"Child of Masada" Jewish Historical Fiction | Book Club Book

Chapter One

A.D. 66

The third day of Tammuz

Outside of Bethlehem

Diklah swept his hair off his forehead with the back of his hand and leaned heavily against his plow. The sun was high and scorching. Pulling a patch of cloth out of his pocket, he wiped the sweat from his face and squinted up at the cursed sun. The ground was hard and rocky, and he had been plowing it for weeks, but it seemed to harden overnight causing him to have to start again with each new day. 

            He hated working in the fields. This was his father's passion, not his. He was a soldier or at least he would be soon. Unlike his kinsmen, he was exhilarated to learn of the growing discontent of certain Jews––Jews who were destined to bring deliverance from the tyranny of the Romans who were merely a repeat of their Greek oppressors before the Hasmonean dynasty. The sicarii were the ones who offered hope now. They would bring about a new reign free of the bloated Romans. 

            As Menahem spoke last night during their secret meeting at the threshing floor, Diklah felt purpose flooding his veins and strengthening him. It all made sense now. He could see it. He was destined for this fight; he knew it since the day he watched the Roman soldiers drag his only brother and sister away on their horses while the Romans kicked his protesting father to the ground. Instinctively, Diklah’s eyes traveled to the patch of soil by the front door of his home that once held laughter and witnessed love between mother, father, and children. But the love was silenced now. And in the place where joy once greeted him and his siblings, now lay a patch of earth that held the blood of his father cut down by the end of a spear. 

            Diklah’s jaw tightened in rage at the memory. His father even as he lay bleeding out into the ground continued to beg for mercy while the soldiers laughed and mocked him. To this day, Diklah didn’t know what had become of his brother and sister. He was the youngest, and he alone remained to bury his dead father as his mother was inconsolable. Three days his mother cried and screamed at the sky refusing to leave the small mound of dirt that cradled his father’s pierced body. Day and night, she lay there not eating or drinking. On the evening of the third day, she stood and walked inside the house and drank water before collapsing on her sleeping pallet. She never spoke a word again.

One year later, she still hadn’t spoken. She went about each day like an apparition. She was the living dead and an empty shell remained where once was a vibrant and beautiful woman full of joy and expectation. His mother might as well have died that day alongside his father, for even though her body lived on, her soul was cut irredeemably. Was it my fault? Could I have stopped them? Maybe if I had offered them my life, my siblings could have been spared … maybe my father wouldn’t have died … Diklah found it harder and harder to look at his mother without feeling like somehow he was to blame for the ruin of their family. Clenching his fist by his side, Diklah vowed he would avenge his father’s death. 

            Diklah thrust his plow to the ground and threw his head back as he let a scream of rage slice up his throat. His donkey responded with a bristling grunt and the sparrows gathered near escaped his presence into the air. Diklah marched across the field toward the small creek that passed by their property. It was where he went whenever he needed to calm his mind or when he was conflicted. His father wouldn’t approve of what he had in mind for avenging his death and the enslavement of his only siblings. His father wasn’t a weak man, but he was a devout Sadducee from the tribe of Benjamin, and he believed in nonviolent means for Jerusalem’s deliverance. 

            Diklah crouched by the creek and pulled his tunic over his head as he dropped it into the stream, letting it soak in the cool water. He splashed his face and contemplated his next move before shrugging back into his clothes, the cool water soothing his parched skin. Tonight he would meet with Menahem and let him know he would fulfill the rights of passage for becoming a sicarii. He would shed the blood of a Jewish traitors. 

            It was near the middle of the night when Diklah crept past his mother’s fitful sleep. Some nights he could hear her moaning in her sleep, broken conversations where she called out his father’s name––Hananiah. Even though his heart longed to hear his mother’s voice, he preferred her voided silence to that of her heartbreaking cries in the dark. Diklah kissed his fingertips and touched the mezuzah nailed to the doorpost as he entered the night air. The stars were bright overhead as he covered his head with his mantle and secured it around his shoulders. Tonight wasn’t the time for him to be recognized. Menahem had suggested that his home was being watched and so it was agreed they would meet outside the city near the Valley of Thorns. The meeting place seemed appropriate to Diklah. He would meet in the place that represented the thorn he felt in his heart, one that could only be removed through vengeance. 

            As Diklah made his way down the road that led away from Jerusalem, he followed the star north. Menahem had told him, “Once you leave the city, make sure you aren’t being tracked. Follow the star north through the herdsmen’s field. I’ll have one of my men meet you past the night fires once he confirms you’re alone.” Diklah’s chest swelled with pride. This was the right path. He would bring salvation for Jerusalem even if it meant joining a group of presumed assassins to do it. 

            Hours passed, but with each step Diklah’s confidence grew, strengthening every fiber of his being. He felt more alive and focused than ever before. He flexed his right hand anticipating the sicarii blade Menahem would place in his palm tonight after he completed his vows and accepted his first assignment––his first kill. At twenty years old, he had never killed a man and the thought of killing one of his own kinsmen brought the taste of bile up his throat, but he quickly pushed the feeling aside and focused on the memory of his dying father choking in his own blood as his internal organs began seeping through the gaping hole the soldiers made in his belly with their spears. And they had laughed while doing it, as if he had been a pig on the side of the road. Yes, he would gladly kill any Jewish sympathizers of Rome. Jerusalem would never be truly free if its people were Romans in Jewish flesh. Menahem was right. The sicarii must help purify the Jewish bloodline from all traitors.

Chapter Two

Jerusalem Lower City

Sheva awakened with a start and shivered against the cold. Holding her head in her hands she rocked herself side to side trying to recall the dream––the premonition of doom. Her heart raced as she remembered the inhuman eyes boring into hers, telling her to listen and understand, but how could she? What good would it do to haunt her sleep when she was a Jewish woman of no influence. Why couldn’t these demons haunt her father? Eleazar Ben Yair was a descendent of the Maccabees and highly respected by the priests for his services during the construction of the temple. Couldn’t they tell him of the coming destruction, of the valley of blood and the fire––she hated the fire. But mostly her skin crawled and her stomach lurched at the scorched faces with gaping mouths who screamed at her in silence and pain. 

            Sheva jumped to her feet wringing her hands by her side as she tried to calm her irregular pulse. The earth had spoken to her before––Woe to Jerusalem. She felt the weight of the voice, but after telling her father the last time, she vowed to never tell him her dreams again. She wasn’t the fool he believed her to be. That day his eyes reflected his belief that she was delusional. Perhaps it was a comfort to him that maybe this was the reason Sheva had rebelled by refusing the marriage he arranged. Her refusal had shamed him beyond recompense. He hadn’t looked at her since or acknowledged her presence other than to bark out orders or worse––to beat her. Now, Sheva spent her days in penance; serving him and caring for his home like a slave, trying to earn his forgiveness, but deep inside she knew he would never forgive her. She had committed the unpardonable sin––having a will. 

            Quietly, Sheva crept to the hearth for the flint stone and candle. The night was still thick and heavy with summer’s heat. Sheva knew trying to sleep anymore would be pointless. Maybe I can sneak in an hour of reading before Abba awakes? Her pulse quickened and her stomach tightened with excitement at the thought of reading while fear licked at her of what would happen if her father caught her. He won’t. She knew his morning routine which always began with deep guttural throat clearings before he loudly spit in his bedside pan. 

            His morning ablutions would give her time to hide her scroll under her hay pallet. With one deft clack, she lit a spark off her flint and gently let it catch the candle’s wick. Smiling to herself, she crept over to her pallet and pulled out a small scroll that had been given to her by her new benefactor, Bernice. Sheva’s thoughts flashed to the day she had been huddled under the window of the Rabbi’s home, straining to hear him over the clatter of street vendors, livestock being herded down the dusty roads, and the hustling noise of people rushing about the city before sundown as they prepared for Shabbat.

            Holding her breath and concentrating on the reading of the Torah, Sheva’s eyes instinctively popped open. Had someone spotted her? Her arm hairs bristled as she hesitantly looked around trying not to draw attention to herself. Pulling her shawl low over her eyes, she pulled her feet in tighter beneath her rear. She listened. Then she heard it. Dainty footsteps. Then she saw them as she watched the ground in front of her trying to remain unnoticed, two beautifully manicured feet, wrapped in supple leather and bound with scarlet cords, stood before her. Sheva gasped as a woman’s petite hand adorned with golden rings reached down and gently lifted her head as she knelt before Sheva. Her eyes were as deep as a night’s sky and her skin shone like the stones of Herod’s great Temple. She wore a gold ring in her nose. Her black hair slipped across her cheek from under her rich purple head covering that was embroidered with gold thread. As the woman's ring finger sparkled with a diamond, Sheva realized she was in the presence of royalty. 

            Sheva couldn’t speak. She had never seen anyone so beautiful in her life. 

            The woman laughed softly and whispered, “My you look like a rabbit that I might decide to eat … and yet … I don’t like rabbits.” She gave a mocking smile before putting a finger to her lips to signal Sheva’s silence. Looking up to the window she listened for a moment as the priest continued to read from the Torah … And when the morning arose, then the angels hastened Lot, saying, Arise, take thy wife, and thy two daughters, which are here; lest thou be consumed in the iniquity of the city. 

            The woman smiled knowingly as she stood and pulled Sheva to her feet, “Come with me,” she said, as she led Sheva to her waiting carriage. 

            Desperate to fill the silence, Sheva blurted out awkwardly, “Though I’m not allowed to attend the Rabbi’s lessons, I didn’t think it would hurt to listen outside of his window. I’m always quiet, and I’ve told no one.”

            “Who are you? Where do you come from?” Bernice asked.

            “My name is Sheva, daughter of Eleazar ben Yair. I was born here in Jerusalem.” Sheva licked her lips nervously. What if this woman told her father? He would be outraged.

            “My name is Queen Bernice, daughter of King Agrippa and sister to King Agrippa the II,” she said as she admired the diamond ring on her finger. Shafts of light reflected into Sheva’s eyes uncomfortably as Berenice twisted it in the sun. “How old are you, child?”

            Sheva stiffened at the reference to being a child. “I’m hardly one you would call a child. I’m sixteen.” 

            Bernice smirked at the hint of pride in Sheva’s voice. “I see.”

            “My father used to let me sit in on my brother’s lessons … well I guess not exactly. I mean to say, he wouldn’t mind me listening here as long as I don’t disturb anyone. In fact, I would probably be allowed to borrow scrolls had I not refused the marriage!” Sheva blurted before turning bright red at her admonition. 

            Bernice’s eyes glinted with laughter. “You refused a marriage? I haven’t heard of a daughter doing this before.” 

            Sheva bowed her head in shame. “I couldn’t do it. I would rather die wandering in the desert than to have married that man,” Sheva said. 

            “So it seems your heart has another lover?” Bernice asked. 

            Sheva starred at her in confusion. 

            “Knowledge … knowledge seems to be your secret lover, and this is something we have in common. Well, Sheva,who isn’t a child, you amuse me and not much amuses me anymore. I think I will place you under my wing.” She lifted her arm mockingly and laughed. “So it seems you like to learn like the boys. Well, I can help with that. I admire a woman with a mind of her own.” She eyed Sheva knowingly. “You remind me of myself a little.” She paused reflectively. “What would have happened if I had increased my mind rather than the number of men I explored in my bed?” She let out a forced laugh. “Meet me here tomorrow at noon, and I will bring you a little gift.” She winked at Sheva before signaling for her to exit the carriage. 

            Sheva jumped down and as she turned around the carriage was already in a cloud of dust jolting down the road. Stunned at what had just happened, Sheva stood watching until the carriage was out of sight. 

            Three full moons had come and gone since that day when Sheva met the most beautiful woman in all of Judea. Now Sheva was holding a scroll from the last time she saw her friend. A spark of joy shot through her chest as she clutched the latest scroll Berenice had given to her. She couldn’t wait to start reading it. Bernice had hinted that once she started, she wouldn’t be able to put it down, which for Sheva living in a house with a father who would beat her severely if he caught her reading might pose a problem. Huddled by the candle light, Sheva began to read. 

            Hours later, the sun peeked through the window, shafts of light shot through catching specks of dust dancing in the air. Eleazar stirred. Sheva clenched her teeth in anger. She didn’t want to stop now. This story was unlike anything she had ever read or heard, but it would have to wait. Her father began his scheduled throat clearing. If she moved now, she could hide the scroll and begin breakfast before his feet hit the dirt floor. 

            He liked it when she had flat bread prepared by the time he sat at the table. Yesterday, she had been late which aggravated him. The last thing she wanted to do was to anger him. These days it seemed easier than even to cause rage to flash in his eyes, at least until the eyes refused to even look at her. Now she only saw the heat rise up his throat as it spread across his face, and he clenched his fist by his side. 

            Sheva would tremble at the sight, ready for him to strike her like he had the day she refused Lamech as husband. If it wasn’t for the unrest spreading across Judea and the recent attacks of the Romans in Galilee and in the smaller cities outside of Jerusalem, Sheva was certain her father would have had the time to plan her stoning. But it seemed even the death of his only daughter must be delayed––for now. Sheva tried to recall the last memory of when her father had smiled at her. He was sitting at the table with her older brother Arieh; she was five. 

            “Mattathius Maccabee was a Moses of his time. With only he and his five sons, he withstood king Antiochus.”

            “Aren’t we sons of Maccabee?” Arieh asked, as his eyes lit up with pride. 

            Eleazar’s chest swelled slightly as he sat taller in his chair and rubbed his beard with his calloused hand. “Ah, yes. We are descendants of the great Maccabees and as you know my name is after Eliezer, who brought down the mighty elephant of the Syrian king.”

            Sheva burst from her hiding place after hearing the mysterious word elephant. “Abba, what’s an elie-pants?” 

            Eleazar’s eyes washed her with amusement as he ushered her over and sat her on his knee. “An ele-phant is a great beast with a nose like the trunk of a palm tree, with ears the size of palm fronds, and its back is as high as a rooftop.” Eleazar raised his hand high above his head to indicate the height, as he continued. “To attack the Jews, the great Syrian army rode on the backs of these beasts atop great scaffoldings to raise them even higher above their enemies as they shot down arrows tipped with poison. When Abba Maccabee led his sons and warriors against the Syrians, Eliezer noticed among the enemy’s elephants one which was armed with a royal breastplate and stood taller than the rest. He knew this must be the seat of the king.”

            Arieh and Sheva listened wide eyed. “Eliezer wanted to put a stop to the great bloodshed his people, our people, had already experienced. And, being the brave Jew that he was, he fought his way through the ranks of the Syrian enemy. Creeping under the elephant he speared it in its exposed under belly. But as the great creature fell to its death, it crushed Eliezer who was still holding his spear as he pushed it further into the great belly of the beast.” As Eleazer spoke, he held his reed pen high, jabbing it in an upward motion mimicking Eliezer’s final spearing of the elephant. He laughed as Sheva caught her breath in amazement and he rustled her curly dark hair, remembering with a pang how much her face mirrored that of his dead wife, Zivna. 

            “Tell us more! Tell us more, Abba!” Sheva begged. 

            Eleazar stood, suddenly reminded that his teachings were strictly for Arieh. “No, Sheva. These stories are not for you.” He pushed her gently out of the room. “We will call you when Arieh’s instructions are done.” 

            Slowly Sheva walked away with her head hanging low. Always, it was to be this way, Why couldn’t she have stayed hiding so Abba would have finished his story? Sheva clenched her tiny fist at her side and promised herself that next time she wouldn’t betray her hiding place. 

            The memory sparked a flash of resentment bringing Sheva back to the present as she heard her father spitting in his pale. She quickly grabbed the flatbread from the hot stone by the fire and placed it on the table before pouring water in a clay mug for him.

            “Good morning Abba.” She tried to sound cheerful, as he sat down and grunted his response. 

            Just then the front door flung open and Arieh burst into the room. “Abba! Have you heard the news?” He panted loudly, trying to catch his breath.

            Eleazar gave him a scolding look and pointed to the mizpah on the doorpost. Arieh quickly rubbed it and said a silent prayer. He touched his forehead solemnly, before lunging toward the table and throwing himself into the seat. Sheva had never seen her brother so ruffled. Fear shot down her spine as she remembered her nightmare. She sat down next to him and placed her hand on his arm as he tried to catch his breath. “I’ve been running for three hours to find you.” At that Sheva shot to her feet and poured him water too. 

            “Arieh, what happened? Are you okay?” She asked as she placed the water in front of him. He gulped it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

            Growing impatient, Eleazar slammed his fist hard on the table. “Speak boy, before I cut your tongue out in anger!” Eleazar yelled.

            Arieh focused himself. “It’s news, from Caesarea. The Greek Syrians sacrificed a cockerel outside of the synagogue five days ago. All the Jews of Caesarea are protesting and demanding Gessius Florus punish them for defiling the temple of Caesarea. They are rioting in the streets!” 

            Sheva gasped and Eleazar shot to his feet. “What retribution did Florus promise the Jews?”

            “Nothing!” Arieh said in shock. “That is why the Jews are protesting. An informant told the Jewish leaders that instead of punishing this defilement, he chose to accept a bribe from the gentiles, and he is letting it go unpunished.” Arieh raked his fingers through his thick brown hair as he continued, “What has surprised me the most is that rather than hear the request of Caesarean Jews, those that went to Florus were mocked and imprisoned for their request. Even now they waste in the dungeon, while their families have gone into hiding to avoid further retributions.” 

            Sheva held her head in her hands and tried to block out the growl of rage from her seething father. She knew what this moment could possibly turn into. If these gentiles were able to desecrate the synagogue of Caesarea and get away with it, what would stop them from defiling the places sacred to her people throughout Judea? What would stop them from defiling the holy Temple of Jerusalem? 

            “But that isn’t the worst part,” Arieh continued. “Florus is on his way even now to Jerusalem to demand a tax of seventeen talents from the Temple. He is bringing an army of soldiers with him.”

             “The priests won’t do it. Not unless he demands justice for what the Greeks did in Caesarea. Let the pride of the Jews be revived. We’ve had our fill of these Roman procurators,” Eleazar sneered.

            Sheva watched her father pacing when suddenly the eyes from her nightmare flashed before her––Woe to Jerusalem.