The Ironsmith (3 page)

“Besides, you want to be on the road with the crowds. It will be safer and less conspicuous.”

“I will feel conspicuous enough dressed like this,” Joshua said, with a laugh. “I hardly know myself.”

“Neither will anyone else.”

The next morning, Noah accompanied him as far as the eastern gate and, at the last moment, pressed a small purse of silver coins into his hand.

“It completes the disguise, and you will need money on the journey.”

“I hardly know what to do with money anymore.”

“Believe me, there isn't enough to allow you much practice.”

They embraced, and Joshua disappeared into the mob of travelers.

Where would this journey take him? Noah could not conceal from himself a sense of foreboding. “May God be merciful to His servant Joshua,” he whispered, and turned back reluctantly to his accustomed life.

 

2

The Baptist was taken to Machaerus, a hilltop fortress in the middle of the Perean desert, just east of the Dead Sea. From the valley all one could see were its stone outer walls, gray and forbidding.

Such a stronghold, miles from the nearest city, was a monument to fear. It was intended as a refuge for Herod Antipas, Tetrarch of Galilee and Perea, a place where he might wait to be rescued by his Roman masters, should his own people rise against him.

Caleb bar Jacob, the Tetrarch's watchful servant, was mindful of that fear as he too traveled to Machaerus. Fear was the condition upon which power was granted and held.

The Baptist preached that men should repent of their sins, for God was about to redeem his creation. Redeem it from what, if not from Antipas? Was it at all surprising that the Tetrarch feared him? He had good reason. John was loved, while Antipas was an object of hatred. Antipas built cities of marble while there was famine in the villages. Only the patronage of Rome kept him from being torn apart.

So what more apt place than Machaerus to serve as the Baptist's prison? To be sent to Machaerus was almost to be removed from the earth.

Dawn was just breaking as Caleb set out from Beth Haram on the last leg of his journey. It was nearly thirty miles and no one traveled fast in the desert. His party was small, comprising an escort of only ten mounted soldiers. Caleb rode in the lead, to stay out of the dust as much as possible. There was also a single wagon, kept tightly covered, for its occupant hated and feared the daylight.

It had been quite cold when they left Beth Haram, but by midmorning the sun was ferocious.

The desert had a kind of pitiless beauty. The wind had worn its rocky hills into strange shapes, exposing bands of color—dull red, black, and iron gray, with here and there a streak of sulfurous yellow. In the middle of the day there was no sound, for not a breath of air moved and no living thing stirred. Yet the sun danced. You could see it shimmer on the flat, stony landscape.

For the last two hours, Caleb had been within sight of Machaerus atop its hill. Doubtless he was being watched from the fortress ramparts, and probably the soldiers had guessed that this visit had something to do with their celebrated prisoner.

For John was famous—famous and revered by many as God's prophet. To arrest him and, certainly, when it came to that, to execute him, involved risks.

But it also presented opportunities. John was a man like other men. Like all men he must fear pain and, most of all, death. Like all men he could be broken, and a broken, repentant John, begging the Tetrarch's forgiveness, could have his uses. First, it would discourage John's followers. Second, and perhaps more important, it would appeal to the Tetrarch's vanity. Either way, Caleb advanced in his master's confidence.

And John had smoothed the way for him by besmirching the Tetrarch's marriage. He had said that for Antipas to marry his half brother's wife, who was also his niece, was in the sight of God an unclean thing.

The Lord Eleazar, the First Minister of Galilee, had advised Antipas to put the matter from his mind. Perhaps he was even right, for the Lord Eleazar was a clever man who knew when to strike and when to stay his hand. He it was who had brought Caleb into the Tetrarch's service.

Some events are like a flash of light in the darkness. Caleb had not been present during the discussion, but he heard the details from his wife. Michal was the confidante of the Lady Herodias, the Tetrarch's wife, who had little enough reason to love either the Baptist or the Lord Eleazar.

And Antipas, it seemed, had not found the First Minister's advice congenial. He had complained that the dignity of his name seemed to count for nothing. He hinted darkly that the Lord Eleazar had grown timid, that he was more interested in protecting his own vast wealth than in upholding the honor of his master.

So was the First Minister falling from favor? Or was the Tetrarch merely giving vent to his frustration over advice he did not quite have the courage to ignore?

It was a question that required the nicest judgment. Caleb owed his position to the Lord Eleazar. He was his disciple, his chosen instrument, almost his second self. But if the lord was heading to his ruin—a course that would most likely end with his head on the executioner's block—Caleb might be lucky to escape alive himself. In any case, his career in the Tetrarch's service would be finished.

Unless, of course, he had by then distanced himself from the First Minister. Unless he had positioned himself as the logical successor.

On the other hand, such a move could be a terrible mistake. If the Tetrarch's anger was no more than a mood, and the Lord Eleazar remained in power, Caleb's betrayal would never be forgiven.

In the end the Tetrarch himself settled the matter. He invited Caleb and his wife to a banquet and seated them on couches very near his own. The entertainment was a performance of a comedy by Menander, and after it and a dinner that went on for half the night, Antipas wanted to gamble. He liked to win, so of course the dice were crooked, and Caleb cheerfully lost over a thousand silver shekels.

Then at last they rose from the table, and Antipas threw his arm across Caleb's shoulders and took him out onto the terrace to admire the sunrise. The Tetrarch was in rare good spirits, laughing and quoting lines from the play, which he seemed to know almost by heart, and then suddenly his mood darkened.

“Tell me, my boy, what do you think of this business with the Baptist,” he asked, absolutely without preamble. “Do you agree with the First Minister that we should leave him alone?”

“The Lord Eleazar is a wise and careful man.”

Caleb was afraid to say more.

“Then you do agree.”

Antipas lifted his arm from Caleb's shoulder and seemed to withdraw into himself. He stared at the light streaming over the eastern hills, as if facing the last great disappointment of his life.

“I did not say that I agree, Lord,” Caleb answered, searching his mind for everything in the reports about John that could be made to seem incriminating. “But perhaps it is not my place to agree or disagree.”

“Your loyalty to the Lord Eleazar is commendable, but I would have you speak your mind. Do you think such an insult to the Lady Herodias is to be borne?”

“I am sure any such discourtesy was far from John's mind, sire. I truly believe he intended to insult only you.”

This made the Tetrarch laugh, and he put his hand back on Caleb's shoulder.

Today he loves me,
Caleb thought, feeling the weight of that hand.
Today I am a great favorite. And tomorrow?

It is like keeping company with a wild boar. He watches you through fierce, greedy eyes, and the next instant he may run you down and tear you to pieces, spilling your guts on the ground with his tusks.

But for now he laughs.

“However, his attitude toward the Lady Herodias is not the main point,” Caleb went on, when the laughter had subsided. “If it were merely that, I would have agreed with the lord that the wisest course was simply to ignore him. He would be beneath Your Highness's notice.”

The Tetrarch seemed to consider this, perhaps trying to decide if his servant was being disrespectful. Apparently he decided not.

“Then what is the main point? His influence with the mob?”

“The mob, yes,” Caleb answered. He felt himself sweating and hoped it didn't show. “The mob is always dangerous. The question is, what has John been telling the mob? He preaches that God will soon come to restore the world, presumably to its Edenic purity. Were there any kings in Eden?”

He did not wait for the Tetrarch to answer.

“We live in a fallen world, sire. This Scripture tells us, that through our own sinful nature we have lost Paradise. And without kings to rule us, we would tear each other apart. That is why Your Highness rules in Galilee, because it is the will of God. It is the
mercy
of God. The Baptist in his vast arrogance would set that aside. He conspires—”

“Conspires?”

There were certain words, Caleb had learned, that sent a thrill of horror though the Tetrarch's heart.

“Yes, sire. John has disciples.”

*   *   *

The officer in charge was a man named Zev, and he would probably never leave this place alive. He was over fifty and had been posted to Machaerus about ten years before, doubtless for some obscure offense. He did not give the impression he would last another ten years in the desert. Machaerus was not easy duty.

But the officer managed to assemble a passable guard of honor when he opened the gates. Caleb followed him to the garrison office, where he was offered some indifferent wine.

Zev smiled as he poured it, and Caleb experienced a twinge of injured pride. Was this rude soldier, who was old enough to be his father, patronizing him?

Some men, even in youth, were blessed with commanding presences, but Caleb knew that he was not one of them. He was of no more than average height, and slender enough to give the appearance of weakness. Worse yet, even at thirty his face was unmarked by time and suggested a boyish inexperience. His beard had never grown in beyond a few ugly little tufts, which he kept trimmed so short that he almost looked clean shaven, after the Greek fashion. Sometimes, as in his dealing with the Tetrarch, who seemed to look upon him as a son, his apparent youthfulness was an advantage, but on occasions such as this it felt like a curse.

Thus, before even tasting the wine, before even sitting down, Caleb took from his pocket the scroll that contained the Tetrarch's warrant and opened it on the table for the commander's inspection. Let him know that “the prisoner John, called ‘the Baptist'” was now under the authority of “my servant, Caleb bar Jacob, who is in possession of my perfect confidence.” For the convenience of his master, Caleb had written it all out in Greek, the only language the Tetrarch understood with any fluency, but the words did not matter. All that mattered was the seal and the signature.

Zev's examination of the document was no more than a glance. It was likely his literacy did not go beyond a stumbling acquaintance with the Hebrew characters, but again it didn't matter. He knew who was in command.

“Will you be taking John back with you?” The question was asked almost humbly.

Caleb shook his head, and it was just possible to detect a certain darkening of the commander's expression, suggesting he would have liked to be relieved of this burden.

“No. He is safest here. He is a popular figure, and his popularity renders him dangerous. We don't want him near the cities.”

“Then you plan to execute him?”

“That has not been settled. We must see how he responds to interrogation.”

“Interrogation?”

“Yes.” Caleb allowed himself a tight smile. “That is the polite word for it.”

This answer seemed to perplex the commander. It was possible that, in the isolation of Machaerus, he had never heard of John's insulting references to the Tetrarch's marriage, but did the precise nature of the charge matter? The Tetrarch's will was a law unto itself.

“It may be a problem,” Zev announced, with perceptible reluctance. “He has only been here a fortnight, and already the men are grumbling. They say he is a prophet and beloved of God. They say it is a sin to keep him in prison.”

“John is not a prophet. The age of prophecy is over. God has not sent us a true prophet in four hundred years. John preaches to the rabble and infects them with treason.”

The commander did not react, and Caleb suddenly discovered that he was angry.

“I don't care what your men think,” he went on. “I look to you to keep them in order—unless you feel this is beyond your capacities.”

“I will keep my men in order,” Zev answered sharply.

“Then where lies your problem?”

“I only think it will be difficult to find one of them willing to assist in the ‘interrogation.'”

He seemed a little ashamed of the admission, and rightly so.

“You needn't fear,” Caleb answered, after a pause just long enough to make his contempt felt. “I have provided for that contingency.”

*   *   *

His interview with the commander finished, Caleb supplied himself with a jar of beer and brought it to the covered wagon that had accompanied him all the way from Galilee. Inside was Uriah, huddled in a corner, clutching his knees and rocking back and forth like a frightened child.

He was terrified of the open sky.

In the dungeons of the Tetrarch's palace in Sepphoris, the old capital of Galilee, Uriah was more feared than death. The dungeons were his home, and his duties there his consuming pleasure. He hardly seemed to know that there was a world beyond the cold, damp walls within which he exercised his authority.

But now he was in a pitiable condition. Caleb knelt beside him and put the jar of beer into his hands.

“Drink,” he said quietly. “It will be dark in a few hours, and then I myself will take you down to the prison.”