When Jesus Wept (6 page)

“No. I … something about … a thief … and this fellow Porthos. And then … climbing the Street of the Stairs to Judah’s house. But then … nothing.”

Martha glanced toward Porthos, imploring him to explain.

He moved nearer, pulling up a stool. “As a Roman contingent passed the house of your friend, a cart spilled its load and the ambassador’s horse threw him. He will live, but Judah and his family were arrested.”

“But that cannot be … Judah?” A row of spiny stitches stretching from the corner of my mouth toward my ear prickled my cautious fingers.

“Yes. I regret that when you tried to give testimony, you were beaten nearly to death.” Porthos patted my arm.

“And you. Helped me. Saved my life.”

The big man leaned back as though my comment was a wasp to be avoided. “No. Not me. I am not so courageous as you. I did not interfere with your beating. I saw the villains drag away your friend Judah and lead his family away. He fought like a lion. The women went meekly. And then, only after everyone dangerous had gone, I gathered you up and brought you home here to Bethany.”

Martha said, “I barely recognized you. Your face is badly swollen.”

I touched my cheek and winced. I managed to sit up. “What’s to be done?”

Martha and Porthos exchanged a glance.

“You must get well, brother,” Martha said in a matter-of-fact tone.

I argued, “I mean, what’s to be done for Judah? Innocent! For Jemima and their mother. Arrested unjustly!”

Porthos furrowed his brow. “Many on the street witnessed the accident. And it truly was … an accident. A few tried to speak up for Judah, but you see … look at yourself. Clubbed into silence. An example for others who may wish to set the record straight. Truth makes no difference to tyrants.”

“But surely I can go to the high priest. Give testimony to the Sanhedrin.”

Porthos shook his shaggy head. “It was not a matter for the Jewish council to deliberate and judge. It is a Roman matter. Your friend was tried and condemned the very same day. That’s all I know.”

I recovered quickly from my injuries and returned to my work.

Samson and his winery goats were a small legend in the world of the Roman Empire. My estate also sold enormous wheels of cheese produced from goat herds that grazed on the pastures. Samson’s pets had nothing to do with dairy production, yet, from the time I inherited the property, I devised a seal showing three goats on a wine vat. This was pressed into the wax that protected the cheese.

This seal and Samson’s goats were destined to safeguard more than the cheese.

Samson and I were in the barn where new barrels for the harvest were being made by my cooper, a young man of about twenty-five. My barrelmaker was a British slave named Patrick. From his youth he had been trained as a blacksmith and barrelmaker, tasked with building containers to hold provisions for the Roman army. His foot was crushed when a stack of barrels shifted during a rough sea voyage. To save his life the gangrenous leg had been amputated below the knee. Unable to march or work, Patrick was of no further use to Rome.

He had come to my vineyard five years earlier when old Samson recognized value in Patrick’s skill. Upon Samson’s advice I purchased Patrick for a few denarii at the slave auction in Caesarea Maritima. We brought him home in a wagon. Though Patrick knew few words in our language, Samson showed him an enormous stack of cured wood, the blacksmith forge, and tools for barrelmaking. The young cripple seemed pleased. Leaning on one crutch, he hobbled about the shed. He nodded and grinned his approval. He selected one lightweight, straight-grained piece of palm wood, hefted it in one arm, and said, “Not good. This not for wine.” And he tossed the palm plank toward his cot.

The morning after his arrival, I heard the blows of hammer on metal and smelled smoke from the forge. When Samson and his goats came to fetch me, we hurried to the workshop.

Patrick was already at work and walking.

Samson declared, “Sir, you got a bargain in this one. In the night the lad fashioned himself a wooden leg. Lined it with fleece for his stump and fastened it to his body by leather straps attached to his belt. I have the feeling he’ll be an asset to our winemaking, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”

Years had passed, and Patrick’s cleverness and skill were
indeed assets. The quality of the wine depended much on the quality of the barrels. Patrick’s work was admirable. Our cooperage now had three apprentices under Patrick’s supervision.

He stood as tall as any strong man and worked as hard as two. He had modified and perfected his wooden leg until he walked with an almost imperceptible limp.

Patrick now spoke our language with almost no accent. He addressed me with the same affectation he had learned from Samson. “If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, it’s got to be all oak. Away with the palm. Though I prefer palm for my false leg, it plays the grapes false in the fermenting.”

Samson agreed. “Bitter, in my opinion, sir.”

“And also acacia wood. Acacia. No good, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Patrick added. “I say oak is the wood. Harvest in the winter … less sap. And—”

The clatter of shod horse hooves interrupted our discussion.

Samson moved toward the door of the barn and stood framed in the light. “Romans.” Samson’s goats gathered round his legs. He turned his face toward me. “Two soldiers, sir.”

At that news, Patrick retreated to the lean-to that was his living quarters. He drew the curtain across the door. I knew he feared his former masters with good reason. His apprentices left off their labor.

Moments passed and a Roman sergeant in leather body armor walked toward the shop. He demanded of Samson, “Where’s your master, old man? The woman at the house says he’s here.”

I stepped forward. “I am David ben Lazarus, master of this estate.”

The brute-faced Roman slapped his fist against his chest. “Hail, Caesar.”

“Shalom,”
I replied, unwilling to respond in like manner.

“You are a friend of Judah ben Perez,” he demanded.

“I am.”

“You have been making inquiries, so we hear. Saying around Jerusalem things such as, ‘Where is Judah? What have they done with his mother and sister’ … and such as that.”

“And do you have news of my friend?”

I noticed that Samson and the goats had stepped into the shadows, where a stack of barrels leaned against the wall.

“News? Ha! Of a man accused of sedition? There will be no news … The tribune sent me to give you this warning.”

“And what is that?”

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “He sent me to tell you to shut up and quit asking the questions. For your own safety. A favor to you.”

I could not help but ask, “Why would a Roman tribune wish to warn a Judean grape grower?”

At this, the sergeant cracked a wide grin. “For the sake of them three milk goats.” He jerked his thumb toward Samson and the trio of animals around his legs.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow …”

“Tribune’s been a great lover of them cheeses of yours. He wants a wheel in return for his favor.”

I nodded at Samson. “Fetch the sergeant a wheel of the Three Goats, if you please.”

Samson hurried from the shop.

The sergeant was not finished. “Tribune says he never tasted better cheese as from them three milk goats there. Wondrous, he says. Dreams of it on campaign. Then he hears the very goats are not more than a few miles from where he is stationed. A miracle, he says. One wheel provided on every new moon
will satisfy his appetite. But you are to quit asking the question about your friend. Consider them all dead and shut up about it, or there won’t be anything he can do to help you.”

Samson returned with the heavy, wax-sealed round of goat cheese. He placed it into the sergeant’s arms. The soldier examined the seal, then peered at the three goats nudging Samson’s legs.

“Aye. That’s it. These are the very milk goats, then? Best cheese in the empire.” He slapped his fist against the cheese. “Hail, Caesar!” The sergeant turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode away.

We were all silent, except the goats, who laughed and gently butted Samson’s knees.

“Well, then,” Samson said at last. “That’s that.”

Patrick emerged from behind his curtain. He was on crutches, and his half leg dangled. He shrugged and explained, “They would not want to take a lame man back into service.”

Patrick’s apprentices eyed him with surprise and returned to work.

I clapped Samson on the back. “We must never let on, eh? The three goats who grace the seal of our cheeses are neutered males you raised from kids and could not bear to slaughter.”

“Aye, sir. Wethers, every one. My dear boys never gave a drop of milk for cheese, sir. Nor will they. It would indeed be wondrous and a miracle of biblical proportion. That’s why they smile so.” He scratched their heads affectionately. “Our secret, eh, boys?”

Chapter 7

P
orthos continued as our house guest. My sister and I welcomed him and gave no thought to how long he might remain with us. He was a middle-class merchant who sold copper cooking pots in the agora of Athens. He was a gentle bear of a man. Quiet and wearing a crooked smile on his broad face, his father was a Greek, but his Jewish mother had raised Porthos in the faith of Yahweh.

He grew up learning Torah while living in the Greek culture. He told us he often sat near Mars Hill to listen to the philosophers.

“At last I saved enough to make pilgrimage to Jerusalem where the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob made his dwelling place. I made this journey so I could return to Athens and argue with intelligence about the true identity of the Unknown God. And the moment my feet crossed the threshold, I was robbed. Ah. Men are the same everywhere, are they not?”

My household found Porthos pleasant and entertaining company, well spoken and educated in philosophy in the manner of the Greeks.

I invited Samson and Patrick to join Porthos and me on my patio in the cool of the evening. As the stars winked above us, we four men sipped fine wine and spoke of Jews and Gentiles,
of things of God and Torah, and of the rumors of Jesus of Nazareth in Galilee.

Porthos told us of the philosophers on Mars Hill. “They seem so high above us, rich and robed, as we merchants sell to the common folks in the marketplace below.” Porthos swept his hand across the horizon. “How many temples to how many gods surround the common folk of Athens? And yet there is one small temple built to the Unknown God, for fear they may have left one out and he become angry. Ha! The Unknown God is the one and only God in heaven and earth … the God I know and worship … the God of Israel.”

Patrick, who was not a Jew, asked, “I hear about the God of Israel every hour of every day as I work. Samson won’t let me forget that the Only True God is Israel’s God. Finally I believe it, though I don’t know why. So, can’t you just go up there and tell those fellows?”

Porthos raised his bushy eyebrows, “Once I tried to join in their discussion. They spoke of politics, gladiators, world government, and the fierce gods of Rome. Roman gods, they deduce, must be more powerful than any others.”

Samson laughed. “How could a kettle-seller possibly convince anyone?”

“I spoke of Torah—that through the Prophets and the Psalms, the Unknown God is revealed. I told them of the soul, of right and wrong, and of heaven … the abode of the righteous.”

Samson leaned forward. “You told the Greek philosophers these things? You’re a man of courage!”

Porthos shook his head. “Not so. They laughed at me. And when they did, I blushed and hurried away. Even so, in my market stall, when common folk spoke about the cruelty of the gods of Rome, I told them about the Lord, the One God who
is named Merciful. One day Messiah will come and heal and forgive our sins. And the lion will lay down with the lamb. Now here’s the miracle. The poor and humble, even among the Greeks, are eager to hear more of our God of mercy.” Porthos held up a thick finger. “That is where we must begin to share the truth … with those who have nothing. Like John the Baptizer has done.”

I had remained silent as I considered the injustice of our oppressors. I wondered quietly what had become of Judah and his dear mother and gentle sister. What had become of all the nations and kings throughout time who had chosen to rule their people by fear? Those empires had all fallen.

After considering these things, I spoke. “To the ends of the world, fear of Rome is like a blindfold that blocks out the light of truth. Along with every nation, we Jews have fallen because of fear. We have given up our freedom. Brutal men control our lives. We compromise our beliefs as long as it is others who are brutalized and not we ourselves. Terror is a powerful religion. The spirit of fear is a god that takes the human heart captive. But our God, the Living God of Israel, longs to fill our hearts with joy and freedom. That is what separates believers from all other people.”

Samson tugged his earlobe. “It is written, somewhere, that the Romans pray to many gods … out of fear. In our Jewish worship the wail of fear gives way to the cry of ‘Hallelujah! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’ ”