by Bodie Thoene
There was no longer any question. “I came for that purpose.” I followed Marcus through the gate of the outpost. The courtyard was now deserted. I heard the rowdy laughter of men eating in a dining hall to our right. To the left, the clank of hammer on iron continued in the blacksmith shop.
Marcus led me toward the forge. And there, bent and sweating over the red-hot iron, Patrick labored on. Sparks flew with every hammer blow. He did not look up. I saw the fresh bloody brand of a military slave with the number of Marcus’s cohort burned on Patrick’s forearm.
I stopped midstride as Marcus stepped aside. He addressed Patrick in the language of Britannia.
Patrick did not reply.
Marcus took my arm and pulled me forward into the light of the fire. “He has not spoken one word since he came three days ago. He barely eats. Speak to him,” Marcus instructed me.
I said quietly, “Patrick?”
At the sound of my voice, he paused, still staring at the yellow glow of the iron. He did not look up. His eyes brimmed.
Tears spilled over and hissed on the metal as they fell. “I am dreaming,” he whispered as he wept. “I hear the voice of my brother.” His shoulders shook with silent sobs.
“Patrick!” I was at his side in two steps. The heat of the forge was on my face. “Look up! Not a dream!”
He cried out and flung the hammer away. Standing erect, he wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my neck. “It’s you! You came for me! My brother! My father!”
I wept with him. “My brother. My son.”
“What’s to be done? They’ll never let me go!”
Marcus observed our reunion in silence for a time.
“How is my darling girl?”
“Adrianna weeps for you, her only love. Her hopes are smashed. Her heart broken.”
At this news, Patrick could not control his grief. “Poor darling girl. Poor Adrianna. Better I never gave her hope!”
“Samson and Delilah try to comfort her, but they love you so. Like their own son. Delilah’s tears salt our bread with sorrow.”
“I am lost! All is lost! What is to be done?”
Marcus cleared his throat. “If you were the slave of the House of Lazarus, you could not be conscripted unless your master was paid fair value for a slave.”
Patrick groped for a stool and sank down. He buried his sooty face in his hands. “It was all false! False! There is no freedom within the reach of Rome.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. He commanded, “Be a man. Stop sniveling. Look at him! David ben Lazarus! How can you call this creature worth his salt? Such a weakling is no good to Rome here in the frontier!”
I protested. “But … but … Patrick is …”
Marcus growled, “A worthless weakling, I say! One legged. Mostly mute! He is worse than a woman!” He stepped forward, raising his hand as if to strike Patrick. “What good are you to Rome?”
Patrick looked at the heap of horseshoes he had forged. He blinked at Marcus in astonishment. “Sir …”
Marcus shouted, “Why did you lie to the officers? Why did you tell them you were a free man?”
Patrick tried to speak. “But, sir, I am …”
“Shut up, weakling! Liar! Your master has come for payment from us … or to claim you.” Marcus turned his fury on me. His voice carried across the courtyard. The clamor of soldiers in the dining hall fell silent. “All right, Jew. So! You identified him. This is the man. One leg! Ha! They send the rejects to me and expect me to manage! But you say he is your slave and has value to your estate. What then is the price for him?”
I could hardly think what price I could ever place on Patrick. “I … I … he is my barrelmaker and I …”
Marcus bellowed. “Thirty pieces of silver? You demand the full price of a healthy slave? You must be mad! What use is he to Rome? You think I could justify paying such a price? What would my officers say if I showed them the accounts of this post and then pointed to a cripple and said, ‘For this one-legged slave I was required by law to pay his master …’ They would take it out of my hide!”
At last light dawned. I fully entered the charade. “I will not take one denarius less! Thirty pieces of silver or I will appeal to the judges. Rome has stolen my slave and—”
Marcus roared back. “Take him! Take the sniveling creature!”
“I will!” I shouted.
Marcus lowered his voice. His expression softened. “Patrick, your life belongs to David ben Lazarus. There is safety in that. Do you understand?”
Patrick’s chin jerked down once. His eyes were wide. He spoke in the tongue of his homeland. I guessed he was thanking Marcus.
Marcus took charge. “All right, then. Be of good courage. It’s settled. I will prepare papers of release and put my seal on it while you saddle your horse and mine. It’s Sabbath … your day of rest, but for the sake of Patrick, do not rest. Ride through the night. Ride like the wind. The fresh brand of a conscript slave is a danger to you. Blot it out. If you’re stopped, the soldiers on patrol will likely be unable to read the words on my document of transfer. But show them my seal. I will come to Bethany to fetch back my horse. See you take care of him. Now hurry!” He pivoted on his heel and strode out of the forge.
“Come, Patrick. Let’s go. Adrianna is waiting.”
Patrick shook his head slowly from side to side. “Something to do first.” He took the tongs and lifted up the red hot iron of the half-formed shoe. His eyes fixed on the coals of the forge for an instant. Then he moved his arm near to the fierce heat. In a single stroke, he pressed his arm onto the molten metal. Flesh hissed and seared, burning away the mark of slavery. Patrick made a low growling in his agony, then plunged his arm into a bucket of cold water.
He gasped. “Finished. Now. Home.”
Chapter 22
News of Patrick’s homecoming somehow preceded us, spreading from village to village in Judea. As we topped the rise of the hill overlooking home, two hundred people were gathered outside the gates waiting for us.
Patrick raised his arms to heaven and wept. “Home!” he cried. “Was there ever such a sight so beautiful in all the world?”
Smoke and the aroma of cooking meat filled the air.
“Look!” I laughed. “They’re roasting the fatted calf! For you, Patrick! All for you!”
Strains of Carta’s flute, of tambourines and drums, drifted up as we rode closer to home.
Patrick began to sing:
“For the horses of Pharaoh
went with his chariots
and horsemen into the sea!
Sing to the LORD,
for he has triumphed gloriously!
The horse and rider
He has thrown into the sea!”1
At the challenge of Patrick’s rich baritone, the watchman on the walls lifted a shofar to his lips and gave the signal. Heads lifted up, and suddenly there came a shout of joy so loud that the hills behind us echoed.
Adrianna came running, followed by Carta playing his flute at the head of a dozen skipping children.
“Look! Look! It’s Patrick! Patrick and the master!”
“Master Lazarus has brought Patrick home!”
“Praise to God in heaven on high!”
“Patrick’s home!”
Samson and Delilah followed with the three goats on their heels. And then came Martha and all the others, kicking up dust on the road as they ran.
Patrick leapt from the fine black horse. He bowed and kissed the ground, then jumped up and gave a whoop of delight as Adrianna, puffing and red-faced, fell into his arms!
He was instantly surrounded, swallowed up by joy!
“Patrick! How’d you get free?”
“Tell us what happened?”
“From front to back … tell us!”
“Tell us!”
Flushed and grinning, Patrick glanced back at me over his shoulder and babbled. “The Master found me. Lost sheep that I was. He was very brave to be sure. He said I was his slave and demanded pa
yment from the officer for me.”
“Demanded!”
“Did you hear that? Master Lazarus demanded from a Roman officer!”
Patrick continued, “The fellow would not pay him the price. Said I am a one-legged reject and not worth it!”
This brought howls of laughter from the crowd. “Ha! Not worth it?”
“Patrick not worth it?”
Carta declared, “Now this is why Rome will one day fall! They do not know a bargain when they see one!”
More laughter.
Patrick finished the tale. “And so the master made a bargain with the Roman to take me home and never to set me free again! I am a happy slave in the House of Lazarus!”
This evoked cheers from all.
“Blessed be our master.”
“. good master of the vines.”
“Lazarus!”
“The Lord bless the House of Lazarus forever!”
“Our master went out in search of one lost sheep.”
Carta yelped, “And he brought home the goat!”
I asked, “Adrianna, tell us. What are your thoughts of your betrothed coming home so soon?”
The girl blushed and tucked herself under the arm of Patrick. She gazed up at him with doe-eyes. He bent and wiped her tears with his thumb.
She tried to speak. “I think … I think that … I shall only be happier when it is my wedding day!”
Samson stepped up to me and bowed slightly. He whispered, “The cottage is all finished. We kept working even after he was away. We believed you would bring him back. Sir, if you don’t mind me saying, by faith, our preparations for a wedding are well under way. A bath and fresh clothes are what Patrick needs, and then … we’ve got the guests. Everyone who loves us is here. And the food. There’s plenty of wine. Here’s the bride, my daughter … all blushing and filled with joy! And now the bridegroom has come to us. Can we not celebrate his return with a wedding feast?”
“Someone call the rabbi!” I commanded. “Tonight will be the wedding feast of Patrick and Adrianna!”
There was a cheer from all at the news. Adrianna burst into fresh tears.
Patrick beamed. “If I had known, I would have galloped all the way without stopping!”
Old Delilah embraced her blushing daughter. “My darling girl, my beautiful baby girl, come!” She commanded the children, “Hurry now. There are flowers on the hillside. Go pick flowers for the bride to carry!”
Samson shrugged. “Why wait? Why wait? You never know what tomorrow will bring.”
I ordered that the finest wedding clothes be provided for Patrick. I longed only for sleep after my journey, but who could deny the momentum of joy? Giving my little white mare into the care of the stable boy, I hurried into the house.
As I bathed, the tempo of the music increased outside. Laughter spilled over the walls and splashed through my window. I glanced at the western sky. In the distance, Jerusalem crowned the mountain. I remembered my own wedding day. No day ever like it before or since. I imagined what it would be like when Messiah, the true heavenly Bridegroom, set his foot upon the Mount of Olives as the prophets foretold. The lion would lay down with the lamb. The Lord would teach our children in the streets of Jerusalem. Our oppressors would be cast out from us. Surely I would live to see that day.
I emerged into the twilight. The wedding preparations were complete. Children adorned the wedding canopy with flowers, and petals were strewn around the grounds. In the distance I saw Samson bringing the rabbi to our celebration.
I remembered Jesus at the wedding in Cana, blessing wine he had created from water.
“Blessed are you, O Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, Creator of the fruit of the vine …”
It was Jesus who created the fruit of the vine that night. My thoughts leapt at the meaning of the miracle and the significance of the words of the prayer of thanks. “Blessed are you, O Lord … Creator!”
Wine from water? Impossible for mere man. But the light had shown upon Jesus when he recited the blessing and passed the chalice.
Without Jesus, water was just water. When I tasted the wine Jesus made, I knew his vineyard, like his kingdom, could not be of this earth.
As Patrick and I had returned home, in joy, I fully believed in the meaning of Jesus’ miracles. No doubt remained in my mind.
Jesus was the True Vine. Jesus was the heavenly wine. Jesus was Messiah, the true Bridegroom of Israel, come down from heaven to redeem his people.
Martha was the commanding general, organizing all parts of the wedding with military precision. Never mind that Patrick and Adrianna were Gentiles by heritage. Martha ordered that the nuptials be executed like any Jewish wedding. There would be no mistakes. No dish underdone. No lamp unlit. No musician faltering in his song. It was understood by all that the festivities would be perfect and filled with joy … or else.
Patrick asked me to stand for him as groomsman beneath the chuppah. As the vows between Patrick and Adrianna were sealed by the rabbi, women wept. Men smiled behind their beards, and I noticed that Adrianna no longer looked plain and plump. Love, it seemed, had made her beautiful.
The wedding feast went on for hours, with dancing and song and many, many toasts.
At last the celebration culminated in the presentation of the dowry and gifts.
Samson swayed a little as he raised his glass in the toast to his daughter and new son-in-law. “And finally”—he was misty-eyed as he spoke—”for the little girl who came to us with such a kind and loving heart. Our precious, beautiful, sweet, intelligent, well-spoken, and … beautiful Adrianna. Our dear daughter. Yes. So. Where was I?”
Delilah chirped, “Hurry up! The sun will come up soon!”
Samson raised his index finger as though testing the wind. “Ah. Yes. As I was saying. Adrianna. Dear, kindhearted, and precious girl. Leaving my home for another. So. Her mother and I wish to present to the couple … the gift of …” Samson spread his arms wide and waved his hand at Carta, who waited in the shadows. “Come on, then!”
A little off cue, Carta led out Samson’s favorite wine-red donkey. There was much applause as the creature stepped forward and nuzzled Samson affectionately. “No. No, I say. You don’t belong to me any longer.” He stroked her ears. “You are a pretty little thing. The color of a fine glass of wine.” He smiled at us. “Don’t you think she is a pretty little thing? Served me well. Her name is Happiness. Now here is a double blessing. Happiness is pregnant and will soon bear a fine foal for the happy couple. Along with Happiness, I pray my son-in-law will do his duty so that many grandchildren will bless my dear Delilah and myself. May Happiness always be with you, my daughter, dear Adrianna.”
Applause. Amens. Another ten toasts. And so happiness came at last to Patrick. Just after midnight, he lifted his bride onto the back of the beautiful donkey. We plucked our torches from the ground and began the procession to deliver the couple to their new cottage among my grandfather’s ancient vines.
“My beloved has gone down to his garden,
to the beds of spices,
to feed his flocks in the gardens,
and to gather lilies.
I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine;
he feeds his flock among the lilies.”2
We serenaded beside the ancestor vine at the head of the path. Patrick bade us shalom and carried his bride into the house. He kicked the door shut.
“My dove, my perfect one, is the only one.
The only one of her mother.
The favorite of the one who bore her.
The daughters saw her and called her blessed.”3
Chapter 23
My sister Mary brought Jesus and his disciples to stay with us in Bethany for a time during the season of Omer. Peniel, the boy Jesus healed of blindness, was with us, full of joy and constant wonder.
For seven weeks we marked the days from the escape of the Hebrew slaves from Egypt until the revelation of the law at Mount Sinai. Our hearts commemorated the
journey from slaves of Pharaoh to servants of the Lord. Seven times seven days from Passover to Pentecost; it was a holy number. Each of the seven weeks represented a patriarch and the divine attributes of that man:
Abraham —Grace, Love
Isaac—Severity, Respect
Jacob—Beauty, Compassion
Joseph—Foundation, Loyalty
Moses—Victory, Efficiency
Aaron—Glory, Aesthetics
David—Majesty, Surrender
I had witnessed and come to believe that Jesus summed up all these divine attributes of God. But unlike our Fathers, there was no vice or weakness in Jesus to taint the perfect purity of his spirit. He was truly the only one without sin among us.
On this anniversary of Eliza’s passing, the Lord walked with me as the sun set over Faithful Vineyard. “Tell me, my friend, what has changed in your heart since last year?”
I thought a moment, then expressed what I knew but had never put into words. “I’m stronger now. Like Isaac. Even without my beloved. I’ve grown stronger through this long, lonely winter. Efficient like Moses. I have even surrendered to my loss … like David. But still not where I want to be, not altogether filled with the righteous attributes of the Fathers as I wish. Especially not filled with love, like Abraham. No compassion, like Jacob. So very far to go until I become …” I hesitated, feeling his gaze locked on me, listening.
“Until you become … what?”
“Until I am like you. All the positive qualities.”
We walked on together.
In the swale, where it was cooler and less exposed to the sun, the Lord paused beside a leafless vine. “Lazarus, there are no leaves. No sign of life here. Is this vine dead?”
“No, Lord. It’s alive but still sleeping. Its blood is only beginning to stir.”
“But to look at it, it looks dead. To someone who doesn’t know, it looks like something to be uprooted and burned.” He laughed.
“The warmth of the sun will wake it up in a few days. The vine is waiting for the warmth of the sun,” I answered.
“What will happen then?”
“Bud break. The vine will push out new growth.” I pointed to the vines higher on the slope. “You see?”
