The Ironsmith (54 page)

“I wish a few moments with the prefect,” he said, first in Latin and then, when he received no response, in Greek. “I am Eleazar bar Zadok, servant and First Minister to the Lord Herod Antipas, Tetrarch of Galilee and Perea.”

“The prefect is engaged. You will have to wait,” the chamberlain replied, and then he turned his eyes away, as if dismissing one more petitioner from existence.

“He is hearing criminal cases this morning?” Eleazar asked, refusing to notice the man's impertinence. “I am in possession of evidence regarding one of them.”

“He
is
hearing criminal cases this morning. He will see no one until they are dispatched.”

“Nevertheless, I wish you to inform him of my presence.”

There was a gold coin pinched between Eleazar's first finger and thumb. The chamberlain glanced down at it and then opened his hand slightly to receive it.

“I will inquire,” he said.

A few minutes later he returned.

“The prefect will see you,” he reported, as if it were a personal triumph, “but not until he has done justice for the morning.”

Eleazar returned to where Noah was waiting for him.

“He will see me,” he told him, “but after he has judged the case.”

“That is better than not at all.”

“Perhaps a little.”

*   *   *

Raetius understood how Roman justice worked. It might be different in Rome, but in the provinces there were only three parties to a trial: the judge, the accuser, and the accused. He personally had witnessed Joshua's triumphal entry into the city, and the rogue's follower, this fellow Judah, would testify the right way. Caleb, who was hard enough to be a Roman himself, had given instructions: “If he doesn't confirm that Joshua bar Joseph claimed to be of the seed of David and therefore the rightful king of the Jews, denounce him. Let him be crucified next to his master.” He had said it with his hand on Judah's shoulder, just so there wouldn't be any misunderstanding.

Fortunately there was a short list that morning—only Joshua and a couple of bandits. And the prefect wasn't going to waste much time on bandits. The officer in charge had but to recount the circumstances of their arrest. “Crucify them.” That was the sentence, and they were taken out.

“Now, what's this?” Pilatus asked, looking at Joshua the way a butcher looks at a lamb.

“A preacher, my lord,” Raetius answered. “Made a disturbance coming into the city. He claims he's king of this lot. The mob believed him, and there was almost a riot.”

“Well, what about it?” Pilatus took a step toward Joshua and looked him square in the face. “Are you king of the Jews.”

“No. Nor have I ever claimed to be. God is my king.”

“He's lying, my lord. Trying to save his skin. Here's one of his followers, ready to tell the truth.” Raetius pushed Judah forward. You could almost feel sorry for Judah, he was so scared. “Tell his lordship, now. This one says he's a king, right?”

There was a pause, a breathing space maybe, and then, very quietly, Judah said, “Yes.”

“I'm not sure his lordship heard you. Say it again.”

“Yes. Yes. He said he was of the seed of David.”

And then Joshua said something to him, in their tongue, and the poor fellow looked as if he might burst into tears.

“Is that the end of it?” Pilatus asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then he's guilty. Crucify him.” He turned to his secretary. “Is there any more business?”

“Yes, my lord. Someone wishes an audience. He's Herod's man. Probably best to see him.”

“One supposes so. Bring him to my study.”

The prefect turned back to Raetius. “You know what to do, centurion,” he said. “Do it.”

That was Roman justice. It worked well enough.

*   *   *

A servant came out through the palace door and whispered something to the chamberlain, who then caught the Lord Eleazar's eye and, raising his hand, made a curt gesture summoning him forward.

“The prefect will see you now,” he said, in a tone that suggested he felt himself imposed upon.

Eleazar glanced back at Noah, as if to say, “
I will do my best,
” and then followed the servant inside.

The prefect was seated in a room probably reserved for such meetings. He did not rise to greet his guest but merely gestured at another chair, which, Eleazar gathered, was all the invitation he was likely to receive, so he sat down in it.

“I have agreed to see you out of respect for your master,” Pontius Pilatus announced. “I have heard of you, of course, but I gather your visit here today is unrelated to the Tetrarch's business.”

Pilatus smiled thinly. He was a man of about forty, tall and languid. As a knight, he had probably reached the pinnacle of his official career, and the cast of his face suggested that he knew it. Judea was not a posting much coveted by ambitious men, and Pilatus therefore resented his subjects and made no attempt to disguise the fact. He was regarded by them as cruel and insensitive.

“You are correct in assuming I am here as a private person,” Eleazar began, returning the smile. “My visit concerns one Joshua bar Joseph, who was arrested last night.”

At first Pilatus seemed mildly puzzled and then, apparently, remembered where he had heard the name before.

“He appeared before me just now.” The prefect smiled again, as if the recollection pleased him. “He claims, it seems, to be your king. I condemned him.”

“Did he admit the charge?” Eleazar asked, giving the impression that the question was of purely theoretical interest.

“No. He denied it. They always deny everything. But there was proof, and a witness.”

“I have reason to believe that he was telling the truth, that the evidence against him was fabricated, and that your lordship has been imposed upon.”

There was a slight shift in the prefect's attitude. Suddenly he seemed on the verge of becoming angry.

“He was hailed as king by the mob,” Pilatus replied, his voice unnaturally calm. “It was witnessed by one of my centurions. Are you questioning the testimony of a Roman officer?”

Eleazar shook his head, suggesting that such an enormity would never have occurred to him.

“No, I am not. The event took place. However, it was staged. Joshua bar Joseph is a preacher, a religious figure, without political pretensions of any sort. My master knows of him and regards him as harmless. Yet he has powerful enemies, who have hit upon this means of destroying him.”

“One of his own followers gave evidence that he claimed to be king of the Jews.”

“The man has perjured himself.”

The prefect stared at the wall for a moment, and then he returned his gaze to Eleazar, his eyes narrowing.

“Why do you care?” he asked, giving the question the full weight of his suspicion. “This Joshua is a peasant. We can take it for granted that in his heart he hates us both. Why do you, a man of position and wealth, concern yourself with what happens to him?”

“Because I have been reminded that I am a priest, and that the God I serve hates injustice.”

“Injustice.”

Pilatus repeated the word as if it were the answer to a riddle. He seemed on the verge of laughing.

“Injustice, you call it,” he went on, his amusement drifting over into anger. “It is never unjust to execute a peasant. They are all traitors—or would be if they dared. The only excuse for not killing every one of them is that we need their work. So we kill them selectively, as an example to the others. This morning I have sent three of them to the cross, and I rejoice in it.”

“And I am asking you to spare only one. I give you my word that he is innocent of the charges against him. I would be in your debt for this act of clemency.”

Without compromising his dignity, Eleazar tried hard to appear as a supplicant. He himself had been the object of hundreds of entreaties, and he tried to sort through his memory for the faces that had moved him most. It was a demeaning exercise, and probably useless, but it was necessary to try.

“I would be grateful,” he added, purely for emphasis.

But the prefect appeared unmoved.

“The city is full of people,” Pilatus said finally. “Exactly what feast is it this time?”

It was a calculated insult, but Eleazar ignored it.

“The Passover,” he said quietly.

“That's right.” Pilatus looked pleased—he had made his point. “Passover. The city is swarming with pilgrims. It is always dangerous when the lower classes don't have enough to keep them busy. They become excited over trifles and there is a riot. Then the soldiers have to restore order and more people die than I would condemn in a lifetime. You see, when people like you, the leaders of this country, can't quiet things down, the emperor expects me to do it for you. He doesn't care how I do it. He just wants it done.

“Beyond this, the emperor is the only person on earth whose gratitude concerns me.”

He was refusing. That was substance of it. Eleazar had expected as much, but he felt he had to make one final attempt.

“An act of clemency would do much to soothe the people,” he said. “Many believe that Joshua is God's prophet.”

“Prophet or king makes no difference. I don't care if he's innocent or guilty. The mob misunderstands clemency, taking it for weakness. But a man dying on the cross is a clear message.”

The prefect smiled.

“Now, you must excuse me,” he said, abruptly standing up and obliging Eleazar to do the same. “I have much to do, and this business has detained me too long.”

*   *   *

Noah had been alone in the courtyard for only a few minutes before the door opened again and Judah came out into the morning sunlight. He was alone. He looked as if he expected to be that way for the rest of his life.

He looked directly at Noah without, apparently, seeing him. But Noah did nothing to call attention to himself. He didn't have to. There were no questions for which he needed Judah's answers. Judah was free, which meant that Joshua was condemned.

What was it that Joshua had said? “
I cannot save Judah by abandoning him. I have no choice but to help him work out his salvation.
” But Judah had abandoned Joshua. And now, from the look of him, he was in the process of abandoning himself.

In a moment, he was gone.

Shortly thereafter the Lord Eleazar came out through the same door.

“There was nothing I could do,” he said, shaking his head. “I offered him my gratitude, which is worth something in this world, and he spurned it. He does not care if your cousin is innocent. He is determined to make an example of him for the mob.”

Without realizing what he was doing, Noah covered his face with his hands. It was really going to happen. It was appalling, unthinkable, but it was really true. His cousin Joshua, his friend since childhood, was going to be nailed to a wooden cross and left to die.

His mind felt as if it had been frozen shut, but he forced himself to think. Was there nothing he could do?

“I can be with him,” he said, half to himself. “At least, if he must suffer and die, someone, some friend, should be with him.”

“Come away.” Eleazar put his arm over Noah's shoulders. “Come back to my house with me. We cannot save his life, but perhaps there is yet something we can do to help him.”

“I have to find him,” Noah said almost defiantly. “I have to find him.”

“You will not find him. The Romans are holding him close now, and they will not let anyone near him. Come away.”

The walk did him some good. The first shock had been followed by a terrible numbness, which gradually wore off as they made their way through the narrow streets. By the time they reached the Lord Eleazar's door, Noah had recovered enough to grasp his own helplessness.

They went to Eleazar's study and sat down. A servant brought a jar of wine and two stone cups. Eleazar poured out the wine, and at first Noah simply stared at it.

“Drink. You need it. We both do.”

Noah picked up the cup and drained it in one swallow. Eleazar instantly refilled it.

“What is happening to him now?” Noah asked, with reasonable detachment. “Do you know? Can you guess?”

“I know. Have you ever seen a crucifixion?”

“No.”

“I have.”

For a moment the Lord Eleazar's eyes closed, as if he wished to blot out some ghastly recollection. Then he poured himself a cup of wine. He did not speak again until he had drunk it.

“You are not old enough to have lived through it, but when Great Herod died I was seven years old. There was a rebellion in Galilee. The Romans came in force. They burned Sepphoris and there was a great slaughter. Many of the survivors were sold into slavery. My father was warden of the city—Herod's man—and so we were allowed to leave. We went to Jerusalem, and we returned when the rebellion was over. My father was reappointed to his post by Antipas, Old Herod's son, and he helped rebuild the city.

“I remember the journey home. I will never forget it. The Romans crucified all the captured rebels. They started at the eastern gate of Sepphoris, and the crosses extended for miles along both sides of the road to Jerusalem. My father and mother and I rode in our cart along that road, under the shadows of crucified men.

“It takes a long time for someone to die like that. Sometimes three or four days, sometimes a week. The first ones I saw called down to us, begging for water. Later they were mute—alive, it seemed, only to their own suffering. Finally, within sight of the city, they were all dead.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Noah asked, his voice thick with grief.

“To prepare you for what you will see if you are fool enough to search out your cousin's place of execution. It will be terrible beyond my poor powers to describe it.”

The Lord Eleazar drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. The subject, clearly, was painful to him.