Prologue: The Rabbi Who Fought for Rome

Jerusalem, 36 AD

Alphus ben Mordecai was not the ancient prophet Moses. This should have been obvious to anyone who knew him, but especially to himself. Moses, for one thing, had not such hairy arms; or at least, the book of Exodus never saw fit to mention it. Moses had probably never heard of Jerusalem, but Alphus was currently walking her moonlit streets. These reasons alone were enough to reject the notion that Alphus was Moses, and in a more lucid moment, that young man would no doubt have realised his error.

Just at present, however, he was content to suspend reason in favour of a fantasy. He was no longer Alphus, respected Rabbi; he was Moses, prince of Egypt. He was not walking home in the empty backstreets of Jerusalem; he was overseeing slaves in the bustling streets of Ramses. That massive silhouette on his eastern horizon was not Herod's Temple; it was a pyramid. Like many students of the Torah before him, Alphus' imagination was captured by the character of Moses.

A yell from a nearby street rent the stillness, yanking him from his dreams. Hastening to the corner, he peered down the narrow corridor of moist stone bricks, crooked door frames, and growing mould. Through the cold mist, he could just make out four figures locked in mortal combat. Thuds, grunts, and yells punctuated their struggle.

Moving closer at a dignified trot - respected Rabbis do not run - he realised that it was not an even match. Team One consisted of just one man: a young Roman legionary who had evidently come out without his sword and helmet. Team Two had three fellows of the baser sort, each holding sticks, and each staggering around like wine jars on legs. You could hear the sloshing with each inebriated step. Despite the intoxication, their sticks hit home with surprising accuracy and rapidity, and each blow seemed to push the Roman further towards a certain grave.

Alphus was now close enough to see the soldier's fiery bruises, and the worn lines of drunken stress carved into the Jewish men's faces. He could hear their jeers and laughter, and fancied he could smell their sozzled breath. The moral atmosphere was suffocating with the soldier's gasps of despair. Alphus caught a glimpse of his face; it was wild and distressed. For a moment, so brief, their eyes met, and the simple word please played across the man's lips.

This tugged at Alphus' heart like a mother reaching for her drowning child, and in an instant he was Moses again, spying three Egyptians smiting an Hebrew, one of his brethren. With a surge of adrenaline, and the bubble of boiling blood, he made a beeline for his first victim.

Selfishly speaking, it was a foolish decision. Alphus, it was true, was a very large man. Family genetics had given him at least four cubits of height, and years of adolescent sports the shoulders and chest of a rather beefy centurion. But even he should have steered clear of three drunks with sticks. If the Roman soldier had been fresh and armed, then it may have been worth considering. As it was, he could no longer be considered part of the fight. Curled up fetally against the wall, he was absolutely done. Snails were strong and sloths spritely compared to that poor man.

But Alphus, as we have said, was too captured by fantasy to think through these things logically. He joined the fray without hesitation, thirsting for vengeance. With no thought for safety, he hurled himself against Drunk One, who, taken aback by the blow, stumbled and fell into Drunk Two. The stick of Drunk Two, already in a downswing, was redirected to Drunk One's nose and mouth. Several yellow teeth splintered to the ground, and a slightly muffled hooting sound confirmed that the stick had done its job.

Alphus enjoyed the scene for a little too long, however. Hearing a quick swish to his left, he was just in time to put his arm in the way of Drunk Three's stick, bearing down on the top of his head. There was a deafening crack as both the stick and Alphus' arm broke. With a yell, he fell to the ground, writhing in pain. But there was no time to regroup, for the man simply continued to make inroads on his back and ribs with the short stump still in his hand.

For a moment that lasted a millennium, Alphus lay on the ground, helplessly writhing and twisting under the wooden jabs and blows. But as he felt around, his hand closed on the other half of Drunk Three's broken stick, and courage returned to him. He stabbed powerfully in a considered area of Drunk Three's lower person. (Such an irresponsible man should never have had children anyway). Bending double, the man staggered off into the night to inspect the damage.

But the fight was not over. Drunks One and Two, having disentangled themselves, were on their feet again, roughly speaking. Tottering unsteadily, they bore down upon him, sticks swishing. The men were apparently expert stick swishers, to the exclusion of all other skills. They did not kick, or punch, or manoeuvre. Being thoroughly blotto, they could hardly even walk. But give them good strong sticks, and they knew where they were. They could grasp the concepts of 'up' and 'down'; graduating to 'stick up' and 'stick down' took only a little more effort.

So it was that Alphus, though bitterly in pain, got to his feet, dodged most of the blows, and returned a few jabs of his own. He knew he had a chance, if only he could think clearly. But the pain was brutal and stars jumped around his head with nauseating rapidity. Thinking was almost impossible.

A moment later, he got the breather he needed. Drunk One, still dizzy from being struck on the head, dropped his stick inadvertently. Alphus did not need a second invitation. He rushed at the man with the weight and power of a charging bear. His right hand grasped the back of his neck, chunks of dirty, matted hair filling his fingers and palm. With sheer strength and adrenaline, he lifted the man clean off his feet with a single hand, and flung him at his accomplice.

What followed was a sight to behold.

The Roman soldier, lying only a few feet away, saw it all in a state of awe. He watched as the enormous Jewish man, dressed in the finest flowing robes, tossed the two drunks around like children. With a single hand, he sent one careening to the wall, before flinging the other over his shoulder. And his voice... What a voice it was. It had the deep resonance of a lion, and it roared with each stroke of his paw. The battle was quick, and brutal. It wasn't long before the enemy was limping away, whimpering confusedly.

Then, for almost a quarter of an hour, nothing at all happened.

The soldier was too overcome with relief to make any movement; and Alphus, gingerly nursing his damaged arm, leaned against the opposite wall, catching his breath.

The night returned to its stillness. The mist, which had lifted its peace-loving presence from the atrocities below, cautiously returned. Somewhere in the distance, a leaky cistern dripped meditatively.

Then the voice of Alphus broke the silence once more. It was gentle and soft this time, but carried through the air like the warmth of a small fire in a cozy inn.

"What is your name, Roman?"

They looked at each other, four weary eyes.

"Calpus," the man replied.

Without another word, the Jew walked over to the Roman, hand outstretched. The battered legionary allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and, supported by Alphus' shoulder, the two men limped away.

And as the night swallowed them up, ten or twelve interested faces returned from upper windows, whence they had been watching, back to their beds. The walls of Jerusalem had ears, and eyes, and a momentous story to tell: the Rabbi who fought for Rome.