The Ironsmith (15 page)

Without answering, Matthias went to the rear stairway the servants used. By the time he reached the roof his head had begun to ache again.

“You look dreadful,” the Lord Caleb announced, glancing up from his chair for a short, scornful inspection. “Are you fit for work?”

“I will be, Lord, when the work requires me.”

Matthias was always careful to fix his gaze a little to one side of the Lord Caleb's head, not simply because the mighty regard being looked at full in the face as a presumption, but because he hated and feared the man. The Lord Caleb had ordered done many terrible things, and yet he seemed untroubled by them.

To do evil and not to care—that required a devil.

The Lord Caleb had turned his attention back to the view. From his rooftop one could see for miles, and the sight seemed to please him.

“Of course you remember the Baptist,” he said, without turning his head.

“I have heard of him, Lord.”

Matthias closed his eyes, grateful that he had had no hand in that business. No one had rejoiced when John was arrested.

“He had followers—disciples, men who participated in his plans to overthrow the Tetrarch. Here is a list. A partial list.”

Without looking at it, the Lord Caleb gestured to a table beside his chair. On the table was a bowl of fruit and, held down at one corner by the bottom of the bowl, a folded scrap of papyrus.

Matthias picked it up and opened it. He could read just enough to sound out the names. There were five, and against each name a place, usually a village no one had ever heard of.

“Find them,” the Lord Caleb continued. “None is a person of consequence, so if they resist, you can kill a few and no one will object. Otherwise, bring them to me. Take as many men as you will need.

“And there is one other matter.”

The Lord Caleb looked up at his obedient servant and smiled. “A certain Noah bar Barachel, who is an ironsmith here in Sepphoris, has offended me. I wish him punished.”

“Shall I kill him, Lord?”

“No, do not kill him, since he may still be of use. Merely chastise him. Give him a good beating, but don't break anything. He goes to Nazareth every week to spend the Sabbath with his grandfather. I imagine he comes home after sundown, so you can catch him alone on the road. This is a warning best delivered in private.”

“Should he know the warning comes from you, Lord?”

“I think he will know without being told.”

 

11

Noah was almost the last through the city gates on the evening he returned home from Capernaum. It was already dark when he opened the door to his house, so he called out his sister's name, that she might know it was he and not be frightened.

“Have you eaten?” Sarah asked, as soon as she had kissed him.

“No, and I find that I am extremely hungry.”

He smiled as he sat watching her prepare his dinner, because he knew he was going to make her happy.

He waited until he had drunk a cup of wine, and it had taken hold, before he spoke.

“I have met someone,” he said. “A widow. She is young and beautiful. Her husband was a fish merchant and seems to have left her well provided for. Yet, in spite of all this, she is willing to receive me as a suitor.”

At first, Sarah appeared stunned, and then, when her mind had adjusted to this new idea, she clapped her hands together in sheer joy.

“Beautiful? Oh, wonderful! And young? Young enough to bear children? And is she sweet tempered? Oh, Noah! I am so happy for you.”

“She is sweet tempered. You will like her very much. She is also intelligent and pious. She is a follower of Joshua, which is the only flaw I can find in her.”

He laughed, but Sarah seemed not to have heard.

“And she loves you?”

“As to love…” Noah cocked his head a little to one side and shrugged. “She wishes to know more of me—that is the most I can say. I will go back in a few weeks, and we shall see how it develops. At least she did not refuse me outright, which is what I expected.”

“And do you love her?”

He seemed to consider the question for a moment, and then nodded.

“Yes, I think so. Or, more truthfully, I think if I see her again I will come to love her quickly enough. She strikes me as the kind of woman a man cannot stop himself from loving.”

“What is her name?”

“Deborah.”

“Well, she has conquered you.”

*   *   *

As was his custom, Noah spent the Sabbath in Nazareth with his grandfather. They took the evening meal with Joseph and his family, who wished to hear news of Joshua.

“If he stays where he is, I think he is safe enough,” Noah told them. “In Capernaum there are people who will protect him.”

“Do you think my brother is mad?” Jacob asked. The tone of the question reflected his anxiety.

“No.” Noah shook his head. “He believes he does God's work, but that does not make him mad. He may truly be a prophet—I don't know.”

“How can he be a prophet?” Joseph asked, in a tone that suggested he already knew the answer. “The prophets of old performed miracles. They raised the dead and brought down plagues upon the enemies of Israel. He is not a prophet.”

Noah shrugged, as if to say the mystery was too great for him. “Was the Baptist a prophet?”

No one seemed willing to answer.

When the meal was over and it was time to leave, Joseph embraced him. Noah could not remember another time he had done that.

“I thank you,” Joseph said, and there were tears in his eyes. “You stand up for him. I know you love him.”

“I think Joseph won't last the winter,” Grandfather said as he and Noah returned to his house. “His lungs are failing. Joshua should come to him while he lives.”

“I'll tell him. I'll be seeing him again soon.” Noah found that he did not want to talk any more about Joshua. “I have something I wish to discuss with you.”

Grandfather said nothing more, but once they were inside he took down a pair of cups and poured them both some wine. Then Noah told him about Deborah.

“It seems as if you have made a good choice.”

“If she will have me. At least she is willing to listen.”

“How did you meet her?”

“She is a follower of Joshua's.”

The old man glanced at the ceiling, as if to say,
I knew there would be something.

“She does not strike me as a silly woman, Grandfather. Many people, good, pious, sensible people, listened to the Baptist.”

“You keep comparing Joshua with John.”

“He was John's disciple. He preaches the same message.” Noah shook his head. “All I am saying is that it is not unreasonable for her to be drawn to Joshua.”

“Let us hope that she is not more drawn to him than to you.”

“Let us hope.”

*   *   *

The next morning Noah and his grandfather went to the prayer house. It was Jacob's turn to recite the Law, which this day happened to concern the treatment of criminals put to death. Since no one in Nazareth had ever been put to death, the topic did not excite much comment.

When prayer was over, they sat outside Grandfather's door.

“The Sabbath is not the least of God's gifts,” the old man said, his head tilted back so that he could enjoy the sunshine on his face. “And that because it gives one time to think and to remember.”

“To remember what?”

“First God, and then people.” Grandfather smiled, without opening his eyes. “I remember you and Joshua, sitting with me just here, learning your letters.”

“Joshua was quicker than I.”

“Yes, but you were always wiser. You saw the truth of things when he did not.”

“But he saw possibilities that never occurred to me. That also is wisdom. And he loves God.”

“All men love God.”

“Yes. But that love consumes Joshua.”

Grandfather nodded. They did not speak of Joshua again. After a while, the old man got up and went into his house. A moment later he came back, carrying a scroll in his hand.

“Read to me, Noah,” he said. “At my age it is a great pleasure for a man to listen to his grandson read the Law.”

Thus the Sabbath passed away, much like every other Sabbath Noah could remember.

When the sun had set, it was time for Noah to return home. It was an hour's walk, and the light would not fail utterly before he reached the city gates.

After the inactivity of the day, it was a pleasure to move his legs, to let his arms swing free, and to know that tomorrow morning he would be back at the forge. As he walked he allowed himself to plan the journey that would bring him back to Capernaum and to Deborah. In his mind he selected the wares he would take and considered what he would say to the merchants in distant cities who would buy them.

He tried to avoid thinking about Deborah herself because the ideas that suggested themselves were not congenial. After all, by now she might repent of having encouraged him and dread his return. He could understand how that might be so—was probably so—because he had no illusions about his personal charms. He was neither tall nor handsome. Why should she love him?

He tried to keep his thoughts from her, but he was not particularly successful. So, by the time he reached the main road, he had worked himself into that state of melancholy which is perhaps love's most sincere form of tribute.

Otherwise he might have noticed that there was someone else on the road. He might have heard the footfalls behind him. He might have sensed that someone was gaining on him.

As it was, he had no inkling until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

The hand swung him around. In the darkness the man who held him was no more than a massive shape.

“You are Noah, the ironsmith?” a voice asked. It was a voice that went with the shape, as unmelodious as a rockslide.

“Yes. I am Noah.”

The first blow caught him just below the ribs, and the breath went out of him so suddenly that for an instant he was not aware of any pain, only of a desperate need to fill his lungs. When he tried to take a breath, the pain was like the flesh being torn from his bones.

His legs began to buckle beneath him, but the man held him up, his left hand grasping the front of Noah's tunic. Then, with his right hand, he began delivering quick, precise blows that hurt like nothing Noah had ever experienced. The man's fist was like a stone, battering his face over and over so that each strike was an explosion of suffering. He could almost hear the pain as well as feel it.

At last he gathered enough breath to cry out, but he was instantly silenced by another blow under the ribs. Then his attacker spun him around and punched him in the back, low and to the right of his spine. That was the worst.

So, of course, he did it again.

Then the man let him drop. He released his grip and Noah went down, first to his knees and then down on his face.

Noah lay curled up on the ground, waiting for the next blow. But it never came. After a few moments, when he could bear to open his eyes, he realized that he was alone.

Twenty or so paces down the road, he saw a huge shape walking away, in the direction of Sepphoris. Unbidden, it came into Noah's mind that for someone so big the man had a surprisingly graceful stride.

For a long time—he had no idea how long—he just lay there by the side of the road. He might even have lost consciousness. He wasn't sure.

Finally he knew that he had to get up. It was an excruciating process, but at last he made it to his feet. Then his legs gave way and he was back on his knees. He rested for a moment, resisting the temptation to collapse, then he stood up again.

Would he stay up this time? Yes, he thought so. Could he walk? It seemed doubtful.

But he took a step, and then another. Movement was possible.

He did not consider what had happened to him, much less why. It never occurred to him to wonder. All he had in his mind was the next step, and then the next.

The city gates were no more than half a mile distant, yet Noah consumed the better part of an hour reaching them. They were shut, of course, but the guards recognized him.

“Noah?”

All at once his strength vanished. The next instant he was on the ground, with no notion of how he got there. The guards pulled him inside. After a moment he was able to sit up, and they offered him a cup of water.

“What
happened
to you?”

“I was set on.”

“Robbers?”

“No.” Suddenly it struck Noah as interesting and significant that the man had not taken his purse. “Has anyone else come through the gates in the last half hour? A big man?”

“No. No one.”

He knew, of course, that they were lying—they had hesitated just an instant too long with their answer—and that too was significant.

“Can you make it home?”

“I think so.”

The guard captain, whose name was Theudas, shook his head.

“Seth, you go with him.”

Ten minutes later Noah was standing in front of his own door.

“You needn't stay,” he told the guard. “I'll be all right.”

He reached in his purse to give the man a few coins in recompense for his trouble, but Seth waved them away. The next instant he was gone, as if the night had swallowed him whole.

They were good fellows, Noah thought to himself. They meant no harm. But something had frightened them.

Sarah answered his knock. She looked at him and her eyes grew large. Her hand crept up to cover her mouth.

“I'm all right,” Noah told her. “I had an accident.”

She helped him into the kitchen, the first room after the shop. Then Sarah went back and bolted the door to the house.

She didn't ask questions. She took a cloth, dipped it into one of the water urns, and began cleaning his face. Her touch was light, but it hurt nonetheless.