When Jesus Wept (23 page)

Two sentries at the gate stopped me from riding in. “Halt!”

Remembering to dismount before I addressed them, I stepped off my mare.

“What’s your business?” demanded a burly Syrian mercenary.

“I have traveled far to speak with Marcus Longinus, your commander.”

The two put their heads together. “Our centurion … is a friend to these Jews,” one muttered.

The Syrian demanded, “What’s your name, then?”

“David ben Lazarus.”

While the Syrian barred my way, the other soldier opened the pedestrian gate and hurried away. Through the portal I glimpsed a half dozen sweaty, unsaddled horses tied at the rail. I heard the clank of hammer upon hot iron coming from the blacksmith shop.

The smell of roasting pork and baking bread was in the air as the cooks prepared supper for the company. Off-duty soldiers roared and laughed as they played dice. Another honed his short sword and shouted at the stable boys carrying fodder for the livestock.

Minutes passed before Marcus emerged and tersely ordered the sentries to take my horse into the stable to be fed and watered. Marcus and I remained outside the gate. Only when they retreated did Marcus address me.

“Peace be with you,” I said.

“And also with you,” he answered with a question in his eyes. “Friend, is it well with you? With your … family?”

We walked away from the caravansary before I answered. To the west the deep orange ball of the sun melted on the far horizon. Banners of salmon and pink streaked the sky.

“I’ve been riding for days to reach you.”

“Your Sabbath has begun.
Shabbat Shalom
.”

“Shabbat Shalom.”

“Mary? Is she well?”

“She is well.”

“And Carta?”

“He has become a member of our family.”

His mouth curved in a tight smile of relief. “Why have you come?”

“I need your help … my friend.”

“You have it, if I am able to give it.”

“The officers from the Jerusalem garrison have conscripted Patrick of Verulamium. He belonged to Rome for twelve years. A blacksmith and a barrelmaker. He lost his leg in service and was put on the block. Once he was my slave, as I bought him at auction from the army. He is very useful to me.”

“You freed him?”

“He earned his freedom by helping save my vines from the locusts. He is soon to be married.”

“You say you purchased him, yet you set him free.”

“A good man. A skilled fellow, Patrick. A Briton as you are.”

Marcus rubbed his cheek. “Ah, Lazarus. What you don’t know … Patrick was safe from conscription as long as you bought and paid for him. As long as he belonged to you, they could not conscript him … at least not without paying you his value.”

“His value, slave or free, is incalculable to my business.”

“Surely his fame as a clever fellow got back to the officers in Jerusalem. Herod Antipas and Pilate no doubt asked, how is it that the vineyards of the estate of Lazarus were saved and not the estates of Herod and the sympathizers of Rome?”

“Well, Patrick’s gone. They took him by force, and we were helpless to stop them.”

Marcus pondered for a long moment as a supper bell clanged. “I know your laws about the Sabbath. You can’t enter the dwelling place of a Gentile … my men are eating now.”

“I cannot eat with you.”

“But will you violate your laws to save a life?”

“My heart knows what is right.”

“I have learned the Lord’s teaching. You people accuse him and condemn Jesus for healing on Shabbat. Yet you will pull an ox from a ditch on Shabbat. Now, to save a one-legged blacksmith, will you come with me?”

There was no longer any question. “I came for that purpose.” I followed Marcus through the gate of the outpost. The courtyard was now deserted. I heard the rowdy laughter of men eating in a dining hall to our right. To the left, the clank of hammer on iron continued in the blacksmith shop.

Marcus led me toward the forge. And there, bent and sweating over the red-hot iron, Patrick labored on. Sparks flew with every hammer blow. He did not look up. I saw the fresh bloody brand of a military slave with the number of Marcus’s cohort burned on Patrick’s forearm.

I stopped midstride as Marcus stepped aside. He addressed Patrick in the language of Britannia.

Patrick did not reply.

Marcus took my arm and pulled me forward into the light of the fire. “He has not spoken one word since he came three days ago. He barely eats. Speak to him,” Marcus instructed me.

I said quietly, “Patrick?”

At the sound of my voice, he paused, still staring at the yellow glow of the iron. He did not look up. His eyes brimmed.

Tears spilled over and hissed on the metal as they fell. “I am dreaming,” he whispered as he wept. “I hear the voice of my brother.” His shoulders shook with silent sobs.

“Patrick!” I was at his side in two steps. The heat of the forge was on my face. “Look up! Not a dream!”

He cried out and flung the hammer away. Standing erect, he wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my neck. “It’s you! You came for me! My brother! My father!”

I wept with him. “My brother. My son.”

“What’s to be done? They’ll never let me go!”

Marcus observed our reunion in silence for a time.

“How is my darling girl?”

“Adrianna weeps for you, her only love. Her hopes are smashed. Her heart broken.”

At this news, Patrick could not control his grief. “Poor darling girl. Poor Adrianna. Better I never gave her hope!”

“Samson and Delilah try to comfort her, but they love you so. Like their own son. Delilah’s tears salt our bread with sorrow.”

“I am lost! All is lost! What is to be done?”

Marcus cleared his throat. “If you were the slave of the House of Lazarus, you could not be conscripted unless your master was paid fair value for a slave.”

Patrick groped for a stool and sank down. He buried his sooty face in his hands. “It was all false! False! There is no freedom within the reach of Rome.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. He commanded, “Be a man. Stop sniveling. Look at him! David ben Lazarus! How can you call this creature worth his salt? Such a weakling is no good to Rome here in the frontier!”

I protested. “But … but … Patrick is …”

Marcus growled, “A worthless weakling, I say! One legged. Mostly mute! He is worse than a woman!” He stepped forward, raising his hand as if to strike Patrick. “What good are you to Rome?”

Patrick looked at the heap of horseshoes he had forged. He blinked at Marcus in astonishment. “Sir …”

Marcus shouted, “Why did you lie to the officers? Why did you tell them you were a free man?”

Patrick tried to speak. “But, sir, I am …”

“Shut up, weakling! Liar! Your master has come for payment from us … or to claim you.” Marcus turned his fury on me. His voice carried across the courtyard. The clamor of soldiers in the dining hall fell silent. “All right, Jew. So! You identified him. This is the man. One leg! Ha! They send the rejects to me and expect me to manage! But you say he is your slave and has value to your estate. What then is the price for him?”

I could hardly think what price I could ever place on Patrick. “I … I … he is my barrelmaker and I …”

Marcus bellowed. “Thirty pieces of silver? You demand the full price of a healthy slave? You must be mad! What use is he to Rome? You think I could justify paying such a price? What would my officers say if I showed them the accounts of this post and then pointed to a cripple and said, ‘For this one-legged slave I was required by law to pay his master …’ They would take it out of my hide!”

At last light dawned. I fully entered the charade. “I will not take one denarius less! Thirty pieces of silver or I will appeal to the judges. Rome has stolen my slave and—”

Marcus roared back. “Take him! Take the sniveling creature!”

“I will!” I shouted.

Marcus lowered his voice. His expression softened. “Patrick, your life belongs to David ben Lazarus. There is safety in that. Do you understand?”

Patrick’s chin jerked down once. His eyes were wide. He spoke in the tongue of his homeland. I guessed he was thanking Marcus.

Marcus took charge. “All right, then. Be of good courage. It’s settled. I will prepare papers of release and put my seal on it while you saddle your horse and mine. It’s Sabbath … your day of rest, but for the sake of Patrick, do not rest. Ride through the night. Ride like the wind. The fresh brand of a conscript slave is a danger to you. Blot it out. If you’re stopped, the soldiers on patrol will likely be unable to read the words on my document of transfer. But show them my seal. I will come to Bethany to fetch back my horse. See you take care of him. Now hurry!” He pivoted on his heel and strode out of the forge.

“Come, Patrick. Let’s go. Adrianna is waiting.”

Patrick shook his head slowly from side to side. “Something to do first.” He took the tongs and lifted up the red hot iron of the half-formed shoe. His eyes fixed on the coals of the forge for an instant. Then he moved his arm near to the fierce heat. In a single stroke, he pressed his arm onto the molten metal. Flesh hissed and seared, burning away the mark of slavery. Patrick made a low growling in his agony, then plunged his arm into a bucket of cold water.

He gasped. “Finished. Now. Home.”

Chapter 22

N
ews of Patrick’s homecoming somehow preceded us, spreading from village to village in Judea. As we topped the rise of the hill overlooking home, two hundred people were gathered outside the gates waiting for us.

Patrick raised his arms to heaven and wept. “Home!” he cried. “Was there ever such a sight so beautiful in all the world?”

Smoke and the aroma of cooking meat filled the air.

“Look!” I laughed. “They’re roasting the fatted calf! For you, Patrick! All for you!”

Strains of Carta’s flute, of tambourines and drums, drifted up as we rode closer to home.

Patrick began to sing:

“For the horses of Pharaoh

went with his chariots

and horsemen into the sea!

Sing to the L
ORD,

for he has triumphed gloriously!

The horse and rider

He has thrown into the sea!”
¹

At the challenge of Patrick’s rich baritone, the watchman on the walls lifted a shofar to his lips and gave the signal. Heads
lifted up, and suddenly there came a shout of joy so loud that the hills behind us echoed.

Adrianna came running, followed by Carta playing his flute at the head of a dozen skipping children.

“Look! Look! It’s Patrick! Patrick and the master!”

“Master Lazarus has brought Patrick home!”

“Praise to God in heaven on high!”

“Patrick’s home!”

Samson and Delilah followed with the three goats on their heels. And then came Martha and all the others, kicking up dust on the road as they ran.

Patrick leapt from the fine black horse. He bowed and kissed the ground, then jumped up and gave a whoop of delight as Adrianna, puffing and red-faced, fell into his arms!

He was instantly surrounded, swallowed up by joy!

“Patrick! How’d you get free?”

“Tell us what happened?”

“From front to back … tell us!”

“Tell us!”

Flushed and grinning, Patrick glanced back at me over his shoulder and babbled. “The Master found me. Lost sheep that I was. He was very brave to be sure. He said I was his slave and demanded payment from the officer for me.”

“Demanded!”

“Did you hear that? Master Lazarus demanded from a Roman officer!”

Patrick continued, “The fellow would not pay him the price. Said I am a one-legged reject and not worth it!”

This brought howls of laughter from the crowd. “Ha! Not worth it?”

“Patrick not worth it?”

Carta declared, “Now this is why Rome will one day fall! They do not know a bargain when they see one!”

More laughter.

Patrick finished the tale. “And so the master made a bargain with the Roman to take me home and never to set me free again! I am a happy slave in the House of Lazarus!”

This evoked cheers from all.

“Blessed be our master.”

“. good master of the vines.”

“Lazarus!”

“The Lord bless the House of Lazarus forever!”

“Our master went out in search of one lost sheep.”

Carta yelped, “And he brought home the goat!”

I asked, “Adrianna, tell us. What are your thoughts of your betrothed coming home so soon?”

The girl blushed and tucked herself under the arm of Patrick. She gazed up at him with doe-eyes. He bent and wiped her tears with his thumb.

She tried to speak. “I think … I think that … I shall only be happier when it is my wedding day!”

Samson stepped up to me and bowed slightly. He whispered, “The cottage is all finished. We kept working even after he was away. We believed you would bring him back. Sir, if you don’t mind me saying, by faith, our preparations for a wedding are well under way. A bath and fresh clothes are what Patrick needs, and then … we’ve got the guests. Everyone who loves us is here. And the food. There’s plenty of wine. Here’s the bride, my daughter … all blushing and filled with joy! And now the bridegroom has come to us. Can we not celebrate his return with a wedding feast?”

“Someone call the rabbi!” I commanded. “Tonight will be the wedding feast of Patrick and Adrianna!”

There was a cheer from all at the news. Adrianna burst into fresh tears.

Patrick beamed. “If I had known, I would have galloped all the way without stopping!”

Old Delilah embraced her blushing daughter. “My darling girl, my beautiful baby girl, come!” She commanded the children, “Hurry now. There are flowers on the hillside. Go pick flowers for the bride to carry!”

Samson shrugged. “Why wait? Why wait? You never know what tomorrow will bring.”

I ordered that the finest wedding clothes be provided for Patrick. I longed only for sleep after my journey, but who could deny the momentum of joy? Giving my little white mare into the care of the stable boy, I hurried into the house.