THE AMEN HERESY
by
W.H. Muhlenfeld
Author’s Note
While the reign of the Pharaoh Akhenaten and the influences of his monotheistic belief on Judaism, Christianity, and Islam are real, similarities between the characters in this book and any person, living or dead, are coincidental.
“When thou risest on the horizon and sheddest thy beams of light upon the Lands of the South and of the North, thou art beautiful, yea beautiful, and all the gods rejoice when they behold thee, the King of Heaven.”
--The Hymn of Praise to Ra
Egyptian Book of the Dead
“Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord has shown upon you.”
Isaiah 60:1
Hebrew Tanakh
“As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.”
John 9:5
The Holy Bible (KJV)
“Allah is the light of the heavens and the earth.”
An-Nur 24.35
The Holy Quran
Chapter 1
Domus Flavia
Roma, Italia
94 A.D.
The rain had been falling in thin strands of freeze for three days. An early evening light cowered in the deluge as a lone, tightly cloaked figure made his way across the Pons Probi, the sturdy bridge the shortest western route to the Palatine Hill, close above the dangerous, wintry roil of the Tiber River. Jude’s last stop on the outskirts of Rome was brief, enough for some boiled wheat, a handful of olives, and a gift of hot mulsum, the honeyed wine a welcome relief from the harsh tempest.
The messenger’s journey from Alexandria was far too long and arduous, twenty-two days where he could not distinguish the water of the sky from that of the sea; and where great winds filled the sails with torrents of despair. Still, the storm was not yet finished; it chased Jude ashore and was now again in pursuit, ready it seemed to swallow him whole as he moved quickly along the sleet-slick stone road.
Jude felt a new urgency to deliver the precious metal scroll at once. Yosef ben Mattathias--Josephus, as the Romans knew him--had been expecting it for some time, and was no doubt curious as to why it had not yet been delivered to his protection, for his use and study. Though Josephus’ anticipation was only that of a historian, Jude knew that the sacred scroll, now wrapped in a thick slush of lambskin, would shake the old man to his knees in scholarly disbelief and the anguish of realization. Josephus’ carefully prepared texts would soon require a great deal more thought, much revision, and torturous explanation. The newly gained understanding might well secure the old man’s reputation at the same time that it destroyed his faith.
The dry, woolen cloak Jude exchanged at the home of his mother’s cousin was now matted with icy tears from the heavens. Though he was again chilled throughout, his nearness to the Domus Flavia, the residence of Josephus, warmed his resolve with a sense that his mission had neared its end. He turned toward the northeast, passing through the tripled gateway piercing the Servian Wall. Soon he would pass the Circus Maximus, finally nearing the end of his long journey.
Jude knew his way would be clear due to the hour and weather. Lacking was the usual crush of beggars and thieves who favored the confusion of the entry points to the great city, better for the filling of their sagging stomachs and empty pockets. By now they would have returned to their hovels and hideouts, seeking what slight relief might be gained from secret overhangs and tiny clumps of embers. Their lot, he knew, had become much more difficult, even desperate, after the emperor halted the food distributions without notice. It would be good to stay cautious.
His pace was now brisk as he gained strength from his meal and the warm stickiness of the mulsum that still coated his palate. The road ahead was washed clean of human obstruction, the slop and filth that at other times might hinder his progress. It would soon be all done. He could soon take his rest.
**********
Aegidios paused to flame yet another bowl of oil as the goddess Nyx advanced the night, driving the light, but not the chill, from the small room. While the wretched weather relieved him from the easy temptations of the marketplace, its gossip and games, the cold made him restless with his work, his concentration all the more difficult.
“Do you think the master will allow us a warm bath this night?” Aegidios asked, turning to Diokles.
“That would be most welcome,” said Diokles, still bent over his text, carefully reviewing the last line of his translation. “We are near the end of this eighteenth book, and he would be well-pleased should we finish it this day. This Antiquities of the Jews is most important to him.”
“You speak the truth, my friend,” said Aegidios, briskly rubbing his cold hands before picking up the firm reed pen. “I am certain, if we can finish, that he will allow us at least that small pleasure.”
Aegidios had no doubt that his master, Josephus, appreciated his brilliance and might even sense his quite clever imitation of the style of Thucydides. He had certainly proven himself more than worthy of admiration. He was, after Diokles, the principal scribe entrusted with the final book drafts for the master’s approval. This alone, he felt, spoke to the strong measure of his ability and competence. Translating and transcribing took much time, though. There were certainly some significant difficulties in moving clumsy Aramaic words to the elegant Greek.
Flavius Josephus was not a cruel man, but he was demanding and exacting when it came to his life’s work or his employment by the emperor. This latter influence Aegidios could well understand. The Emperor Domitian was vain and imperious like all tyrants before him; but he was now suspicious and unpredictable, irksome qualities in most men, but dangerous traits in one with unquestioned power. Recently, he executed many of his own senators with the same indifference as when he idly stabbed flies with his stylus. He had also expelled most men of thought and reason, and many others were unwelcome. Only Plutarch was briefly tolerated on his few, brief visits, this due to his extreme popularity at court.
“Domitian seems quite mad; don’t you think?” a drunken steward of Josephus’ employ loudly asked Aegidios in the open market.
“You’re the one who is mad,” Aegidios said, pushing his friend to a quiet corner of a nearby leather shop. “Your words are reckless. They dance with wine. Silence yourself or you may well be silenced forever.”
“He wishes to be addressed as Dominus et Deus, Lord and God, not citizen and king, as his father and grandfather before him,” the steward brayed, more loudly than before. “If he is Dominus et Deus, then I’m Apollo,” he added, before slumping in a stupor behind a large scrape of hides.
It was true, Aegidios reflected. The emperor thought himself a god, which left no accommodation for the Jews and the growing mass of Christians. Domitian was known to fiercely persecute those who did not defer to his imperial cult. Thus, the emperor held some worrisome ambivalence about the value of Josephus’ contributions to the close grip of his rule. Aegidios held no doubt that his master was mindful of these developments. He suspected that Josephus’ many trips to court were meant to secure his position and defray the gossip and devious whispers against him, as well as to mark his close bond with the Queen Domitia. She had regained her court standing after her return from exile for her affair with the actor. The queen was spared, while the actor was executed in a most painful, though, Aegidios admitted, amusing fashion.
And so, it was with welcome relief that the emperor and his slavering sycophants now hid themselves from the dreary gale, content with plump figs, vast quantities of fine, Caecubum wine and the harsh satires of Martialis. In truth, was it not this poet who mocked their very work and added to the emperor’s growing ambivalence over their efforts? Aegidios related one of the satires to his master:
Let the o’er sour and dull that way delight Whose lamps at midnight see the wretches write.
“No matter,” Josephus told him, “the rains of winter and the foul wind of Martialis allow us time to complete our work. Let us make good progress while the storm permits.”
The Greek scribe paused again to gather more ink, now wondering if the long-awaited scroll might perhaps arrive yet that evening. He had already gained the master’s appreciation for arranging its delivery. Its arrival would further improve Josephus’ mood and enhance prospects for his request of a bath. Still, it was vaguely disturbing to Aegidios that the scroll was rumored to be of copper. This could only mean it was of some importance, and important words engraved in metal were often inscribed with conflict and even greater dangers of interpretation.
The loud smack of a gusted shutter yanked Aegidios upright, spilling his resin ink and snapping his reed in two. A wintry whip of wind nipped the bud of flame from his lighting bowl. Darkness and cold grabbed his thoughts like a thief of reason.
**********
While Diokles and Aegidios worked on their respective assignments, Flavius Josephus sat for a rest, pondering the meaning of the delay of this so-called copper scroll. He was told of its origin among the Theraputae, the desert healers of Egypt, and had been assured that it would change his most-cherished interpretations, and even his accounting of the earliest years of the Jewish faith, the time before Moses. These Theraputae, as Josephus understood them, seemed quite similar to the cult of the Essene, which once inhabited the desert of Judea, not far from the Dead Sea. The Essenes, like the Theraputae, were an odd lot, admirable in the austere demands of their belief, but of a rebellious, fanatical nature--qualities which soon attracted the swords and lances of the mighty Roman legions. Now, Josephus reflected, they were few in number, scattered like fleas on the sprawled carcass of their faith after knowing the brutal back of the emperor’s hand.
Yet these Essenes intrigued Josephus enough that he spent considerable effort in recording their beliefs, their habits, and the force of their piety. The resolve and firmness of their conviction was real and substantial, not just Jews-in-name like the Sadducees, or even like his brother Pharisees, who were slavish observers of ritual. Both seemed to be weak and timid in their faith next to the fervor of the Essenes, who shared all with all, denied themselves the pleasures of women and the wholeness of family, and who washed daily in cold water, covering the shame of nakedness in robes of pure white. He remembered during his own time in Qumran that they appeared as bright as angels among the rocky defiles of the desert sun.
There had been one of the cult who seemed to hold the gift of prophecy. The voice of Yahweh was said to be heard through him. Josephus was told of this prophet by a Christian slave, who had once encountered the man when he himself was engaged in the ritual of the water, joining in this new cleansing of the spirit that was thought to mark well the way to God’s grace and the promise of afterlife. Josephus examined this practice in Book Eighteen, the one now being transcribed by his Greek assistants.
The slave described this Essene as a wild man. “He was quite ragged. Worn camel skins fell from his shoulders, barely concealing his loins. His body was well darkened by the sun and I was told that he subsisted on a spare diet of honey, grain, and odd scraps of fish or lamb. He is said to eat locusts when food is scarce. The prophet’s hair and beard are uncombed, his feet as rough as sun-brick, his eyes as blue as heaven’s mantle. He was scabrous from cuts of thorn and rock, though no one could describe him as unclean. The olive staff he held with him at all times was hewn like the man, sturdy and hard-ribbed, as firm as his words, as commanding as the holy madness of his eyes.”
From time-to-time this John the Baptizer seemed to disappear into the desert as Josephus himself did in his youngest years with the hermit Banus. No one could say where this Baptizer was or whence he might come again. Yet he would appear suddenly and unbidden, God’s shout risen from the sand, railing for repentance and righteousness, marking the way for a Messiah.
He was assisted by many disciples, including the one called Jesus, who John baptized by his own hand. Josephus recalled that both were eventually killed by the Romans for their efforts. Herod beheaded the Baptizer, and Pilate saw to the crucifixion of the prophet’s acolyte, passing blame to the Jews. John, the fist of God, was buried in Qumran, somewhere near the old caves of the Essenes. The cult of John and this Jesus lived on, an annoyance that the Romans and this emperor, Domitian, regularly reduced in great numbers with ghastly entertainments and the cruel letting of blood.
Josephus quietly stroked Baro as his thoughts turned to the work at hand. “Ah, you do like that; don’t you?” Josephus whispered, rubbing the dog’s belly in a circular motion, as if smoothing fine linen.
The Maltese gratefully rolled over, enjoying the attention of fingers accustomed only to writing; and the soft comfort of his master’s lap, which was well fed, cushioned and cloaked against the cold. His new history, Antiquities of the Jews, was nearing completion, Josephus mused. It was his most important work, his act of reconciliation with those who might still believe him a traitor, an outcast, and himself a lap dog of the Roman emperor.
The quick fade of light and the dimming of sight natural to those in their fifth decade caused him to halt his work on the twentieth and final book of Jewish history. He noticed, as he had for some time, that his fingers now quickly grew stiff from the cold, though the warmth of Baro’s belly would soon restore them for the work at hand. Only a day, perhaps two, would finish this final part, though he planned a further examination of the Jewish War as well as a discourse on Jewish belief and an accounting of his own life. He wondered if the years would permit this unfinished business. The thought tired him, teetered his resolve.
The war had defined Josephus’ life and, ultimately, his life’s purpose. The Bellum Judaicum, the Jewish War, as it was still known some twenty years after the last zealot gave up his ghost in the bloody fortress of Masada, was a horrific tragedy, gruesome even by Roman standards. It all started with that insulting thievery of seventeen talents from the Temple treasury by that miserable conniver, Gessius Florus, procurator of Judea. Josephus still believed that Florus’ interest lay less in filling Nero’s coffers and more in provoking Jewish outrage, though this time he overstepped. Things escalated quickly, and the rebellion took several years to run its course.
Yes, he could now admit that he had been a reluctant general at the siege of Jopata, but he had given his best, as had the others. Forty-seven days withstanding three Roman legions while baking in the kiln of July was a test of faith that he hoped no other Jew, no other man, would ever experience. In the end, to what end? Forty thousand rebellious Jews slaughtered, a great many taken during the new moon in lots of hundreds, and beaten, stabbed, hacked or crucified by soldiers expert in the ways of death. Rome then, as now, had no tolerance for dissension.
Josephus, then called Yosef ben Matatthias, had hidden in a cave with a surviving group of officers, soldiers, a few citizens and slaves, awaiting the end. It was he who suggested they draw lots to avoid painfully slow execution or the eternal damnation of suicide. After taking turns in cutting throats, feeding the rocky maw with writhing gurgles of red flesh, only he and a comrade remained, both filled with a new thirst to live, filled with horror at the slaughter, filled with guilt at their own survival.
Josephus rose slowly from his seat and Baro jumped to the floor, heading off to his straw for more rest. Dogs do not trouble themselves with such things, he thought, watching Baro circle his mat. They anticipate nothing of the future and, likely, remember nothing of the past. Baro would care not a lick for the emperor’s favor or hold a moment’s remorse over the death of thousands. His world was that of food, shelter, and some small attention now and then. It was similar, perhaps too similar these days, to Josephus’ present circumstance.
The old man placed more charcoal on the brazier, a small sacrifice for a bit more heat. The dampness chilled him as much as the cold. Februarius could not be short enough for him as he sighed and moved toward the leaking window.
He knew not what possessed him to gain the conqueror’s favor by using the prophecy of kingdom as the Roman General Vespasian’s reward for his victory at Jopata. He perhaps had it in mind without knowing so. It may too have been the entreaties of Titus, son of the great general, which first prevented his return to Nero and certain death. Vespasian seemed to be intrigued by this self-taught soldier, this general of the Jews, who had tested his trained legions in the defense of Galilee. Josephus had thus gained favor with the future emperor and became a willing, though believing, collaborator in ending the conflict quickly, minimizing destruction and the inevitable carnage and ultimate defeat of his people. Rome’s armies may be slowed, but could not be defeated. As he once wrote:
"No disorder disperses them from their usual formation, no fear confounds them, no labor exhausts them, and certain victory follows against those unequal in these respects."
The Jews were decidedly unequal.
Vespasian and Titus led nearly sixty thousand troops, which swarmed and garrisoned Galilee and then all of Judaea, soon isolating Jerusalem while quelling the rebellion. This was after the Jewish forces were steadily weakened by the brutal exterminations in Caesarea, Tyre, Alexandria, and other points in the Roman world. It was also after the Jews started fighting among themselves, a situation that only grew worse as the noose of Roman might slowly strangled the Holy City.
Most disheartening, Josephus recalled, were those endless conflicts pitting Jew against Jew. Though he had been pressed into unwanted leadership, other nimble plotters and political insurgents eagerly commanded lesser armies of blind loyalists. Madmen and fanatics blew hard on the flames of revolt, and the allegiances of the people swayed wildly, as frantic as palms in a desert storm. In the end, all they had in common was profound and divisive civil unrest. This is what the militants and the many factions failed to see.
Terrorism captured Jerusalem before Titus. The death of the city began, Josephus believed, with the murder of the high priest and the rampant destruction and killing of its inhabitants and learned men by religious zealots. There were lootings, fake trials, and random, merciless executions. Chaos prevailed, and Titus, ever patient, would not be denied. The walls of Jerusalem weakened and tottered, first from the inside. The foundation of Judaism was set for collapse.
Josephus rested from his thoughts, leaning his covered head against the cold, bitter wood of the shuttered window, pressing back the heat of fevered memory. That final battle seemed as real behind his eyes today as it had in full view nearly twenty-five years past. A familiar revulsion arose, and a wet finger of black bile stroked his stomach like the after-effects of bad water. Horrific images, barely shadowed by the passage of time, arose unbidden. The knees of his conscience were well chafed from decades of wondering if he could have done more.
He remembered the red sea of Roman infantry, the gray waves of helmets washing over Jerusalem, the Jews swimming to the One God in rivers of their own blood. More than a million, by his own estimate, were killed in the siege, onslaught, and sack of the city. Countless numbers, as many as five hundred per day, were crucified, often nailed in unusual positions for the amusement of tired and bored executioners. He watched as strong Roman arms grew weary from wielding bladed death upon so many.
Under the direction of Titus he tried to warn them of their folly, tried to bargain for their lives, at least for the safety of the women and children. They would have none of it. There was no trust for the one they marked as the traitor of Jopata. Josephus received a stone to the head for his efforts. They received the misery of cruel, certain death. Never before or since had there been mention of such complete annihilation in a single engagement of the Roman legions.
The Second Temple of Jerusalem was burned and leveled, and the holy treasure brought to Rome, to the altar of Jupiter. Here it was displayed and then used as with any conquered riches, with some set to defray the cost of the Great Colosseum, some to aid in the creation of various fountains and the restoration of sewers, and some to fund special entertainments. A substantial amount was put aside to produce gold coins, these stamped “Judaea Capta” a nation now fully under Rome’s direction and influence.
It was early evening when Titus showed him the first coin. “In this hand, Josephus, you see the two coins of the rebels. The silver one reads ‘Freedom of Zion;’ the copper, ‘Redemption of Zion.’”
Titus held up his other hand, unwrapping his fingers from his boxed fist. A bright gold coin glinted richly in the sun. “Two coins to produce the one,” he grinned. “‘Judea Capta.’ It tells the whole story, do you not agree?”
Flavius Josephus cracked open the shutters fronting the atrium of his private quarters and breathed deeply of the frosted air to clear his head from the smoke of the brazier and the ashes of memories better left unstirred in the charred bowl of his mind. Black, freezing water fell steadily from the heavens and pooled where it could not find escape to the hillsides. Beyond were faint glimmers of oil lamps at the nearest end of the columned garden. His Greeks appeared to still be working on the final translations of the last book. Perhaps tonight he would reward them for their efforts. A visit to the baths on such a night would be well received. For himself, he would try to work a bit longer with the aid of a few more lamps. Perhaps the messenger would come this very night with this mysterious scroll. Yes, perhaps tonight, or tomorrow.
**********
Jude was now past the entry of the three gates and was nearing the entrance to the Circus Maximus, its great mass overpowering even the advance of night. Soon he would round the far edge and make his way to the palace steps where he would have to beg or bribe some guardsmen to arouse Josephus. He could just make out the faint rise of the Paedagogium, the place of learning, beyond the entrance.
Just a few minutes more were the last thoughts of his mission as he was grabbed from behind and felt ice-cold metal enter his side in three quick thrusts, twisting each time as it probed expertly for his heart. There were the rough shoves of hands forcing him to the ground while ripping open his sodden cloak and pulling away his wrapped copper scroll. The sicarii, the dagger-men, disappeared as quickly as they had come, dissolving into the rain and then, it seemed, into the soaking tufa of the Servian Wall.
Jude was left to wonder, ever so briefly, why there were snakes hissing in the frigid mud. He would never know that this last sound was of the warm seep of his blood as it mixed with the miserable rains of winter.
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