The Ironsmith

by Nicholas Guild

  “We need an interval of calm.”

  Noah, the artisan, the petty tradesman with his saw blades displayed upon the walls and his pots of nails, had had the last word. His cousin, Joshua bar Joseph, disciple of an executed criminal, was now to be regarded as a dreamer and a harmless crank, preaching love and forgiveness to peasant women.

  So the preacher of sedition becomes the messenger of God’s forgiveness. Noah becomes a spy for the First Minister, and all is peace and light. The last word.

  “Caleb—why do I always find you here?” he heard someone say, in Greek.

  Caleb wiped his eyes and saw, sitting on the bench opposite him, a corpulent, middle-aged man with his thinning hair wet from the plunge pool and plastered to his forehead like fangs, as if his face were peering out from the jaws of some huge serpent. He was actually smiling, seemingly glad to have discovered an acquaintance.

  But, then, why shouldn’t he be? He was the sort who need fear no one.

  “Kephalos. I thought you were in Alexandria.”

  A slave brought in a tray with a stone bottle of ice water and two cups. Kephalos filled them both and handed one to Caleb, who sat up to accept it.

  “I was, but the Tetrarch is short of money again. I am on my way to Tiberias to see his chief steward.”

  He raised his cup in salute and smiled once more, as if sharing a jest with a friend. Yes, of course, he seemed to be implying, when is the Tetrarch not short of money?

  This, naturally, was the reason he was not afraid. Not of Caleb, not of the Lord Eleazar, not even of the Tetrarch. Kephalos was indispensable. Nor was he subject to arrest or confiscation, being protected by a network of highly placed friends, all of whom owed him money. And, in any case, no one would gain by his removal. Although immensely rich himself, he never loaned out from his own treasury but preferred to broker loans for certain interests in Egypt, who were themselves protected, it was rumored, by members of the imperial family.

  “Have you come from Caesarea?” Caleb inquired, to deflect the conversation from the Tetrarch’s finances, which was never a safe subject.

  “Yes. One must put in an appearance from time to time.” He made a rueful face, for, as everyone knew, his wife was a harridan whom, because her family was influential, it would have been inconvenient to divorce. She lived in Caesarea. “Whenever I am there it occurs to me that the city has grown more brutish. In my youth, when Archelaus still ruled, I thought it charming, but with the prefect there it is full of Romans—a coarse lot.”

  “You Greeks are such snobs,” Caleb said, laughing in spite of himself.

  “Mark my words, you don’t know how well you have it. Antipas may not be a perfect ruler, but at least he is one of your own. The Judeans were fools to petition Caesar to remove Archelaus.”

  “I was a child then, but I have always heard that Archelaus was worse than his father.”

  Kephalos threw up his hands in a despairing gesture. “No one could be worse than Great Herod. There were disturbances in the Temple—when are there not disturbances in the Temple?—and perhaps Archelaus went a little far in putting them down. But is it better now? This new prefect, this Pilatus, just look at the trouble he has caused already. Wait until there is some new crisis in Jerusalem and he will crucify so many that they will run out of wood.”

  He sighed, perhaps a trifle theatrically, and poured himself another cup of ice water, which seemed to restore him to a more philosophical temper.

  “Believe me,” he said finally, “it is a curse to live under the Romans.”

  An idea was beginning to form in Caleb’s mind, so, characteristically, he tried to deflect the conversation in some other direction.

  “The whole world lives under the Romans,” he said casually, wishing suddenly he were alone.

  “This is true, but at least here in Sepphoris one does not have them constantly breathing in one’s face. Why else do you imagine I spend so much time here?”

  “I thought it was to escape the Greeks.”

  This made Kephalos laugh.

  * * *

  After another cold plunge to wake him up, Caleb dressed and went home. It was late afternoon, so he told a servant to bring him some wine and fruit up on the roof, where he could be alone with his thoughts.

  His wife, praise be to God, was out of the house.

  This time the view from his roof was a refreshment to the spirit. He could ignore the city and see the valley below, green, stirring with every breath of wind. And through the valley, no more than a silver thread, slowly curving east until it disappeared behind a range of hills, the road to Judea. The road he had followed, coming into Galilee and his long exile.

  In the extreme distance, near the summit of one of the hills, he could see a man working. He knew, rather than saw, that the man was tending vines. The slopes were steep, and little else but grapes would grow there, so they were covered with terraces. The man was moving sideways, making his way along a ledge, and from time to time he would reach up with both arms, the left hand a little above the right, which meant that he was probably trimming away dead shoots.

  The man tending the vines was doubtless a peasant living in some village beyond the crest of the hills. The chances were he had not been in Sepphoris above three times in his life, and he probably mistrusted city people. The cities belonged to the wealthy and were full of corruption—that would be his opinion. He had probably thought well of the Baptist and regarded Antipas with sullen hostility. This man, Caleb understood, was his natural enemy.

  The peasants were capable of anything. They might come into the city for some holiday and begin to riot, simply because some one or another of their heroes had been arrested. Sometimes the Tetrarch’s officials went into their villages and were never heard from again.

  Caleb did not worry about the city dwellers. There was no danger from the wealthy, or even from the small traders. Men were easily controlled, provided they had something to lose, but the peasants were another matter.

  It had become Caleb’s destiny to protect the Tetrarch from those who wished him harm. Most of his subjects wished him harm.

  But now it had been decided that all was to be love and forgiveness. The Tetrarch had no enemies.

  So what need had he of a protector?

  To be unnecessary was to be in a dangerous position. Servants who were unnecessary had a way of disappearing.

  Caleb’s problem was how to demonstrate to the Tetrarch that the danger was real, that men like Joshua bar Joseph constituted the natural opposition to his reign.

  The Lord Eleazar, he decided, might be right. It would not do to allow the Tetrarch’s unpopularity to reach intolerable levels. Arresting Joshua bar Joseph might prove dangerous, even if he had no following.

  Nevertheless, it was necessary that he be arrested.

  However, if it could be arranged that he was arrested outside of Galilee and executed by the Romans …

  The Romans were hated, but they were feared even more. The Romans could execute a hundred religious fanatics and it would hardly be noticed.

  And they would destroy anyone they saw as a threat to their power, so certainly they would execute Joshua bar Joseph. It was merely a question of putting him within reach of the lion’s paw.

  Caleb thought he might have the means close at hand.

  24

  Jerusalem.

  Eleazar could not remember the first time his parents had brought him here, but it always inspired in him the same sense of awe. God filled the universe. He was everywhere. But He was more here, in this city, than anywhere on earth.

  Eleazar returned to Jerusalem five or six times a year, for the festivals and to take his turn performing the duties of the priesthood. He maintained a house here, and he had purchased a tomb just outside the city walls. He did not believe in any life after death, but still it gave him a certain comfort to know that when his time came he would lay down his bones here.

  He sometimes felt that he was permitted to be a
different person in Jerusalem, that the politician was an identity he left behind in Galilee, that here he was allowed to be merely God’s servant. He understood that this was an illusion, but a part of him believed it nonetheless.

  So it was with a lightness of heart that he passed under the great arch of the western gate. He had come up to fulfill his twice-yearly obligation as a priest by serving his turn in the Temple. For two weeks he would work in twelve-hour shifts, offering sacrifice at the altar of God. But he had arrived a week ahead and planned to remain a week after. At least for the time being, Galilee was calm, and he had needed to get away.

  He arrived at his house just half an hour before the beginning of the Sabbath and was present to recite the prayer while the Sabbath candles were lit. Afterwards, and until it was time for bed, he read from a collection of the Psalms of David.

  The next morning he walked to the Temple and was purified. He spent the rest of the day, until sundown, in a close study of Isaiah.

  The Sabbath over, Eleazar went to see his son. While pursuing his studies, Zadok lived with his aunt—his late mother’s sister—and her husband, Micah, with whom Eleazar had been friends since childhood. Micah promptly invited Eleazar to dinner.

  Micah was a plump, convivial soul and deserved to be happy, and his choice of a wife indicated that he had the better judgment in such matters. Elisheba was a pleasant woman, very different from her younger sister, and Eleazar had often thought that his own life might have been happier had he married her instead. He had been misled by a certain teasing quality in Rebekah, imagining it to indicate a sweet nature. Perhaps he had more than imagined it. Perhaps it had even been there, disguised as flirtatiousness. But he had not been the husband to draw it out.

  Perhaps, then, the blame was his, and it wouldn’t have mattered which sister he had married. In either case, the marriage had been a misery for them both.

  Micah and Elisheba had two daughters, ages ten and twelve and both fancying themselves in love with Zadok. After dinner Elisheba and the girls disappeared and the men went up to the roof to enjoy the cool darkness of a Jerusalem night and to drink wine.

  The wine was excellent and was served in heavy silver cups, for Micah was a man of substance who owned several valuable farms in Judea and Samaria.

  “At least they can’t take this away from us,” Micah said, setting his oil lamp down on a small, circular table. “Except during the festivals, you could almost imagine you were living in the City of David.”

  It was a commonplace enough remark, hardly more than a sort of verbal clearing of one’s throat, and requiring no response, but Zadok, who was full of student idealism—or perhaps needed to assert his claim to be taken seriously—nevertheless offered one.

  “You mean you don’t have to see the Roman soldiers strolling along the tops of the Temple walls?” He smiled and took a sip of his wine. “I don’t know why they bother to come. Their presence undoubtedly provokes more trouble than it discourages.”

  His uncle laughed, probably because he was the host.

  “I believe you,” he said, looking off into the darkness. “A mob is always fearless—until the Romans come down from the walls.”

  Zadok did not seem entirely satisfied with this.

  “Without the Romans, the people would be guided by the priests, who are, after all, their natural leaders.” He took another sip of his wine, which in the darkness appeared almost black. “Under the Persians the high priest ruled, and there was peace.”

  “But today he is no more than a functionary,” Eleazar said without emphasis, only putting his hand on his son’s arm. “The Roman prefect can dismiss him with a word—as Old Herod could and did when he was ruler here. The prefect even keeps the high priest’s regalia under lock and key, only allowing him to wear it during the festivals. The people see this, and draw the inevitable conclusions.”

  “And what conclusions would those be?” Micah asked, making it sound like a challenge.

  “That the priesthood serves the Romans and not them. That we have forfeited our right to be regarded as their ‘natural leaders,’ as my son put it.”

  Eleazar smiled faintly and shook his head.

  “It was a necessary compromise,” he went on. “But it was still a compromise. And now they look to those who refuse to compromise.”

  “Like this John, whom they called the Baptist.” Micah uttered a grunt of contempt. “A fanatic who dressed in animal skins and ate locusts. Let us thank the One True God there are not many like him.”

  “There are more than you would imagine.”

  Eleazar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Suddenly he felt old and worn out. He began to reach for his wine cup but then thought better of it. Wine was not the remedy he needed.

  What he needed was to tell the story.

  “I met one recently,” he said at last. “A tradesman—an ironsmith to be precise. He failed to provide properly incriminating evidence against a kinsman and was beaten for it—not by my order, I am relieved to say. He understood the warning, but do you know what he told me? That breaking the commandment against bearing false witness would be worse than death. I thought it was an interesting remark from a man who only a few hours before had been so starkly reminded that he was mortal.”

  “The ignorant always see life in terms of such absolute choices.”

  “But this man is not ignorant. Why would you assume, Micah, that he is ignorant? Merely because he is not a priest? He is reputed to be a man learned in Torah, and from my knowledge of him, I have no trouble believing it.

  “My point is that such men are a moral force to be reckoned with. The Romans, granted, are themselves little better than common ruffians, incapable of appreciating any virtue in their subjects except submission. But we, God’s priests, are not Romans, and we need the support of men like my ironsmith because such men are rapidly taking our place as the ‘natural leaders’ of the common people. What is a priest these days, when he is beyond the Temple walls? A landowner whom his tenants never see, and who is therefore hated as an oppressor, or the servant of a ruler like Herod Antipas, and thus hated even more.”

  * * *

  As was their custom when Eleazar was in Jerusalem, Zadok stayed with his father. That evening, as together they walked back to the First Minister’s house, they had little to say to one another.

  They went to Eleazar’s study, and a servant brought them a pitcher of cold water and a pair of cups. When the servant was gone, Eleazar filled the two cups and they drank in silence.

  “I have never heard you speak that way,” Zadok said at last. “I have never heard you say such things.”

  “It was an unguarded moment. Perhaps I had a little too much wine.” His father shrugged and smiled faintly.

  “You hardly touched your wine.”

  “Didn’t I? Then perhaps that is the reason. Some things it is a mistake to see too clearly.”

  25

  As soon as it became known that Deborah was to marry the ironsmith from Sepphoris, which was almost as soon as she knew it herself, both of the other fish merchants in Capernaum offered to buy her business. Within two days the matter was settled. Even her house was sold.

  She explained it all to Noah as they sat beneath her grape arbor.

  “Perhaps you could even accompany Joshua and me to Nazareth.” He made a small, self-deprecating gesture, as if shooing away a fly. “You could stay with Joshua’s mother until we are married. Of course, I can imagine many reasons why that might not be practical. There is your packing…”

  “All of which Hannah can manage without me. There is nothing to hold me here.”

  When he could summon courage to look her full in the face, Noah discovered that she was smiling.

  “Please take me with you,” she said. “I have been unhappy here so long, and I do not wish to be separated from you again.”

  “Then you will not be.”

  He leaned forward and, very softly, kissed her on the lips.r />
  * * *

  After the first star had proclaimed the end of the Sabbath, Noah and Joshua walked to Deborah’s house to celebrate the journey, which would begin at first light the following morning. The house was in disorder because Hannah had begun packing and sorting as soon as she heard her mistress’s news. Although she had never known any place but Capernaum, staying behind in it formed no part of her plans.

  Deborah, sensing Hannah’s distraction, prepared dinner with her own hands.

  To be out of Hannah’s way, the three sat outside, resting their plates on their knees. There was a faint breeze from the sea, just enough to stir the air, and the moon shone like bronze.

  “One would think she is the one getting married, instead of you.”

  Joshua had clearly intended a jest, but something in Deborah’s expression suggested that he had come close to the truth.

  “What have you promised the poor girl?” he asked.

  “I have said that whatever I do not take to Sepphoris she may regard as her own to sell towards her dowry. There.” She shrugged her shoulders—quite prettily, Noah thought to himself. “Is that so evil? She too wants a husband.”

  “Is that all women think about anymore?” Joshua asked.

  “We have been through this before,” Noah interjected. Neither of the others betrayed any symptom of having heard him.

  “She is poor—as I was once poor,” Deborah said. “And she is alone.”

  “She is not alone as long as she has you.” Noah covered her hand with his own. “In you she has a better friend than most people can lay claim to.”

  But Deborah was not mollified.

  “A friend is not a husband. I cannot give her a family. She wants children, and a man’s arms around her. A man can lead many different lives. He can wander the earth if it suits him, and there is always time to settle. A woman has only one chance at happiness, and that is marriage.”

  “The only happiness is in God,” Joshua announced, as if that settled the matter. He tried not to show it, but Noah could see that he was nettled. “In God’s kingdom we are all His children.”