30 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 Thirty.
T H I R T Y
Solomon’s eyes glittered as Mother and Metlip recounted the evening, but the scribe wanted details and pressed Metlip with questions on who said what, and the precise order of events during the arrest. The slave answered as he had witnessed things, adding his own thoughts to his narrative.
Mother could not reconcile her host’s excitement with her own grief. She understood the scribe’s desire to learn as much as possible, but she thought he might have been less pleased with the facts of her son’s arrest. Suddenly she was very tired and so excused herself, insisting Metlip remain.
Soon, a desk was brought in, and papyrus and ink and quill, and Metlip wrote Solomon’s defence for his lover’s son whom he had never met but felt he knew.
“Of course I have heard of the Nazarene,” the scribe explained. “We are kindred spirits, he and I, fated to reveal the sordid fallacies we cling to in our desperate wish for the reassurance that comes from belief in God.”
“Do you deny the existence of the Father Above?”
“Not at all. I wish above all things for God to exist. But He has yet to reveal Himself, so I cannot be sure. But I have seen more of the world than most. I have seen Rome and Aegypt. I journeyed the length of the Silk Road and witnessed the many ways people worship God — or gods. What struck me was how the truths of one group contradicted the truths of others. I learned that God was made by man.”
“Iesu does not deny God.”
“No? He denies the identity of the Hebrews. God is at the centre of all we believe, so to deny the one is to deny the other.”
“Not so,” replied the slave. “My brother likens the Hebrew view of God to how a young child views his father — as stern and unyielding, intolerant and quick to punish. He fears his father because the child is ignorant of the fact his father acts by duty born from love. Iesu sees only that the Father Above loves us and that to love Him we must love our neighbour as ourselves.”
“Curious,” Solomon admitted, “if somewhat naïve. I look forward to hearing him explain it himself. Now, let us prepare such a defence for him as to make Caiaphas weep. Later, I will tell you of my travels and how they fashioned my thoughts.”
As she passed through the silent and empty rooms of the palace, Mother’s opinion of Solomon softened into sympathy, and what it would be like to have nothing but wealth and loneliness.
She forced herself to trust the High Priest was no match for her husband and her son allied in Iesu’s defence, and that with adding Sol and Metlip’s efforts, success was the only option.
Lamp light glowed behind an open door and she veered towards it. She would know how her daughter fared with Judas. He lay upon the largest bed Mother had ever seen, and every one of the palace’s twelve chambers possessed its equal. She knew also that the mattresses were stuffed with wool, but was too tired to count their value. The wooden frame sat high enough that her daughter did not have to kneel to care for the Syrian, and there was ample room for her to sit, a bowl in her lap and clean, folded cloths stacked on the mattress. As she watched, Maryam peeled a wet cloth from the disciple’s swollen eye and then dropped it to join others on the floor. She applied a replacement, but Judas lay unmoving. Though still bruised and swollen, his face looked less horrid now it was clean. Her daughter slipped her arm through the strap of Iesu’s satchel then stood and faced her.
“Iesu must have healed his internal hurts,” she said. “And I have given him a little opium. He will sleep through the night.”
“So you are a healer in your own right,” Mother admired. “Is there any task beyond you, Daughter?”
“We will see soon enough, Mother. What do you know of Solomon’s affliction?”
“Only that even a breeze across his toe is agony for him. Earlier, his slave applied cloths doused in ginger soup.”
“Gutta,” Maryam said. “Of course. The curse of too much.”
“Too much what?” Mother asked.
“Meat, wine, beer. It is a common affliction of the wealthy.” Maryam was already sorting through the papyrus packets lining the satchel’s inner flap. “Here,” she announced, shaking the reed envelope. The contents rattled. “Seeds of a flower. I forget — crocus. Autumn crocus. They are costly for it grows only in the North.”
Maryam studied Mother. “Iesu will return tomorrow, Mother,” she said and embraced her older namesake.
“Of course,” Mother replied and released the embrace. “But I will seek that wondrous bed in my chamber now, yes? Please leave word to wake me when they return.” With that, she left.
Maryam found Metlip writing Solomon’s dictation with a pointed reed, tapping the tip against the rim of the silver bowl of ink before marking the papyrus in confident strokes.
The scribe paused as she halted near his divan. “I may treat your pain, Master Solomon,” she said. “Is it gutta you have?”
“Gutta? I do not know it. The pain is in my largest toes, but so great is it that my entire body shrinks from it.”
“How is it your healer is unaware of it? It is common among men of rank and wealth, for only they can afford to eat meat and drink wine and beer in such abundance as to cause it.”
“I have no healer. I am shunned by my people for requiring better proof of God than tales which contradict my senses and the logic of my mind. They cannot accuse me of blasphemy because I wish for God to exist, and I obey our laws, but I find our evidence for Him lacking.”
“My husband will convince you,” Maryam assured him. “This packet holds your cure, Master Solomon.”
“Sol, please.”
Maryam poured a few of the black oval seeds into her palm. “Sol. These are the seeds of the autumn crocus. You may swallow them or grind them and add them to watered wine. Grinding them releases their benefit more swiftly. These may also kill you if you do not adhere to the exact dose we set and limit the treatment to once each day at the same hour. If you take them now, you must wait until this time tomorrow night to take more.”
Holding his palm out, Solomon asked, “How many?”
“Tonight? Six. When Iesu returns, he will determine whether to increase the number, but I know six will help you without risk.” She counted out the seeds into his hand, and he swept them into his mouth.
“Do not chew them,” she added as his expression soured. “Swallow them. They are very bitter.”
Solomon waved his arm, and a cup appeared. He drank the contents and thrust the cup out for more, which he also finished before he spoke again. “Do not chew,” he repeated. “Only swallow. It tastes like poison.”
“It is poisonous, if too much is taken at once or too often,” Maryam replied. Opening the satchel, she prepared two small beads of opium, which she placed on the corner of the desk, away from Metlip’s work. “How much longer will you labour?” she enquired of the scribe. “This will make you sleep. If you wake to pain in the night, take the second. You will feel like a new man come the dawn.”
Josef could not see Iesu from his place at the rear of the procession. But as soon as they reached the road from Samaria, the soldiers seemed to forget the wedding guests. After forming ranks, the mounted Tribune and most of his men disappeared at double-time, leaving less than a dozen legionnaires to escort Iesu and deter the cruel inclinations of the priests.
Caiaphas’ palace was smaller than Solomon’s, though defended by Temple guards. Outside the walls a small group of Pharisees demanded details of the Sadducee arrest of the Nazarene. Banned by Hebrew law from entering the estate without specific orders, the Romans turned the prisoner over to the priests at the gates and left. The Sadducees dragged Iesu inside and shut everyone else out. Josef was frantic with worry and fear.
Eavesdropping on the angry debate among the gathered Pharisees, he learned Caiaphas was not within — Pilate had summoned him to answer for his priest’s attempt to countermand the orders of a Roman Tribune. His anxiety softened when the merchants decided that their only recourse was to summon as many of their own as possible.
Their number had grown near to that of a market crowd when the High Priest’s palanquin threaded its way to the gates, and they left Caiaphas in no doubt of their mood. For the first time ever, he climbed from his curtained privacy outside his gates to treat with the protesters.
The High Priest was already in a foul mood from his humiliation at Pilate’s hand, but he could not foresee how much worse it was about to get. Caiaphas had always prided himself on his skills as a negotiator, and tonight they would be put to test. His deputy would pay for his zealous aggression towards the Roman officer during the peasant’s arrest, but that could wait.
He ordered the gates opened and invited the Pharisee’s leaders inside. However, the merchant scribes reminded him they lacked appointed leaders as such and so if one of them entered, so must the rest. Since his palace could not accommodate such numbers, Caiaphas decreed discussions would take place on the grounds. He summoned his priests outdoors, and to bring the Nazarene with them.
Caiaphas felt a visceral leap in the anger of the Pharisees when a pair of guards dragged the prisoner down his home’s front stairs, his tunic ripped and stained with blood, and dropped on the paving stones.
A cry went up from a lone voice at the back, and a man pushed through the crowd. He ignored the guards as he fell to his knees beside the prisoner and tried to rouse him. A pair of guards took hold of the man and stood him up, but he struggled against them.
“Release me!” he demanded, twisting to face the High Priest. “I am Josef, son of Jacob, and I am father to Iesu of Nazareth, known as the Nazarene.” At a nod from Caiaphas, the guards stepped away.
Josef turned his attention to Annaias and his attendant Sadducees. He stalked up the stairs as if to assault them, and the bent little priest shuffled backwards even though Josef halted a few paces away. “By what law do you have authority to punish without a verdict?”
Annaias kept silent. Josef looked back at Caiaphas. “I demand my son’s release. I know the law as well as any man here.” He pointed at Annaias and the Sadducees. “I know these men have ignored the law.”
Hatred became Annaias’ strength. “The prisoner stands accused of blasphemy.”
“That is a lie.” The voice came from behind Josef. “The Sanhedrin lacked the numbers to sustain such a charge, Annaias. You are a disgrace to the priesthood.”
Josef turned to identify his unexpected ally. Standing at the bottom of the stairs was his father, Jacob. The elderly carpet merchant climbed the steps to join his son. “I am Jacob, son of Ezra. This is my son, Josef, lost to me for thirty years. I also demand the release of his son as recourse for Annaias’ betrayal of our holy laws. Furthermore, I demand the prisoner be treated for his injuries by my own physician.”
As though roused from a dream, Josef took the stairs two at a time to return to Iesu. He lifted his son up and drew him into an embrace that excluded all else.
“He will go nowhere but to Pilate,” Annaias shouted, and Caiaphas discovered new depths of loathing for his father-in-law.
Jacob ignored him, instead levelling an ultimatum at the High Priest. “You will release your prisoner into my physician’s care. Your priests have made mockery of our laws for their own benefit and have no place here. Remove them, or we will take my grandson into our protection and leave. Or do you dare to prevent us by force?”
The High Priest saw a path which might satisfy everyone except his father-in-law, and that was enough. “Annaias, remove yourself and your associates from here. I will arrange to take the prisoner to Jacob’s physician. I will speak with Jacob and Josef alone to negotiate a solution within our laws. The rest of you may stay or leave.”
“We will not abandon our trial of this blasphemer,” Annaias declared. “Not for you, Caiaphas, nor for anyone. We do God’s work.”
“Guards!” called Caiaphas. “Escort these men from my estate. Use as little force as is necessary, but do it now.” In the end, only Annaias needed to be carried through the gates. The others found the guards’ spear points to be persuasive enough.
A palanquin was brought up and Iesu placed in it. After he watched it carried beyond the gate, Josef turned to thank his father. Jacob held his finger up for his patience and then addressed his peers. “My friends, we have done good work here. Thank you. The hour is late. Return home and savour your victory. Trust that I — “ He draped his hand on his son’s shoulder. “We shall forge a solution within our laws.”
A low rumble of assent answered him, and the gathered Pharisees dispersed. As the gate sealed behind the last of them, Caiaphas smiled. He was back in control. He hosted Josef and his father as visiting dignitaries, insisting Annaias acted without his knowledge and lamenting the breach of law and the shame to the priesthood. But, he explained, Iesu was a threat to the fragile balance of power between the Temple and the Romans, though the High Priest conceded that a charge of blasphemy was unwarranted.
When Caiaphas escorted father and son to the gate, they had agreed that Iesu would face no charges, but along with a generous donation towards construction of the Temple, Iesu would exile himself to anywhere he chose outside of Palestine for five years. Josef and Jacob expressed their gratitude to the High Priest for such a brief span. Caiaphas didn’t tell them he planned to have the Temple complete well within that time. Then, the High Priest would pass the title to another and retire far, far from Jerusalem.
Jacob and his son shared a palanquin on loan from the High Priest. After delivering Jacob home, Josef asked the bearers to convey him to Jacob’s physician.
Maryam woke to singing. A male voice. She could tell it was strong and clear, even after resonating through the marble hallways to reach her chamber. Solomon must feel better, she thought.
She undid her braid, then remembered the night before — Iesu’s arrest and Judas’ torture. Abandoning her hair, she tied her headscarf and donned her dress. Maryam took several steps towards the voice before she realized Iesu could not have returned yet or he would have come to her. Turning in her tracks, she collected her husband’s satchel and took a different hallway to the chamber where Judas recovered.
She found the Syrian awake and examining the cloths that covered his wounds.
“Where am I, Maryam? How did I come here? And who is singing?”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Maryam said, “You are safe. We are in a palace owned by a close friend of my father-in-law’s named Solomon, whose voice you hear. Metlip carried you, with some aid from John.” She uncovered his swollen eye, dreading what she might find. What had been severe the night before still looked painful, but it was no longer shut, and the eye itself studied her with the same intensity as its twin.
“Where is Iesu?”
“I know not. They bound him and took him to face Caiaphas.”
“At night?” Judas tried to sit up, but didn’t have strength equal to Maryam’s firm but gentle resistance. “They cannot hold a trial after sunset. It is the law.”
“His father accompanied him. As would I have, but Iesu insisted I care for you.”
Judas took her hand then. “My thanks, and my apologies for keeping you from your husband.”
Squeezing his hand, she said, “Most like I would have been barred for being a woman. I was more useful here.”
Judas seemed to remember something. “Maryam, I must go. Today is the day we remake the world.” This time he didn’t sit up, instead squirming backwards to use the wall for support.
“Hold, Judas. I will not prevent you, but you must answer my questions.”
“Quickly, then.”
“Do you have any pain within?” she asked, watching his eyes.
He relaxed, holding her gaze. “No.”
“Good. Very good. And your left eye. Tell me how well you see from it compared to your right one.”
The disciple looked at her through one eye then the other, repeating the comparison a few times. “The left one remains less sharp, but there is almost no difference in the light from one to the other.”
Maryam nodded, satisfied. “Stay here and I will bring you food. Should I summon Metlip to help you find your feet?”
“Let me eat, first.”
Maryam stepped into the hallway to find one of Solomon’s servants standing against the opposite wall holding a tray. She smiled at the youth and gestured at the door behind her. As he disappeared through the doorway, she turned and made her way downstairs to the public rooms.
Solomon’s divan was empty — empty of the scribe and his silks both. She walked through the palace in a circular pattern, and soon enough found one of the near-naked servants waiting for her.
“Please take me to Solomon.” The youth gestured behind her and breezed past. She followed him outside and discovered a spectacular garden of strange trees, unfamiliar flowers and several small fountains that provided water for all. Hidden within this paradise was a tent. It was not a tent to travel with, but a frame of slender round poles covered in linens.
Solomon stood as she approached and hugged her when she came within reach. “I woke without pain,” he chuckled, “and I could stand. My joy was such that I had to sing.”
“I heard you.”
Solomon’s smile wavered. “Did I wake you?”
“You did, but it was a pleasant way to be roused.” Maryam moved into the shade of the tent. Mother and Metlip shared a bench. “They have not returned. Is there cause to worry?”
The scribe answered. “The sun has just cleared the Mount of Olives. It is not yet time for concern.” He gestured at the table, and the variety of food spread upon it. “Sit. Eat. I will send a boy to learn what he can.”
“He should go to the High Priest’s house first,” Metlip advised. “I heard them say that was their destination.” Abruptly, he stood. “I will accompany him.”
Maryam slid into Metlip’s vacant place and picked up a handful of grapes from his plate.
Metlip followed the slave into the street and walked into him when the Aegyptian halted. Standing before the youth was Josef. The Nubian smiled, glad to see his master safe, and greeted him, realizing Iesu was not with him. Josef glanced at him, but neither replied nor moved. Nor did he resist when Metlip guided him into the estate and through the garden to the tent where Mother, Maryam and Solomon remained.
He ignored their greetings, asking instead, “Is he here? Is Iesu here?”
Solomon made room on his bench and filled a silver cup with unwatered wine. He held it in front of his old friend until Josef noticed, grasped and lifted it. Josef took a lethargic sip, then another. The third time he drank the contents and seemed to recall himself.
The night’s tale unravelled backwards, beginning with Josef arriving at Jacob’s physician’s home to discover Iesu had never arrived there. “I watched him leave in a palanquin with the High Priest’s blessing.”
“The High Priest’s blessing?” Mother pressed.
“It was part of our bargain.”
“What bargain?” Mother asked. “No. This will take all day. Husband, start from when you reached the High Priest’s house.”
So he did. When he finished, Maryam said, “That is a great relief for me. But where could Iesu have gone?”
The answer arrived not long after. Several paces behind his Aegyptian escort came Marcus, who paused to examine this flower or that tree. He was unarmored and lacked his helmet, but he was unmistakably Roman at a glance by his clean-shaven jaw and the fact his sword belt cinched a tunic that reached mid-thigh, scandalously short by Hebrew standards.
Josef introduced the Roman to Solomon.
The scribe shook his head, frowning. “Thirty years and no news of you, Josef, and then you arrive at my doorstep with two beautiful men and will share neither. What kind of friendship is this?” An awkward silence followed, but Solomon reached for Maryam’s hand and laughed. “But then, you have delivered me this angel to ease my pains, so I must be satisfied.”
“I am no angel, Sol,” she replied, tugging her hand free. “Just ask Josef. Yet I am overjoyed to have relieved your pain. You may be certain I will attend you again, but I must see to Judas.” She vacated her seat for Marcus and left. Mother went with her, leaving the four men alone.
Though happy to see him, Josef sensed Marcus was acting somewhat reserved, his manner formal. The Roman exchanged a short personal history for Solomon’s life story, but held his hand up before the scribe finished relating the goal of his travels. “Forgive me, Solomon,” he sighed, “but I have news of Josef’s son which he must know.”
“Of course.”
“They arrested Iesu last night, dear Josef. I know because a Hebrew priest sought to command the Tribune in charge to arrest others.”
“You are correct, my friend. Iesu was arrested, but I spent all night with my father negotiating with the High Priest for his release.”
“Release?” Marcus replied. “Even now Iesu waits for Pilate to judge him.”
Josef jumped up. “Pilate? No. That cannot be. Caiaphas dropped his charges.”
“Caiaphas is absent. Annaias and other priests delivered Iesu in chains to the stockade before dawn.”
“Then Annaias acts behind the back of the High Priest. I must speak to him,” Josef said. “When will Pilate judge Iesu?”
Marcus looked at the shadows on the ground outside, gauging the hour by their length. “The Procurator is a pious Roman, and he both dislikes and distrusts your priests. He will make them wait at least one turn of the sand.”
“That is not a lot of time if Caiaphas is neither in his palace or at Temple. I will take the wagon.”
“Master, the wagon will be slower than walking with all the people in the city,” Metlip advised. “Why not use just the horses?”
“We have no saddles,” his master replied.
“My horse is saddled,” Marcus announced, “but he will not permit you to ride him. I will transfer it to one of your horses. I can ride without.”
“I can run,” added the Nubian.
“You certainly can, my friend,” Marcus said, “but I would like some time with your master.”
“Of course, Tribune. I will fetch one of our horses to the gate.”
“Did you know?” Marcus asked.
The two men rode side by side, the hollow rhythmic tap of hooves on stone alerting others of their approach from behind. It was a brief ride to the High Priest’s palace, but they were not the only ones on the streets, even this early. Carts and wagons were like rocks in a stream, creating chaotic eddies of movement among the traffic. More than once it halted them for several minutes. Josef was fighting a growing sense of dread that he might be too late.
“Yes. And no,” answered Josef. “I thought it might be him, but I was not sure. He did not return home once in the three years since he left. To be honest, I hoped with all my heart he was not the Nazarene. Naming yourself a prophet among our people is a risky path. Perhaps you are correct in your foretelling once, twice. People take notice and follow your words. But then, if you are wrong, there is likely no second chance. You are called a false prophet and die in the most horrible way your detractors may devise. Previous prophets have been cut in two with a wooden saw — not a saw for wood but a saw of wood.”
Marcus shook his head. “My belly is queasy from imagining such pain, though it relieves me that the empire is not alone in using excruciating methods of death.”
“Why would I approve of such a dangerous path for my son?” Josef paused a moment to swallow. “Whenever I heard the name praised in the caravanserai, the priest would redouble his attacks in synagogue. The Sadducees think Iesu more dangerous than you Romans.”
Reaching across the small gap between their mounts, Marcus squeezed Josef’s arm. “Thank you, my dear Josef. I yearned for you to answer thus, but I feared the worst. Not for who your son is, but because it would show you do not trust me.”
The traffic’s current swept them down the hill towards their destination. The incline reduced the amount of stationary vehicles and their pace improved. A short time later, a Temple guard affirmed that the High Priest was yet within.
“Please inform him that Josef, son of Jacob, has a need to speak with him, and that it is a matter of urgency.”
“And who are you?” the guard demanded of Marcus.
“You need not worry about my escort,” Josef replied. “He will remain outside the gates should Caiaphas grant me entry.”
The wait was less than Josef worried it might be, and his stomach settled a fraction. Handing his reins to his friend, the father of the Nazarene stepped onto solid ground and passed through the open sliver of gate.
Caiaphas stood at the top of the wide stairs, his robes rippling in the northern breeze like fresh flowing blood. “Are you here to conclude our bargain, Josef of Nazareth?” he said in greeting.
“I am as eager as you to complete our business, but my son waits for judgement before Pontius Pilate.” Josef was confident Caiaphas’ reaction was honest from the way his surprise took on an angry edge.
Glancing upwards, The High Priest hurried down the steps. “Bring my chair. Quickly, now!” Caiaphas brushed aside his servant’s help and slipped between the curtains before the bearers had placed their feet. The four men were guard recruits, and this duty was a measure of a man’s stamina. “The Praetorium. Run!”
The two friends turned their mounts towards the palace of Jacob, the carpet merchant.
“Your furniture arrived in good order,” Marcus admitted, as much to distract his friend as to remove it as a source of worry. “And the officers of the Tenth are eager to purchase your handiwork.”
