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Fire and Water

The aroma of moist soil and spring flowers filled the air, so did the bright light of the sun.  Clouds had gone, replaced by beautiful blue skies.  It had rained for what seemed like forever, then finally stopped sometime in the night.   I was four years old at the time.  Usually I loved to wake up and get to my adventures for the day.  This morning, however, I woke up with the strong memories of nightmares.  I woke up afraid and started to cry.

Mama was busy cooking.  The smell of baking bread came into my small room along with the morning breeze. 

“Sarah,” I heard Mama said to my sister, who was in another room. “Take Levi for a walk outside, maybe down to the spring.  He needs a bit of sun.  Take a basket and gather some fresh olives while you’re out.”

My mother had a quiet voice, stern when needed, but never loud.  I don’t remember her face, only her gentleness and red, pomegranate stained fingers.  I do remember her eyes, soft and large filled with love, twinkling even when stern.  She was always cooking something; making treats for the children of the neighborhood, or for anyone who stopped by.  Many people stopped by.  Our house was a hub for our large town, with constant visitors from early until late.  Mama was always welcoming, understanding her role as the wife of an important town leader.  Peace flowed through her into others, and for such a reason she was ideal for my tempestuous father.
I remember even less of him.  He had a  thick dark beard and strong passionate eyes.  His voice was deep, making him seem larger than he was.  I loved him; I was also scared of him.  I don’t remember him ever making me laugh.

Sarah came into my room, clearly bothered by the task.  She mumbled to herself, picking me up out of my bed and dressing me with a brusqueness that encouraged my crying. 

“Be gentle with your brother,” my mother said from the kitchen.

“I am,” my sister replied, becoming more gentle with the admonition.  She helped me change from my night clothes to a light yellow tunic which had been washed the day before and still smelled of the lilac the washing women put in the rinsing water.  I wiped my tears on the soft linen sleeve, and forgot my nightmares with the thought of going down to the Spring.  Mama never let me go down to the Spring except on special occasions.

Sarah took my hand and together we walked out of the room into the kitchen.
When Mama saw me she smiled, picked me up and held me, kissing me on the cheek, drying the rest of my tears. 

“Shhhh, little one, shhhh.  You are going for a walk with Sarah , does that sound nice?”

“Yes, mama,” I said. There was comfort in her eyes and her soft touch.

“Bring me a flower, little one,” she said as she handed me back to my sister.

“I will, a whole bunch,” I replied, feeling joy at having a task.

Sarah put me down and we walked hand in hand out into the street.  I remember pulling her along, anxious to get out of the city and find beautiful flowers. 

The sun had not yet crested the taller hills to the east; shadows from the homes and shops still filled the streets.  The market was busy, with men and women buying and selling. 

“Fresh beef,” the fat butcher announced.

“A pretty necklace for your beautiful mother,” a man at another booth said to us, holding out a long string of colored rocks, glinting in the morning light.  Sarah pulled me along when I paused, making the man laugh.  Sarah knew to hustle me through the market.  Everything was interesting to me.  I wanted it all and the merchants knew it.

Everyone was busy, but it seemed more reserved than normal.   I remember two dogs that day, brown and mangy, sniffing behind a merchant’s stall, looking for a bone, or a rat, or maybe a sign who had been there before.  For some odd reason I still wonder what happened to those dogs.

We met my Papa at the gates where he and about ten other men had gathered, all of them looking very serious.  They were too caught up in their discussion to notice us.  So Sarah and I stood near him, hand in hand, waiting for his attention.   I don’t remember their conversation but the seriousness of their words stuck in my mind.  Their voices were low and stern.  They made grand gestures while they talked, pointing in various directions, looking down the road and into the hills around us as though expecting something.

It took a few minutes for Papa to pause in the conversation and see we were standing waiting for him.  He was too busy yelling a response at a meek looking older man who seemed beaten by the words thrown at him.  Papa seemed enraged, yet when he noticed us finally all the rage disappeared.  Our presence seemed to remind him of himself, and he let go the anger.  In the middle of a sentence he stopped talking, looked down at us and smiled,  then picked me up and held me tight.  It must have been just after his morning ablutions--his thick hair was still wet and stuck to my cheek. His beard scratched my skin.  This was my Papa, so I didn’t mind.  I didn’t want to let go.  I never wanted to let go.  I found comfort in his strength, maybe even more comfort than I felt from my Mama’s peacefulness. 

“For this generation we will fight,” he said, then put me down.  “Where are you off to Sarah?”

“Mama asked us to collect some olives by the spring.”

“And she asked me to get her some flowers,” I added with excitement.

“Well, a noble task on such a day as this,” he said.  “Be good.”

Those were the last words I heard him speak.

“I will, papa,” I said.

Sarah led me down the road away from the gates.  Once out of sight of Papa I began to hurry, dragging my sister along as I ran as fast as my little legs could move.   Spindly pines grew thick along the road, their bows lifting after the rain, shading us from the rising sun.  Their fresh scent filled my nostrils.  It was a wonderful change from the dust and stale smell of the marketplace.  It was cleansing  and pure.  Little brown sparrows sang their songs and flitted from branch to branch.  I was eager to find flowers;  Sarah was happy I had stopped crying and was enjoying my enthusiasm, letting it fill her. 

Scattered clouds moved along high above us, filling the sky with all sorts of animal shapes.  I looked up, I looked down, everything was so alive to me, so bright, even the dark browns and greens of the forest. 

Near the bottom of the hill olive trees began to replace the pines.  Sarah wanted to slow down but I kept urging her along, knowing exactly where the best wildflowers were growing-- just past the spring, in the field by the road.

She stopped suddenly and yanked my arm when she stopped.   I pulled back, not knowing what she was doing. 

“What,” I yelled at her.  I tried to pull my arm free, she tightened her grip.  She wasn’t staring at me, she was staring past me.  I turned around and then I looked up.
There by the spring was a Roman soldier on a horse.  He was wearing light armor, with the red cloth of his uniform brilliant against the dull green shades of the olives and pines behind him.  He seemed old to me even though he was certainly only a young man.  There was pity in his eyes as he stared at us.  He did not seem dangerous to me only scary. 

The horse he sat on did seem quite dangerous.  I had never seen a horse before.  Donkeys were not very common, but some merchants in the city had them.  They were smaller, much smaller.  This brown and white beast was enormous.  Its breath came out in great clouds in the cool morning air, its head seemed bigger than me.  I didn’t know what they ate, and didn’t want to find out.  It scared me even more than the soldier riding it.  I looked at its feet and saw the strong hooves and knew those were made for stomping people.  It sniffed at the grass, completely unconcerned about our presence. 

“Run from here, children,” the Roman said in our language. He had a thick accent but his words were quite clear.  “Run and do not look back, do not cry, do not make a noise.  Find relatives who live elsewhere.  Do not stay here, it is not safe.” 

With that he turned in the saddle, and twitched the reigns, getting the horse to move.   He returned down the road, away from the city towards the valley. 
Sarah tightened her grip, hurting my hand.  I began to cry.  She looked at the soldier riding away, then back up the road.  Her eyes squinted and her eyebrows bunched up; it was her worried look..

“Let’s get some flowers, in the field,” she said. She began pulling me by the hand into the field.

“I want to go home,” I said, still crying.

“No, we have to get some flowers for Mama.  Remember?”

It was obvious.  Sarah was worried and her worry made me want to go home to Mama.  She wouldn’t relent, and continued to pull me by the hand into the field, where yellows and reds bloomed bright.   Sarah was small, even for her age.  It was her character which made her seem so huge to me.  I felt safe with her, almost as safe as when I was with Mama.  Her eyes could flash with joy or anger, equally strong and passionate.  They were not large eyes, only very focused, very bright, with a tendency to squint when she was thinking or worried, her whole face bunching up. It was a look I saw a lot.  She was popular in the town, and had already been promised to a young man.  I didn’t like him.  He was mean to me, or at least it seemed that way.

The flowers made me forget the soldier, and even the horse.  They were gone now, so what concern were they?  I picked some yellow flowers, stems and all, and gathered them in a bouquet. 

Sarah kept pulling me, urging me with a quiet and firm voice.

“Come on, there are beautiful flowers over here, mama will want those.”

“No there’s not,” I said.  Her face bunched up again and her eyebrows came together over her nose.  Her eyes became slits then opened wide with apparent joy.  She smiled, and her whole face opened up with this smile.

“Yes, there are,” she said.  “I’ll show you.”

Sarah, so wise for her age, knew how to spark my curiosity, and led me across the field, where dried grass poked my ankles, and stuck in my sandals.  The field sloped gently downwards towards a creek, with small rises along the way.  I remember the holes in the ground, and wondered what kinds of animals made this field their home, and wished I could meet them.  In the field Sarah’s eyes opened wide again, and her face relaxed, as she tried to smile and laugh with me, all the while leading me away.
At the edge of the rolling field, fifty yards from the road, was the small creek, where cedars grew, along with new flowers, light and dark purple blossoms covering light green stems.   Mama, I was certain, would love these. I always knew how to make her smile.

I was excited, forgot the Roman and his horse, and began gathering the flowers.  Then I heard the voices.  Men were singing.  It was not the language of the Romans; it was more lyrical, more primal. 

Sarah pulled me down.   I was still curious about the singing men and resisted. 
That’s when I saw them coming up the road, a hundred yards away.

“Get down,” Sarah commanded, in a whisper. “Don’t let them see you, don’t let them  see you.”  She was scared.

They were not Romans, though they marched under a Roman banner.  They walked in loose groups, carrying their spears and swords over their shoulders.  Their clothes were checkered bright blues and reds and yellows, and they had painted swirls on their face.  They laughed and sang, but even from that distance I could see cruelty in their eyes. 

“Who are they,” I asked.

“Barbarians,” she answered, “from the West.  Get down, don’t let them see us.”
I listened to her but didn’t get down as she liked.   My curiosity was stronger than my obedience.  She was lying flat on the ground, hidden in the greens and browns of grass and plant, behind one of the small rises in the field.  I wanted to peek out and see who was coming. 

“Don’t cry, please don’t cry.”

“Okay,” I said.  I was a little afraid still, yet this was all very exciting.  I didn’t understand what was happening. 

One of the barbarians yelled.  They all stopped.  This same huge man, the biggest man I had ever seen, stood in front of the barbarian army.

Coming up behind them in orderly rows, with clear leadership and discipline, were Romans.

I had known Romans since my birth so they were nothing new.  Sepphoris had a small Roman garrison and Roman officials.   This was, however the first time I had seen a Roman legion.  I had seen Roman guards, never Romans arrayed for battle.  Their shields and armor glinted in the sun.  Their spears raised high looked like a forest walking up the road. 

My sister pulled me, again I resisted.

“They can’t see me.  Let go.”

 I think I said it loud enough to make her nervous.   She let go.

A Roman centurion moved forward to where the chief barbarian stood.  They talked for a moment, then the Roman walked back.  Another Roman began raising flags, snapping them up and down.  These were signals of some kind, even I knew that. I looked around but didn’t see who they were signaling. 

One of my mother’s friends came down the road from the city towards  the spring.  She was carrying a water jar and seemed to be enjoying watching the birds.  She was looking into the forest, not down the road.  Her smile quickly left when she turned.
She saw the men and screamed, dropping the stone jar in her shock. She turned back, screaming “Barbarians!” as she ran up the road towards home. 

All the men laughed when they heard her scream, except for one.  He ran after her and threw a javelin as he ran.  Before the woman could get far I saw that javelin go through her back and stick out her front, knocking her down.  I saw blood spray out and heard her scream cut short.

I couldn’t move, I couldn’t cry.  Never  I had never seen someone killed before.  It was like she was an animal being butchered.  But this wasn’t a sheep, this was Mama’s friend.  My fear returned and it was an overwhelming fear.

“They killed her, Sarah, they killed her, Mama’s friend, they killed her,” I whispered.  Still I couldn’t take my eyes away.  She writhed on the ground, her feet kicking around, her hands grasping at the dirt. 

The Roman officer yelled, words I couldn’t understand, but which were burned into my mind.
“Douloi eisin,” he said.  I now know the Greek he spoke:  They are slaves.
The Roman with the flags began moving them again, raising them high, putting them down, waving them in distinct patterns, all which made the flags snap. 
The barbarians looked impatient.   They mulled around, some still were laughing, others were looking intently at where my city stood on the hill, like a bird on a perch.  The one barbarian walked up to the still writhing woman, put his foot on her back and pulled out his javelin.  She screamed in pain.  He looked down for a second and then walked back to the group. 

The Roman barked another order, and raised his sword.

The barbarians became tense and focused.  They lost their casual demeanor and I saw a new savage look in their eyes.

The officer lowered his sword and shouted one last time. 

A vicious, wild, fierce noise erupted from the army.  The barbarians began running up the hill, disappearing from sight as the pines became thick.  I could hear them yell, screaming death.  The Romans stood waiting for their orders.  Their line extended below the hill, which made it seem they were without number.  

The screaming of the barbarians filled my head.  I couldn’t think, I couldn’t look anymore.  I fell down beside Sarah in the tall grass and began to cry.  She held me, wrapping her arm around me and putting her hand softly over my mouth.  She was shaking, tears were running down her eyes, but all she said was, “Shhhh, little one.  Shhhhh.”  Sarah kept repeating this softly to me, trying to block out the screams.
I heard yells, crashing, cries of terror.  Women were screaming, children were crying. 

The sound echoed off the hills making it seem like the battle was surrounding us.  Sarah pulled me back, closer to the creek.  I looked  through the grass and watched  the army in front of us.

A centurion barked an order.  The trees on the road began to move, slowly, methodically.  Behind the soldiers were more men-- men with torches, men driving carts, men with all sorts of tools and equipment.  These men moved up the hill towards the chaos until they were out of sight.  We listened to Hell for twenty minutes while all we could see was the grass swaying in the light breeze and puffy clouds moving across the bright blue sky. 

A group of terrified children came running down the road, chased by two barbarians who seemed to be playing a game.  They would let the children get away, then they would catch up and scream foul words.  The children, who I knew, who I had played with, were filled with absolute horror, their faces were distorted with the fear. Their cries tore at me.

When one girl tried to jump into the field  the soldiers became serious.  They pulled out their swords and grabbed the children.  An older boy tried to resist.  He was smacked with the flat of the blade. I saw him fly off the ground and land on the ground in a heap.  The others were clearly cowed and gave up trying to resist. The barbarians tied their hands and tied the children to each other.  One of the soldiers picked up the unconscious boy, threw him over his shoulder, and they all marched in a group back up the hill.    Well, not all of them.  In the confusion one girl slipped away and hid behind an olive tree.  We could see her. Apparently they did not.  Sarah covered my mouth to keep me from calling out.

At that moment, in the midst of the noise and terrible din which came pouring down the hill in waves, I heard my mother.  I forgot the girl.  Mama was calling out.
I could hear her. Her scream, yelling for my father, yelling for Sarah, yelling for me.  Even with all the other shouting,  even with all the other noise, I heard my Mama yelling in terror.  I heard her yelling my name.  Then I heard my mother’s voice cut off in the middle of her scream. 

That was the last time I heard Mama.  In quiet moments, when nothing else blocks it out, I can still hear her yell my name, hear her scream, and its sudden end.   At night it echoes in my dreams.

I buried my face in the grass and dirt, tears streaming down without a sound.  I couldn’t make a noise anymore. I was completely lost.  

Sarah held me tight.  I don’t know if she heard what I heard.  I have never asked.  Her arms were wrapped around me.  Both of us were shaking.  I still held the bunch of flowers in my hand, flowers which I could never give to my Mama.  I held onto these like they were Mama herself.   They were my only connection now, they were my only vestige of hope.

For about two houra we lay like that, though it felt like an eternity.  My whole life had not felt as long as those hours in the grass, listening to the sounds of my city being destroyed, hearing my family and friends killed. 

The noise ended.  Erratic shouting replaced the horrific screams.  Authority was being asserted.  I knew the sound of leadership from hearing my father give commands.  I heard other voices, different languages, but the same authority, taking charge.  I listened for Papa amidst those voices. I never heard him.

An acrid smell, worse than anything I could describe, poured down the hill in waves.  It gave me a headache, a dull, throbbing headache which stabbed at the back of my eyes.  I looked up and saw smoke rising up.   Then, moments later I saw red flames on the hill where I was born.  I couldn’t understand what was happening, yet I knew everything was gone.  Everything and everyone was gone. 

Sarah was staring up as well.  She saw the flames, and she began to cry with me.  In an instant, however, as though something had just occurred to her, she caught herself, stopped crying, and realized her new responsibility. 

“We need to go,” she said.  “We need to go.”

“I want Papa,” I said.  Nothing else mattered.

“Mama and Papa will find us. Let’s go see Aunt Rachel, she’ll give us some candy.”
I didn’t answer, nor did I resist when she picked me up off the ground.  I saw the responsibility in her eyes and somehow I felt safe again. 

We began walking, toward the closest town four miles away, when Sarah remembered the girl in hiding.  We hurried back over to the tree where she had hidden herself.  Sarah kept looking around, making sure no soldiers were nearby.  The girl was shaking, hiding behind the roots and covered in dirt.  Sarah and I each took one of her hands and helped her up.  Her red swollen eyes spoke loudly, but she said nothing.  The girl, no older than me, a daughter of a merchant in town, abandoned herself to us and silently walked with us giving no resistance.  She had seen burning sights which took away her words. 

It was still early when we finally felt safe to run away, the sun was just over the hills to the east.  There were still yells and noises above us but no one had come back down the hill for a long time.  With Sarah in the lead we began to run.

When we came to the road, we scrambled over it, low and quick, towards the small village.  The heavy smoke drifted down around and over us, thick and dark, terrible smelling, and it stung my eyes, made me cough, made all of us cough.  Each time our crying or coughing overcame us Sarah took us away from the road and hid us in the thick brush.  Anytime we heard any sound… a bird, a animal, anything, we jumped off to the side of the road and stayed quiet until the apparent danger passed.

There were small groups of greasy faced Romans moving down this road in who sometimes came very close to seeing us. They were likely merchants or farmers or simple workmen, but all Romans were our enemies now.  I was so frightened I couldn’t think, I couldn’t respond, I was like a limp doll in the care of Sarah, whose eyes became sharper and ears became attuned to every branch snapping or rising breeze blowing through the trees. 

It was turning out to be a hot day, and I was getting thirsty.  I started to cry and ask for a drink.

“There’s water up ahead,” she said.

A little later, when I was hungry, she would say, “They are making a meal just for us, if we’re good and make it there.”

The little girl followed as I did.  Her face was covered in dirt from leaping into ditches; there were white streaks where her tears made furrows in the dust. Her long dark hair had bits of grass and mud in it.  She never said a word, and never let go of my hand. 

About an hour after we left we heard a rumbling behind us and loud voices talking.  Sarah quickly took us off the road, and led us about twenty feet from the side.  There we hid in a field of wheat, tall and waving in the breeze.

For an hour we laid there, our heads buried in the ground, Sarah covered our heads with her hands, holding us tight, so tight I could feel her heart beating fast and heavy.  I heard the voices, the voices of harsh Romans, whose language I didn’t know, and the quiet voices of my own tongue, voices I recognized.  I lay there crying and listening for the sound of someone I knew. 

My Mama was not one of those voices.

The group passed and still we didn’t move until all the sounds echoed away.  Sarah didn’t trust the road anymore. It was now busy with late morning activity and so very dangerous for us.   We walked through the thick brush, through wheat, through streams rather than over bridges.  Sarah was our comfort and our guide all the while, leading us with courage, smiling at us when we became discouraged.  She was our hope and soul.  She knew where to go, and she knew she was the only hope we had to get there. 

I was scratched and bruised.  The little girl was as well, but over the hours we stopped crying, we stopped pulling, trusting more as Sarah led us down paths we didn’t know.  The Romans continued to pass, and others—local travelers and traders who we watched from hidden spots as they were searched roughly, and made to turn around and carry Roman burdens. 

The sun scorched our skin, the thorns of thistles and wild roses made gashes in our clothes as we stumbled under and through the thick brush.  When the sun had drifted far downwards on the western horizon, Sarah decided we needed to hurry before darkness came, before the wild animals that hunted for meat found us out.  She took us back on the road, a road that was soon lined with pine trees and oaks as it inclined upwards.  The thick forest hid countless sounds, all of which made us frightened.  Sarah didn’t show her fear, showing only caution, and passed on her courage to me and the girl. 

Once two birds came flying out from the branches, one chasing the other, passing low over our heads, sounding like shot arrows.  The little girl screamed, I began crying.  Sarah took us in her arms, both of us together, and held us, held us tight while she whispered encouraging words.

“Only a little farther, you two, only a little bit farther up the hill.  They have dinner waiting for us, and warm beds.  Does that sound nice?  Cool water and soft beds?  Only a little bit farther, does that sound okay?”

 We both nodded and started walking up the hill, hand in hand with Sarah. 
About a half hour later we made it.  We arrived covered in dirt, covered in cuts and completely exhausted.  Except for Sarah.  She was dirty, and bruised, and streaks of blood covered her legs, but she didn’t seem exhausted.  She walked in with some hidden source of energy, a gift of God, still bearing the burden which she was too young to carry-- our lives.  This was not the way it was supposed to be for any of us.  But Sarah didn’t think of that.  She knew only what she was supposed to do, and somehow had the grace to do it. 

Once in the village we were met with love and care by men and women who could see where we had come from. High on their hill the people of Nazareth could see the fire still burning, and knew that the Romans had asserted their Order and Peace once more. 

I am Levi, son of Judah of Sepphoris, the son of Hezekiah.  I was three years old when the Romans came and destroyed my city.  It is my earliest memory.