17 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 Seventeen.
S E V E N T E E N
Dawn broke late on the third morning due to the height of the eastern peaks and the depth of the river valley. And it was cooler, from the late sunrise but also from the humidity caused by misted spray rolling above the long rapids.
It took more time this day to get the train of wagons on its way, as they had to return to their traveling order from Solon’s defensive arrangement. Metlip had asked to accompany Iesu up the slope to find the sunrise and Josef was harnessing the horses that Vania had brought up, hiding her disappointment at having missed the black-skinned giant who made her laugh.
Maryam had seemed quiet again this morning, distracted or disturbed by something. Mother paused laying out the provisions on the wagon’s gate to watch the younger woman head for the privacy offered by the shrubs and trees above the wheat fields. About to return her attention to her family’s food supply, Mother saw Maryam slow, then stagger and bend double. Though her back was turned, it was clear to Mother then what afflicted her daughter-in-law.
She was still considering the implications of her conclusion when her husband joined her.
“Josef,” she said, “why are you behaving so with Metlip? If you are angry or frustrated with Iesu, there is no cause to share it with Metlip.”
“How is it I am at fault for my slave’s newfound resentment and the sullen defiance I sense blossoming within him since our son’s return? If left unchecked, it may not leave with Iesu.”
”Just be sure not to confuse the source of your displeasure with where you share it.” Shifting topics, she added, “Husband, there is something I must discuss with Maryam. I would like some privacy with her after we get underway.”
“Something I should know?”
“If it concerns you, you will be told so.” She noticed Maryam descending the slope, her sons some way behind her. “Please bring a water skin. And then eat. The first wagons are already advancing into line.”
Josef broke his fast with dates and yesterday’s bread, studying the members of his family as they closed the distance to the wagon. Despite himself, he had to admit his son’s bride-to-be was revealing an impressive repertoire of skills and talents — if he could only make himself forget how she acquired them.
Metlip had changed since his son’s return, but there was something else, as if the slave had crossed a boundary he had been unaware of until it was behind him. In the back of Josef’s mind, a swirling cluster of thoughts, memories and perceptions teased his brain to find the pattern — an answer — which explained Metlip’s growing defiance.
And if his slave’s changes confounded him, his son terrified him. Iesu had become what Josef most feared he would — what his wife’s dream had prophesied he would be — but he also knew that Hebrew prophets were only ever recognized long after they were dead. Why could Iesu not be happy labouring alongside his father and Metlip? Even as he framed the thought he understood it had only ever been a wish — he knew the truth of his wife’s prophesy when Iesu rescued Metlip as a child and also the lengths he would have to go to frustrate the boy’s fate, even if it made Iesu hate him. Now, he feared their relationship was beyond repair.
Mother took Iesu and Metlip aside and told them she wanted some privacy with Maryam on the wagon. Both men were wise enough to keep their questions to themselves. To Maryam, she patted the bench and said, “Ride with me, Daughter. They must make their peace, and so will leave us in ours for a time.”
Maryam was glad to avoid walking this morning. Her illness confused her. The nausea grew worse each dawn, only to vanish as the day wore on. Unconsciously, she plucked at the folds of her dress that draped her breasts, wondering why the fabric felt increasingly coarse.
“Daughter,” asked Mother, “have your breasts grown more tender with the onset of your illness?”
The question startled her. Maryam hadn’t considered that her breasts were more sensitive, but that the linen of her dress was more coarse from soil and wear. And what had that to do with her nausea?
Into Maryam’s silence, Mother added, “Do you wish to know why your breasts are tender and why your nausea only occurs in the morning?”
“Please. My illness grows worse,” Maryam replied, then paused a moment before saying, “as does the tenderness. But what has one to do with the other?”
Mother chuckled, then cleared her throat. “You must be the only woman in Palestine who does not understand that these are two symptoms of the same condition.”
“Condition?”
“You are pregnant, Daughter.”
The words stunned Maryam into silence as she wrestled with the implications of her mother-in-law’s statement. Then she shook her head. “No,” she said, “that is not possible.”
“Impossible or not,” Mother replied, “it is the truth. When were your last courses?”
“Let me think. We have been so busy planning our journey to Aegypt and preparing Iesu’s disciples for their ministries — ” No, she thought. How could she have forgotten? “My courses have always been irregular, and then both brief and light, because — ”
Mother waved away Maryam’s words like an excuse. “It is of no matter. You are pregnant with my son’s child. It is my son’s child, yes?”
Maryam twisted her entire body to face Mother, only to find her smiling. “I tease you, Daughter. I know the child is his.”
“But I cannot be pregnant, Mother. I was put aside because I could not give my first husband children. I chose to whore because I am barren. How can I be pregnant now, after all these years?” She burst into tears.
“Quiet, girl. The last thing we want is the men strutting around demanding an explanation for why I have made you weep.”
Folding her arms against her belly, Maryam lowered her face and tried to control her shaking. “I have ruined everything. How will Iesu think of me when he learns of this? He will leave me. How may I raise a child as we walk from village to village, every night unsure of our shelter?” Her sobbing renewed. “What have I done? Ruined. All our plans ruined.”
“If you think thus, then you do not know my son. Your news will count as the greatest joy of his life.”
“You believe he will welcome this news?”
“Oh, yes, Daughter. Oh, yes. I am certain of it.”
“How? Can I ask him to abandon his ministry for me and a babe? No. He would have no choice but to leave us behind, returning only for Passover and other holidays, and I could not endure that.”
“You cannot know that until you tell him.”
“It would be better if I just walked away in the night.”
Mother’s response was sharp. “Nonsense. You will not entertain that choice.” Then her tone softened. “You have his heart, but I raised him. Trust me when I say you need not fear him spurning you.”
“How can I tell him?”
“How can you not? Will you wait for him to see your belly grow? Do you think he would not see that as a betrayal? How could he see you after such? No, Daughter, you have no choice but to tell him.”
They rode in silence for a time. Mother had confidence in the woman sitting beside her. Maryam reminded her of herself and what she felt being pregnant and unwed so long ago.
Eventually, Maryam said, “I will tell him. After we wed.”
By the time the sun’s height sparkled the river in flashing brilliance, the valley’s slopes had receded and farms claimed the softer inclines. And as the channel widened, the river became shallower and the current’s fury subsided. The heat rose with the sun, and the column lacked either shade or wind as it crawled south.
The same pair of guards who passed out weapons the day before returned to collect them with news that the second bridge and the road to Jericho lay close ahead to bring them back into their own land. The surrender of weapons lightened the mood of the travellers, as if they also relinquished the threat behind them. This, in turn, freed them to anticipate their return to the safety of Rome’s protection and the comfort of the towns and markets that lined the empire’s roads.
The caravan halted when it reached the bridge. There was more traffic here than on the road outside Scythopolis, and the wagons forced to join the western flow of merchants and pilgrims in small groups.
Metlip had volunteered to walk to the front of the caravan to discover what he might, but he also hoped to catch sight of Nali and learn whether she had decided to run. He spent all morning thinking of their options, weighing the benefits and drawbacks of each. Now he thought they should head south, to Aegypt, where his skin colour would gain less attention, but it also meant that they remained in Rome’s shadow. Then Nali’s fear of their fate should the Romans catch them seemed the greatest risk, and he changed his mind back to going east, away from Rome’s threat. They would risk their fate on Iesu’s tales of Parthian civility.
Whichever way they went, one thing was certain. They would have but one chance to escape, and that would be the following night. The day after would find them in Jerusalem and forever parted. The thought of that tore at his heart.
He reached the road only to find the leading wagons already gone, and Nali with them. The guard named Davo waved in greeting and approached. “Hail the hero,” the guard called, “fighting bandits unarmed to save a slave and my Lord. I heard him tell the captain he would thank you himself. But that will have to wait as they have crossed already.”
Save a slave girl? Metlip swallowed his panic. Someone would eventually ask why they were together at the start of the attack. “I am not a hero. It was dark and their attention was on the girl. Any other would have done the same.”
“Not me, friend. Not unarmed.”
“Where do we rest today?” the slave asked, desperate to change the topic.
“Just over the bridge, the road curves left and climbs out of the valley. You will pull off the road on the right side and join behind the other wagons of our group. If you need water, collect it immediately, because once they herd the flocks to the riverbank below the bridge, it will be too late.”
Josef’s wagon was among the next group of vehicles waved forward, and the wagon’s enormous wheels made for a smooth transition across the narrow shoulder of packed gravel and onto the cobbled surface of the road. Though not as wide as the Via Maris, there was more than adequate room for opposing streams of traffic to cross the low bridge.
Metlip and Iesu walked together in peaceful silence, each lost in thought. Across the river, the road climbed almost immediately, a dark scar dividing the orchards before it disappeared around a curve. The shade of the fruit trees on the far bank offered more than mere respite from the blazing sun. The air itself was transformed, cooler and fragrant with the scent of blossoming peach trees, a tranquil contrast to the sharp, dry heat behind them.
Josef urged his horses into position behind the other wagons in their train, Metlip tugging on a harness to help guide them. After Josef looped the reins around the wagon’s brake, the Nubian took a hardened leather bucket from the wagon and, holding it upright between his feet, emptied water from a bladder. Maryam hiked her skirts and jumped from the bench, then turned back to offer her hand to Mother, who waved her off.
“I allow Metlip to assist me because he would even if I forbade it,” she told the younger woman in a low voice, “and I recognize it for the act of love it is. But I am not so old that I become feeble, yes?”
Maryam nodded in acknowledgement. She looked around for Iesu, and when she did not see him, approached Metlip. “Can I help you, Brother?” she asked him, then stopped. Had she overstepped her familiarity?
“Thank you, no — Sister,” the slave answered, his grin revealing even rows of white teeth. “But perhaps you could find a little cheese among those vendors.” He fished a pair of coins from his belt, ignoring a flush of guilt as he passed them over. “I saw Iesu go that way.”
“Wait,” called Mother, as Maryam moved off. “I refuse to eat our remaining loaves for fear of breaking a tooth.” Mother let Maryam carry her basket and, taking advantage of a space between some camels, the two women crossed the road and disappeared among the throng.
Speaking to them as if they were children in his care, Metlip moved his leather bucket back and forth between the two horses. “No,” he said to one as it strained its neck for a last mouthful. “You will drink more before we move on.” The horse pulled his head back and snorted. “Or not,” the slave added, but rubbed his hand over the animal’s cheek. He turned to find Josef watching him.
“Do you truly think the beast understands you?” the carpenter asked.
“Why would you think he does not, Master?”
“It cannot grasp your words.”
“No?” replied the slave. “Perhaps not the words themselves, but it understands my tone, and it welcomes my touch. It trusts my intent.”
“Nonsense,” Josef growled. “It knows nothing beyond the need to eat and drink, and obedience to the lash. Your imagination clouds your mind. Instinct is not intelligence.”
“Like your neighbours confuse my intelligence with mimicry. Perhaps it is not that they lack intelligence — or even a soul. Perhaps denying their intelligence serves to justify their cruel use and our selfish pride that everything in Creation is for us to dominate and dispose of as we choose.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Josef demanded, his voice rising. “You endow the beast with the power of comprehension, to what end?”
“Why would the Father Above not gift creatures other than man with a measure of intelligence?” Iesu asked. He walked over to the horses and took the closer animal’s muzzle in his hands. “Look in his eyes, and his intelligence is clear. Is it the equal of yours, Father? Of course not. But the gulf of difference does not justify impatience and cruelty.”
Iesu considered the animal for some moments. “A horse lacks the intelligence of man, but perhaps that is a blessing. He also lacks man’s appetite for power, his greed and his capacity for murder.” He pressed his forehead to the horse’s muzzle and closed his eyes.
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