Free Take This Cup by Brock Thoene, Bodie Page A

feed you. Turn your horses out to graze and join us. We have plenty of bread and roast meat.”
    There was ample food. A roasted haunch of mutton wassoon sliced and handed round to the newcomers by Mother and Hepzibah, along with stacks of unleavened bread. “Will this leave your other men short of food,” Zimri questioned, “when they get back to camp?”
    Father waved dismissively. “We have plenty for them.”
    I knew no one else was expected tonight. My father’s motive for the lie must be to make the number of attendants seem larger than it really was.
    “For me and my men,” Zimri said, “I thank you. It’s a long ride from Ecbatana.”
    As darkness fell, small knots of Zimri’s men coalesced around our herdsmen, exchanging stories, but mostly eating in silence. Over my shoulder I toted a goatskin wine bag from which I filled their cups. One rider wiped grease from his face on a sleeve while catching me with the other hand. “Not so fast, boy,” he said, draining the cup at a single swallow. “A refill before you move on. I’ve been thirsty all the way from Shirak.”
    I nodded and poured more wine. I was puzzled but kept quiet. Zimri had said the group came from Ecbatana, which was to the east over the mountains. Shirak was due north.
    Another rider called out and waved a cup for me to fill, so soon I forgot my question.
    “You have a fine camp, brother Lamsa,” Zimri praised. “Your tent is draped with fine cloth, and your dress announces your good fortune as well.”
    “I am just a shepherd,” Father returned. “My good fortune is my family.” He nodded toward me and toward Mother, who was carrying around another platter of meat.
    My mother’s face showed pain. The weight of the serving tray and the uneven ground made it difficult for her to walk, yet she did not complain.
    “My skillful wife has taught the weavers of Amadiya,” Father continued. “Now we ship bolts of cloth to Jerusalem instead of only sending the raw wool.”
    “So you go to seek the Messiah?” Kagba questioned Zimri.
    “Aye!” Zimri agreed. “And we won’t be alone either. But I hope we get there soon enough to share in the spoils. I hear he’s been catching small Roman patrols in the hills of the Galil and east of Jordan and cutting Roman throats. Soon enough of us will gather to take Tiberias and the armory there, and after that, Jerusalem herself.”
    Rabbi Kagba’s eyes narrowed, and his face twisted into a frown. “Surely you don’t mean Jesus of Nazareth? He preaches peace and offers healing and reconciliation with the Almighty. I hope to seek him myself.”
    “That one?” Zimri said loudly. “I’ve heard of him, but I wonder if he’s still alive.” He laughed coarsely. “If you want to find him anywhere but on a cross, you better get there soon! Preach peace to the Romans? Might as well cut his own throat, eh, boys?”
    There was a round of laughter amongst all the riders in which our men shared uneasily.
    “If the Romans haven’t already killed him,” Zimri continued, “Bar Abba will. Death to all traitors, I say. Death to all who would offer their backs to the Roman lash.”
    Leaning toward his guest, Father said firmly, “I will not challenge you about this, but neither will I allow you to insult my good friend, the rabbi. I don’t know about such things as messiahs, but Kagba is a learned man and must be respected.”
    Zimri’s sneer was broad, fueled by the wine he had consumed. He clapped his hand to his right thigh, where a short sword hung. “Religion and learning are all well in their place,but not when it comes to getting the Roman boot off Judea’s neck! No, bar Abba has it right. And now that I think of it, I must ask you for your contribution to our cause.”
    “What are you talking about?” Father demanded coldly. “You have been fed. Be on your way.”
    Zimri shook his head. “Those who cannot or will not fight always hide behind some pretext or other while the real