A Roman is slitting the throats of the two young boys; he turns, startled, then looks amazed as a spear is thrust through his armor and into his gut.
The two men now have the woman down; they turn in surprise, but their comrades have already drawn their own weapons and are moving toward him.
He was good, particularly when so angry. He just about tore off the sword arm of the nearest Roman with a strong inside blow, but the other was not to be taken so easily. A good swordsman himself, the Roman forced the man into the arms of the other two Romans who had stopped messing with the girl and come up behind him.
“I’ll kill the bastard now!” the swordsman snarled, advancing on the captive.
“No! Hold!” cried one of his captors. “The bitch means something to him, otherwise why would he fight so? Tie him to the tree. Let him watch us, and die before his death!”
“Ai! Let’s cut off his limbs and leave him there alive, to bleed to death or live a limbless cripple!” snarled the man whose arm he’d cut to the bone, still lying in agony on the sand. They laughed at that, and bandaged the other as best they could.
And it was done. He was tied to a tree with ropes too strong to break and forced to watch the rape, after which they killed her, not mercifully swift but slowly.
He wept, as much for the way of the world as for these people who had been tortured and slain. He’d known good, brave, fair-minded men of the Legions, men who’d have acted as he had in the face of such barbarism. Not now. Rome was expanding, extending her influence to the edges of the world, and that expansion required men in great numbers, men whose only qualification was that they would kill and delight in killing. When such vicious animals were used to spread “civilization,” how long would it be before that madness sped backward to its roots and reached the throne itself?
And they were around him now, facing him as he stood bound to the tree.
“So this is the greatness of mighty Rome,” he sneered at them.
They laughed, although he could see in their faces that they were taken aback by such coolness in the face of torture and death.
They drew their swords and leered at him. One gestured at the carnage. “Those were your people?”
He looked the man squarely in the eyes. “I never saw them before in my life,” he told them in flawless Latin.
“Then why did you fight for them?” another asked, confused and a bit unnerved by their captive’s total disregard for personal well-being.
“The children of the Lord God of Israel should not be abused by animals spawned in Hell.”
“Enough of this! You are a brave man but a foolish one,” the centurion told him. “We will kill you and be done with it.”
“I really wish you could.”
The Roman drew his sword and hesitated a second, looking into his eyes before striking the fatal blow.
Four sharp sounds echoed, followed by a whap! whap! whap! whap! The Romans stood for a moment, looking confused, then toppled over, arrows protruding from their backs.
Four men emerged from the bushes nearby. All Hebrews, he saw at once, all holding bows. One was an older man; by their looks the others were his sons. Two of the sons checked the bodies of the slain Hebrews while the third son, with a sword, made certain that the Romans would stay forever on the ground. The old man approached him, drew a small curved knife from his belt, and cut the binding straps. He almost collapsed as the flow of blood, which had been restricted by his bonds, returned fully to his limbs. The old man was strong and caught him, lowering him gently to the ground.
“You’ve had a terrible ordeal,” the older man said kindly in Hebrew.
He nodded. “There were just too many,” he responded in the same language.
The old man nodded. “We were just a bit too far off.” He sighed. “We heard the screams but arrived too late and approached, perhaps, too cautiously.” He looked at the dead Romans. “It is just revenge,” he murmured, almost to himself, “but somehow it does not seem adequate.” Then back to the freed man: “You have relatives to whom you can be taken?”
He shook his head. “All I had lies there,” he muttered. “I am alone in the world once again.”
“You are young, and brave, and skilled,” the old man told him. “You deserve a new chance. Come! I am of substance. I am Mattathias the son of John, a priest of the sons of Joarib, now of Modin. These are my sons—Joannan Caddis, Simon Thassi, Eleazar Avaran, and Jonathan Apphus on the Roman rolls.”
“My name and family are dead with them,” he said sorrowfully. “I died with them.”
“Then you shall be my son,” Mattathias told him. “You shall become the son who was their eldest brother but died so long ago in the wilderness.” He turned to his sons, now standing there. “What say you?”
“He is a brave man who has lost much,” one said. “And his spirit and his faith are sorely needed in these trying times.” The others nodded assent.
“Any warrior as small as you who could penetrate Roman armor has a passion inside and the Lord’s annointment,” another said.
“It is settled, then,” Mattathias said, satisfied. “You are as another son to me and welcome to my tribe and house. And henceforth you shall be known as Judas Maccabeas, my lost son who returns to me in these days of trial.”
And they knelt and prayed together that the Lord God of Israel accepted this and it was in fact His will. And when they were finished he looked up at them all and said, “Perhaps with your faith and your patriotism we may bring mighty Antiochus himself to heel!”
Nathan Brazil awoke.
His head felt as if it was bursting; he could only groan, and the medics came with painkillers to aid him. He got his eyes to focus, finally, and tried to sit up. With a low moan, he quickly collapsed back into the bed.
“Well, I see the gang’s all here,” he muttered.
“How do you feel?” Mavra asked. Her concern was evident.
He managed a low chuckle. “Oh, about like anybody would a day or so after being at the center of an explosion.”
“What happened to you in… there?” Marquoz asked. “Do you remember any of it?”
Brazil winced, not from pain but from memory. “I wish to God I didn’t! You know, Obie wasn’t kidding—the human mind is a fantasy land operating to delude itself by assuming whatever point of view is easiest to live with. Can you imagine coming face to face with yourself—your real self—with no place to hide? Even Obie doesn’t realize the kind of horror he perpetrated on me, the terrible torture he put me through. I don’t think he could have done it if he’d known. You realize we—all us nonmachines—are crazy? Absolutely stark-raving mad? No wonder the Markovians felt they hadn’t reached Utopia—they hadn’t. I wonder if this is the sort of thing that happened to them. I mean, linked mentally to their monster computers they must have undergone much of what I just did, been forced to face themselves with no place to run. What a terrible disillusionment it must have been! My God! No wonder! It explains everything! The Well, why they performed their great experiment, why they were so willing to commit suicide—and why they failed this time, too. We—all of us—created in their image, yes, but reflections of their darker sides as well. My god!”
“But weren’t you there?” Mavra asked. She was bewildered by all Brazil’s monologue. “You’re a Markovian—aren’t you?”
He gave a dry chuckle, then groaned a little as it hurt. “No, not a Markovian. Something… else. Don’t worry. I can fix their pretty machine.” Then, suddenly, he was off on his own again. “My god! No wonder the Well isn’t self-aware. They couldn’t have stood that…”
“Obie—is Obie dead?” Mavra pressed fearfully.