The Ironsmith (25 page)

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, Eleazar 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.”

The First Minister bowed yet again to Herodias, in recognition of this courtesy, and, when the lady smiled, subsided into a chair. He was rather pleased with himself, for he was reasonably sure that nothing of the immense relief he felt showed in his face.

They were alone in the room, and Eleazar discovered an interesting contrast between husband and wife. Except for the jeweled rings that never left his hands, Antipas was quite plainly dressed, in an embroidered tunic without even a cloak over it. And he had neglected to comb his hair. He looked as if he might have come directly from his bed.

Herodias, however, had obviously taken some pains with her appearance. Her black hair shone from the brush, and her dress, of blue silk with white sleeves, was both modest and elegant, with only a loose white cord for a belt. Eleazar guessed that this was for him, that she wished to make the right impression, to avoid antagonizing him.

She was better prepared for this interview than was Antipas, probably in the contents of her mind as well as the adornment of her person.

“Come now, Minister—what am I to do?”

Antipas was afraid. He was hiding it behind a screen of bluster, but he was afraid. Herodias was afraid as well. That was useful.

“I would suggest to Your Majesty that this would be an appropriate time to end the purge.”

“Purge? What purge?”

The Tetrarch of Galilee and Perea seemed genuinely perplexed.

“The purge of the Baptist's supporters, sire. They are being rounded up and imprisoned. Some of them have already been crucified.”

Antipas started to say something, but his wife touched his arm with her hand and he fell silent.

“Will that be enough?” she asked. “Simply to stop the purge?”

“No, Lady, but it will be a beginning.”

Herodias made no reply. She would have liked to, but she restrained herself. Eleazar allowed the silence to endure while he counted silently to five.

“I would urge Your Majesty to declare an amnesty,” he said finally. “‘The Tetrarch is moved by compassion for his subjects and forgives their errors,' and so forth, and so on. I have no doubt that those chastened by a few months in prison will give no further trouble, and we need an interval of calm.”

“The Blessed One alone knows what the Romans will think,” Antipas blurted out, holding a hand over his eyes as if afflicted by the light.