The Ironsmith (6 page)

The chamberlain bowed to him and then disappeared to announce his arrival, and Eleazar was left alone to wait.

As he stood in the great reception hall, he had only to look about him, at the murals on the walls, scenes from pagan stories, full of wantonness and naked flesh, and at the white Greek columns and the polished marble floor, to feel himself in a foreign place, a dwelling unfit for men who feared God.

But what could one expect from a man whose mother had been a Nabatean and whose great-grandfather—an Idumean, of all things—had probably been forced at sword point to accept Torah? Antipas himself had grown up in Rome.

The Tetrarch's family had risen to power in a mere three generations. They were, it seemed, the destiny Eleazar's forebears had embraced for him. His grandfather, who had been a worldly man and saw no hope of prospering in Jerusalem, had accepted an offer of service from the Great Herod, who was then governor of Galilee. After the Roman senate had declared him king of the Jews, Herod showed favor to the family, who received land and honors. Eleazar's father eventually came to lead the city administration of Sepphoris, the rewards for which were not contemptible.

But then Herod, worn down by his years and his many crimes, had at last died. He left a will dividing his kingdom among his three surviving sons. Archelaus was to be king and to rule over Judea, Samaria, and Idumea. Antipas would have Galilee and Perea, and Philip the lands east of the Jordan. The emperor in Rome, however, refused Archelaus the title of king and named him “ethnarch,” ruler of the people. Antipas and Philip, since each was to receive a quarter of their father's domain, would each be styled “Tetrarch.”

Inevitably, the Great Herod's death was followed by a rebellion—a feeble thing, restricted mainly to the countryside—but the Romans, acting on behalf of Herod's sons, crushed it with astonishing ferocity, and Eleazar learned a lesson he was never to forget: resistance to authority led to chaos and death. God, for whatever reason, had made the Romans masters of the world, and the Romans had appointed Antipas, Herod's son, master of Galilee. To defend this order of things was to do the will of God.

But the order could be broken. The emperor could remove Antipas, as he had removed Antipas's elder brother, Archelaus, who was judged too cruel and therefore a threat to good order and so, at a word from Rome, had been exiled to the wilderness of Europe. Judea, Samaria, and Idumea then became the Roman province of Palestine, governed from Caesarea by a prefect. No one ever heard from Archelaus again.

Thus, like his father before him, Antipas owed all that he had, even his life, to the patronage of the Caesars. One mistake, one reason for the Romans to decide he was a liability, and he would join his brother, who had probably had his throat cut as soon as he arrived in Gaul.

This Antipas understood quite well. He lived with the fear of it every moment of this life, and his fear made him cruel.

So Eleazar served the Great Herod's son because his father had served both father and son and because the alternative was rule by foreigners even more cruel than Antipas.

In the world he knew, power was in a state of precarious balance, and it was his function to restrain Antipas from doing anything that might disturb that balance, lest Antipas destroy himself and surrender Galilee to the Romans.

But Eleazar had no illusions. He was thin and careworn and already past forty. And his duty in life was to protect a monster.

And now, after waiting for more than two hours, he found himself bowing stiffly to the Lady Herodias, the Tetrarch's wife, formerly the wife of her uncle, Herod Boethus, who was, incidentally, the Tetrarch's still-living brother.

She had come out at last to receive him, surrounded by perhaps a score of her women, among whom, standing behind and a little to the right of her mistress, smiling slyly at him, was Michal, the lady's close friend and confidante and Caleb's wife.

In her youth Herodias had been a famous beauty, and even now, in her middle forties, she was handsome. Her hair had grown streaked with gray, but her eyes were large, lustrous and black and her full mouth suggested a sensuous nature. She was accustomed to fawning admiration from men, and even Eleazar, who loathed her, was forced to recognize her power to charm.

Today she was even modestly dressed, with her arms covered. Her garment was of green silk, and a long white scarf covered her hair. The only touch of the harlot was her belt, which was of gold to catch the eye and was drawn tight to accentuate her narrow waist.

“Lady,” he said, taking her hand and, at the deepest part of his bow, placing it against his forehead. “You honor me.”

“Yet you did not always deem it so,” she answered, accepting his salute with a catlike smile.

“Time is a great teacher, Lady, and has obliged me to acknowledge my error. I have prayed and made sacrifice in hopes of God's pardon, and yours.”

This made her laugh, a sound like music. They understood each other perfectly and no pardon was possible, only a wary truce.

Eleazar had counseled his master against the marriage, suggesting, with perhaps more force than was politic, that such a union would be regarded as an abomination by the Tetrarch's more pious subjects, among whom, he implied, he himself would be numbered.

The Tetrarch, of course, married her anyway. And, of course, he had told his wife of his minister's opposition.

“The Tetrarch is taking his massage,” she said. “Shall I have someone conduct you?”

“I know the way, Lady. I thank you.”

She offered her hand again, and again he bowed and touched it to his forehead.

To Michal he also made a slight bow. She smiled her teasing smile, to which Eleazar had long since grown immune. There was a scandal behind that marriage as well, which was perhaps what recommended her to Herodias.

As Eleazar made his solitary way along the palace corridors, the Tetrarch's minister tried to clear his mind. Today he wished only to be the faithful servant of his master—faithful even to the extent of giving him advice he did not wish to hear. For he knew the Tetrarch was on the verge of making a dangerous mistake.

Antipas, like his father, tended to corpulence, and at fifty, having reached an unwieldy girth and showing no inclination to place a check on his appetites, had adopted a regimen of steam baths and massage. Twice a day he subjected himself to the pummeling of a Greek slave, followed by half an hour of steam, a swim in a pool of warm water and, at the end, a cold plunge. He had been enduring this program for over a year with no detectable result. Every month he grew visibly heavier, and lately his breathing had acquired a squeaking sound, as if he were being throttled by his own flesh.

Eleazar found him lying on his belly, a great expanse of pink flesh on a block of white marble, having his buttocks kneaded. His face happened to be turned away, but at the sound of sandaled feet against the stone floor he drew up his head and then allowed his chin to settle on his folded hands.

“Ah, minister. They neglected to tell me you were coming today.”

This, of course, was not true, but such polite fictions were required for a ruler who would not have altered his daily routine for anyone less than the Roman prefect.

“I apologize for the intrusion, sire,” Eleazar replied, bowing from the waist. “If this is not a convenient time…”

“Nonsense! We're finished here.” He pulled himself up into a sitting posture, his legs dangling over the edge of the block, and then, scowling at the slave, waved a hand in dismissal.

“Go on, go on, you fool. See if the stones are sufficiently heated.”

He turned back to his minister and smiled. “Come and take a little steam with me,” he said, as if to an intimate and trusted friend. “You look as if it would do you good.”

Eleazar sighed and proffered his thanks to his benevolent master. He hated from his soul all these foreign innovations, and Antipas doubtless knew it, but it made no difference. He stepped into a changing closet, put off his priestly garments, and wrapped himself in a strip of linen that would hardly have done for a loincloth.

When he came out, Antipas was already in the steam chamber.

“One cannot entrust this to a slave,” the Tetrarch said in Greek, the language he preferred in private, as he ladled water over black, twisted stones. The water hissed and bubbled, and the air was rapidly thickening. “The steam has to gather at a certain rate or one doesn't begin to sweat properly. I learned the trick in Rome, when I was a boy.”

He looked about him, admiring the white marble that enclosed a space hardly bigger than a tomb, and suddenly he grinned with mischief.

“Sit down, Eleazar. Here you may relax. Here, with just the two of us, we can for the moment put court etiquette aside.”

Eleazar sat down, but he could not relax. He had been acquainted with Antipas for thirty years, and had served him for twenty, and he knew that the man was never so dangerous as when he assumed this affable manner.

“Now. What did you wish to see me about?”

They talked of administrative matters first. It was perhaps an hour before the First Minister broached the subject which had tortured his mind ever since the preceding evening.

“Sire, there is the question of this preacher, John.…”

“Who?”

“John, Sire—called ‘the Baptist'. He immerses people in the Jordan, claiming to take away their sins.”

“Oh, him. What of him?” The Tetrarch seemed to go inside himself for a moment, as if to recall some detail of the matter. “He insulted my wife, didn't he?”

“He said your marriage was an unclean thing, Lord.”

“That's right. I remember now.” And then, suddenly, he laughed. “But you, in your time, have said no less.”

This seemed a comment wisest ignored.

“Caleb, it appears, has arrested him,” the First Minister continued quietly, as if breaking bad news.

“Yes. I remember he said something about it.”

“Then you gave your permission?” The inquiry was made to sound as bland as possible.

“Yes, I suppose so. Why? The fellow is dangerous.”

“Perhaps, sire,” Eleazar said at last. “Perhaps not. But I suspect he is more dangerous in prison than out of it. Many people revere him as a prophet, and even more respect him. If we put him to death—and we will almost be obliged to if we hold him for any period of time—then those people will be outraged.”

“What do I care if they are ‘outraged'? I am the law in Galilee and Perea, not they.”

“Yes, sire. But discontent can boil over at any time. If there is a riot, then you will be forced to use soldiers to quell it. The Romans are watching us, and they might overreact.”

The Tetrarch seemed not to have heard. Sweat was collecting in the creases of his face and he looked exhausted. He took a corner of his linen wrap and wiped his forehead, then his eyes.

But he had been listening. Any mention of the Romans always caught his attention. He could, to a degree, ignore the opinions of his subjects, but the Romans were a different matter.

“So what are you suggesting?”

“That the wisest course would be to let him go. He preaches that men should purify themselves against the time of God's judgment of the world. He is a harmless madman.”

“He has a large following. Caleb says he might incite them to anything.”

“I have heard nothing to suggest he will incite them against Your Majesty, and if he does, then there will be time enough to act.”

It was in every sense an uncomfortable moment. The steam was oppressive enough that it almost made one gag to breathe it. And the Tetrarch had a dangerous look in his eyes.

“If I let him go, these people whose opinion seems so important to you will imagine I am weak. They will believe I am afraid of the Baptist.”

Aren't you?
Eleazar asked, though only his own mind.

“Not if we act quickly. Then it will appear as an act of clemency—an act, almost, of piety. Mercy proceeds from strength, sire. A wise and benevolent ruler, who respects a man of God and seeks only justice, corrects the act of a hasty official…”

“Ah! That is it.” Antipas held up the index finger of his right hand, as if commanding attention. “You intend for Caleb to assume the blame.”

“He is to blame, Lord.”

Suddenly the Tetrarch rose to his feet, which meant that Eleazar was obliged to stand. The two men faced each other, with hardly the length of one's arm between them. It felt like a confrontation, the beginning of a bitter quarrel.

Antipas glanced about him, wary as a hunted animal. His hands clenched into fists.

“Caleb protects me,” he almost shouted. “I am surrounded by enemies. The Baptist would lead a mob to the palace gates. Caleb wishes to crush him. Caleb would crush all my enemies.”

In his mind he seemed to see it all—the howling rabble, forcing him to flee when they overpowered his household guards. The Roman prefect in Caesarea, shaking his head in silent contempt. And then the summons from Rome.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Antipas, perhaps realizing that he had betrayed himself, sat back down. Eleazar remained on his feet, which the Tetrarch noticed after a moment. He motioned wearily for Eleazar to be seated again.

For a long interval neither spoke.

“I am tired,” the Tetrarch said finally. “I am old and weary.”

Yes, of course,
Eleazar thought.
Now he wants sympathy.

“Your Majesty carries a heavy burden,” he replied.

“A heavy burden … Yet I have you to help me. Haven't I, Eleazar?”

“Yes, sire. All that I have, all that I am, even my life, is yours.”

“Yes. I know.”

Antipas dropped his gaze a little and then looked sideways at his minister. He smiled. It was a smile full of menace.

“You think Caleb is becoming a danger to you,” he said, as if the possibility had just occurred to him. “You created him. You brought him into my service. And now you want to destroy him.”