“Yes, I—”
“Then tomorrow. You will have complete access. I only ask that you make no copies and that, in your letter to this priest, you leave out names. Agreed?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. This is a very great favor.”
“Nonsense. I would simply have them know that you are well connected. That you are a man with powerful friends who would resent your death at their hands.”
He touched Noah on the shoulder and smiled.
“I am a selfish brute, you see. Besides, you make such amusing toys.”
* * *
Noah had the name of a man in Paneas who could be trusted to convey to the Lord Eleazar any communication put into his hands, but first it was necessary to reach Paneas alive.
The city was on the main trade routes, about seventy miles south and west of Damascus. It was in Philip’s realm, which might or might not be a problem, depending on Philip’s current degree of cooperation with his brother, a matter more unpredictable than the weather.
Yet Paneas had certain advantages for a fugitive. It was almost on the Syrian border, which facilitated escape to the north, and if one preferred to flee south, it was directly on a tributary of the Jordan River. Noah also had friends there who, if the need arose, would probably be able to smuggle him to Tyre. In Paneas, Noah would feel reasonably safe.
But first he had to get there. He had not seen the hungry man again, but wherever he went in Damascus he could not shake the sense of being watched. Seventy miles of road meant at least two days of traveling, more likely three. Two days—or three—gave an assassin many chances.
Saul arranged for Noah to leave his house in disguise and then to travel with a caravan on its way to Ptolemais.
In Paneas, Noah immediately found the man who would convey his letter to the Lord Eleazar. He was a shopkeeper named Dothan. He took the letter, sealed it, and put it in a drawer. That was the end of the transaction. Dothan, one suspected, did not want to know any details.
The question then was, what to do? The hungry man was nowhere in sight, but that meant nothing.
Noah spent four days in Paneas, which was a pagan city, named after one of their countless gods. He visited the famous grotto and stood with a crowd of people watching the water gush from the mouth of a cave. At the end of his visit he set out for the city of Seleucia, a good day’s journey to the south. Except for his donkey, he was alone.
He arrived in Seleucia before sundown, having encountered no one on the road except strangers traveling north.
In Seleucia he stayed away from people he knew. He was gripped by a strange passivity. He ate, he slept, and to comfort himself he said his prayers and read Torah, trying to pretend that there was no world beyond these things. For ten days he never left the city. He began to think he would never leave it.
Then, late one afternoon, while he was sitting on a bench in front of the inn where he stayed, reading about the deliverance of Isaac, he saw the hungry man again. The hungry man was across the street, watching him. When he caught Noah’s eye, he smiled. Then he crossed the street and sat down on the bench beside him.
“I am sorry if I have frightened you,” he said. He glanced at the scroll in Noah’s trembling hands. “What are you reading?”
Noah forced himself to look down at the writing—in that moment he could not have recalled what it was.
“The story of Abraham and Isaac,” he said, after a pause in which he struggled to find his voice.
“Where the angel stays Abraham’s hand?”
“Yes.”
“I always liked that story,” the hungry man announced, with evident satisfaction. “The stories are the best part of Torah.”
Noah did not reply. He was too busy adjusting to the idea that he was not about to be killed.
“The Lord Eleazar sends you his greetings. He wants you to know that he found your report beyond anything that he expected. When you reach Hippos there will be a letter from him awaiting you.”
“How do I know that you are from the Lord Eleazar?” Noah asked. It did not seem an inappropriate question.
“He wished me to tell you that he has not forgotten what you said about it being better to die than to break the commandments.”
Noah allowed himself a deep breath and the hope that he might live to be a few months older. Was it also possible that he might also live to see his home again, or Deborah’s face?
“Am I going to Hippos?” he asked.
“Yes. Perhaps I could accompany you. It would be safer. But you must promise not to slip away from me again.”
“I promise. By the way, have you eaten?”
“No.”
“Then you must join me for dinner.” Noah observed that the sun was low in the sky and allowed himself to smile. “I thought you might be hungry.”
19
Upon reading the letter, which covered several pages, the Lord Eleazar at first suspected that Noah had simply made it all up, that it was all a self-serving fabrication, the sort of thing one expected from paid spies who knew the market value of dramatic information. However, he was not far along before he abandoned this idea. It was all too specific, too full of direct quotations that had the ring of authenticity.
Thus it was with a mingling of excitement and fear that Eleazar made his way from line to line of Noah’s Hebrew, so magisterially perfect that it was almost like reading an intelligence report written by the Prophet Isaiah. Indeed, the rebuke of Antipas was all the more stunning for coming from a chorus of voices, their identities concealed, but in one case, at least, perfectly obvious.
Eleazar knew that Noah had dined with Lucius Flaccus in Damascus, and many of the expressions attributed to a “high Roman official” sounded exactly like the man who over the years had honored Eleazar with several private conversations.
Although, judging from the candor of some of his remarks, the imperial legate must have been deep in his wine that night.
But it was all perfectly believable. Besides, Eleazar tended to trust the ironsmith, who did not seem to possess the temperament of one who simply made things up.
So, having digested the letter and being satisfied of its veracity, Eleazar was faced with the problem of how best to present it to the Tetrarch.
First of all, as Antipas hardly even knew the Hebrew alphabet, it would have to be translated into Greek. Then the source would have to be disguised. He owed Noah that, and besides, the man was revealing himself to be too valuable an asset to risk. The best plan, he decided, would be to present it as a summary based on several different reports. And last, of course, many of the actual words would have to be softened, since Antipas was so quick to take offense.
All of these were tasks that Eleazar felt he could entrust to no one else. He himself would prepare the document he would carry with him to Tiberias.
He suspected that this interview with the Tetrarch would turn out to be both difficult and dangerous, so he gave himself three days to prepare. He made a Greek transcription and then burned the original. Then he undertook the difficult task of editing it into something at once sufficiently convincing and yet not too offensive to the self-conceit of the Tetrarch.
As he read over the final draft, he tried to anticipate how Antipas would react, what questions he would ask, whom he would blame and for what. The man was as unpredictable as a bull in the breeding season.
In the last few hours before he undertook the journey to Tiberias, Eleazar made over certain properties to his son—not enough to excite the Tetrarch’s avarice, but enough to keep the boy in comfort for his lifetime. It seemed a reasonable precaution.
* * *
As his wagon rolled under the eastern gate on his way out of Sepphoris, Eleazar kept trying to imagine some way of avoiding this confrontation. What did he hope to achieve? An end to the purge of John’s followers. The destruction of Caleb. Did he need both? Yes. The purge was pointless and destructive, and if he did not somehow manage Caleb’s fall, sometime or other there would
be another crisis, and then another. It would end badly. Almost certainly, Eleazar knew, Caleb would destroy him if he did not strike first. Was this report of Noah’s the best means? Yes. He could not believe that God would provide him with a better means. It even had the advantage of being true.
There had been rain all that week, but today the skies had cleared. There was hardly enough wind to stir the curtains, which he had drawn back so that he could see the countryside. Somehow the aftermath of rain always clarified things. Colors were brighter, and the lines of the hills sharper. The world was a paradise, another Eden.
But once again the serpent was coiled and waiting.
When he arrived in Tiberias, Eleazar went to his house and bathed and changed his clothes. Then he had a meal and talked to his steward about domestic matters. He inquired after each of the servants and affected to take an interest in a plan for enlarging the drains. He knew he was simply putting off the moment.
At last he wrote a note to the Tetrarch’s scribe, informing him of his presence in the city and requesting an audience. The sun had already disappeared over the western walls. Eleazar assumed a reply would not come until the following day.
He was mistaken. Within an hour he received word that the Tetrarch was prepared to receive him as soon as Eleazar might find it convenient—which meant, of course, immediately.
* * *
There was a garden beside the main banqueting hall. A stone balustrade around two sides of it faced the water, which created a quite illusory sense of openness and accessibility, for below the balustrade was a ditch, perhaps ten cubits deep, its walls deliberately sheer and lined with smooth stone. Such was Antipas’s fear of his subjects that the outer lip of the ditch was patrolled night and day.
The garden itself was lovely during the day, but at night it took on an atmosphere of secrecy and menace. It was illuminated by oil lamps, each on top of a thin bronze shaft, so that there were pools of vague, shimmering light amid the darkness.
Eleazar was shown out into the garden and told to wait. He did not sit down on any of the benches that could be found along the gravel paths. He waited, standing, staring down at the walkway.
Why gravel? It seemed an odd choice. The walkways in all of his own homes were paved with stone. And then it occurred to him that, on stone, one had merely to remove one’s sandals to move about quite soundlessly. Gravel was noisy and therefore perfect for a monarch who lived in dread of assassins.
He was alone for perhaps a quarter of an hour before one of the doors to the banqueting hall opened. The Tetrarch stepped out and began gliding between the little circles of soft light. He was resplendent in a robe shot through with silver, and his hands twinkled with gems. As he came near, Eleazar made a deep bow and Antipas nodded curtly.
“You arrived three hours ago,” he said. “Why did you not send me word at once?”
“I knew Your Highness would be with his guests and I did not wish to intrude.”
Antipas seemed to consider this answer, cocking his head a little to one side. Probably he knew it was only an excuse, but the timing fit, so he seemed willing to ascribe the delay to Eleazar’s famous sense of tact.
“What did you want to see me about?”
Eleazar did not immediately answer. Suddenly he could feel Noah’s report, which he carried in a pocket inside his robe, pressing against his heart like a slab of stone.
“Reports have reached me, sire,” he said at last. “Matters I would bring to your notice.”
“Reports?” Antipas’s face seemed to contract. When did anyone ever bring him a report that did not contain bad news? “Reports from whom? What about?”
“Reports from abroad, sire. From various places. Reports of opinion, of how we here in Galilee are perceived by the larger world.”
The Tetrarch moved his foot impatiently, so that the toes became visible beyond the hem of his robe. One of them—the middle one—glittered with a jeweled ring.
“What do I care about opinion, Minister? I am indifferent to what they say in the bazaar.”
“Roman opinion, Majesty. Along with others, almost as important. Men of commerce. Merchants. Men whose feelings we would be wise not to ignore.”
“Why? What are they saying? What is this about, Minister?”
“It is about the Baptist, sire. It was a mistake to kill him.”
“That again?”
Eleazar found it prudent not to reply. He merely waited until the Tetrarch’s exasperation had found release for itself in an impatient kick that sent the gravel flying like startled birds.
“What are they saying?”
Antipas sank onto a bench, apparently exhausted by the effort of restoring himself to calm.
“They are saying, Majesty, that it was a sign of weakness.”
Eleazar, who had of course remained standing, found he could almost pity the man who stared up at him with something like disbelief.
“Weakness?”
“Yes.” The First Minister of Galilee placed his right hand over his heart, as if pledging his own fealty. “The Baptist was respected, sire, and no one can understand why we thought it necessary to execute him—unless, perhaps, because our grasp on power has become so weak that we fear even the crowds who gathered by the Jordan to have John wash their sins away.”
“Who says this?”
“Many, sire. Including the imperial legate in Damascus. He made reference to the affair in his correspondence with Rome.”
Even in the flickering, heavy light of the oil lamps, it was possible to see the Tetrarch’s eyes grow wide.
“His letters to the emperor? You have seen these?”
“Copies, sire. I have seen transcripts, which I have reason to know are genuine.”
Antipas shook his head.
“Is nothing secret from you, Minister? It would appear not.” He held out his hand. “Let me see.”
With vast misgivings, Eleazar took the folded sheets of papyrus from his pocket and allowed the Tetrarch to snatch them away from him.
“This is your own writing,” the Tetrarch announced, almost triumphantly, as he flipped through the pages. “I know your hand—I have seen it often enough.”
“I prepared a summary, that Your Majesty might be inconvenienced as little as possible.”
The only immediate reply was a grudging nod while Antipas tried to make sense of what he held in his hand.
After a few moments of absorbed silence, he looked up.
“I must read all this and consider it,” he said. “I will not keep you, Minister. I will send word when I have need of you.”
With a wave of his hand he indicated that the audience was over. Eleazar bowed deeply and retreated, slowly.
* * *
Fear is the most private of emotions. It thrives in darkness and solitude. It hides in the shadowed corners. It gnaws at the hearts of lonely men.
The Tetrarch was a ruler of uncertain temper. His actions would be guided by his moods, which were as fluid as quicksilver. And Eleazar had put into his hands information that could only frighten him and, worse, threaten his self-esteem. The Tetrarch could make himself believe anything, and therefore it was impossible to know how he would react to so telling a blow.
It was perfectly conceivable that he would order Eleazar’s arrest. The First Minister of Galilee knew that he might be dead before the next dawn, that he might be led straight from his bed chamber to the executioner’s block.
Eleazar had no confidants. His wife, whom he had been unable to love, was long dead. His nephew was a shallow young man who could never be made to understand the complexities of life. And his son was still a boy.
As he sat in his room, drinking wine and gathering the courage required to take off his clothes and go to bed, he kept thinking of Noah. Noah, who had found himself helpless before Caleb just as Eleazar was helpless before the Tetrarch.
What had he said? Oh yes, something about how there were worse things than death. What was worse than death, Ele
azar had asked. And Noah had answered, breaking the commandments. Thou shalt not bear false witness.
Eleazar, a priest of ancient lineage, was scrupulous in his observances. He kept the Law, honored God and prayed to Him, and believed himself a pious man. Yet he had never found much of comfort in the religion of his ancestors. Did he love God? He didn’t know.
It was possible to envy Noah.
The night passed slowly. At last Eleazar went to his bed, but sleep failed him. He simply waited, for the sound of sandaled feet upon the floor, for the excited voices of his servants, for the loud knocking at his door that would tell him his life was over.
At last dawn came. Rose-colored light found its way in through the windows, and it occurred to Eleazar that the Tetrarch must have been asleep for some three or four hours and that, therefore, the order for his arrest had not yet been given. The Tetrarch would not awaken for another five hours at least, and until then, Eleazar concluded, he was safe.
Thus he was at last able to sleep. He slept for three hours and then awakened in a cold terror. Death seemed very close.
But it was only a servant, knocking at the door, inquiring if he would care for some breakfast.
Eleazar was able to laugh at himself. Yes, he would have breakfast. He would eat, and then bathe and dress himself and face like a man whatever awaited him.
It was the middle of the afternoon before he received word that the Tetrarch would receive him. The bearer of this message was not a squad of soldiers, but a boy, probably no more than ten years old—too young to be afraid of the great—who smiled and said that His Majesty would be pleased if the First Minister would attend on him in his private chambers.
His private chambers. That by itself was interesting.
The Tetrarch thought it consistent with his dignity to live on a lavish scale, but the room into which Eleazar found himself being conducted was elegant in its simplicity. He understood why at once. This room belonged to the Lady Herodias. She was sitting beside her husband.
Eleazar made a deep bow to the Tetrarch and, if possible, an even deeper bow to his wife.
“Very well, Minister, what are we to do about this?” Antipas almost shouted, holding up the report Eleazar had given him the night before. “Oh do sit down, man. Her ladyship will forgive you, and you give me a crick in the neck standing there like that.”
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