A Stitch in Time

Brilliant stars and an even brighter moon illuminate the landscape of a chill Judean night. Unaffected by the night air, an angel sits astride a ruddy mare. Both Polemos, the Angel of War, and Eman, his mount, are untouched by the elements and they are invisible to the eyes of man. He waits at the end of a flower field near the Jerusalem gate. The man for whom he waits enters the opposite end of the field. Polemos hastens to his side, aware that his mount will not harm any of the flowers nor leave any trace of their passage. The War Angel knows that he is to observe the man and protect him. He wonders why, but obediently takes his place beside the rider.

The rider makes his way silently across the field of Night Blooming Narcissus. Out of respect for the unknown owner, he guides his horse through the narrow path used to tend and irrigate the ocean of fragrant flowers. The scent of the Narcissus provides welcome relief from the coppery stench of blood still damp on his tunic. Checking the puncture wound between his third and fourth rib the Roman solider notes with relief that the bleeding has stopped. Pulling the arrow from his pack, he studies it under the moonlight. Looking up into the night sky, he whispers to no one in particular, “Zealots.”

The timber of his single word accusation is more anguish than anger. He knows that Rome grows weary of the lack of assimilation in this region. Even the Jews’ great celebration of Passover is a celebration of freedom from oppressors. Portimus does not view Rome as oppressing Israel, but he also knows that how he sees it did not matter to the recently dispatched band that ambushed him in the mountains near Gaza.

Having tracked them from the site of their attack on a Greek caravan, the Roman offers the four men the opportunity to surrender and live. Their response, attacking on foot against a mounted soldier, proves unwise. That this particular Praetor could best any squad of Centurions on any given day proves fatal for the untrained inexperienced assailants.

Weapons and will do not complete a fighter. The untrained Zealots have both but lack the confidence of practice and wisdom of action. The first two of them rush him, flailing their swords wildly as if to scare him. Although this tactic works on caravans of merchants and women, a sidestep with his horse, a parry, and two quick thrusts cut the number of opponents in half, literally.

The third, the one with the bow, becomes overconfident when a lucky shot pierces the Roman’s side. Portimus shifts his gladius to the hand holding his mount’s reins at the same moment the emboldened Zealot stands and aims for a second shot. With speed uncommon for his size, the mounted warrior grasps a javelin from his quiver and lets fly. The bow shot sails far over the soldier’s head as the force of javelin drives the Zealot into the rock wall behind him.

Fear shows in the eyes of the fourth Zealot. Unfortunately, bravado and rage supersede his fear. Screaming epithets, he charges Portimus, his sword raised high. Portimus nudges his horse back and to the left. The Zealot’s swing goes wide and the soldier calls to him in flawless Aramaic, “You cannot beat me. Surrender and you will live.”

The assailant screams his response. “I would rather die than receive mercy from a Roman.” He spits on the ground and charges again. Seeing that there will be no parley with the Zealot, Portimus grants his request. The soldier kicks his horse to the right and beheads the rebel as he passes. The Roman takes no pleasure in killing but has dispatched all four Zealots efficiently and professionally in a matter of seconds.

He takes a moment to carefully remove the arrow from his side and wash the wound. While not life threatening, it will need professional attention. He gathers the fallen men’s belongings, the camels, and items taken from the caravan. Returning to the place where the caravan survivors wait, he returns their belongings to them.

Bidding the travelers well, he presses on toward his assignment in Jerusalem arriving long after sunset. He knows that the gates are already closed for the night and makes his way around to the needle’s eye. This small gate is guarded but allows access to travelers only via a narrow passage. There is an opening through which animals must stoop to pass. The guards recognize the Roman’s rank and hasten to open the larger gate for him.

Portimus rides through the crowded streets to the garrison. The pre-Passover bazaar makes the going slow but he is determined to clean up and assess the city before reporting to the Governor. Pilate does not mind late night chats but he prefers clean officers in his presence. The night watch at the garrison snaps to attention and salutes as he rides up. To his credit, one of them notices the blood on the Praetor’s armor and summons aid. To his further credit, he rouses the garrison commander, alerting him to the arrival of a higher-ranking officer.

Polemos moves away, aware that his charge will be well for now. The War Angel’s brothers are gathering. Something requires his attention and there is a sense of foreboding in all of creation. Whatever is on the horizon, his new interest will play a part in it.