The Ironsmith (10 page)

Thus, he must find Joshua and make him understand that his life was in peril, and then he must write a report that portrayed his cousin as a harmless preacher of virtue. He did not think that God would be offended if he left a few things out.

Whether Caleb would be offended was another matter.

*   *   *

So the following morning, after breakfast, he struggled through the crowds entering Sepphoris by the southern gate. The road led on to Jerusalem, but after perhaps twenty minutes a trail branched to the left, passed between wheat fields, then skirted around the brow of a low, terraced hill before it descended into another valley. There lay Nazareth.

It was an hour's walk, yet every time his feet left the main road he had the sense of entering another existence, a place as far removed from Sepphoris as the wilderness of Europe. Sepphoris was young, undefined, and as changeable in its moods as a child. Nazareth seemed as old as the earth. In Nazareth one found only the ancient, immutable patterns of peasant life.

It was small, even for a village. The houses, which were principally of mud brick, were scattered apparently at random but in fact followed an intricate pattern, reflecting the structure of kinship ties, which governed the whole of its people's lives. Noah's father had been born and was buried here. His grandfather lived here still.

It was the ancestral place, at once familiar and strange. But where was it any different? In Sepphoris, his birthplace, he sometimes felt like a rude peasant, and in Nazareth he felt—and was made to feel—a stranger. His own kinsmen did not entirely trust him, for the simple reason that he had ceased to be part of their daily experience.

Not for the first time, it occurred to him that home was not a place but a system of relationships, and his consisted of his grandfather and Sarah. His grandfather was old. Death would soon claim him. And Sarah had a right to a life of her own, to a husband and children, to a family in the midst of which he would be but the most welcome of visitors. What then? Then he would become what his grandfather was now.

The cluster of buildings, of which his grandfather's house was the approximate center, in a sense represented the disappointment of the old man's hopes. He lived surrounded by his brother's progeny, to whom he was Uncle Benjamin. His one son had moved to the city, returning only to fill an ossuary, and Noah, his sole male descendant, and childless, was little more than a frequent visitor.

The house itself consisted of three rooms: a main room, which included the kitchen; a bedroom; and the workroom, which was now largely left to the mice. A few years ago Noah had replaced the floor of packed earth with stone, something his grandfather had lamented as a useless expense, and he paid a village girl to clean and do the cooking. By the standards of Nazareth, Noah had prospered and could afford to see that the man who had raised him lived out his last years in comfort.

Noah heard him before he saw him. Benjamin was sitting on a stool beside his doorway, busy with a small object that seemed to require a file. He looked stooped and wasted. Even into middle age he had been a strong man, but time had worn him down.

“What are you working at, Grandfather?”

The old man looked up and then shaded his eyes with his hand. He peered for a long moment, as if trying to recollect something.

“Noah? What are you doing here on a workday?”

Noah ignored the question, with its implied disapproval, and crouched down so that his grandfather would no longer have to stare into the sun.

“What is it?” Noah asked.

“A padlock.” Grandfather held it out for inspection. It was open like an oyster. “The mechanism is clogged with rust—you'd think they'd been keeping it at the bottom of a well. It just needs cleaning up.”

Noah recognized the design as his father's.

“People don't remember to keep them oiled,” he went on, allowing the disemboweled padlock to absorb his attention. For perhaps a minute the only sound was the remorseless rasp of his file as the old man patiently repaired the creation of his dead son.

What did he feel? Possibly nothing. Possibly that sorrow had become too remote to trouble him. Or possibly time had merely refined it.

“Why are you here, Noah?” he asked, without lifting his eyes. “You should be attending to business.”

“A distinguished person in Sepphoris has asked me to make inquiries about Joshua.”

“Joseph's boy?”

“Yes.”

For a few seconds the file was silent. Then the work resumed.

“And this ‘distinguished person,' who is he?”

“Someone whose existence it is better not to know about.”

“I see. It appears you have acquired strange friends in the city.”

“He is not a friend.” Noah reached out his hand and let the fingers close over the padlock. “Believe me, Grandfather. I do not wish to be the Tetrarch's spy, but I need to speak to Joshua, if only that he may know his danger.”

Noah lifted his hand from the padlock.

“How is Sarah?”

“She is well.”

The old man nodded, if only to indicate that they understood each other.

“That cloth merchant of Sarah's should make up his mind. If he waits much longer, she will be past bearing his children.”

“She is only six and twenty, and besides, I do not think it is
his
mind that needs making up. She seems to think I will perish if she is not there to look after me.”

“Time you remarried.”

Noah could only shrug. He knew what was coming next.

“Your wife has been dead four years,” his grandfather went on. “There must be an end to everything, even mourning. Find another who pleases you, and then you can go on with your life. And so can Sarah.”

He folded a piece of cloth around the padlock and laid it aside.

“God has not blessed us,” he said. “Not you, not me, not Joseph. Your father died younger than you are now. Joshua's wife too is dead, and I believe grief has turned his mind.”

“Joseph has other sons.”

“Sometimes I believe God has cursed this family.”

“I do not believe that.”

Perhaps the old man felt that the subject had exhausted itself. Perhaps, as sometimes happened, he merely lost the thread of the conversation. In any case, for perhaps a quarter of a minute he appeared to stare at nothing, then he shrugged and changed the subject.

*   *   *

Noah slept that night in his grandfather's house. He did not return to Sepphoris, but directed his steps north.

About three hours from Capernaum the road made a long detour around a line of hills, adding several miles to the journey. There was, however, a well-worn path, too steep for wagons but easy enough for a man on foot, which cut across. It was just at the summit of this path that Noah encountered a robber.

Obviously the robber was not experienced at his trade, since he remained sitting on a large stone, a pruning hook balanced on his knees, even when Noah stopped within five paces of him.

“Peace be yours,” Noah said, regarding the man with no emotion more stirring than curiosity. He was young, probably no older than sixteen. The red rims of his eyes showed luridly through the dust that covered his face enough to give him a corpselike appearance. He was obviously a peasant and just as obviously had been on the road for several days. That could only mean one thing.

“Peace be yours,” he answered, and then, apparently as an afterthought, added, “If you have any money, give it to me.”

His hand closed around the staff on his pruning hook, which was perhaps intended to be interpreted as a threatening gesture, but he made no attempt to rise. In fact, he seemed exhausted.

It occurred to Noah that he had merely to step forward a few paces and kick the fellow in the chest to send him sprawling.

“You mean to rob me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“With a pruning hook?”

The youth looked away, as if embarrassed, and Noah almost laughed, but restrained himself out of respect for his feelings.

He did smile, however. He couldn't help himself. The situation was ludicrous.

“I have bread and cheese and even a little wine,” he said. “Enough to share. You will need to fortify yourself if you plan to lead a life of crime.”

Noah walked up to where the man was sitting and opened his pouch. He held it out, along with his wineskin, but at first the man made no move to take them. He merely stared at them, as if he doubted the witness of his own eyes.

“Come. Eat.”

The words seemed to snap the youth out of his trance. He took the wineskin, upending it to let the contents pour into his mouth. He had nearly drained it before he stopped, after which he let out a long sigh, as if he had been holding his breath, which perhaps he had. Then he took a flat piece of bread from the pouch and began tearing off pieces, which he stuffed into his mouth.

Noah sat down beside him, for the rock was long and flat, almost like a bench. A lifetime of hammering red-hot iron had given him such strength in his hands and arms that at any time he could have broken this would-be brigand's neck like a stick of kindling wood, but he was not one who thought in such terms, and he felt only pity.

“How have you come to this?” he asked.

The youth paused for a moment, staring out at nothing as, apparently, he gathered his thoughts.

“My father lost his land,” he said finally. “The last few years have been hard, and he had to borrow. A week ago the moneylender came with writing that said he owned the land now. He told my father he could stay and work for wages. He took my sister for a kitchen servant. He had no work for me, so I had to leave. It was either starve or steal, so I thought I would head north and join the bandits.”

“If you join them, all you can expect is to be caught in a few years and crucified.”

“Better a bad death a few years hence than a bad death now.”

Noah seemed to consider this and then nodded. The logic was unassailable.

“But the bandits won't take you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have nothing to offer them.” Noah shrugged, seeming to imply that the point was obvious. “Look at you. You don't have a horse, you don't have a weapon. Why should they trouble to supply you with either when every day ruined farmers make the trek into the mountains, hoping to join them. Probably, they will cut your throat.”

“Then what am I to do?”

“That is the question, isn't it.”

They sat together for a time without speaking. The wine was gone, which Noah chided himself for resenting. After all, in three hours he would be in Capernaum, where he could drink all the wine he wanted. This poor soul might never taste wine again.

Then a thought occurred to him.

“I have a friend in Ptolemais,” he said. “He is a merchant, and I have done business with him for years. He owns warehouses and a couple of ships. His name is Kreon. He is a Greek but a good sort of man. Just ask for him along the wharves. If you tell him that Noah the metalsmith from Sepphoris sent you, he will give you work.”

“Where is Ptolemais?”

“It is on the coast of the Great Sea. If you walk west, keeping Mount Carmel on your left, and then turn north when you reach the sea, you will find it. You will be there tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

Perhaps the same thought was in both their minds: How was this wretched, spent man to walk to Ptolemais, in one day or even five?

Noah fetched his purse from under his belt and counted out five silver shekels and then, after a moment's reflection on God's hatred of avarice, another five. To these he added a scattering of copper coins.

The man glanced at the money resting in Noah's palm and raised his hand as if to fend it off.

“Keep it,” he said in an offended tone.

“I see. It would have been more honorable to have killed me with your pruning hook and then stolen my purse. I commend your scruples.”

This was received with a cold silence.

“Listen, my friend. By assisting you I find favor with God, so in refusing out of pride you do that which injures us both. Besides, the day may come when you will be able to render me an even greater service.”

He took the man's hand and poured the coins into it.

“Take these,” he said. “Rest in the first village you find. The copper will be enough for a bed and food for a few days. Do not show anyone the silver. In Ptolemais, bathe and buy clean clothes so that you do not come to Kreon as a beggar.”

“My name is Samson,” the man said. It seemed to be his way of offering thanks.

“Then be careful in the city, lest they cut your hair.”

 

7

When Noah arrived in Capernaum, he found he was more tired from the journey than he had expected, and he was hungry. In the market he discovered a wineshop where he could also buy a dinner of fish and millet, so by sundown he was feeling better.

“Come a long way, have you?” asked the proprietor as he cleared away the dishes and poured Noah a second cup of the local beer. It was his business to be sociable, but there was an edge of suspicion in the question. He was a large man who carried the extra flesh that only comes with prosperity. The threadlike scars on his fingers indicated that he had begun life as a fisherman.

“I left Sepphoris this morning.”

“I've never been there. I've been to Tiberias three times, but never Sepphoris. It's quite a city, from what people say.”

“I live there.”

The proprietor frowned. Noah suspected that he felt cheated. If he had known, the man would have charged more for the meal.

“Do you know of a place where I could find a bed for a few days?”

“I might be able to oblige you.” His eyes narrowed as he seemed to be straining after a way to accommodate a man wealthy enough to live in Sepphoris. “I don't know where else you might go—people hereabouts don't generally care for strangers.”