The Ironsmith (16 page)

“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.'”

“Why didn't you simply ask Caleb?”

“About certain matters it is not wise to appear curious.”

The Lord Eleazar leaned forward, picked up the jug, and filled the two stone cups with water. He held one out to Noah.

“But you have not told me about your injuries. I am curious about that as well.”

“I was set upon.” Noah took a tentative sip of the water and found it astonishingly cold. “On my way home from spending the Sabbath with my grandfather, I was attacked by a man who, it seems, had also gone to some trouble to discover my name.”

“Then perhaps you are lucky to be alive.”

“I don't think luck had anything to do with it. My assailant was very skillful and had no intention of killing me. It was a warning. He meant to cause me pain and to frighten me. He succeeded.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. But there are worse things than pain and fear, just as there are worse things than death.”

“And what is worse than death, Noah?”

“Breaking the commandments.”

For a long moment the two men remained silent as each seemed to assess the other. Then the priest set down his cup of water.

“Do you know who I am, Noah?” he asked.

“You are a man to whom Caleb would give the letter I wrote about my cousin Joshua. Is there anything else I need to know about you?”

Eleazar shrugged slightly, refusing to be insulted.

“I know who you are,” Noah added flatly, as if contradicting an obvious falsehood.

“Then know that I did not order the attack on you. I knew nothing of it. Caleb did what he did for his own reasons.”

“That is, of course, very reassuring.”

The First Minister laughed. One had the sense that he did not laugh often.

“You have fulfilled the promise of your letter, Noah. I must grant you that. You are not impressed by the grandeur of my office, any more than you are frightened of Caleb.”

“I am very frightened of Caleb.”

“Yes, but not enough to suit him. Why did you write your letter in Greek?”

“I thought I would make it easier for him.”

The Lord Eleazar smiled. Then, in the next instant, he became very serious.

“I think there are a few things you need to understand, Noah. I believe it possible that we could be of use to one another.”

*   *   *

Their conversation lasted for more than an hour. For most of it the Lord Eleazar spoke, with Noah interjecting the occasional question or expression of surprise—and nothing surprised him more than the priest's candor. If any third person had been listening at the door, it might have meant both their lives.

But the Lord Eleazar, who seemed to have a refined understanding of all such matters, had taken his precautions.

“You are perhaps wondering why we have met here,” he said, gesturing with his hand to take in all the space around them, “rather than at the palace or my own home. But Caleb has his spies, some of whom, no doubt, are among my servants. At least, that is my assumption. A few of his servants also provide me with information. Such are the conditions of life, no less than the sun and the rain, and we both accept them. I own this house. The man who lives here is my tenant and indebted to me. We are safe here.”