Second Touch (17 page)

Gideon yanked the dwarf’s beard impatiently. “Idiot! I’ll find out what they’re up to, that’s what! Tell them Peniel left on his own. Say he headed south, I’ll say. Toward Ashkelon, I’ll say. Not north. I’ll throw them off the scent, see? Then I’ll wait awhile after they leave, sneak out, and come back here.” “What about Zacharias the hunchback?” Amos challenged. “He’s a jackal. He has teeth.” “I’d kill him if I had a knife,” Gideon snarled. “But I ¬don’t have a knife. I’ve always wanted a knife.” Amos chewed his lip knowingly. “Someone else will kill him later, no doubt.” Gideon erupted in fury. “He’s a dung heap! No! Ha! He’s the fly that sits on the dung heap! No! No! Listen to this! He’s the fly speck of the fly that sits on the dung heap!” Amos’ tiny feet pawed the ground in disgust. “Yes! Yes! I wipe Zacharias the hunchback off the sole of my shoe!” Gideon proclaimed, “And I avoid stepping on him altogether! Thus my shoe is not spoiled!” These were brave words for a coward like Gideon, Peniel thought. He shook his head solemnly. “Dangerous. Dangerous. Suppose they throw you in jail?” Amos slapped Gideon’s back in congratulations. “I like this idea. Spy. Lay of the land. It’s a good plan,” the dwarf argued. “Oh-ho! Send them all to Ashkelon!” He guffawed. For the dwarf to tell a man to go to Ashkelon was akin to telling him to go to perdition, Peniel mused. What fierce and courageous companions he had found in Amos and Gideon! Tears of gratitude stung Peniel’s eyes. “Gideon! Friend! You’d do this for me? And for Yeshua? But what if you ¬don’t come back?” Peniel fought down the panic that welled up in his chest. Had he placed the lives of his brothers in danger? Gideon tried this thought on. “If I ¬don’t come back? Then, you know, if ¬I’m not back . . . if I ¬don’t come back in an hour . . .” He pursed his lips and stared off, as though he was trying to form an answer. “Yes? If you’re not back in an hour?” Amos threw in. Gideon snapped. “What do you think? Fool! Then ¬I’m not back. That’s all. I’ll be back when I get back. Wait here!” He rose unceremoniously and set off to spy.

The village of Gadara was inland from the east shore of the Sea of Galilee. It existed roughly on the border between Tetrarch Philip’s province of Trachonitis and the Greek federation called the Decapolis. The bookshop of Ma’im of Gadara was not actually inside the city walls, but not because he was unwelcome there. Gadara was a freethinking city, where age-old pagan deities mixed with Greek philosophy and Syrian cults. Had this business been located within ¬Jewish territory, Ma’im might have been stoned by religious zealots for sorcery or for encouraging Jews to

violate the ban on graven images. He still had ¬Jewish clientele, however. A cluster of shops and small houses was tucked up against the west-facing wall below the brow of Gadara’s hill. The air itself spoke to Simon the Pharisee of foreigners: Curried spices announced dishes prepared for non- ¬Jewish palates. Heavy, musky perfumes offered visions of exotic, forbidden women. For this nighttime excursion, Simon dressed in his plainest traveling clothes. He laid aside both anything that spoke of wealth or connected him with the Pharisee sect. When he arrived at the bookshop after twilight, the street was dark and so was the shop. However, the door opened at his first knock, and Ma’im greeted him with the words, “Welcome. I’ve been expecting you.” Simon was relieved that Ma’im had not announced his name yet disturbed and wary that his arrival was apparently anticipated. From the recess of an inner room the light of a single flame wavered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. As Simon’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim interior, he saw that the room was cluttered with scrolls. Some were bound and lay stacked, ends outward, like orderly piles of cordwood. Others, partially unrolled, rested one atop another, spreading across tables like heaps of fallen leaves. “Most of my trade is prosaic,” Ma’im informed Simon. “Shipping news from Alexandria and Corinth, political reports from Ephesus and Pergamum, the latest plays from the theaters of Athens . . . broad as to subject matter but no more than knucklebone deep. My shop and the reading room adjoining are a crossroads of the Empire. People from many lands come to find their native scripts, to satisfy their longing for news of home. What will satisfy the longings of Simon the Pharisee? I wonder . . .” “You know what ¬I’m here for,” Simon growled. “Do you have it?” In reply Ma’im turned to a curtained recess in the wall behind the counter. From its dark interior he produced a locked mahogany strongbox and a bronze key, both of which he presented to Simon. “More significant than provincial news or theatricals,” he explained. “You may take it and examine it at your leisure. The learned Pharisee will no doubt wish for privacy to make his assessment, and my accommodations—” he gestured around the cramped and cluttered shop—“are less than comfortable. I have a condition that affects my eyes,” he added. “I never go abroad in daylight and prefer dim to bright light.” “What about your payment?” Simon asked, though already hugging the coffer greedily to his chest. Ma’im shrugged. “Master Simon and I are now partners, are we not? Both of us have secrets best kept strictly between us. It is a bond of sorts, true?” Simon blustered, “Are you suggesting that ¬I’m dabbling in something I ¬shouldn’t? Practicing magic or the like? Was that a threat?” “Not at all,” Ma’im soothed. “Merely an observation. Interesting, ¬isn’t it, that your family name means ‘seeds,’ and in my native tongue, Ma’im

means ‘water’? We need each other, I think.” Time was passing. Simon perceived the risk of exposure yet would not—could not—draw back now. Too much was at stake. Perhaps the answer to his dire predicament was within his grasp, within an unremarkable mahogany box. “If it suits my needs,” he said stiffly, “I’ll send the payment I offered before.” “It is well,” Ma’im returned, bowing. “And may the gods assist you . . . whoever they are.”

Gideon the cripple hurried past the dark archways supporting the viaduct. His left arm swung furiously, and the tip of his crutch scraped white marks on the paving stones. Beside the southwestern end of the Temple Mount platform he hesitated. The beggar looked first down Herodian Way, then at the steep steps rising toward the Royal Stoa. Tucking the prop more firmly ¬under his armpit and clenching his teeth, Gideon began the ascent. Beside the exit of a tunnel leading beneath the Royal Stoa and from there giving access to the Temple precincts, Gideon paused to rest. A burly arm collared him around the neck. Gideon was dragged into the shadowy overhang. “Took you long enough,” Eglon growled. “Where is he?” “Waiting for me to come back and report my spying on you,” the beggar added. “He trusts me.” “Yeshua with him?” “No.” “Did he say where they was to meet?” “No,” Gideon repeated. “If he knows, he’s keeping it secret.” Eglon shoved the cripple against a stone wall. The hired assassin grasped Gideon’s left hand and bent the fingers back. “Sure?” Eglon persisted. “You ¬aren’t holding back anything, eh?” “Let me, Captain,” a lean, red-haired guard offered with a chortle. “I’ll find out! Find out good!” “Not now, Alek,” Eglon refused. The guard’s head pecked at the air like his namesake rooster, and his sandals scratched the cobbles with eagerness to cause pain. Gideon shook his head violently. “I swear it, your honor. That’s all I know.” Eglon maintained the pressure until beads of sweat popped out on Gideon’s face. When Eglon released his grip, the beggar slipped to his knees and knelt there, cradling his injured fingers. “We ¬don’t much care about the blind one,” Eglon said. “Pick him up any time. But if he’s got an in with Yeshua and we follow him, then maybe we can slip you in close enough to take care of the troublemaker.” “Not me,” Gideon protested. “I ¬couldn’t!” “I know that, you miserable coward,” Eglon confirmed. “But you can open doors, ¬can’t you? Lead him off somewheres alone?” Eglon’s hands shot out

again, this time encircling Gideon’s throat. “Not trying to back out, are you?” he threatened. “It’d go bad for you.” “Bad for you!” Alek chorused. The guard captain released his grip just enough to allow Gideon a rasping breath. Once Gideon could speak again, he protested that no such thought had crossed his mind. “I want the reward,” he said flatly. “I won’t fail.” “See you ¬don’t,” Eglon warned, pushing the beggar away from him. “You just tell me which direction you’re headed, and I’ll tell you where our next meeting will be. Got it?”

11 The ridge above the Valley of Mak’ob had reddened with sunset. The starry sky reflected a portent that tomorrow ¬everything familiar would end for Lily and Cantor. Still, Lily would not let herself think such thoughts as she and Cantor stood beneath the canopy of Cantor’s tallith and spoke their vows. Only a few were invited to the wedding. Deborah, great with the burden of new life within her, lumbered down the slope from the cave for the first time in weeks to take her place at Lily’s side. Little Baruch peered shyly from behind his mother. Carpenter proudly stood as Cantor’s witness. He read aloud the written ketubah: the promise of bride and groom to love and cherish one another for a lifetime. The boys of Cantor’s hawking class leaned upon one another as they observed the ceremony with crooked smiles on their ravaged faces. Lily knew the members of the wedding company each concealed rampant thoughts. How long will they have together? A lifetime? How long is that? Leaving her tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll grow up and someday marry . . . Will he return? Can it be? Might I also find love in such a place as this? Oh I remember! I remember! My love, I remember our day like it was yesterday! Yet all were silent as the questions of the rabbi were answered by murmured pledges. “I will . . .” “I do . . .” “Till death . . .” “. . . parts us.” ¬I’m praying again, Inventor of Love. I thank you, thank you, thank you for him! Look upon these stricken ones, as I am stricken . . . my family, they are. We have no beauty to offer you. No wealth. Nothing that the world esteems.

We are the least of mankind. Judged unworthy to live. There is nothing left of what we once were, except souls held captive in our flesh. And so, praise to you, O Adonai. You have given us this one last hour of happiness before we breathe ourselves out into eternity. Steam rising from a kettle. Like dew in the morning we pass away. You are the sun that sparkles and warms us on the leaf. You are the light drawing our vapor up and up. You are the cloud we rise to meet. Gather us in, oh cloud, when that hour ¬comes! “There you have it.” Rabbi Ahava smiled. “And so, Lily and Cantor are man and wife. Will the groom speak a word? A word to us before he takes his bride away?” Cantor cleared his throat. His eyes brimmed. He attempted to speak but could not. Had he heard her thoughts? plumbed her prayers? “Lily . . . Lily . . . Lily . . . oh!” His voice cracked, and he could not continue. Applause, laughter, and cheering from the witnesses. Rabbi Ahava raised his hand. “For the first time in his life Cantor is speechless! A good sign! Marriage has a welcome effect on you, Cantor! We will all enjoy your company more now, I am certain.” More laughter. “Now, Lily! The bride must say a word.” Lily nodded, clutching Cantor’s hand tightly. She scanned the faces of her dear friends. “My family! For this moment we are alive! And for Cantor, to our friends, to the Lord who has let us live this long, for this time I am truly thankful!” She reflected that her speech was shallow compared to the great well of emotion in her heart. But there were no words. No words. No words. Only this moment. Only Cantor. No tomorrow. Night birds sang in the evening. Crickets chirped. A frog or two croaked. One moment whispered into another as they slipped away into the shadows.

From nearby homes overheard discussions filtered into Peniel’s hiding place. Unhappy conversations swirled around his head like a whirlwind, swooping up the dust and debris of daily anxiety. Ordinary family matters were thrashed out: A child’s misbehavior. An argument between man and wife about . . . nothing of consequence. The price of shoes? The too-plump, irascible aunt. The too-stern grandfather who corrected the children! The lack of enough lavatories around the Temple Mount. “No word about you, Lord,” Peniel murmured. “No mention of Messiah.” It seemed the Sanhedrin’s edict forbidding talk about Yeshua had been effective. Or was this just the natural state of man: ignore the miracles and concentrate on the trivial? “Listen to them all,” Amos mumbled. “The wife wails and the dog whimpers and the child whines and poverty howls! Yet on their worst days they’re better off than me on my best!”

Peniel’s senses were assaulted by the misery. First ¬under the viaduct and now from those who had homes, who had families. Desperate! Anxious! They all seemed to be drowning! Drowning! Peniel looked down. His unfocused eyes fixed on the wiry-haired top of Amos’ head. He whispered, “Sorrow. Sorrow. Everywhere in Yerushalayim. Sheep. Hungry. Thirsty. Crying out. No shepherd to lead them. Is this what you see in the faces of the people, Lord?” Amos tugged on Peniel’s tunic. “You say something, Peniel?” “No. Nothing.” Peniel wiped his face. Amos complained, “Yerushalayim stinks. Smell it? Enough to make my eyes water.” Rousing himself from his gloom, Peniel encouraged, “It’s cleaner in the north. And I hear in Galilee you can pick leftover fruit right off the tree and eat without paying.” “If you’re tall enough,” Amos added dubiously. Peniel heard the scrape of Gideon’s crutch and presently the cripple reappeared. “I hid in the bushes,” he reported proudly. “Good spying, if I do say so myself. Heard ¬every word. That Zacharias! Bragging how he saw you, knew you were still in the city. How he could pick you out of a crowd. Heard them hatch a plan: Double the guards, then stop ¬everyone ¬under twenty— five from leaving Jerusalem until Zacharias passes them. Guards talking all polite to him, like he’s somebody. All puffed up, he is!” “Scum,” Amos put in. “Sell his own father to the Romans if he had one.” “Sell somebody else’s father to ’em!” “Sell their mother and their father!” Before the renewed competition over Zacharias’ depravity could wind up still further, Peniel interrupted. “And so? Did you put them on the wrong scent? Send them to Ashkelon?” “Yes. Yes, I did,” Gideon replied, scuffing the toe of his right sandal against the pavement. “You talked face-to-face with Temple Guards . . . with Zacharias knowing your name and all?” Amos prodded. “Not exactly,” Gideon admitted. “But I know a miller whose wife’s sister is married to a guard. I told him to tell her to tell him to look for Peniel in Ashkelon. Straight-out I said it: ‘Ashkelon is where he’s bound, I said.’ ” Gideon, who was by nature a coward, looked back through the cramped canyon of the lane toward the viaduct. “I’ve never been outside the gates of Yerushalayim. I made a fine living here.” Then, as if recollecting the present danger, he added, “Peniel, your neck’s in a noose and no mistake. Best get out now, if it ¬isn’t already too late.” So back they went, along the wandering path leading to the hidden culvert. They squeezed through the drain with Amos hanging on to Peniel’s ankle. Gideon lay on his back and propelled himself with his crutch, like a fisherman poling his boat through a shallow passage. Presently they emerged from the confining darkness of the sewer into the