CONTINUED: Blood of Thorns

 “Who are you?” Nicodemus asked bluntly.

 “My name is Akim, and I am no spy for the Romans,” the young man assured them.

 “We did not say that you were,” said Joseph.

 “No, but you were thinking it. You would be fools if you were not.”

 “You are addressing older men of a higher station, yet your words do not reflect this,” Joseph pointed out.

 “Allow me to atone,” said the younger man who then took over handling the heavier end of the corpse.

 Joseph then joined his partner at the foot end and the three men worked their way down the damp hill.

 “I have never seen a storm like that one,” Nicodemus put in. “Surely it was a sign.”

 “Indeed, but a sign of what? Has God turned his back on this land for killing another prophet, or does it mean that Yahweh was mourning the mistreatment of a favorite servant?” mused Joseph.

 “Perhaps God is showing us the way,” but in Akim. “I was watching those soldiers from a distance. They were not great warriors, they were just ordinary men being forced to reside in a land they care nothing for. We must be like that storm; powerful and resolute. The Romans must come to understand that this land will never be tamed. If they must continually send legions to this place, Tiberius will then conclude that keeping Judea is too expensive and therefor bad business.”

 “What are you Boy?” queried Nicodemus.

 “My father was taken to the dungeons under Fort Antonio. That happened a year ago and I haven’t been allowed any word of him since. I have been working his shop ever since.”

 “Doing what specifically?” asked Joseph.

 “Forging iron grills for the wealthy like yourselves.”

 “And what was Jesus to you?” Nicodemus needed to know.

  “His follower Judas betrayed him because he thought Jesus dangerous. Dangerous people interest me.”

 “You are not a forthright man, young Akim. Your words twist and turn in ways that could get you into trouble,” warned Nicodemus.

 “Your pardon Elder; I will now speak more plainly. My father was put in prison because he told the truth about some of your fellow councilmen. I have come to despise all men who put their own interests before the good of their country. Roman collaborators are the worst kind of whores and Jesus was man enough to earn resentment from the highest of them. I confess to you now that I was hoping for a riot up on the hill. Alas, now all that will be done is we will bury this brave man, who was odd but worthy of respect.”

 “And then?” prompted Joseph.

 “Then perhaps I will seek out that Judas and give his beard a good yank.”

 The two older men exchanged glances for an instant and then struggled on to a cart that was waiting for them. In time they reached the place of burial that had been arranged for the young Rabbi.

 “What extravagance is this?” put forth Akim.

 “You concern yourself with the politics of Judea,” said Joseph, “but my friend and I are more concerned with a realm that shall exist when the mountains have come down and the foot prints of man can no longer be found anywhere on the Earth. Lay our anger in this tomb along with the bones of a great man. If you had bothered to listen to his preaching, you would know that he was never meant to lead any revolutions.”

 The young man didn’t respond to that but silently helped prep the body for ceremonial cleansing. He was aghast when a servant brought in a seventy pound bag of spices.

 “Surely you are not going to use all of that,” said Akim.

 “Yes we are,” responded Joseph.

  Akim shook his head in wonder but was quickly distracted when Joseph took a pliers and removed the crown of thorns that had been pressed onto the head of Jesus.

 “I will not have Mary view her son for the last time while this filthy thing of mockery is still upon him.”

 “May I have it? I will hang it in my shop as a reminder of how cruel the Roman’s can be even to a man who never raised a sword,” said Akim.

 “You may take it if you pledge to return it to me should I ask,” said Joseph.

 “I will. Now I should be getting back to the shop. I must earn a living if I am to pay my accursed taxes.”

 The resourceful young man then removed a length of leather lacing from his sandals so that he could loop the crown of thorns and carry it suspended so as to not prick himself.

 “If you are questioned on your way home, you would be wise not to say where that came from,” warned Joseph.

 “Someday we will be able to do what we please without any worry that a Roman might stick his nose in our affairs,” grumbled Akim.

 Then Joseph’s servant cut open the sack of spices and the aroma was almost overpowering at that distance.

 “Whew! I’ll be smelling like a high born gentleman the rest of the day. No offense intended.”

 With that the young man was off, leaving the task of burial preparation to those who believed in miracles and a kingdom that would put Herod’s stonework to shame. Akim for his part was ready to forget all about Jesus now that it was obvious that the Rabbi’s followers were short on courage, and probably intelligence as well. Still—the circle of thorns would look interesting mounted on the huge central support beam that kept his roof from collapsing on the contents of his shop.

 His thick stone forge was long enough to accommodate shafts of iron that were as long as a man. He had a bellows set up on both ends; an anvil and a variety of specialized hand tools. (Many of those had been made by his father.) Last but not least was the charcoal bin that had to be replenished in a land where wood was not in great abundance. Of course animal dung could also be used in a forge but Akim was an urbanite and would never resort to such barbaric practices.

 The young metal smith looked around for his gloves. Certainly a thorn prick or two could not compare with the pain of burning, but slivers were difficult to drive out amongst calluses and Akim was not to be paid for enduring such discomforts. But at the moment he was hard pressed to recall where he had left his gloves and he was eager to get at least a few hours sleep before the start of a more normal day. So he made the decision to post the macabre ornament bare handed, since it would take but a moment. Predictably, he did prick himself in the process, but he shrugged it off as a tiny sample of the pain a brave man had endured at the end of his life. It was nothing, and it was forgotten long before sleep finally took him.

 The day after the crucifixion Akim had to work extra hard to get caught on his work load. He almost felt guilty now that he had taken a day off just to watch three men die horribly, all they while hoping that political turmoil would come of it. Almost like a punishment from God, the thorn prick grew into an angry red sore that increased in size through the following night. Upon the second day after the execution Akim could barely wield his hammer and it hurt just to open and close his hand. Obviously he had picked up an infection and he needed to do something about it posthaste.

 Fortunately he had an aunt who was quite proficient at dealing with things like this, and she was always looking for an opportunity to ask her nephew if he had learned anything new about his father. Sadly, the answer was always no.

 “Well, I can only suspect that the Roman demons placed some dung on the thorn tips. Perhaps they knew that one of Jesus’ followers would remove the crown and get poked.”

 “Will the infection spread, Aunt Ruth?”

 “I don’t know. It would be a great help if I knew what was on the thorn tip, but I don’t think we will learn that from the beast men who crucified that poor Rabbi.”

 Akim was solemn and silent for a moment and then asked, “How will I know when the hand has to come off?”

 The old woman placed a reassuring hand on her nephew’s shoulder.

 “I have seen hundreds of infections but only a few required amputation. Do not expect the worst Akim. You are young and strong. I swear if filth could easily kill you I think it would have done so after your mother died. I have said many times that your home needs a woman’s care.”

 “You ask me to prepare for a wedding when I could be getting ready for a funeral,” the man half joked.

 “I will visit you in two days,” promised the aunt. “Either you will be on the mend by then or I will remain and become your full time healer.”

 “Well, should you require some burial spice, I know where you can obtain a great deal of it in exchange for a crown of thorns,” said Akim.

 Aunt Ruth was then left to ponder the meaning of that strange statement.

 That night things got worse. Akim came down with a fever that robbed him of his strength and brought his mind to the threshold of hallucination. In his dreams he envisioned beings made up of points of light. They moved in and out of his limited vision and occasionally one of them would nod a greeting before moving on. He was too befuddled to appreciate that they were not beings like himself. But then, if he had not been so befuddled he would have noted that he was just like them, in his out of body state.

 The realm in which he found himself did not consist of buildings, earth or a sky, and yet he felt that he was residing in something. It was almost like being a fish in a deep and all encompassing sea. But the beings didn’t float or swim. They moved about on his level and made him feel that he was in a place that was all together natural and proper. Then suddenly he remembered why he was no longer in a heavy body, struggling to abide by physical laws that were exhilarating and punishing at the same time. It felt good to remember; to no longer feel confused or afraid.

 The soul that had bumped into the first completed soul was now amazed at this latest development. He was about to telepathically comment on it to the nearest passing entity when he found himself weighted down and sinking into fourteen point seven pounds per square inch of atmosphere and the sensations that came with it.

 Akim’s eyes opened and saw nothing because it was three hours until sunrise and he had covered his window ever since the damn Romans had begun night patrols through his neighborhood. But the darkness was nothing to him. He stared up at the ceiling with eyes that were wide with astonishment.

 “I’m in a body---but I know what I really am,” he declared to himself.

 Then he frantically got off his cot and groped his way out to where he could gain some light from a three quarter moon. Then it was confirmed, he truly was back among the living.

 “I remember,” he said out loud to an empty house.

 “I know everything. I’m not supposed to on this end, but I do.”

 Then Akim took flint and steel and started a fire. It was his companion until the sun rose to display a world that Akim had never understood until now.

 “What am I supposed to do?” he said to the rising sun. “What is my purpose, as a soul that straddles two dimensions?”

 Akim continued to ponder that question until he caught sight of the crown of thorns that hung on a pillar of wood. The man-soul squinted at the cruel wreath until he was certain of a very important fact.

 “That was the side that was pressed into his flesh. I wasn’t infected by excrement. I was subjected to his blood.”

 He stared again at a hand that was still discolored and sore but getting better. He was now certain that he was recovering. He was also certain that he could improve his metal working processes. He could also speak dozens of languages and work out every problem that would have stumped him in the past. For the rest of his life he would be a man with no challenges; no unanswered questions in his life. But the same would not be said of his only son.

 That man would reside entirely in a world where there is nothing beyond the five senses. That man would remind Akim that life is never what you want it to b

 The Upper Section of Jerusalem was literally just that. It was located on a west hill where the city’s elite could appreciate the nearby architectural marvels brought about by Herod the Great. Most of the men in that quarter of the city inherited their station in life from their fathers---but not all.  Akim of Alexandria was a splendid example of this. He was born in Jerusalem and then taken to Alexandria Egypt  where he received his training in the sciences. (At least that was the official story.)

 It was rumored among the neighbors that he was now close to death, in part because of extreme old age. One thing that was common knowledge was that his son Daniel had taken over the metallurgy business and was teaching the trade to his Akim’s fourteen year old grandson. The generations certainly looked the part. The same dark penetrating eyes. The same strong nose and chin; and the physique of the metal worker. For Akim insisted that both his son and his grandson work the forge from an early age in order to instill character.

  They, along with Daniel’s wife Ester were now assembled in Akim’s bed chamber, which was almost as large as the house that Akim had been raised in back in the days before the great awakening. They knew that the head of the household was worried that he might leave them without warning, so to be on the safe side the elder would have this meeting and speak his mind to one and all.

 Akim knew that one of his heart valves was failing and that no medicine could help him. As far as he was concerned it was just as well. His ability to perform complex mathematical calculations was diminishing with the onset of dementia, and he did not want his body to outlive his brain. So now it was time to explain something to his loved ones. He realized that he should have done it sooner but he was afraid that they would think him mad and then he would have trouble getting them to follow his advice regarding other things. But now it was time, and if they chose not to believe him, then at least they would have the lesser things to support them until their lives came to an end.

 The old man was sitting up in bed, and in fact, once this final important matter was concluded, he would get out of that back aching producing bed and take a stroll around the garden. He might even go visit the neighbors and dispel the notion that he was in a coma or some such thing.

 “As you all know, I have reached a point in my life in which I must live my life one day at a time. I have been putting something off for a long time now and I realize that I dare not put this off any longer. So I have gathered you all together to have an important talk with you so that if anything happens to me in the next few days, it will be of no consequence.”

 “Father, you could live for many months with your condition,” Daniel softly admonished.

 “In my case, I think not,” stated the elder. “Now let us avoid anymore interruptions.”

 Everyone quietly sat in their chairs and waited for what they all assumed would be the last instructions of a man who wished to die with his house in order.

 “Daniel, I’m certain you remember your Grandaunt Ruth telling you the story of how I almost died from an infection back when I was young. Well, the fact is---I did die. I traveled to what you might call the land of the dead.”

 The old man calmly observed each person’s reaction and smile slightly.

 “Aunt Ruth had the same look I’m seeing on each of your faces. Only there was no respectful silence in her case. But she had made friends with an Egyptian woman and when I spoke to that lady in her native tongue, it caused Ruth to at least consider the possibility that I was not the victim of a hallucination. You see, when your soul is free of it’s most recent body, it remembers past life experiences and also things that it learned from other souls. Which brings me to the point where I must own up to a confession. When I finally convinced Ruth that I had gone over to the other side and returned with a world of knowledge, she became very frightened of what might happen as a result of that.”

 “People would think that you were mad,” Daniel said with absolute certainty.

 “No---they would think I was trying to start my own religion,” corrected the father.

 “Does that mean that you never did study science and languages in Egypt?” asked the grandson.

 Akim smiled fondly at the twelve year old boy. He instinctive memory was much weaker than his father’s had been at his age, and Akim was convinced that the blood gifts that had been passed on, were diminishing with each generation. However, young Herut was an unbelievably courageous lad, and he possessed the ability to see what was about to happen before it actually did. In a way, that was the most difficult thing they all had to deal with as a family.

 “Well, certainly no in this life, dear grandchild. It was Ruth’s idea actually. She was terrified for my safety. I used to own a crown of thorns that had been place on a young Rabbi who had been crucified for speaking out against the Sanhedrin of the time. But now I understand that the city council, the Romans; the Governor himself were all pawns in a great purpose. Jesus came into this world to die as he did. The puppets around him were just instruments of a greater will. Including poor Judas.”

 “Did Mother know the truth?” asked Daniel.

 “Yes. Her and Aunt Ruth were the only ones. I didn’t tell my father after I got him out of prison. He was slowly dying from fluid in the lungs and I saw no point in burdening his mind with things about his son. My only real regret in life is that I couldn’t free him sooner.”

 The boy’s mind was spinning with this incredible revelation. He had been assured that there was no reason for him to be frightened of his special sight. But he had also been trained to keep his abilities a secret, lest people become frightened of him. Now he understood a little more, but now he was no longer content to listen and obey his elders. Now he would desire every scrap of knowledge that his grandfather could provide. Then he would begin to make his own decisions.

 “What caused the fever, Grandfather?”

 “A thorn prick; from the crown of thorns I just spoke of. The Rabbi’s blood was on the thorns. I’m convinced that the blood of Jesus possessed some special property that made my death a temporary one. Why my memory of the hereafter remained with me I do not know.”

 “That explains much,” said Daniel. “My memories of early childhood have always confused me. I could never recall clearly what knowledge was given to me by you Father, and which things I simply knew from----“

 “From before you were born,” finished the elder. “Oh yes, you were quite a remarkable infant, I can assure you,” Akim declared with a proud smile.

 “I was a confused and frightened being in an almost useless body,” recalled Daniel.

 “Yes, you never ceased to amaze your mother or the neighbor women who would come and marvel at you advanced ways. But that too frightened Ruth. She appreciated more than I did the need not to call to much attention to this family.”

 “Where is the crown of thorns now, Grandfather?”

 “Only a descendant of Joseph of Arimathea could answer that question. The body of Jesus disappeared from its tomb shortly after the Rabbi was executed. Since then a cult has developed which is something of a mixed blessing.”

 “I know of the cult. They claim that Jesus returned to them and instructed them to preach his word throughout the world,” said Daniel.

 “His word would do no hard,” said Akim, “but the men charged with the responsibility of carrying on his work will stray from the true path. Their message will be that Jesus conquered death, and that all of his followers will benefit in this world by joining this fledgling religion.”

 “That is nothing to us---is it Father?” queried Daniel.

 “No, it is nothing to you, but it relates to something that is important. I now wish to bequeath something more important than a prosperous business. I wish to leave you with a family religion of a sort. Always remember that there will never be a kingdom of heaven on this Earth. The soul is sent to this Earth to learn lessons in love and responsibility so that it can better function in the realm beyond this one. Toward that end, never do harm to others. Love people and when you are wronged, do not give into hate.”

“But Grandfather, is it not proper to seek justice for our people?” asked the boy.

 “Of course it is,” Akim said with a paternal smile, “but you must appeal to a Roman’s sense of logic. If you resort to armed rebellion, you will convince them that more swords are needed here. You will accomplish nothing else.”

 “You said something earlier, Father. You said that the Rabbi Jesus came to die. Why would he do such a thing deliberately?”

 “To answer that question satisfactorily you would have to understand the hereafter, and I cannot explain that to you anymore than I could explain color to a blind man. You need only understand that love is more than just an emotion. In the hereafter it is a form of energy. It grows stronger, or weaker depending on the actions of the souls on  this Earth. The mortal who was known as Jesus housed the oldest soul created by God. His self sacrifice generated enough energy to reinforce the inter-dimensional portal which----“

 The old man noted the dumbfounded looks on everyone and shrugged slightly.

 “As I said, it would be like explaining color to a blind man.”

 “We should get the crown of thorns back,” said Herut.

 “It is not our property, Grandson, and I would caution you never to place too much importance on material possessions.”

 Daniel was thoughtful for a moment and then said, “Father, if the boy has heard enough, I would excuse him and his mother so that we can speak alone.”

 The elder nodded and said, “He is a bright lad. He will remember my words and at the proper time they will make sense to him. I do not require understanding from anyone at this time. But it is my hope that in the fullness of time you will all come to realize that.”

 Young Herut looked as though he wanted to put forth an accompanying thought but his father’s stern look put a stop to it. When the boy and his mother were gone Daniel sat down on the foot of the bed.

 “This has been a most remarkable day. I do not  think these revelations came too late for my son, but I am inclined to think you could have had a conversation with me at least ten years ago.”

 “Agreed, and I do appreciate how difficult it was for you as a young child. But you were such a good little fellow. You faithfully kept our secrets even though they played heavily on your young mind.”

 “They still do, and Herut isn’t the only one who wants to look into the crown of thorns matter. It may hold the key to many important things.”

 “It is a dangerous thing, not to be trifled with. We above all people have no need for it. Put it out of your mind Daniel. Very soon you will be sole manager of the business, and you will have your hands full just keeping Herut on the straight and narrow. He is entering a dangerous phase of his life.”

 “Are we talking about girls now?” asked the younger man.

 “Well, a woman could become the root of a problem,” admitted Akim. “But I am recalling a time when another boy threated to hit your son. Herut challenged him to try. The boy threw punch after punch to no avail. That concerned me. It is bad enough that we have gained wealth with a blessed property, God forbid any of us would use such power to commit violence.”

 “One time as a child I gained three copper coins by correctly predicting the throw of some dice,” confessed Daniel. “That ability faded away when I entered puberty.”

 The old man nodded.

 “We can only hope that Herut becomes a completely normal person before you pass on. Until that time you should be on your guard. The temptation to misuse unearthly powers is great.”

 “Did you ever misuse your powers, Father?”

 The old man showed a ghost of a smile and said, “My hatred of the Roman’s was equal to what you son is feeling now. You mother’s parents knew this and were afraid to bring me into the family lest I bring disharmony to their household.”

 Akim shrugged slightly.

 “I impressed your grandparents with my ability to bring much money into the family. Otherwise I’m not certain I would have been such an enterprising fellow. Who knows?”

 “But why in the world are you so quiescent about the afterlife, Father? There would be no fear of death in this family if you would try harder to enlighten us?”

 The old man then struggled to get out of bed with the help of his son.

 “Your life has been a miracle, Daniel, and yet you feel the need to have the blindfold removed from you eyes even though it would constitute a larger cheat.”

 “Cheat you say? Well, at least I’ve got you talking a bit more. Now please explain in detail what sort of cheat you are referring to.”

 “In afterlife there is no effort. No success or failure, no taking or giving. There is only communication with other souls and the opportunity to be with God. But only if you are ready. Love is like a wind that drives the sail of your ship to where you want to go, and the destination that every soul desires is aura of God. Toward that end you need love, but it has to be nurtured. That is what life on Earth is for.”

 The old man stood on a balcony overlooking a portion of the city that was on lower ground. He never forgot that there were people living in those smaller structures.

 “It is good that my son and my grandson understand that there is more to existence than what meets the eye. But you must also understand that hidden forces and spiritual horizons will only distract you, like a harlot calling from her doorway. What you do as a man on this Earth is the only thing that matters. Be both grateful and contented with the knowledge that you had no right to in the first place Daniel.”

 The middle aged man let out a sigh.

 “I forgot what it feels like to be young and impatient. Herut will be more difficult to handle now. I am certain of it.”

 The elder nodded and said, “That, is more important than a description of heaven.”

 Two days later, alongside a road three miles outside of Jerusalem, Herut witnessed his first crucifixion. He fairly reveled in the drama of a man weeping over his fate while being hoisted up to a glaring sun. As always the Roman soldiers were oblivious to the condemned one’s suffering and remained focused on their own minor discomforts. The boy drew strength from the cruelties in front of him, for it reinforced his long time belief that you don’t reason with rats, jackals or Romans. His father and grandfather were good men, but they had chosen to have future generations of Judeans suffer under the yoke of tyranny just so that death would flow as a trickle instead of a flood.

 Herut wasn’t sure how much of his grandfather’s religious views were based on fact, but if they were steeped in reality, why in the world should he fear death brought on by honorable action? Surely God would approve of any fight against evil, and slow torture could not be perceived as anything else. The boy dared not wait until the end. It was a long walk back to the care free neighborhood that he had always lived in. But he did tarry long enough for the fates to mark him for a major change in his life.

 A large cart filled with straw labored along on the ribbon of hard packed earth. It’s handler was the first passerby to see the man who was now hanging so as to remind all Judeans that Roman justice is swift and final. Herut noted with disgust that a young woman was leading the mule, and her head was not veiled. Worse yet, her shift was roped tight against her ample figure and you could actually make out a cleavage, which was something Herut had only seen once in his life. A year ago his father had accidentally taken him down a street in Jerusalem where an occasional whore might hawk her wares at the risk of a rock being thrown at her.

 If it weren’t for the Romans, Herut might have already begun wondering about the particulars of the world’s oldest profession. But here and now he was merely annoyed that a Jewish woman would call attention to herself under such revolting circumstances. Sure enough, the Romans turned from their grim work and ogled the low born woman, who then had some information to share.

 “I know that man!” she called out while pointing at the man on the poll. “He offered my sister two silver pieces if she would polish his tube! The bastard never paid her!”

 Then young Herut got the shock of his life as the woman undid her shift to expose the front of her body to the Roman’s and their victim.

 “There you son of a goat! Look at what you’ll never have again! I hope you die as horny as you lived!”

 As soon as the boy could get over the shock of what he had just seen he turned his back on the dregs of humanity and began his walk back to the city. He wanted to shove his fingers deep into his ears so as to block out the roars of laughter and the verbal advances now coming from the Roman scum. But then suddenly something else came to his ears. The laughter and bawdy advances ceased within two heart beats, and he thought he heard one of the Romans swear.

 He turned his head, half fearing to see some form of abomination that is performed in silence, but what he saw instead brought a look of excitement to his eyes. All four Romans were on the ground with an equal number of Hebrew men standing over the bodies. With great proficiency they loaded the cadavers onto the cart and hide the bodies in the same way that the attackers had been covered.

 The woman got out a rake and worked the dry soil over the blood stains that marked where each man had fallen. Then the woman covered herself in a more acceptable fashion and one of the four dagger men assumed the identity of her husband. The other three men prepared to hot foot it in a direction that would keep them away from prying eyes until they were ready to enter one of the gates of the city.

 But before the men set out, they stared up in unison at a man who might live another five or six hours before finally suffocating.

 “We wouldn’t be able to trust him, even if he could manage to keep up with us,” said one man.

 “But I could take a spear and put him out of his misery,” suggested another.

 “No. If you stick him you might get blood stains on you,” warned the woman’s pretend husband. “Now get going before someone else passes by.”

 In the meantime the woman’s eyes were on the only witness to the quadruple murder, and her expression was cold and calculating.

 “What do we do with the boy?” she asked as three of her comrades jogged away.

 The remaining dagger man called the boy over and asked, “What is your name?”

 “Herut. My grandfather is Akim, the great metal forger.”

 “Ah, that explains the fine clothing you wear. Well Herut, I would like you to understand that being a witness to four murders could complicate your life considerably.”

 “Or end it,” put in the woman.

 “Have you heard of the Sicarii patriots, my lad?”

 Herut shook his head as if in a dream.

 “We are freedom fighters. That man up on the pole is a criminal and we did not come here for him. The Romans crucify criminals and political enemies along roadways like this one as a reminder that we do not enforce the laws of the land, they do. But we are part of a growing counter movement that someday will convince the Romans that we are too much trouble to bother with. None of that concerns you. Go home, keep quiet about what you have seen and remember that we know who you are. If you go to the Romans with what you know, your grandfather’s money will not help you. Remember that and perhaps someday you will live to see Judea freed from oppression.”

 “You are heroes,” responded Herut. “I hope that someday I will be able to help support your cause. May God be with you.”

 When they had the road to themselves the woman said, “Perhaps we should have killed him to be on the safe side. It is no easy thing for a boy his age to keep such a secret.”

 “True, but I have heard of his family, and their wealth could be a great boon to us. I will look into the matter after things have cooled down a bit. Tomorrow will be difficult. Those four pieces of crow bait will be avenged with extreme zeal. The price of freedom will not come cheap.”

 The man on the pole watched the couple guide the straw cart toward terrain that was naught but rock. No tracks that way, but it made for hard grave digging. He would have cursed them for not granting him a faster death if he would have had the lungs for it. But then, since the bitch he had just seen was surely deserving of the same afterlife as himself, perhaps someday he would find her in some eternal whore house. It was not in keeping with Jewish doctrine, but it was a pleasant thought to hold on to until his heart stopped beating.

 Akim passed away two days later while taking a nap. The family mourned him in proper fashion and so it was that Daniel and Herut did not speak of the crown of thorns for a full year. This was quite effortless for Daniel since he needed to send letters all over Judea, very often waiting weeks for a reply that would gain him nothing. But in the end he came up with a name that could be of use to him, and at the proper time he passed that name on to his son.

 “Does the name Joseph ben Matityahu mean anything to you?”

 “No Father.”

 “He is a young scholar who’s grandfather was a high priest.  His brother is almost a neighbor of ours. In any case, he is preparing to go to Rome to negotiate the release of some priests who have been imprisoned. I suspect that they are associated somehow with some of the trouble makers here in Judea.”

 The boy tense slightly, remembering the dagger men he had encountered over a year ago. The number of killings had gone up since then. One of them even took place in their very neighborhood.

 “This Joseph fellow has sent a servant ahead to lay the groundwork for the negotiations. The servant’s name is Laban, and he is of interest to us because his family served the family of Joseph of Arimathea until a few years ago.”

 “So---he might have some knowledge of the crown of thorns?” queried the boy.

 “That is my hope. I suspect that Joseph will wait until the traveling conditions are perfect before heading for Rome. Once he gets there the negotiations could go on for many months. In fact there is no guarantee that they would come back at all. Therefor I want you to make contact with this Laban fellow.”

 The idea of going to Rome put ice barbs in the teenager’s guts.

 “But Father, if this man truly knows where the crown of thorns is, why would he share such knowledge with me?”

 “I will have some reading material for you to study while on your trip. Trivia concerning the crown’s original owner and his relatives. You will use it to make friends with this Laban. After all, it is always a pleasure to make contact with a countryman while in a foreign land. That will be your challenge. Of course this servant is ten years your senior but you are a good conversationalist and I have the utmost confidence in you.”

 “And what did Mother have to say about all this?”

 “Your mother is a woman of few words. Mostly she just cried.  But it is my theory that the reason you hate the Romans so much is because the only Romans you see are the ones that dwell where they do not belong. In Rome, you will be the foreigner and hopefully you will collect some positive experiences with the citizenry there.”

 “This Laban is the only man that can help us?” the boy asked unhappily.

 “No, but he is the most promising man I have learned of thus far. I will continue my probing until you return.”

 Herut was about to launch a stronger protest when a thought suddenly occurred to him. He would now have a chance to go watch the gladiatorial games. That would truly be something to see.  That piece of forbidden fruit might be worth all the miseries that make up a journey, even when you are blessed with agreeable company. Yes, it would be his only chance to witness such a spectacle and there would be no one around to disapprove.

 “I will take the quest, Father, but I hope Grandfather will not look down on me from Heaven and disapprove.”

 “According to him, he is preparing for another life,” explained Daniel.

 “Ah yes, well in that case I should purchase a good seat at the Coliseum,” the boy thought with a straight face.

The sixty mile trip to Caesarea took two days and for Herut it was like rubbing salt into a wound that never heals. Some brigands had attacked the last caravan that had gone out a few days earlier, so naturally the Romans decided that the following travel groups would have to be heavily guarded by legionnaires. This was no great bother to the Romans since Caesarea was actually their new provincial capital. It was just a depressing thing to the Judean travelers who didn’t enjoy Roman company on the byways.

 The port city boasted the first real manmade harbor in the Roman world consisting of huge stone blocks that tamed the roiling seashore and gave the grain ships a gentle passage in and out of the open sea. All very impressive but also annoying to a young man who did not enjoy watching his conquerors benefiting from Herod the Great’s work. It also displeased the boy to find out that a Roman grain ship is marvel upon the waves. The ship he managed to gain passage on was one-hundred and sixty feet long and could carry enough grain to feed an average sized port city for several months.

 Herut found it interesting that the ship was not the property of the Roman Empire. He learned that most business of the Empire was contracted out to private property owners that did business throughout the Mediterranean world. Even Herut would admit that such international commerce would be risky indeed if not for the Roman Navy which patrolled the trade routes that mostly hugged the coastlines. This was not because the ship captains feared the open waters, but rather because a pirate vessel was more likey to go after you if you strayed from the Roman Navy’s patrol ways.

 Herut occupied his time by making a study of merchant seamanship. That way the two weeks on the sea passed fairly quickly. Then when the ship was a mile off the port city of Ostia the young Hebrew got another surprise. A large oar powered boat came out to meet them and hooked on a tow line. They were then pulled in to their assigned docking facility. It was here that the passengers would disembark, for the grain ship displaced too much water to travel up the Tiber River to the steps of Rome.

 Barges had a shallower draft and were used to move the grain from the coast to where a hungry Rome was waiting for it. Herut could have gotten a ride on such a craft but he had his fill of water craft. He hiked to the city; happy to give his legs the extra exercise. He camped just outside the city the first night so that he could get an early start locating his heart’s desire. It was called the Amphitheatrum Neronis, a wooden stadium that had been constructed just a few years ago. It had enough bench seating to accommodate two-thousand spectators and circled a sand covered fighting lot that measured one-hundred feet across. An ultra grand coliseum was being constructed in another part of the city but that didn’t matter much to Herut. He only planned to be in the city for a few weeks at the most. So what he needed to do now was find some accommodations within easy walking distance from where the next gladiatorial games would take place. As luck would have it a series of matches were scheduled for later in the week. What is more, while touring the amphitheater he ran into a custodian named Blandus who informed him that the nearest Insula (apartment building) had many residents sub renting their apartments for the games. By sheer coincidence the custodian just happened to have a sister and brother-in-law who were looking for someone to share their apartment for the night before and after the matches.

 Herut regarded it as providence that he should stumble on this information. It would be uncomfortable, residing in a Roman home. In actuality, the boy was supposed to seek out the residence of a Jewish merchant that his mother was related to, but the residence was across town and worse yet, if he would have gone there he never would have been alone again. His distant relatives would have felt honor bound to accompany him anywhere he needed to go.

 When he had been on the grain ship he had met and conversed at length with a Roman grain merchant who wanted to stay with his merchandise. That man was the first amiable Roman the Hebrew boy had ever gotten to know. It was that man who had taught Herut that a man’s occupation was often more important than his nationality. In any case, the boy followed the directions given and met with the people he would then stay with. Their place was Spartan but sanitary and they agreed to take him in the needed additional nights that he would be in the city.

 They were a middle aged couple who’s son had been killed fighting pirates. Herut could truthfully say that he was grateful for their son’s sacrifice, and he noted to himself that he would pay them extra for their inconvenience. While in the apartment they asked him many questions (some of them laughable) about his homeland. He in turn pretended to show an interest in their city, but did not mention that he was in their quarter expressly because of the nearby stadium. In the morning he arose quickly and wasted no time getting back out on the streets.

 His hostess had informed him that if he would remain just a bit, she would run down to the local market and pick up some bread and cheese for him at no charge. He thanked her but stated honestly that he did not lack coin for food, only time to tend to his business concerns. So he went off to the point where he first entered the city. From there he could utilize the directions given to him for the purpose of finding Laban, the man that he was supposed to befriend.

 It was well past midday when he found himself in front of a copy house; a place where written material was either rewritten in its original format or translated into a different language. He entered and saw eight men, each with his own crude wooden desk and whatever manuscript he happened to be copying. Seven looked like typical Romans, but the remaining fellow stood out like a sore thumb. Yes, he possess the classic facial features of a Jew, but he had something else going for him, or against him, depending on your point of view. The man was a hunchback, and a rather homely one at that, but he was the only man in the building who spared the visitor more than a split second glance.

 “Laban, we do not keep visiting hours here. If you owe this fellow any money he will have to address that matter after working hours,” stated one of the seven without even bothering to look up from his work.

 The hunchback got up from his stool and quickly ushered the boy out of the building.

 “Out with it quickly my lad, are you a messenger from the shirt maker or do you call with news about the prisoners?”

 “Neither, I have just arrived from Jerusalem and wish only to talk to the servant of a man who my family holds in high regard. I apologize if I have done you a disservice by showing up at work. I was given to understand that you are a liaison to Emperor Nero’s judicial people.”

 “Not I. It would be unseemly for such as I to appear where important men show off their finery and fancy titles. No, I am but a scribe who will turn my papers over to a silver tongued show piece and let him read words that he only half understands.”

 “But that’s not what you’re doing here, is it?”

 “Of course not. I’m here to earn extra coin so that I can indulge in a few comforts that my master would deem unnecessary. An apartment all to myself for instance. Also a better grade of wine than the Master is used to paying for. Besides, it takes me half the amount of time to research records and get them transcribed than anyone else. That leaves me time to earn a tolerable existence for myself in this part of the world. Now what is your name?”

 “Herut, son of Daniel the creator of fine metal works. My grandfather was Akim, who founded the business.”

 “I have heard of it. You make everything but swords.”

 “Yes. I for one would like to get permission to expand our operations with that commodity, but I doubt that the Romans would allow it.”

 “Yes yes, very interesting subject to be sure, but as you saw, I have a demanding taskmaster. I must leave you for now, but I hope that someday you call on my at the end of the day.”

 “Would tomorrow suffice?” asked the boy.

 “It would indeed. Be off with you then, and trust no one with a smaller nose than yourself.”

 The young traveler grinned after turning his back of the servant. Relationships between master and man could be complicated when the help was highly intelligent and well educated. Herut didn’t have a lot of experience with that type of servant, but it was his nature to avoid hypocrisy, so he could not imagine himself demanding proper etiquette from the hunchback while continuing to resent Roman arrogance.  Anyway, he had taken an instant liking to this fellow and so he believed that his assignment would be an agreeable one.

 In the meantime he had something else he could do. He went back to the Neronis stadium and hunted down the custodian he had met earlier. He had a question to ask and city life had taught him to always get your information from people in the trade, not from some passerby who might just venture a guess. He now happily concluded that he had time to locate a Ludi Gladiatorium and observe gladiators in training. Of course he had no idea how unrealistic that expectation was.

 “You do not spy on a gladiator school,” the custodian said with a near toothless grin. “Only people who have legitimate business are permitted within the compound.”

 “As in walls,” guessed the young man.

 “Well of course. Some fighters are in those places because they wish it, but most are prisoners who would run off if they got the chance.”

 “So there is no way to view them in training?”

 “Well---if you were delivering food supplies you would get a look around for a little while. “But you might find the training facility less interesting than the arena during a show day.”

 The boy shrugged and said, “Some people just want to be entertained, but I wouldn’t mind learning a thing or two about the men themselves. I can’t honestly say that there is much else in this city that calls to me.”

 The custodian allowed himself a sly grin, even though he was obviously in the presence of a higher up and said, “If you want something to call to you, then you should take a stroll up Jade Gate Street. There are um---ladies who will call down to you from balconies and invite you up for a visit if you have the coin. Much more entertaining than watching a bunch of sweating men slap each other with practice swords.”

 Of course Herut knew what the man was talking about. He also knew that he could get the pox, which would not only drive him mad eventually, it would also disgrace him in the eyes of everyone he knew. (Well, anyone who was over 30 years of age at least.)

No, even though his hormones were agreeing with the cleaning man, his upbringing would keep him focused on the subject at hand.

 “What would happen if I offered a delivery man a silver piece to let me take his cart load of supplies into the school for him?”

 The older man chuckled and shook his head in astonishment.

 “You certainly are determined. Well, that might work. All you can do is give it a try. There are four schools in the city that function with the blessings of the Emperor. The men who run those places would likely insult you and give you no time to study your surroundings. But I know of a small privately owned training club that is run by an ex-gladiator who works with free men. That might be a safer place for you to sate your curiosity. In that place you would simply bribe the gate guard to let you into the courtyard for an hour or so. But be warned, your Jewish features could bring you misfortune whenever you are in sight of violent men. Take care not to provoke anyone who notices you.”

 The young Jew maintained a respectful expression, but he would have compared such advice with a warning not to open one’s mouth while underwater. Herut certainly didn’t need to be told that Jews need to be careful around Romans, but remained mindful that the custodian was a good fellow and probably talkative because of his boring work. After committing the directions to memory he set forth and found the fight club in about an hour. Like most high end residences, this one consisted of a stone dwelling that had been built against a common wall with a neighbor. Three other high walls formed an enclosure so that the owner’s spacious patio area would have both security and privacy. The entire property measured one-hundred and fifty feet square, perhaps half of it consisting of tiled courtyard. There in the late afternoon sun a dozen men were paired off and doing one step sparing exercises. The fighters all spared the young Jew a momentary glance and then promptly brushed him from their thoughts. They didn’t know why he was watching them and they didn’t care.

 Herut quickly learned that certain ways of moving the body preserve energy and at the same time bring a battle tool into position faster. So how a warrior moved was practices as much as the selection of appropriate counter moves. The most important thing that the visitor noted was that each student was trying to read his opponent’s body language. Hopefully this would give a man some forewarning or hint of  what was to come. Knowing what your opponent is about to do makes all the difference in the world when it comes to hand to hand combat.

 Herut felt a bizarre swell of pride when he realized that these martial arts students were trying to cultivate a skill that he himself had mastered at the age of three. One time a cat was going to bite Herut when he was little more than an infant. But the animal only succeeded in snapping at open air because little Herut’s hand pulled away in the nick of time. Of course in a well brought up Jewish family the boy was not encouraged to fight, but every boyhood acquaintance knew that you didn’t bother to throw a fist at Herut. It would be like trying to grab smoke with you bare hands.

 All the same, the Jew’s observations were not condescending. These men were training to become killers, something that Herut would never be. Not because he felt he couldn’t stomach such a thing, but simply because his grandfather had taken away any reason for Herut to walk down such a dark path. Still, Herut could not deny that these men fascinated him. They were the ultimate gamblers, and they didn’t need riches to justify their risks.

 “Best be off now, Boy,” said the guard that had let him in. “The master of the home will be back shortly. He suffers the curious in most cases, but now and again he returns home in a foul mood and that is something I would combine with your presence here. You appear to have the makings of a gladiator, but if you are what you appear to be, my employer would deem you a waste of his time.”

 “I am a Jew, Sir Guard, but I never waste a man’s time. If I desire something then I will pay fair coin for it and that makes me as good as anyone else in this city.”

 “Careless words for a Jew. My employer does not care about the coins in your purse. He is only interested in young men who are worthy of his training efforts. These men here are not prisoners. They train and fight by choice. As a Jew, that makes you as important as a stray dog. Now go before we both get into trouble.”

 Herut nodded slightly as marched through the gate. Once again he had made contact with a Roman who had treated him better than what he would have expected back in Jerusalem. But the comparison between Jews and a dog still stung him just a tad, and it reminded him that Jews would always be looked down upon so long as the swords belonged in someone else’s hands.

 The following day he kept his appointment with Laban and was invited to his temporary residence for an evening meal. The hunchback’s accommodations were far superior to that of Herut’s, but only because of where the young man had chosen to reside. With a bit of wine to start things out, the lad did as he was instructed and pretty well convinced his host that the praises of Joseph be Matityahu were constantly being sung in his family’s house. Then when he judged the moment right be brought up the target subject.

 “As I understand it, Laban, your family used to serve the house of Joseph of Arimathea.”

 “For five generations,” the hunchback responded. “But alas, my parents were sent to another noble house when I was but five.”

 “Why is that?”

 “That particular Joseph made some powerful enemies. He and his faired alright in the end but for a while he was concerned that all of his property would end up being confiscated by the Empire.”

 “Tax evasion?” the younger man half joked.

 Laban hesitated for a moment and then asked, “Have you ever heard of a Rabbi named Jesus?”

 “Oh yes,” Herut answered without hesitation. “My grandfather was actually present at the man’s execution.”

 “In what capacity?” the hunchback asked cautiously.

 “Well, I’m speculating to some extent you understand, but the Romans were a bit concerned that the execution would provoke some sort of incident. I think grandfather was expecting the same thing and he wanted to be there to participate in any protest that might have cropped up. Grandfather had just a tiny streak of the rebel in him when he was young.”

 “Joseph of Arimathea was also at the execution, and he took charge of the body and saw to the burial. But not long after the body was sealed in a cave, the entrance to the tomb was reopened and the body was removed. Some people claim now that Jesus actually rose from the dead but I see no point in discussing such possibilities.”

 “I understand completely, but I will share something with you,” put in the younger man. “My grandfather remained at the execution site until the body was taken down. He accidentally pricked himself on the crown of thorns that the Romans had placed on that poor man’s head. He then developed a terrible infection and consequent fever.”

 “Yes, whoever was sadistic enough to make a crown of thorns was probably also demented enough to contaminate the crown with some filth,” the hunchback speculated.

 Herut dared not elaborate fully on his grandfather’s experience, but he felt he need to explain why the crown of thorns was important to his family.

 “Well, to make a long story short, my grandfather experienced a vision if you will, that made him into a far more religious man. The teachings of the Rabbi were made known to him and he passed those words on to my father. Then two years ago my father heard some temple gossip that the crown of thorns was being held by someone in the city.”

 “No, it was taken out of the city by Joseph of Arimathea himself,” stated Laban. “As I was saying a moment ago, when the body of the Rabbi was taken from its tomb, a group of Pharisees insisted that all supporters of the Rabbi’s family be investigated, since it was obvious that only supporters of Jesus would have a reason to steal his body. Very often such investigations result in people losing their property to the State. So Joseph got my family transferred to a safe new owner, so we wouldn’t end up God only knows where.”

 “And where did this Joseph move to?”

 “Home for a time. Some say he was in fact imprisoned and somehow escaped before heading home. In any case he returned to Jerusalem and confronted certain accusers because a man like that does not suffer being treated like a criminal. After re-establishing his respectability, he journeyed to Rome and then beyond, eventually traveling to Briton.”

 “Where did he die?”

 “When would be more worthy of note. There is no record of his passing. As a matter of fact, every now and then a traveler will come to Rome and spread another rumor among the local Jews that he’s actually still alive. If so he would be quite old. I was told as a child that he was the uncle of Jesus’ mother.”

 “So---I need to go back home and get my father’s permission to travel to Briton,” concluded the younger Jew.

 “If it is that important to your family---yes, I suppose so. But I am of the humble opinion that holy relics need not be coveted by men who could their energies to better use.”

 “I didn’t say that the crown of thorns was a holy relic,” said Herut.

 “Well, Joseph of Arimathea was a member of a large group of people who believe that Jesus was no ordinary prophet. They will regard the crown of thorns as a holy relic, along with the Spear of Longinus, and the very clothing that Jesus wore before he was killed.”

 “I hope so,” replied Herut. “My worst fear is that it would eventually be discarded as a worthless piece of memorabilia.”

 “That is unlikely to happen, but as I was saying, your family should help build a better Jerusalem by fighting religious hypocrisy in the priest class.”

 “We have no family members within that class,” Herut said with a bit of irritation.

 “Not yet,” the hunchback muttered half to himself. “Now let us go out on the balcony for a breath of fresh air.”

 Herut frowned heavily at that strange comment pertaining to his family, but silently followed his host to where they could gaze down at an almost empty street.

 “Shall I presume that your employer is as familiar with my family as mine is with his?” asked the young Jew.

 The hunchback smiled at that and said, “Your grandfather was my kind of fellow. He was a self made man, and no amount of wealth could change him. Yes, my employer has some knowledge of your family, but I learned about you on my own. I am, after all, a man who earns his daily bread with his brain, not his back. That is why I am certain that you did not seek me out because of any admiration you have for Joseph ben Matityahu. You are not here on metallurgy business, you are here to talk to me about the crown of thorns.”

 “Yes,” confessed Herut, “but I have spoken no lies to you. My father does hold your employer in high regard. As do I now that I see what kind of men he is willing to sponsor and employ.”

 “Ah yes. Most men with such crooked bodies do not fare as well as myself, but perhaps that is because most of them are unfamiliar with letters. In any case, I am not offended by this honest talk. That is why I brought you out on the balcony; to clear the air as it were. So will you take steps to return home tomorrow?”

 “No, I have an entertainment planned for tomorrow. Indeed? Which festival? I don’t even try to keep track of them all.”

 “I am going to observe a gladiatorial combat.”

 “Such things are not for the Hebrews,” the older man stated as if speaking to someone of his own station.

 “It is---for purposes of self assessment,” responded the young man.

 “I do not understand.”

 “I hate the Roman occupational forces that inhabit our land. I would drive them out with force if such a thing were possible. But to actually butcher a man like sheep….”

 “You want to see if you have the stomach for such things? You will learn nothing from watching others. Only when the weapon is in your hand will you gain some notion of what’s inside of you. I strongly recommend that you do not go down any such path.”

 “Our entire country may well go down that path in my lifetime,” countered the boy.

 “Minus one, I pray,” said the hunchback.

 For the first time the diplomatic scribe managed to put an unhappy expression on the younger Jew’s face.

 “My mind is made up Laban, but I do not doubt that my father would echo your sentiment if he were here.”

 With that Herut got to his feet and paused before taking his leave.

 “With your permission I will return to this apartment the day after tomorrow. If you have any messages you would like delivered I will be more than happy to carry them back to Judea.”

 “That is most kind, but the mail is sent by naval warship and they make better time than the sort of vessels that most Judeans contract with. Still, I would like to see you one last time before you head home.”

 “It will be so,” the young man said with a slight bow.

 On his way back to his residence Herut frowned at the very sensible and proper advise that had been given to him. As a Hebrew he certainly didn’t need anyone to explain to him that gladiatorial games were an abomination. But if Judea was ever to be free again, Judean menfolk would have to start thinking more like Romans. Violent death would have to become a familiar pattern as it was in ancient times. The belief that you should love our neighbor is laudable enough, but invaders were another matter.

 Herut  wanted to take a good hard look at the aspects of Roman culture that made his enemy strong. He wanted to forge an iron heart in his own breast, so that if the time of rebellion should truly come within his life time, he would able to do more than just encourage others to spill blood in the name of freedom.

 The only catch was: Herut was smart enough to know that a revolution would be a nightmare, and no amount of inner strength was going to change that. Not for him, or any other Jew.

 So the big day finally arrived, and Herut’s mouth grew dry just waiting for the first event. He paid for one of the best seats in the house, which might have been a mistake since it brought unwelcome attention to his presence. But nothing less than earthquake would distract young Herut at this moment. He tried to compose himself as two middle weight combatants made their entrance from opposite sides of the arena. Both were Thraces style gladiators, and Herut already understood that such men were characters in a sort of life and death play. The Greek warriors of Thrace had been among the first enemies of the early Roman Empire. So these fighters were pretending to be warriors of a bygone age. Of course a Greek gladiator slave might choose the armor of his ancestors so as to please an ancient god, but in most cases when a gladiator was given a Thracian costume to wear, it was to make the fighter appear more fearsome than he really was.

 Such men wore winged helmets that covered the face, and used protective covering only on the sword arm. They usually carried the siccae which was a curved slashing sword and a small shield called a parmula. Such warriors were supposed to be fleet of foot, but because their chest and stomachs were bare, they were often just poorly trained criminals who would spill their entrails in the sand to help sell more wine. The opening combat was a splendid example of this. The two fighters advanced upon each other with an excess of caution. The highly knowledgeable spectators picked this up immediately and ordered the wine vendors over with bored and slightly disappointed looks on their faces.

 But to Herut, the second rate combat was even more fascinating than the crucifixion that had ended with the murder of a Roman execution detail. For this wasn’t an ambush designed to take place in a flash. This was a life and death contest, and the two fighting slaves were sweating hard in their helmets, despite the lack of action. It was clear enough that both men wanted to live more than they wanted to kill, but they traded blows with enough frequency to keep Herut on the edge of his seat. That was noticed by two Roman youths who were seated behind him and slightly to the right.

 The summa rudis (referee) was about to step forward and demand a more spirited exchange of movements when suddenly one of the fighters dropped down and under his opponent’s guard to slash a horizontal arch that sheared through abdominal viscera with unexpected results.

 The wounded man stared down at an ugly gash, then dropped to his knees with an expression that was hidden by his face shield. When his knees hit the sand, a loop of intestine bulged out of the gash and a sob escaped from behind the helmet. Only the victor of the fight heard it before it was drowned out by an audience that wasn’t truly excited by what had just happened, but they shouted out their approval more to energized themselves than anything.

 Herut sat transfixed. The big question for him now was: will the wounded man be put out if his misery or will he be taken back to some sort of infirmary where he will likely die a very slow death? The victor stood stupefied for a moment; somewhat overwhelmed with relief and a more than a bit shaken by what was his first victory. Suddenly the audience began to shout, “Take off the head! Take off the head!”

 Herut looked around for the first time since he took his seat. He had been one of the first to arrive and now he could see about four-hundred spectators behind him. Not nearly as many as he had experienced while attending chariot races but this was a different kind of shouting. Then the visiting Jew made out a different call. There was one young man not far away that was shouting, “Squeeze out the shit!”

 “Herut slid over to the nearest man on his right and asked, “What does it mean to squeeze out the shit?”

 The Roman smiled at the fellow’s ignorance and said, “It is a joke. The victor is being told to open up the bowels further and reach in to grab hold of the sack that contains excrement. He is then supposed to squeeze it and make the other man shit. No one has ever done it. It’s just a joke.”

 Herut then stared incredulously at the Roman heckler until the later noticed him.

 “What are you staring at Arab?” the Roman asked just barely over the other shouters.

 “He’s no Arab,”  declared another young man who had been studying Herut from the beginning. “I do believe he is a Jew.”

 “A Jew? In a place like this?” scoffed the heckler.

 Herut turned his attention back to the dying gladiator. By this time the victor had removed the other man’s helmet and was preparing to take off the man’s head. The gleeful assembly waited for the chop that would earn the victor one last medium shout of approval. But the novice gladiator cut too high and caught the bottom of the skull.

 “Practice on goats!” shouted the man on Herut’s right.

 Angered by his own incompetence, the gladiator brought his weapon up and down again. This time the cut was reasonably clean and proper, but now the victor would receive nothing but jests concerning his aim. The sweat covered fighter scowled at the assemble for a moment and then turned and walked slowly back to his area exit. Then four stretcher bearers came out dressed like minions from a Greek hell and loaded up the decapitated corpse. Five minutes later the next pair of combatants came out, and their approach was almost enough to make Herut forget the unhappy details of the last entertainment.

 One combatant was tall; nearly six feet in height, and willowy to the extreme. The other was a dwarf; thickly muscled but moving with a highly unusual march. Herut suspected that he had some sort of hip affliction. The little man was heavily armored and carried a shield that extended from chin to mid calf. His offensive weapon was the standard gladius which was the common infantry sword used by all Roman Legionaries. It could be primarily described as a short stabbing sword, but in the hand of the dwarf it almost looked like a full length slashing weapon.

 The other warrior carried a trident spear and nothing more. Herut swallowed hard as the spear welder drew closer to his side of the area. Then he heard another heckle that was definitely meant for him.

 “I’ll wager mother and father never allowed their little Jew boy any playtime with something like that!”

 Herut didn’t like being the subject of attention in this den of iniquity, but he had to admit to himself that the loud mouth was right in a stupid sort of way. The tall gladiator was a Nubian woman. Badly scared on one cheek and most of her teeth had been knocked out. But there was nothing wrong with her body, which was scantly covered by a short leopard skin loin cloth.

 By now Herut had gotten comfortable enough with his surroundings to notice that these performers didn’t stand on formalities. They didn’t bother with such lofty statements as “We who are about to die salute you!”    They just faced up on command and got to it under the supervision of the referee. Herut found that rather sad. It was one thing to die amongst a storm of pomp and pageantry. But to spill your blood in the presence of people who won’t even remember your last moments a month from now….

 The black woman went immediately on offense with the three pronged spear sliding over and under the large rectangular shield.  How the little man managed to keep from getting poked was hard to explain from the Herut’s point of view, but the highly aggressive woman was only allowed to poke and prod for a minute before the little man decided enough was enough. With no protection except the length of steel in front of her she was forced to withdraw step by step as the little juggernaut advanced with a sword that never got near ebony flesh but certainly threatened to.

 After a while Herut began to suspect that these two weren’t supposed to actually hurt one another. Like the first set of combatants, these two looked like they were always holding something back. Perhaps out of fear, but there was also the possibility that one need not kill in order to survive the day. Herut might have spared himself so much guessing by talking to the people around him. But he was displeased with the lot and only wanted to get through the program and get the hell out of there.

 The game of tag went on about twice as long as the first contest. Then in a greater effort to stab at the little man’s feet the Nubian got too much of her spear under her opponent’s shield and the dwarf took a gamble. He dropped his sword and grabbed hold of a portion of the trident. The woman immediately pulled back in panic but the dwarf was only lacking in reach, not strength. He then let go of his shield and fought the woman for control of her weapon. Desperation fueled her slender muscles but the barrel chested dwarf was now in a game that he was well suited for.

 When they got close enough it became a wrestling match, and then when the dwarf was on top of her, the struggle evolved into a different kind of contest. The dwarf pulled the loin cloth away and it soon became obvious that he had come attired in such a manner that he could shaft into position without undoing his armor. The audience roared their approval, but the referee grabbed hold of the dwarf and hauled him off the woman who in turn got to her feet and sprang for her trident. When rearmed she lunged at the dwarf but the referee bravely positioned himself between the two.

 “Get out of my way, Humper Of Dogs!” the woman shouted.

 “Sheila, you will remember the terms of your contract!” the ref stated with authority.

 “I will not be violated by a half man!” the woman responded while stamping her bare foot in the sand.

 “You weren’t. I have been right here all along in case you haven’t noticed.”

 “You should have acted more quickly. I will not stand for this!”

 “Need I remind you that you are a slave, Sheila?”

 “A slave that will make you much coin IF I am allowed to fight like a man!”

 “You can’t fight like a man. Look what a dwarf did to you. A regular gladiator would have---“

 “I wasn’t trying to kill the little horn dog. I was only going to make him walk stranger than he already does!”

 The dwarf simply blew the woman a kiss and grinned from his position behind the larger man. The ref stared for an instant across the arena. He sensed the ownership was watching to see if the situation would get further out of hand.

 “This match is done. Exit your separate ways so I can get the next combat started,” the ref said with a dangerous edge to his voice.

 The black woman spat in the sand when a chorus of cat calls followed her all the way to her exit. The ref was unhappy, but on the other hand at least the audience was being entertained. That was always the main thing. That was the only thing.

 There were two more combats after that one. The first involved a man using a net and a dagger against an opponent armed with a club. The thing that made it tough for the club wielder was the fact that the club had spikes protruding from it. Those spikes were easily caught in the net, making it somewhat difficult keeping the club free at all times. The club man was big, slow and more than a little stupid. Herut was inclined to suspect that the man might even have simple minded. In any case the net thrower got his chance to lunge in quickly after five throws and drive his dagger into the heart of the slower man.

 Then the last combat was a boxing match in which the fighters were armed with brass knuckles. It ended with a broken jaw and was carried away in that condition. Could they mend such an injury. Certainly his grandfather would have known. In any case that was the extent of the programing. Herut felt soiled, and also very stupid. He come to this place of his own free will. He thought the experience would strengthen him and help him face up to the harsher realities of life. But he didn’t walk out of the entertainment center feeling as if he had gained anything. He just felt like he had collected some bad memories because of a childish curiosity.

 He was in a bad mood, and as two young Romans fell in behind him, something happened that made the mood far worse.

 “Did you hear about the new coliseum they are building?” asked a man named Caelius.

 “Yes indeed. It’s going to make this place look like one of those tiny private gladiator schools that rich men buy when they become too old for their mistresses,” responded his pal Domitius.

 “It’ll be a great place to meet people, even though it’ll no doubt attract people who don’t understand fighting. Now if that place belonged to me, I would have a Nubian section, and a German section---and of course a Jewish section way in the back for bad little Jew boys who don’t listen to their mothers and stay away from gladiator fights.”

 Herut turned around smartly and regarded the trouble makers with a deadpan expression.

 “I don’t think they should even allow Jews to view such entertainments. I personally hope that in the future Rome will discriminate with extreme prejudice.”

 “But you are a Jew, aren’t you?” asked Domitius.

 “Yes, one that has just learned that when you see people bathing in piss, don’t jump in with them.”

 “Oh I understand,” said Caelius, “you almost puked back there and so now you think you are morally superior to us. Is that it?”

 “Hey, you don’t like me and I’ve just concluded that I should leave town, so we’re both winners, alright?”

 “We will have satisfaction Jew Boy, after you have apologized for comparing out culture with urine,” said Domitius.

  Herut let out a long sigh of resignation. These two were pathetic and they were probably bored from a lack of honest labor. Herut saw the push coming and made no effort to avoid it.

 “Hurry up Jew Boy, we’re running out of patience.”

 “Oh alright—I hereby apologize for comparing your culture to urine.”

 Domitius chuckled at his little victory and said, “Do you know why we dislike Jews?”

 “Um---because of the way we look?” ventured Herut.

 “Not even close. It’s like this: our soldiers get cleaved and gutted so that merchants can export and import useful products all over the world. But our people are supposed to kiss the ass of every tribal chieftain that is too stupid to accept progress. That gets us nowhere so we shove those people aside and the price of that is an occasional rebellion. So our soldiers have to waste their lives in some foreign shit hole because people are too proud to admit that our culture is better than theirs.”

 “Suppose that female gladiator had been your sister,” Herut shot back, “would you still think that all that is Roman is good?”

 “If I was a Nubian I would be hiding from lions and slavers. Both would be higher in the local pecking order than myself.”

 “This is folly,” interrupted Caelius. “The only thing that matters is that you need to stay on top in this world. That is what we Romans do, and you Jew resent us for it. You people were once warriors. You didn’t give it up because you found spiritual enlightenment. You simply got your asses kicked and now the only thing you’re good for is selling melons on a street corner. I’ll bet there isn’t one fighting man left in all of Judea.”

 Herut responded to that with a smile that was contemptuous.

 “I personally know of four. They killed four legionnaires that were crucifying a criminal at the time. Those four Romans probably felt just as you do—until their throats were slit.”

 “You witnessed this?” Domitius inquired with a hard look in his eyes.

 “To be sure, and it was a thing of beauty to behold.”

 “Then you will enjoy regaling a magistrate with the tale,” growled Caelius.

 “I don’t think so,” responded the Jew, who then turned his back on the other young men.

 Domitius grabbed Herut by the shoulder and turned him around. Then he tried to throw a punch at the young Jew’s face but Herut swatted the fist aside when it was halfway to its target. Domitius then threw a left and the result was the same.

 “I could do this all day long,” boasted the Jew.

Caelius rushed in from his quarter to complicate things for this foreigner with  outstanding reflexes. Because of his psychic fighting abilities, Herut could not be taken by surprise, but the slightly older Romans had fought as a team before and were focused on the task of keeping the Jew between them. Herut didn’t need to be a Sun Tzu to realize that he needed to make short work of at least one of them or he was going to get clobbered. So he did what any sensible fellow would do under the circumstances. He kicked Domitius square in the balls.

 A fist caught him squarely in the right ear which send him reeling. An instant later a pair of strong arms encircled him from behind while Domitius forced himself to straighten. Then, with a cold look in his eyes drew out a stiletto that had never been much more than a conversation piece until this moment.

 “I could make your balls hurt a lot more than mine,” rumbled Domitius.

 “Don’t do it, Domitius,” warned his friend. “These people may not be much at standing up for themselves in public places, but they have bought more than one magistrate and there’s no telling what his family could do to us in court.”

 “I’ll settle for a nose cut. Let the Jew Boy explain to his family how he got it,” said Domitius as he advanced upon his helpless target.

 Herut lifted both knees up to stomach level, forcing the Roman behind him to hug one-hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight. The result was predictable. Both young men fell to the ground where Caelius struggled to maintain his advantage. When Herut sensed that the distance was right, he threw his head back as hard as he could and smashed the Roman’s nose. The later cursed and his grip on the Jew lessened. Herut broke free and moved to get his legs underneath him. But Domitius got to him while he was still rising up and the hand that was supposed to thwart a dagger merely succeeded in grabbing a bicep.

 Suddenly Herut felt a bite of steel that made his eyes water. True to his promise, Domitius had sliced the Jew’s right nostril. That would have been a good time for the Jew to back away and wait to see if the Romans would be content with the blood that had been drawn. At that point Herut still had his life and everything in it that mattered. But when he realized that he had been marked for the rest of his life, something snapped inside of him.

 With a roar he advanced on the Roman and deftly kicked him a second time in the genitals. Caelius got back on his feet and advanced with the intention of punching the Jew in the right kidney. Herut’s left arm swept down and deflected the Roman punching arm and then a right arm lanced out catch Caelius squarely in the throat. This was not intentional. Herut was aiming for the chin and the punch simply went astray. But it was a haymaker blow that caused Caelius to clutch at his throat and slowly sink to his knees with a frightened expression.

 Domitius attempted another attack with his knife but his groin injury slowed him down enough so that Herut was able to remain out of reach.

 “Hey, what’s going on there!?” shouted an authoritative voice some fifty feet away.

 Herut turned and saw half a dozen Roman legionaries advancing on the fight scene. Since he had been outnumbered and attacked with a dagger, he foolishly concluded that he would have no trouble proving self defense.

 “This man admitted to witnessing the murders of several Roman soldiers down in Judea. We tried to arrest him and this is what happened,” Domitius stated truthfully.

 “Your friend may have a crushed windpipe. We will take him to a physician.” said the squad leader.

 The lowest ranking soldier glumly hand over his cloak which was then folded with two spears inside the fabric. When Caelius was placed on the improvised stretcher, his body weight kept the folds from opening.

 “Grab a spear shaft, Jew. You are now a prisoner and you can help deal with the damage you have done.”

 Herut did not object. He genuinely felt bad about what had happened, even though his nose still hurt. When they reached a military infirmary the army doctor assessed the swelling and decided there was only one course of action possible. Taking a very sharp knife he made an incision in the lower throat  and then shoved a tube made of hollowed out bone into the crimson opening. After a second or two the tube began to make a slight whistling sound as air passed through it in order to feed the starving lungs.

“He has a good chance of recovering from this, if no infections sprout up to complicate his recovery” said the doctor.

 The physician’s assessment turned out to be over optimistic. Two weeks after the incident Caelius choked on puss and Herut found himself in front of the Consul  who had been asked to judge Herut’s crime. The fact that Herut had been accused of witnessing the murder of four Romans in Judea sort of complicated things for the judge, buy later came up with a quick and easy way of meeting out justice that would earn the approval of everyone except Herut.

 He was told that since he had been attending a gladiatorial contest just before the fight, it would be only fitting a proper to have this wayward Jew participate in the very entertainment that he shouldn’t have viewed in the first place. Needless to say Herut was heartbroken by this sentence. But he had learned a few things about the world of the gladiator, and perceived even in his grief that he might stay alive a long time, if he kept his wits about him.

 He was handed over to one of the four professional gladiatorial schools that existed in Rome at that time. Even though he better muscled than the average youth his age, the school’s Lanista saw the Jew as someone who should be costumed and cut down in some creative fashion, since Jews tended to make poor gladiators. And so it was that he was given a wolf costume and sent out into the same arena where his great misfortune had begun.

 He was sent out weaponless and in a few moments he learned the reason why. To Herut’s chagrin, he was to be treated with another irony as a all too familiar dwarf entered the arena armed with a small bow and a handful of short arrows.

 “Is this just a coincidence or is God actually telling me something?”  thought the unhappy Jew.

 The referee trudged toward the very center of the circular fighting area and paused beside the dwarf just long enough to say, “If you embarrass me this time you little tick turd, we’ll see how long you can stay out of reach of a lion.”

 The dwarf knew the officiator was being rhetorical because the circular barrier wall around the sand pit area was only seven feet high and a lion could probably jump that. Just the same, he had been a bad boy as of late and understood that he’d better be all business the rest of the day at least.

 Slowly, with a dramatic flair that would be appreciated by an audience of several hundred,  the archer set arrow to bow string. Herut was not unfamiliar with bows and understood that just because the bow was small, did not mean that it lacked killing power. It probably had forty pounds of pull at least. Herut realized that he had just one chance to survive this, and he wasn’t sure it could be done at a distance of fifty feet.

 He ignored the caterwauling of the crowds and tried to imagine he could see a small hand releasing the shaft of an arrow. The flight wasn’t important. He had to see the end of the shaft being released. Herut reached out with his feelings while keeping his body ready for movement. The miniature gladiator drew the shaft back to a scar faced cheek and released with a cold eyed expression. Herut twisted at the waist and felt the bolt caress his young chest.

 The audience laughed because they thought they had been fooled, but the referee and the dwarf knew better and the later stared at his target with stunned disbelief.

 “Nothing but luck. Come on you little twerp, put it dead center this time.”

 “I thought I had,” the dwarf silently mused while setting another arrow.

 This time Herut shifted his feet to the side which was less stylish but considerably safer. Once again the feathers of the arrow tickled him a bit in passing, and the spectators began to argue amongst themselves whether or not the arrow dodging could be real. On command the dwarf took out his last arrow and prepared to fire again. But from an enclosed seating chamber the referee heard a shout that was all to familiar to him. Quickly he ordered the dwarf to retain the arrow and soon, amazingly, a well dressed man immerged from his box seat and dropped down into the sand pit where the dwarf and referee waited with great apprehension.

 “Give me that,” the Lanista commanded as he seemed to tower over the little bowman.

 Herut licked his lips nervously as he prepared to face another test. He had only seen the school master once, and then from a distance. The man had decided Herut’s fate without so much as speaking to him. This bastard still held the Herut’s life in his hand, but now at least, Herut was more than just meat on the hoof; or at least he might become more than that if he could avoid the third arrow.

 The Lanista’s name was Marcella. He was perhaps thirty-five summers old and possessed the body (not to mention the countenance of a man who lived by the sword as well as owning others who did. His head was nearly shaven and his nose appeared to be the veteran of at least one break. He looked rather strange all dressed up with the best cloth and jewelry on ears, wrists and neck, but he still looked like one hell of a man and Herut had an ugly feeling that this man would make his own luck. With an almost vindictive air the weapon was brought up one last time and there was a clear finality that could be seen in the man’s eyes as he released the shaft.

 Herut saw the trick; the man fired to the left at the last possible moment. So instead of shifting to the right as he had done before, the Jew shifted to his left. The arrow consequently missed by a mile and Marcella stared after the shot with unmasked fascination.

 “What magic do you wield, Jew Boy?” he asked as he closed the distance between them.

 “Maybe my God is looking after me,” the Jew half teased.

 “Or maybe there’s something wrong with this bow.”

 Herut stole a glance at some of the louder spectators who had plenty to say about the poor archery act.

 “Let them know who I am. Let them ask for me in a future bout.”

 “To dodge more arrows?” asked the older man.

 “No. They would never stop believing that it is a trick. But I can make you some money by staying alive, and to do that I need to get away from this arrow dodging business.”

 The ex-gladiator cocked his head in interest.

 “So you’re saying that you can’t dodge arrows indefinitely?”

 “No. You might compare it with dodging rocks. Sooner or later I’d get nailed. But when it comes to fist fighting, I am just about infallible. You wouldn’t want to be a gamester betting against me.”

 Marcella almost smiled at that, but not because of the mentioning of money.

 “I will take you back to the school for further evaluation, Jew Boy.”

 “My name is Herut.”

 “Your name is whatever I want it to be. But you will be given a chance to earn some measure of respect from me. That is one of the advantages of being a fighting slave. To the Empire, you are a thing. But to the men who get to know you---it is possible you will be more than that. In any case you live or die at my whim. Do not forget that.”

 The school master lead his people out of the arena, completely ignoring the bawdy jests being thrown down at them from drunks and soft gutted fools. It was said that a whore never remembered the faces of her clients. Marcella the lanista felt the same way about the suck eggs that came to the games. They were all beneath contempt, and the only thing that mattered was that they created a need for gladiators. They created a need for men like Marcella.

 Herut  gazed at the school’s high arched entrance as if for the first time. There was a large wooden plaque centered on the arch that read:

 Capua School of Martial Disciplines.

 Now that Herut had some chance to stay alive for a while, he allowed himself a tiny smirk at the grandiose name. There were only four nationally recognized  Ludi Gladiatorium in all of Rome and none of them had such a fancy title. This Marcella character was probably formidable enough in his day, but now he was just another advertising agent trying to get the attention of those who had money. At least that’s how Herut saw things at first.

 The walled compound that he had returned to was at least twice as large as the private school he had toured when he first arrived in Rome. That place only had living quarters for the owner. But this one not only had to house the Lanista, but also the seventeen fighting slaves that were not free to leave after a day of training. Both the residence and the slave pens had been constructed so that all the widows and doorways faced the central compound. If you looked outside all saw was a place of training. There was nothing else. Only training and rest.

 Herut would eventually learn that the Lanista and his favorite fighters visited a very unusual brothel once a week. It was a prison of sorts, but whores were locked up with the men who came for a short stay. There were some trainers who believed that a fighting man would perform better if he remained celibate. But every ex gladiator would tell you that the main purpose of a Gladiatorium is to produce champion fighting men. This is only possible if the men can learn to actually be content with their lot in life. Hence the company of a woman from time to time.

 Herut would give some thought to that in time, but right now he just wanted to figure out a way to stay alive until his father could learn of his misfortune. Then hopefully some magistrate would get the daylights bribed out of him. But that wouldn’t happen for a very long time. All that mattered at the moment was that he wasn’t being taken back to the tiny holding cell that was reserved for crow bait. He was taken to a cell that  only measured ten feet from front to back, but measured a good thirty feet along the compound wall. The entire front of each of the four holding cells was made up of iron grillwork so that when confined, the gladiators could still observe any training that was going on in the open central area.

 Marcella’s home was thirty feet from front to back and sixty feet along his own section of the enclosure wall. By now Herut had concluded that ex gladiators didn’t need to live a lordly existence. It was enough that their valor was remembered and they could continue to involve themselves in the bloody business that rewarded only a few. Herut busied himself learning about his cellmates as well as his owner. His father had taught him that knowledge is power, in every walk of life. The first cellmate he got to know was a barbarian from the north; quite suitably named Germanus. He had been the property of Marcella for nearly two years now, and fought on the average once a month. That piece of information was even more encouraging than the mentioning of women.

 “I don’t know why, but I always assumed that a gladiator would have to fight more often than just once a month,” said Herut.

 “It depends on who you are,” explained the German. “The most famous gladiators fight only two or three times a year. But if you are a common criminal, they might try and kill you as soon as possible so you don’t add to the owner’s food bills.”

 “Is that a big concern?”

 “It must be, because they always complain about how much I eat,” the bigger man half joked.

 “Was Marcella a free man when he fought, or was he a slave who won the wooden sword?” asked Herut.

 “I do not know. When I first come to this place, my Latin was not so good. By the time I learned to speak properly, all the men who knew about Marcella were dead or sold off to another school.”

 “You mean, he now keeps his past a secret from everyone here?”

 “From the gladiators, yes. I don’t know about the regular servants. They are forbidden to speak to us about anything except food and crap buckets. They are only here when we are training, except for the food server. It is not important, youngster. Just concentrate on staying alive until you can get your cherry picked.”

 Herut turned beet red.

 “What makes you think I’ve never done it?”

 “I was just joking,” responded the German, “but now I think I have given you some good advice.”

 “The Jew rolled his eyes at that, but deep down inside, he pretty much agreed.

 The fat man serving black bean soup was all business. He never once looked into the eyes of the men he was serving. He knew the routine and so did the athletes he was serving. Herut made a point to be last in line, which was pretty easy to do under the circumstances.  Trying to look casual, the young man smiled down at his bowl as it was filled.

 “Smells pretty good.”

 “You don’t get extra just because you’re last in line. Your boss decides how much you eat, not me.”

 “I understand completely,” Herut said in a rush. “I once had a friend who owned this racing dog. He would have punched anyone caught feeding that flea catcher. Say that reminds me: do you know if Marcella was awarded the wooden sword, or did he fight as a free man?”

 “Well, that’s kind of an interesting story,” the server said with a cautious sideways glance. “He started out as a free man. Then he got into a fight with a lanista who was the head of a school that his employer was competing against. Knocked a few teeth out, or so I was told. Anyway, his own lanista couldn’t or wouldn’t defend him so he went before a consul and lost his freedom. That was down in Capua. But of course he won the sword here in Rome when the Emperor saw him fight.”

 “Takes a lot of nerve to stand up to a lanista, free or not,” commented the young Jew.

 “No—not if you’re crazy---and that was his problem.”

 “He doesn’t seem crazy to me,” Herut said half to himself.

 “Oh not anymore. Not since the girl he had fought over got sent off to Egypt,” the server elaborated.”

 With that the cook’s assistant promptly carted the soup basin away leaving a young man fairly stunned. After the meal time was over the lanista himself appeared in the court outfitted in the battle gear he had kept even after being freed.

 “All you men pair off as you were yesterday. One step sparing with speed until I get back to you. Jew Boy, you’re with me. Step over here.”

 Since Herut was the odd man out, it looked natural enough that he would get some training time in with the instructor, but of course Herut understood full well that he was about to be tested. He was going to have to demonstrate the limits of his abilities, and in actuality, learn what they were himself.

 “Alright Jew, you needed concern yourself with counter punching today. This isn’t a exercise for accumulating points. Just cover yourself as best you can. Don’t think about anything else,” Marcella instructed.

 The teacher’s fists were bare, and for the most part Herut was assailed only by jabs. Each was cleanly swatted aside before it could reach the surface of his body. With each thwarted effort Marcella’s smile grew larger and larger. By the end of the exercise he was convinced that he had indeed found himself a prodigy.

 “Where did you develop your eye for fighting?” the lanista finally asked while he helped himself to a nearby towel.

 Herut tried not to look conceited as he answered.

 “I was born with the skill. My father had it, as did my father’s father.”

 “So you are telling me that you never fought in competition until you came to Rome.”

 “That is correct, sir. Oh, every now and then some boy would try and pick on me; which is how I discovered my skill. My father never spoke of such things, but one day he caught a stone that had been launched from a sling.”

 “That must have hurt,” the fighting master replied dryly.

 “It did sir. His hand swelled up for a time.”

 “He must have realized that it would. So why did he catch it?”

 “The stone had been launched at a friend of his.”

 Marcella’s expression became unreadable for a moment, the he said, “This school will be providing half the entertainment for a big funeral party next week. That will be you. The host has agreed to a boxing match with brass knuckles. Faustus of Alexandria will provide your opponent.”

 Herut nodded slightly. He understood that amongst the Romans if was a common practice to stage an entertainment for guests at high end funerals. Herut assumed that in the beginning it was probably a way of pleasing a man’s soul before it left the Earth for heaven. Herut didn’t really know or care. A show was a show, so long as he didn’t have to kill anyone. Hundreds of times he had fantasied about killing Roman soldiers back home, but now all he wanted to do was convince his temporary owner that his Jew Boy should be used as a boxer; or anything but a butcher.

 The outcome of the funeral match went as Herut expected it to. The opponent was an older more experience fighter. (Herut wouldn’t see any other kind.) So when the veteran boxer realized that he couldn’t get past this amazing young man’s defenses, he cheated just a bit by launching a low kick at Herut’s virgin jewels. Herut saw it coming just as surely as any other form of attack and used a low sweeping arm parry to deflect the muscular limb and then counter with a lunge punch to the jaw.

 Then came the big surprise. Seconds after the opponent hit the ground, half a dozen young females rushed in and embraced him as one, despite the fact that he was covered in body oil and sweat. A tongue entered each of his ears and two beautiful faces competed for his lips. It wouldn’t be until later that it would occur to him that the dearly departed  wasn’t going to be watching much bereavement before passing on.

 Most likely these girls were close relatives.

 The owner of the vanquished boxer came over to Marcella and studied the young fighter with great interest.

 “What school did you find that one in?” asked Faustus.

 “None, so do not bother asking around, you hog thief.”

 “So he was tutored one on one. By you in secret?”

 “You know damn well it was not I,” growled Marcella. “You know everything that goes on in my school because you ears in the whorehouse that my fighters are taken to.”

 “If you believe that, why don’t you patronize a different establishment?” the other lanista asked reasonably.

 “Because I would have to haul them farther from my compound and you would still pay for indiscretions. As for the boy there, you may think whatever you like. He cannot be beaten and that is all you and the other dung eaters need to know.”

 Faustus bristled internally but was ever mindful of the fact that there were two kinds of lanistas: the kind that buy into a franchise and the kind that build their own. Knowledge is required for that, which Marcella had in abundance. He also had a warrior’s physique that remained strong with daily training. There were no middle men in his tight little group. There was just him, his fighters and a minimum staff of guards and servants who lived off compound.

 Faustus had long ago learned that the reason the gladiators never too advantage of the poor security was because Marcella taught them how to stay alive in the arena, and gave them better creature comforts than they would enjoy if they were common laborers. True, on the average one of them would die every six months or so, but their was no hope of doing better outside of Marcella’s ownership. Not as long as Roman law prevailed.

 “Marcella, I am a reasonable man. I judge you by what you have done, not by what you say. But this is a political world, and someday you are going to insult the wrong person. Then I think you will discover that strength, courage and steel will not shield you from highly placed animosity.”

 Marcella focused on Herut’s predicament and said, “Best get you to the buffet table before all the squab is gone.”

 Then he marched briskly over to his youngest fighter where he grabbed an arm and ushered the boy away from his well wishers.

 “Have you ever even kissed a wench?” inquired the lanista.

 “Ah---well---“

 “Never mind, you’re going with the others to the house tomorrow night. I think you’re due for a bit of sophistication.”

 “I’m---going to meet a woman?” Herut asked meekly.

 “You’re going to meet a hole with hair around it. If you’re smart, you’ll never see it any other way,” Marcella responded. “Now get your ass over to the wagon. I don’t like hanging around in these posh neighborhoods any longer than I have to.”

Herut quietly complied. The announcement seemed a bit surreal to him, and he wasn’t sure if it rated a thank you or not. All he knew for certain was that he had ice barbs in his stomach the likes of which he had never felt in combat.

 After a long and nervous wait Herut was shackled to a chain gang of eight men. For security reasons the entire troop was never taken to The House for R&R purposes. Marcella was not obsessed with the prospect of escapes, but it was a three block march to their weekly destination and it wouldn’t do to have the locals fearing that escaped gladiators might come crashing into their homes looking for a place to hide.

 Herut did his best to look as though he fully understood what was about to take place. But most the men in the little procession were smirking at the notion that a cherry was about to get picked. The young Jew understood clearly that he had no friends in the school. Gladiators rarely made friends for reasons that were fairly obvious. Besides that, Herut had earned some small resentment when he became of best fighter, even though he was technically a Tiro. (Semi-novice.)

 On top of everything else, the young lad was a Jew, but fortunately he had spent much of his upbringing in a smithy working with metal. That at least gave him a warrior’s body even though he still lacked a warrior’s demeanor. Everyone secretly envied his god like powers of observation, but at the same time scorned the fact that he didn’t want to fight with a real gladiator’s weapon. Those thoughts would return tomorrow, but right now every man had something else on their minds, including the Jew who wasn’t entirely sure he could do this without earning God’s extreme disapproval.

 Herut soon discovered that The House wasn’t really a house at all. It was an enormous pit, sub-divided into eight cages which measured only ten by twelve feet. The men had their shackles removed two at a time and were then escorted down to the holding cells that would receive them. Half of the space in each cell was taken up by a large straw mattress. There were also wash basins and privy pots which were important because the gladiators would be spending the entire night in the cells.

 Of course there was one more item in each cell, namely a woman who’s conditions of employment varied a great deal. Some were straight prostitutes, some slaves, and every now and then an old man’s wife would show up and actually pay the house keeper to sub for one of the slaves. Life could be weird in a city where puritanical philosophies only belonged to isolated ethnic groups.

 Herut didn’t get matched up with any rich man’s lady (although he would have been popular enough with a bit of advertising.) The woman was perhaps ten years his senior with pale skin and a fairly large nose. Her simple knee length shift covered a medium frame that was neither voluptuous nor boney. Her hair was reddish brown and skillfully braided and wrapped around her head. The eyes were dark blue and somewhat empty of expression, until she finally bothered to look at the man who had been caged with her.

 “Hey, you look like a kid---except for the muscles. Do you even shave yet?”

 “Well, not every day—“

 “My name is Nuallan,” the woman interrupted. “You must be the virgin they were joking about.”

 Herut looked a bit exasperated and said, “I suppose some things just can’t be tolerated here in Rome.”

 “You sound like a Jew, but that’s not possible because you’re a gladiator. Right?”

 “I’m a boxer, and yes, I happen to be from Judea.”

 “Well then I guess this is going to be a first for both of us. You better let me be on top to simplify things. We’ll get started as soon as Gisco goes by. He’s supposed to view the chamber pots before you arrive but he always shows up late in hopes of seeing some action. The old pig most likely heard about you and---“

 Suddenly a man actually walked over the grating that made up the ceiling portion of the holding cell. He gazed down in expectation, noted that two people were looking up at him and continued on to the next cell.

 “I didn’t realize that there was a cat walk up there?” said Herut.

 “What did you call it?”

 “A catwalk.”

 “I guess your Latin is better than mine, even though I was brought to Rome when I was eight,” informed the woman.

 “From where?”

 “Briton.”

 That got Herut’s attention.

 “Can you still speak the language?”

 “Yes. I traveled to Gaul with another Brit female and we did not part company until about five years ago.”

 “Would you go back to your homeland if it were up to you?” asked Herut.

 “I doubt it. I was low born and would fair no better there than I do here. At least the weather is better here. At least that is what a customer told me a couple of years ago. Speaking of which, I think it’s time to render the serviced that your owner has paid for.”

 With that the woman swiftly removed her shift. Herut stared in astonishment for a moment and then averted his eyes unhappily.

 “Put the shift back on. I have something important to discuss with you and I don’t want to spend the night staring at my feet.”

 That puzzled Nuallan but it also intrigued her so she complied and then waited to see what he would say next.

 “It is my wish to go to Briton. I will need someone to interpret and perhaps teach me the language of your homeland as well. I would purchase whatever contract that holds you to this place and have you go with me if that is agreeable to you.”

 “Ah, that explains it then,” the woman said with a hint of disappointment. “You are a madman. This does not surprise me since you are being forced to fight as a gladiator.”

 Herut smiled at that and said, “What you think is irrelevant at this point in time. But I’m going to need someone like you in the future.”

 “I’m just wondering why you don’t need someone like me right now; and I’m not talking about going to Briton,” said the prostitute.

 Herut’s eyes went back to hard packed clay floor that was part of the holding facility. In truth he didn’t find Nuallan all that appealing facially. As for the body, it was certainly enticing to a young man with health hormones, but he lacked the fatalism of the other prisoners. He fully intended to regain his freedom. What was more; he intended to get back a life that did not include whore mongering. But how to explain that to a woman who he might be traveling with someday.

 “Let us say for the moment that I am truly mad. Well, part of that madness includes the belief that my family has been touched by God. I have never really been comfortable with that, but my grandfather claimed that without God our family never would have been successful, and we most certainly have been.”

 “And your family is in Judea?”

 “Yes. I was sent to Rome on business and got into a fight with the wrong people.”

 “I was given to understand that Jews don’t get into fights with Romans.”

 “There are exceptions to every rule; but know this: If you know anyone who could get me out of my predicament, it would be worth a great deal of coin.”

 “Then why didn’t you bribe the Consul that heard your case?” the woman asked with unmasked suspicion.

 “Only the sophisticated world traveler knows when it is safe to resort to such methods. I am still in the process of becoming sophisticated.”

 “Indeed. You seem to be holding on to your virginity with two hands.”

 “Since someday we might become traveling companions, I will tell you this: Jews believe that they are a chosen people. Certainly not all Jews deserve this, but those who embrace our religion do not corrupt themselves needlessly. As for myself: I fear this place and what it could bring about. Perhaps that fear is childish nonsense. I suspect that is your point of view. But in any case, I will not change what I am when my heart tells me to remain what I have been brought up to be.”

 “Your owner has other ideas,” stated the woman from Briton.

 “If you will indulge me in this matter, I will have him think that I have sinned to his satisfaction. I just wish I know why it’s so important to him. Marcella is not behaving like any Roman warrior I ever imagined.”

 “Oh I can explain that. The woman I am contracted with knew Marcella when he was still a gladiator. She mentions him once in a while, mostly when she is drunk. You see, down in Marcella’s home town, he had a woman who was not a wife or a mistress. She was---I don’t know how to say it---special to him somehow. It is said that they grew up together. In any case, she was not as beautiful as the many women who desired to screw him after he became famous as a gladiator. But he only wanted her, and she was a slave owned by a vendor who supplied the stadium where Marcella fought most of his contests.

 “I don’t know why but she was sent to far away---“

 “Egypt,” put in Herut.

 The woman nodded with a thoughtful expression.

 “Yes---Egypt. This did not please Marcella. He became quite rebellious for a while. Then I suppose he learned what most men learn sooner or later.”

 “And what is that?” asked the young man.

 “That no one is special. Anyone can be replaced. People need to make their peace with this fact of life. Then they can concentrate of the more important business of survival. Whether we are talking about a gladiator---or a prostitute.”

 “So you are philosopher in your own way,” Herut said with friendly eyes.

 “I am just telling you what my owner has said more than once. I have had very few ideas of my own since childhood,” said the Brit.

 “Well, perhaps we can change that someday.”

 The woman shook her head with a bleak smile and said, “There is no future. There is only today. That is another rule to live by.”

 “That is not how free people think---and I am a free man in my heart. That is another reason why I am only interested in your mind: I reject Roman values completely.”

 “Not completely,” Nuallan corrected. “You wish me to pretend something in order to please your owner. I will do this, but you must admit that you are being controlled or there would be no need for a deception.”

 Herut smiled at that. Would anyone back home ever believe that he could make friends with a pagan trollop? Life was almost getting to be funny. Not quite, but almost.

 The next contest went perfectly for Herut. He broke his opponent’s jaw in just two minutes and never got touched. The young Jew convinced himself that this would be his condition until a long string of victories would bring him before the Emperor. He had been told more than once that only the death matches could bring freedom to a gladiator. But then how many boxers had ever racked up the number of victories that Herut had in mind? Surely it was more impressive to be the world’s greatest boxer than to be a slayer of men. Herut was certain of it. He just needed to be patient, and also get on the good side of Nuallan’s owner. Then in time everything would go his way.

 Alas, even though Marcella was extremely pleased with his young boxer, he never forgot the Herut had successfully avoided several speeding arrows. This was proof positive that the lad could be any kind of fighter Marcella wanted him to be. That was important, because the only contests that truly mattered were the ones where men died. Broken jaws were nothing. But the lanista was smarter than he looked. He understood that he was dealing with a young man who had been brought up as a Jew. It would certainly take more than a night with a whore to change all that, and Marcella was ready for the second step.

 Herut was soon accorded a very high honor within the school. He was the first student in over a year to be summoned to Marcella’s home. Two guards ushered him in but then (amazingly) they turned and left the slave alone with his master. Despite the fact that Marcella was staring right at him from a heavy wooden chair, the Jew scanned the interior of the home as though he might buy the place. There wasn’t a great deal to see really. Every wall was covered with weapons. Some relatively new and others looking as though they would crumble to dust if touched.

 Marcella had a chair for himself, one for visitors, (not counting slaves) a desk piled high with parchments and ink, and a bed in the far left corner. There was also a set of weights, a bath tub, a privy chair and a large wooden cabinet that contained his clothing and battle harnesses. All this could be easily seen because the home was just one large chamber like a tent. Herut was most interested in the weapons. None of them were ornamental and some were even broken.

 “I want to ask you a question,” the lanista put forth in the way of a greeting.

 “Yes sir,” responded the youth.

 “Would you find it disturbing if I were to order you to beat your opponents to death from now on?”

 “I would find that very disturbing sir,” was the response.

 “So would everyone else,” responded Marcella. “True, men do get killed in the boxing matches, but the vast majority survive. With your skill---such matches would amount to a death sentence for your opponents and that would prove unpopular.”

 “So what are you getting at?” the Jew thought to himself.

 “You want the wooden sword,” put in the master.

 “Not if I have to kill with a blade in order to get it---sir.”

 Marcella’s expression was stone like, but his voice conveyed the slightest hint of familiarity.

 “In a way, you’re still a virgin, Herut. You think killing a man is worse than getting entertainment from watching others do it. That is the obstacle that keeps you off the road to greatness.”

 “Yes---I did sin by going to that first gladiatorial contest,” admitted the Jew. “But now I will turn back from that course. I will remain valuable to you sir---but not as a killer.”

 Marcella’s expression was now almost reptilian.

 “You still cling to the delusion that you have control over something. It is true that so long as you are willing to box, I will not kill you. But I will set your feet on the correct path regardless of what is in that Jewish head of yours. Morality is an illusion. Power is the only reality.”

 “I respectfully disagree sir.”

 “That is because you have not yet benefited from your next learning experience. That comes on the morrow.  Go now, and sleep well this night.”

 Herut took his leave; more than a little shaken by lanista’s absolute confidence. As a result he barely touched the evening meal, and went to his sleeping matt with the feeling that a condemned man might have. As always the cellmates around him slept soundly because of the heavy workout they had received. Only Herut lay awake, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, and the fear that his keeper might be right.

 The next day the gladiators were informed that there would be a small unscheduled contest. Local supporters would be informed but the audience at the nearest area would probably only number around one-hundred. These small impromptu events helped give tiros a feel for the live events but they didn’t require all the vendors and the advertisers needed for a large event. Herut had an ugly feeling that the event was for his benefit----and it was.

 He sat in the waiting area of the stadium and tried to compose himself. The only thing he was certain of was that he was not about to box someone. He wore no armor, nor was he issued a weapon of any sort, but he knew that something very bad was about to happen and the suspense was almost more than he could bare. The waiting ended with a guard appearing and ordering him up the long ramp to their entrance into the arena. Herut sensed the fear that so many men had experienced walking up that ramp and silently damned every man who fought by choice.

 When the door opened he squinted from the sunlight and then finally made out the nightmare that had been planned for him. A chariot was parted in the center of the arena. Bound spread eagle to its left was Nuallan. Three feet in front of her a bow and quiver full of arrows rested on the sand

 “You are instructed to go and greet her,” the guard said in an even tone.

 Herut went forward noting that there were a few dozen spectators in the seats and they were being unusually quiet. When he reached the woman he perceived that even though she was sweating and breathing heavily she was otherwise alright.

 “They are going to force you to kill a man,” she hastily explained. “You must do this thing. Not just to save me but to gain your freedom. You cannot win the wooden sword without a death. You must become a different man today.”

 Herut suddenly realized that the spectators were no longer looking towards the chariot. He turned around and spotted a gladiator poised in the stands above the very entrance Herut had used to enter the arena. He recognized the man as Otho, a short nimble footed fellow who was a good in fighter with fighting daggers. But now he was armed with a compound bow that was equipped with something Herut had never seen before on a bow. A long narrow strip of wood was attached to the bow precisely where an arrow would normally go. The wood piece had a slot cut down its length so that a short dart could be launched in place of a full length arrow.

 The device was called a solenarion, and at close range the short dart could penetrate its entire length into a body. But it took a little getting used to, and was not a weapon for novice archers. Herut never saw Otho with a bow, but then the same thing applied to all the other gladiators. Archery was often used to create spectacles in the arena, but it was not the weapon of a true gladiator. Otho held his weapon awkwardly, and his usual look of confidence was missing. But he looked determined enough. In fact he looked extremely determined.

 Then Marcella appeared from an upper level entrance and stood casually beside the novice marksman.

 “We’re going to conduct a very special exercise today,” announced the lanista. “Our bowman here will attempt to shoot the woman. Young Herut will take up the bow in front of him and attempt to defend the woman---by any means that suits him.”

  As soon as Marcella’s back was turned to him Otho took aim with his first dart and let fly. The dart smacked into the chariot some four inches from the woman’s hip. Herut immediately positioned himself in front of the woman. Almost on cue a man named Lucius appeared with his bull whip. Herut knew full well that unlike Otho, Lucius was a master of the weapon in his hand. Without instructions Lucius sent his length of rawhide cracking just inches above Herut’s head.

 “Move aside or pick up the bow,” commanded Lucius.

 Herut stared hard at the image of Otho. A tricky shot, but not impossible for a young man who had target practiced and hunted jackals not so long ago. But it didn’t matter. Herut stood his ground until the whip finally bit at his left upper bicep.

 “Pick up the bow while you still can,” growled Lucius.

 Herut remained immobile until his left ear felt as though it had been torn from his head. Then in a fit of rage he picked up the bow and fitted an arrow while continuing to shield the woman. Marcella’s look of approval disappeared when Herut turned and aimed his bow at Lucius.

 “Do you know what the penalty is for rebellion?” asked Lucius without a hint of fear. “You will be crucified, as an example to others.”

 With reluctance Herut brought his bow around, and after a meaningful pause let loose the shaft. The arrow missed Otho’s rib cage by an inch.

 “You may have to adjust for wind age,” Marcella stated from his seat.

 Herut grimly fitted another arrow to the bowstring and mentally pleaded for Otho to lose his nerve and take shelter behind the upper most part of the barrier in front of him. But instead, the man with the dart launcher moved to his right, coming dangerously close to some of the spectators.

 “Loose!” shouted the whip master with his arm cocked for a lash.

 With gritted teeth the Jew complied and his arrow streaked up and into Otho’s left shoulder. The man in the stands fell back and his weapon dropped over the rail to land below in the sand. Marcella rose from his seat with a deadpan expression and went to inspect Otho’s wound. The arrowhead was designed for target practice and would pull out clean. That didn’t necessarily mean that the gladiator would recover fully, but at least he had a chance.

 The wounded man who had risked his life looked up at his master and asked, “Have I not earned my freedom, sir?”

 “You have,” replied Marcella.

 Then he went to fetch a jug of wine he had brought with him, for it was time to celebrate, even though the young Jew was unlikely to see it that way. Indeed, the young man was found hunched forward in a sitting position staring at the earth floor of the assembly room where on a full blown business day, dozens of men would be waiting to risk their lives. Now Herut was alone with a couple of guards who knew enough to keep their mouths shut.

 “You are a foolish young man,” Marcella stated with shake of the head. “Death is a teacher that should not have to lecture twice. You have benefited by the end of other men’s lives and yet it seems to me you have learned nothing.”

 “You mean I haven’t adopted your values yet,” growled the Jew.

 “Here, drink some wine. Surely we can agree that you are in need of some.”

 Herut glanced at the jug and then took it without thanking his captor.

 “Were you really going to shoot Lucius?”

 “I was almost angry enough.”

 “At him, or me?”

 Herut didn’t answer he just went back to staring at the ground.

 “You can hate me because I do not want you to remain a mere boxer. But the truth is you will die a bloody handed slave unless you win the wooden sword, and you won’t accomplish that with brass knuckles.”

 “You cannot know that, since there has never been a boxer like me,” responded the Jew.

“You fight on sand for a reason,” the lanista said grimly. “The sand does not drink sweat, it drinks blood. The crowds come for butchery and nothing less. They do not hear the sound of a jaw breaking and they do not care.”

 “Then why do we bother with boxing at all?”

 “It is the goose liver that is served before the main course. Have you learned nothing from the games thus far?”

 “Yes, I have learned that I despise them. Some of the other fighters are pleased by the sight of a packed audience, but not me. Even one witness to my sinning makes me wish I was in a prison cell waiting for my father.”

 “Ah yes, I have almost forgotten that the Jew Boy had a father dear who will spare no expense to rescue his little lad. I think not. You are in a world of hard men now and there is only one escape: the wooden sword. This you will earn Herut, or I will see you dead from a poor effort.”

 “For the glory of your school, of course.”

 “There is nothing else.”

 “And what of your promise to keep me alive as long as I am never defeated in boxing?”

 Marcella’s smile was bleak as he regarded this young man’s infinite naiveté.

 “What will you do when you hit a man and he does not go down? Some of the other lanista feed their boxers drugs that make them impervious to pain. You have never faced such an opponent, and you have never fought a man out of your weight class. In truth, your skills serve you only because I have treated you fairly. But in the arena, combat does not have to be fair.”
 The young Jew felt boxed in. He was strong willed and resourceful, but the man standing over him was an expert at breaking men; and time was on his side. Even if his father did get word of his fate, there was no guarantee that his family would be able to do anything about it.

  The Jew was teetering on the brink of despair, then a thought born of desperation came to him.

 “The arrow trick. It may not give the audience the blood and gore that they lust for, but there is no denying that it is impressive.”

 “Aye, but the spectators will think that some trick is being employed. If they believe that, they will not be pleased.”

 “The Emperor stands aloof does he not?”

 “I don’t understand you.”

 “He would not be part of any deception. If you were to ask one of his bodyguards to shoot the arrows at me, that would convince the crowd that I am truly dodging the arrows.”

 “Such a thing is unprecedented. I cannot imagine what the Emperor’s reaction would be. It could do me great harm if he disapproved of the entertainment.”

 “Why would he disapprove?”

 “Because he runs these entertainments. Sometimes he even participates in his own way. He would not want to be out done by an unscheduled performance that comes out of nowhere.”

 “I admit that if you go along with my idea you will be risking your standing as lanista---but I will be risking more, and I am willing to take that chance.”

 “And if he is not annoyed by my approach----and if you survive the test and gain a wooden sword---then what? Do I make the claim that I can teach men how to dodge arrows?” Marcella asked dryly.

 “No, but you can claim that you were astute enough to recognize my skill and make good use of it.”

 The owner shook his head in wonder and said, “If most Jews were like you, Rome would never have conquered Judea.”

 “My powers of perception even amaze me. I have never met anyone like myself outside of my family,” said Herut.

 “Oh I’m not talking about that. I am referring to the fact that your brain is at least ten years older than your body. You are a freak, Jew Boy. You are a highly intelligent gladiator---who is bound and determined not to kill. I will be truly amazed if you actually get away with that.”

 “So we’re going to try it at the next big game?” pressed Herut.

 “Well, we shall plan for it, and I will put my feelers out to try and find out what sort of mood Nero is in. If he murders any of his relatives before the match, the plan is off. But we shall see.”

 Marcella wasn’t joking, and Nero did murder a relative the day before he was scheduled to preside over a circus spectacle. But Emperor Nero might very well have been the man who coined the phrase, “The show must go on.”  Because no matter how deranged things got in Nero’s personal or political life, when it was time to attend the circus, he would don his newest costume, get into his racing chariot and head for his one and only true heart’s desire. Because Nero was a showman above all else. The upper class loathed him for it, but the Emperor was too busy memorizing his song lines to really notice.

 That’s how it was for poor young Herut. His nightmare existed within an even larger nightmare; the insanity of a culture that had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

 

 Herut sat on a long bench sandwiched between the larger Germanus and the newest Tiro named Gratianus. The day’s itinerary called for three teams of four men to face a comparable force from another school. Herut and Gratianus were the only fighters on the bench that weren’t scheduled to fight in one of the three matches. Herut knew why he was on hand, and poor Gratianus only knew that he needed to take a leak---again.

 After voiding himself in the bucket at the end of the long narrow holding cell, Gratianus regained his seat and picked nervously at a blister that might not ever get a chance to heal.

 “I was told that no executions are scheduled for today---yet we sit here without weapons; wearing naught but what we sleep in. Surely that bodes ill tidings for us.”

 “I only know what is in store for me, and I do not believe it involves you at all,” Herut responded quietly.

 “What is your task then?”

 Herut was reluctant to bring up the subject, but there wasn’t any point in being evasive.

 “I’m going to dodge a few---projectiles. Spears or something.”

 The Tiro grew more agitated.

 “I overheard some of the others saying that Marcella himself shot an arrow at you and could not hit you. Surely such a tale was an exaggeration.”

 “It is not as simple as it sounded,” was all Herut could think to say.

 Suddenly the back door to the holding cell opened and Marcella stood briefly in the doorway.

 “It is on, Jew Boy. You will get your chance to win the wooden sword.”

 “And the archer---will he be one of Nero’s people?” asked Herut.

 “No, the Emperor did not deem it necessary. He instructs me to have one of our people do the shooting.”

 “But that’s not how its done,” the Jew pointed out.

 “One does not raise such technicalities to the Emperor,” Marcella pointed out dryly.

 “Then who is the shooter to be?”

 “He’s sitting next to you.”

 Gratianus went bug eyed and almost returned to the piss bucket.

 “May I ask why?”

 “He is unknown. Most of the crowd will assume that he is a neutral of some sort. If you believe that my choice will lower your chances of success, now is the time to speak up.”

 Herut glanced for just an instant at the unhappy Tiro and said, “I do not believe it will make any difference.”

 Marcella nodded once and was then replaced by a closed door.

 “Why did he pick me?” the tiro asked while visibly shrinking under the gaze of a dozen other gladiators.

 “Weren’t you listening?” growled a man on the other side of Germanum, “you got the job because you aren’t known to the audience yet. Now pull yourself together and listen to what the referee tells you out there.”

 The man’s name was Nerva and he was one of the few gladiators who bothered to speak to the new guys.

 “You don’t have to aim for my heart,” soothed Herut. “Aim for my shoulder if that gives you comfort. No one will know the difference.”

 “He should aim for you heart,” said Nerva. “He needs to do what you have failed to do Herut.”

 “I know what you are about to say,” responded Herut, “and you are right. I am not a real gladiator, and even if I survive this contest, I will still be looked down upon by my fellows.”

 “That is right---and not because we are jealous of your skill. We have resented you all this while because you cannot function as part of a team. In a short while one of these two teams will go out and fight another group. Each man will do his best to eliminate the enemy so that we can all survive. But you would go out there and amaze everyone with your ability to not get hurt. That is all you can do, Herut. Yes, you are an amazing fellow, but you don’t help others survive with your wondrous ways. So I am telling Gratianus that he should do his best to kill you, because from this day forth, he must be like us, not like you.”

 The big German remained silent but there was a look of agreement in his eyes. The fighters were deadpan, not bothering to show what they expected from the strange Jew.

 “If my death results from this break with tradition, remember that it was the Emperor himself that willed it so Gratianus. Do not fear to do your duty. I withdraw my previous advice. Nerva is correct. You should aim for my heart.”

 Suddenly the large wooden door that separated them from the arena opened and a flood of sunlight entered half of the cell.

 Herut---Gratianus---you’re with me,” commanded the referee who had specific directions to pass on.

 The two men left their seats and followed the ref some fifty yards to an open area that had remained vacant of buildings. It was roughly the size of a football field and surrounded by bleacher seats that outnumbered those of the wooden pocket amphitheaters that Herut had performed in until now. It was routinely stated by spectators and gamesters alike that the giant coliseum that was under construction would put The Field Of Mars out of business. It would have large scale chariot racing, water spectacles and the ability to coral wild animals without having them tethered.

 One way or another, Herut would never see it. Today would be his last day amongst such human debris. He silently swore that to himself as he marched behind the ref until they reached a circle that had been drawn in the sand.

 “You have but one responsibility Herut; you must remain in this circle. You, Gratianus will take up a shooting position here and stick to it. You have been given four arrows. Your objective is to place one of them in this man’s chest. Aim carefully and do not hurry to the next arrow if the first one fails. Remember that this is an entertainment not an execution.”

 All three men noted that the shooter and the target were lined up with the throne like chair that Nero occupied ten feet up and sixty feet from where Herut’s circle had been drawn. The target faced Nero and the shooter almost had his back to the wooden barrier that separated the arena from the grandstand foundations.  The referee came to attention ten feet to Herut’s left and almost half way between the two performers.

 It was now time for Herut to proclaim the opening statement “We Who Are About To Die Salute You.”

 But the audacious Jew didn’t do that. Instead he silently extended his arms out like wings as a unspoken gesture to the young man who had picked up his weapons where they had been left for him. Both residents and visitors to the Campus Martius area stared in bewilderment at the three men in the sand.

“The schedule doesn’t call for an execution does it?”  was on the lips of thousands of bewildered spectators.

 Not to mention the fact that they didn’t use single archers for such a task.

 Gratianus for his part was very unhappy. The one comfort that had been granted him as a fledgling gladiator was the knowledge that the men he trained, slept, ate and bathed with would never face him in the arena. Now here he stood poised to kill one of those men; and in a manner that required no risk on Gratianus’ part. The situation would have been insufferable if not for the fact that Herut was the very picture of martial tranquility.

 Well, if you have to kill a man you have broken bread with, better like this than to have the man on his knees begging and sobbing. So Gratianus brought the shaft back to his cheek and with grim resolve allowed the arrow to leave the bow. Herut was already telling his feet what to do before the archer’s fingers were clear of the bow string. The result being a clean miss.

 The crowd roared with laughter at what they perceived to be a freak occurrence. Gratianus felt extremely embarrassed at first, but then a feeling of sublime wonder came over him like a warm blanket.

 “By the Gods---you were ready to do that, weren’t you?” he called out to the man he was supposed to kill.

 Herut grinned at his school mate, and then up at the Emperor.

 “Should I shoot again?” asked Gratianus.

 “What a damn fool question to ask! Of course you should shoot again!” the referee shouted with a forehead that was glistening with sweat.

 The archer notched another arrow and loosed after giving the target enough time to say a prayer or do whatever was necessary in order to accomplish the impossible. Again, the arrow was not released until after Herut received his strange psychic message that it was time to move. Every spectator watched the second arrow miss and realized that they were witnessing some sort of trick, but only one of them grasped the specifics of the phenomenon.

 Seated on a chair of ornately carve wood, a powerfully built man of Nubian descent nodded with grudging admiration at what he had just witnessed. Unlike those around him who wore togas of flawless white cotton, this spectator was decked out in a gaudy combination of gold silk and leopard skins. That and a generous supply of turquoise showed him to be the individual that he was. He was also the only man in the Emperor’s raised section that carried a sword; a reminder that he was a warrior, and would never be anything else.

 “He receives a signal that perceives the launching of the shaft. I can see him start his move even before the shot is taken,” he stated to the all important man on his left. “The two of them have it worked out very well.”

 “One would suspect as much, but I have reason to believe that it is not that simple, my dear Spiculus. You see, the man who owns those two gladiators actually approached my games secretary and requested that a member of my personal guard do the shooting. The request was turned down because---“

 Emperor Nero’s face went blank for a moment and then he said, “Actually I don’t know why the request was turned down in my name but I suppose there was some logical reason.”

 Spiculus, along with everyone else in the grandstands watched a third arrow being launched to no avail and then turned back to his very important sponsor.

 “Allow me to take a shot, My Lord.”

 “Why would you want to do that?”

 “Listen,” instructed the ex gladiator.

 On all sides of the entertainment field people were beginning to heckle and accuse the entertainers of the obvious: namely that the two men down below had some sort of signaling routine worked out.

 “The skill of a gladiator is never the work of deception,” said Spiculus. “There are many different skill levels, but they all reflect the true abilities of the warriors.”

 “Your point being my dear friend?” Nero prodded.

 “I find this sort of entertainment offensive. No one is able to dodge an arrow. Certainly not a young warrior with so few summers under his belt.”

 “So you will kill him?”

 “No. I will shoot him in the testicles. That is a proper punishment for attempting to deceive the Emperor of Rome.”

 “Ah yes, I suppose that was his intention. Very well, Spiculus. It will be an amusing injury after so many arrows in the dirt.”

 “It will indeed My Lord,” confirmed Nero’s champion.

 When word got to Marcella that Spiculus wanted a shot at his Jew Boy, the lanista sprinted to where Herut was being forced to wait.

 “We may have a development here,” he said as he finished running up to the circle in the sand.

 “What’s going on?”

 “Have you ever heard of Spiculus?”

 “No.”

 “One of the finest gladiators ever produced. A master of all weapons including the bow. He received his rudius  about a year after I got mine. He is very close friend with the Emperor and he was watching the display.”

 “Now he wants to try his luck hitting me? That is good news indeed.”

 “Somehow I doubt it,” responded Marcella. “This fellow has never been made to look bad in the sand.”

 As if on cue the giant Nubian appeared on the edge of the arena and moved towards them with powerful strides. He carried a composite bow made of animal horn, wood and leather.

 “That’s not a Roman bow is it?” asked the young Jew.

 “Something from the far east I would suspect,” answered Marcella. “Interesting how there just happened to be one lying around.”

 “One of the advantages of being friends with a blood thirsty Emperor I suppose,” put in Herut while the newcomer shoved poor confused Gratianus away from his shooting position. The referee was also a bit confused, but he knew who Spiculus was and he had seen him speaking to Nero before the entertainment had been placed on hold.

 “Well met Marcella, allow me to apologize on the behalf of the Emperor for the grievous injustice that has been done to you and your school. After all, school mates should never be forced to kill one another. How fortunate that we were able to resolve the problem before any blood was spilt.”

 “My thanks. Of course, if the famous Spiculus of the African wilds should also fail to hit his target, I am certain that he will be as gracious in defeat as he has been in victory.”

 The black man’s expression was inscrutable as he fitted an arrow to his bowstring.

 “You might want to step just a pace or two away Noble Marcella. I would not have the two of you bumping heads.”

 The lanista backed up five paces and then stood attentively as did the unhappy referee. Gratianus placed his back against a section of wooden barrier; more than a little content to be relieved of his responsibilities. Spiculus didn’t want to make the killing look hard so he brought the bow up quickly and loosed his arrow without delay. The feathers on the shaft brushed against the left shoulder as the target brought his left foot back and pivoted the hips so that the upper and lower body turned as one.

 Spiculus brought the bow down to his side and stared in wonder at what had just taken place. Marcella ignored the roaring of the crowd and advanced on Spiculus, mindful of the fact that Herut could run out of luck at any moment.

 “Now you have your proof that we are not deceivers,” said the lanista. “If anyone is still determined to destroy my property, they will have to do it over my dead body, and in front of all these people.”

 “A pox on this arrow shooting business,” responded Spiculus with a look that was all business. “I just want to know how good that fellow is with a sword.”

 “He has not be properly trained with the primary weapon. He is a boxer.”

 The black man’s eyes lit in approval and he said, “Then if I challenge him to a boxing match, you will not whine like a mother who does not want her little boy to suffer a bloody nose. Am I right?”

“I would be honored to have the great Spiculus box with my champion,” Marcella quickly responded.

 “Next week then?”

 Marcella nodded and watched the black man hurry back to where Nero was impatiently waiting. So it turned out to be a good day for all concerned. At least, so it seemed at the time.

 When the day of the next tournament came around everyone in the school was in high spirits. Until the incident with Spiculus, Herut had been even more of a loner than what was expected among gladiators. The special attention accorded to him, the fact that he was a Jew, all worked against him in his cell. But now everyone wanted to talk to him because he was elevating the status of the school. For his part, Herut was focused on winning the wooden sword, which was now a distinct likelihood because he would be fighting Nero’s favorite celebrity gladiator and close personal friend.

 But during those last few days as a member of the school, Herut came to fully realize that his cellmates were truly men who could have been friends with him while laboring at a forge or doing some other form of honest God fearing toil. They were not monsters at heart. Unlike Spiculus and Marcella, they never hinted that they wanted to be like those men. They remained fighters so that they would not be executed. They took the food and the women that were offered because there was nothing else for them.

 More and more young Herut came to appreciate the fact that Marcella and his kind felt contempt for the fans in the bleachers. But they were willing to co-exist with them. Herut would not. He was no longer interested in surviving until his father could rescue him. Now he wanted freedom by his own efforts, and it certainly looked as though he was capable of bringing that about. Confidence was swelling in him on the day of the contest, and he was already thinking about how he would gain the freedom of the Brit woman.

 Then an hour before the scheduled match, Marcella arrived in the holding cell with a package, and some grim tidings.

 “You’ll be fighting with these on,” he said with no hint of remorse.

 Herut removed the cloth coverings and stared down at one of the ugliest things he had ever seen. A pair of fist covers studded with razor sharp nail like protrusions almost an inch long.”

 “Who’s idea was this?”

 “I don’t see how it matters,” responded the lanista. “Spiculus and Nero are of one mind. I will only say that if you want the wooden sword, you will be at your best today, and do not hesitate to take the man’s face off.”

 “But he is Nero’s friend!” Herut wailed in despair.

 “Emperors and jackals have no real friends, Jew Boy. Take the man’s face off. Show Nero that behind every countenance there is the same blood and meat. Win your prize and get out of here. Put your Jewish sensibilities aside long enough to do that.”

 Then Marcella turned and left Herut more alone than he had ever been before. The lanista shook off the uncomfortable feelings that had been plaguing him the last few weeks and took his place in the stands. Moments later Faustus sat down beside him, which for once was not a disagreeable thing.

 “Are you in the mood for a friendly wager?” the other lanista inquired while trying to make his soft body comfortable on the hard wood seat.

 “All my wealth in tied up in my school, Faustus. That has never been a closely guarded secret.”

 “There are no secrets of any kind in Rome, Good Sir. You own the sword of Spartacus. I will wager against that.”

 “All of his possessions were destroyed. I merely own a sword that was used in that rebellion,” Marcella explained for the hundredth time.

 “Your pardon. I keep forgetting. Well, I should like to own it anyway. Will you put it up against two-hundred talents of silver?”

 “Only if your dick goes with it.”

 “Ah, you are still upset about that girl that was sent to Egypt so long ago. I swear if I had known that it would disturb you so, I would have talked my bother out of it.”

 “Instead of talking him into it.”

 “It seemed like a perfectly logical course of action at the time. Who knows, you might not have won the wooden sword if she had stayed in Rome. You must admit that you improved substantially after she left. And now you teach every one of your tiros that they must harden their hearts if they are to succeed as gladiators. So where is the truth Marcella? Am I a viper or simply an agent of change?”

 “One thousand talents of silver against the sword of Spartacus.”

 “Ah, so you finally admit the truth,” Faustus said while pointing a well manicured finger.

 “Just between you, me and whatever relatives that might be living in your hairy crotch,” replied Marcella.

 “Very well then---one thousand talents it will be.”

 “And the loser has to pay up this very day.”

 “Is there no end to the insults I must endure.”

 “Only if you leave town,” responded Marcella.

 Faustus made a face but kept his teeth together as the referee introduced the emerging combatants. At first Marcella was pleased to see young Herut wearing a long flowing robe that also featured long sleeves. His hands were coupled within the sleeves and Marcella was thinking that maybe, just maybe the lad was beginning to develop a sense of style. But when he reached the agreed upon fighting area, the robe was discarded to show that Herut was wearing his usual brass knuckle set.

 Herut approached his opponent and said, “I am Rome’s greatest boxer, not a wild animal. If you wish to imitate a jungle cat, that is up to you. I will fight you like a human being.”

 “Then declare it before the Emperor, so he will know that this is not my doing,” stated Spiculus.

Herut nodded and stepped over to the barrier below the Emperor’s section of the bleacher.

 “Oh most divine Nero, the dictates of my Hebrew faith forbid me to fight with extreme prejudice. I will therefor fight as I have always fought. Know that I do this under the protest of the great Spiculus, who is loath to take advantage of an opponent with lesser armament. Think me not rebellious noble Nero. I am only following the dictates of my faith.”

 The emperor rose from his chair and gazed down on the Jew with a look of stern disapproval.

 “You are a slave, and a foreign slave at that. Your religious beliefs mean nothing to the people of Rome. But I will allow this contest to commence, for I believe that it will end with an upstart Jew losing his face. This time I hope you will see fit to acknowledge your Emperor before the spectacle begins.”

 Herut chided himself for his previous blunder. At the time he thought he was doing the right thing, but now he understood that you never pass up an opportunity to placate the enormous ego of a son of a bitch dictator.

 Bowing low, the Jew backed up several paces before quickly taking his place beside his opponent.

 Then as one the pair of fighting men shouted, “We who are about to die salute you!”

  “What a goat brain,” thought Herut as he took up his position in the fighting circle.

 The black man came at his opponent like someone who had really given this matter some thought. He took care not to telegraph his punches and he didn’t throw a single right cross. He used nothing but quick jab combinations. The Jew had a hell of a time with that tactic, but he possessed superior foot work born of the necessity of outflanking his opponent. His counter punches were less effective than what he was used to. Spiculus was extremely proficient at staying about an inch out of the younger man’s reach and even brass knuckles were no good if they couldn’t penetrate.

 Rightfully fearing that he would miss a psychic tip off sooner or later, Herut decided to lunge in from the black man’s left and execute his best lunge punch. Three out of four of his previous opponents had been taken down in this manner, and Herut had spent many hours at the school just practicing that simple attack until he could do it in his sleep. The first step was to shift to the right while blocking the opponent’s jab with his left. Then shift immediately back in while extending a fully cocked right that would come up under the chin.

 Since the black man was taller than Herut, this should have worked as well as always, but Spiculus had an instinct of his own. He somehow knew that he was being set up for a knockout blow and inched forward with his massive forearms covering his face. Herut then predictably threw a right left combination at the man’s midsection, but Spiculus ignored the pain and rushed in to extend his razor fists at Herut’s unprotected face.

 The Jew saw this coming in his mind, but his fists were still completing their double punching move and Herut was amazed at how fast this big man could move. The short razors sliced open lips and cheeks and then Herut made an interesting discovery. He found out that when you never take a beating, you have no chance to develop a higher pain threshold. Suddenly Herut was just an ordinary man. His psychic abilities were drowned out by the agony of multiple lacerations on his face. He staggered back and out of the fighting circle.

 Spiculus could well afford to be gracious and wait for the dumbfounded lad to regain his focus and advance to where he belonged. During that brief respite the boy realized that he needed to exploit the rib injury he had brought about when the black man tricked him into throwing the low double punches. If he could tag the left short ribs again…

Herut ignored the pain of his face and succeeded in scoring another block-counter combination. Only this time he fired a straight punch at those short ribs and he was rewarded by the sound of Spiculus grunting in agony. Herut then got half his ear ripped off but he remained focused on the task of getting at those short ribs and soon enough the great Spiculus stopped looking so great.

 Then when both men were breathing like the forge bellows that Herut had labored with back home, the young Jew forgot about tactics and allowed the black man to maul the left side of his head in order to get close enough to throw two consecutive rights at those short ribs.

 Spiculus was now a tower of pain, his left arm involuntarily protecting the short rib area. Herut was covered in blood and felt as though his head was on fire. But he was far more mobile than his opponent, who’s weapons were designed more for harassing rthan bone breaking. The black man threw a jab and intended to follow up as Herut protected himself. But even his iron will could not make the left side of his body work the way he wanted it to.

 The left that Spiculus brought out slashed the Jew’s arm but Herut ignored it and countered with his other arm which caught the black with a less than perfect chin blow. The bigger man rocked on his feet for a moment, trying to collect himself, and that was all the invitation Herut needed. Throwing caution to the wind he lunged in and fired off a right that was fueled with all the strength he had left. It took Spiculus in the teeth and knocked him on his butt.

 Herut staggered back and waited to see what would happen next. In his fatigue he failed to see Nero signal the referee to put an end to the match, and by the expression on the Emperor’s face, Marcella was pretty sure there would be no wooden sword ceremony this day.

 A few minutes later the same thing occurred to Herut, and then he just stood there until the referee took his arm and ushered him back to where his cuts would get tended to.

The next day Marcella found his Jew Boy in very low spirits. Half his head had been stitched up and he had gotten the word that the Emperor was not behaving like a good sport. Marcella’s expression was deadpan, but the fact that he was visiting the Jew meant something. Herut just had to wait and find out what it was.

  “Nero is going to have you fed to the lions in three days.”

  Herut let out a sigh.

 “I would have preferred it if you would have waited two days before telling me. You know perfectly well that a condemned man hated the wait almost as much as---“

 “The lions will not have you,” interrupted the lanista.

 “This fellow showed up. A hunchback alchemist named Laban. He says he is a friend of yours.”

 “It is so.”

 “He offers a poison. His plan is to make it look as though you developed a fever from your head wounds and then succumbed.”

 “And you would go along with this?”

 “Yes.”

 “Why?”

 “To piss Faustus off for one thing. I know how his mind works. If you die from your injuries he will take the position that you did not win the fight.”

 “Of course I won it. That was clear enough to everyone.”

 “Not to Faustus. He’ll be an asshole about it. I won a thousand talents off you by the way.”

 “That explains the lack of tears.”

 “Oh I haven’t cried since I was eight. Do you want some wine?”

 “I’ll have the hunchback bring it in. Maybe he can poison you at the same time.”

 “That would be logical,” admitted the Jew.

 Without another word the ex gladiator did an about face and marched away.

  An hour later Laban showed up with a jug of wine and a pair of cups.

 “Much has taken place since our last meeting. Your father is going to skin you alive I think.”

 “No, he will have to skin me dead, if you have a trick to keep my carcass from rotting before he gets a hold of it.”

 “Well---at least you are facing your misfortune with courage. I will remember that.”

 “I don’t think that will comfort my mother very much.”

 “Here, take your poison,” instructed the hunchback after pouring a powder into one of the wine cups.

 “Just like that? Why can’t I be allowed to live another two days?”

 “To further blacken your soul in a house of immorality perhaps?”

 “I’ve heard worse ideas.”

 “You are fortunate. Most men facing death have no idea what to expect. Your grandfather’s vision has given you precious knowledge that would make you the envy of any dying man.”

 “I never said I believed in the vision.”

 “Well then pray answer me: do you?”

 The young man hesitated and then said, “Yes I do. But perhaps I simply lack the courage to believe in nothing when the end is so near.”

 “Yes, that sounds quite logical,” the hunchback responded before he almost shoved the wine cup in Herut’s face.

 With a sigh of resignation the cup was taken and down in a few quick gulps. After  Laban retrieved the cup he then placed a fatherly hand on the lad’s head, then if slid down to his neck where Herut suddenly felt a distinct scratch.

 “Ouch, what did you do?”

 “Sorry--cheap ring. I don’t know why I bought it.”

 The hunchback carefully removed the offensive piece of jewelry and placed it in a carrying pouch.

 “Well, I suppose I should just stretch out now and assume a proper position for a Jewish stiff,” Herut said with a tone that was heavy with self pity.

 “You won’t be seeing me again---“

 “What an amazing bit of information that is growled the man with his eyes staring up at the ceiling.

 “---so I just wanted to say that when a man’s feet are placed on a special path, he should not require any additional incentive to move forward.”

 “Yesss---that’sss log—icahl.”

 Herut suddenly found himself in a strange temple like building where everything was made up of millions of tiny points of light. So magnificently detailed were these images that when his grandfather approached him, he was recognized immediately.

 “Herut, your father and mother are going to be heart broken when they find out what you have done. The sooner you get to Briton and atone for your misdeeds the better. Laban will explain to them that you are not dead and that you have become a missionary in God’s service. Let us hope for both our sakes that you convert heathens better than you box.”

 “Grandfather?” the young man breathed in awe.

 “Yes Boy, it is me. More permanently dead than you are but equally burdened with the guilt of past mistakes. I have about a thousand souls to guide across before I’ll be permitted to venture on to the next plain of existence. It’s really not so bad, but I want you to do better. Get yourself to Briton---and pick up a good seal skin cloak by the way. The rains on that Island are cold and frequent.”

 “This is a dream. But when the dream ends---will there be anything else?” the young man asked himself.

 “There, you see what I mean? If I had done a better job instructing my family in the  teachings of Jesus, I would not have to listen to skepticism from my own blood. This is embarrassing. You should hear the heckling that is going on around us.”

 With some effort Herut gathered his wits and said, “Laban said he would not see me again. That didn’t make any sense at the time. But now….”

 “He is one of the thorn keepers. The crown of thorns has been broken into a dozen pieces. Laban attached a single blood covered barb to his ring in order to give you the fever just as I received it many years ago. You are now technically dead, and Laban has been given permission to bury you. Of course, he’s not really going to do that.”

 “Well, if this isn’t a dream, then I shall be a very happy fellow, and certainly ready to do as I have been instructed,” said the grandson.

 “I don’t want to hear the word IF come out of you again, Grandson,”  Akim gently scolded. “Blessed is he who accepts the teachings of the Lord without the truth being shoved up his nose.”

  Herut nodded to himself. Only his grandfather would talk that way in the hereafter. Then suddenly he was awash in light and sound and the heat of a summer day in the Mediterranean.

 Herut rose up into a sitting position and scared the hell out of poor Nuallan even though she had been told what to expect.

 They were a few miles outside of Rome, and Herut had been laid out on the floor of a wagon. Only the mule treated Herut’s resurrection as a normal afternoon occurrence.

 I was just about dump you onto the ground and take the wagon to a place where I could sell it,” confessed the woman. “That hunchback gave me no reason to believe that he is sane. I was grateful enough when he bought my freedom and appeared to be taking me to a place where I could begin a new life. But then he brought me to where you were lying dead and I had every reason to think that he was a lunatic who probably murdered you and would kill me next.”

 Herut climbed stiffly out of the back of the wagon and noted that it contained enough food stuffs for at least a week.

 “How did you find out about you?”

 “I don’t know. I did not share the contents of our conversation with anyone. I swear.”

 “So I really did visit the soul of my grandfather. Now I’m beginning to understand why he was always so happy and optimistic about our future. When you are mindful that the world is more than what your five senses tell you---it---makes you a better person.”

 “All I know is that he promised to bring me to you---but when I saw you in the wagon and as white as cloth, I didn’t know what to think.”

 “But why didn’t he stay and talk to me?” Herut asked while scanning their surroundings.

 “I think he had much to do and little time to do it. But he said one very curious thing before he ran off.”

 “Only one?” the man half joked.

 “He said, “A hunchback, a whore, and a gladiator will all shed their costumes and reveal their true selves one day. On that day we shall all be reunited.”

Herut’s eyes soften and he gave himself a moment to reflect on the brave new world that he was entering.

 “Then he asked, “Do we have a destination?”

 “Yes, we are to meet someone four days west of here.”

 “Then let us be off.”

 The woman climbed aboard the wagon with an unaccustomed smile.

 “So what do you know about Jesus?” asked the Jew.

 “Only that he was the founder of a cult that one hears about now and then. Nero thinks he will destroy them in his lifetime.

 “His will be short, and you will go home a very learned woman.”

 “You mean, you will teach me how to read?” the woman asked happily.

 “That too,” the man promised. “But first I want to share with you many of the things that my grandfather spoke of while I was growing up. Words that tended to go in one ear and out the other. Seeds of wisdom that well upon my rocky head for a time. But now I’m ready to carry on with what you might say is a family business.”

 “I don’t know what that all means, but I’m certainly here to listen,” the woman proclaimed with a beaming expression.

 The wagon set out westward. The progress was slow and steady, just as everything else would be.