When Jesus Wept

by Bodie

  “But the sun shines upon you … here. Today.”

  “Then what will I do with all the dreams of revenge that I have cherished?”

  “You can learn to cherish this day that the Lord has made. You cannot make sweet wine from bitter grapes.”

  “I imagine my older brother. What he received from my father’s hand. Everything. While Oren died and I suffered at the hands of cruel masters.” He studied the devastation beside us. “When the locusts came, I imagined my brother’s life and wished such disaster on him. When I heard the news the locusts were coming, I hoped to help defeat the plague for you and win the hand of a wife and return home a free man.”

  “And will knowing the fate of your brother make you happy? Will you be happy if his life is as desolate as this field? As happy in revenge as you are here in a good life among people who love you and work that prospers you?”

  Patrick’s lower lip jutted out. His brow furrowed. “Ah, I see. I never thought of it. Aye. Different thought than I have had in these twelve years.”

  “Could it be that God has a different plan for you? That he has given you a new father who longs for you to stay instead of go? A mother who will cherish you?”

  He looked at me, and his lips curved in wonder. “And perhaps an elder brother?”

  I nodded and stretched out my hand to him. “Come. I have something to show you.”

  In silence, we rode up the slope that skirted my grandfather’s vineyard. A narrow path branched off from the main road and the knoll of a low hill. A crooked trail led to a ruined cottage surrounded by an overgrown tangle of briars and a block of age-blackened, untended vines. Even after the locust plague, the wild foliage appeared to be unharmed by the insects.

  I explained, “This is where my mother was raised by her widowed mother. It was a caretaker’s cottage. Ten acres of vines and a few fig trees.”

  I did not speak of the thousands of acres stolen from my grandfather’s estate. Perhaps Samson had already told the sad story to Patrick, for the young man’s eyes filled with sorrow as he surveyed the wreckage.

  “Right next to Herod’s vineyard,” said Patrick. “And yet not devoured. Just … unloved. Neglected.”

  I took a deep breath. “It was a house of joy, in spite of sorrow. I own the cottage and the vineyard, though it has been deserted and uncultivated for many years.”

  “There is still life here.”

  “Samson rode out and walked the vineyard. He says the vines can be brought back to vigor. Two seasons, he says, if they are loved.”

  Patrick sat in silence. “And why have you abandoned this for so long?”

  I shrugged. “It was a reminder of things long past. Though it is only a few minutes’ ride from my Bethany estate, I did not wish to travel through the vines claimed by Herod to get here. So it has lain fallow these many years. These vines are the most ancient in the land. Grown from cuttings that go back to the time of King David. In my grandfather’s day, the wines from this place were sacramental. Used for holy purposes. Perhaps that is why Herod the Great was afraid to touch them.”

  I studied Patrick’s expression as he took it all in. I saw his thoughts race as he considered what a clever man could accomplish in such a place.

  He did not speak. I clucked my tongue, urging my mount forward toward the house. Patrick’s donkey followed.

  One great vine, gnarled and as large as the trunk of a man, stood sentinel beside the flagstone path leading to the front door. “From that vine, the cuttings for many vineyards were taken. It is the ancestor of the wine of Israel. King David and Solomon drank from its fruit.”

  Patrick licked his lips. “I wish that I might … one day.”

  “The caretaker was a prophet, they say. He was one killed by Herod the Great in the rebellion.”

  “It is a beautiful cottage.” Patrick seemed to see past reality.

  The roof was damaged, but the walls were strong stone blocks. The door hung askew on broken hinges. A barn and stone-walled sheep pens were intact. The well was covered by a stone.

  I dismounted. “Samson says such a place would blossom under the care of a good tenant. One who would share eighteen percent of his crop with me on a ninety-nine-year lease … renewable on the same terms with future generations. Perhaps an arrangement with a bright young man … with a wife … and a flock of happy children.”

  Patrick stepped off the donkey. “Do you know any such fellow?”

  “The only one I thought of is determined to leave for the far north of the world and never more return.”

  Patrick looked down at his hands. “Sir,” he said slowly, “I did not ever dare to dream of such a paradise as this.”

  I surveyed the ruined dwelling place, the tangle of vines and briars. “Paradise.” I repeated the word.

  “Yes,” he answered. “I say yes. If you will have me. I will stay. We will stay.”

  “I will contribute workmen to help you restore the house and clear the vines. And then it will be up to you and Adrianna and God to build a life.”

  Chapter 21

  The old cottage and still more ancient vineyard transformed dramatically, resurrected through the enthusiasm of Patrick, the energy of Carta, and the eager participation of Samson. The men divided their time between saving the dilapidated house and restoring the fields.

  The cabin boasted only two rooms, separated by a wall containing the central fireplace and a space for cooking. I worked when I could spare time from my winery, and within two weeks the roof was sound, and the missing chinking in the walls repaired. Soon after, the chimney was repaired and the flue was drawing properly.

  Inside two more weeks, Patrick and Carta had constructed a sturdy table and chairs for the front room. They added a clothes chest and a bed with a wooden frame and rope mattress for the back.

  Patrick hung oiled-leather coverings over the two openings that served as windows. He also installed a new front door. It was strapped by leather hinges to a pole that rotated in sockets in lintel and floor. Thereafter he swept the paving stones and declared himself satisfied with the house.

  He set to work repairing the water supply by cleaning the well and cistern.

  While I had only visited occasionally, supplying such tools, lumber, and stone as the job required, I gave Samson leave to see to the property’s vineyard.

  One afternoon I rode over to inspect the progress. The rows in between the vines had been shorn of weeds. The trellis work had been repaired. Beside a cistern near the vines was a heap of debris, shoveled from its depths. Carta was dumping yet another bucket of dirt clods before dropping the pail back into the opening by its rope.

  Samson greeted me as I arrived. He waved a cutting and summoned me to examine it. “See here, sir. If I may say so, there’s life in this old vine yet.” He split a cane with his knife and showed me a tiny fragment of green at its core. “Waiting, as it were,” he said. “Dormant-like. It’s as if it was waiting to be watered by its true master. Not give away its secrets to one as won’t appreciate it, if you take my meaning.”

  I summoned Carta to join us. “I understand completely,” I said, squinting at the hillside and the angle of the sun and digging in the soil with the toe of my sandal. “Afternoon sun. Limestone substrate. Good drainage. Fallow these many years. What you’re saying is that this planting, brought back to production, may rival Faithful Vineyard for the quality of its produce. Not sure how I feel about that. What if Patrick sells his crop to a rival winemaker? What if he knows all our secrets and outdoes us? And you, my faithful winemaker, helping him surpass me?”

  Samson looked stricken. “Sir, he never would. I mean, if I may say so, he never …”

  I smiled to show I was teasing, then clapped him on the shoulder. “You and I will have to make him such a fine offer for his crop that he is never tempted, eh?”

  Carta chuckled to see the old man’s chagrin at being caught by a joke.

  My horse, tethered beside Pleasant the donkey to a venerable, t
hick-trunked vine, tossed up her head and whinnied.

  Around the hill, striding rapidly into view with a no-nonsense manner, came a file of Roman soldiers, together with their decurion.

  I was suddenly apprehensive, but not for myself. “Either they’re looking for rebels or they’re after—”

  “Patrick,” Samson muttered.

  I turned in place, trying to appear unconcerned as the approaching Roman officer watched my every move. Barely moving my lips I said, “Where is he? In the cottage?”

  Samson shook his head.

  “God be praised, then. He’s not here. We’ll have a chance to warn him.”

  Samson hung his head. “No, we won’t.”

  Now I looked around openly. “Where is he, then?”

  Samson gestured toward a ladder’s upright posts jutting out of the cistern. “He’s plastering the walls.”

  I took in the situation. “Keep quiet and let me deal with this,” I urged.

  Then the squad of soldiers arrived and stamped to a halt.

  The decurion, a swarthy man with a twice-broken nose and a cast to his left eye, greeted me. “You are David ben Lazarus, owner of this property?”

  “I am.”

  “You have a slave named Patrick who has some skill with metal work? And we hear he worked out a way to turn back a plague from your vineyards. Clever fellow, we hear. Where is this slave?”

  “He’s now a free man,” I replied. “No concern of yours.” I felt myself begin to sweat.

  The officer tipped the front of his helmet back on his low forehead and brought his right eye to bear on my face while his left wandered over the vineyard. He looked surprisingly pleased at my answer. “See, it’s this way. Rome can requisition any freeman or any slave for the good of the empire. This Patrick is needed for the good of the empire’s forges. But I don’t have to explain anything to you. Where is he?”

  “I haven’t seen him,” I replied cautiously.

  “He has been seen coming to this location every day this week.”

  Who among my neighbors was spying on me for Rome?

  I shrugged and said nothing further.

  “Search the house,” ordered the decurion. Five of the ten men surrounded the cottage to guard against escape, and the other five entered with short swords drawn.

  The officer regarded me critically. “You wouldn’t be trying to hide him from me, would you?”

  “I said, I haven’t seen him. Listen, Decurion, this is a mistake, and Centurion Marcus Longinus won’t like it.”

  “Oh, ho,” the Roman chortled. “Longinus, is it? Not a good time to use that name. He’s in bad odor with the higher-ups, is Longinus. Stripped of rank and sent off to the wilds of Galilee to chase bandits, I hear. No, preaching to me of Longinus won’t help you here.”

  The troopers emerged from the cottage. How long could it take to search a two-room cabin?

  “No sign of him, sir,” the leader of the squad reported.

  I felt myself holding my breath. A few more minutes and they would march away. After dark we could rescue Patrick and send him away … where? To my sister’s estate in the Galil, perhaps. Somewhere until this could be straightened out.

  “Look, Decurion, why don’t I pay the bounty for you to hire a substitute?”

  The Roman scratched the stubble on his chin and squinted at me with his left eye. “Not up to me. I’ve got my orders.”

  Leaning close enough to the decurion’s powerful odor almost gagged me, but I said in a confidential tone, “Would it be better if I paid the bounty directly to you, Decurion? Cleaner and quicker that way?”

  The Roman swayed, clearly tempted by the offer. I jingled my money pouch to indicate my willingness to shell out a bribe.

  But the officer shook his head. “New chief centurion is a right unpleasant chap. Had the skin flogged off one of my mates for having a spot of rust on his armor at inspection.” He looked regretful but determined. “Nope, can’t chance it. I’ve got my orders. ‘Bring in Patrick the smith,’ and that’s what I aim to do.”

  “Just not here and not now,” I returned, trying to sound agreeable. “Look, it’s a warm day. Why don’t you and your men come inside for a moment? I have nothing to offer you but water, but you can have that before you march …”

  As soon as the word was out of my mouth, I saw my error, but it was too late. First one of the decurion’s eyes, and then the other pivoted from well to cistern, taking in the ladder rails protruding above the rim.

  Before I could blink, he whipped out his sword and held the point to my throat. “Search the cistern, men,” he commanded.

  As they marched Patrick away, a prisoner surrounded by guards, the decurion was laughing. “Don’t need a cell for this one,” he chortled. “Take away his peg at night, and he’s good as pinned. Can’t run far, now, can he?”

  “Patrick,” I called after him, “don’t worry. I’ll get this straightened out. I’ll tell Adrianna your wedding is just postponed for a bit.”

  “Postponed is right,” the decurion mocked. “I hear the legion’s going campaigning against the Arabs next week. Maybe he can wave good-bye to his sweetheart as he goes away.”

  I rode north toward Galilee, leaving a household of mourners behind in Bethany. It was almost like death. Patrick was taken before the completion of the house and the wedding. All felt the ultimate loss for Samson, Delilah, and Adrianna.

  My actions were tempered by the still vivid memory of Porthos’s death. I was convinced there was no resisting our oppressors by force. If Patrick was to be saved, the answer lay with those we knew in places of influence.

  I could not think of anyone but Marcus Longinus. The centurion was now suspect and assigned to duty far from Jerusalem because of his favorable sympathies toward Jesus. Even so, he was still honored and well respected among the rank and file of the legionaries.

  His post in Capernaum was a journey of many days. When I arrived, I was aware Patrick could already be on the way to a military camp on the border of Parthia.

  It was almost sunset, the beginning of Sabbath, when I arrived at the military barracks of legionaries lead by Marcus Longinus.

  The Galilee outpost was established at the caravansary occupying the crossroads of the caravan route. Westward lay the port city of Caesarea Maritima, built by Herod the Great to honor Augustus Caesar.

  Two sentries at the gate stopped me from riding in. “Halt!”

  Remembering to dismount before I addressed them, I stepped off my mare.

  “What’s your business?” demanded a burly Syrian mercenary.

  “I have traveled far to speak with Marcus Longinus, your commander.”

  The two put their heads together. “Our centurion … is a friend to these Jews,” one muttered.

  The Syrian demanded, “What’s your name, then?”

  “David ben Lazarus.”

  While the Syrian barred my way, the other soldier opened the pedestrian gate and hurried away. Through the portal I glimpsed a half dozen sweaty, unsaddled horses tied at the rail. I heard the clank of hammer upon hot iron coming from the blacksmith shop.

  The smell of roasting pork and baking bread was in the air as the cooks prepared supper for the company. Off-duty soldiers roared and laughed as they played dice. Another honed his short sword and shouted at the stable boys carrying fodder for the livestock.

  Minutes passed before Marcus emerged and tersely ordered the sentries to take my horse into the stable to be fed and watered. Marcus and I remained outside the gate. Only when they retreated did Marcus address me.

  “Peace be with you,” I said.

  “And also with you,” he answered with a question in his eyes. “Friend, is it well with you? With your … family?”

  We walked away from the caravansary before I answered. To the west the deep orange ball of the sun melted on the far horizon. Banners of salmon and pink streaked the sky.

  “I’ve been riding for days to reach you.”

  “Yo
ur Sabbath has begun. Shabbat Shalom.”

  “Shabbat Shalom.”

  “Mary? Is she well?”

  “She is well.”

  “And Carta?”

  “He has become a member of our family.”

  His mouth curved in a tight smile of relief. “Why have you come?”

  “I need your help … my friend.”

  “You have it, if I am able to give it.”

  “The officers from the Jerusalem garrison have conscripted Patrick of Verulamium. He belonged to Rome for twelve years. A blacksmith and a barrelmaker. He lost his leg in service and was put on the block. Once he was my slave, as I bought him at auction from the army. He is very useful to me.”

  “You freed him?”

  “He earned his freedom by helping save my vines from the locusts. He is soon to be married.”

  “You say you purchased him, yet you set him free.”

  “A good man. A skilled fellow, Patrick. A Briton as you are.”

  Marcus rubbed his cheek. “Ah, Lazarus. What you don’t know … Patrick was safe from conscription as long as you bought and paid for him. As long as he belonged to you, they could not conscript him … at least not without paying you his value.”

  “His value, slave or free, is incalculable to my business.”

  “Surely his fame as a clever fellow got back to the officers in Jerusalem. Herod Antipas and Pilate no doubt asked, how is it that the vineyards of the estate of Lazarus were saved and not the estates of Herod and the sympathizers of Rome?”

  “Well, Patrick’s gone. They took him by force, and we were helpless to stop them.”

  Marcus pondered for a long moment as a supper bell clanged. “I know your laws about the Sabbath. You can’t enter the dwelling place of a Gentile … my men are eating now.”

  “I cannot eat with you.”

  “But will you violate your laws to save a life?”

  “My heart knows what is right.”

  “I have learned the Lord’s teaching. You people accuse him and condemn Jesus for healing on Shabbat. Yet you will pull an ox from a ditch on Shabbat. Now, to save a one-legged blacksmith, will you come with me?”