Arabs.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Jacob mumbled to
Nedinijah.
“Yes,” the steward nodded, “—a troublesome bunch!”
“Perhaps,” I smiled solicitously, “but the Arabs and
bandits were worse. The men in
white, as we called them, did not attack us on the desert or ambush us at the
oasis. It wasn’t a raid; it was a
confrontation. The Nabataen leader
was not looking for plunder. He
and his men were agitated by our presence in their land. We learned that his brother and a
tribal member’s cousins had been killed by the Romans. We were outnumbered this time and
caught off guard. It even appeared
as if we would be executed when they forced us to kneel as though they might
just cut off our heads (another exaggeration). Fortunately, due to Bedouin caprice again, they left us off
with our lives, horses, and mules, and yet Decimus decision to travel the
desert instead of the coastal route now loomed as a grave error. Though we had survived two battles and
kept our heads, it would soon be evening.
A few of the men still wanted to leave the Nabataen’s domain in case
they changed their mind or another tribe decided to attack, but Decimus and the
majority of his men, though filled with misgivings, decided to stay until first
light.”
Taking a sip of wine, I thought a moment about what
I would say. I also thought about
what I wouldn’t say. I decided not
to mention the prophetic dream I had as I napped in the oasis, when a voice
warned me that disaster would soon strike but that I would be safe and must
trust in the Lord. How would that
have sounded to the Pharisee and his associates? Though skeptical of my faith, the men I rode with had been a
superstitious lot. When I told
them about my dream, many of them seemed shaken. Decimus scolded me for my lapse. I had been told countless times to keep my invisible god to
myself. In a watered down fashion
therefore, I told my current listeners that I had a bad feeling about staying
the night and that Decimus had decided that we would travel through the
night.
“That’s insane,” objected Absalom. “No one travels
in the desert at night.”
“It would seem so,” I shrugged, “but most nomads
fear the jinn. According to Ibrim,
the Arab in our group, these spirits are mischievous at night. Not only did it seem like a bad idea to
many of the men, but it struck those, who wanted to weather it out, as a waste
of effort. It had been
backbreaking work to build our stronghold of palm and acacia trunks. We were even more worn and hungry than
before, yet we were abandoning the only protection we might have. There in the oasis we were secure in a
self-made fort against attack, and we at least had water and dates to
supplement our shrinking rations.
Despite their pleas, however, we slept only a few more hours until the
waning moon, then we struck camp, climbed wearily onto our mounts, and headed
north, led by torchlight as the moon continued to wane.”
“There’s no such thing as desert spirits,” Jacob
huffed.
“Yes Thaddeus,” Nedinijah scowled, “what a foolish
thing to do.”
“It worked,” I looked defiantly around the table.
“We rode through the night unmolested by nomads. Had we stayed at the last oasis, another band of Nabataens
may have returned in greater numbers and wiped us out.”
As I
recounted the next episode, tears trickled down my checks, because I knew what
came next. Though it seems
irrational now when I think about it, I felt some responsibility in our
decision to leave. Perhaps if we
had stayed in our fortress and left at first light we would not have ran into
Hamid’s band when we did. Briefly,
almost as an afterthought, I mentioned the death of Caesarius in the desert
and, though it might have been unnecessary, reminded my listeners that we gave
all of the fallen men, including my friend, burials at subsequent stops.
“Nedinijah is partly correct,” I acknowledged the
steward. “It seemed foolish to leave our fort, but it was necessary to move
on. We were low on food and the
horses and mules were worn out, yet the effort brought us more quickly to
disaster. We passed through the
remaining stretch of desert without incident, but catastrophe waited for us in
the hills.”
“Are you all right, Thaddeus,” Elisha gripped my
shoulder. “You have been through a lot.
If you wish, we you can finish this at another time.”
“No, I want to get this off my chest,” I said,
wiping my eyes. “The end was near...We had stopped at an inviting grove of
trees on the foothills of the mountains of Syria. There were caves on the slopes that offered sanctuary in
case of attack. Soon we would take
the turn leading toward Raphana, our next destination, which was much closer
now. For a while it seemed as
though we might make it the coast to finish our journey. Though we had little food, we had
water, shade, and our lives. All
seemed well, until the bandits struck.”
“Merciful Lord,” Nedinijah gasped.
“You should write this down, Thaddeus,” the scribe
exclaimed excitedly, “Homer would be proud. He wrote epochs about such deeds!”
“Pshaw, they’re mere legends.” Elisha seemed
genuinely impressed. “What Thaddeus is saying is real life. No youth could make up such a tale!”
“You believe me now?” I looked at him hopefully.
“Most of it,” shrugged the Pharisee, “—it’s hard to
digest. It’s a miracle you’re
still alive.”
“Go on.” Absalom made scooting motions with his
hands. “What happens next?”
“They nearly wiped us out.” I heaved a sigh. “It was
awful. While I stood watch over
the horses and mules in the meadow, the bandits struck in the forest. I was on foot when the first horseman
broke through the trees. I managed
somehow to unhorse one of them, but it took an arrow from Abzug’s bow to bring
down a rider who nearly got me with his lance. I remember
killing another man with one of the nomad’s curved swords, but I was
obsessed with protecting the animals from those thieving men. Had it not been for Fronto, the big
Thracian, and Apollo, the Egyptian, who detoured two of the lancers, I would
have been killed outright. As
Fronto, Apollo, Rufus, and Ajax stood back to back, the horseman rode playfully
around them like jackals toying with their prey. Meanwhile the archers, Abzug and Ibrim, took aim at the
raiders. Aulus soon appeared with
the wounded Decimus’ arm limply hanging over his shoulder. I was found of the optio. Next to Caesarius, he had been my best
friend. While Fronto, Apollo,
Ajax, and Rufus, held off the bandits, that unpredictability of the nomad
occurred at just the moment when it seemed all was lost. We were, as we had been as temporary
prisoners of the Nabataens, greatly outnumbered. Ajax was struck down by a lance, Apollo was stabbed in the
arm, and Decimus, who was seriously wounded, was being carried by Aulus and
Fronto to one of the caves. As the
nomads turned their attention to gathering up our horses, which, after all, was
what they wanted in the first place, Rufus, Ibrim, and Abzug took the cue and
scrambled up the hill too. I was
in a daze, as I watched the men escape.
All I could think of those moments was that they were stealing our
horses and mules. One of the mules
was mine. I love that gentle
beast. As I hung back foolishly,
several of the bandits caught sight of me and charged up the hill. Abzug, who had never showed much warmth
toward me, ran down the hill to cut me loose and was immediately brought down
by a lance. After throwing ropes
around me, the bandits netted me like a fish. I was thrown face down over a pack animal, not knowing yet that
it was my mule. With the image of
the remnant of Decimus band standing at the mouth of the cave, I was taken by
the bandits, along with the horses and pack animals, into the desert whence
they came.”
My voice trailed off in the distance as I envisioned
those men. Had they died of hunger
in the foothills or managed somehow to find a friendly caravan heading to
Antioch? I might never know, but
here I was in the company of a rich merchant, just as Jesus had once been. Fate or the will of God had been
with me. Along the way, men had
died and, for a brief spell, I had been a slave. Now I was the friend of a great Pharisee drinking fine wine.
“Go on!” Elisha voice broke into my daze.
Left out of my account were certain facts, such as
Caesarius, Geta, Langullus, Apollo, Ajax, and Ibrim’s murder of unarmed Jews
and my disregard for the dietary laws when I ate dried pork. The last detail was easy for me to
ignore. King David had, as a
youth, stolen food from the temple.
What was worse—being defiled or committing blasphemy? That I consorted with Jew-killers was
another matter altogether. With
the exception of the food and certain facts about the men, I had tried not to
omit details of my ordeals with Decimus and his men and my treatment at the
hands of my captors. Now, at the
current point in my account, I would not, for the sake of their sensitivities,
gloss over my experience with the bandits in the desert.
“And so,” my voice rose a notch, “I was hauled like
a peace of merchandise to the bandit’s settlement where I was stripped down to
my loincloth and dressed in a dead merchant’s clothes. Everything the bandits owned, I’m
convinced, was stolen from murdered travelers, including the rings on their
fingers. I was surrounded by men
even more uncouth than my previous traveling companions, and yet I was treated
better in my new set of clothes.
Unlike the members of Decimus’ band, they didn’t make fun of me, except
to refer to me occasionally as a Roman pig. There was a short while when Awud had fastened my hands to
my saddle and pulled me along in back of his horse, but for the remainder of
the journey to the auction in Ecbatana, I was allowed to hold the reins of my
mule. I even made friends with a
youth name Fawad, and found most of the other bandits congenial during our
trip.”
“At one stop, however, as Fawad and I conversed, the
bandits raided a caravan, murdered the merchant and his attendants and stole
the laden camels, which they added to their previous loot. I could not have imagined such carefree,
unconscionable killers. Returning
with their bloody swords and plunder, they whooped and laughed as if it had
been great sport. I felt great
pity for those dead men but said nothing.
Numbed and dispirited by everything that had happened to me since my
odyssey began, I shut it away among all the painful memories of my past. On we marched over the old caravan
road, suffering sudden dust storms and relentless heat until Hamid’s bandit
caravan arrived at a final rest stop not far from Ecbatana . My throat was parched, I was
bone-weary, and uncomfortably warm in my finery as I climbed shakily off my
mule. As I chewed on a few scrapes
of dried fish, sitting in the shade of the overhanging rock in which we found
refuge, Hamid had one of the mules slaughtered and roasted to feed his
men. Though I wouldn’t protest the
murder of innocent men, this single act epitomized in my mind the callousness
of Hamid and his men. I was almost
beaten when I protested this barbarity.
The only thing that saved me from being roughed up by Hamid or his men
was the fact that I was, like the livestock and merchandise, potential
profit. They didn’t want to damage
their goods.”
“Mule is unclean,” Jacob muttered.
“So is eel,” replied Absalom, “but that’s not why
Thaddeus was upset.”
“That’s correct.” I smiled at the guard. “I was like
a shepherd to the horses and mules I watched over when I rode with Decimus’
band. I knew each of them
well. They were like my pets,
especially the mule assigned to me.
I was thankful the bandits had not eaten him, and yet I hated the
bandits more than ever then. To
calm me down, Hamid, the bandit leader, promised I could keep my mule.”
“Well, he’s still yours,” Elisha said reassuringly,
“as are the others. What happened
after that?”
“A lot,” I gathered my thoughts. “.…At first light
we assembled on the road to finish the last leg of the trip. I knew, as we came closer and closer to
Ecbatana, that the worst part of my suffering was about to begin. Arriving at the border between the
Roman and Parthian empires, we stopped at Roman garrison to exchange goods for
safe passage and Persian delicacies, but a guard informed Hamid that the fort
was filled with plague. Whether or
not this was a fact or an excuse to avoid further dealings with the bandits, it
worked in Hamid’s favor because he wouldn’t lose merchandise to the corrupt
prefect and still could pass over the border unchallenged. On the outskirts of Ecbatana, before I
was taken to the auction block, I was cleaned up, shaved, and my sweaty garments
exchanged for fine raiments from the murdered merchant’s caravan. All this, as you men know, was but a
prelude for what men in the crowd really wanted to see. From the point I was led up the steps
to the auctioneer’s platform is the worst part of my journey but also the best,
because a kind-hearted and generous merchant saw my travail and rescued me as I
stood on the block. After parading
for a few moments like a Syrian whore, my clothes were torn from me, and the
price rose higher and higher until only two men were left to bid on me: a
Pharisee and a would-be prince. If
I had been purchased by the would-be prince, there’s no telling what would have
happened to me. I would have been
taken to a distant palace and branded as a slave. I might have even been turned into a eunuch.” “But that
didn’t happen,” I said, looking around at the group. “Thanks be to the Most
High, Elisha bar Simon bought my freedom. I shall forever be grateful.” “I’ll always be indebted to him for
delivering me from a fate worse than death,” I added tearfully, rising to my
feet.
Looking down at Elisha, who was embarrassed by this
display, I bowed deferentially and touched my forehead. This gesture, though respectful, was a
pagan action. It immediately
caused furrows in Elisha, Jacob, and Nedinijah’s forehead but struck the guards
as amusing.
“You’ve been with those desert folk too long,”
Absalom laughed, rising to his feet. “You’re an interesting lad. I’m glad your ordeal is over.”
“Yes,” Elisha exclaimed with emotion, “and this is a
new beginning. You’re a Jew, among
your people, foolish but brave, both stupid and wise—all the wondrous
ingredients of youth unspoiled by days of tribulation.” “For that I salute
you,” he gripped my shoulders then took me weeping into his outstretched arms.”
******
Elisha and his men embraced me as they would a long,
lost friend. I knew it was much
more than that. Our tradition
protected us even as slaves. On a
matter of principle, Elisha had bought my freedom from my persecutors. Had I been a pagan, he would not have
bid on me. We were both sons of
Abraham; he took care of his own.
For me this was more proof that we were better than the Gentiles. I was filled with bitterness but also
renewed faith in my religion, and yet I realized, with mixed emotions, that I
had failed in my dream to become a legionary scribe. Though I was eternally grateful, I also had misgivings about
why it was just me and not those poor Gentile men and women freed that
day. I knew that not all Gentiles
were bad. In fact, I believed most
of them were good. The fact could
not ignored, however, that many of them like Hamid, the bandit leader, were
basically evil. Throughout our
history the Gentiles have persecuted my people, and now I had experienced it
first hand.
As Elisha had explained earlier, we would stay the night at the assembly point outside of town then be on the road. All that mattered to me then was that we were not heading south on the old caravan road. That was a land of desert bandits—thieves, villains, and murderers. It didn’t matter to me that we were heading northwest on the Roman highway to Tarsus instead of journeying to Antioch. I had given up my goal of reaching the Antioch garrison. My destiny, though not certain, was at least secure in the Pharisee’s care. I wondered, as I crawled onto my pallet in one of Elisha’s fine tents, when I would see my family again. Reluctantly perhaps, Jesus had expected me to make the best of my decision to join the army as a scribe. In so many ways, mostly negative, I had done just that, but would he be proud of my efforts so far? I had done nothing purposeful. I had been carried along by accident and misdeed, a bystander to my own fate. I understood the Gentiles’ minds, at least the ones I had rode with so far. If that was a mission, God has a sense of humor. There had to be something deeper in Jesus’ motives than humoring his youngest brother. What would trouble me in the days ahead was a notion growing in my mind that Jesus was thinking of something much more important than personality traits and the habits of non-Jews. I had already learned about Gentiles from the Romans I had known in Nazareth. I couldn’t have known then that my experiences among them would toughen me up for service as an Apostle to my brother and help prepare me for my the mission to the Gentiles as a disciple of Paul.
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