00 The Father, the Son & the Slave
You know the Passion narrative. This is not that tale. This is the story behind the gospel and governed by the history and politics of the time. It is the story of a father, his estranged son and the slave caught between them. This is the Prologue.
P R O L O G U E
The slave Metlip woke to his name whispered through the shuttered window.
“It is I, Brother.”
The young Nubian was instantly alert. “Iesu!”
“Quiet, my foolish friend,” the voice said. “I must not be discovered. Come and open the small gate for me.”
Metlip rolled from his pallet and stood, a shadow in the sparse moonlight that suffused the tiny chamber. He brushed the wrinkles from his knee-length tunic, tugged his sleeves down. Woven from Aegyptian linen by his mistress, the garment was a better quality than those of her neighbours.
Two short steps brought him to the curtained entry, but as he ducked under the lintel — just as his height forced him to stoop through every other doorway in Nazareth — he paused, his head swivelling from his path to the chamber behind him. With an impatient sigh, he retraced his steps and pulled a wide strip of tooled leather from its peg on the wall. Though the distinction was lost on him, he knew his master would judge him naked were he to emerge clad only in his tunic. He wrapped and tied the leather around his waist as he dodged below the sandstone lintel, only to halt again. He cinched the tunic’s excess cloth in his fingers, then tucked the pleats under his belt before twisting his body to ease the fit.
His movements were quick and efficient. Jet fingers tugged at the leather collar that marked his status as he made his way down a brief passage, stepping silently as he passed his mistress’ chamber, and entered the principal room of the house. Confident in the darkness, he threaded his way between a table, a pair of chests, and the hearth that was the centre of their lives.
Beyond these, a sturdy wooden door opened onto the walled dirt yard separating the dwelling from his master’s carpentry works and the stable. Across the yard, a thin light leaked from under the shop’s closed double doors, which meant his master desired privacy. The slave checked his steps. His master would want to know his son had returned. He switched direction, careful to avoid the fresh horse dung that littered the packed earth. He nodded a greeting as he passed the four Roman legionnaires lounging by the main gate, talking and sharing a skin of wine.
Hunching, the slave slipped through the shop’s doorway and into a generous space redolent with the scents of his — and his master’s — craft. Two men reclined on a pair of new-made Roman couches angled to accommodate a brazier that provided more heat than light. The long, cushioned seats were so close-set their inside corners abutted one another. An amphora of wine stood propped in the narrow corner between them and all around, in various stages of packing, was a pile of furnishings extensive enough to fill a palace. Unwilling to interrupt, Metlip waited in the shadows for a pause in the conversation.
One man, older than his companion, wore the tunic and mantle common among Hebrew men, though he kept his beard cropped short in the Hellenic fashion of Galilee. This man listened as the other, beardless and clad in the armour of an officer in Rome’s Tenth Legion, wiped wine from his lips with the back of a hand.
“I am just happy to be far from Jerusalem,” the Roman said. “Pilate has been in a rage since his return from Samaria. I told you his wife was enthralled by one of your prophets. Well, it was not enough for her to reject her Roman heritage and earn exile to a distant estate — though it brought you this contract. No, my dear Josef. While Pilate was away locating her a suitable property, she smashed his palace statues, whitewashed his frescoes and shattered his mosaics.”
“Master — ,“ Metlip interjected, advancing.
The older man laughed. “Why?” he asked.
The Roman shrugged. “Because her new god is jealous of the old gods? She called them ‘false’ and ‘heathen’.”
Metlip took another step forward and tried again. “Master.”
But his master’s full attention was on the Roman.
“If Pilate ever lays hands on the charlatan who bewitched her — ” The Roman drained his cup and chuckled. “More wine, dear friend?” He lifted the slender clay vessel and trapped it in the crook of his arm so he could pour without sitting up. “If the Salvo family had a maxim, it would be ‘once opened, always emptied’.”
The older man handed his cup across for the Roman to fill. “Ah, Marcus. I would go to Rome just to learn the secrets of this wine.”
The Roman’s features grew wistful. “You would find a fervent welcome at the Salvo estate, dear Josef. Such a welcome that you would never wish to leave.” He paused a moment. “And if you did, well, I am sure there is an empty chamber with a heavy lock in our cellars.”
Reaching for his cup, Josef’s hand brushed the Roman’s and paused. Neither spoke. Josef’s fingers slipped over his companion’s hand as they sought purchase on the cup’s rim, but he made no effort to pull it away.
Metlip stepped past the brazier. “Master.”
Startled, both men jerked their hands back. The cup fell to the packed dirt floor, wine splashing in all directions. Josef jumped up, scanning for stains on the cushions.
Marcus leaned back as if to put distance between them and forced a smile. “Metlip. Well met.” He brushed his fingers over the delicate pattern of vines and leaves cut into the front panel of his couch. “The two of you have done a magnificent job. Your skills in carving wood are extraordinary.”
“Thank you, Tribune.”
Satisfied his work was undamaged, Josef straightened and swung around to face his slave.
“How many times must I tell you to announce yourself in the dark?” he shouted. “And for one able to read and write in four tongues, how is it you do not know what ‘privacy’ means? Must I chain you to prevent your intrusions?”
Metlip winced as if every insult held the cutting sting of a lash, yet he said nothing.
If Josef was oblivious to the impact of his words, Marcus was not. “Hold, dear Josef. There must be a reason for his presence. Metlip, my friend, what roused you from your pallet that you need to share with your master?”
Relief washed through the young Nubian, yet his answer came out as a coarse whisper. Meeting Josef’s gaze, he said, “He is home.” The slave spun on his heel and rushed into the night.
Crossing to a sturdy door set into the compound’s wall beyond the stable, the Nubian lifted the wooden brace and leaned it against the stone wall. The hinges moaned as he pulled the gate inward to reveal a smiling, slender man with eyes framed by laugh lines, shoulder length hair and a thin, close-cropped beard. He wore a colourless, rough-spun tunic and a much-patched mantle, the garments cinched by a hemp rope wound a few times around his waist. A leather satchel hung heavy at his side but did not impede his arms as they spread to embrace the slave.
“My brother,” the newcomer said. “I have missed you more than I can say. Why is it you still wear your collar?”
The African, two hand-widths taller than his visitor, wrapped his arms about the other and lifted him off his feet. “I have yearned for this day, Iesu. Every day I ask God to bring you home. And even I forget my collar.”
Iesu whispered his next words. “Why are there Romans here?”
Metlip said nothing until he released Iesu from the hug and wiped tears from his eyes.
“Do not be alarmed,” the Nubian replied. “All is well. The soldiers are but an escort for a friend of your father’s. And what of you? What brings you home in the middle of the night?”
“Good news, my brother.” Iesu answered. “Good news. News I wanted to bring personally, but with the least risk of discovery — though my cautions may have been for naught. My exile holds.”
“Of course,” said the slave over his shoulder as he closed and barred the gate. “Tell me.”
“I will, but my time is short. I would speak with my father.”
“And if your father does not wish to speak with you?”
Both men turned to face the carpenter Josef, his features unreadable in the fluttering flame of the lamp in his hand.
Iesu stepped within the meagre cast of light. “After a space of three years, Father? Are you not grateful to find me whole and hale?”
“I never imagined it otherwise. Not you. But I am grateful nonetheless. Why do you travel in the darkest hours of the night?”
“It would jeopardize my plans were I to be recognized and taken. It seemed best to come when the chance of discovery was minimal, and that is now. How do you fare, Father?”
“We prosper, no thanks to you.”
“How do you mean?”
“How do I mean? With your banishment went my trade.”
The Roman officer emerged from the shop, fastening his helmet. The soldiers snapped to attention, but a gesture released them. He halted beside Josef.
Josef turned to his friend. “Marcus, this is my son, Iesu. Iesu, meet my excellent friend Marcus Salvo, Tribune and Quartermaster of the Tenth Legion.”
“Ah, the runaway,” Marcus said, with a curt nod to Iesu. Iesu pressed his upright palms together and bent at the hip. The Roman added, “Braving the dark — and curfew — to resume his place at his father’s side, I hope.”
“Have you come back?” Josef asked.
Iesu straightened, returned his gaze to his father. “No, Father. I have come seeking answers.”
Marcus looked at the narrow sliver of moon, then clasped Josef on the shoulder.
“It is late and you must catch up with your son,” the Roman said. “I will take my leave. Until tomorrow, dear friend.” Marcus pulled Josef around and drew him into a brief hug that Josef accepted, but did not return.
The Tribune strode to his horse and mounted, his escort coming to order. One soldier raised the bar on the main gate and pulled it open, then followed the others through. Metlip pushed the gate closed and replaced the bar.
After a moment, Iesu said, “I did not expect to find Romans here.”
Instead of answering, Josef turned away. Holding the guttering lamp ahead of him, he took several paces to the side and indicated some wooden forms stacked against the shop wall, a pile of long, squared timbers with perpendicular arms at one end and tapered points at the other. They were uniform and plain, save for one marked by a knot with a discoloured tail, like a star racing across the firmament.
“Look, you,” Josef said. “Do you know these? Wooden frames on which the Romans hang criminals and those who oppose them. These are my business now, and demand is ever growing. Our neighbours shun us since the day you called yourself Messiah in synagogue and brought about your exile.”
“I was naïve, then. Much has happened since and I would not be caught so effortlessly in the Sadducee’s word-trap again.”
“Forgive me, Iesu,” Metlip began, but got no further.
“And how would that change the attitude of our neighbours?” Josef demanded. “Would a better argument restore the loss of my business?”
Metlip caught a flicker of his brother’s famous temper in his features, surprised at the speed with which it passed, though he also noticed Iesu needed a calming breath before answering his father.
“Father,” Iesu replied. “My time is limited, and I have left my beloved alone among men far from their homes. May we go inside and talk? I would wash the dust from my feet, and I have a thirst.”
“As you wish,” said Josef, and held his lamp to light a path through the horse dung to the house.
“Your beloved?” Metlip asked. “You have a woman?”
Iesu had to raise his arm above his own head to rest it on the Nubian’s shoulder. “Indeed, my brother. I hope you have the chance to meet her.”
“Why would I not?” Metlip asked. “Will you never bring her home?”
As if to avoid answering, Iesu bent to loosen his sandals and then scoop water from a stone basin by the door to douse his feet.
“Metlip,” said his master, “please rouse your mistress and then find water and food.”
“Yes, Master.” The Nubian slipped off his own sandals and then vanished into the darkness.
“Are you my father?”
Iesu faced Josef across the table in the front room.
“You sneak through the night to ask me this?” Josef replied.
Iesu shrugged. “I am banished from my home. What choice did I have but to come under cover of darkness?”
“Why come now, after all this time?” Josef asked.
“To see you, of course. And Mother and Metlip. I have missed my home.”
Josef pressed on. “Not enough that you thought to return sooner.”
“Many nights I have lain awake contemplating the pressures of my ministry,” his son responded, “weighing my longing for home against the duties of my fate. More than once, I began the journey before the burden of my responsibilities checked my steps.”
Josef wasn’t to be so easily mollified. “Three years, has it been?”
“Close enough. But I have been busy with my ministry and truly could not spare the time. Now, time is against me. I have two questions, Father, one for your ears alone and one I would voice before both my parents. I have already asked the first.”
“Asked what?”
“Are you my father?”
“Of course.”
Iesu shook his head, as if he searched for a better phrase. “You have loved me as a son, but I must know. I must choose the right path and your answer may determine my decision. Am I from your seed?”
Josef hesitated a moment. “No.”
“Then what of my mother’s story?”
“What of it?”
“She insists an angel visited her, and revealed she would bear the Messiah. Me. Father, do you believe her?”
“She has never lied to me.”
“But — you always discouraged me from considering the truth of her tale.”
“I did. For all the hope our people hold for the Messiah, we are near impossible to persuade. It is a sure path to an ugly death for any who might pursue it. I had no wish for you to die.”
A rustle in the darkness announced Iesu’s mother, Maryam, stuffing stray wisps of long grey hair into her braid as she entered the room. Iesu stood and faced her. Expressionless, she strode to her son and slapped him. Iesu took the blow without flinching.
“Wife — ,” began Josef, standing, but Iesu held out his arm and his father sat back down.
“You would leave your mother without a proper farewell?” she asked. Without waiting for Iesu to respond, she pulled him into a tight hug. “I dreamt you would come home.”
Releasing her son, she shoved him backwards. “And what kind of son makes his mother wait so long for a visit?” Almost leaping at him, Maryam embraced him again, her eyes squeezed closed. Then once again, she stepped back. “And when he does finally return, he is dressed as a beggar and smells as bad. What would you ask me? For a bath and new robes, I hope.”
Smiling, it was Iesu’s turn to hug his mother. “It is so very good to see you, Mother. You look as young and healthy as I ever remember.” Holding his arm around her waist, Iesu looked from one parent to the other.
Metlip materialized bearing a tray with water, dates and a second, brighter, lamp which he placed on the table.
“I would ask for your blessing, Mother. Father. To marry,” Iesu went on as he pulled her closer. Maryam leaned back to meet his eyes.
“Marry?” said Metlip, moving forward but catching himself at a look from Josef.
“In truth?” she asked.
“Before the Father Above, Mother.”
Beaming with delight, Maryam looked to her husband. “How could I have doubted this day would come, Josef?”
Maryam sniffed Iesu and stepped out of the embrace. “But who would marry such a skinny wretch as you, dressed little better than a beggar?”
“I am a rabbi now, Mother, living on the charity of my flock. It is enough.”
“So you come home to beg the bride price?” asked Josef.
Iesu poured water into a wood-turned cup and drank. “No, Father,” he answered, smiling. “There is no dowry.”
“Her father gives her away for nothing?”
“She has neither father nor mother. There need be no dowry to make this contract, only the love we share. And, hopefully, your blessing.”
“No,” said Josef. “What kind of woman — ?” Josef paused as he realized just who his son wanted to wed. “You speak of the whore.”
Iesu flinched, but held his calm. “No longer. She is integral to my ministry.”
“And you love her?” asked his mother.
“She is the missing piece of my soul, Mother.”
His mother nodded her acceptance. “Where is she now?”
“Within the caravanserai, waiting to depart for Jerusalem with the dawn. She was feeling ill, so I left her to rest.”
“I forbid it,” said Josef.
“How do you own this choice, Father?”
Maryam stepped between them. “He does not. When and where is the wedding?”
“In Jerusalem,” her son replied. “Two days before Passover, to allow the guests time to make their way home.”
“Why, that is but a week away,” said Maryam. “We have little time. Come, Metlip, we must collect what we need for the journey.”
“Journey, Mistress?”
Josef reached out, stopping his wife from leaving. “Surely you do not plan to go with them?”
“I do, husband,” she affirmed. “Metlip will accompany me.”
“I cannot leave my business at a moment’s notice.”
“I am not asking you to. I know how you feel about Jerusalem.”
“Marcus’s job is not yet packed,” Josef protested.
His wife was unmoved. “The work itself is complete, yes? The packing of it is well within Negev’s capabilities. And with Passover just ahead, you cannot be so busy.”
“The road is arduous, the ground hard,” Josef added as an afterthought as he studied the lamp’s weak flame.
“I have made the journey before, husband. There is nothing to worry about. But I will need your wagon.”
Josef looked up. “My new wagon?”
“Would you have your wife walk for four days?”
“It is not ready for such a trip.“
“Of course it is. You drove it not two days ago.”
“It is not like the cart. You cannot handle it.”
“Metlip will drive it. But we will take both horses, yes?”
“And if something breaks?”
“It will be fine.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you built it.”
“I cannot allow you to go alone, even with Metlip.”
“Then you will come, yes? You must let Marcus know.” Turning to her slave, she said, “Metlip, please go to Marcus and ask him to return. I will pack all we need. But first, if you will, lamps lit throughout.”
To her husband, she said, “Josef, rouse your apprentices and leave your instructions.”
If you enjoyed this Prologue, other chapters are, or will become, available on Medium. If you would rather not wait, the novel is on smashwords.com FREE. All I ask is that you review the work on smashwords, or at least add a star rating.
