Free My Glorious Brothers by Howard Fast Page B

never bathed, never hoped, never dreamed, never loved—brutal, ignorant men whose trade was murder, whose pleasure was a night with a prostitute or a twist of hasheesh, whose relaxation was drunkenness, debased, dehumanized men with special hatred for Jews, since come what might, Jews would never hire them; these men sat on their horses and waited, and there was one scroll apart from the fire, an inch from the flames, not burning yet but yellowing and browning at the edge; and as they waited, a nine-year-old boy—he was Reuben ben Joseph, the son of a simple farmer—ran forward, nimble as a squirrel, seized the scroll, and turned to flee.
    One arrow caught him in the thigh, and he rolled over like a flung stone, and Ruth, my tall, brave, wonderful Ruth, had reached him in three strides and raised him in her arms. The mercenaries let go with the rest of their arrows, wheeled their horses, and galloped away—and I only remember that I ran after them, shrieking like a madman, knife in hand, until Eleazar caught me, wrestled with me, and held me until the knife fell from my fingers.
    Ruth was dead, but the boy lived; she had held him protected with her arms and body, using herself as a shield from the arrows. She couldn’t have suffered very much, for two of the arrows pierced her heart. I know. I drew them forth. I picked her up from where she lay and carried her to her father’s house, and all night long I sat there by her body; and in the morning, Judas came.
    ***
    There are some things I cannot write of, nor are they particularly important to this tale of my glorious brothers. I cannot tell of my feelings through that night, which was a night without end that somehow ended; and then the people went away and Moses ben Aaron and his wife slept from sheer exhaustion, and I was alone. I don’t think I slept, but there was a lapse of sorts. My head was in my arms on the table, and then I heard a step and looked up, and the dawn was in the room and Judas stood there.
    It was not the Judas who went away five weeks before. There was a difference which I did not see all at once, but sensed rather—sensed that a boy had marched away and a man come back. The humility was gone from him, yet he had become humble. There was a gray streak in his auburn hair and there were lines on his face. And on one cheek, there was the raw welt of a half-healed scar. His beard was untrimmed, his hair shaggy, and the dirt and grime of travel were still on him. But all that was the surface, and underneath something else had happened—yet what was on the surface made him seem vastly older, larger, a somber giant of a man, not beautiful as he had once been beautiful, but almost splendid in a new way.
    For what seemed a long, long time, we looked at each other, and then he asked me, “Where is she, Simon?”
    I took him to the body and uncovered her face. She appeared to be sleeping. I covered her again.
    â€œThere was no pain for her?” he asked simply.
    â€œI don’t think so. I drew two arrows from her heart.”
    â€œApelles?”
    â€œYes, Apelles,” I said.
    â€œYou must have loved her a great deal, Simon,” he said.
    â€œShe had my child in her womb, and when she died, everything in me that ever wanted anything died too.”
    â€œYou’ll live again,” he said evenly. “This is a house of death, Simon ben Mattathias. Come out in the sun.”
    I followed him outside, and we stood there in the village street. The village was waking, giving its daily evidence of the tenacity of life. Somewhere, a child laughed. Three chickens fled through the dust, their wings beating. Jonathan and Eleazar came out of the house of Mattathias, and they joined us.
    â€œWhere is the Adon?” Judas asked them.
    â€œHe went to the synagogue with John and Rabbi Ragesh.”
    â€œBring me water,” Judas said to Jonathan, “so I can wash before I pray.” Jonathan brought