SIMON THE ZEALOT
Early on the morning after the banquet there flew through Cæsarea the
surprising news that the notable Zealot, Simon the Black, was to be put
on his trial on the noon of that same day.
Eager to witness the scene, a motley crowd, composed of Jews and
Greeks, Romans and Syrians, flocked, long before the appointed time,
into the basilica, or court of justice, till the numbers were such that
the building would hold no more.
A Roman basilica presented an appearance very similar to that of a
modern parish church, consisting as it did of a nave, and two aisles
divided from it by a row of columns. At one end a portion, elevated
like a daïs and railed off like a chancel, formed the _bema_ (the word
had passed from the Greek into the Syro-Chaldaic) or tribunal, where
the judges sat and orators pleaded. The whole of the interior was
further surrounded by an upper gallery raised upon the columns that
divided the aisles. The ground floor and the galleries were for the
accommodation of the public.
In the middle of the bema, which was paved with tesselated marble,
stood the governor’s curule chair, and on each side of it were rows of
seats intended for the assessors, it being the custom for a provincial
governor to be assisted in his judgments by a sort of informal council
consisting of distinguished citizens.
Shortly before noon there was a movement on the bema, caused by
the arrival of persons interested in the trial. Among them was the
priest Theomantes, who, in virtue of his dignity as priest of Jupiter
Cæsarius, proceeded to ensconce himself in the seat immediately upon
the right of the curule chair, an act that caused murmurs among the
Jews and applause among the Gentiles.
Ananias now entered, and seeing his own action anticipated, scowled,
hesitated for a moment, and then deliberately sat down upon the lap of
his rival.
“’Tis mine to sit upon the right of Florus,” he cried.
Thereupon, Theomantes, exerting all his strength, flung him off, amid
mingled laughter and hooting from the two factions.
“Even if the high priest of the Jews _had_ the right to this seat, it
is not thine, seeing that thou art not high priest.”
Now, it is not at all improbable that in their struggle for precedency
these two graybeards might have come to unseemly blows before a
delighted audience, but for the intervention of Terentius Rufus, who,
with a body of spearmen, was stationed in front of the tribunal for the
purpose of preserving order among the spectators.
“I never thought my services would be required upon the bema,” said he.
And mounting the tribunal, he threatened unless Ananias settled down
quietly in some other seat that he would remove him, as having wantonly
and purposely created a disturbance in a court of justice.
“Let Ananias possess his soul in patience,” he cried, “till it shall
please Florus to make known Cæsar’s decree on this matter.”
The humiliated Ananias made as if he would retire altogether from the
court, but finally, thinking better of it, sat down upon the left-hand
seat, just as Florus made his pompous entry.
Crispus appeared about the same time, and, as being a distinguished
visitor, was assigned a place among the council.
Florus, having seated himself in his curule chair, demanded to know
what business was set down for the day, and as it appeared that there
were many cases requiring his judicial decision, he announced that he
would begin with the trial of Simon.
A thrill of excitement ran through the basilica when the order was
given, “Go, lictors, bring hither Simon, surnamed the Black.”
Without delay the prisoner was brought.
Walking between two guards, his hands tied behind his back with a cord
whose end was held by a third soldier, came the terrible Zealot, who
had hanged so many Romans that men had lost all count of the number. A
man, tall and muscular, and having a singular breadth of chest, with
black hair, black eyes, and black beard. Clothed in the dress he wore
when captured, a gabardine all slashed with sword-cuts, and black with
dried blood; with face unwashed, and beard and hair long and unkempt,
he made a wild and savage figure. Captivity and darkness, chilling
damps and meager diet, had failed, however, to tame his spirit; he
stood, dark, scowling, defiant, the living incarnation of enmity to
Rome.
Florus, after a brief and (as it seemed to Crispus) uneasy glance at
the captive, turned to a table where sat the advocates, and asked:
“Who conducts the prosecution?”
Tertullus arose.
“Be brief. No oratory,” said the procurator.
In a Roman trial proceedings usually began with the questioning of
the accused in the endeavor to prove out of his own mouth the charge
brought against him. Should this procedure fail, or should the
prisoner, through obstinacy, refuse to answer, it became necessary to
call upon witnesses.
Tertullus turned to question the captive, while the clerk of the court,
with lifted pen, sat ready to record the dialogue; for, be it known,
there were in that age scribes who, by a system of abbreviations, were
capable of writing as fast as a man could speak.
“Your name?” began Tertullus.
“You ask me my name?” said the Zealot with a laugh of scorn. “You ought
to know, seeing what fear it has put into the hearts of you Romans. I
am Simon, son of Giora, of the tribe of Benjamin.”
“Your birthplace?”
“Gerasa, beyond Jordan.”
“Your calling?”
“Slayer of the Romans.”
“Consider! You desire the clerk to write down that answer?”
“Let him write it twice, yea thrice, and in his largest characters.”
“You confess, then, that you are of the sect known as the Zealots?”
“A curse on your Gentile terms; I am of the sect of the Kenaïm.”
“Zealots or Kenaïm, ’tis much the same. What are their tenets?”
“These: call no one king but God; pay no tax save to the temple; slay
every Roman who presumes to exercise authority over the holy seed.”
“‘Call no one king but God’? Then you do not acknowledge the authority
of Cæsar?”
“Cæsar!” It is impossible to describe the contempt with which he spoke
the name. “Cæsar! I spit at the name of Cæsar.”
And he did, there and then, upon the pavement. This repudiation of
imperial authority was received by the servile Græco-Syrian mob with a
roar of execration.
“_Læsa majestas!_” was their cry. “Fling him over the rails!”
“‘Assassinate every Roman’?” continued Tertullus. “Then you would
assassinate Florus, if you could?”
The very suggestion caused the face of the Zealot to mantle with
ferocious joy.
“Place a dagger in my freed hands, set me within three paces of him,
and you shall see.”
“The court will take the will for the deed,” observed Tertullus dryly.
“Attend to the indictment. You are charged with being the chief of a
band of Zealots, or, if it please you, Kenaïm. Stationed among the
heights in the Pass of Adummim, it was your wont to issue forth, and to
rob and to hang every Roman that came that way.”
“A marvel! A lawyer speaks the truth!”
“How many Romans have been put to death by you?”
“Put that question to the vultures. I kept no register of the slain.
Thus much I know, that, give me my freedom, and you shall see me repeat
the work with a new band.”
“Traitor to the empire, do you glory in your guilt?”
“The guilt is yours who presume to exercise authority in a land that
God sware with an oath should be ours forever. Out of this land, then,
ye Romans, with your legions and your lictors, your taxes and your
idols! It is contrary to the will of God that Cæsar should bear rule in
Judæa, and the Jew that acknowledges him breaks the law of Moses. For
it is written therein, ‘One from among thy brethren shalt thou set king
over thee; thou mayest not set a stranger over thee which is not thy
brother’; whereof let due note be taken by that smug Ananias there, who
fraternizes so comfortably with his country’s enemies!”
“As it was your custom,” continued Tertullus, “to plunder, as well as
to kill, you doubtless gained considerable wealth?”
“Wealth? Ay, stores of it,” said Simon, his eyes sparkling as if at the
recollection.
“None was found in the place of your capture.”
Simon laughed exultingly.
“It exists, for all that, in a place where no Roman can lay hand upon
it, reserved for the great day of vengeance.”
“Or, in other words, it is to be used in fomenting war against Rome?”
“Lawyer, thou hast said.”
“It is rumored that several persons of high station have been in
communication with you?”
“The highest in the land. I can see now upon the bema here some of my
past accomplices. Why are they not placed beside me to be judged?”
The uneasiness that had never been absent from the face of Florus
seemed now to increase. It was noticed by Tertullus, who smiled to
himself with the quiet satisfaction of an archer who, after many
trials, has hit the mark at last.
The crowd of spectators, hitherto restless and murmuring, became
suddenly hushed. Florus’ long delay in bringing Simon to trial had
given birth to sinister rumors as to the relations previously existing
between the procurator and the robber-chief. Was the dark story about
to be confirmed? With breathless interest they awaited the issue.
“The court will be pleased at having these accomplices named,” said
Tertullus with affected carelessness.
“I name them not, unless I have a promise that they shall be arrested
without delay.”
“The court will have no hesitation in arresting them, provided that you
can prove your charge.”
“Good! If it be a crime to plot against the life of a Roman, bid the
lictors go and bind the hands of Ananias.”
Tertullus’ face fell somewhat. Ananias was not the name he wanted.
“Lying Zealot!” exclaimed the priest; and, forgetting for the moment
that it was not a Jewish court in which he could do according to his
own pleasure, he cried, “Strike him on the mouth!”
“O Ananias! Ananias!” said Simon, shaking his head with mock gravity,
“were you not once an accomplice with me in a plot to slay a Roman
citizen? ’Tis clear you have forgotten my face: let me recall it to
you. Did there not once come to you--’tis eight years ago now--forty
Sicarii,[6] of whom I was one, offering to slay Paul of Tarsus, a Roman
citizen, mark you! and freeborn? Did you not readily join in the plot?
And now do you disavow your old friend Simon? Nay, verily, be honest,
and take your trial with me.”
Over the face of Ananias there had suddenly crept a look scarcely
compatible with the idea of innocence.
“Will no one stop the mouth of the lying knave?” he cried, trembling
with passion.
“Your looks sufficiently show who is the lying knave,” answered Simon
coolly. “If ye desire proof of this, my accusation,” he continued,
addressing the court, “send to Jerusalem for Paul’s nephew; he will
confirm what I say. Does the court agree that Ananias shall take
his trial with me?” added Simon, looking around him with a sardonic
smile. “No? And yet ’tis the fashion of Romans to boast of their
justice!--justice, forsooth!”
“Prisoner,” said Florus, “be not so free of tongue, and you may find
that our Roman justice, whose purity you seem to question, can be
tempered with mercy.”
“Now, let the court carefully mark that little speech,” said Simon
coolly, “for, being interpreted, it meaneth, ‘Keep quiet as to _my_
doings, O Simon, and I will endeavor to procure your release.’ But in
vain do you offer me the bribe of life, O Florus, in order to stay my
tongue. Welcome torture, scourgings, death, if I do but succeed in
hurling you from power.”
Simon was not to be appeased, and Florus, catching sight of Tertullus’
smile, suddenly realized the lawyer’s motive in pressing for the public
trial of the Zealot. It was to ruin him--Florus!
It was out of the question either to gag the prisoner or to declare
the court closed; either alternative would expose him to suspicion.
He, the judge, must sit and listen to an accusation, which, even if it
were untrue, would be greedily believed by nine out of every ten, so
unpopular was he with the people over whom he ruled. And when the story
should reach Rome, as it undoubtedly would--his enemies would take good
care of that!--it might mean the loss, not only of his procuratorship,
as Simon had said, but even of his life.
“The brazen effrontery of this knave!” said he, assuming a stern
bearing. “Knowing that his doom is certain, he seeks to delay sentence
by vilifying the character of his judges. Go, lictors, bring hither the
flagellum.”
“And, when brought, apply it to the shoulders of the robber Florus,”
said Simon.
“Ye see for yourselves,” said Florus, turning to the assessors, “what
an incorrigible villain this is!”
“Listen to a story that is no fiction,” continued Simon. “Florus sent a
secret messenger offering me free license to plunder and slay Roman and
Gentile alike, on condition of his receiving half the spoil.”
“A lie as black as Erebus!” thundered the procurator.
“It is one thing to accuse, another thing to prove,” remarked Tertullus
quietly, secretly delighted at the turn events were taking.
“I have no proof in writing. Florus is too artful a fox to employ ink
and parchment on such a matter. His intermediary in this business was
his freedman, Nymphidius.”
“Is it worth while sending for this Nymphidius,” asked Tertullus of
Florus, “that he may deny this allegation?”
“It is useless sending for him,” observed Rufus, “for he died this
morning--suddenly.”
“Who helped him to die?” asked Simon. “For it appears to me that his
death has occurred at a time very convenient for Florus.”
A significant question, this! Men looked at each other, little doubting
that Florus had by foul means removed an awkward witness from his path.
“Bear with me, noble Florus,” said Tertullus, “if I assume for a moment
the truth of this knave’s story. What answer,” he continued, addressing
Simon, “what answer did you give to Nymphidius?”
“This was my answer: ‘Tell the uncircumcized dog of a Florus that Simon
will plunder without asking _his_ leave. Let him send to Manahem, the
son of Judas, who will doubtless be glad to purchase license on such
terms.’”
Tertullus now dropped his mask and became, like Simon, an accuser of
the procurator.
“It was this Manahem, O Florus,” said he quietly, “who a fortnight ago
robbed me of a myrrhine drinking-cup, which last night appeared upon
_your_ table.”
Now, during all this time Crispus had been listening with a strange
conflict of emotions. Hatred of Simon’s crimes was mingled with
admiration for his daring spirit. He was also compelled to admit that
the existence of the Zealots was, to a certain extent, justified
by Roman misgovernment, a fact very unpalatable for a patriot
like Crispus, ever striving to believe that Rome and justice were
convertible terms. From the rule of wicked and rapacious governors
like Pilate and Felix, Albinus and Florus, what other spirit could
develop in Judæa but a burning hatred of Roman rule, combined with
a determination to throw off the yoke whenever a favorable occasion
should arise?
Though Simon was doubtless deserving of death, yet nevertheless
Crispus’ sense of justice revolted against his condemnation by judges
like Florus and Ananias, themselves guilty of malefactions. He resolved
to disassociate himself from the council.
“Since the prisoner,” said he, “questions the integrity of two of his
judges, and, as it seems to me, with some show of reason, I herewith
decline to take any further part in this trial.”
Suiting the action to the word, Crispus rose from his seat and withdrew
from the bema.
“And I do the like,” said Theomantes, moved in his action mainly by his
feud with Ananias.
“And I!”--“And I!” exclaimed several other members, rising and
descending from the tribunal.
Florus sat, full of impotent rage, on perceiving that the statements of
Simon and Tertullus were believed in, not only by the common people,
but also by the majority of the council.
“The trial is adjourned,” he cried. “Let the prisoner be carried back
to his dungeon.”
The command came too late. Simon had perceived among the Jewish portion
of the spectators certain disguised Zealots, who, both by eye and by
gesture, were secretly inviting him to make a dash for liberty.
Acting on the hint, he suddenly wrenched himself free from his guards,
darted to the edge of the tribunal, and, taking a flying leap over the
line of soldiers that guarded its front, he alighted among his friends,
who, struggling desperately, began to push him towards the open doors
of the basilica.
The soldiers, attempting to follow, were at once opposed, not only
by the whole Jewish body, but also by the Græco-Syrians, who in this
matter were actuated not out of any love for Simon, but from a desire
to thwart and disappoint Florus, whose rule was hateful to them. The
court of justice became immediately transformed into a wild tumultuous
pandemonium.
“Down with the wicked Florus!”
“Death to old Ananias!”
Stones and other missiles, discharged by men of both factions, now came
whirling into the tribunal. Ananias, gathering his robe about him, fled
to a place of safety. Florus, as he was lifting his hand in the futile
attempt to quell the tumult, received a sharp-edged flint upon his
temples. Down his quickly-paling face flowed a stream of blood, a sight
welcomed by both factions with a huge roar of delight.
“Guards, hither to me!” cried the alarmed procurator.
Four stout soldiers sprang forward and screened him with their
bucklers, that rattled again and again to the pelting shower of
stones as the procurator, following the example of Ananias, fled amid
hootings, cursings, and derisive laughter.
At the command of Rufus the soldiers, by threatening the people with
leveled spears, soon cleared the courthouse. They failed, however, to
recover Simon, who, dragged off by his friends, contrived to make good
his escape.
“He’ll harass us again,” grumbled Rufus, a prophecy destined to meet
with ample verification.