Side by side with another who had loomed up behind him, the son of the sandal maker raced up the road.
“Damned nuisance! Now cast the old man down the mountain.”
Three mercenaries trampled Amitai underfoot. They stuck the points of their sandals under his ribs. So they set him rolling until he reached the edge of the road where he tried to raise himself. A soldier hurled the half-raised figure back to the ground. He tried to grasp hold of a couple of stones with his brittle aged fingers, willing to pierce the palms of his hands with their sharp projections in order to remain hanging. The idolators diverted themselves with his despair. Six feet gave him a savage kick over the length of his cringing body. Inevitably the moment came. The force of gravity prevailed and his soul let go. Screaming, Amitai rolled ever faster down the steep slope into the crevice below where his body was shattered like a pitcher.
Numbed by the spectacle, Yeshua continued leaning against the wall.
“Is this man? Why do I not intervene and lay hands upon these Romans? I would gladly interfere even if the idolators kill me. How sweet is death when one has seen this. ‘How fair are thy tents, oh Jacob; how beautiful thy cities, oh Israel.’ Does that mean the dwellings of the dead, perhaps?”
But Yeshua might not die yet, therefore he went homewards. By some miraculous agency the Romans had not seen him. Menachem’s arrival too had escaped their notice. Menachem had loomed up abruptly behind Amitai’s son, had saved Barzilai and indirectly caused the death of Amitai.
“Maybe it means that I must count on Menachem,” mused Yeshua. “The one may pursue the path which he must follow because another has been sent out upon the road to balance the scale.”
Like a fox Menachem slipped through the hole under the wall of Abba Alexander’s house. He crept a short distance through a narrow underground tunnel. The tunnel turned lighter and a window appeared in the hollow opening. Having emerged, Menachem made haste across an empty patch of ground to a gate through which he entered an inner garden. Here one could stroll endlessly around a luxurious center fountain.
His friend Yocheved welcomed him. The young maiden thought often of Menachem. Whenever she heard noises upon the road she hoped it would be him. This time the noise had not deceived her.
“Is it you, Menachem?”
“I sought shelter, Yocheved. The idolators are all over Nazareth. They are taking away the men to sell them as slaves. Where is your mother?”
“Come into the house, I’ll hide you.”
“I shall not stay long, Yocheved.”
“Are you afraid for me? Do you wish to have nothing to thank me for?”
“Nay, it is not that! I do not wish to stray far from the street and the people.”
“Live more for yourself Menachem, so you can also live for another. You don’t understand the ways in which a person can be in need, Menachem.”
“Our whole village, our whole people are in dire need.”
“You have no compassion for the anguish that one soul can experience, Menachem. Have you ever held me in your thoughts?”
“Immerse your soul in the grief of your people, Yocheved. I hold not with a grief that differs from the grief of my neighbor.”
“I understand you not,” Menachem. “Are you glad that I am near you?”
“I am overjoyed to see you. Your beauty does me good and I take delight in your beautiful voice. Our maidens are like flowers withered by the dust of the roads. Only some of them receive water.”
“Come with me, I shall hide you.”
“And what if your father and mother perceive that you are concealing a young man?”
“My father and mother never perceive anything. Like me, they are too busy with themselves.”
Menachem followed Yocheved on tiptoe into the house. They entered a long, narrow side gallery and came to a halt before a closed door. Moans issued from the room beyond.
“That is my mother,” said Yocheved. “Listen to her lamentations.”
“Where is he? Where is he?” the mother’s voice called out. “Perhaps they have carried him off and I may never find him again!”
“She is speaking of her guilty love,” whispered Yocheved. “She has a lover!”
They walked further through the house of Abba Alexander until they reached a curtained door on the ground floor. Men’s voices resounded from the inside. They seemed to be having a debate.
“That is my father,” said Yocheved. “He is discussing a problem of Halacha4 with Chanan ben Yosai his friend.”
“He studies while the Romans hunt the men of Nazareth?” asked Menachem.
“He always studies, he studies perversely, straight through the grief of his daughter because no young man will take her away.”
“Because my road leads far astray.”
“I know it. But say no more. He studies straight through the adultery and grief of his wife; he studies in spite of God himself! He takes everything true upon the road and still he sees nothing. Father is a true Pharisee, Menachem.”
“I understand him. Without the Law he is cold but why does he study the Law precisely now while the Romans are removing our men? I cannot stay here, Yocheved. I will not hide anymore. I will return to the street.”
“Stay, Menachem, the Romans will carry you off.”
But he loosened his arm from her grip.
“Remain, Menachem, they will take you away from me . . . they will torture you, Menachem my only friend.”
But Menachem no longer heard her. He was back on the open terrain, returning to the road. He was protected by the same mysterious power which watched over Yeshua. He traversed the town of Nazareth by the outside roads which led inward to the heart of the marketplace. The streets were full of struggling people. Screaming women raised their naked arms to the sky. Some cursed the Romans, their mouths frozen in a right angular breach. The howls of the children, the song of helplessness testified to the violence of the strangers like a mournful choir.
Everywhere Menachem saw interlaced people. They struck and injured each other while their puny arms and hands clung frantically to those who were being dragged away. But hands cannot hold the souls of those who are being torn from each other nor reverse the events that tear them asunder.
Simple people in whose huts Menachem had stayed, with whom he had spoken at night in front of the door, became outlaws.
Menachem saw how the strong young smith was taken away; he heard the piercing scream of his wife Yehudith as she dragged her cluster of babies behind her. He saw how they led away Amitai’s son. A little old woman who screamed that her grandchild was lost received a blow on the head, fell down and was trampled by a rolling wave of struggling people.
Thou shalt not murder! said the Law.
