The Bronze Bow

by Elizabeth George Speare

  Jesus did not seem to have heard. He did not move. Slowly Daniel got to his feet. As his hand touched the latch, Jesus spoke. He had risen too, and stood looking after the boy.

  "Daniel," he said. "I would have you follow me."

  "Master!" A great burst of hope almost swept him to his knees. "I will fight for you to the end!"

  Jesus smiled at him gently. "My loyal friend," he said, "I would ask something much harder than that. Would you love for me to the end?"

  Baffled, Daniel felt the hope slipping away. "I don't understand," he said again. "You tell people about the kingdom. Are we not to fight for it?"

  "The kingdom is only bought at a great price," Jesus said. "There was one who came just yesterday and wanted to follow me. He was very rich, and when I asked him to give up his wealth, he went away."

  "I will give you everything I have!"

  Something almost like a twinkle of humor lighted for an instant the sadness of Jesus' eyes. "Riches are not keeping you from the kingdom," he said. "You must give up your hate."

  Daniel felt himself trembling. He was torn in two. Before the appeal in the man's eyes he felt the whole fabric of his life about to give way, and the very ground beneath his feet like shifting sand. He summoned all his strength to battle for the thing that was most precious to him.

  "I made a vow before God!" he defied Jesus. "Is not a vow sacred?"

  Jesus looked at him steadily, with a look he knew he would never forget, full of sadness, and regret, and a deep loneliness beyond any reach.

  "Yes," he said. "It is sacred. What did you vow, Daniel?"

  "To fight!" Daniel stopped, remembering the night in the passage, seeing Joel's face, trying to remember the exact words they had spoken. Thacia's voice came back to him. "To live and to die for God's Victory!"

  A smile suddenly transformed Jesus' face, the old smile, radiant, full of youth and strength. He put his hand on Daniel's shoulder.

  "That is not a vow of hate," he said. "Go in peace, my son. You are not far from the kingdom."

  22

  ON THE FIFTEENTH DAY of Tishri, the Day of Atonement, Daniel stood in the door of his shop. Even so early the holiday spirit stirred the narrow street like a fresh breeze. No one in the village appeared to be working. Pious Jews moved with dignity toward the synagogue, looking with disdain on the frivolous folk who took the occasion for an idle holiday. Voices and laughter sounded across the housetops.

  Joktan squatted on the doorstep gnawing at the flat wheaten loaf that Daniel had brought out to him. "The apprentices have the day off," he remarked, eying Daniel hopefully.

  "Go ahead then," said Daniel. "There'll be little business today." When Joktan had scampered off, he turned back to his forge. Through the morning hours he stuck dourly at his work, trying to ignore the tug of restlessness in the air. Once temptation had come from the distant mountain. This time it came from the city in the plain below.

  At noontime the sound of singing drifted into the shop. Daniel laid down his hammer and went into his house.

  "Would you go with me to see Thacia?" he asked Leah. "She will be dancing with the girls in the vineyard." He spoke idly, but half seriously too, thinking that her longing to see Thacia might tempt her.

  "Are you going?" she cried now. "Then you can tell me about it!"

  "Will you go with me?" he asked again.

  A cloud shadowed her eyes. "Don't tease me, Daniel. But you will go, won't you?"

  "I don't know," he answered, still trying to hide his real intentions from himself. "If I have time. I have to go to the city to take a lock and key to old Omar."

  "Not in your old work clothes," Leah protested. "I've seen people going by. They're all dressed up. Wait—" She ran to the chest and pulled out his clean woolen cloak, and laughed at his halfhearted grumbling as she straightened it across his shoulders.

  He walked along the road to the city, holding himself aloof from the holiday travelers, his unhappy, forbidding face giving no one any encouragement. In Capernaum, as he might have expected, the house of Omar was deserted, and he left his bundle inside the door.

  He still told himself that he did not really intend to go to the festival, but his steps turned, almost against his will, toward the long slope of the vineyards. It was not hard to find his way. Voices and laughter drew him on, and he had only to follow their lead. Around one of the vineyards the young men of the town had gathered in a shifting, animated ring. He saw at once that he did not belong here. Even in his best cloak he stood out plainly for just what he was, a peasant and a smith. He dared not even approach too near to these elegant youths with their gaily striped cloaks, their leather sandals, their carefully oiled and combed forelocks and beards. They knew each other, called out greetings, jostled and jested, while he stood awkward and angry and alone.

  Suddenly the merriment halted. The ring of boys tightened, drew inward. Daniel, who stood taller than most, craned his neck to see over their heads. At the other end of the vineyard a line of girls wound slowly from the green booths, a weaving line of white-clad figures, with wreaths of flowers in their hair and chains of flowers linking them one to another. The girls' voices, thin and high and sweet, floated among the trees.

  "Look not, young men, upon gold or silver,

  Nor upon beauty in these maidens.

  Look only upon the good families from which they

  spring,

  So they may bear thee worthy sons."

  Still keeping well behind the row of listeners, Daniel watched the line weave nearer. Then his breath caught as he saw Thacia. He had never seen her dance, but he knew well that sure flowing grace. He had marked it on that first day on the mountain. How gently she moved. Not like some others, striving to attract all eyes, nor yet fearfully, like those who crept with downcast lashes. She simply danced, as though she loved the motion for its own sake, her head up, her eyes shining, her lips parted in a little smile as she sang. As she came nearer, he saw that from time to time she gazed directly at the line of men, not coyly, not boldly, but with searching. She was looking for someone, and suddenly Daniel could not bear to see her face when she found him. He was shaken with terror. In a moment she would pass by where he stood, and those seeking eyes would find him out, standing there in his homespun garment with his soot-grimed hands and his bare feet. Would she go on, her eyes still seeking as they were now? Would she dare even to show that she knew him before these others? Or would she be ashamed? She came nearer, the line weaving and swaying. All at once Daniel turned away, pushed through the line of watchers, and plunged down the hillside.

  He had gone only a short way when he heard her voice. Looking back, he saw her running between the rows of vines, the white veil floating behind her. She came to a stop a little distance from him, out of breath, with color flaming in her cheeks.

  "Why did you leave?" she cried.

  "You know why," he answered. "I was a fool to come."

  "I invited you."

  "You did me no kindness."

  He saw the quick hurt that leaped, like the mark of a blow, into her face. "I know you meant to be kind," he stammered. "I'm glad I saw you dance. Now I can tell Leah."

  "Is that the only reason you came—to tell Leah?"

  He stared at her miserably. "You should go back to your friends," he said. "You belong with them."

  Thacia moved forward, slowly, until she stood quite close to him. "Do you still think I am just a pretty child, Daniel?"

  He flushed wretchedly. So she had remembered. As he stared at her, the lips that spoke the words trembled, and the dark eyes had a bright sheen of tears.

  "No!" he blurted, the truth wrenched out of him in a headlong need to make amends. "I did not mean it even then. That day—when I woke in the passage—it was a woman's face I saw. The one face I will always remember—as long as I live."

  Thacia did not speak. She stood, straight and proud, with her face lifted to his, and did not try to hide from him what his words had done. The deep
shining happiness was like a lighted lamp, glowing brighter till it threatened to blind him.

  "Don't, Thacia!" he choked. "I never meant you to know."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's no use. I ask only one thing of life. I have no right to the things other people have."

  "Is this thing worth so much? Are you sure, Daniel?"

  "I have taken an oath."

  He watched the light waver and die down.

  "I took the vow too," she said. "We vowed to live and die for God's Victory. There is more than one way of fighting. Joel sees that now."

  "I only know one way to fight," he said. "I don't have words like Joel's. I have only my two hands."

  Her voice broke. "Will there never be an end to it—the hate and the killing?"

  "Thacia!" he burst out. "Don't torment me! I have to see it through alone. There's no room for anyone else."

  She did not speak again. She stood still, taking this truth as she had taken the other, with her head lifted, not trying to hide the hurt any more than she had hidden the happiness, wrapped in a sort of pride that made the ordinary pride of women seem silly.

  "Let me go now, Thacia."

  She nodded. "God go with you," she said. "Whatever you do."

  He looked back once and saw her still standing on the slope, looking after him.

  He walked the miles back to the village as he had come, aloof from the others, protected behind his dark scowl.

  He was weary and sore in spirit, and he did not want to talk about the festival, but the moment he saw Leah he knew he could not escape. She waited like a good child, her hands folded in her lap, her blue eyes eager.

  "What was it like? Did Thacia look pretty? What did she wear?"

  "Some sort of white thing," Daniel answered indifferently. Then, looking at his sister, he felt through his own hurt a fresh pain at the thought of her waiting here in this dingy room while the other girls danced in the sunlight. The least he could do was tell her.

  "They had flowers in their hair," he began with an effort. Then, on an impulse, he stepped outside the door and pulled up a handful of cockle blossoms that had sprung up by the house, looped them into a garland and set them on the golden hair. "Like this," he said. Enchanted, Leah put up her hands to touch the flowers.

  "Then they formed in a long line and danced."

  "This way?" Leah began to sway from side to side, lifting her feet, her arms raised over her head. Astonished, he watched her. How could she know what it meant to dance? Those untaught motions had an instinctive rhythm.

  Surprised out of his own gloom, he actually smiled at her. "You should have danced with them, Leah. You're as pretty as any of them."

  She stopped dancing and stood in front of him, her blue eyes grave. "Am I pretty, Daniel?"

  That he, of all people, should have been asked such a question twice in one day! The memory of Thacia's glowing beauty made him answer his sister very gently.

  "Indeed you are, Leah."

  "Truly, Daniel? As pretty as those girls you saw today?"

  "Much prettier than most of them."

  He had meant to please her, but he was surprised that his answer should seem so important to her.

  "Thacia said so too," she said seriously, thinking this over as though it were something she had never before considered. "Do you think perhaps someone else might think so, not just you and Thacia?"

  "Joel said so too."

  With a little smile she dismissed Joel. "He is kind, like Thacia, isn't he?" she said, her thoughts elsewhere. Then she made one of her surprising turns to the practical.

  "Your supper is ready," she said. "I have a surprise for you."

  The mat was already laid out for him, and he saw that he would have to eat, however little he wanted to.

  With the garland still in her hair, Leah unwrapped the bread and set out the bowl of boiled carrots and onions. Even in his own preoccupation he noticed the trembling eagerness with which she watched him eat, like a child brimming with a secret that can scarcely be contained.

  When the vegetables were finished, she went behind the curtain in the corner. She brought out a woven basket of fruit. He saw at once that it was very fine fruit, sleek scarlet pomegranates, plump juicy figs, the sort of fruit that no Galilean ever kept for his own table, and only once a year dared to reserve for the sacrifice of First Fruits at the Temple in Jerusalem. What neighbor could have brought such a gift?

  "Is this payment for your weaving?" he asked her.

  "No," she said, breathless with pleasure. "It was a present for me."

  He waited, puzzled.

  "Marcus brought it today."

  His teeth, already sunk into the first luscious bite, stopped as though he had struck a rottenness. "Who is Marcus?"

  "You know. The soldier who comes on the horse."

  He sent the pomegranate spinning across the room. He heard the sickish splash as it flattened against the wall, and saw the basket rolling from his vicious kick. He was on his feet, half blind and shaking. With a wail, Leah went down on her knees, scrabbling on the floor for an orange, sobbing, trying to wipe it against her dress. He snatched it from her hand.

  "How do you know his name?" he shouted. "How dare a Roman dog bring you anything?"

  Leah cowered against the wall.

  "Answer me! How do you know him?" He reached out, gripped her shoulders, and held her up. Without a sound Leah drooped.

  He heard his own voice, shouting words he had never used before, words he had heard in the cave. Then slowly the whirling blackness slowed down, and his sight began to clear. In the center of the blackness he saw his sister, shrinking under his hands, the garland of flowers slipped sideways on the streaming golden hair, her white face averted, waiting for his blow. His hands unclenched and let her fall. Shamed, he stood back.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," he said more quietly. "Answer me. What has this man done?"

  Faintly, her voice came from under the screen of hair. "He has been my friend."

  "How long?"

  "Since last summer. He has come to see me when you were gone away."

  He held himself rigid. "You have let a Roman come into my house?"

  "No—no! He has never come into the house."

  "What then? Tell me."

  "He—he sits on his horse outside the garden wall and talks to me."

  "Only that? You give me your word?"

  She raised her head and looked at him with such a strange dignity that he backed away.

  "What does he talk about?"

  "He doesn't know many words. He tells me about his family—they live far away in a place called Gallia. He lives in a little village with a forest all around it. His village was conquered by the Romans. He has a brother and two little sisters, and they all have yellow hair like mine. I wanted to tell you, Daniel. So many times I wanted to! But whenever he came to the shop, when you even thought about him—your face was so black. I was afraid."

  "You should have been afraid. I would have torn his tongue out! I will yet, when I find him."

  Her face went gray. "No! Oh no!" Suddenly she flung herself at his feet. "Don't harm him! Tell me you won't harm him! Oh—if you hurt him I will die!"

  He looked down at her, loathing her. But he knew that she had told him the truth. The Roman had not come into his house.

  "Stop groveling and listen to me," he said cruelly. "If I do not kill him, you must never speak to him again."

  "No. Never!"

  "You must give me your solemn word."

  "I do. I promise anything you say."

  "You will not show yourself where he can see you."

  "No. I will never go out into the garden again."

  "You have brought shame on my house, and on Simon's house and on our father's name. On the name of Israel, even."

  She began to sob again.

  "Weep!" he railed at her. "Weep your silly tears! See if you can cry your shame away."

  He turned blindly toward
the door, wanting only to be out of sight of her. She lay with her head against the earth floor, her face hidden. For an instant he wavered. Then he remembered something. When was it—on a summer day—she had said, "He is homesick." Even then! All this time she had deceived him. He plunged through the door and out into the street.

  For hours he walked, rushing through the village streets, trampling the pastures on the slopes, striding along the road, drenched by intermittent rain. At first he had some wild thought of finding the Roman. For most of the night he did not really know where he went. As the first pink streaks of light streamed up in the sky he turned back toward the village. He was exhausted and empty, and his shoulder throbbed with pain. He had walked out the fierce anger that had driven him. Now, in its place, shame flowed in.

  It was a good thing he had not met a legionary in the night. He might have brought down a reprisal on the whole village. Now that his head was clearer he saw that in spite of his bitter loathing, no one else would recognize his claim to vengeance. The Roman legion had its own laws, as strict as those of the Jews. But it was unlikely there was any law, either Roman or Jewish, that said a Roman legionary could not speak to a Jewish woman over a garden wall.

  What did Rome mean to Leah? She had seen a boy, scarcely older than herself, with yellow hair like her own. But why hadn't she been afraid?

  "I shouldn't have shouted at her," he thought with shame. "I will try to make it up to her. I will show her that she does not need to be afraid of me."

  But let that Roman never set foot in his shop again!

  The house was very quiet. On the floor of the room the spilled fruit lay in the dust. Leah sat in a corner, a wilted blossom still clinging to her hair. When Daniel came in, she did not raise her head.

  23

  IN A FEW MOMENTS he had undone the work of months. Overnight Leah had become again the wan ghost who had cowered beside her dying grandmother. She did not comb her golden hair, or sweep the floor, or speak. She did not seem to recognize her loom. All day she sat with her head bowed and her hands idle. It was as though everything that had happened since the day of Daniel's homecoming had never been, except that one thing had changed. Now, above all else, she feared him.