The Ironsmith

by Nicholas Guild

  “I know the way, Lady. I thank you.”

  She offered her hand again, and again he bowed and touched it to his forehead.

  To Michal he also made a slight bow. She smiled her teasing smile, to which Eleazar had long since grown immune. There was a scandal behind that marriage as well, which was perhaps what recommended her to Herodias.

  As Eleazar made his solitary way along the palace corridors, the Tetrarch’s minister tried to clear his mind. Today he wished only to be the faithful servant of his master—faithful even to the extent of giving him advice he did not wish to hear. For he knew the Tetrarch was on the verge of making a dangerous mistake.

  Antipas, like his father, tended to corpulence, and at fifty, having reached an unwieldy girth and showing no inclination to place a check on his appetites, had adopted a regimen of steam baths and massage. Twice a day he subjected himself to the pummeling of a Greek slave, followed by half an hour of steam, a swim in a pool of warm water and, at the end, a cold plunge. He had been enduring this program for over a year with no detectable result. Every month he grew visibly heavier, and lately his breathing had acquired a squeaking sound, as if he were being throttled by his own flesh.

  Eleazar found him lying on his belly, a great expanse of pink flesh on a block of white marble, having his buttocks kneaded. His face happened to be turned away, but at the sound of sandaled feet against the stone floor he drew up his head and then allowed his chin to settle on his folded hands.

  “Ah, minister. They neglected to tell me you were coming today.”

  This, of course, was not true, but such polite fictions were required for a ruler who would not have altered his daily routine for anyone less than the Roman prefect.

  “I apologize for the intrusion, sire,” Eleazar replied, bowing from the waist. “If this is not a convenient time…”

  “Nonsense! We’re finished here.” He pulled himself up into a sitting posture, his legs dangling over the edge of the block, and then, scowling at the slave, waved a hand in dismissal.

  “Go on, go on, you fool. See if the stones are sufficiently heated.”

  He turned back to his minister and smiled. “Come and take a little steam with me,” he said, as if to an intimate and trusted friend. “You look as if it would do you good.”

  Eleazar sighed and proffered his thanks to his benevolent master. He hated from his soul all these foreign innovations, and Antipas doubtless knew it, but it made no difference. He stepped into a changing closet, put off his priestly garments, and wrapped himself in a strip of linen that would hardly have done for a loincloth.

  When he came out, Antipas was already in the steam chamber.

  “One cannot entrust this to a slave,” the Tetrarch said in Greek, the language he preferred in private, as he ladled water over black, twisted stones. The water hissed and bubbled, and the air was rapidly thickening. “The steam has to gather at a certain rate or one doesn’t begin to sweat properly. I learned the trick in Rome, when I was a boy.”

  He looked about him, admiring the white marble that enclosed a space hardly bigger than a tomb, and suddenly he grinned with mischief.

  “Sit down, Eleazar. Here you may relax. Here, with just the two of us, we can for the moment put court etiquette aside.”

  Eleazar sat down, but he could not relax. He had been acquainted with Antipas for thirty years, and had served him for twenty, and he knew that the man was never so dangerous as when he assumed this affable manner.

  “Now. What did you wish to see me about?”

  They talked of administrative matters first. It was perhaps an hour before the First Minister broached the subject which had tortured his mind ever since the preceding evening.

  “Sire, there is the question of this preacher, John.…”

  “Who?”

  “John, Sire—called ‘the Baptist’. He immerses people in the Jordan, claiming to take away their sins.”

  “Oh, him. What of him?” The Tetrarch seemed to go inside himself for a moment, as if to recall some detail of the matter. “He insulted my wife, didn’t he?”

  “He said your marriage was an unclean thing, Lord.”

  “That’s right. I remember now.” And then, suddenly, he laughed. “But you, in your time, have said no less.”

  This seemed a comment wisest ignored.

  “Caleb, it appears, has arrested him,” the First Minister continued quietly, as if breaking bad news.

  “Yes. I remember he said something about it.”

  “Then you gave your permission?” The inquiry was made to sound as bland as possible.

  “Yes, I suppose so. Why? The fellow is dangerous.”

  “Perhaps, sire,” Eleazar said at last. “Perhaps not. But I suspect he is more dangerous in prison than out of it. Many people revere him as a prophet, and even more respect him. If we put him to death—and we will almost be obliged to if we hold him for any period of time—then those people will be outraged.”

  “What do I care if they are ‘outraged’? I am the law in Galilee and Perea, not they.”

  “Yes, sire. But discontent can boil over at any time. If there is a riot, then you will be forced to use soldiers to quell it. The Romans are watching us, and they might overreact.”

  The Tetrarch seemed not to have heard. Sweat was collecting in the creases of his face and he looked exhausted. He took a corner of his linen wrap and wiped his forehead, then his eyes.

  But he had been listening. Any mention of the Romans always caught his attention. He could, to a degree, ignore the opinions of his subjects, but the Romans were a different matter.

  “So what are you suggesting?”

  “That the wisest course would be to let him go. He preaches that men should purify themselves against the time of God’s judgment of the world. He is a harmless madman.”

  “He has a large following. Caleb says he might incite them to anything.”

  “I have heard nothing to suggest he will incite them against Your Majesty, and if he does, then there will be time enough to act.”

  It was in every sense an uncomfortable moment. The steam was oppressive enough that it almost made one gag to breathe it. And the Tetrarch had a dangerous look in his eyes.

  “If I let him go, these people whose opinion seems so important to you will imagine I am weak. They will believe I am afraid of the Baptist.”

  Aren’t you? Eleazar asked, though only his own mind.

  “Not if we act quickly. Then it will appear as an act of clemency—an act, almost, of piety. Mercy proceeds from strength, sire. A wise and benevolent ruler, who respects a man of God and seeks only justice, corrects the act of a hasty official…”

  “Ah! That is it.” Antipas held up the index finger of his right hand, as if commanding attention. “You intend for Caleb to assume the blame.”

  “He is to blame, Lord.”

  Suddenly the Tetrarch rose to his feet, which meant that Eleazar was obliged to stand. The two men faced each other, with hardly the length of one’s arm between them. It felt like a confrontation, the beginning of a bitter quarrel.

  Antipas glanced about him, wary as a hunted animal. His hands clenched into fists.

  “Caleb protects me,” he almost shouted. “I am surrounded by enemies. The Baptist would lead a mob to the palace gates. Caleb wishes to crush him. Caleb would crush all my enemies.”

  In his mind he seemed to see it all—the howling rabble, forcing him to flee when they overpowered his household guards. The Roman prefect in Caesarea, shaking his head in silent contempt. And then the summons from Rome.

  Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Antipas, perhaps realizing that he had betrayed himself, sat back down. Eleazar remained on his feet, which the Tetrarch noticed after a moment. He motioned wearily for Eleazar to be seated again.

  For a long interval neither spoke.

  “I am tired,” the Tetrarch said finally. “I am old and weary.”

  Yes, of course, Eleazar thought. No
w he wants sympathy.

  “Your Majesty carries a heavy burden,” he replied.

  “A heavy burden … Yet I have you to help me. Haven’t I, Eleazar?”

  “Yes, sire. All that I have, all that I am, even my life, is yours.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  Antipas dropped his gaze a little and then looked sideways at his minister. He smiled. It was a smile full of menace.

  “You think Caleb is becoming a danger to you,” he said, as if the possibility had just occurred to him. “You created him. You brought him into my service. And now you want to destroy him.”

  “I am not afraid of Caleb, sire. I think, however, he needs to be curbed.”

  “No. I will not permit it.”

  Eleazar took a breath, intending to offer some protest, but then thought better of it. The Tetrarch, he knew, would not be moved. It had become a point of honor.

  So, best to defer the question to another day, when heads might be cooler.

  “Then would it be possible merely to hold the Baptist for the time being? An honorable detention, while we make inquiries.”

  “Caleb is already in Machaerus.” Antipas made a gesture with his right hand, as if presenting a gift. His smile, however, betrayed him. “He has orders to question the Baptist and to act accordingly. If this ‘harmless madman’ of yours has dared to call my marriage into question, he dies. The audience is over.”

  He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. There was nothing to do except to rise once more and bow. Eleazar was already pushing against the door when he heard the Tetrarch’s voice again.

  “You really do fear Caleb, don’t you, minister. Perhaps you are right. It will be interesting to see which of you is my true servant.”

  * * *

  When he returned to the changing closet, Eleazar closed the door and was for the moment completely alone. It was then that his usual icy calm deserted him. He leaned his forehead against the cool marble wall and fear flooded his heart.

  So this is what it all means, he thought. He sees Caleb’s ambition, so he will set us against each other like dogs fighting over a scrap of meat.

  And Eleazar knew what would happen if he lost. Antipas was extravagant, always building new palaces and always in debt. Even with the vast wealth of Galilee at his disposal, he was constantly borrowing money. The First Minister’s property, his farms and houses, his money invested with merchants, all he had inherited from his father and had acquired since by his own labor, could not help but tempt a ruler who never felt himself rich enough.

  Caleb had been clever. He had played on the Tetrarch’s fears, for a despot was always afraid of rebellion. He had insinuated his wife into Herodias’s inner circle. He had arrested the Baptist and now, doubtless, would begin a great purge of his followers. There would be accusations and forced confessions, leading to a series of carefully staged executions, all of it serving to impress upon the Tetrarch the narrowness of his escape. Thus Caleb would rise in power and influence. He would become First Minister, and his word would become law. Good men would go to their deaths that Caleb might buy up their property at a tenth of its value. He would become a great man, wealthy and feared.

  And Galilee would become a realm of nightmare.

  And Zadok, what would become of him? He would lose his inheritance. The future to which his talents entitled him would be obliterated in a stroke. The best he could hope for was that his mother’s family might be able to keep him safe in Jerusalem.

  Unless the Romans, as a goodwill gesture, decided to make a gift of him to the new First Minister of Galilee. Caleb was of a vengeful temperament. Even with the father dead, it might gratify him to take out what remained of his resentment on the son.

  “Unless I can stop him,” he whispered to himself, and then added, bitterly, “my disciple.”

  These terrors were unworthy of him, Eleazar decided. He pushed himself away from the cold, comforting stone.

  He dressed quickly, putting on his priestly robes, making sure that everything was in order. He would leave now, in silence but not in haste—he did not wish to appear to be running away, not least to himself.

  4

  On his return journey from Machaerus to Sepphoris, Caleb stopped off in Tiberias. He had to explain to the Tetrarch that it had proved necessary to execute John. The Tetrarch received him in the palace gardens, where he was taking his after-dinner stroll. The news was not well received.

  “So now, instead of a living prophet, we have a corpse. You may have trouble with the Lord Eleazar about this.”

  Which meant, of course, that Antipas was disappointed. And, as his servant understood only too well, disappointment was a dangerous emotion in rulers.

  “John could not be broken,” Caleb replied, his voice low and confiding. “The man was not human. He cared nothing about pain, and he saw death as deliverance. Thus he had no weakness to exploit.”

  “You sound as if you admire him.”

  The Tetrarch smiled contemptuously, and Caleb could almost see the dark wings of death fluttering over his head.

  They had stopped for a moment. The lord of Galilee and Perea needed to catch his breath. The two men stood facing one other.

  “Admired?” Caleb could only shrug. “No, sire. John was mad. He had buried himself in his madness, too deep to be reached by the usual means—probably by any means.”

  He paused, knowing that on the next throw of the dice he was wagering his life. He glanced about him, and his gaze fell on a little tree, no taller than a man, and he noticed how black its leaves appeared. It occurred to him how beautiful the world was, and how much he would regret leaving it.

  “However, his disciples were sane enough to run away,” Caleb continued. “I had given orders to arrest them along with the Baptist, but of course the fools allowed them to escape. I will hunt them all down, and we will soon know how widely this conspiracy has spread.”

  For perhaps a quarter of a minute the Tetrarch’s face was expressionless, even vacant. He might not even have been listening.

  Caleb had the uncomfortable feeling that Antipas was already measuring him for his coffin.

  Then the Tetrarch smiled, raised his hand, and placed it on Caleb’s shoulder.

  “I always know I can count on you in such matters,” he said.

  Half an hour later, Caleb was sitting in his study in the house that was kept for him against his visits to Tiberias. He was drinking wine to settle his nerves and, as his fear subsided, entertaining himself with regrets about the lie he had told. He had never ordered the disciples’ arrest. It had not occurred to him.

  However, such lies were necessary. Now it would be someone else’s head on the block. The officer at Machaerus, probably—what was his name? In any case, Caleb thought, better him than me.

  Or probably, by morning, the Tetrarch would have forgotten about it.

  Michal sent word that she was detained by the Lady Herodias. Caleb spent an uncomfortable night alone.

  * * *

  As soon as he was back in Sepphoris, Caleb directed his attention to the Baptist’s followers. He had long lists of them.

  One name immediately suggested itself—partly because the man might prove useful not as a victim but as a spy, and partly because his arrest would be such an exquisite jest.

  Judah bar Isaac was a Judean living in Tiberias. Caleb had made inquiries and discovered that his instinct had been correct. Judah received his income through a Greek merchant, the money coming from Jerusalem. Judah apparently was in disgrace with his family, but he seemed to be living an agreeable enough life. He was indolent and pleasure loving and enjoyed considerable popularity with an aristocratic set that included both Greeks and Jews.

  It was a familiar pattern, one Caleb himself had followed in his youth. It seemed to run in the family, because Judah was a cousin, the grandson of his mother’s elder sister.

  However, it appeared that not all scapegraces were dismissed on quite the same terms. Caleb’s father had
given him a small purse of silver coins and title to a farm in Galilee, where presumably he would scratch a living out of the earth and acquire the virtues of a good peasant. His cousin had means enough to enjoy a leisured existence in Tiberias. Had his sins been so much less?

  Caleb tried to recall if they had ever met. Probably, although he had no memory of this favored youth. Judah, who was five years younger, certainly would have none of him.

  This business would require some care. Judah was a member of one of the leading Levite families, close to the high priesthood in Jerusalem. A common laborer can be arrested, tortured, and killed without risk, but not a Levite. The Temple was sacred, and the Levites were its servants.

  So one had to take care. The arrest had to be managed quietly, so that Judah’s friends in Tiberias would think he had simply fallen off the face of the earth.

  Caleb had just the man for this kind of work.

  Matthias was a palace guard, young, very strong, reasonably intelligent, and utterly without pity. He also drank, so much that he would long since have been dismissed if Caleb had not learned to value his interesting set of skills. When he was given a task, however, he stayed out of the wineshops until it was finished.

  Caleb explained the difficulties to Matthias and gave him his orders: “Bring Judah bar Isaac to Sepphoris and put him in the lower prison. I want him to have no idea where he has come to, or why.”

  To Uriah, his faithful servant and master of the lower prison, he also gave instructions.

  “You will receive a new charge. You are not to molest him or injure him in any way. Yet it is necessary that he learns to fear you. Can you accomplish that?”

  Uriah’s answer was a grin of pleasure.

  In less than a week Matthias could report that Judah bar Isaac was safely installed in his cell.

  “How did you do it?” Caleb inquired—not because he cared but because he knew the value of giving subordinates a chance to describe their accomplishments.

  But if Matthias took any pride in his work it did not show. His face was as impassive as if it were made of iron. Only his eyes betrayed him, for in them there was a hint of something like anguish.