The Ironsmith (4 page)

Uriah finished off about half of the beer in what seemed like one swallow. He really was quite loathsome. His torso was short, but he had the long limbs of an ape. He seemed utterly hairless, and his skin was as pale as bread dough.

“I want walls around me, Master. Even in this wagon I feel as if a breath of wind will carry me away into the empty air.”

“I understand. I will see you safe.”

And he would. Very soon Caleb would have need of Uriah.

*   *   *

That evening, having endured the company of soldiers all through dinner, Caleb took a stroll around the fortress walls. Below him the valley was covered in impenetrable shadow, but Machaerus was high enough that the blood-red sun had not yet completely disappeared behind the horizon, and the gathering darkness allowed for a comfortable feeling of solitude.

Where was this place? Caleb had never before traveled to Perea and had only the dimmest notion of its geography, but somewhere out there to the west was the Dead Sea. He had seen it once as a child, on an excursion with his family, and he remembered how still and gray the water had seemed, like slate.

That had been a day's journey from Jerusalem, his home.

Jerusalem. He had not been inside its walls in eight years, not even for the holy days. He might die and never see it again. He did not even know if his parents were still alive.

And all because of Michal.

“Go. And take that sinful woman with you,” his father had said, the anger in him as cold as snow. “Live among the gentiles if it pleases you. You are almost one yourself.”

His father, who was rigid even for a Levite, cursed him. His father, Caleb was quite sure, had never loved him. This was simply the last episode in a long history of rejection. And from that moment he had no father.

That sinful woman.
A fair description, if one was honest. Michal had been seventeen when they met, a married woman bored with her husband. They were lovers within days, and perhaps, Caleb could reasonably surmise after eight years with her, he had not been the first.

Her husband had made no difficulties, agreeing to divorce her on payment of a trifling sum. Perhaps he was one of those who thought all women were as interchangeable as loincloths. Or perhaps he had been glad to escape.

But Caleb knew, even after the eight wretched years of their marriage, that he would never give her up. He would as soon surrender the breath under his ribs.

She was mostly in Tiberias now, an intimate friend of the Tetrarch's wife. It was agony to be away from her.

She teased and tormented him. Perhaps she had another lover.

But the day would come, Caleb comforted himself, when all Galilee would fear him, when no man living would dare to take his place in her bed. And then she would have to behave and be his alone.

What was he now? Very little more than one of the Lord Eleazar's senior clerks. He had an office in the old palace in Sepphoris and a handful of scribes to deal with the more obvious tasks. He was in charge of the prison, although he did not administer it, and unofficially, by virtue of the fact that he had recommended the appointment of the commander, who was his creature, he controlled the palace garrison.

But the source of his real power lay in the network of spies he had painstakingly created and which reached into every corner of Galilee. He knew what went on in the houses of the great and in the merest village. He knew what was said and done and, sometimes, even thought. He was the Tetrarch's snarling watchdog, and for this he was feared. And that fear made him powerful, the rewards of which were not contemptible.

The one check on his power was the Lord Eleazar, who was already vastly rich and therefore could afford the luxury of scruples.

Power was magical. It settled every grievance and put all doubts to sleep. It could even dull his own fear, which nothing ever banished entirely.

And, once he had used John to undermine the Lord Eleazar, he would have power that was almost limitless. He could see the future opening before him like the dawn.

The last sliver of the sun was gone, and the light over the western hills was collapsing as if of its own weight. The oil lamp Caleb had brought out with him hardly allowed him to see his feet. He decided he would go back to his room, drink a few cups of wine, and go to bed.

Tomorrow would bring John.

*   *   *

Caleb had no idea what to expect from this desert preacher.

At their first interview, the Baptist was naked except for his chains. He seemed exhausted. He was bleeding from cuts on his knees and the tops of his feet, which suggested that he had had to be dragged from his cell.

Without even glancing at Caleb, who was seated behind a table, John collapsed to the floor, where, in the most dispassionate way imaginable, he sat examining the various wounds and abrasions on his feet.

Under more promising circumstances he would have been an impressive figure, for he was tall and there was an immense dignity about him. The bones were visible beneath his skin, so the stories of his ascetic manner of life were doubtless true.

Finally he did look up. Yes, he had the face of a prophet. He seemed ageless but was probably somewhere between thirty and forty. His eyes were large and black, and there was in them a complete absence of fear.

“You are John, called the Baptist?”

“You know who I am.”

“Do you know who
I
am?”

“No.”

“I am Caleb bar Jacob. I am here by authority of the Tetrarch.”

John's face registered no reaction, and he returned to the contemplation of his injured feet.

“Are you in pain?” Caleb asked, leaning forward a little. “Would you like me to send for a physician?”

“No.” John raised his head, but not to look at his interrogator. He seemed merely to have lost interest. “It is of no consequence. I don't imagine I will be left to suffer long.”

“Nothing has been decided,” Caleb replied quietly. “You are in my hands now.”

“I am not in your hands, but God's.”

And John had smiled at him, as if he were humoring a child. In that instant he made Caleb hate him.

*   *   *

The next day, during their second interview, John suddenly lapsed into silence, as if he had just noticed something of interest.

“From your robes I conclude you are a Levite,” he said at last.

“Yes. I was trained as a musician.”

“A Temple servant and a jailer.” John smiled in amusement. “That is an interesting combination of employments.”

“The service of God takes many forms.”

“Is that what you call it? ‘The service of God'?”

“Yes, because I protect the proper order of things, the order which God Himself has ordained. I serve those whom God favors and in so doing find favor myself.”

“Favor with whom? With God or the Tetrarch?”

“With both, I hope. But more importantly with God.”

John appeared to consider this. For perhaps a quarter of a minute he merely stared at the floor, and then he sighed heavily. A great sadness seemed to take possession of him.

“Are you so blind, Caleb bar Jacob, son of the Temple, that you imagine you can serve God by doing evil? Does not your conscience cry out against it? I implore you to listen to that inner voice which laments your sins, because God will one day reclaim His creation and you will be called to answer for all that you have done.”

“I answer now, John. As you do. God rewards the good and punishes the bad—not in the future but now, in every hour of every day.” Caleb allowed himself a pleasant smile. “I sit here with your life in my hands and you are huddled on the floor in chains. Has not God shown His favor to me and turned His face from you? How can you imagine this is not His judgment on us both?”

The logic of the thing seemed so obvious that he was almost moved to compassion for his prisoner.

“You have sinned, John. You have turned the rabble against those whom it has pleased God to raise to authority, and He has visited your sin upon your head.”

“I see. You have power and therefore whatever you do has God's blessing. Every wicked king since the beginning of the world has used that argument. It is how a robber thinks when he breaks into another man's house: ‘I have his treasure in my hands, so let me use it as I will.'”

“Do you compare the Tetrarch to a robber? He has what he has from God.”

“Did he not steal his own brother's wife? And shall he not be rebuked for that, as Nathan rebuked David over Bathsheba?”

“Nathan was a prophet.”

“And what is a prophet except one who speaks God's truth and is not silenced by fear of the mighty?”

Then Caleb surprised himself by asking the obvious question.

“Are you not afraid?”

And, without even looking at him, John answered, “No. It is you who should be afraid, Caleb bar Jacob, for the ax is even now laid to the root of the tree. When God sends His messenger to judge the world, the unrighteous will be consigned to death and the righteous will live forever. I will have but a little time to sleep.”

*   *   *

As it happened, there was another occupant of the prison at Machaerus, a soldier waiting to be crucified for desertion. His presence occasioned another conversation with the commandant.

“Carry out the sentence today,” Caleb told him. He wanted no witnesses to what was planned for John and he did not feel it necessary to explain.

Zev again looked uncomfortable.

“Two of the men we usually use for executions are on extended patrol. They won't be back until the day after tomorrow.”

“Then take your deserter out and cut his throat, after which you can crucify him at your leisure.” Caleb smiled unpleasantly. “You might call this his lucky day.”

When they had the prison to themselves, Caleb and Uriah discussed what to do with John.

“It is necessary to break him,” Caleb said. “I would prefer some method that left no marks on his body. What would you suggest?”

Uriah seemed to consider the problem for a moment.

“Hang him in chains,” he said, and then he laughed quietly. “I'll wrap his wrists and ankles in rags and then, when his arms are secure, I'll pull up the leg chains behind his back until he's well off the floor. An hour of that and he'll think his spine is about to snap. Three hours and he'll be begging for mercy.”

Caleb nodded approvingly.

“We'll allow him six hours to consider his situation,” he said. “Then I'll have another talk with him.”

Since he did not care to involve himself in the specifics of the thing, Caleb went up to his room and took a nap.

When he returned, a little over six hours later, he tapped lightly on the prison door and it was opened for him by Uriah.

“Well?”

Uriah looked unhappy.

John was hanging belly down from iron rings bolted to the ceiling. His feet were about on a level with his shoulder blades and his back was bent at a fearful angle.

Caleb took a stool and sat down in front of him. They were at eye level and separated by less than the length of one's arm. John's face was drenched in sweat.

“How do you feel?” Caleb asked pleasantly.

“Numb.”

It was not the answer Caleb had expected.

“Numb?”

“Yes. God has taken away the pain. One has merely to be patient. My body feels dead.”

“Shall I tell Uriah to begin cutting your toes off?”

“Is that his name?” John managed a weak smile. “He didn't introduce himself.”

“Shall I?” Caleb repeated. He was angry, but he realized it would be a mistake to let his anger show. “Perhaps he could trim your feet right back to the instep.”

“I doubt if I would feel it. Besides, it would only bring me that much closer to death.”

John closed his eyes, as if weary of the subject.

Caleb suddenly felt as if he had been dismissed like a servant. He stood up and walked away. He did not want John to see his face.

He went over to where Uriah was waiting.

“When I am gone, take him down,” he said, almost between his teeth. “Give him an hour to recover and then put him in a cell. No light, no food. Give him a bucket with a few cups of water in it. Once he is inside, don't go near the door. I don't want him to hear a sound.”

The sense of having been utterly abandoned was the most terrible thing most people could imagine. A few days of isolation in a dark room, never knowing if you were being left to starve, or if you would ever see the light again, must dissolve any man's courage. Caleb had never known it to fail.

Of course there was always the risk that John would simply go mad.

“How long shall you wait, Master?”

“I haven't decided.”

In the event, he waited five days.

“What do you hear of him?” he asked.

Uriah shook his head. It was a gesture of perplexity—and fear.

“I hear his voice sometimes, as if he is speaking quietly to someone.

“Perhaps he's out of his head.”

“No. I crouched by the door and listened. He prays to God.”

“For what? For deliverance?”

“No. He praises God for filling his soul with light.”

It was obvious that all this had made its impression on Uriah, as well it might. One expected screams and curses, and in the end merely sobbing, but not a benediction.

“I hate him, Master.”

Caleb smiled, pretending he understood and sympathized. Of course he did not. The workings of Uriah's twisted spirit were a mystery to him, one he did not want to understand.

“Open the door.”

Caleb entered the cell, carrying an oil lamp, and John merely turned his face away from the light.

There was still water in the bucket that rested beside John's right hand—it caught the light. Most men would have drained it dry within the first day.

In that instant, when he saw the water shimmering, Caleb knew he had lost.