Джеймс Миченер - The Source

But in his plans he did not take into account his friend Yigal, for to Naaman’s surprise the olive grower said at a meeting in the synagogue, “Again we must withstand the might of Rome.” When hecklers asked what nonsense he was speaking, he explained, “You either protect God or you don’t.”

Rab Naaman intervened and said, “We must not oppose Rome, for it is her duty to put down this Jerusalem revolt. I promise you that when she has done so we’ll have peace as before. Jews will live in religious liberty under kings assigned by Rome.”

“There will be no liberty,” Yigal said. “Bit by bit they will consume us.”

“What does this man know of public matters?” Naaman asked through his venerable beard. “Has he met with the Romans at Caesarea? Does he know the evil our side has done in Jerusalem?”

“I know only that the fate of our land lies in the balance,” the stubborn little olive grower said. “I know that if we do not resist now we shall be hauled as slaves from Makor. We must resist Rome.”

Throughout the debate, which encompassed many days in late March, Yigal refrained from alluding to the success he had known in opposing Roman power a quarter of a century before, for he recognized that the two conditions were different: then Rome had sought merely to import statues of a demented emperor and the armies could with honor retreat from such nonsense; but this time the legions had come to punish an armed rebellion, and once Vespasian marched out of Ptolemais it would not be easy to coax him back. Acknowledging the gravity of the situation Yigal engaged in no cheap demagoguery such as crying, “We turned them back twenty-five years ago and we can do it again.” Instead, he spoke as an honest farmer, beseeching his townsmen to face the situation before them.

“If we can resist Vespasian here in Makor, we may force him to reconsider.”

But Naaman countered, “I’ve been warned by a merchant from Ptolemais that Vespasian already has three legions there, the Fifth, Tenth and Fifteenth.”

“Three Roman legions are a terrible force,” Yigal conceded, “but two hundred years ago in this town Jews like us finally had to defend themselves against Antiochus Epiphanes, and under the leadership of Judah the Maccabee they succeeded.”

“Who will lead us this time?” Naaman asked contemptuously.

“A leader is always found,” Yigal said.

“Do you know what three Roman legions mean?” Naaman pressed. “They could crush Makor like an almond shell. Our only chance is to surrender and to trust in their compassion.”

Stubbornly Yigal argued, “When evil thunders down upon a town there is only one thing to do. Resist. We have food. We have walls and we have water. I say resist.”

The Jews of Makor, whose lives depended upon the outcome of this debate, wanted to know why a mild man like Yigal suddenly wanted to oppose the armed might of Rome, and in a quiet voice, fumbling for words and exact expressions, the fanner explained, “You know me as a man of peace. My desire has been to see my grandchildren marry so that I might live with four generations in this town. I don’t know enough to seek office, and Rab Naaman takes care of the synagogue. I don’t want to oppose Rome, but Rome insists upon opposing me.”

“Rab Naaman says that once they punish the zealots in Jerusalem, they’ll go back home and leave us in peace. What about that?”

“He may be right,” Yigal admitted. “But I think they’ll stay. And wipe out our faith.”

“What do you want, Yigal?”

“What do I want? To be a Jew. Why do I say, Tight Rome’? Because if we don’t we’ll be forced into other faiths. Why am I so stubborn? Because if we can make Rome respect us, we have a chance to remain Jews.”

“Then you think we should fight?”

The perspiring farmer wiped his forehead, for it was no trivial question this man had asked: Should an unimportant town try to resist three Roman legions? Squaring himself he said, “Yes. We should fight.”

Then Rab Naaman rose, speaking through his beard with the force of a wise old man, and he said deprecatingly to the citizens, “You and I know Yigal as an honest farmer. Where olive oil is concerned, we respect his judgment. But of Rome he knows nothing. He cannot imagine what a modern legion is like. Macedonia, which swept Europe. Fretensis, which humbled Asia. And he wants us to fight Apollinaris of Egypt as well.” The audience began to laugh as Rab Naaman marched three long fingers of his right hand through the air. Then, with a voice that breathed authority, he said, “We’ll surrender to Vespasian before he reaches the walls. And your children and mine will live in peace with the Romans.” And this was the procedure agreed upon.

Ashamed of his neighbors Yigal followed old Naaman home, and when the two men sat together in a room filled with parchments the olive worker asked, “Rab Naaman? Why do you forget the valor we once showed?”

“Because a quarter of a century has passed, and I have learned wisdom,” the old man said.

“You’ve learned cowardice.”

This was an insult which ordinarily the rab would have resented, but tonight the old scholar ignored it. “You’re thinking of Makor, but I’m thinking about the future of the Jews,” he explained, speaking slowly, for he wanted Yigal to grasp his reasoning. “We live in an age when Rome can eliminate us … erase us from Judaea forever, Yigal, do you know what that means?”

“I only know that we are faced with the destruction of our religion. Worship graven images? Strange gods? These abominations I can’t accept.”

The old man nodded. “You’re right. We are faced with the loss of our religion, but not if we stay here. But if the Romans move us from this land … There’ll be no synagogue in the land of our slavery. We’re in terrible peril, Yigal, and you want to fight over a little farm.”

“God lives on a little farm,” Yigal said.

Rab Naaman bowed. He supposed that if God were a farmer, a small olive grove would be most precious to Him, but he also knew that this was not the question under discussion. “Like Gomer, I am afraid that if we Jews are driven from Israel we’ll forget Jerusalem,” he said. “We’ll break into groups. In exile we’ll be Jews no more, and God will be alone with no people to adore Him. Our only responsibility now is to stay together … to keep our foothold in Eretz Israel.” Then he added in a low voice, “And to protect our foothold in Eretz Israel, the land of Abraham, I will accept any indignity from the Romans.”

“Even Nero as a god?”

Aware of the terrible thing he was about to utter, Rab Naaman lowered his voice and confessed, “To save the Jews I would accept even Nero … as a god … but not in my heart.”

“I would accept him never,” Yigal said, and he left the rab.

The gulf between the two men was now too great to be bridged. Throughout Makor, Yigal preached the necessity for resistance, but old Naaman moved persuasively from house to house, explaining the idiocy of the olive farmer’s position. “Macedonia, Fretensis, Apollinaris,” he recited, and the musical names struck terror into the hearts of the Jews.

Rab Naaman would have prevailed and the conflict with Rome would have been avoided had not one of the most extraordinary Jews of all time stormed into Makor—hot and dusty from a long march and accompanied by a cadre of picked assistants willing to undertake any assignment. The newcomer was Josephus, appointed by Jerusalem to govern the Galilee, a man only twenty-nine years old, descended from those Maccabean patriots who had won Jewish freedom from Antiochus Epiphanes, and a priest of the highest order, a scholar trained in Greek, a habitué of the imperial court in Rome, and one of the finest writers the Jewish nation would ever produce. Striding like a young god into the middle of the Roman forum, he cried, “From this town we will hurl back the Romans.” He looked at the walls approvingly and shouted, “Men of Makor! You have been chosen!”