Quintus Varus had spent too many years in the saddle. As a newly-minted Roman cohort leader, he counted ten years of service in the Imperial Roman legions, service with distinction in too many battles, skirmishes and sieges to remember one from the other. Varus had never seen Rome itself. He was a provincial soldier, born in Asia Minor to parents who themselves had not seen the Imperial city. It made no difference to him that he served such a distant master. Having survived the aforementioned conflicts, he was an important man in the military government that Rome had established in Judea by the year 100 CE. He could thus afford some of life’s comforts that simple legionaries could not, including riding a horse or mule up the tricky, dusty mountain road leading to Jerusalem.
Though he regularly took this route up from the coast and Caesarea to review the troops that occupied Jerusalem and its surrounding valleys, on this occasion he had a specific objective in mind. The Romans had heard disturbing rumors of unrest among the Judeans, had seen increasing signs of rebellion and were concerned to get more detailed information about the leaders of these protests. Varus, who had served in Jerusalem itself for two years, had several friends among the locals. He was acquainted in a way few Romans were with a number of important Judeans, men of influence who could be helpful in providing important information. The destruction of the Temple had taken place thirty years before, but Varus knew that, to all Jews who’d live through that holocaust, Roman rule still remained a cause of great pain.
It took two days to travel from Caesarea to Jerusalem. The difficult ascent began at Beit Shemesh and required at times nerves of steel to negotiate the twists and turns of this ascent of almost three thousand feet. Mudslides were just one of the dangers that the rainy season brought and it was rare that the ascent occurred without loss of men or livestock.
Travel at night was precarious and so Varus planned to stop at a roadside in which nestled into a cleft in the mountain about half way into the ascent. The inn in question was owned by a rather famous merchant named Zoma, rumored to be among the richest in Judea. Varus knew Zoma, not particularly well, but well enough to perhaps garner some important information to help Varus in his mission.
As the sun set earlier in the mountains, Varus spurred his horse and the men following him onward at a quicker pace and, within ten minutes the flickering lights of Zoma’s inn appeared ahead. The Romans soon arrived at a complex of two or three wooden buildings comprised of the inn and adjoining stables. Varus slid from his saddle, brushed dust from his cloak and tunic, and shouted toward a group of Jewish stablehands:
“Let your master Zoma know of our arrival for we are stopping here tonight. Food for ten men and water for our horses!
Varus opened the oaken door to the inn and entered, his eyes adjusting to the large, torch-lit room. It was empty, except for a young boy, not more than twelve years old and a large, fearsome looking, bearded man in his early thirties.
“Reuben, where is Zoma, I wish to talk to him,” Varus addressed the older man. “Who is this young fellow?”
Reuben replied: “He is Zoma’s son, Shimon, a rather bright lad! He’s helping us around the inn.”
“Looks like his father,” Varus remarked.
Zoma entered the room at this point and strode toward Varus.
“What brings you to these parts, my Roman friend?”
Zoma, as the wealthiest Jew in this area, believed in making the best of life under Roman rule, though even he had his limits.
“Reuben, bring our guest some bread, meat and drink and make sure all his men have the same!”
Ten minutes later all the Romans were busy sating their hunger with all that Reuben had brought to their table. Varus, after eating and drinking, suddenly remembered his mission and motioned to his host:
“Come, sit down, Zoma, and join me; I have to ask you something of importance.”
Zoma sat down across from Varus and inquired about what exactly had brought the Romans to his Judean hostel.
“Zoma, we have been hearing disturbing things about secret meetings among your people where, to put it simply, words of rebellion are being spoken, nasty words; you know, we don’t want to harm anyone, but we must maintain order–that is the Roman way!”
“What exactly is being said about the Romans that is so objectionable?” asked Zoma.
“We have heard of a master teacher, I think you people call him a Tannah, who has been preaching that the Romans are a stupid people, unwilling to learn from others; also, that they are a people incapable of controlling their impulses, quick to anger and slow to forgive. He is also preaching that we, rulers of the world, are unsatisfied with our conquests, always wanting more and more and finally that Romans are unworthy of respect because they respect nothing but their own power! Taken separately this indictment of Rome is intolerable; taken together it could set this entire region afire. Do you know, have you heard, Zoma, of such a teacher?”
Zoma hesitated before responding:
“I know of no one preaching such a message.”
Zoma glanced towards his son, Shimon, but quickly returned his gaze to Varus.
“I think perhaps it is best to let a conquered people occasionally vent their frustrations. Certainly it seems preferable to open actions to overthrow their conqueror!”
“Oh, no, Zoma, we have learned over the centuries that words lead to deeds and provocative words to bloody deeds!”
“In any event, I have not heard of the express teachings that have disturbed your people, Varus, but I’ll keep my eyes–or should I say my ears–open.”
Zoma rose to return to his business, but something compelled him to sit down again.
“You know, Varus, my people believe that our Lord is the source of everything we possess, both as a people and individually. You Romans pay lip service to your gods who are mere caricatures of the men who created their myths. Our God is God!”
“If your god is so powerful, countered Varus, is he not also the source of all your travails? Look at Reuben over there, said Varus, motioning at the burly attendant, filling the Romans’ cups with more red Judean wine, could he not overwhelm one of my legionnaires in single combat? I believe he very well could do so! Why then with your powerful god of gods and your numerous, strong-armed men such as Reuben are my people rulers in your land!!”
Varus quickly apologized for raising his voice:
“Forgive me old friend. In truth, I think I know why we Romans, with our smaller numbers, have prevailed over your mighty people. We are united in our purpose and broach no division in our ranks and you, sadly for you, fight so often and so bitterly among yourselves. I heard this phrase once from an old Greek I knew and it aptly applies to you Judeans: you are your own worst enemies!”
Zoma couldn’t disagree on Varus’ last point. It seemed on this evening long ago on the road to Jerusalem nothing would be resolved; both the Jew and the Roman had spoken the truth as they saw it. Meanwhile Shimon, Zoma’s son, had seen and listened attentively to all that had transpired that night between the Roman and Simeon’s father. One day he would draw the proper conclusions from that conversation and memorialize that dialogue in a positive fashion for all time. But that would only come when he grew older and became a leader in Israel.
© Redmont Tales 2014
By Joseph Rotenberg
