The Dog Who Was There

by Ron Marasco

  The man’s foot pounded so deep into Barley’s rib cage that all breath was knocked from his body and his thin frame was sent flying across the width of the crook, his pink belly scraping as he slid along the gravel.

  Samid’s face went ashen as he saw Barley kicked with such crushing force. He rushed to where his dog had landed against a stone wall and reached for Barley, who was squirming to right himself back onto all fours. In one quick motion, Samid scooped his injured dog, pulled Barley into a secure embrace, and turned to hightail it from the crook toward the city.

  “Got it!”

  Hog’s voice rang out from over Samid’s shoulder, followed quickly by the sound of ripping leather and the clattering of a hail of coins as they landed in the street.

  “Samid! Money!”

  But Samid was gone.

  CHAPTER 8

  On this particular Sunday in the city of Jerusalem, it seemed as though every single citizen had descended upon the teeming marketplace. The pulsating roar of this concentration of humanity echoed down the narrow, deserted street where Samid and Barley crouched in a doorway.

  Barley had gasped to take in air the whole while Samid ran, carrying him through the warren of alleyways leading to a narrow side street that eventually opened out into the marketplace. It was only now, when Samid was sure they were not being chased and could rest unseen on this empty side street, that he put Barley down on the ground to have a look at how badly hurt he was.

  The heavily winded Hog shortly rounded the corner of the street and huffed and puffed his way toward Samid and Barley.

  “Fool!” Hog shouted, wheezing as his pace slowed. “That’s what you are!”

  Hog kept repeating the word as he shoved thick hunks of bread into his mouth.

  “What’s wrong with you? If you’d have helped me, I’d have gotten the whole purse, not just what I could scoop up from the ground!” Hog hectored while shaking a fist containing six large coins in it. He looked down at Samid, who was now kneeling by Barley, and said, “That blasted dog. I’m telling you, Samid, you’ve gone soft.”

  “You’ll see how soft I am when I choke you to death!”

  Barley was hurt. And he was confused. His head was lowered, his body was crouched, and his usually wagging tail was curled under his body. His eyes looked up questioningly at Samid.

  Samid did his best to reassure his dog as he ran his big hands gently over Barley’s body to feel for what he’d seen in his many street fights—the telltale jutting of a broken bone. Barley had none. But his nostrils were crusted with dirt from where he had lain in the gravel road gasping for air.

  “Let me see,” Samid said, looking closer. Then he put his thumb in his own mouth and gently cleaned his dog’s snout as Barley looked up into his eyes trustingly. “It’s all right, boy. You’re all right.”

  “An idiot,” Hog carried on as he stuffed the last of the bread into his already full mouth, “which makes me a double idiot for trusting you, you big, tall, ugly rat! I’d rather be on my own than with a louse like you. It would serve you right if I went off without you.”

  “Good. Go,” said Samid.

  “I will! I’m going to take my six coins and go find myself some good wine and some women! And you and your runty dog can stay here and rot.”

  “Fine!”

  “And may I say, the bread was delicious!” Hog yelled as he turned to waddle his way up the street.

  “I don’t care,” Samid called out to him proudly.

  Hog stopped abruptly, turned around, and walked over to Samid.

  “Here,” he said, holding out his hand, which contained a single shiny coin.

  Samid stared at the coin in Hog’s hand. He knew it would buy Prisca and his dog a good meal, so with little hesitation, he swallowed his pride, ignored his conscience, and took the coin.

  “But one is all you get,” Hog muttered, his eyes resting on Samid’s face.

  Samid smiled begrudgingly. “I’ll see you back at camp?”

  “I may be very drunk.”

  “I think I’ll recognize you.”

  As Hog trudged away, Samid and Barley were left alone on the quiet street.

  Samid knelt down on one knee. He reached out gently and took Barley’s snout into his hands. Then he bent his face down onto Barley’s head and whispered, his lips pressing the words he said right into his dog’s fur. “I’m so sorry. Nothing like that will ever happen to you again.”

  Barley had no idea what Samid was whispering. But it didn’t matter. Dogs know that words spoken in this way by a master are always a vow. As Samid looked into his dog’s eyes and smiled, he knew that no matter what, this was and always would be his dog. As Barley gazed back at Samid, his head suddenly twitched back and his snout flew forward with a massive sneeze that sent a colossal spray of road dust and dog drizzle into his master’s unsuspecting face.

  With one eye closed and a wry grin forming, Samid said simply, “Thanks.” With that, Barley began wagging his tail, himself once again.

  The northern end of Jerusalem was the area where most of the city’s inhabitants congregated on Sundays. It was the area of the great temple, a treasure that all citizens—even those who were not religious—were proud of and enjoyed. The northern end of Jerusalem was also a likely destination for visitors to the city. Here was a larger sea of life than anything Barley had experienced before. There were hordes of humans and, every few feet, carts filled with all sorts of unusual items, pulled by horses who stood higher and stronger and wore more colorful trimmings than any Barley had ever seen.

  As Samid and Barley moved among the busy scene, Samid kept looking down to be sure Barley was still at his heels, dodging the dangers of the bustling crowd. He was impressed at his dog’s agility and knack for keeping up. Samid led Barley to a corner of the plaza that was awash in such good-smelling smoke that Barley tried to take a bite of it as it wafted by him. They had arrived at an area of massive tables where fat-armed butchers lopped and trimmed slabs of meat from spits that hung over fires popping with drippings from the carcasses broiling above. Sometimes a pounding knife would flick a hunk of gristle to the ground, where it was grabbed by the beggars who congregated around these tables. Once, Samid had seen a waif from Samaria lose his thumb to the cleaver of a cranky butcher as he reached for a scrap of fat, so Samid knew to be canny. As he stood watching a butcher, waiting for his moment to get something—even just a morsel—for him and his dog to eat, there was a sudden commotion behind him.

  People began to yell and push and moved in a wave as a massive carriage came into the plaza. The carriage was two-tiered, fancily appointed, and pulled by a pair of enormous horses—one brown, one bright white and red-eyed.

  The carriage was driven by a broad man wearing a tunic that was a deep shade of orange Barley had never seen before. It sparkled at the seams and around the edges as elegant bits of adornment caught the sun and glittered, and the effect gave the driver a sheen of self-importance. His beard was long but neatly squared off at the bottom, and though most of the beard was black, a thick streak of pure white ran down the center.

  The carriage itself was not the usual rough-hewn, wooden work vehicle Barley was accustomed to. It was almost as colorful as the man’s clothes. The body and wheels were painted with curls and flourishes, and the wooden seat the driver sat on was fancily carved and outfitted with a large cushion.

  And the cargo of the carriage—that’s what really caught Barley’s eye.

  The carriage was stacked with several long, wide, wooden cages, each of which was crammed, full-to-bursting, with live birds—all making a loud screeching music that made Barley stare in amazement—and sadness. He had never before seen that many birds, not even in the sky. These caged wretches had none of the bright-eyed personality or natural dignity of the birds Barley had seen Duv make. These birds were crowded and scared and looked out of the cages with hopeless looks in their eyes.

  The bird merchant was trying to maneuver his large carriage ac
ross the busy plaza, through the dense crowd, and over to the large temple. As the carriage moved near to Barley and Samid, Barley heard a strange sound coming from behind him. At first Barley thought it was another animal, but when he turned around he saw it was an old lady. Her clothes were filthy and ragged, and her chin was hairy with a small gray beard—something Barley had never before seen on a woman. She was smiling and babbling in a singsong way and quite excitedly trying to catch up with the carriage. Once she was next to the carriage, she reached her bent finger into one of the cages and made a kissing sound with her wrinkled lips.

  Barley thought she looked very happy.

  But then, out of nowhere, the bird merchant’s whip came slicing down and lashed her knuckles with a terrible smack.

  The old woman jumped back in pain, shook her hand like a small child, and exhaled a high, mournful whimper of unintelligible words.

  Samid also was watching and saw what the merchant did to the old woman. He muttered a wrathful string of words under his breath, all of which were new to Barley. But Samid knew this was not a man to challenge in public, and so he turned, making sure Barley was right next to him, and began to walk away as the driver continued hollering.

  “Get away from my cart, or I’ll run you over, you crazy wench!”

  A voice spoke up from within the crowd. “Why would you do that to a poor, hungry old woman?” Then the woman’s voice grew louder as she said, “Haven’t you heard it said, do to others . . .”

  Samid wheeled around, and there stood Prisca. She had positioned herself right in front of the cart.

  “How dare you?” The driver scowled down at her as he sat there puffed up with indignation. “A filthy, rag-picking tramp like you should not dare to even speak with someone like me, let alone speak the words of that rebel-rousing Galilean! I have a good mind to give you a . . .”

  “You’ll give her nothing!”

  Samid spoke the words with such volume and authority that every head of every citizen within earshot turned to watch.

  “Nothing but an apology!” Samid continued. “Or I’ll snap you in half, you petty tyrant.”

  “Samid!” Prisca gasped. And the crowd gasped along with her, watching tensely, aware that a poor man was now crossing a dangerous line.

  Barley could see that whatever his master had just said to the man sent the merchant into a scarlet rage. He knew he could not leave his master’s side. The watchful crowd made a pocket of silence in the noisy, busy marketplace as they watched Samid stride over to the man with Barley at his heel. Samid stood below the driver’s high seat atop the resplendent carriage, then pushed his face up toward the man and spoke through gritted and broken teeth.

  “Listen, you well-fed snake. Watch how you talk to this lady,” said Samid, pointing gallantly toward Prisca. “And the next time you mistake a human being for an animal, don’t aim your whip at old gray mares—you frilly coward—use it on a horse like me who knows how to kick back.”

  The man’s mouth twisted with rage. He could tell by the look of Samid’s ragged garments that he was among the city’s castoffs. For a mangy beggar to disrespect a man of his station, and to do so in front of onlookers, was unacceptable, and the merchant needed to save face. He lifted his whip and aimed directly for Samid’s back.

  But Samid saw it coming.

  He caught the whip with his hand and, in spite of the stinging welt it cut into his palm, gripped the whip tightly and yanked it with such force that the merchant was pulled out of his carriage. The flailing man tried to break his fall by grabbing onto a stack of cages, causing several to tip out of the carriage and slam onto the ground, creating a deafening—and comical—cacophony of bird screeching that compelled the crowd to laughter. The merchant landed on the ground on his ample rump, at the center of a hail of falling dove feathers.

  Barley barked at the merchant a few times out of support for his master, his barks accompanying the crowd’s jeering and snickering.

  Prisca saw the burning anger in Samid’s eyes as he looked down at the merchant, and she quickly stepped in front of Samid to hold him back, fearing Samid might kill the man.

  “Stop, Samid!” she yelled, looking directly into his eyes.

  Samid’s eyes softened as they stared into Prisca’s, and after a brief pause, he let go of the whip, cradled his injured hand in the other, and turned to go.

  But when he turned, he found himself staring straight into the enraged face of a Roman soldier in full armor, red cape on his back and an enormous lance in his hand.

  The two large men stared at each other, eye to eye, for several fraught moments, and, for the first time, Barley could actually smell his master’s fear.

  This made Barley stare at the soldier and growl a low, steady growl that vibrated his thin ribs. As he looked up at his master and the soldier, his little body became very still, his senses heightening, his rhythm slowing.

  The soldier, full to brimming with his own authority, bellowed accusingly into Samid’s face, “I saw what you did!”

  Samid replied heatedly, “But did you see what he did, whipping a poor old lady?” Samid pointed an accusatory finger at the merchant, who by this time was trying to hoist his rotund, orange-adorned frame up off the ground.

  “That man,” the soldier chided, “is a tax-paying citizen, and you’re a piece of wayward scum who walks around stinking up the marketplace. I protect those who deserve protecting.”

  Samid stared into the soldier’s eyes with a strong, steady gaze, and his voice deepened.

  “A true man,” he said, “and a true soldier, would protect anyone who needs him.”

  The soldier stood still for a brief moment, stunned into silence by Samid’s audacity. Then his face twisted with contempt as he drew his head back, a wad of spit flying from his mouth—like a small, wet whip—onto Samid’s face.

  Time slowed for Barley as he watched his master react. A flash of righteous anger flushed Samid’s face, and his body coiled with tension as he lifted his hand to wipe the spit from his face. But before the back of Samid’s hand could reach his cheek, the soldier, who had gripped his large lance horizontally in his thick, hairy hands, pushed the weapon into Samid’s forehead with such a hard blow it snapped Samid’s head back on his neck and shocked him momentarily senseless.

  Barley began to bark—as loudly and ferociously as a dog three times his size. The soldier had hurt his master, and Barley knew his duty was to help Samid.

  Barley stepped closer to the soldier, who—surprising even Barley himself—seemed to be intimidated by his scrappy barks, as though he had an inborn fear of dogs. The soldier instinctively pointed his lance down at Barley, but Barley was undeterred. He dug his paws into the ground—with the full load of his twenty-five pounds of pressure—lowered his head, and sprang at the soldier.

  Fortunately, before Barley arrived at his destination, Samid caught Barley in midair and held him tight as he took off running. Samid aimed their escape straight into the crowd, where he knew they could lose the soldier. As Barley lay cradled in his master’s arms, he continued to bark in the direction of the soldier—determined to have the last word.

  As Samid and Barley fled, Prisca gave them a head start by grabbing onto the soldier’s cape and pleading with him.

  “Why must you hurt people like us? We already have nothing, not even our pride. You’re a cruel, inhuman brute!” The soldier shook his shoulders to loosen Prisca’s grip on his cape, and she fell to the ground as he turned away from her with a sneer. And with that, she gathered herself up and ran as fast as she could after Samid and Barley.

  Prisca pushed through the crowd, following the sound of Barley’s distinct barks till she caught up with Samid. Soon they had made their way far enough into the throng to be sure that the bullying soldier was not chasing them. Samid slowed his pace and lowered himself to let Barley leap out of his arms. Samid and Prisca leaned on each other, panting and shaking their heads with relief that they had executed a successful es
cape.

  After a few moments, Samid finally wiped away the soldier’s spittle from his cheek as Prisca looked up at him to see how badly his head was hurt. The soldier’s lance had broken the skin, and a nasty purple mark was already swelling into a lump. Prisca touched his forehead gingerly, and Samid winced.

  As the two of them looked at each other, Samid shook his head and asked sadly, his voice thick with emotion, “Why do they hate us so?”

  Prisca smiled back gently and said, “They don’t hate us. They just don’t want to be reminded of us.”

  “Let’s go,” Samid said softly.

  The three of them walked across the crowded plaza toward a low wall behind which was a cistern filled with runoff water. Samid sat on the wall, glad to be away from the tumult of the crowd, and leaned over to the water to wash the blood from his wound. Prisca sat next to him on one side, and Barley hopped up onto the low wall and sat down on the other.

  Samid smiled as he dried his face on the neckline of his tunic, and the tone of his voice suddenly changed from a man defeated to a man who had something nice to give to a lady.

  “Prisca,” he asked coyly, “when was the last time you ate something?”

  “Not too long ago,” she fibbed unconvincingly. “I’ll . . . I’ll beg for something later on.”

  “No. You won’t beg,” Samid said happily. “And it won’t be later on. Prisca,” he sang out jovially, “I am going to buy you the best meal you’ve ever had.”

  Samid reached into his tunic, took out the coin Hog had given him, and held it up in front of Prisca’s face. “Look!” he said proudly, watching the gleam of the noonday sun catch the coin’s silver shine.

  Prisca’s eyes gleamed as bright as the coin.

  “Oh, Samid . . . !”

  Samid put the coin into Prisca’s hand, the fingertips of his rough hand grazing the softness of her palm as he placed it there.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Never mind where I got it. With that lovely little coin, you and I can, for once, buy a meal. A really good meal.”