The Blood of Lambs: The Life and Loves of Saint Stephen—The Beautiful Michal—His Two Brothers & the Incomparable—Acacius Ben Xanthine

By F.V. Hank Helmick

The Blood of Lambs is a biblical historical fictional novel about the life of Saint Stephen, the first martyr as written about in the Acts of the Apostles pages 6&7. Stephen was a rich mans dissolute son from Alexandria with the face of an angel. Accompanied by his two brothers Benjamin and Nabal, they set sail for Israel where they meet Acacius ben Xanthine an agnostic soldier of fortune. They defend themselves from an attack by brigands led by Antigonis the One Eyed and Adder the mysterious deadly little killer who is the secret leader of the Sicariia deadly band of Zealot cutthroats, who plays both ends against the middle. Antigonis as an Avenger of the Blood creates an enmity between the two groups that threads its way throughout the entire story.

Acacius stumbles upon a plot led by Simon Magus the Magician to conquer the world. He works with the leader of the Roman Legion Italica II, the Tribune Julian Lombard to uncover the plot. Myra the Madam is the only person to ever escape from the secret cave of Antigonis and she is dedicated to avenge her friends murders by Adder and Antigonis. The setting for the story is Israel at the time of Christs Passion. Stephen meets and is infatuated by Jeshua and becomes a disciple and meets the beautiful and vivacious Michal.

Rabbi Agamemnon, the leader of the Synagogue of Roman Freemen lines himself up with Simon Magus. Both Adder and Antigonis are subjected to the prophetic curse of their prostitute victim Miriam, a cousin of a witch in the lineage of the Witches of Endor. The story follows the historical events of the era. The myths, mysticism and miracles of the early Church are played upon throughout the story. The author has been scrupulous in the use of authentic historical data, which is the only thing too which he will take pride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475930702

F.V. Hank Helmick

Hank Helmick is retired and has two books published. He served in WW11 and Korea and received two Bronze Stars for valor. He has six children and thirty-one grandchildren. He wrote his last complete novel in 2010 and is still actively writing and publishing. He resides in Lake Havasu, Az.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

ANTIGONIS THE ONE EYED

The leader of the bandits was coolly alert. Antigonis feared little. Setting ambushes, robbing, and killing had become routine. It was his business, and he was a master craftsman. No sentiment marred his judgments, or his actions. He had known fear in his lifetime, and no doubt would suffer that experience again before he made the final journey to the nether world. However, his utter contempt for his fellow men left little room for the qualms of lesser men.

Deep in the bowels of the rift leading to the Valley of Doves the wisp of shadow seemed to stir—then was swallowed up by the stygian blackness. Ahead, black-visaged men lurked in the natural cover of the granite boulders and the thick underbrush of the twisting, narrow defile. The faint rattle of pebbles jerked the weapons of the men to the ready. The tense band of thieve’s nerves slowly eased—relaxing as they heard the password,

Antigonis.

It was a name for their leader known only to them. A wraith like figure materialized from a forest of shadows and hissed, Where’s Antigonis? He was promptly led to a huge, bulky figure sprawled with a carelessness that belied the bestial nature of the one they had nicknamed—Antigonis the One Eyed. They’re coming, the messenger stated tersely.

How many, growled Antigonis?

Eight and one injured man carried on a donkey, he replied with a sibilant whisper. I would swear the injured man is the one we left for dead yesterday.

They might be kinsman, the big man mused, as he stroked his scrubby, rust tinged beard? "We’ll kill them all. It is better than having an Avenger of the Blood hounding us. Dead men’s lips are sealed," he muttered darkly.

Yes, hissed Adder, the only name by which he was known by his cohorts. Shriveled and small, quick and deadly, he carried only a knife. How many blades he carried no one knew, but Adder always had a knife when he needed one.

The leader’s eye patch loomed from his indistinct face as he spoke, How are they armed?

The usual, short swords and walking staffs.

Any soldiers?

There’s one tall one that has the air of a professional. The rest are merchants, and four of them are richly dressed.

Good, I’ll make sure they are all in the open before we strike. How much time do we have?

A few minutes—no more. I cut across the ridge.

A cagey bunch—but it is going to be the last group that sneaks by us in the dark, Antigonis promised. Spread the word. We attack on my signal, and he lay back with his head cradled on his arm.

Tranquility ruled the night, whose serenity was comforted by the fiddling of crickets, and the barking of jackals from afar. Stars blinked innocently, and a half-moon dimly lit the sky. Abruptly the crickets fell silent as the muffled clink of an iron-shod hoof striking rock resounded with a sharp echo.

The walls were narrowing and closing in about them. Acacius ben Xanthine in the middle of the caravan stepped forward and tapped the merchant to his front on the shoulder. Get ready, he whispered, this is a perfect place for an ambush

The man moved quickly to pass the word along, but at that moment, Antigonis, uttering an oath, sprang to his feet and charged with a roar. Shouting his own name was cunningly invoked to create panic and confusion, for his name was dreaded and feared throughout Palestine.

Barabbas! Barabbas!

The battle yell was swiftly heeded and swelled by the band of thieves. A nerve shattering, nomadic war cry rent the air. Barabbas—Barabbas. The name reverberated from the canyon walls creating a terrific din. Antigonis ran forward—poised to hurl himself upon a hapless victim. Stepping on a loose rock the bandit’s ankle twisted; he pitched headlong past a startled Benjamin. The leader crashed through the heavy brush into a ravine below landing with a sodden thud. Antigonis lay where he fell—too stunned to move.

Alerted by Antigonis’ oath, Stephen, the leader of the caravan, whipped his cloak aside. Reacting instinctively, he thrust his sword to the hilt in the solar plexus of a bandit leaping down upon him.

With a hoarse shout another shadowy figure lunged at Benjamin; the man was nearly decapitated by Benjamin’s savage backhand stroke. The youth leapt forward to protect his brother Stephen’s vulnerable left-flank. He was just in time to intercept another bandit. It was not pitch black, with the half-moon, and a grand swath of bright stars helped light the battlefield. To the east, the horizon had taken on a faint ribbon of light. Dawn was soon to expose the success, or failure of the bandit’s raid. Benjamin’s new antagonist was well versed in swordplay, and when two more thieves joined in only the narrow trail spared him from their combined blades.

Stephen was nearly smashed to the ground by the plunging figure. The strength of his sword arm saved him possible injury. Using his sword like a spoke in a wheel, he allowed the force of the man’s fall to carry the body away from him. Stephen strained and grunted—his sword was stuck in the cadaver’s rib cage. Placing his left foot on the man’s chest, he heaved on the reluctant blade, and it slid free with a loud slurp.

By the blur of bodies, and the sound of the fighting, he knew his brother Benjamin was in trouble. Jumping over a corpse, he engaged the two bandits from the rear. Stephen thrust. His blow was parried, and he thrust again. The thief pressed him relentlessly. Ducking, and pivoting in a circle on his left foot, he avoided the blade of the man attacking him from his right. Completing the circle, he followed through with a slash, and his sword cut through the second thief’s unprotected right side. The man gasped with a sudden intake of breath; air from his pierced lung escaped with a thin, bubbly whistle as he died.

Stephen had learned from his first encounter. With a savage wrench, he extracted his sword, and in one smooth move crossed steel again with the first bandit. With the light so poor there was little chance of finesse. Seeing an opening Stephen grasped his sword in both hands, and, in a deadly overhand chop, he severed the thief’s sword arm at the shoulder. The man’s shriek turned into a death rale, as his life’s blood spurted from his body. The parched sand of the desolate trail greedily sucked up the blood . . . Spinning on the balls of his feet Stephen was relieved to see Benjamin’s distinct figure standing over an inert, black blotch.

Stealthily, a small, shadowy figure inched its way toward Xnoir, the injured man. Xnoir’s left hand found support on the shoulder of Stephen’s pack mount. His right grasped his staff. As though he had eyes in the back of his head, he wheeled, raised his staff, and threw it like a spear. The blunt end struck Adder’s temple with a thud. The assassin crumpled like an empty sack. With a moan, he rolled off into an adjoining gully. Xnoir turned away with deliberate unconcern, and began watching the end of the one-sided conflict.

At the first battle cry, Acacius ben Xanthine, a professional soldier, instinctively ducked, springing to one side, and crouched. Two menacing silhouettes nearly fell over themselves as their swords whiffed the empty space where the soldier had stood a split second before. Both men were off balance, and Acacius, with a quick thrust and an awesome backslash, ended the fray.

A moment later Barabbas groaned, sat up, and gingerly felt his head. His hand met a sticky wetness. Pulling himself to his feet by sheer force of will, he stood swaying and listening. There were no longer any battle cries, only the clanging of swords, the grunting, sweating, and swearing of men engaged in mortal combat. Then, the air was split with a nerve-shattering scream of pain.

Barabbas was used to the excited shouts of his men as they successfully put their victims to the sword. Such was not the case. It was obvious that the fight had not gone his way. Murdering for plunder was one thing—getting oneself killed in the process was an unacceptable price. Pursing his lips, he emitted a shrill whistle signaling retreat.

Just before the signal pierced the gloom; Nabal, Stephen’s older brother at the end of the column was belatedly attacked by two thieves. Evidently, the entire band of murderers had not charged as one man. Some had laid back to see how the fight developed, which contributed to their lack of success. Because of the narrowness of the trail, the bandits could only engage Nabal one at a time. Nabal split the skull of the first man, and as the second man turned to run, Nabal’s sword pierced his side just as Barabbas whistle split the air; the man screamed and jumped down the mountain side and ran for his life.

Silas, an aged bandit, lay glued to his sanctuary of stone. Toward the end of the skirmish, his two companions had finally attacked the column. One had obviously been killed. The other had been wounded, screamed, and had blindly jumped onto the steep, brushy slope below. Silas remained hidden watching anxiously as the first glimmerings of dawn lit the sky.

Acacius, the professional soldier, eyed Stephen speculatively. He had been right to place his trust in this young man. Well done, he exclaimed? Your first command and you handled it like a veteran—congratulations!

The young leader was pleased with the praise, and his ears burned. Grinning, he casually saluted and replied, Thanks, General, I’ll be more than pleased if we came through with no casualties.

Stephen couldn’t believe that their tiny contingent had withstood the fierce attack. There had been no surprise—except to the bandits. After their resounding defeat, the remaining thieves had melted into the black shadows like bad dreams gone to rest. He could hear the fleeing bandits blundering through the rocks and foliage seeking a safe haven. One of them fell with a curse. Gradually the noises faded; the shaken, battle-weary travelers were left with only the rasping of their own belabored breathing as evidence of their ordeal.

Anyone hurt? Stephen called out guardedly. Everyone began talking at once and he snapped, Quiet!

His brother Nabal efficiently began making a man-to-man check, and Stephen waited patiently as he caught his breath. Arriving at the head of the column, Nabal reported, The blessings of God, blessed be His Holy Name, are with us. Just a few scratches and bruises, no one was wounded.

Breathing more easily Stephen ordered, Best we press on while they are scattered and confused. Barabbas is no one to fool with. They are still in front of us, and he could regroup and try again. The Magdalan guard tower is just ahead, and we will give our thanks there. Be alert. This may not be over. A murmur of assent arose except for Xnoir, and he asked,

What of these men? He gestured toward those who had fallen. Would it be charitable to leave injured men to die? I may have seriously hurt one, who fell off into that ravine, and he pointed to the area.

With each passing moment, it was getting perceptibly lighter. Stephen was in a quandary. True, the bandits had tried to kill them, yet everything he had been taught demanded compassion. Had he not given aid to Xnoir in spite of his companion’s protests? Only Acacius and Benjamin had supported him. Even Nabal had been reluctant to agree. In spite of his better judgment, he stated grumpily,

Sure as Hinnom stinks they do not deserve any mercy, but you are right. We cannot leave injured men to die. If they are dead; however, the guards at Magdala can take care of them. Carefully now—one man put a sword to a bandit’s throat while the other checks. We don’t want anyone hurt by our own carelessness.

The men hastened to do his bidding. His leadership had seen them through a dangerous night. A few of the merchants grumbled and cast surly glances towards Xnoir. Their thoughts were—let the bandits lay and rot for all they cared. After all—that is what the thieves would have done to them—or worse.

Stephen and Benjamin cautiously checked the ravine. However, they found no trace of the bandit felled by the invalid. Nabal reported, We found nine bodies. I wounded one man as the fight ended and the other merchants killed one man, we can find no sign of the man I wounded . . . We should allow them to bury their own dead than for us to delay further.

No doubt you are right, Nabal. We will report the attack to the Magdalan guards. They are stationed at the watchtower guarding the bottom of the pass. They can take care of the bodies. These assassins were led by Barabbas, and deserve no pity. Let us press on.

Who is this Barabbas? asked Xnoir, as Stephen helped him back onto the pack horse.

He is a so called Zealot among other things, Xnoir. It is even rumored that he is the leader of the Sicarii, a secret order of dagger men that infest Israel. They will kill anyone for a price. The Sicarii started out as a group of fanatic Zealots. At first, they were only killing Roman soldiers, and any Hebrew they felt was collaborating with the Romans. Lately; however, they seem to have degenerated into a society of murderers for hire. Their ranks include Zealots, thieves, murderers, and runaway slaves, Stephen ended grimly. Come, we had better close up and remain alert. No more talking, he ordered, until we are safely through the pass.

A glorious dawn vigorously pushed back the frightening shades of night, and soon they strode through the last of the dreaded passageway—just ahead loomed the watchtower. A little ahead, but a bit to the south of their intended route, Magdala lay nestled on the western shore of the Sea of Galilee.

With a snort of relief Benjamin sheathed his sword and tied his cloak to the mule’s pack. Helping Xnoir down he remarked casually, That was quite a night, wasn’t it? Benjamin had killed his first man, and the feat had left him with the smell and taste of bile. Not knowing how to express his own feelings Benjamin fished his companion for his impressions.

It was a bad night, indeed, replied Xnoir. Man killing man—what a waste. We can only hope that there will be a day when such inhumanity will cease. Sensing Benjamin’s feelings he added kindly, There is every reason for you to feel sadness and sorrow. Taking a human life should never be taken lightly.

Benjamin was grateful—his mind readily accepting such rationale. Soon he was his usual light-hearted self. Benjamin was a virile young man, and led by Stephen he was used to a schedule of lustful adventures, his body was urging, no, demanding relief. He winked at Stephen, and with a suggestive look asked, Did I hear you say we were going to the authorities in Magdala? His mischievous eyes belied his innocent look, for he was thinking of the ladies of the night that could be found the world over, even in the most holy of Hebrew towns.

Not Magdala. Only the Magdalan Commander at the watch tower, Stephen explained.

He was beginning to relax as he felt the responsibilities of his small command slip from his shoulders. The way before them was clear, and left little chance for an ambush. It was ironic that guards were stationed just ahead, and a few miles to the south lay a permanent Roman encampment located between Arbela at the head of the rift, and Rakkath on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Help was so near, and yet, it was a large mountainous country, and the Romans could not be everywhere at once.

Travel was usually safe in Israel except in isolated areas. However, in Galilee they had Barabbas with which to contend. Like a will o’ the wisp he was first here—then there. When the Romans set out after him, he simply vanished. When they tried to ambush Barabbas, unless they were in great strength, they themselves were ambushed. When Stephen made his report, he knew the Romans would go out in force. Somehow, he knew that again they would fail.

Benjamin was not to be dissuaded. He sidled up to Stephen and asked, Do you remember the last time we were in Jerusalem? That friend of yours—Eliel—wasn’t it? He told us about a girl in Magdala that could furnish us a good time. Magdala is only a mile or so further on. I remember now—her name is Mary. Eliel said she is quite wealthy and has a large estate. She entertains lavishly and he said she is just as lavish with her favors. Think we could work that into our busy ‘old’ schedule, and he wiggled his eyebrows expressively?

Stephen was well versed on the history of his world. He knew that prostitution had all but vanished from Israel after the campaigns of Amos and Hosea centuries before. However, with the advent of Hellenism and Egypt now occupied by the Romans, the oldest profession was flourishing again. It had never been contained in the larger Hellenistic cities, and, from time to time, it still cropped up even in the smallest, and most devout of Jewish towns and villages. Even worse, with the encroachment of Hellenism, the morality of the rich had sunk to new lows, as he well knew.

Israel was not like Rome and Egypt, however, for when a prostitute was apprehended in Israel the Jewish elders viciously stamped out the pestilence by stoning the prostitute to death. The man was seldom guilty; however, just the poor unfortunate woman that was caught in the act. The rich women were never punished, for their rich estates were well guarded. However, their escapades were well known, the most notorious being Herodias, the wife of Herod Antipas, the governor of Galilee, who had married his brother’s wife. In Rome, lupanar was a flourishing institution. Roadside inns offered and proclaimed the services of the little she asses.

Benjamin’s grin was infectious. Nabal threw up his hands in despair. Upset, he stood with arms akimbo, but, in spite of himself, half a smile relieved the frown creasing his forehead. With hope, he looked to Stephen.

Stephen laughed, It has been a long time between oases. However, you forgot what I warned you about the last time we were here. This is not Egypt where the pagans control everything. Half of the people in Israel are pagans, and the other half are Hebrews. All are governed by the legalistic code of the Romans, but as a Hebrew, the Law of Moses also binds you."

Benjamin’s ears flushed his discomfort. It seems you have a short memory, he protested sullenly?

Stephen cuffed his brother’s arm affectionately to soften his words. I set a bad example for you in Alexandria, but you know I promised Father I would change my ways. You will have to decide for yourself what you want to do. For now we will make our report to the authorities, and press on to Capernaum.

Stephen suddenly became self-conscious of his conversation in front of Xnoir. He felt uncomfortable, and glanced at the invalid. Xnoir’s head was tilted back facing the heavens to the east as though striving to blot out the conversation. Stephen was startled. A thought or was it a memory had suddenly flashed in his mind. His friend Janor had told him of the Pharisee’s belief in angels. God, he claimed, assigned a guardian angel to each person at their conception. When a person sins, it is claimed that their angel turns his back, and looks to the east upon the face of God.

Xnoir turned, and looked Stephen in the eye. He smiled an all-encompassing communication that seemed to know—to rebuke—to forgive—all in one fleeting passage. A warm glow replaced the young leader’s distress, and he gratefully returned to the matters at hand.

In his mind, Stephen knew his advice to Benjamin was a beginning. For a moment, a surge of his old self-serving attitude had nearly taken over. He had been sorely tempted. For the first time he had been made aware of the poor example, he had been setting for his foster brother. Where he went—Benjamin went. What he did—? It was disquieting. He was a bad influence. Nabal had tried to warn him, but he had not listened. Stephen realized he had a lot to undo as well as to do.

Pausing, as he left the Magdalan watchtower, Stephen ben Judah looked back up the awesome rift, the Valley of the Doves. It was hard to believe that only a few weeks before he was having his first, and he hoped his last, argument with his father. The fault had been his. No one could have a better parent. The quarrel had been over this very trip. However, the journey had merely been an excuse. If he had not exploded then, later on it would have been over something just as trivial. Actually, he needed to get away from his father. The desire to make his own way had been gnawing away at his insides for months. He was sated with his extravagant friends, the shallowness of their characters, their endless parties, and easy women.

Gradually he had withdrawn from his old circle of acquaintances. When he did, he became aware of how few true friends he really had. Now, he was glad he had come. The excitement during the night had made the trip worthwhile. He had never killed a man before. The action had been stimulating at first, but after the fight began it quickly became a matter of survival.

None of their group had been hurt. They had truly been blessed. The dead men were but shadows out of the dark. They had thrust, parried and fell. They were now only shapeless lumps upon the earth. He had not seen their faces, nor looked into their sightless eyes. The weight of dead men rode lightly upon his conscience. After all, they were thieves and murderers. They had deserved what they got. Barabbas! What a story this will make back in Egypt, he thought.

Rounding a bend in the trail, the fresh scent of water struck their nostrils. Before them spreading out as far as they could see lay the Sea of Galilee. The lake’s waters glittered like millions of sparkling crystals set in the sapphire blue of the depths. A refreshing morning breeze accentuated the scene. The setting intensified his gratitude for being alive, and being able to enjoy the beauty of the newly spawned day. He called a halt, and they gave thanks to the God they knew as Yahweh. A name so holy they could not even utter it aloud.

Stephen was impressed with Acacius; he was likable, trying to match strides with the lanky professional, Stephen’s thoughts returned to his ambitions. The guard was quite a man; impressive, commanding, every inch the soldier. Perhaps being a soldier had its merits, Stephen mused. He liked to lead. He loved physical contests. At least on the battlefield—men were men. There you pulled together, or you fell alone. He had no time, nor patience for the shabby lies, or the petty deceits that he had encountered most of his adult life. He would meditate on it. Perhaps, like Acacius, he would become a professional soldier?

He turned and looked back up the pass. It had gained an unsavory reputation, and had been nicknamed by some—The Devil’s Defile—and by others—Charon’s Crossing. The sand-covered trail no doubt survived many names. In the year 27 AD; however, the proper name of the treacherous, steep rift that led from the southeastern edge of the Plain of Gennesaret to the Sea of Galilee, 860 feet below, was—the Valley of Doves. A paradox at best for those expecting a gentle panorama filled with cooing doves, and the pastoral simplicity that the name implied. Actually, pristine sheer cliffs perforated by numerous wind carved caves dwarfed the dangerous trail. The palisades towered 320 feet above sea level on the north face, and nearly 600 feet on the south, a total of 1300 feet above the Sea of Galilee. However, the Sea of Galilee was in truth a fresh water lake; a lake 696 feet below the level of the sea, often called Lake Gennesaret by the locals.

It was hard to believe that just as dusk settled last night they had rounded the base of the extinct volcano that towered above the tiny village of Arbela at the head of the pass. The volcano, even then called the Horns of Hattin, stood like a grim sentinel above the dreaded rift, located just outside Arbela, near the top of the gorge where they had rested.

Stephen, one of the youngest of the intrepid group, was mentally and physically the most outstanding, except perhaps for Acacius ben Xanthine. His ability with weapons, and that of his two brothers, far surpassed that of the average soldier. Their skill was noted from Egypt to Rome even being compared to that of the gladiators in the Roman arenas. It was not difficult to understand why the merchants of the caravan had chosen Stephen as their leader.

His reminiscing led him back to his eighteenth birthday, slightly late and cold sober when he walked onto the party scene that had already turned into a drunken orgy. For the first time in his young life, he was thoroughly disgusted. In the coarse actions of others, he saw a reflection of himself; what he saw, he did not like.

Since then, it had been a constant battle of temptations. He became unhappy and morose—not like his usual happy self. The blowup with his father came a few months later. Stephen had not been angry with Judah, his father, but with himself. He did not like what he had become, nor did he relish what he foresaw as his future.

There had to be something better—a different way of life. Maybe soldiering would be the answer, he concluded? He was truly impressed with Acacius, the professional guard who had belatedly joined their caravan. He felt a surge of excitement flow through his veins. He had never killed a man before, and the thought of slaying bandits did not faze him—perhaps he did have a calling as a soldier?

Stephen ben Judah had posted Acacius, the latest addition to their group, in the middle of the column to protect the less adept merchants in case of attack. As they were preparing to depart Ptolemais, a port city located on the Israeli Levant, a tow-haired giant had overtaken the small caravan and had requested,

I understand you are traveling to Capernaum. Your group is small, and my arm is strong. Perhaps you could use an extra man?

Stephen was impressed. The man dwarfed him by a good head. He was a remarkable specimen with a rangy, muscular frame, a firm jaw, and piercing blue eyes; a mercenary by the looks of him, and a singularly tough one if appearances meant anything. I take it you are a mercenary?

Not really—a professional guard if you will. Private estate work is more to my liking.

And your name my, friend?

Acacius ben Xanthine, lately Captain of the house guard of David ben Mattathias of Caesarea.

Stephen had looked at him with sudden respect. The reputation of this man was well known. His own father had tried to hire him as their house guard in Jerusalem. He was one of the most sought after captains serving the rich houses of the Romans, the Greeks, and the Egyptians.

You are most welcome, Stephen said. If it is agreeable with the others I would yield my lack of leadership experience too your more capable hands.

No, my young, friend; I have heard of your prowess with a sword, as well as that of your brothers. I defer to the group’s decision. Perhaps later in Capernaum you will give me the pleasure of a bout?

Stephen warmed to the young giant immediately. With pleasure, sir—with the greatest of pleasure, and he had eyed him competitively with a friendly grin, and gave him a sloppy, military salute.

Nabal, Stephen’s older foster brother listened to Stephen and Acacius’ conversation with wry amusement. He had been the big brother that went along and tried to keep his younger brothers out of trouble. During a kidnapping attempt years before; however, he had been forced to kill a man while defending young Stephen and Benjamin. To Nabal—the curse of blood on one’s hands was no frivolous matter.

He was pleased that Stephen was settling down at last. If he straightened out—so would Benjamin. Benjamin was Stephen’s shadow. Stephen’s conversion began at his eighteenth birthday party. During their outings, Nabal seldom drank. He was the watchdog, the dependable big brother. He could remember the changes in Stephen after their mother died. Under his mother’s firm guidance Stephen had been a well disciplined young man. After her death, it seemed it was the pagan teachers that influenced him the most and his father the least.

As was the custom, Stephen, at the age of five, was enrolled in an elementary school called bet-hasefer [house of the book] under the tutelage of the usual austere hazzan, the rabbi of their local synagogue. Language, grammar, history, and geography were all studied from the Torah. Hazzans were highly regarded, and it was often said that a teacher was the The Messenger of the Almighty.

The children’s task, as they sat in a semi-circle around the hazzan, was to repeat by rote the sentences he said aloud. They were taught by the use of mnemonics, parallelism, repetition and alliteration. Even in their games, the children clung to these methods. It was a common adage that A child ought to be fattened with the Torah as an ox is fattened in the stall.

At age ten, Stephen began the next step of his studying, the bet-Talmud, or the house of learning. When these subjects were completed, the young man continued his studies in the Hellenistic gymnasiums. Unknown to his father he learned much about theology and philosophy from his associates many of who were from Athens and Rome. Under the care and close supervision of his father, Stephen however, was not unduly influenced by their pagan philosophies. It was not until he journeyed to Rome to study literature, and the arts that his instructors were able to twist and subvert his values. Not so much subverting, but more of a blending of the two worlds, and their basic philosophies. This blending of cultures had been going on for three hundred years, since Alexander the Great had conquered the known world, a fact that was still resented and resisted to the death by fervent Hebrews the world over. For Stephen, it had been the beginning of gradual erosion of his moral and social values.

However, thank the Lord; something had happened on Stephen’s birthday. Upon entering the drunken orgy, Nabal had seen the revulsion reflected on Stephen’s face. It had been the beginning, for just recently Stephen had promised their father that he would buckle down and change his way of life. After the fight with Barabbas’ and his bandits he had been extremely pleased that Stephen had set Benjamin straight actually setting a good example for his younger brother for the first time in his adult life. He quietly gave thanks to God and when they moved on towards Capernaum, he had a good feeling that this might be a real beginning for both of his younger brothers. He would write and tell his foster father Judah ben Judah of all that had happened. He knew he would be elated with the news.

CHAPTER TWO

DEN OF THIEVES

Antigonis belched contentedly. This was his domain, his den of thieves, and he was content. The flickering fire reflected from the eyes of the bandits like tiny tongues of evil. Some men sprawled lazily soaking up the heat; others occupied themselves with the repair, or cleaning of their weapons and equipment.

From the walls of the cave cavities cast dark, forbidding shadows. The bandit leader eyed them comfortably. In those nooks, he had stored adequate food and wine provisions for a year. The cavern boasted a raised hearth built by some obscure tenant of the past; perhaps it had been one of those whose pictographs decorated the walls of the cave. Lamps placed in strategic niches cast pulsating fingers of light that seemed to birth life to the ancient pictures of men and beasts. Curious rays of light wandered aimlessly upwards, losing themselves amid the spires and pinnacles of limestone while creating a cathedral like effect.

Gutters had been patiently chiseled around the entire perimeter, and the runoff was skillfully designed to run back into the cave. From there it merged with the overflow from a crystal-clear spring and plunged into the nethermost regions of the cavern.

The leader of the band of thieves remembered well his finding the cave. For, on that propitious day, he, Barabbas, had escaped from an entire century of Roman soldiers. Thinking of it, even today, made him squirm with discomfort. Fingering a scar that extended beyond the edge of his eye patch onto his forehead his mind betrayed him back to that fateful event ten years before when he earned the name, Antigonis, The One Eyed.

*     *     *

Barabbas, pausing at the top of a draw, looked behind him with apprehension. They were right on his heels like a pack of dogs, and he was completely exhausted. He knew it was well past mid-morning, shading his eyes, he glanced at the sun; to be exact, it was noon. He ground his teeth in rage and tried to spit, but the phlegm stuck to his tongue.

You hairless hounds of Zeus, he swore aloud. The Samaritan mercenaries serving their Roman masters had been on his trail since the evening before. He was cut off from his planned escape route as well as his camp, which lay south in the hills near Sebaste, the capital of Samaria.

The effort of raising his head caused pinpoints of light to dance before his eyes. Staggering, he nearly fell backwards down the precipitous hill. His hand shot out and caught hold of a low-lying blackberry vine. It held, but the pain of the protective thorns shot up his arm temporarily causing him to forget the throbbing mass of misery across the left side of his face. Gingerly touching his cheek he drew back his fingers covered with blood. He could not see from the injured eye, and he was bleeding again. Shelter must be found, or he was finished. To be caught meant death on a cross, but he knew they would never try to take him alive. He had blooded them, and issued a challenge. The entire century of Roman soldiers was hot for his life.

The soldiers were an unusually eager complement of mercenaries probably on their way to relieve the Roman garrison stationed near Arbela or the one just outside Capernaum. En route to their new station they had obviously discovered the two elderly travelers he, and his three companions, had beaten, robbed, and left senseless in a ditch. The ancient merchant’s highway known as, The Way of the Sea was well traveled and often patrolled, but still a favorite target of the bandits.

No doubt the soldiers fresh from garrison duty, and already bored with the trek from the Roman headquarters in Caesarea, were delighted with the prospect of an action that promised to be more sport than battle.

Barabbas had chosen the rough brakes of the Wadi Ara for his camp. Normally dry, two days of fine drizzle had already filled the lower lying areas. Chalk and limestone formations made up most of the surrounding country and the usually dry Wadi had been created by erosion over the eons.

The first hint the outlaw chief had that something was awry was when he was alerted by pebbles clattering down from above. Leaping erect, the spear intended for his spine struck quivering in the middle of the fire. Sparks flew, and his man Mahlon to his right fell with a spear through his heart. Four Greeks jumped into their midst and Uriah also fell with only a surprised grunt to mark his demise. More Romans crowded into the small clearing getting into each other’s way; it was the slight edge that Barabbas needed. He was a man of vengeance. His men as persons meant nothing to him, but as members of his group, they would be avenged. He sprang into the fray; with a savage thrust he thrust through a soldier’s guard, and split his spleen.

That’s for Mahlon, he snarled. Seemingly without effort he withdrew his sword, and in one coordinated movement executed an overhand blow that caught his second victim just above his cuirass at the neckline. Such was the strength of his arm that the sword passed through six inches of metal, leather, and flesh severing as it went the clavicle bone. Snatching the man up he threw him bodily into his bunched companions as he sneered, And that’s for Uriah, you worthless pig’s ass, and Barabbas leaped so that he stood back to back with his last man—Amnon.

Amnon screamed, and fell to his knees. The barbed spear of his antagonist was lodged in his rib cage, and a bloody froth spewed from his mouth with each dying gasp. The Roman in turn fell on his face with the skewered man’s sword protruding through his neck. In one flashing glance, the outlaw saw that further fighting was useless. To remain was to die, and Barabbas was a survivor.

With a mighty roar of defiance the huge outlaw slashed and hacked his way through the two remaining soldiers who stood between him and his only avenue of escape—the trail above. He leaped over their inert bodies to the top of the draw, amid a shower of spears. A shout went up from a dozen throats, and soldiers charged him from every direction. Spinning about he made a running leap. Soaring high over the heads of the surprised soldiers below, Barabbas easily cleared the ten-foot wide chasm. Running in a zigzag pattern, the outlaw avoided a second flurry of spears, ran behind an outcropping of rock, and was gone.

Barabbas chuckled with glee. He was confident that he had brought a sizable breather with his agility, but he was mistaken.

Julian Lombard, a Tribune, burst onto the battle scene just as the outlaw flashed across the pit. Without a wasted motion Julian spun on his heel and yelled,

Philip.

The soldier jerked around, and the Tribune simply pointed to the chasm. Philip sprinted for the draw his long legs flashing in the waning sun. With his huge shield held effortlessly in his left hand, and his spear in his right, he cleared the cliff edge with feet to spare. Julian smiled with satisfaction. No wild goat of a Jew was going to outdo the best runner in the Italica II Legion.

Philip sped to the top of the small knoll—he hesitated—looking for his quarry. Jubilant, he pointed with his spear in the direction the fugitive had taken. The entire century of men had scaled the obstacle by then, and the Tribune waved his man on knowing his runner would leave a trail to follow.

Barabbas stopped to check behind him. He was taking no chances. His overconfidence had caused the loss of three men. It was a raw lesson, but crucial for the type of life he led. He vowed it would never happen again.

He tensed—suddenly alert. He could not believe what he was seeing. A tall, lithe, Roman soldier, plainly outlined by the setting sun, came trotting over the hill. Julian’s man was traveling fast, too fast for caution, but he was moving with the easy swinging-gait of a professional runner. The outlaw smiled. Drawing his sword and dagger—he waited.

Crouched behind a bushy terebinth tree Barabbas poised to deal a fatal blow to his unsuspecting foe. Soon now—the man was halfway up the slope. Barabbas had left tracks that even a child could follow. The rain of the past two days made traveling without leaving a trail literally impossible.

The soldier slowed and carefully checked the trail ahead. Cautious, but unafraid, he pressed on, but more warily now, as he neared the denser scrub brush.

A bellow of rage suddenly erupted from the throat of Barabbas. He jumped up recklessly ignoring the Greek still several yards away. Pouring over the ridge behind Philip rolled a crimson wave of Roman soldiers.

By the gods, there must be a century of them, he blurted out in astonishment. Shaking his fist he screamed, May the gods bury your beards. Realizing his error, he laughed grimly. He knew roman soldiers never wore beards or long hair, because they could be seized in battle. Better yet—you beardless wart hogs—I’ll bury this one, and he stepped out and blocked the trail.

The mercenary stopped a scant three paces away. He stood coolly surveying the outlaw with an amused look on his aquiline features.

Barabbas allowed his eyes to flicker past him to check the progress of the long column.

Philip chuckled, but there was neither mirth, nor mercy in his pale-blue eyes. He liked killing. Better than that—he liked one on one combat. He was one of the best swordsmen in his legion of nearly six thousand men—and he knew it.

Sneeringly, he said in Aramaic, Don’t worry about them. By the time they get here I’ll have your head on my spear, and still clutching his spear, he drew his sword.

Barabbas threw back his massive head laughing with scorn, and retorted, When my head ends up on a spear—Charon will have to ferry you back from Hades to witness the event. Without another word, he waded into his slimmer opponent—short sword bared.

The Roman met him head on with a clash of iron catching the fugitive’s sword on his metal-reinforced, wood and leather shield. The sledge-like force of Barabbas’ blow created an instant respect, and Philip leaped back down the hill to force his adversary to come after him. A crafty veteran of many wars, and numberless battles, the mercenary carefully, but subconsciously, noted every detail of the terrain he fought over, now, between him and his enemy lay a strip of loose gravel.

With a bear-like-whine of eagerness, Barabbas moved down—his right heel caught the gravel and dumped him heavily onto his sword-bearing arm.

With a snarl of victory, Philip leapt like a pouncing leopard. With a savage overhand slash, he caught the hapless thief a terrific blow across his left eye. A blow that would have ended most fights and it did this one, but not in the manner the mercenary expected.

Phillip’s huge rectangular shield pinned Barabbas under the weight of the nearly prone Greek. Phillip’s arm and body was still fully extended. The uphill position of Barabbas had sapped the full force of the blow, or the brain-matter of Barabbas would have already fouled his blade. Only Phillip’s head and neck jutted above the protective shield. His toes dug frantically trying to purchase leverage, but they only succeeded in kicking up loose gravel.

Barabbas lay stunned. Raising his head slightly, all he could see from his right eye was the throbbing jugular vein of his foe. Phillip’s right arm was still extended. The sword imbedded in Barabbas’ skull. The over confident Phillip released his sword in order to push himself to his feet. Using his pinned right arm as a lever, Barabbas instinctively countered with a sweeping left-handed knife thrust that pierced the neck, and severed the carotid artery of the Legion’s finest.

Barabbas collapsed—his head, and eye was one blinding sheet of pain. In falling, his knife withdrew. The soldier emitted a surprised cough as the severed artery spurted his life from between protesting fingers.

Covered with blood, Barabbas muttered, Put my head on a spear—would you? He heaved the body to one side, and staggered to his feet. Grasping the imbedded sword, with Spartan resolve, and a bellow of pain, the outlaw wrenched it loose from his own skull. Standing over the dying man, the outlaw could see only cynical defiance registered in Phillip’s dimming eyes. Barabbas snarled, and, with a grimace, hacked off Phillip’s head with one savage blow. Thrusting the Roman’s spear into the severed neck, he held it up triumphantly.

A concerted howl of rage rumbled across the valley. A solitary figure pointed and two men detached themselves from the pack, and loped toward the murderer at an alarming rate.

Nonchalantly—utterly disregarding the threat—Barabbas built a cairn of stones about the haft of the spear that supported its grisly burden. With a final shake of his fist he roared, Barabbas, the name echoing back and forth across the valley. The runner’s grisly head stood in the middle of the trail—a challenge—a monument to Barabbas’ contempt.

The outlaw knew he would have to seek higher terrain. To the east lay a long, north-south, ridge known as the Saddle of Benjamin. Once reached, he could turn south and lose himself in the rough hill country, and the sanctuary of his well-hidden camp. His knowledge of the area gave him an advantage in spite of the rain-soaked ground. He set off trotting at a mile-eating pace.

The day had given way to heavy dusk, and night came suddenly like a black explosion. He was completely alone, badly wounded and with a hundred angry men on his trail. Odds that would have dismayed a lesser man, but he was Barabbas. He did not need anyone.

The night turned clear and cold. He zigzagged back and forth, and kept to the higher ground. As the night wore on the earth drained, and began to grow firmer as sandy, porous soil is prone to do. It was too dark for him to adequately cover his trail, but he occasionally came across stretches of rock that served to cover his tracks. When he came to creeks, and runoffs he waded up, or down, the stream as suited his needs. The usually dry waterbeds were running full, and some were a challenge to cross. However, Barabbas never hesitated.

Unknown to him; however, Julian had covered all avenues of escape. With an oath, he came to a chest-heaving halt. The Tribune had sent a squad of men south along the faster—Way of the Sea highway. Cutting across on a well-known trail, they could now be seen up ahead, their torches quickly closing the gap. He cursed again; they had cut him off from his camp and his escape route.

The fugitive swung due north and set off cross-country paralleling the route commonly known as the Damascus Road that led to Galilee. It was quite late before he allowed himself the luxury of stopping to take a breather. By the stars, he reckoned the time to be close to midnight. He was now on the ridge of Mt. Gilboa. Behind him, and a mile or so below, he could see four torches bobbing along. Even further back, he could not estimate how far, he could see a long line of flickering fireflies that inched their way along. They seemed to make no progress whatsoever against an immovable black wall.

The seasoned Tribune had picked his fastest men to seek out the trail, and keep the pressure on the fleeing man. Barabbas was not about to engage four men in his present condition. He had to get off this mountain and cross the Plain of Jezreel. The plain often called the Vale of Jezreel. It was a collapsed basin filled in with rich red and black loam. It was also a historic invasion route, and it was here, long ago, that Jehu had marched against the Omrides. Barabbas knew that he had several other mountains to cross before he reached the mountains of northern Galilee. True, they were small mountains, mere hills, but beyond were rock jungles in which he could lose himself. If he faltered, he knew he would be killed.

Barabbas was exhausted. The razor-sharp pain in his eye had finally subsided to a dull throbbing that was only bearable by the thought of the alternative. If he stopped—he was dead. As he dropped down to the rolling plain, he passed Mt. Moreh to the west and avoided the city of Endor. He smiled grimly. Endor, his fortune had been told there recently by the Witch of Endor. She claimed to be a direct descendent of the original witch who had called up Samuel from his grave for the distraught Saul, king of the Hebrews. With a weary grunt, he realized that he would have to begin pacing himself. He began running a hundred paces, then walking a hundred paces, and he began taking a short break each hour. His brute strength was ebbing fast from loss of blood and exhaustion. He must conserve his energy, or he would never make it.

The wind changed direction and began blowing from the southwest. Also changing directions Barabbas swung northwest, missing the worst of Mt. Tabor. As he passed Nazareth, which lay due west, he began another gradual climb. It was difficult to avoid the many small villages; however, no one knew the area better than Barabbas did, and with great skill, he avoided the clusters of the huts and their vigilant dogs. The breeze was warm, and the ground was drying fast. All too soon, it would be daylight. With the countless small villages in the valley, to avoid being seen, he must reach the foothills before dawn. Moving rapidly down the far slope, he again found himself back on rolling terrain where he knew he was easy prey. Once under cover of the mountains; however, he would be able to cover his trail.

The thief’s body screamed for rest, and he chose a rock to sit on. He did not dare lie down for fear he would go to sleep. He knew he had to be on the Plains of Gennesaret. With a groan and a curse on his pursuers’ ancestry he struggled to his feet, and set off running. He breathed a prayer of hope. He was running upslope again. On his left he passed the village of Cana, later, to his right, he passed the village of Arbella, and further east, he knew, was a permanent Roman Military Encampment, perhaps the destination of the men chasing him. By avoiding the main trails, and the many small towns and hamlets along the way, he had managed to avoid the Roman Patrols.

Dawn broke with the skies clear and promising. He knew he was in the foothills west of Capernaum, which lay on the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee. Just ahead was freedom. Indistinct shadows gradually took form. Gritting his teeth, Barabbas drew on the last dregs of his remaining strength and set a faster pace. His legs wobbled with weariness and nausea swept over him in waves. Yet, while he was able, he must put distance between himself, and his hunters. True, they could also follow his trail much faster, but, for the first time, he could make a serious effort to conceal his tracks.

Invigorated by the thought, he found the will to maintain the pace. He kept to the rocks, avoided the skylines, and kept a watchful eye on his back trail. Veering from his previous line of march, Barabbas moved into terrain unfamiliar to him, and headed northwest. He crossed one ridge, and went around a smaller one. For the Romans to follow him so closely last night, he reasoned, they must have figured out his basic line of march. His only choice was to trust to luck in finding his way through the mountains, and to rely on his well-known ability to cover his trail.

Barabbas maintained the pace for one mile—then two. There, just ahead of him was a stretch of mud—he bunched his legs, and leapt for the protection of the rocky terrain. His head spun, and he reeled when he landed. His legs buckled, and the thief fell off into the bottom of a small depression. Sluggishly, he rolled to his hands and knees. The loss of the sight in his left eye threw off his equilibrium, and Barabbas fell sideways and vomited—losing the bit of dried grain he had been eating to maintain his strength. Retching, he managed to regain his feet. Lowering himself to a half-sitting position with his buttocks up against a boulder, he checked his back trail. With a snarl like a wolf at bay, he came to his feet with a rush.

Red, ant-like figures were outlined against the skyline. He had picked up perhaps another half mile at best. However, his slower pace from midnight on, especially in the mountains, had worked badly against him. They were in great condition compared to him. His lead was not sufficient considering his rapidly deteriorating strength. Sanctuary still lay ahead a few grueling miles.

They were not high treacherous mountains, but there was one hill, one possibility, it was a rough, low-lying range of steep defiles, blind canyons, precipitous gorges, and numberless caves where he could easily lose himself. With a groan, he forced his leaden legs into a shambling run that would carry him beyond the known limits of human endurance.

Barabbas, pausing at the top of the draw, looked behind him with apprehension. They were right on his heels like a pack of dogs, and he was completely exhausted. He knew it was well past mid-morning, shading his eyes he glanced at the sun; to be exact, it was noon. He ground his teeth in rage and tried to spit, but the phlegm stuck to his tongue.

You hairless hounds of Zeus, he snarled. He dragged himself from rock to rock, and bush to bush and finally staggered onto the well-defined crest of the hill. A flash of red behind him at the bottom of the narrow draw caught his eye. Fear created a spurt of adrenaline and he propelled himself in a reckless dash over the crest where he hoped to find cover before he was spotted. A faint shout of discovery reached his ears as he tottered unsteadily across the skyline, and out of their sight.

Once over the crest Barabbas stood gasping for breath. His feet were toed in to support his quivering legs. He was too fatigued, and discouraged to move. They had seen him. Sick with despair he reeled, and nearly collapsed. Reaching out he grabbed onto a projecting rock to keep from falling. His breaths came in convulsive gasps. After a moment, he drew in a long shuddering sigh that helped to relieve his stress, if only he had not been spotted. All about him was rugged, jagged country offering him many places to hide. Unfortunately, he knew it was too late. If his trail disappeared now, they would simply spread out and search until he was found. With a snap, the rock he was hanging onto broke, and he fell flat on his hind end. He sat there beat—his head hanging between his knees like a spent bull. He was finished. It was over. No man could have done as well.

Shale! The rock was still in his hands, and it was shale. It rang a bell from his childhood. As a boy, he had played on the shale slopes. They had been small ones to be sure and little chance of being injured, but great fun to run across and slide down. He raised his head and there before him lay the great grandfather of all shale slopes, steep—precipitous—deadly dangerous. The slide was at least a mile long and a half-mile wide. It lay there like an invitation, an invitation to Hades, or a road to freedom. Either alternative was better than just giving up.

Lunging to his feet with a hoarse shout of triumph, he plunged over the edge running downward at a forty-five-degree-angle across the sea of loose rock. The trick was to keep ahead of the rock he was dislodging, and to keep his feet from digging into the loose debris which could bog him down, or worse yet—set a major slide into motion. He literally flew over the top of the rubble. He was weightless, and in spite of his legs crippling weariness, they pumped faster, and faster as he gained momentum. With a rumble—then a roar—the entire area began to move adding to his distress. His legs churned ever faster and he frantically tried to keep to his feet. With a cry of alarm, his body flew through the air propelled by its own inertia. He landed spread-eagled with a bone-wrenching jar at the bottom of a narrow, winding ravine just beyond the far edge of the slide area. The force of his fall was partly absorbed as he sprawled face down on the sliding shale. As the slide grumbled to a halt, he found himself half buried in loose shale.

Stunned, he lay there like one dead. Then his eyelid fluttered open, and a black opening yawned a greeting. Hope generated a surge of energy, and Barabbas rolled free of the rocks and scrambled on his hands and knees into the crevice. Spinning about he crammed loose rocks into the entrance. Survival was his only goal as he closed off the opening. Then he collapsed into a quivering heap on the rock floor of the cave. From outside he could hear distant shouts, and then an ominous rumble shook the cave floor as the slate began to move again. With horror, he realized the entrance had been buried beneath tons of shale. The shouts turned into screams of panic from men afraid for their lives as the slide let go with a roar that drowned out all human sounds for several minutes.

Afterwards, Barabbas lay immersed in blessed silence. Soon; however, from outside he could hear the confused yells of men going to the aid of their friends. It seemed like an eternity before he became aware that the search was on again. The searchers were thorough, and checked every rock and every crevice. Even with the entrance sealed the Romans were so close that Barabbas held his breath for fear they might hear him. The fugitive’s ears became aware of water dripping into water, and gradually his would be executioner’s voices faded. He was left alone with the sound of the dripping water, the hammering of his own heart, and a burning fire that consumed his throat.

The utter silence focused his mind on his bodily needs. His leg muscles were twitching, and jerking in protest. The agony in his eye seemed to be directly connected to the nerve center of his brain. He took a deep breath. His lungs felt like they had been scorched by a fire raging in his throat. The need for water overcame his pain, his fatigue, and his common sense. Groping about in the cloying blackness Barabbas found he could stand. Tentatively he took a step, then another. Emboldened by his success he walked towards the sound of the water and suddenly plunged into a winter-cold spring. The shock of the frigid water on his open wound felt like ten thousand red-hot pokers plunged into his eye socket. Involuntarily he screamed with the unexpected pain. Gasping,