BY: JUNE TROP

Miriam bat Isaac, a budding alchemist in first-century CE Alexandria, welcomes her twin brother Binyamin home to fight his last gladiatorial bout in Alexandria. But when he demands his share of the family money so he can build a school for gladiators in Alexandria, Miriam explains that he forsook his share when he took the gladiatorial oath. When she refuses to loan him the money for what she feels is a shady, and dangerous, enterprise, Binyamin becomes furious. Soon after, the will of Amram, Miriam’s elderly charge, turns up missing, Amram becomes seriously ill, and the clerk of the public records house is murdered. Could Binyamin really be behind this monstrous scheme? If not he, who could be responsible? And is Miriam slated to be the next victim?

TAYLOR JONES SAYS: In The Deadliest Sport by June Trop, Miriam bat Isaac welcomes her gladiator brother home to Alexandria in 56 CE, not expecting the man he has become. Filled with anger and greed, her brother seems like a stranger. When odd things begin to happen, including the murder of a former servant, Miriam must discover the culprit, even though she fears what the answer may be.

The story has a ring of truth that is rare in historical fiction, and it is clear that the author knows her history. A really good read.

REGAN MURPHY SAYS: The Deadliest Sport by June Trop is the story of Miriam bat Isaac, a liberated woman in Alexandria in the first century CE Her brother, who is a gladiator, has just returned from abroad and wants to open a gladiator school in Alexandria. But he has no money, having given up his share of the siblings’ inheritance to become a gladiator. When Miriam refuses to lend him the money for what she feels is an unwise investment, he becomes angry and threatens her. Then people start dying, and it falls to Miriam to find the killer before more innocent people die.

The Deadliest Sport is filled with well-developed and realistic characters, plenty of tension, and an intriguing mystery, as well as a strong authenticity that was a real treat. This is one you won’t want to put down.

Chapter 1

Friday (Shabbat) Evening, September 24th:

How different my life might have been if my twin brother, Binyamin, had not come back to fight his last bout in Alexandria. But he did. And so I can trace the beginning of my horror and the indelible despair that followed to that Shabbat evening three years ago when, in the dying twilight of early autumn, I approached the pilastered entryway of Amram’s mansion. That evening, we were to celebrate Binyamin’s safe return after ten years as a gladiator from the famous ludus in Capua, the gladiator school Julius Caesar founded, the school that owned Spartacus more than a hundred years ago.

Our host, my late father’s life-long friend, had become with the advancing years more my charge than my business partner. Amram had never been young, but since the Pogrom, when he lost his beloved Leah and their two daughters, sadness had pinched his lips, yellowed his cadaverous face, and engraved deep lines in his forehead. Then, with the death ten years ago of Noah, his only son and my betrothed, his skin withered like old parchment, and his once-lacy Hebraic beard dwindled to a tangle of errant whiskers spiraling out of a receding chin. A knee-length, rumpled linen tunic–not quite clean–had always engulfed his spindly frame, a heavy leather belt cinching the bulk around his skeletal waist, but that evening, his fleshless arms and legs poked out of the ripples of fabric, their joints swollen into nasty red knobs and their skin blotched with eggplant bruises. And most disturbing of all, his filmy gray eyes gazed out from deepening, mauve-ringed hollows.

I remembered that evening, walking the few blocks in the Jewish quarter from my family’s townhouse to the opulent fortress that Amram had built after the Pogrom. Wrapped in the quietude of Shabbat, I heard only the rasp of crickets, the swish of leaves, and the song of night birds as the moon-cast shadows of cypress and plane trees stretched across my path. A drowsy breeze sifted through the branches licking the dampness off the nape of my neck and flapping the hem of my blue ankle-length, short-sleeved linen tunic, the white tunica interior I wore underneath, and the soft woolen himation that enveloped me. Binyamin would join us later.

Picking my way along the winding crushed-shell walkway, I wove around the frowning foliage and twitching boughs of the wasp-infested plane trees that shade the mansion. Myron must have spotted me through the grid that covered the porter’s hole because he emerged from his cell as soon as I reached the box hedge that framed the portico and opened the thick, iron-studded door to welcome me. His bullish frame, narrow-eyed face, and wooden expression made him the perfect doorkeeper.

After taking my himation, he ushered me to my favorite perch in Amram’s atrium, a padded stone bench beside the pool of floating lotus blossoms. Turning and adjusting my gaze, I took the moment as I usually did to admire the beds of dark blue irises and the rows of alabaster statues bearing lamps of eucalyptus oil. Then, sitting down, I smoothed my hair, tucked the flyaways under the gold-threaded braid that encircled the crown of my head, and pinched my cheeks for a little color. An instant later, two maids appeared–one to remove my calcei, my Roman boot-like shoes, and wipe my feet with a damp towel, the other to place before me a small mahogany table and serve me a goblet of Palestinian wine mixed with honey-sweetened water.

As soon as I’d refreshed myself with the wine, waggled my toes, and slid them into a pair of slippers, an old friend of Amram’s, an Alexandrian businessman I hadn’t seen since I left Caesarea eight years ago, glided across the onyx-tiled floor, fastidiously groomed and meticulously dressed in an emerald silk robe that trailed in his wake.

“Good Shabbat, Miriam. I hope you had an inspiring Sukkot,” said Gershon ben Israel, referring to our Feast of Booths. The thick, silver tufts overhanging his intensely blue eyes bounced with enthusiasm just as they had when I first met him. We’d both sailed to Caesarea as guests of my cousin Eli on his ship, the Orion. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but you’re even more beautiful than when I last saw you. Your hair is the same chestnut brown; your eyes, the same crystal-clear blue–”

“And I have the same easy blush,” I added, curling my hand around my neck as if that could staunch the telltale tide.

“–But now you carry your height with regal elegance. Your father used to brag about you, you know. He’d say you look just like your mother, that you have her softly-fringed, jewel-like eyes, delicate features, and translucent alabaster skin. I see that the eighteen-year-old woman I knew in Caesarea has become, like wine, more precious with time.”

He paused, and then his voice thickened slightly. “My condolences on your father’s passing. I knew him from the Great Synagogue. He was a man of unwavering principles, a bulwark of decency.”

How kind of Gershon to characterize Papa’s intransigence that way. But Gershon never saw that rigid side of Papa, or if he did, he was too discreet to mention it.

Gershon still spoke like an aristocrat, his speech as unhurried as ever, but his voice sounded unnaturally loud, as if he were addressing an audience. At the time, I thought he just might be excited about being here. Only later did I learn that the desert’s Khamseen winds, those hot south winds that streaked the hard blue sky with grayness and choked us with their dust, had scorched him with a fever that burned out much of his hearing. Otherwise, the years had not diminished his charm, nor his loose-limbed grace, his trim, broad-shouldered athletic build, or his luxuriant cap of pearlescent curls, which he wore freshly oiled and styled in the latest Roman fashion.

Only the ruffles draping his jowls and the dewlap under his chin, hanging lower than I remembered, attested to the passing years.

“What a delightful surprise!” I exclaimed. “Amram never told me you’d be here for Shabbat.”

“Pardon?” he said as his right hand pressed the rim of his ear forward.

“For Shabbat. I’m just surprised to see you. I didn’t know you’d be here,” I said, raising my voice and enunciating each word with an exaggerated precision.

“That’s because I didn’t know myself,” he said as he opened his verbena-scented hands, palms up, spreading out his long delicate fingers.

The swish of fabric was the only sound as Gershon folded into the seat beside me. He plucked the skirt of his robe as he crossed his legs and faced me, his amethyst seal ring momentarily stealing a spangle of light from an oil lamp when he clasped his hands and rested them on his knee. Then he explained:

“You may remember I buy grapes from the vineyards on the northern Plain of Sharon, and then, after their vinification, I have the wine bottled and shipped here to our upcountry brethren in the villages and towns along the Nile and to our own community of Alexandrian Jews.”

The Jews in Egypt willingly paid the price for a wine from the Holy Land, one that hadn’t been filtered on Shabbat.

“But as a special favor to Alexander when he was the procurator of Judea and then to his successors, Cumanus and Felix, I’ve been shipping the finest–and most expensive–of all wines, Faustian Falernian, that sweet white wine from the central slopes of Italy’s Mount Falernus. And I trust only your cousin’s shipping company to transport that wine. Other shippers would be only too glad to steal my cargo and substitute a cheaper wine with a counterfeit label.”

I nodded even though I was getting tired of listening to his earsplitting voice.

“Well, that was my plan for the season, to shepherd the Falernian wine to Caesarea and from there, my Palestinian wine, which is really the heart of my business, to Egypt. But Eli refused to take a chance on shipping my cargo from Italy. ‘Another spate of piracy along the Anatolian coast,’ he said, waggling his head in resignation. ‘And even if by some miracle you live through the attack and make your way to Judea, don’t count on surviving the religious and political turmoil there, let alone conducting your business. Any member of the Sicarii, that secret brotherhood of Judean assassins, his dagger hidden inside the folds of his cloak, would gladly elbow through the crowd to slit your throat along with anyone else’s he suspects of collaborating with the Romans. “Greek Jews,” that’s what those bloody militants call us, you know. Any Jew flush with a few Roman coins and he tops their list of faithless traitors.’”

“So you canceled your plans,” I said in an effort to wrap up the conversation. Any mention of the Sicarii still conjures up that deadly terror I experienced in Caesarea, so much so that right then and there I felt that familiar spasm ripping through my bowels. Besides, I was anxious to see Amram. And where on Earth was Binyamin? So I adjusted my skirts and shifted my weight to signal I was getting up.

But Gershon lifted a silky palm to detain me. So, despite my mounting impatience, I sat back and folded my hands in my lap to resist the impulse to pick at the threads of my tunic, something I did whenever I felt edgy.

“Yes,” he said, “but I decided too late. In anticipation of my absence, I’d arranged for contractors to renovate my home. By the time I canceled the trip, they’d already delivered the materials, and I’d dismissed my servants for the duration. So I arrived on Amram’s doorstep like a homeless beggar until they complete the work.”

I saw the smile in his eyes before it curved his lips.

“Well,” he said, throwing up his hands before rocking forward, rearranging his limbs, and rising to his feet, “I’m sure the unrest in Judea is temporary. What would this world be coming to if Rome couldn’t put down a few peasant uprisi–”

At that moment, a team of boots pounding on Amram’s walkway bruised the quietude. The volume intensified until the cadence ended with a thud, and the crunch of a single pair of boots advanced toward the portico. I wheeled to my feet. Who would violate the sanctity of Shabbat by coming here in a litter?

The quick, firm tread of my brother’s deerskin calcei and the jingle of their silver buckles followed Myron into the atrium. Etched with the scars of violence, Binyamin reeked of power, his body still flaunting its unbridled sexuality, despite the thickening of his midsection and the softening of his jowls over the years.

He was elegantly dressed in a tunic of the finest Scythopolitan linen worn girded at the waist with a heavy leather belt studded with Alexandrian glass beads in the design of a trident and net, the tools of his trade. Didn’t he realize the tattoos on his face, legs, and hands identifying him as the property of his ludus were enough to rank him with those despised even more than pimps and actors?

But unlike me, Binyamin had always flouted convention and slashed at boundaries. Our Aunt Hannah said he was reckless because, having been born breech, he blamed himself for our mother’s death from childbed fever. And so he was forever tempting the Fates to settle the score. But whether or not Binyamin blamed himself and whether or not that guilt motivated him to sign on as a gladiator, Papa always blamed him.

“Hey there, everyone. Good Shabbat,” Binyamin said as he tossed his chlamys, a sporty traveling cape, onto the bench. After an introduction, he extended his hand to Gershon and greeted me with an indulgent smile that told me he’d come only to please me.

Gershon, an aficionado of the games, blinked slowly for a moment before recognizing my brother as Agrippa Fortitudo, the combatant in Caesarea who slew Orcus, the highly favored and most popular gladiator in the Empire. Then pursing his lips and lifting those silver tufts, he spoke in a whirl of words.

“Why, you were hardly more than a novus auctoratus, a new hire! I couldn’t believe it! You chose the perfect moment to trap Orcus and close in on him. All that despite your own blood staining the sand.” Gershon mimed throwing the net low and aiming a trident at Binyamin’s right arm. Then, glowing with the excitement of every sports fan reliving a tense competition, Gershon sucked in a breath and blew it out in a soundless whistle.

“All four tiers of us in the stadium were on our feet, stunned into silence, you know, as Orcus, our undefeated darling, was losing his hold on the freedom promised with a victory that night. Then the shouts, the thunderous explosions of ‘Missum!’ (Let him be sent away’) and ‘Mitte!’ (Let him go free’) the spectators calling for Alexander to spare Orcus’s life. Why he didn’t, I’ll never know.” Gershon waggled his head as he tucked his upper lip inside his lower one. “Instead, Alexander turned his thumb out, you had to plunge your dagger into Orcus’s chest, and another wretched life ended before its time. Your sister and I were sitting with Alexander in his tribunal that day, you know.”

Gershon shook his head ruefully and then continued. “Soon enough ‘Charon’ appeared with his long-handled mallet.” At this point, the volume had leached out of Gershon’s voice. “He struck Orcus on the forehead, and a team of libitinarii lifted him onto a bier and carried him away. I tell you we all cried, those of us who could believe our eyes, that is. The rest just stood frozen in disbelief, their faces convulsed, their skin pale as a fish’s belly.”

With his chest inflated, his head tipped back, and a spark of pride igniting his half-closed eyes, Binyamin showed me he too was reliving the romance of that bout. A few moments later, the spell broken, he strode to the bench, and sitting there long enough to change into his sandals and toss his calcei to Myron, he took up whistling a bawdy Roman tune. I snared his eyes and shot him a sour look, which he countered with an impish gleam and a bite on his lower lip in mock humility. Then he reached over to the mahogany table to wipe his face on my towel and drain my goblet.

***

“Miriam, is that you?”

Amram’s voice was like a feeble echo from another world. But no, he was as close as the doorway between the atrium and the smaller dining room, misery in the curve of his back, his fingers bent at arthritic angles, his body propped against the shoulder of his strapping, new full-faced manservant, Leo.

Alarmed by his frailness, I saw he was thinner than he’d been since even last Shabbat. I greeted him with a false heartiness and re-introduced him to Binyamin, whom he hadn’t seen since long before Binyamin left for the ludus. Binyamin had rarely joined our two families at the Synagogue, except if he wanted to tease a girl there. He couldn’t sit still long enough for the reading of that week’s portion of the Torah–The Five Books of Moses–but more to the point, he was jealous of the attention Papa would lavish on Noah.

We joined Amram at the doorway and received his kiss before entering the spice-scented calm of an oval room softly lit by a rising Shabbat moon. We stretched out, each of us on one of the four silk-cushioned dining couches that together surrounded a low square table covered with an Indian cotton cloth. Set upon it were knives of various sizes, ivory spoons with carved handles, and silver ladles for the sauces. Flanking our couches were marble stands bearing Jerusalem clay lamps for burning oil on Shabbat.

Binyamin reclined across from Gershon, I, across from Amram, with Leo sitting on a stool nearby ready to assist him. The only other furniture in the room was a long, curved citron sideboard attended by two servers, Taharqa, a gangly, wild-haired Nubian, his skin more bronze than ebony, and Rho (for Rhoemetalces), a burly, olive-skinned Thracian with Asiatic features.

After Amram’s blessings over the wine and bread, freshly baked from wheat flour and served with spreads of olives, chickpeas, and chopped egg, the conversation rambled from our recent Holy Days to the hopes we had for our people, especially our poorest brethren in Judea. But once Taharqa and Rho served the filet of mackerel poached in garum, I concentrated on the food, hardly listening as Gershon and Amram shared memories of their earlier days at the Great Synagogue and their opinions of Felix’s administration of Judea.

My attention snapped back during the meat course though when Binyamin asked about a recent uprising, a topic hardly conducive to a peaceful Shabbat, one that left me nettled by his indifference to our ways.

“Remember when that so-called visionary from Egypt–another one of those stiff-necked Jews’ self-appointed messiahs–well, remember when he gathered some twenty or thirty thousand believers on the Mount of Olives? So what did our mighty Felix do then?”

The fingers of both hands curled around his goblet, Binyamin looked over its silver rim at Gershon when he asked the question. Then he took a deep gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and brandished the goblet to signal for more.

“Well,” Gershon answered, “you know it isn’t easy for Rome to deal with these false messiahs, especially when they’re continually rising up all over Judea promising to deliver our people from Roman oppression. Terrorists, that’s what they are though, terrorists and fanatics who, posing as agents of divine justice, do nothing but rouse the foolish hopes of the peasants.”

Gershon’s voice, vibrating with emotion, filled the room and stirred the curtains. The rest of us stopped eating, hardly daring to swallow until nothing could be heard but the hiss of the oil lamps and the buzz of a fly diving in wide arcs around the sideboard.

The tips of his impossibly long fingers moved with the precision of dancers as he rotated his goblet, raised it, and took a sip of wine before continuing.

“And then there are the unemployed shepherds and mercenaries, the brigands and the escaped slaves, the beggars and the resistance fighters. These peasant soldiers lurk in the countryside lying in wait behind a boulder or in a ravine, cave, or grotto poised with their clubs and slingshots. Ready to ambush the unsuspecting, they add yet another hazard to travel, as if sandstorms and sunstroke weren’t enough.”

He raised his goblet again, as if to take another sip, but then put it down.

“What I mean is this strife only exacerbates the very economic crisis these rabble-rousers accuse the Romans of fueling. No, it isn’t easy, but the Romans are doing the best they can to maintain the peace.”

But Gershon hadn’t finished.

“And as for this false prophet from Egypt, Felix’s troops did what they had to do. They hacked him to pieces along with his disciples till there was nothing left but a crimson fog for the flies, gobbets of flesh for the vultures, and a field of bones for the jackals.”

The poached mackerel rose up my gullet.

Binyamin, his thumbs hooking onto the edges of his plate as if they carried the memory of a choppy sea, dropped his head. Still, I could swear his mouth had tightened into a self-satisfied smirk. I nudged him and pelted him with an angry look. Quick to retaliate, he flashed me a defiant grin that wriggled the boyhood scar on his left cheek. So I turned my eyes to Amram, who was twining a few strands of his beard.

Then, wincing as he leaned on one hand for support, he sat up to speak. “I agree, Gershon. The brutal power of Rome has stripped our brethren of their dignity and drained their economy. But that’s not what these uprisings are about. No matter how many thousands of patriots Felix cuts to pieces, our brethren will never accept foreign rulers in the very land the Lord set aside for them. For them, resistance is a religious duty.”

Since the Pogrom, Amram had avidly followed the politics that affected our Jewish communities.

A rill of saliva ran down Amram’s chin. Leo jumped up with a napkin immediately, but Amram dismissed him with a brush of his hand and wiped his chin himself as he drew in a wheezy breath. He had more to say. “Did Alexander’s crucifixions…deter anyone?”

When Amram was tired, he had to grope for the right word as if his memory had already fallen asleep.

“On the contrary, now the…Zealots and the…Sicarii are better organized than ever. And don’t forget: Felix’s…predecessors, with all their brutality, achieved only a partial and temporary success at best.”

Panting out his last words, a feverish dew gathering on his forehead, he wagged a crooked index finger before relapsing into the couch cushions.

An uncertain silence hung in the air, the kind after a door slams, and I wondered where is the peace of Shabbat now?

The stillness eased with the raspy call of a short-eared owl, and the conversation resumed, drifting among the standard topics, from Hero’s latest invention to Philo’s interpretation of the Torah. But interest in one topic or another quickly faded between Amram’s long breath and suppressed yawns. While Taharqa cleared the dishes and whisked away the crumbs, Rho brought us a tray of tiny cakes flavored with ground locust and a pot of mint tea. Binyamin pawed a few cakes while we waited for Rho to serve the tea.

But I could see Amram, his eyes closing and his head falling forward, was exhausted. So I got up, murmuring an apology for cutting the evening short and thanking Amram for his hospitality. Binyamin, after an indolent stretch, extending his arms with a deep sigh and then lacing his hands behind his head, was quick to follow.

When Leo went to fetch my himation, Binyamin’s chlamys, and our calcei, Binyamin caught my shoulder in the atrium and spun me around.

“What’s with the looks tonight, Sis? I came here for you. You know this isn’t my kind of party.”

“Did you really have to come in a litter?”

“What’s it to you? He’s not the High Priest, you know.”

“Binny, Binny, Binny. It’s a matter of respect, to Amram, the neighborhood, our people, our traditions. Surely you could have walked the few blocks from home.”

“You know, Sis, I’m beginning to think I have no home, certainly not here. It’s like I’m dealing with Papa all over again.” He turned away and then with a sigh and a drop of his shoulders, which I interpreted as a drop of his defenses, he looked at me again, his eyes wide, his brow raised.

“Oh, forget it. Just ride home with me. I kept the litter waiting for both of us.”

“No, Binny, I can’t. I’m sorry, I just can’t.” And I felt uneasy, wondering whether his homecoming, an occasion I’d wished for, even prayed for, was going to be such a good thing.

And that longed-for homecoming, I had to remind myself, was only yesterday, a day that really began when Orestes brought me the news that Binyamin’s ship was coming into port.

© 2017 by June Trop