Judah Maccabee – Part 1: Abomination of Desolation

Chronicles of the Watchers
Book 4

By Brian Godawa

Judah Maccabee: Part 1- Abomination of Desolation

Chronicles of the Watchers, Book 4
1st Edition

Copyright © 2024 Brian Godawa

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews.

Warrior Poet Publishing
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ISBN: 978-1-963000-60-3 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-963000-62-7 (hardback)

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Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible: English Standard Version. Wheaton: Standard Bible Society, 2001.

CHAPTER 1

Mount Zaphon, Syria 
Year 144 of the Kingdom of the Greeks
169 B.C.

Hera, mother of the gods, queen of the gods, cow-eyed consort of Zeus, protector of marriage and women, stood erect on the top of Mount Zaphon overlooking the wide and wily Mediterranean sea as the sun sank into the horizon, creating a painted sky of colors. An offshore breeze was pleasant enough on this spring day, but she had to open her wool himation to cool down as she ruminated over the dilemma in which the Olympian gods now found themselves.

Oh, how she missed her beloved Mount Olympus, its rocky barren heights that jutted into the sky like a tower into heaven, twice the elevation of this five-thousand-foot Syrian molehill with its desert scrub brush and hot, prickly forests. Its one redeeming trait was its location right on the coast with this view of the eternal sea into the west.

Mount Zaphon was once the habitation of Baal, the Semitic storm god of Syria. It was now the domain of the Olympians because their patron nation, the Seleucid Greeks, had ruled here for the past hundred and fifty years, thanks to the imperial colonizing of that Macedonian goat Alexander the Great.

It made Hera curse with anger every time she thought of the reason why they had to relocate to this stinking backwater anus of the Middle East. With the Roman Republic’s victories in the latest Macedonian wars, they had come to occupy Macedonia. And, well, that meant that high prince Sammael and his boot-licking gods of Rome simply had to humiliate the gods of Greece by confiscating their holy mountain and luxurious palace.

If only Alexander hadn’t caught the plague and died so young into his campaign to conquer the world, the Olympians might now be ruling over all the kingdoms of the earth. Instead, they were shrinking in power as Rome and her gods were expanding in theirs. Sure, the world was still Hellenistic, deeply shaped by the Greek language and culture Alexander had established everywhere. It was superior civilization. But the Olympians were fast becoming the old gods. They had even aged in their appearance as a result of it. Hera ran her fingers through white hair made sticky by the salty air. At least she was still elegant and lean and had looks to kill despite her wrinkles.

As divine Watchers, the Olympians were immortal. But their worship by humans or the lack of it could affect their power and influence in the world. And power was life force. As the sister-wife of Zeus, king of the gods, Hera had to play a submissive role. But she knew how to get her way. And she had big plans.

And wasn’t that what they were all doing anyway? The gods? Playing roles in their elaborately crafted mythologies to drag humans away from the Creator into idolatry. Everything about the gods of the nations was a crafted narrative. Even their chosen identities: Zeus and Hera, Hades and Persephone, Poseidon, Athena. 

In truth, they were Sons of God, Bene Elohim of the divine council of Yahweh. They were gods of the nations defying the unjust commission of a narcissistic, bloviating dictator in heaven. They had replaced his monomaniacal demands of submission with their own pantheons of democratic governance. Power.

The only problem with their mythology in Hera’s mind was the Patriarchy. In order to fulfill the narrative, some of the Sons of God had to masquerade as female deities, shapeshift their visible presentation. Hera had performed this transformation well enough but had long felt oppressed by the entrenched social status and restrictive boundaries for women—both mortal and immortal boundaries since the human social order reflected the divine. Hera felt held back by the very system the Watchers had established. What about her dreams and ambitions? Why should she not be allowed to rise above her station simply because of her assigned sex?

Something had to give. And it was not going to be Hera any longer.

She noticed a small fleet of a dozen triremes in the harbor city of Seleucia below, their sails furled, their oars withdrawn into the extended wooden hulls of the ships. A small army of soldiers exited the boats. They appeared to be Thracians, Cretans, and even some Gauls. Mercenaries. They also appeared to be preparing for a march to Antioch just over ten miles inland, the capital of the Seleucid kingdom of Antiochus IV Epiphanes. Antiochus was fond of using mercenaries in his military campaigns.

Hera turned and rushed back to the temple.

As she approached the House of Baal, another pang of regret washed over her. This temple was a pathetic excuse for the habitation of deity compared to their lavish Grecian temple on Olympus with its multitude of marble pillars, elegant golden-mean architecture, ornate Greek sculpture and engravings. 

In comparison, the House of Baal was a Phoenician-style temple structure, a three-part building with each successive part larger than the previous. A tenth the size of Olympus, it consisted of functional square components made of limestone and capped with some silver and gold. These Syrians and Semites were so uncultured and simple-minded. No aesthetic sense.

On the other hand, Hera was glad the humans had torn down the old house from generations ago with its labyrinthine hallways and stone-age vulgarity. And she could not deny the satisfaction of Zeus and his Olympians forcibly taking the palace from Baal and his pantheon. Ah, the sweet savor of victory. Of dominion. The Olympians were now the spiritual princes of this territory. 

Entering the outer court area, Hera marched past a large stone altar of sacrifice, currently unused. A few woolen-robed bald priests performed menial duties of cleaning and maintenance in the yard.

Mortals did not see or hear the divine realm unless the gods allowed them to. So Hera ignored the human presence around her and entered the first section of the temple, the holy place. She stepped over a large footprint carved into the stone entrance floor, a symbol of Baal’s might and presence. He had had his day as the spiritual prince of Canaan and then Israel. But now Zeus was the king of the gods over the Seleucid kingdom that encompassed the Fertile Crescent of the Levant and Mesopotamia along with Persia in the far east.

That temple footprint was now the footprint of Zeus.

Every time she thought of Zeus, Hera was filled with disgust. She considered him incompetent and vulnerable because of his gluttonous surrender to his sensual appetites. In the beginning, he had been discreet. But in these later years, he had become more brazen in his philandering with every god and goddess that would allow him.

He would have done so with humans as well had not the entire pantheon assured Zeus that they would unite together and bind him in the earth if he tried such an abomination. The Great Flood and Sodom and Gomorrah stood as memorial examples of what Yahweh would do if the Watchers again violated the heaven and earth divide by cohabitation with human women. Their ancestors who had done so, the two hundred Watchers led by Semjaza and Azazel, had been imprisoned in Tartarus for their disobedience in going after strange flesh. Not to mention the destruction of the world-that-was.

The only thing that kept the crowned cad in line was the fact that Zeus’s power over the pantheon was not absolute. He had divided the cosmos through allotment between himself as ruler of the sky, Poseidon as ruler of sea and elements, and Hades as ruler of the underworld, also called Hades. The rest of the earth was held in common with the other gods. 

Unfortunately, Poseidon and some other gods were also indulgent and promiscuous, so it took the goddesses to hold them accountable. The youngest god, Hades, avoided their orgies because he was a monogamous but jealous and controlling husband of Persephone. He despised his brothers for their infidelity, but he had his own vice that made him just as disgusting as the other patriarchal misogynist pigs. 

Hera imagined the world of peace, harmony, and abundance that would result if the goddesses held the reins of power. Although the truth about their actual sex made her chuckle. Maybe “woman” was a worthless construct after all since the males were better at being goddesses than any female could be.

Hera approached the final large chamber, the Most Holy Place, the sanctuary of Baal—rather, the sanctuary of Zeus. She heard the sounds of a gathering of gods within. As she recognized those sounds, her anger flared. She pushed open the large ten-foot-tall oak doors and stomped inside.

The massive chamber, one-hundred-foot square, was decorated with purple felt drapes on windowless stone walls. Golden torch stands accented the only source of light, a large open window in the roof directly above.

At the front of the sanctuary stood a fifteen-foot-tall golden statue of Zeus Olympius with thunderbolts in his hands. Beneath that image, a group of gods lay entangled in an orgiastic pile of writhing flesh. 

These naked degenerates were at it again. Zeus and Poseidon with Dionysus, Aphrodite, and Hestia. Disgusting filthy reprobates. Stopping their carnal activity, they all looked in her direction.

Zeus spoke with surprise—and guilt. “Hera, my love. I didn’t know you were … Uh, would you like to join us? There’s always room for one more!”

His companions giggled. Hera felt herself shining like bronze, something that happened whenever divine beings became emotionally agitated.

“No, I would not like to join you,” she spit out. “I came to let you know that while you have been busy with your perverse indulgence, King Antiochus has been mustering mercenary forces. No doubt for an invasion of Egypt.”

Zeus looked with surprise at his fellow white-bearded brother Poseidon. He said to Hera, “My dear beloved, there is no more perverse indulgence than our endless wars. We might as well have some fun in between them.”

More giggles emanated from the naked ones.

Hera wanted to scream at him. She held back her fury. “I just watched troops arrive in the harbor on their way to Antioch. Since you are supposed to be the Prince of Greece, its guardian daemon …” She spoke the final word with sarcastic emphasis. “… I suggest you may want to act like it and find out what exactly is going on and why. That is, if you want to retain your kingdom, O mighty Cloud-Gatherer.”

Another sarcastic comment referring to Zeus’s epithet as the storm god. It felt a bit satisfying to deride him in front of the others.

Zeus stood up. Though he was aged with white hair and full beard, his body remained muscular and taut. His lapis lazuli eyes flared with lightning. He pulled on a purple chiton tunic and a multi-colored himation that hung off his shoulders with royal pedigree. The Olympians wore the garb of the Golden Age of Archaic Greece, a sign of heritage and tradition.

“Hera, I would like to speak to you alone,” said Zeus, suddenly serious. He barked to the others, “All of you, leave us. Now.” 

The naked gods and goddesses scrambled to pick up their clothes and leave as quickly as possible. Hera watched each of them with jealous eyes. The women for their young, nubile bodies, the men for their masculinity. The white-bearded brothers along with the missing Hades would look like triplets were it not for the effect their realms had on their bodies. Out of water, Poseidon’s skin dried and cracked and became scaly. The skin of Hades was pale from spending so much time underground.

When the room had cleared, Zeus remained standing beneath his statue at a distance from Hera.

She seethed as she spoke. “We made a deal. That you could imbibe your disgusting perversions so long as you remain discreet and do not spoil my political ambitions.”

Zeus replied, “There’s nowhere more private than my Holy of Holies. To be fair, you barged in on me.”

Hera ignored his excuse. “You promised me Egypt. That I would get to rule over it. Now it looks like Antiochus may be preparing to attack Egypt again, and you act like it’s not even important. Like you don’t care. Which affects the attitudes of the rest of the pantheon, and you know it.”

Zeus shrugged with deference toward her. 

“Gods know I put up with enough of your recklessness. I will not suffer your derogation of duty.” Hera remained at her distance from Zeus, almost shaking with the anger that boiled inside her. 

His look turned to one of regret and vulnerability as he waved her lovingly closer. “Come here, my queen. Let us quarrel no longer.”

Haltingly, Hera stepped toward him, not wanting to give in to his charm.

When she reached him, Zeus spoke seductively. “My Boopis. My cow-eyed virgin bride.”

Hera softened ever so slightly. Homer had described her affectionately for her patronage of cattle.

“My Mother Goddess.”

Hera gave Zeus a scolding look.

Once Hera was within his reach, Zeus suddenly punched her in the nose with such lightning speed and force she both felt and heard it crunch. She flew backward to the floor in a daze of shock. Nose gushing with blood, she lay flat on her back, too dizzy to stand. When she looked up, Zeus stood above her, glaring down with gritted teeth. His skin shone brightly with his anger, fiery lightning surrounding him.

As Zeus leaned down, Hera flinched, expecting another punch. Instead, he grabbed her hair in his fist and yanked her close. He whispered with restrained fury, “Do not ever insult me in front of the others again or I will rip out your tongue and make you eat it.”

Hera could barely see him through her blurry vision and blood flow. She could only whimper in reply. Immortal beings could not die, but they had heavenly flesh and could suffer at the hands of one another. Zeus let her go and stood back up.

“As for Egypt, I have not forgotten my promise.” His face suddenly turned from wrath to scorn. “After all these years of war with the Ptolemies of Egypt, you think I would be unaware of the Seleucid plans? That I would not have plans of my own? Your jealousy and vexation blinds you, Hera. You’re better than that.”

Turning, Zeus walked out of the chamber. Hera groaned and sat up, her head still spinning. She winced in pain as she readjusted her broken nose with the painful cracking of cartilage. It would heal quickly as divine flesh did. Zeus’s cavalier and indulgent behavior hid the fact that he was in fact the most powerful of the deities. He could follow through with his threat of bodily harm.

And he was right about the Syrian wars. The Ptolemies of Egypt in the south had been fighting with the Seleucids of Syria in the north for just over a hundred years for dominance in the region. Five wars in total so far with no end in sight. They were last of the divided Greek kingdom of Alexander the Great along with Macedonia, which was currently on the verge of losing her kingdom to her own wars with the Roman Republic. If Rome won there, it would establish Rome’s hegemony over most of the Mediterranean.

Together, Egypt and Syria had a chance to stand up to Rome, but instead, they were at war with each other. Last year, King Antiochus had foiled an Egyptian invasion of Syria and sent his army to ambush the Egyptian forces at Pelusion, the gateway to Egypt. He’d stopped short of taking the capital city of Alexandria. Instead, he’d left a puppet king, Ptolemy VI Philometor, to share leadership with Ptolemy VII Euregetes, who was nicknamed Physcon, or Pot Belly, for his morbid obesity.

But with the help of their sister, Cleopatra II, the ruling brothers Philometor and Euregetes had overcome their differences, consolidated their power, and turned against Antiochus, asking for military reinforcements from the Achaean League in Greece. That was an act of aggression against the Seleucid king’s authority and dignity. So Antiochus had recently sent an embassy to the Roman Republic to press his claim against Egypt.

But if Antiochus invaded Egypt again, Hera knew that might draw the giant nemesis of Rome and with it the spiritual Prince of Rome.

CHAPTER 2

Antioch on the Orontes River

Judas ben Mattathiah looked out upon the city of Antioch from the location of the Royal Guard horse stables on an elevated slope of the imperial isle. The island was the result of the Orontes River splitting and coming back together as it ran south along the foothills of Mount Silpius.

From this position, Judas could see nearest him the Hellenic imperial palace of King Antiochus Epiphanes. Just beyond it was the hippodrome where chariot races and gladiator fights took place. Off the island on the other side of the river, a long colonnaded street cut through the city from the northeastern gate all the way to the cherubim gate in the southwest end of the city where the Jewish community lived near a large amphitheater. Along the ridge of the foothills where new community residences were being built, an impressive stone aqueduct carried life-giving water to the city.

It was a beautiful Hellenistic city, considered the gem of Syria because the king had invested far too much money into its development. At the size of three square miles, it hosted a population of about 200,000 citizens from all around the world: Greeks, Jews, Cretans, Thracians, Romans, and more. 

Across the river, Judas could see Epiphania in the foothills, the newest quarter named after the king where Antiochus had built an agora marketplace and a bouleuterion council chamber for city government. He was currently constructing a huge temple to Zeus Olympius patterned after the magnificent Jupiter Capitolinus structure in Rome. 

Turning back to the stable, Judas entered the large wooden barracks of stalls, where he led out his pure-bred white Arabian stallion named Pegasus after the winged horse of Greek mythology. Pegasus rode like the wind for Judas and was reliable in battle.

Taking a horse comb, brush, and hoof pick with him, Judas led his steed into a large, roofed open-air pen for cleaning. As he tied the lead rope to a wooden rail, he let his mind wander.

When Judas had joined the Royal Guard three years ago as a Jewish mercenary, he was twenty-five years of age, pro-Hellenist, and desperate to get away from his priestly family in Jerusalem. He did not want to follow in the footsteps of his father’s Levitical service in the temple. He had always wanted to be a warrior like Joshua or Caleb.

Judas had been a prime candidate for the special Jewish battalion of the Guard. He was close to six feet in height, a bit taller than most men his age. He was athletic with a lean, muscular build, short-cropped ashen-brown hair, and a tight beard. Because of his competitiveness in a family of five brothers, he was a skilled swordsman.

When he had signed up for the Guard, Judas had started at the bottom, being placed into stables duty for what had turned out to be a providential blessing. Within that time, he had gotten to know horses as well as he did people. He had learned everything about the equine world and had grown to love them. He cleaned them, cleaned up after them, broke them, trained them, and even put them down when necessary. He was a master of wrangling with the whip and could ride as well as any cavalryman.

His horse Pegasus felt like an extension of his own body in battle, a coordinated mass of muscle and terror. That was why Judas took painstaking efforts to ensure his horse had the best of food, care, and cleaning by doing it himself. It was the least he could do for such a magnificent animal.

Judas had always had a natural gift for leadership that seemed to follow him wherever he went. The Royal Guard was no exception. He had risen quickly in the ranks to become a company commander of a hundred men. That company had a reputation for being the finest among their mercenary units. Judas pushed his men hard and never exempted himself. But he also never forgot where he had started. He enjoyed returning to the familiar world of the stables and taking care of his horse. It was a chance to clear his head or find some peace and quiet from the madness of the city.

The sound of voices drew his attention. Four men had entered the pen area near some tethered horses a few stalls down. Judas watched them closely. They were not garbed in either the formal or casual dress of the Guards. They wore hooded cloaks and carried themselves suspiciously. The horses they approached grew skittish. 

Something was wrong. Judas hadn’t brought a weapon to the pen. He looked at the brushes and dung pick in his hand. Useless. Setting them on a bench, he looked around. Spotting a leather whip hanging on a wooden column, he grabbed it and quietly left his pen. 

As he approached the strangers, they noticed him, muttering to each other. The four spread out in a semi-circle facing Judas as he stepped into the open pen. A dozen horses were tied up at the far end, the open corral around him fenced with rails and strewn with straw, dirt, and horse droppings.

Judas spoke with authority. “What are you doing here? The price is high for trespassing on the Royal Guard.”

The strangers pushed back their hoods and swung back their cloaks, which had concealed the fact that they all carried swords. They were bearded, their faces etched with years of hard living. Ruffians.

One of them stepped forward, the leader no doubt. His tight, curly dark hair and stern features reminded Judas of one of his own elder brothers. He growled, “And what price are you paid for your treasonous collaboration with the Greek Beast?” 

It was a term used by Jews of pagan nations that defied God. Beasts were animals without humanity. A goat was the most common beast used to describe the Jewish nation’s Greek occupier. 

Not just ruffians then. Jewish fanatics.

Judas clenched his teeth. “Leave now or you will be punished.”

The leader looked at the coiled whip in Judas’s hand and laughed. “And what will you punish us with? Your own leash? Dog.”

They all laughed and drew daggers. Not their swords. As though they assumed they didn’t need them. 

A scrawny one with a hateful look approached Judas first. He held his knife in front of him, trying to scare his target away.

Judas used his coiled whip as a lasso around the attacker’s hand. With a twist, he yanked the man forward to the ground. Judas kicked him in the face, knocking him out.

The others responded with surprise. Then moved in with menace. One man, ugly with pockmarks on his face, slashed at Judas. He backed up, dodging the swipes. The ugly attacker lunged too deeply. Judas side-stepped him, looping the still coiled whip around the attacker’s neck to choke him. Before the ugly one could think to slash back with his knife, Judas released the choke, kicked the man in the back, and launched him at the other attacker, whose blade accidentally pierced his comrade. 

The two attackers fell to the ground. The wounded ugly man screamed out in pain and rolled around, clutching his belly. The other attacker got up, yelling, “You bastard! I’ll kill you!” 

This one was younger with dark black hair and angry eyes. He looked like he handled a weapon well. Unfurling his whip, Judas whirled it around his head with expertise and snapped it at the attacker’s head. It struck the young man’s eye with precision. The attacker dropped his knife and fell to his knees, clutching his now-bloody eye socket.

The leader who looked like Judas’s brother was also a well-built, seasoned warrior. Recognizing that Judas was not an easy target, he sheathed his dagger and drew his sword.

Judas kicked the kneeling, half-blinded younger intruder in the back. He hit the floor of the corral on his face in the straw and dung. 

Whirling his whip again, Judas sought to take out the eye of the leader. But the warrior’s sword raised to protect his face. The whip’s leather tip wrapped around the blade. The leader yanked, and that small section of the whip was cut clean off. He directed a proud grin at Judas.

But the moment he took to congratulate himself was all Judas needed since his shortened whip was not too short to circle back and wrap around the leader’s throat.

Judas grabbed his whip handle with both hands and pulled with all his might. The leader fell to the floor with such force that he lost his breath and broke his nose—in a pile of horse droppings. 

Beating up on a man who looked like his own despised brother, shoving his face into excrement felt cathartic to Judas.

The leader pushed himself to his hands and knees, his sword now out of reach on the ground. Wiping off the feces, he spit a tooth out of his bloody mouth and snarled at Judas.

But he didn’t renew his attack. Sliding further away from Judas, he helped his gut-wounded comrade to get up. The one-eyed young ruffian was now waking the unconscious one.

Judas stood defiantly with scourge in hand. “The only reason I didn’t kill you all is because I didn’t want to have to clean you up and explain everything to my superiors. Next time, you all die.”

The ruffian bandits all left the pen, carrying each other, limping, whimpering, and bleeding.

Judas wiped off his dirtied tunic, picked up the fallen daggers and sword, and returned to his pen to care for his horse. He could not shirk his duty just because of some horse thieves.

But it struck him how brazen these men were, willing to commit theft in broad daylight. They didn’t seem to be mere brigands. Their accusation against his Hellenism made them sound like the fanatical hasidim, or “holy ones,” who were violently opposed to any Jewish acceptance of Greek ways. 

And while the four were strangers to Judas, they clearly knew who Judas was and that he was a pro-Hellenist Jew. It was a strange coincidence of odd factors. Judas wondered if there was something else going on. 

When he reached the horse pen, Judas tossed the blades into the corner by the railing and grabbed the dung pick. He stroked his horse’s forehead.

“Okay, Pegasus, enough excitement for one day. So sorry I was delayed.” Smiling to himself, Judas lifted the horse’s front right leg, bending it to clean dirt and dung beneath the hoof. He heard a voice behind him, “Have you found what you are looking for?”

Judas jerked up with expectation of a new attacker. But it was ninety-year-old Jewish scribe Eleazar watching him. Though his wrinkled skin and snow-white hair and beard spoke clearly of his age, the scribe’s etched brown eyes retained a brightness of inner strength, and a lean, healthy frame was hidden beneath his dark woolen robe and tunic. Eleazar had earned his status over the years as one of the most known and respected scribes in both Antioch and Jerusalem. He even had influence in the king’s court. And he was a longtime friend of Judas’s family.

Judas flicked off some of the dung from the pick. “If it’s not me, it’s my horse who is stepping in it. But I would not exactly say we are looking for it.” 

They shared a smile. Wiping his hands on his tunic, Judas set the pick down and approached his elder. They hugged each other with a fond familiarity.

Eleazar stared into Judas’s eyes. “Is something amiss?” 

Judas gave him an impish look. “I, uh, just got back from a heated quarrel in one of the bays. But I persuaded them to see things my way.”

Eleazar glanced around, saw nothing. Picking up the horse comb he’d set on a bench, Judas began finding knots and clumps of debris in Pegasus’s mane. 

Eleazar sat down on a stool. “My old bones. It’s getting harder to make the trip between Antioch and Jerusalem.”

Judas smirked. “Three-hundred-mile march. You should do what I do. Just don’t go back to Jerusalem at all.”

Eleazar raised his brow. “Ah! Become a true Hellenist, eh? Embrace all things Greek and reject my Hebrew identity and traditions?”

“That is not fair, old man.” Actually, it was fair. It was what Judas had done. He came from a family of priests but had little interest in it all. Judas had become enamored with Hellenist culture and had eventually lost his interest in the faith and traditions of his forefathers. He had adopted the Greek version of his Jewish name, Judah, and had joined the Royal Guard in Antioch to escape the crowded suffocation of Jerusalem. Indeed, Antioch was the Athens of West Asia.

Judas protested, “We are talking Greek, for God’s sake. And the second language of most Jews isn’t even Hebrew. It’s Aramaic! Jerusalem has a gymnasium teaching Jewish youth Greek ways, theaters entertaining Jews in Greek ways. I hear some priests have become so involved in discus throwing that they’re neglecting temple duties. Are you not a bit out of touch with the progressive change of your cherished Jerusalem’s Hebrew identity?”

Eleazar chuckled good-naturedly. “Now, that is not fair. You know full well there are some of us who still protest those very compromises. We cannot control the world, but we can control our place in the world.”

Judas kept listening as he picked up the hard brush and continued grooming Pegasus. 

After a thoughtful moment, Eleazar said, “In fact, that is why I am here. Your father has sent a message requesting you return to Jerusalem.”

That made Judas stop and glare at the scribe.

Eleazar explained, “Remember when your king Antiochus Epiphanes plundered the temple treasury in Jerusalem last year?”

Judas interrupted. “He is your king as well.”

Eleazar ignored his assertion. “High Priest Jason did not stand against Antiochus but rather aided him. That is because the king appoints the high priest who pays him the most money. Your father rejects the corruption with a minority of other priests. He and your brothers need your help, your strength, your leadership.”

Judas demanded, “Have you forgotten that I’m estranged from my father and brothers because of my Hellenism?”

The old scribe retorted, “Do your politics negate your entire heritage?”

Judas stayed silent again.

“A new serpent has bribed his way into the high priesthood,” Eleazar continued. “His name is Menelaus, and I am sad to announce that he is worse than his predecessor. Jason was thoroughly corrupt, but at least he was from the line of Zadok and qualified to hold the post. This Menelaus is not a Zadokite or even a Levite at all. He is from the tribe of Benjamin. His presence as high priest profanes the holiness of both priesthood and temple and could very well start a civil war. Jason has been exiled across the Jordan River.”

Eleazar stopped to let the seriousness of his words sink into Judas’s conscience. But Judas was profane himself, so it did not have the effect his elder had hoped for. Judas had lost any sense of holiness long ago. He just didn’t care.

“Judas, the temple and Torah are the heart and soul of Adonai’s covenant with his people. Defiling either is an abomination.”

Judas knew about this holiness well enough. Eleazar’s use of the word Adonai, which meant “Lord,” was a replacement for their God’s actual name of Yahweh. During this era, priests had concluded that God’s actual name was too holy to pronounce out loud, so they substituted references like Adonai and Ha Shem, which meant, “the Name.” To Judas, it was all the province of fanaticism.

Eleazar added, “Menelaus plundered the temple treasury to pay the bribe and his debts to King Antiochus. And when Onias, the exiled true high priest, exposed him, Menelaus had Onias assassinated.”

“Was he caught and tried?” asked Judas.

“And acquitted,” answered Eleazar. “By the king, whose favor Menelaus had bought. Why do you think Menelaus spends more time here in Antioch than he does in Jerusalem? The people still hate him. He causes riots.”

Judas finished with the hard brush and picked up the soft brush for final grooming of his horse. “It’s all so much politics. I care nothing for the priesthood. As for the king, he is not perfect, but he is our king. And God says to obey the king.”

“He will bring the Abomination of Desolation prophesied by the prophet Daniel,” responded Eleazar.

Judas stopped again with surprise. “What is that?”

Eleazar gave him a smirk. “Come to synagogue tomorrow and find out. It’s the festival of Purim. You are still welcome.”

Judas shook his head with a smile, caught. The old man was always pushing, trying to get Judas to reconsider his waywardness.

Eleazar stood to leave. “Judas, how long will you try to live between worlds? You cannot ride two horses. Your people need you. This ‘king’ you serve will turn on you someday. As they all have. It is our history. We must purge the evil from our midst or we suffer the judgment of Adonai.”

Judas stopped his grooming, anger rising in his tone. “How do ‘my people’ need me? How do we ‘purge this evil’? Through violent rebellion? Insurrection? You proclaim the standard of Torah, the Law. And yet what is rebellion against authority but lawlessness? No king has ever been perfect. But we maintain stability and order by following the rule of law. If you defy the law, then you are left with chaos. And tyranny is the ultimate response to chaos. If the Jews are truly a people of Law, then they will submit to their authorities as the Lord has commanded. And seek to obtain change throughlaw, not through rebellion.”

Judas expected some kind of admission from the scribe. But all he got was what felt like a condescending smile. “So then, I will see you tomorrow at Purim? We can discuss this further.”

Judas returned the condescending smile. “So you can keep arguing with me?” 

“Some Greeks will be there who are converting to Judaism. You won’t have to listen to me, but you might want to listen to them.”