“She does not strike me as a silly woman, Grandfather. Many people, good, pious, sensible people, listened to the Baptist.”
“You keep comparing Joshua with John.”
“He was John’s disciple. He preaches the same message.” Noah shook his head. “All I am saying is that it is not unreasonable for her to be drawn to Joshua.”
“Let us hope that she is not more drawn to him than to you.”
“Let us hope.”
* * *
The next morning Noah and his grandfather went to the prayer house. It was Jacob’s turn to recite the Law, which this day happened to concern the treatment of criminals put to death. Since no one in Nazareth had ever been put to death, the topic did not excite much comment.
When prayer was over, they sat outside Grandfather’s door.
“The Sabbath is not the least of God’s gifts,” the old man said, his head tilted back so that he could enjoy the sunshine on his face. “And that because it gives one time to think and to remember.”
“To remember what?”
“First God, and then people.” Grandfather smiled, without opening his eyes. “I remember you and Joshua, sitting with me just here, learning your letters.”
“Joshua was quicker than I.”
“Yes, but you were always wiser. You saw the truth of things when he did not.”
“But he saw possibilities that never occurred to me. That also is wisdom. And he loves God.”
“All men love God.”
“Yes. But that love consumes Joshua.”
Grandfather nodded. They did not speak of Joshua again. After a while, the old man got up and went into his house. A moment later he came back, carrying a scroll in his hand.
“Read to me, Noah,” he said. “At my age it is a great pleasure for a man to listen to his grandson read the Law.”
Thus the Sabbath passed away, much like every other Sabbath Noah could remember.
When the sun had set, it was time for Noah to return home. It was an hour’s walk, and the light would not fail utterly before he reached the city gates.
After the inactivity of the day, it was a pleasure to move his legs, to let his arms swing free, and to know that tomorrow morning he would be back at the forge. As he walked he allowed himself to plan the journey that would bring him back to Capernaum and to Deborah. In his mind he selected the wares he would take and considered what he would say to the merchants in distant cities who would buy them.
He tried to avoid thinking about Deborah herself because the ideas that suggested themselves were not congenial. After all, by now she might repent of having encouraged him and dread his return. He could understand how that might be so—was probably so—because he had no illusions about his personal charms. He was neither tall nor handsome. Why should she love him?
He tried to keep his thoughts from her, but he was not particularly successful. So, by the time he reached the main road, he had worked himself into that state of melancholy which is perhaps love’s most sincere form of tribute.
Otherwise he might have noticed that there was someone else on the road. He might have heard the footfalls behind him. He might have sensed that someone was gaining on him.
As it was, he had no inkling until he felt a hand on his shoulder.
The hand swung him around. In the darkness the man who held him was no more than a massive shape.
“You are Noah, the ironsmith?” a voice asked. It was a voice that went with the shape, as unmelodious as a rockslide.
“Yes. I am Noah.”
The first blow caught him just below the ribs, and the breath went out of him so suddenly that for an instant he was not aware of any pain, only of a desperate need to fill his lungs. When he tried to take a breath, the pain was like the flesh being torn from his bones.
His legs began to buckle beneath him, but the man held him up, his left hand grasping the front of Noah’s tunic. Then, with his right hand, he began delivering quick, precise blows that hurt like nothing Noah had ever experienced. The man’s fist was like a stone, battering his face over and over so that each strike was an explosion of suffering. He could almost hear the pain as well as feel it.
At last he gathered enough breath to cry out, but he was instantly silenced by another blow under the ribs. Then his attacker spun him around and punched him in the back, low and to the right of his spine. That was the worst.
So, of course, he did it again.
Then the man let him drop. He released his grip and Noah went down, first to his knees and then down on his face.
Noah lay curled up on the ground, waiting for the next blow. But it never came. After a few moments, when he could bear to open his eyes, he realized that he was alone.
Twenty or so paces down the road, he saw a huge shape walking away, in the direction of Sepphoris. Unbidden, it came into Noah’s mind that for someone so big the man had a surprisingly graceful stride.
For a long time—he had no idea how long—he just lay there by the side of the road. He might even have lost consciousness. He wasn’t sure.
Finally he knew that he had to get up. It was an excruciating process, but at last he made it to his feet. Then his legs gave way and he was back on his knees. He rested for a moment, resisting the temptation to collapse, then he stood up again.
Would he stay up this time? Yes, he thought so. Could he walk? It seemed doubtful.
But he took a step, and then another. Movement was possible.
He did not consider what had happened to him, much less why. It never occurred to him to wonder. All he had in his mind was the next step, and then the next.
The city gates were no more than half a mile distant, yet Noah consumed the better part of an hour reaching them. They were shut, of course, but the guards recognized him.
“Noah?”
All at once his strength vanished. The next instant he was on the ground, with no notion of how he got there. The guards pulled him inside. After a moment he was able to sit up, and they offered him a cup of water.
“What happened to you?”
“I was set on.”
“Robbers?”
“No.” Suddenly it struck Noah as interesting and significant that the man had not taken his purse. “Has anyone else come through the gates in the last half hour? A big man?”
“No. No one.”
He knew, of course, that they were lying—they had hesitated just an instant too long with their answer—and that too was significant.
“Can you make it home?”
“I think so.”
The guard captain, whose name was Theudas, shook his head.
“Seth, you go with him.”
Ten minutes later Noah was standing in front of his own door.
“You needn’t stay,” he told the guard. “I’ll be all right.”
He reached in his purse to give the man a few coins in recompense for his trouble, but Seth waved them away. The next instant he was gone, as if the night had swallowed him whole.
They were good fellows, Noah thought to himself. They meant no harm. But something had frightened them.
Sarah answered his knock. She looked at him and her eyes grew large. Her hand crept up to cover her mouth.
“I’m all right,” Noah told her. “I had an accident.”
She helped him into the kitchen, the first room after the shop. Then Sarah went back and bolted the door to the house.
She didn’t ask questions. She took a cloth, dipped it into one of the water urns, and began cleaning his face. Her touch was light, but it hurt nonetheless.
“It probably looks worse than it is,” he said.
“I think I should fetch you a physician.”
“What would he do?” He smiled as her, and that also hurt. “I’ll be fine.”
“Then drink some wine to take away the pain.”
“That is an excellent suggestion.”
For the next hour Noah sat at the kitchen table, drinking wine cut with only two parts
of water. It had the paradoxical effect of clarifying his mind.
His sister watched him.
“Now, tell me what happened,” she said finally, in a tone that suggested she would not be receptive to any evasions.
“Someone attacked me. He knew me by name.”
“He knew your name? Then why? Was he a robber? You have no enemies.”
Apparently I have now, Noah thought. Then he shook his head—which turned out to be so painful an operation that for a moment he thought he might vomit.
“No. He wasn’t a robber. He didn’t take anything. And he didn’t kill me, which means that it was a warning.”
“A warning?”
“Yes—delivered by someone with considerable skill in such matters.”
Noah drained his cup and poured himself another. The wine was helping. Provided he stayed still, he was beginning to feel almost numb.
Yes, he thought, it was a skillful piece of work. Here he was, almost two hours later, sitting, drinking wine, apparently in no danger of dying from his injuries. The damage was mainly confined to his face, with one eye almost closed shut but his nose unbroken. Whoever he was, his attacker had been careful. The object had been not to maim or kill but to inflict pain and thus inspire fear, and that he had certainly accomplished.
“I think I shall go to bed now,” Noah said, when he had finished the second cup.
“Take the wine with you. You might need it during the night.”
“Another excellent suggestion.”
12
The next morning, at about the hour Noah usually opened his shop, there was a knock at the door—a loud knock, the knock of someone who did not mean to be ignored.
Sarah was in the kitchen. At first she hesitated, fearful after what had happened. Noah, as far as she knew, was still asleep. Then she decided it was cowardly to hide. She went out to the shop and opened the door.
“Is this the house of Noah?”
“Yes.”
The young man smiled, not to make himself agreeable but because his wish had been gratified. He was tall and about twenty years old. His tunic was of embroidered linen and his hair and beard glistened with oil. He raised his eyebrows slightly, the way a certain kind of man might when addressing a servant.
“Then I must see him.”
“He is ill. He is still asleep.”
“What is wrong with him?” Without actually retreating, the young man seemed to pull himself back slightly.
“He had an accident.”
“Oh,” he said, the way he might have said, “Then it is nothing contagious.” He reached into a pocket concealed by his thick leather belt and removed a sheet of papyrus, carefully folded into quarters. “Then show him this. I am sure he will want to see me.”
He gave the papyrus to Sarah and, without being asked, stepped across the threshold.
“If you will please wait. I will take it to him.”
* * *
Noah had spent a troubled, painful night and had only begun to sleep a little toward dawn. His ribs ached and his face was covered with tender, throbbing bruises, but this purely physical misery could not distract him from the fear that gnawed at his belly like a hungry animal.
Last night had been merely a warning. What would be next?
Yet sleep did come—and lasted until he became conscious of Sarah’s hand on his foot.
“Someone is here,” she said. “He brought this.”
He sat up in bed, and she gave him the sheet of papyrus. He opened it, glanced at its contents, and then refolded it.
“What does it say?”
“I hardly remember.” Very delicately, he wiped his face with his hands, wishing he had not drunk so much wine. Now he had a headache that had nothing to do with his injuries. “It is the letter I wrote about Joshua. What a coincidence.”
Of course. He smiled at his sister, and it occurred to him, as a real possibility, that after today he might never see her again.
Because the man who attacked him could only have been sent by Caleb. And now he had sent the letter. What did he want? Another draft? Something properly incriminating?
“Thou shalt not bear false witness,” he said, quoting the Hebrew. When Sarah looked puzzled, he asked her, “Where is this someone who has come?”
“In the shop.”
“Then I mustn’t keep him waiting.”
Noah was relieved to find that their visitor was not Caleb but a haughty young priest who carried himself as if his first wish was to avoid the impurity of his surroundings.
Noah discovered that he was not in a mood to be polite.
“Yes? You wished to see me?”
For a moment the priest said nothing, merely stared at Noah’s face.
“I had an accident, as perhaps you knew.”
“Yes—your wife—”
“She is my sister.” Noah paused, letting the priest’s embarrassment take hold of him, and then repeated, “You wished to see me?”
“Yes.” With visible effort, the priest reassumed his disdain. “Do you know the house of Kenan bar Dathan? It is on the Street of the Doves, just outside the gates of the palace district.”
“No, but I imagine I could find it. Why?”
“A certain person, an eminent man, would be pleased if you would visit him there, at noon.”
“But I take it this eminent person is not Kenan?”
“No, he is not.”
Had he not been sure it would make his headache worse, Noah would have laughed.
“And I assume it would be quite pointless to inquire his name of you.”
“Yes, it would. May I tell him that you will come?”
“Of course. How could I possibly refuse such an elegant messenger? Good day to you.”
After another hour of sleep and a light breakfast, Noah discovered that he felt better. His face was still very tender, but his headache was nearly gone and the pain in his ribs, provided he did not breathe too deeply, was no more than a dull ache. He had just started to wash himself when he decided to take the basin of water over to a window and examine how he looked.
He waited for the water to be still and then studied his reflection. The face he saw was dreadful. He was covered with bruises, which by now had grown quite black, and his left eye was no more than a slit.
But he supposed he would recover—if allowed to live that long.
He selected a coat with a hood, so that when he went outside his face would be partly concealed in its shadow. The morning was cool, so perhaps no one would think it strange.
“I want you to leave here,” he told Sarah, when he was at the door. “As soon as I am gone, I want you to set out for Nazareth and stay with Grandfather. Do not come back here until I tell you it is safe.”
“Oh, Brother! What has happened to us?”
“I don’t know, but I want you somewhere safe. Will you go?”
“Yes, of course. If you wish it.”
“As soon as I am gone. Do you promise?”
“Yes.”
* * *
The way was all uphill, but he had given himself plenty of time. There was no reason to hurry. He was not eager to reach his destination.
Nevertheless, the walk seemed to do him good. Warmed by a little exercise, Noah felt less stiff. The sunshine was a pleasure.
Life was God’s gift to us. Whether long or short, it was a gift. Every minute of one’s time was precious. Suddenly, and for the first time that day, he thought of Deborah. Memory showed him her face, and in his imagination she moved and lived and beckoned to him.
“Thou shalt not bear false witness.” Such was God’s commandment. It was better for a man to die, to surrender the breath under his ribs, than to break any one of the commandments.
If that was to be the choice, if that was what they demanded of him, that he lie and accuse Joshua—and thus provide the pretext for destroying him—then Noah hoped he had the courage to accept death.
The house of Kenan bar Dathan was vast.
The floors were of polished marble. Some of the walls were painted with landscapes, so that the effect was to open the room out into a distance endlessly receding. It was the sort of thing that showed a fashionable Greek influence.
The owner, Noah reflected, might be a Jew, but he seemed to wish he had been born a pagan.
The boy who had answered the door ran to fetch the chamberlain, an awesome figure of about fifty, exquisitely dressed, who regarded Noah as he might a dog with mange.
“Your business?” he asked, implying that he suspected Noah had none.
“My name is Noah. I believe I am expected.”
“Yes of course, my lord,” the chamberlain answered, instantly adjusting his tone of voice. “If you would be good enough to follow me.”
There was a room, large and empty, probably intended for the reception of many guests, then there was a corridor, then a smaller room, more comfortably furnished. Against one wall there was a couch, and on the couch reclined a man, leaning on his right elbow, his attention apparently focused on an object he held in his hand.
The man was of middle years, and thin. His hair was cut short, his beard a little longer. His eyes were intelligent, and there was that in his face which suggested life had disappointed him many times.
His dress revealed him to be a priest. Noah of course knew who he was.
At last he glanced up at Noah, smiled thinly, and gestured to a chair near the head of his couch. Noah sat down, his knees nearly touching a small table on which rested a silver tray holding two stone cups and a jug.
“My nephew told me your face was much bruised, and for once he did not exaggerate,” the priest said, his tone dispassionate. “What happened to you?”
“That was your nephew this morning?”
“Yes.” He tilted his head slightly, as if disclaiming responsibility. “My sister’s son. He is rather spoiled.”
“Perhaps he will grow out of it.”
“Perhaps.”
The Lord Eleazar held up the object in his hand. It was a pair of pliers, one Noah had made himself.
“This is an ingenious device,” he said, laughing silently. “I am at a loss to discover how the hinge works. You must explain the trick to me.”
He held the pliers out to Noah, who took them.
“At least they made it easy to discover your identity. I had them shown to one of your competitors, and he instantly recognized them as yours. ‘I know of only one man who could have made these,’ he said. ‘His name is Noah and his shop is near the eastern gate.’”
The Ironsmith Page 12