10 The Father, the Son & the Slave
You know the Passion narrative. This is not that tale. This is the story of a father, his estranged son and the slave caught between them as they journey from Nazareth to Jerusalem. This is Chapter Ten.
T E N
Iesu found the Nubian under an almond tree, watching the caravan guards at their weapons practice. He sat down next to him but said nothing.
“I wish I were stronger,” Metlip said, eventually. “Stronger, and skilled like them. I wish to defend those unable to defend themselves.”
“You are the strongest man I know,” Iesu told him, “and not just physical strength. God knows your soul is tough enough, resilient enough, to suffer the burden of slavery. Else He would not have challenged you with it.”
“I would like to be able to fight like that,” the slave said, gesturing to one guard in particular, younger than the rest, but just as strong and even faster than his peers. “Marcus said I would rise quickly in the legions.”
Iesu chuckled. “Did he? Are you so eager to stand before the Father Above?”
Metlip didn’t seem to hear him. Solon, captain of these men, dropped his sheath on the grass and approached the young fighter, perhaps emphasizing his limp. Now Metlip chuckled. “With such an injury, that old guard stands little chance against the youth.”
“Appearance is not skill, Brother.”
Within a space of heartbeats, the Greek had disarmed his younger opponent. Waving his short sword at two of the men watching, Solon faced off against the three.
Stepping forward, the guard captain swivelled on his damaged leg, arced his other one and kicked the knee of the man in the centre. He used his residual momentum to thrust his gladius towards the guard on his left. The lunge lacked strength, but it forced his opponent to dodge backwards, allowing Solon to step forward and deliver a second thrust, which he pulled at the last moment.
“Hold!” he ordered, and the men lowered their weapons. “Do you see my purpose? First, I surprised Davo by using my leg and not my sword. While I only unbalanced rather than injured him, I could force Alex backwards. I engaged him, but see where I am — Davo became my shield, preventing Gregor from attacking my back. Remember, it is not enough to be strong and skilled.”
He tapped his temple with a finger. “Always think how you might gain advantage in a fight. Even something as simple as moving behind one opponent to avoid attack by another could make the difference between victory and death. Enough. Eat.”
The men moved towards one of the lead wagons where a pair of women handed each a round of flatbread piled with strips of meat. One guard came away with two portions, which he carried to a figure lying in the shade of an apple tree. He knelt beside the figure and offered some food. A moment later, he was on his feet again, shouting for help, the food dropping unnoticed to the ground.
Iesu tapped Metlip’s leg as he stood. “Come.”
He led the Nubian over to the panicked guard. The prone figure was also a guard, but unconscious. Pulling his satchel from his shoulder, Iesu knelt beside the man. “Other side,” he ordered Metlip. The other guard turned back. “I am a healer,” Iesu told him in Greek. “Bring water, both cold and hot, though not so hot to burn.” The guard stayed motionless.
“What is your name?” Iesu inquired.
“Davo.”
“Davo, your friend is close to death, but you can help me save his life. Bring the water. And clean cloths.” It was enough. The guard rushed away.
Iesu leaned forward over the man, listened to his rapid, shallow breaths, then felt the man’s pulse. From his satchel, he drew a small knife with a blade curled like a claw into a sharp point. Handing it to Metlip, he said, “Heat the blade until it glows, then bring it to me.”
While he waited, Iesu uncovered the man’s wound — a blow to the arm that broke skin and was now red and swollen. Though unconscious, his breaths ragged and raspy, the guard shrieked when Iesu probed the wound, pressing his fingers into the tight skin to find the limits of the swelling.
A figure towered above him. Solon, leader of the caravan’s guards. “Stop,” he commanded. Iesu obeyed, removing his hands and looking up “You! You were at the well yesterday. Leave him be.”
“Must I let him die?” Iesu asked the captain. “Is this man of so little value that we should make no effort to save him?”
Solon studied the man kneeling before him. “He is a good soldier, obedient and responsible. It was I who wounded him as we sparred.”
“Was it your intent to harm him?”
“Of course not. He failed to raise his blade high enough to deflect my attack.”
Davo returned holding a clay bowl, which he lowered within reach of Iesu. “I have water heating,” he announced, pulling out the rags he had stuffed in his armour.
“My thanks, Davo. Please soak the cloths and drape them over him, replenishing them as they draw the heat from his skin.” The young guard did as instructed.
Iesu looked back at Solon. “Intended or not, the wound will kill him just the same. I am a healer. I have skills which might save him, but the likelihood wanes with every moment we hesitate.”
“What will you do to him?”
“Open the wound and draw out the rot. But I need your help.”
Metlip crouched beside his Brother and Iesu took the knife by the handle, holding his free hand above the blade to gauge the temperature. “Excellent, Brother.”
Scanning the faces of the men surrounding him, Iesu said, “This man must be held completely still while I cut. Who will ignore his screams and hold fast while I work?”
Metlip moved to the guard’s feet and braced them, an ankle in each hand.
“What should I do?” asked Solon.
“The most important task,” Iesu replied. “You must hold his injured arm for me. Beware, though. He will summon unexpected strength when he feels the pain of my cut and you must be ready for it.”
Solon came around to kneel beside Iesu, though he did not grasp the arm.
Meeting Davo’s gaze, Iesu found what he hoped to see there and nodded. “Press your weight on his shoulders while you clamp his head with your thighs.”
He scanned the faces of the crowd again. “Who will hold his other arm?” Two men crouched. Iesu tapped the arm of the closer one. “Hold his hips. Are we ready?”
Pointing at Solon, Iesu told him, “Use both hands, one at his wrist and the other at his elbow. Gently twist to bring the wound fully into my view.”
Solon grasped the wounded arm as instructed and turned it — and came close to losing his grip as the man screamed and tried to wrench his arm away. Some in the crowd jumped back, but the Greek recovered, twisting and holding the arm in place. Iesu steadied himself by pressing down on the guard’s shoulder and with a firm, unhurried stroke, drew the knife through the wound.
The man went rigid. His eyes rolled back in his head. Behind Iesu’s blade, the wound erupted with a thick yellow discharge that looked foul and smelled worse. Solon felt himself retch, but he saw Iesu grinning despite having his hand coated in the putrefaction that oozed from the cut. The tension drained from the prone guard and he went limp.
“You may release him. Where is that hot water?” he called, and they set a steaming iron bucket beside him. Iesu took a rag from the bundle Davo found and with his clean hand, he dipped the cloth in the water and washed his dirty one.
“Is he dead?” asked Solon.
“No,” answered Iesu. “He sleeps from the pain, but already his breathing eases. I will draw the rot with these hot cloths.”
Solon and the others watched as Iesu warmed cloths and pressed them to the wound. Each time, they came away less stained. Finally, he was satisfied. From his satchel, he retrieved a small clay amphora stoppered with cork and a small packet of dried rush, folded and secured by a drop of wax.
“Bark of the willow,” he told Solon as he eased the flap open and poured the brown powder into the wound. “It will ease his pain. Then I will apply honey to seal the wound and aid in recovery.”
Rinsing his hand in the hot water once more, Iesu opened the honey and drizzled some over the injury, spreading it with his clean hand until it trapped the bark and overlapped the edges of the cut.
“Davo,” Iesu queried, “will you accept responsibility for your friend’s care?”
“Yes,” came the reply without hesitation.
“Then see how you must bind the wound. Change the cloths at dawn, mid-day and dusk. Ensure the cloths are clean. They may be reused, but must be boiled first. If the rot returns, seek me.”
Iesu showed how to wrap the arm of the young guard. As he closed his satchel, he said, “You must also make him drink as much as he is able. While he sleeps, drip water between his lips.”
Davo gripped Iesu’s forearm and helped him rise. “My thanks.”
“You amaze me, Brother,” the African said. “But I imagined you would heal with a touch.”
“At times, I do,” Iesu replied, “when the illness is beyond my practical skills. Grace is very draining, so I always resort first to the methods I learned in my travels.”
“The techniques you used — cutting the wound open — they cannot be Hebrew. Where did you learn them?”
“From a whoremaster.”
“What?”
“Indeed. But he was not always so. His name is Nebuzatan, once royal physician to King Artabanus of Parthia. He is a demon in truth and possesses a tongue so smooth that listening to him was akin to falling under a spell. Even after I left the circus, the urge to return remained.”
“Circus? But you said he is a whoremaster.”
“And so he is. He owns a circus which travels from Aegypt to the Roman lands. All those in the circus are slaves, but so well-treated that none would leave if given the chance. It is a cunning entertainment, as only ‘Zatan could envision. First, he brings on dancing girls who taunt with their sinuous movements and rile the blood of the men. His own surviving house guards display incredible talent with their bows while riding a horse and test each other’s deadly sword skills without the need to kill. Then there is a pair of twins who are copies of the other and hail from the far end of the Silk Road. They do tricks to fool the senses, disappearing here and re-appearing there. And all the while the girls drift through the crowd and find their customers. There are even Nubians — “
“My people?”
“Just so. They beat tall drums to sound like thunder while others tumble and roll across the field. They told me your name, Brother. Would you like to hear it?”
“You know my name.”
“Indeed. You are Metlip. I know what it means in your tribal tongue.”
“Tell me.”
“Are you sure you desire to know? What if it is displeasing to you?”
“Will it be?”
“I think it might. Maybe it is better if it remains a mystery to you.”
“No. Whatever the meaning, it is better if I know it.”
“Very well, then.” Iesu halted, so Metlip had to turn back to face him. Iesu kept his face neutral, which only increased the tension in the Nubian’s features. “You are sure you want to know?”
Metlip straightened his shoulders, as if to better accept bad news. Iesu kept his silence a moment longer, testing his brother’s patience.
“Pure Soul,” he said, without inflection.
“What?“
“Your name. It means Pure Soul.”
“You were right,” Metlip frowned. “Sounds like a maiden’s name.”
Now it was Iesu’s turn for confusion. But Metlip could not help himself. He laughed, then, and grabbed Iesu in a giant hug. “It is a good name. Thank you.”
Iesu’s response was muffled. “It is a name for kings among your people.” Stepping back, he reached up to clasp Metlip’s shoulder. “You are my hero, Brother.”
“How can that be? I am a slave.”
“You are so much more than that, my brother. You are the best of men. Though humble, you yet excel at all you set yourself to. You place all else ahead of yourself and take joy from the effort. I have searched these three years to find what was before me all along. No other, not even my betrothed, has shared my thoughts and fears, and helped me make sense of my dreams as you have, Brother. You are truly a pure soul, sent by the Father Above to show me what He hopes my teaching might foster in the world.”
“Did you learn anything else from them?”
“Indeed. They told me your home lies beyond Aegypt, at the end of the world, but it is wondrous in its majesty and teeming with a variety of beasts too many to count, with forests so large you cannot cross them from one moon to the next.”
A lump rose in the young slave’s throat, a symptom of his profound sorrow that there was little chance he would ever see where he came from.
“I would like to see this place,” he whispered, his voice tight.
Iesu pulled his hand from Metlip’s shoulder. “I should like to see it with you.”
There were still animals waiting to drink when the Sadducee Methelas issued the command to move on. Solon dispatched two mounted guards to scout ahead, but kept the rest to protect the flocks. One chariot progressed along the train, stopping to issue every able-bodied man a weapon. A choice of short-sword or javelin, used and pitted, but free of rust and serviceable.
“Just in case,” the guard said. “If brigands see we are all armed, they are more likely to let us pass unmolested.”
The lead wagons rolled. Iesu draped an arm on each of the women seated to either side of him, having refused Maryam’s offer of the reins. Josef walked alongside his wife, Metlip beside Maryam. Metlip practiced lunging with his javelin. Maryam reached over to pat the sword lying across Iesu’s lap.
“If they attack us,” she told him, “stay behind me.”
Josef looked up, but Maryam was ready. “Lots of soldiers through the caravanserai. Learned all the special moves.” Even Mother laughed.
“I hope I do not need to use this,” Josef moaned. “I learned as a boy, but that was long, long ago.”
“I doubt you will need it, husband. Did you not stand unarmed against four of Herod’s thugs?”
Already bored with the javelin, Metlip tossed it into the back of the wagon, although he made sure it was in easy reach.
“Tell them what you told me of Nebuzatan,” Metlip suggested. “I cannot see how you could so admire someone you describe as a demon.”
Mother sat up straighter. “Demon? Did you encounter a demon in truth, Iesu?”
“You must decide for yourself, Mother. His name was — is — Nebuzatan. He is elderly and suffered from severe stiffness in his joints until I healed him. He was once the royal physician to the Parthian King Artabanus, but when his king lost his throne, Nebuzatan shared in his king’s punishment. His wife and sons were slain, but ‘Zatan escaped with his daughter, a few servants, and his surviving house guards.
“Nebuzatan fled west, crossing Parthia’s frontier to safety from his enemies, only to discover a fresh one — his daughter exhibited the symptoms of leprosy. His plans to reestablish himself as a physician were ruined, because he would not turn out his daughter, his only family. So ‘Zatan drew on his other skills. As a member of a noble clan, Nebuzatan was well-trained in Parthian cultural traditions, including music and poetry. He purchased some slaves — Nubians — and taught them movements to reflect his words. When they revealed their own tribal dances, accompanied by some of them slapping alien rhythms on themselves and everything else, ‘Zatan saw a way to both earn a living and protect his daughter’s disease from being discovered. A circus, moving regularly, never remaining in any place long enough for curiosity to find a voice.
“The daily riding and weapons practise by his house guards also became part of the entertainment. Bearing curved bows, they would gallop their horses before the audience, releasing arrows as quickly as breathing into targets, accurate whether firing ahead or behind them.” As if noticing the weapon in his lap, he picked it up. “The swords we know are short and heavy, their use callous and brutal. The Parthian swords were longer, and curved, and in the hands of Nebuzatan’s guards they were beautiful to witness. Whirling so they became a lethal blur, yet they would be parried in a shower of sparks.
“But Nebuzatan lacked something to draw the audience until he caught his daughter singing a Parthian lover’s song while her body servant danced beside her conveyance. The next day, ‘Zatan purchased the most beautiful slaves he could find and taught them the same seductive dance. It worked. The circus drew crowds — and fresh problems. Men found themselves aroused by the dancers and more than a few refused to be denied their satisfaction. Realizing that they would never escape this issue, ‘Zatan let the women choose. Now they keep a portion of what they earn, the guards earn a smaller part for evicting the violent, and the circus prospers.”
“And you admire this rogue?” Josef asked.
Iesu did not hesitate. “Indeed. He built a comfortable life without abandoning his daughter, his servants, or his guards. Almost all the members in the circus are slaves, and though they bear his brand on their right shoulder, not one would leave him. He does not beat them, and they enjoy their own pallets. They eat what he eats, and though each slave earns credit towards their freedom, none can imagine a better life than traveling the known world in such joyful company.”
His father shook his head. “I have known Parthians, but they held their honour as their greatest virtue. Your Parthian seems to have lost his.”
“By what measure, Father?” Iesu challenged, though never raising his voice. “Do you not see honour in his refusal to abandon his diseased daughter? Can you not recognize honour in his effort to sustain his household, despite having lost a lifetime’s achievements through no carelessness of his own? Is there no honour in possessing slaves so loyal they would not leave if they could? Nebuzatan is unequaled in his compassion and respect for those he owns. After every performance, he thanks them, and reminds them that the success of their enterprise belongs as much to them as to him. And every night, he asks if anyone had a thought to improve their entertainment or a concern they would see addressed. His will was law, but he would listen and then share his response, explaining why he thought something was worth exploring or not. If all masters met ‘Zatan’s standards to treat those beneath them, most of the world’s misery would vanish.”
“A master tells those under him what he needs, and they obey,” his father replied. “They have no leave to question him, or change his instructions. What do they know of his plans, the risks he faces or the responsibilities that burden him?”
“Enough,” interjected Mother. “Argue later. I will hear more of this circus. Please. What other entertainments were there?”
“Twins from the furthest fork of the Silk Road — they call themselves the Han — used their identical appearance to one another to fool the crowd into believing they could climb into one box and climb out from another. Or, one would perform an intricate series of leaps and spins and then, one would become two, their movements the same, and just as suddenly, there would be only one again. I never tired of watching them.”
“What did they look like?” Metlip asked. “Were they different, like me?”
“They were, Brother. They were small men, both Shen Ho and his twin, Shen Wu. Their skin was the colour of aged parchment but had the lustre of gold. Their hair was black as night and so long they wove it into a tail that hung down their back. When they were not in front of the crowd, one or the other would challenge people to guess which of three upturned cups hid a coin or persuade them to predict where a certain card lay on the table.”
“And how long were you with them?” demanded Josef.
“Forty days, more or less. I accompanied them through Samaria. There was so much to learn, I lost track of time. I could have remained longer. Nebuzatan offered to leave the circus to me if I stayed with them.”
“Own a circus? A small step up from wandering healer,” Josef growled. “And what could you learn from them?”
“So much, Father. From the Han, I learned to quiet my soul and gain inner peace. They also taught me to properly greet the dawn. The Nubians told me about Metlip’s lands and how crowded they are with all manner of beasts, with forests so great they may not be crossed in a month of days. And they shared the meaning of my brother’s name.”
“No!” Metlip had just learned what his name meant. He was not ready to share it.
Iesu laughed at his brother’s reaction. Mother asked, “Why not? Iesu, tell me.”
Iesu’s face took on a serious manner. “It is a maiden’s name,” he said.
“It is not,” argued Metlip. “Iesu teases me with my own joke. I will share it with you, Mistress, when I, myself, have learned to wear it.”
Iesu took up his tale again. “From the women, I learned that seduction is not limited to physical attraction. Indeed, it is persuading another to accept you — or your argument. Timing and drama are essential, regardless of the goal. From the guards, I understood the power of single-mindedness, that is to banish all unnecessary thoughts from your mind and narrow your attention to a single task. But Nebuzatan, the demon with the magical tongue — he revealed the secrets of story-telling and how to use them to enrapture a crowd, and I credit his wisdom for much of my success. And where I thought the Essaious taught me to be a healer, Nebuzatan taught me how to think as a physician.”
Iesu paused. “Oh. And how to not fear leprosy.”
“How to not fear leprosy?” chided Josef. “Everyone fears leprosy. It is God’s curse on the defiled.”
“Nonsense, Father. Your statement says more about our tribe’s dependence on the past and our refusal to adapt to a changing world than it does about truth. Leprosy is contagious, but only after extended exposure. It is certainly not God’s curse on the defiled. It is a sickness like any other, but it may take years for the signs to emerge. Leprosy itself does not kill, but it leaves its victims without a sense of touch, so even a minor cut that goes unnoticed may fester and rot. The victims of leprosy no more deserve to have the disease than you or I. Those afflicted are not evil, they are not cursed — they are God’s creatures like you and I, only their souls are infinitely stronger to bear their burden. They should be cared for, not shunned and despised, but false beliefs such as yours are difficult to release.”
Mother knew Josef’s silence meant he was considering how to respond, just as she knew it would likely make things worse. “Tell me the secrets of story-telling,” she said to her son.
“We all know how the priests harangue us to obey the law, threatening us with punishment as if we were children. Their rants may sadden you, stoke your guilt, but can you even remember the last one you heard? No. By framing my teaching within a story, people want to listen. I learned how to rouse the emotions of the crowd so they would be more likely to remember the tale and share it with others. Have you ever shared a priest’s rant with another? Again, no. ‘Zatan taught me not just how to couch a moral lesson within a fable, but to localize the characters and places to encourage my listeners to feel they belong to it and it to them.
“He showed me how best to deliver my stories, too. ‘Lift your face above them,’ he would say, ‘Let the air carry your words so all might hear.’ ‘Zatan gifted me a pure white mantle when I left him. ‘You must look the part,’ he told me, ‘and this mantle will aid in that. Keep it clean, for the first impression is the most important. Wear it only when you speak.’ He described it as being my public face. ‘It is your persona, but it is not you. As a mask permits you to play a character, so does this. It is white, to make you stand out and, lacking colour, it makes you appear both humble and trustworthy, so they will see you are as they are — one of them. You will become known for it’.
“How did you come to find the circus?” Metlip asked. “What made you approach them?”
“They needed a carpenter.”
If you enjoyed this chapter, other chapters are, or will become, available on Medium. If you would rather not wait, the novel is on smashwords.com for FREE. All I ask is that you review the work on smashwords, or at least add a star rating.
