When Jesus Wept

by Bodie

  The fellow’s lips pursed in disappointment. “He did not get everything. But he took enough. I am Porthos of Athens. Traveled far to worship the Lord in Zion. Now I must pray that I will be able to pay my fare and return home again. I thank you, friend.”

  “My estate is not far from the city. Bethany. I am David ben Lazarus. Ask for me in the village if you need a place to stay.” Glancing toward the sun, I knew that I was late. Judah and Jemima would be waiting the noon meal for my arrival. I parted from Porthos. Clamping one hand tightly over my moneybelt, I hurried toward Judah’s house.

  It was hot. I covered my nose against the stink of animal dung that littered the paving stones leading from the souk.

  The streets were steep and narrow beyond the clamor. Feeling a sense of relief as I left the confusion behind, I turned to the right and climbed a series of steps, rising from the hovels of the poor toward the mansions of Jerusalem’s wealthiest citizens.

  Judah’s mansion was high on the western hill, with a clear view of the Temple Mount and the palaces belonging to the Roman governor, Tetrarch Herod Antipas, and the high priest. The blocky bulk of the Antonia Fortress, barracks of Roman soldiers, glowered down on the Temple courts to stifle dissent. Worship your Jewish god if you choose, it seemed to say, but know that Caesar is lord.

  For High Priest Caiaphas, over whom the Antonia’s shadow daily fell, this dichotomy of deities was no struggle at all. He, like his father-in-law, the high priest Annas before him, had long since compromised their piety in exchange for wealth and power.

  Our Roman oppressors and their henchmen passed by the walls of Judah’s house many times through the day, coming and going to their own grand mansions. As I emerged from the winding alleyway onto the broad avenue, trumpets proclaimed the procession of Roman cavalry accompanying a nobleman on horseback. I guessed they were on their way to see Governor Pilate.

  Pausing in the shadows, I watched them approach. Pedestrians scrambled out of the way of prancing horses and the hobnailed boots of the foot soldiers.

  The celebrity, a middle-aged man dressed in gold-trimmed robes, rode a dappled gray horse. The animal was barely under control. Eyes wide with fright at the noise and nostrils flared, the creature danced sideways up the road. Iron-shod hooves sparked on the flagstones. In a glance I knew the horse was not safe to ride. No doubt the man on its back had chosen his mount for pride and the aura of strength and not for manners.

  A fitting metaphor for many things about Rome, I thought.

  I looked toward Judah’s house and spotted movement outside the entry. Was that Judah and Jemima in the street? My friend and his sister were standing beside a cart loaded with oil jugs. I was late. Perhaps they were there watching for my arrival. I waved, catching Judah’s attention.

  As he spotted me, he jumped up on the cart, waving to return my greeting. The rear latch of the cart failed, and five precariously balanced amphorae tumbled out just as the Roman nobleman neared the spot. The containers of oily fluid crashed onto the pavement right in front of the skittish horse. The animal whinnied and reared. Its master tried to control the panic, but iron shoes slipped on oiled stone, and the horse crashed down, throwing the rider against Judah’s wall.

  There was no time to think. I ran toward the injured man. Bodyguards with shields and swords pushed me back, as if I had intended to harm the bloodied rider.

  “They tried to assassinate the ambassador!”

  “Go! Quickly! Arrest them!”

  “Sedition! The house of Judah ben Perez! A rebel!”

  As Judah’s gates crashed open, I tried to explain what had happened, what I had witnessed. “An accident! It was an accident! I’m their guest. They were looking for me. The jugs broke loose! It was not meant to harm.”

  I was beaten into silence by an apelike sergeant who lunged from the ranks. He knocked me to the ground with the handle of his javelin, striking me hard on shoulders and head. He continued to hammer me long after I stopped resisting.

  The last thing I remember was the screams of the women inside the gate and the command from the decurion: “Arrest them! A nest of rebels, this House of Perez! Take them all away!” I tried to shield my head as blows continued. And then I passed out.

  Chapter 6

  David?” Martha’s calm voice was like still waters in my roaring ears. “David? Are you awake, my darling brother?” I squinted into the light as my sister smiled down at me. Pain stabbed through my head. My body ached everywhere.

  “What … happened?” I stammered. The light streaming from the window was too bright, even though my eyes would barely open. “An accident?”

  “A Greek Jew named Porthos brought you home,” she explained.

  “Home? From where?” I struggled to sit up, but she pushed me back on my bed with one finger.

  “From Jerusalem.”

  “From Jerusalem? Why was I in Jerusalem?”

  “You went to visit Judah. And his sister. Do you remember now?”

  “No.” I searched my memory and could not recollect anything past breakfast with Martha.

  “When? After breakfast?”

  “It was two days ago, David.” She stroked my forehead with a cool cloth. My head felt three times its normal size, and one side of my mouth would not work properly.

  “An accident?” My body hurt too much for this to be a small matter.

  Behind Martha, a burly Greek in a turban spoke from the corner of the room. “You were beaten by the Roman soldiers, my friend.”

  I blinked at him. “I don’t know you,” I said bluntly.

  “I am Porthos, whom you helped in pursuit of a cutpurse when we entered Jerusalem. I chanced upon you unconscious in the street outside the home of your friend Judah ben Perez.”

  Some glimmer returned. “I went to visit Judah. Yes?”

  Martha nodded. She gently touched my cheek. “Yes. David, do you remember what happened?”

  “No. I … something about … a thief … and this fellow Porthos. And then … climbing the Street of the Stairs to Judah’s house. But then … nothing.”

  Martha glanced toward Porthos, imploring him to explain.

  He moved nearer, pulling up a stool. “As a Roman contingent passed the house of your friend, a cart spilled its load and the ambassador’s horse threw him. He will live, but Judah and his family were arrested.”

  “But that cannot be … Judah?” A row of spiny stitches stretching from the corner of my mouth toward my ear prickled my cautious fingers.

  “Yes. I regret that when you tried to give testimony, you were beaten nearly to death.” Porthos patted my arm.

  “And you. Helped me. Saved my life.”

  The big man leaned back as though my comment was a wasp to be avoided. “No. Not me. I am not so courageous as you. I did not interfere with your beating. I saw the villains drag away your friend Judah and lead his family away. He fought like a lion. The women went meekly. And then, only after everyone dangerous had gone, I gathered you up and brought you home here to Bethany.”

  Martha said, “I barely recognized you. Your face is badly swollen.”

  I touched my cheek and winced. I managed to sit up. “What’s to be done?”

  Martha and Porthos exchanged a glance.

  “You must get well, brother,” Martha said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  I argued, “I mean, what’s to be done for Judah? Innocent! For Jemima and their mother. Arrested unjustly!”

  Porthos furrowed his brow. “Many on the street witnessed the accident. And it truly was … an accident. A few tried to speak up for Judah, but you see … look at yourself. Clubbed into silence. An example for others who may wish to set the record straight. Truth makes no difference to tyrants.”

  “But surely I can go to the high priest. Give testimony to the Sanhedrin.”

  Porthos shook his shaggy head. “It was not a matter for the Jewish council to deliberate and judge. It is a Roman matter. Your friend was tried and condemned the very same day. Tha
t’s all I know.”

  I recovered quickly from my injuries and returned to my work.

  Samson and his winery goats were a small legend in the world of the Roman Empire. My estate also sold enormous wheels of cheese produced from goat herds that grazed on the pastures. Samson’s pets had nothing to do with dairy production, yet, from the time I inherited the property, I devised a seal showing three goats on a wine vat. This was pressed into the wax that protected the cheese.

  This seal and Samson’s goats were destined to safeguard more than the cheese.

  Samson and I were in the barn where new barrels for the harvest were being made by my cooper, a young man of about twenty-five. My barrelmaker was a British slave named Patrick. From his youth he had been trained as a blacksmith and barrelmaker, tasked with building containers to hold provisions for the Roman army. His foot was crushed when a stack of barrels shifted during a rough sea voyage. To save his life the gangrenous leg had been amputated below the knee. Unable to march or work, Patrick was of no further use to Rome.

  He had come to my vineyard five years earlier when old Samson recognized value in Patrick’s skill. Upon Samson’s advice I purchased Patrick for a few denarii at the slave auction in Caesarea Maritima. We brought him home in a wagon. Though Patrick knew few words in our language, Samson showed him an enormous stack of cured wood, the blacksmith forge, and tools for barrelmaking. The young cripple seemed pleased. Leaning on one crutch, he hobbled about the shed. He nodded and grinned his approval. He selected one lightweight, straight-grained piece of palm wood, hefted it in one arm, and said, “Not good. This not for wine.” And he tossed the palm plank toward his cot.

  The morning after his arrival, I heard the blows of hammer on metal and smelled smoke from the forge. When Samson and his goats came to fetch me, we hurried to the workshop.

  Patrick was already at work and walking.

  Samson declared, “Sir, you got a bargain in this one. In the night the lad fashioned himself a wooden leg. Lined it with fleece for his stump and fastened it to his body by leather straps attached to his belt. I have the feeling he’ll be an asset to our winemaking, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”

  Years had passed, and Patrick’s cleverness and skill were indeed assets. The quality of the wine depended much on the quality of the barrels. Patrick’s work was admirable. Our cooperage now had three apprentices under Patrick’s supervision.

  He stood as tall as any strong man and worked as hard as two. He had modified and perfected his wooden leg until he walked with an almost imperceptible limp.

  Patrick now spoke our language with almost no accent. He addressed me with the same affectation he had learned from Samson. “If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, it’s got to be all oak. Away with the palm. Though I prefer palm for my false leg, it plays the grapes false in the fermenting.”

  Samson agreed. “Bitter, in my opinion, sir.”

  “And also acacia wood. Acacia. No good, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Patrick added. “I say oak is the wood. Harvest in the winter … less sap. And—”

  The clatter of shod horse hooves interrupted our discussion.

  Samson moved toward the door of the barn and stood framed in the light. “Romans.” Samson’s goats gathered round his legs. He turned his face toward me. “Two soldiers, sir.”

  At that news, Patrick retreated to the lean-to that was his living quarters. He drew the curtain across the door. I knew he feared his former masters with good reason. His apprentices left off their labor.

  Moments passed and a Roman sergeant in leather body armor walked toward the shop. He demanded of Samson, “Where’s your master, old man? The woman at the house says he’s here.”

  I stepped forward. “I am David ben Lazarus, master of this estate.”

  The brute-faced Roman slapped his fist against his chest. “Hail, Caesar.”

  “Shalom,” I replied, unwilling to respond in like manner.

  “You are a friend of Judah ben Perez,” he demanded.

  “I am.”

  “You have been making inquiries, so we hear. Saying around Jerusalem things such as, ‘Where is Judah? What have they done with his mother and sister’ … and such as that.”

  “And do you have news of my friend?”

  I noticed that Samson and the goats had stepped into the shadows, where a stack of barrels leaned against the wall.

  “News? Ha! Of a man accused of sedition? There will be no news … The tribune sent me to give you this warning.”

  “And what is that?”

  The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “He sent me to tell you to shut up and quit asking the questions. For your own safety. A favor to you.”

  I could not help but ask, “Why would a Roman tribune wish to warn a Judean grape grower?”

  At this, the sergeant cracked a wide grin. “For the sake of them three milk goats.” He jerked his thumb toward Samson and the trio of animals around his legs.

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow …”

  “Tribune’s been a great lover of them cheeses of yours. He wants a wheel in return for his favor.”

  I nodded at Samson. “Fetch the sergeant a wheel of the Three Goats, if you please.”

  Samson hurried from the shop.

  The sergeant was not finished. “Tribune says he never tasted better cheese as from them three milk goats there. Wondrous, he says. Dreams of it on campaign. Then he hears the very goats are not more than a few miles from where he is stationed. A miracle, he says. One wheel provided on every new moon will satisfy his appetite. But you are to quit asking the question about your friend. Consider them all dead and shut up about it, or there won’t be anything he can do to help you.”

  Samson returned with the heavy, wax-sealed round of goat cheese. He placed it into the sergeant’s arms. The soldier examined the seal, then peered at the three goats nudging Samson’s legs.

  “Aye. That’s it. These are the very milk goats, then? Best cheese in the empire.” He slapped his fist against the cheese. “Hail, Caesar!” The sergeant turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode away.

  We were all silent, except the goats, who laughed and gently butted Samson’s knees.

  “Well, then,” Samson said at last. “That’s that.”

  Patrick emerged from behind his curtain. He was on crutches, and his half leg dangled. He shrugged and explained, “They would not want to take a lame man back into service.”

  Patrick’s apprentices eyed him with surprise and returned to work.

  I clapped Samson on the back. “We must never let on, eh? The three goats who grace the seal of our cheeses are neutered males you raised from kids and could not bear to slaughter.”

  “Aye, sir. Wethers, every one. My dear boys never gave a drop of milk for cheese, sir. Nor will they. It would indeed be wondrous and a miracle of biblical proportion. That’s why they smile so.” He scratched their heads affectionately. “Our secret, eh, boys?”

  Chapter 7

  Porthos continued as our house guest. My sister and I welcomed him and gave no thought to how long he might remain with us. He was a middle-class merchant who sold copper cooking pots in the agora of Athens. He was a gentle bear of a man. Quiet and wearing a crooked smile on his broad face, his father was a Greek, but his Jewish mother had raised Porthos in the faith of Yahweh.

  He grew up learning Torah while living in the Greek culture. He told us he often sat near Mars Hill to listen to the philosophers.

  “At last I saved enough to make pilgrimage to Jerusalem where the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob made his dwelling place. I made this journey so I could return to Athens and argue with intelligence about the true identity of the Unknown God. And the moment my feet crossed the threshold, I was robbed. Ah. Men are the same everywhere, are they not?”

  My household found Porthos pleasant and entertaining company, well spoken and educated in philosophy in the manner of the Greeks.

  I invited Samson and Patrick to join Porthos
and me on my patio in the cool of the evening. As the stars winked above us, we four men sipped fine wine and spoke of Jews and Gentiles, of things of God and Torah, and of the rumors of Jesus of Nazareth in Galilee.

  Porthos told us of the philosophers on Mars Hill. “They seem so high above us, rich and robed, as we merchants sell to the common folks in the marketplace below.” Porthos swept his hand across the horizon. “How many temples to how many gods surround the common folk of Athens? And yet there is one small temple built to the Unknown God, for fear they may have left one out and he become angry. Ha! The Unknown God is the one and only God in heaven and earth … the God I know and worship … the God of Israel.”

  Patrick, who was not a Jew, asked, “I hear about the God of Israel every hour of every day as I work. Samson won’t let me forget that the Only True God is Israel’s God. Finally I believe it, though I don’t know why. So, can’t you just go up there and tell those fellows?”

  Porthos raised his bushy eyebrows, “Once I tried to join in their discussion. They spoke of politics, gladiators, world government, and the fierce gods of Rome. Roman gods, they deduce, must be more powerful than any others.”

  Samson laughed. “How could a kettle-seller possibly convince anyone?”

  “I spoke of Torah—that through the Prophets and the Psalms, the Unknown God is revealed. I told them of the soul, of right and wrong, and of heaven … the abode of the righteous.”

  Samson leaned forward. “You told the Greek philosophers these things? You’re a man of courage!”

  Porthos shook his head. “Not so. They laughed at me. And when they did, I blushed and hurried away. Even so, in my market stall, when common folk spoke about the cruelty of the gods of Rome, I told them about the Lord, the One God who is named Merciful. One day Messiah will come and heal and forgive our sins. And the lion will lay down with the lamb. Now here’s the miracle. The poor and humble, even among the Greeks, are eager to hear more of our God of mercy.” Porthos held up a thick finger. “That is where we must begin to share the truth … with those who have nothing. Like John the Baptizer has done.”