04 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 Chapter Four.

F O U R

Iesu dropped from the wagon, then turned to help Maryam, but found he was too late. Holding the hem of her dress above her knees, she leapt to the ground beside him. A moment later, Metlip joined them, his attention on the mountain towering above. Josef remained perched on the wagon’s step, and Mother kept the cloth to her face as she waited for the dust to settle.

Josef looked over his shoulder towards the rear of the column, then nudged his wife and pointed at the others. “Metlip,” Josef called, “please get your mistress away. They are bringing the flocks up.”

Barely resting his foot on the step, the slave leaped onto the wagon. He understood his master’s intent and lifted Mother off her feet in his enthusiasm. He took a pace backwards, ignoring the step this time to land within easy reach of his mistress. When he held out his hands for her to take, she shook her head, so he placed his hands on her hips and swung her clear of the wagon. “This way, Mistress,” he said and led her up the slope towards the cool shade of an apple orchard.

Maryam took Iesu’s hand and led him after his mother. Behind them, Josef reached into the hidden compartment under the bench to retrieve his leather bag, then re-wrapped the reins around the wagon’s brake before he turned to join them.

The leading animals, some with dedicated shepherds, were spare camels and horses, followed by a handful of oxen and some recalcitrant donkeys harnessed together but still requiring two minders who were generous with their switches. Then came a score of children, as many girls as boys in two ragged lines, guiding the mixed herd of sheep and goats past the stationary column.

Mother groaned at the thought of having all those animals in front of them. “Why are they taking the flocks to the front, Josef?”

“To water them, wife. The animals drink downstream from us so they cannot foul our water. They will return to the rear when we move off again.”

“I wish to move closer to the front, Josef.”

“As do I. I shall seek out the scribe after we water the horses.”

“I will do that, Master Josef,” Maryam said. “And feed them.”

“Only water,” said Josef. “No food. Only water in the day.” He turned to his wife. “I will eat when I return.”

Josef slung his bag on his shoulder and started down the slope. Without a word, Metlip followed. Josef glanced up as the Nubian appeared beside him, but said nothing.

“Mother,” Maryam said, “you should rest and catch your breath. Iesu and I will fetch water for the horses and then we can prepare food.”

At the base of Mount Tabor was a spring whose pressure was inconsistent, so that it developed a reputation as a purveyor of omens. Sometimes, the cold, clear water seemed to slip reluctantly from the crease in the mountain’s bedrock, sliding into a short narrow channel before it emptied onto a long inclined outcrop where it spread into a thin sheet suitable only for watering animals. Other times, the water burst from the rock, arcing in a tight stream to land in the channel. And sometimes, rarely, a rainbow would form in the spray above the channel.

There was no rainbow today, but the graceful arc of water splashing into the channel ensured all would drink in good time.

The queue for water consisted primarily of two groups — servants from the lead wagons bearing multiple bladders and those members of the caravan making the journey on foot, clutching water skins which could not be too big to carry full, yet were large enough to last until the next rest stop. Iesu noticed more than a few among the latter group behind him and Maryam, so he ushered them forward.

“Perhaps your skills are needed, my Heart,” Maryam told him, tugging the strap of his satchel. “You need not wait with me.”

“Indeed. I will try to watch your progress to the spring. Please do not carry both skins by yourself. Wait for me.”

Iesu walked to the front of the line, intending to follow it backwards so he could face each person as he came to them. He sauntered down the line, looking first for an obvious hurt, then at the face for signs of pain, the eyes for fear, the body for clues to illness.

He did not find this process challenging nor difficult. It drew on his Grace, but barely enough to notice. Just as important was his ability to focus single-mindedly on one thing while ignoring all else — something Nebuzatan’s house guards had taught him.

So intense was his concentration, he might never have noticed the scene unfolding behind him had he not been bumped. Iesu turned to see the back of a woman he had ushered ahead in line, her attention focussed on a guard facing her. It was clear to Iesu the guard had pushed the woman, and even now the man held a long-handled cup used to collect water in his left hand, poised to strike. The woman noticed Iesu as he moved to stand next to her.

The man was the leader of the caravan’s guards, a Greek of an age with Iesu, though his skill and experience was plain in the battered landscape of his bull-hide chest plate. “You with her?” he growled.

“Yes,” Iesu said. “And no. I do not know her, but I will not stand by to see her dishonoured.”

“Ha! How is she dishonoured? I come only for water.”

“Yet you dishonoured her through your disrespect. To you she is nothing. Worthless. So irrelevant you could not wait for her to finish filling her skin.”

“I am Solon, Captain of this caravan’s guards. Who is she?”

“She is a woman, just as you are a man, and she deserves the same respect you do.”

“I have rank.”

“Earned in recognition of your leadership, your skills and your courage,” Iesu replied. “Yet which of those virtues embraces entitlement? Who granted you permission to dishonour those they pay you to protect?”

Iesu looked over his shoulder at the line of people waiting their turn. Turning back to the guard, he said, “All of these people are entitled to water, just as you are. But they must wait their turn, and so must you.”

The captain’s sword point suddenly hovered an inch away from Iesu’s eye. “My entitlements are the prize of my power. And within my power could your life be forfeit.”

“I do not wish to die,” Iesu answered, and Solon sheathed his gladius, the short, two-edged sword that enabled a Roman town to grow into an empire. “Permit me to draw your water, Captain,” he added, plucking the cup from Solon’s hand. His right hand slipped under the flap of his satchel.

Moments later, Iesu stood and held the cup out with both hands cradling the bowl. Solon grabbed it by the handle and drank it all in one long pull. As he handed the cup back to Iesu, the Greek’s face contorted in agony. He took several stumbling steps and then vomited violently and staggered away.

Everyone in the lineup for water watched Solon move off. Many gathered their containers, fearing the water fouled. Iesu returned to the spring and once more dipped the long-handled cup into the stream. He took his time, as Nebuzatan instructed he should, for therein lay the fundamental difference between performance and life. His movements precise, he raised the cup to his lips and drank. No one moved — he had their complete attention.

“This water is not fouled,” he told them. “Cold and clean. I am a healer and stand ready to help anyone plagued by pain or illness.” He did not have to repeat his words.

Metlip found walking with Josef far easier than with Iesu. Josef’s stride was, of course, much shorter than the slave’s, but the carpenter made up for it with his pace, allowing the Nubian a natural gait. Iesu just walked too slowly. The slave intended to count the wagons in the column on the way back, but for now he just studied them as he and Josef passed them by, noting how they grew in size and improved in quality the closer they were to the head of the train. He studied each in turn for novel details which he and Josef might adapt, but found flaw after flaw in design and craftsmanship.

They located the scribe sitting on a tattered carpet between two wooden chests in the shade of the largest wagon in the caravan. The man muttered to himself as he read numbers from his waxed wooden tablet lying on one chest and recorded them in a cumbersome codex lying open on the other. He looked harried and in need of sleep, his mantle stained with ink.

Knowing he had no role in Josef’s negotiation, Metlip paced back and forth, studying the wagon’s construction and noting what he would do differently. As he considered the placement of the two long windows set high on the side, he struggled to understand their purpose, for they would allow little light and less air. Then there was movement in one of them, a pair of eyes watching him, and he knew. This wagon was not built to comfort its occupants, only contain them. It held slaves.

“Metlip, come,” called Josef. “There is nothing to be done.”

The Nubian could not believe his master had failed. “What?” he said, his voice louder than he intended.

“He will not move us ahead.”

But his mistress — In two strides, Metlip towered over the cowering scribe. “I am forbidden,” the man stammered. “My master’s rules, not mine. Please,” he went on, “I must finish my work if I am to eat tonight.”

Josef was already walking away. Metlip moved after him, but then looked back. “One, two, three — “

Iesu failed to stifle his yawn, though he was far less drained than he thought to be. More of the caravan members needed his healing skills than he had expected, and he would never consider healing this one but not another. So he helped all who approached him and took solace from the fact that only one of those he treated required Grace.

Though he lost count of how many people he had tended in the cool shade of the fruit trees, the crowd never seemed to dissipate. He knew the fault was his own — he used his stories to put people at ease, incorporating Nebuzatan’s tricks of rhythm and rhyme to tap his audience’s emotions and foster familiarity and trust. There were times, though, when his stories were too effective, and the crowds refused to leave.

“Another,” the boy sitting at his feet pleaded. He was a very different child from the one placed before him an hour previous. The boy had climbed a tree and disturbed a bee hive. When brought to Iesu, he was close to death. Iesu knew what he needed to do to save him, and what it could cost. And he had to hide his Grace within a mundane treatment — tincture of willow bark followed by honey. One would ease the pain while the other reduced the swelling, but even together, this time they would not have been enough. The boy was too young, the stings too many. So Iesu fed the child Grace in a slow trickle as he applied first the tincture and then the honey. That slow release had something to do with his reduced fatigue.

He looked up, scanning the crowd for Maryam and not even trying to hide a second yawn. “One last tale,” he announced. She was not among the few remaining travellers at the spring. “Are we agreed?” he asked. Iesu sat straighter, his fingers fluttering as they tugged at the drape of the mantle he was not wearing — part of the fatigue, he told himself. He lifted his chin and spoke.

There once was a Noble with a fine estate and many slaves. But grand as the estate was, it was dwarfed by the Noble’s ambition. So when he heard a man of even greater wealth sought marriage for his only daughter, the Noble determined she would marry him, for when the father died she — and therefore he — would inherit vast new wealth. He was not the only suitor for the girl’s hand, and others could offer greater dowries, but his ambition refused defeat. In secret, he borrowed sizeable sums from those merchants who purchased his harvests, until his was the highest offer. She was his.

He proudly brought his new wife home to his estate, only to find her disappointed. ‘I expected more,’ she declared. Nothing met her standards; the palace was too small. The Noble returned to the merchants and borrowed more coin to pay to expand the palace. ‘I need two dress-makers,’ she cried, and he acquired them. Each new day brought with it new complaints and more demands. The Noble made every effort to please his wife, but soon he could borrow no more. He saw his only path was to sell some of his slaves, and so he did, and he ceased replacing those who took ill or died, so it forced the remainder to work harder and longer. It was not enough. But harvest approached, and the Noble knew the value of his crops would lift the pressure, so he reduced the rations of the remaining slaves and kept back half of the wood for their fires. The harvest approaches, he reminded himself.

Then the rains came. Like a second flood, the rains continued until the fields became lakes and the crops ruined. The slaves, over-worked and under-fed, became ill, and no few died. Nor was the Noble alone in his poor fortunes. Crops failed everywhere, and it forced some into banditry to survive.

One day, a large group of armed and hungry men swarmed through the gates, overwhelming the guards and taking the Noble and his wife hostage. The raiders ate his stores, removed the Noble’s possessions and took his wife’s jewels.

‘This is not enough to share among us,’ their leader said. ‘Bring us your coin.’

‘I have none,’ the Noble said. ‘I have much debt.’

‘If you wish to live, you will pay,’ said the chief bandit, threatening the Noble with his club.

‘My slaves,’ cried the Noble, ‘take my slaves.’ Satisfied, the bandit chief sent men to collect the slaves.

Soon, the men returned. ‘The slaves are all sick,’ they reported, ‘and the rest are just skin and bone. They are worthless at auction.’

‘Take her, then,’ the leader said, pointing his club at the wife. ‘She will earn a fine price.’

The raiders left the Noble in an empty palace with his sick and weakened slaves. But not for long, as those he owed demanded payment. When the estate sold, there remained a debt. The Noble had no choice but to sell himself into slavery and the next year found himself toiling beside those he once owned.

As Iesu ended his tale, he broke one of Nebuzatan’s cardinal rules — he didn’t smile and meet the gaze of as many in the audience as he could in a last gesture that made the shared experience personal. Instead, he gathered the strap of his noticeably lighter satchel and stood — and would have lost his balance had Metlip not steadied him. Looking about to see who might have noticed, it pleased Iesu that the crowd had already dispersed.

“Your stories threaten to delay the caravan, Brother,” the Nubian said, wrapping an arm around Iesu’s shoulders as he ushered him towards the column. “The guards have been calling for some time, but you had enthralled the crowd and none answered them. I was not about to interrupt such a moment, but now we must haste.”

“Where is Maryam?” Iesu asked.

“With the wagon,” Metlip answered. “She brought the water for the horses and helped them drink.”

“Alone? I begged her to fetch me when she was ready.”

“She saw how many needed you,” the slave said, “and left you to tend them. When she returned alone, carrying both bladders, it impressed even Josef.”

“And angry with me for not helping her.”

“Precisely,” said the slave.

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