The Ironsmith (21 page)

“How? How did he die?”

“The fever. Two months ago.”

“Lucky for him.”

With a quick thrust, the knife point went into Nereus's throat, through his tongue, and into his brain. His eyes widened, but he gave no other sign that he knew he was dead.

Matthias wiped the knife blade on the woolen blanket and went into the sleeping room.

There was a bed under the window, sideways against the wall. A man and a women slept in it, the man next to the wall. In another, smaller bed slept a child, a little girl, perhaps two years old.

The woman must have been a light sleeper, because she turned her head. She started to get out of bed—probably she thought to check on the child. She was naked and, as far as one could judge in the darkness, quite beautiful.

It had to be done. Matthias strode across the room. He was almost on her before she realized he was there. He took her by the throat and drove the knife up under her ribs. She lived just long enough to reach up and close her hand over his arm.

The knife through her heart was all that held her up. Matthias pulled it loose and she slipped quietly to the floor.

Reuel did not wake until he felt Matthias' hand over his mouth.

“I have already killed your brother and your wife. If you make a sound I will have to kill your daughter as well.”

He waited, his hand tight on Reuel's mouth. The reality of the thing had to find its way into the man's mind.

“Do you understand me? If you cry out, you will die and the child will die.”

Reuel nodded.

“Then get up.”

The woman's tunic was hanging from a hook on the wall, along with her belt. Matthias took her belt and used it to bind Reuel's hands behind his back. All the while, Reuel stared at the body of his dead wife.

Matthias couldn't trust the man not to panic. He grabbed the woman's tunic and tore off a long strip to make a gag.

“Now, let's go.”

Outside, a man took the prisoner by each arm and forced him along almost at a trot. They rejoined their comrades at the beginning of the south trail.

“When you are ready to come down,” Matthias told them, “find something to use for a torch.”

“We will use the village for a torch,” one of them answered. The others laughed. At this point they did not care how much noise they made.

Matthias looked around at their eager faces. This was a moment they had all been waiting for. He nodded. He understood perfectly.

“You know where the horses are tethered.” He raised his arm and pointed into the darkness. “I will wait there an hour—or until I see the villagers swarming down the trails. Then I and any who are with me will leave. I will take the horses, so if you get there alive you will still be on foot. You all know what kind of death you can expect if you fall into these people's hands.”

He made a gesture of dismissal.

“Go then. Amuse yourselves.”

Matthias started down the trail, holding the oil lamp in one hand, the other hand clamped on the back of Reuel's neck. He knew he was leaving behind him an orgy of rape and murder, but it was necessary. His men would keep the villagers distracted enough that no one would think of coming after him. He was the servant of evil, but to serve well was the only shred of integrity left to him.

By the time they reached the foot of the hill, Matthias could already see the fire above. It was a short walk to the horses.

When they reached the grove, Matthias cut away Reuel's gag and unbound his hands.

“You killed my wife,” Reuel said. “You are a murderer.”

“Yes.”

The admission seemed to stun Reuel into silence. Then he shook his head, as if trying to wake himself from a bad dream.

“Who are you? Why have you done this?”

“You do not need to know who I am. Reasons can wait.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere you do not wish to go.”

They waited, both of them watching the fires as Gischala burned.

Slowly the men began to filter back. At the end of the hour, Matthias counted only nine.

“Where is Abraham?”

“Dead. He was careless. He got what he deserved.”

He got what we all deserve,
Matthias thought. And then, out loud, said, “Let's go.”

 

16

Of late Caleb had had many interviews with Judah, of varying duration but always tending to become longer. As the prisoner abandoned himself to confession, and thus rendered himself increasingly defenseless, he was rewarded by being allowed to confess even more. He became dependent upon this man who controlled his fate. His nameless persecutor became his protector, as the hope of forgiveness became his only hope.

“Why am I here?”

“You are here because you have offended God.”

“My whole existence has been an offense against God.”

“It is more specific than that. You followed the Baptist, who was an enemy of the Tetrarch and therefore an enemy of God. Guard!”

Sometimes Judah was taken away to be beaten and starved. Sometimes he was rewarded. It seemed to follow no logic and was intended so to seem. One did not earn forgiveness through merit. There was no merit. Forgiveness was both arbitrary and tentative.

And gradually, as it became necessary, Caleb began to reveal himself.

“Who are you?”

“I am a servant of the Tetrarch, which is to say a servant of God. My name is Caleb.”

“I had a cousin named Caleb. Like me, he went into exile—in Galilee.”

“Did he. I wonder what became of him.”

“No one seems to know.”

“Perhaps that is best. Guard!”

After this conversation there were no more punishments. Judah was taken to a cell in the upper prison. The cell contained a real bed. He was given better food and was allowed exercise, for one hour every day, in a small walled courtyard. For that hour he felt almost free.

The interrogations, of course, continued. Judah seemed to regard them as almost a pleasure—certainly a release. It must have seemed to him that his interrogator was the one person in his life who actually understood him. It followed, therefore, since every man believes that it is impossible for him to be understood without being loved, that he had come to regard his interrogator as his only true friend.

Therefore his punishment, whatever it would come to be, was God's justice.

*   *   *

“Come. Get up. We are leaving here for a while.”

Caleb stood at the cell door. He seemed impatient.

“Leaving?”

“Yes, for a while. We will be back by nightfall. Get up.”

The stairway was familiar because at the top, immediately on the right, was the doorway to what Judah had come to think of as
his
courtyard. But today they followed a corridor that branched to the left. It was a long, airless space that seemed to go on endlessly. Judah had not even suspected its existence.

Then there was a door, which opened into a broad cobbled courtyard. The walls cast long shadows, and from the feel of the air on his face Judah guessed it was early morning. There was a cart, like a farm cart, hitched to a pair of horses. Caleb climbed up and took the reins.

“Come.” He made a beckoning gesture with his hand. “Don't be afraid.”

But Judah was afraid. He had no clear idea how long he had been in prison, and now he was afraid to leave it. He was filled with dread as he climbed into the cart and took his place beside Caleb, who handed him a jug that turned out to contain wine mixed with water, one part out of eleven, the sort of thing they gave to babies.

“Drink,” he said. “I know you haven't had your breakfast, but today's work is best done on an empty stomach. It isn't far.”

A pair of gates opened and they drove down a wide road that seemed to pass through a city of some size. Judah glanced back and noticed two guards behind them, on horseback.

“What place is this?”

“Sepphoris.” Caleb looked around him, as if seeing it himself for the first time. “Not a bad place. It is not Jerusalem, or even Tiberias, but it isn't bad.”

“Where are we going?”

“To bear witness to God's triumph.”

There was something almost threatening in the way he said it, so that Judah was not tempted to inquire further.

They passed under what must have been the eastern gates, since the rising sun was directly in their faces, and took a road that followed the city walls for a time and then descended into a valley before rising again to go up a barren, rocky hill.

“It's just ahead,” Caleb said finally. “Twenty years ago it was a stone quarry. Now we find other uses for it.”

Judah glanced over his shoulder and saw that the two mounted guards were still following them. Were they there to prevent him from escaping? Oddly, he had felt no temptation to try.

As soon as they arrived at the quarry, Judah realized that he had been brought to a place of execution. He experienced a convulsion of fear that was like having the breath sucked from his lungs.

Around about were wooden beams, one end buried in the ground so that they looked like the dead stalks of trees, shorn of all life. There was a small crowd assembled. The focus of their attention was a man nailed to a cross.

“Do not be afraid,” Caleb said quietly. “You have not had such trouble lavished on you merely as a preparation for death. Someone will die today, but it will not be you.”

The condemned man was in his middle twenties, gaunt and hard like a peasant. He seemed already half dead, as if the world beyond his own suffering no longer existed for him.

“Do you recognize him?”

“No.”

“Truly not?” Caleb seemed genuinely surprised. “He is here because of you. You gave me his name.”

“I…?”

“Yes. His name is Reuel. Do you remember him now?”

“No. I…”

The truth was he couldn't recall. He studied the man's face and half convinced himself he might have seen it somewhere before.

He had given Caleb many names in connection with the Baptist—so many that he could not be sure if they had belonged to real people or he had simply imagined them. Could one of those names have been Reuel?

“Who is he?”

“He was one of John's disciples.” Caleb smiled, apparently amused at the idea. “We captured him three weeks ago. He has been interrogated and has, in his turn, given us yet more names. Yours was not among them, however.

“He had two brothers, by the way. Also followers of John. They, however, did not survive.”

“There was someone among the disciples whose brothers accompanied him. Perhaps he is this one,” Judah muttered

“Presently you will remember.”

One of the soldiers, clearly the officer in charge, glanced expectantly in their direction, but Caleb responded with an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

The officer immediately looked away.

The exchange made Judah uncomfortably aware of the crowd.

“Why are all these people here?” he asked. “Are they friends of his?”

“No. I doubt if there is one among them who even knows his name.”

“Then why…?”

“Because one does not go to the trouble of crucifying a man except as an example to others. Thus there must be witnesses. We simply rounded these people up and marched them out here, although doubtless they will find the spectacle entertaining enough. They will tell their friends, and in a day or two people will be coming of their own volition to look at Reuel's corpse as the flesh rots off the bones. The point is to make an impression.”

Judah listened, hardly understanding the words. He wanted to turn his eyes away but could not. The sight held him.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Since yesterday morning.”

Caleb smiled pleasantly.

“How long will he live?” Judah asked. He could hardly speak. His heart was pounding wildly and, try as he might, he could not take his eyes from the man writhing in agony on the cross.

“If he is strong, he might last three or four more days. I have heard that some suffer as long as a week. But that will not be Reuel's fate. Very soon, when I give the order, they will break his legs. Then he won't be able to push himself up to fill his lungs, and death will follow quickly. So, you see, there is mercy even for such as he.”

Caleb produced a small box from beneath the wagon's seat. Inside were grapes, bread, and two stone cups. He popped a grape into his mouth and offered the cluster to Judah.

“Eat something. We will be here for a time.”

Judah waved the food away, which made Caleb laugh.

“The first time I saw a man nailed up, it was the same with me,” he said, pouring himself a cup of the watered wine. “I did not break my fast until the next day. But one grows used to it. Punishment is necessary in this wicked world and, like all necessary things, it is to the greater glory of God.”

They waited. The crowd waited, to the sound of thirty or forty simultaneous conversations. Some of them drifted away. Here and there one even heard the odd burst of laughter.

The soldiers, who had done their work and would have nothing more to do so long as Reuel was required to suffer, played at dice or slept with an arm thrown across their eyes. None of them paid any attention to the man on the cross, who sometimes, when he tried to take a breath, made a faint squeaking sound, like a rusty hinge.

The sun grew hot as midday approached. Reuel, whose face was drenched in sweat, so that even his blood was washed away, kept moving his mouth soundlessly.

“What is he saying?”

“I expect he's asking for water,” Caleb answered.

“Won't they give him any?”

“No.” Caleb glanced up at the sun and then flinched away. “I wish I had thought to bring a sunshade,” he said.

By the middle of the afternoon the crowd was almost gone. At last Caleb raised his hand and beckoned to the officer in charge, who came running.