Joel, a worried line puckering his forehead, still attempted to steer his friend to safety. "I felt that way at first," he said. "But you do get used to it. For the most part they mind their own business. Some of them even try to be friendly."
"Friendly!" Daniel reared up on his couch. "This morning on the road I passed an old man mending the axle of his wagon. He was deaf and he couldn't hear the chariot coming. It caught his rear wheel—he said there was room and to spare. He swore the soldier meant to do it. His cabbages were ruined, and the old man was shaking all over. Can you get used to that?" He glared across the table.
Joel looked down, dismayed. Hezron spoke sternly.
"Unfortunate things happen, we know," he said. "But your friend has doubtless found a market for his vegetables. We must remember that here in Capernaum we have reason to be grateful to the Romans for our beautiful synagogue."
But Daniel had gone too far to retreat. The dark tides had swelled to the brink, flooding out politeness, caution, even the memory of the errand that had brought him to this house.
"A Roman synagogue!" he growled. "Raised with Roman taxes. What is it better than the stadium?"
Joel gasped. Hezron, his eyes flashing, rose from his couch. "Watch your words, boy," he warned. "The synagogue is a house of God, no less because Roman funds helped to build it."
The boy also sprang to his feet. His dark eyes blazed back at the man. "I would never set foot in it!" he cried.
"There is blood upon it!"
The passion in his words trembled through the quiet room.
"Young man!" Hezron's voice was like a whip. "You will learn to keep such thoughts to yourself. If you have no concern for your own life, you will respect the safety of those who offer you hospitality."
The stinging reminder restored Daniel to reason. A flush swept up over his face. "Forgive me, sir," he stammered. "I—I was not ungrateful for your kindness. But I can't understand. Have the city people forgotten? They don't seem to care. Everywhere I look I see them—their stupid faces, their armor clanking. How can you feel grateful to them? Grateful that they built us a synagogue to keep us contented—that they let us breathe the air they have polluted? I shouldn't have come here. I don't belong in the city or in a house like this. I can't endure to go on as though nothing were wrong when my people are prisoners on their own land—"
He stammered to a stop, aghast at himself, and saw to his surprise that the man was no longer looking at him with scorn but with something like pity. Hezron stepped around the table and laid a hand firmly on Daniel's shoulder.
"My boy," he said quietly, "we have not forgotten. We feel as you do. In his heart every Jew grieves at our captivity. We have need of patriotism like yours. But we have need also of patience. We must not say we cannot endure what God in His judgment has visited upon us."
"But how long—must we endure it for ever?"
"God has not spoken His final word. Until He does, it is our part to endure."
"But—"
"I know. You have been listening to the Zealots. They stir up foolhardy young men like you to fill their ranks."
Daniel backed away, freeing his shoulder. "The Zealots are the finest men in Galilee. They are brave and honorable—"
Hezron stopped him. "Many brave men have come out of Galilee," he said. "But not many men of judgment. The Zealots have thrown themselves against the conquerors time and time again, and what have they to show for it? Rows of crosses, and burning villages, and heavier taxes. They see a few Romans marching, a cohort, and the Roman power seems slight and open to attack. They do not think that behind these few there are others, another cohort, a legion, countless legions, on and on as far as the mind can reach, all armed, all perfected in the art of killing. To a power that holds the whole world in its grip what is a swarm of reckless Zealots? Buzzing mosquitoes to be silenced and forgotten."
"They—"
"Mark my words, boy. Israel has one great strength, mightier than all the power of Rome. It is the Law, given to Moses and our fathers. When the last Roman emperor has vanished from the earth, the Law will still endure. It is to the Law that our loyalty must be devoted. I wish Joel to understand this, and I must forbid him to see any old friends who will turn his mind to violence. I ask you to go now, at once. Go in peace, Daniel, with a prayer that you may see the truth before that rash tongue of yours betrays you. But do not return." He motioned to a servant who stood near the door. "Go with our guest and see that he is started on the right road."
Joel made an impulsive gesture, swiftly checked, and stood quietly. Thoroughly silenced, too confused even to attempt a courteous leave-taking, Daniel flung back his head and followed the servant from the room.
As the outer door shut behind him, all his rage was turned against himself. How could he have bungled his errand so stupidly? He had failed Rosh. Rosh would never trust him again, and why should he? He could not even keep his own head. And he had lost Joel.
Yet beyond the humiliation of reporting his defeat to Rosh, he knew a sharper disappointment. He had lost not only a new recruit. He had lost something he had been close to having for the first time in his life—a friend of his own.
D
ANIEL TURNED
his face toward the mountain. He intended to leave this city and never set foot in it again. Instead, smarting from Hezron's dismissal, dreading to face Rosh, smoldering with resentment against himself and the world, he blundered straight into trouble. At a crossroads he came to a well, and seeing a broken bowl nearby, he went down on his knees to scoop up water. Before he could even cool his tongue, a shadow fell across his bent shoulders. He saw close beside him the dark wet flanks of a horse, and looked straight up into the face of a Roman.
"Water for the horse, boy," the soldier ordered, not unpleasantly. "We have come a long way."
Daniel stiffened. But he noticed, against his will, the heaving sides of the overridden animal, the streaks of foam on the glossy neck. The beast too was helpless in the hands of the Roman. He could not deny it water. He lifted the bowl and held it steady while the animal quenched its thirst.
"Enough!" the Roman barked. "You will give him a swollen belly. Now some for me."
Daniel hesitated. Then, sullenly, he lifted the bowl toward the man.
A vicious kick, missing its aim, sent a shower of drops through the air. "Impudent scum!" the man roared. "Fresh water!"
Daniel's hatred brimmed over. Without a thought he hurled the contents of the bowl straight into the man's face. For the space of a breath he stood paralyzed. Then his wits came back and he ran. There was a shout behind him. A stunning blow against his ribs sent him staggering, and a spear clattered in the road just ahead of him. He regained his feet and ran on, ducked behind a stone wall, ran bent over under its shelter for a way, and then made a dash for a clump of trees. There was more shouting now, and the thud of feet. He dared not look back. He reached the trees and then a row of houses, saw an alleyway open before him, and fled along it. The feet pounded after him.
At the end of the alley he dodged one way and then another. He was running uphill now, and his breath was coming short. He stumbled, righted himself. He crawled over a low wall and crouched behind it to catch his breath, pressing hard against the pain in his ribs. His hands came away sticky and red. He saw that he was in a garden, and that opposite him a ladder led up to the terrace above. He barely managed the ladder, but it gave him a moment's advantage. He could still hear the running feet, but he dared now to climb more slowly and conserve his breath. He gained the next terrace and then the next.
He stopped finally, gasping, and leaned against a terrace wall. He had outrun them. In the quiet orchard there was no sound of pursuit. But he had used up almost all his strength. Pain gripped his whole chest now and ran down his arm into his fingers. Very soon, he would have to lie down and wait for them to find him.
Where could he go? Down there in that huddle of houses was there someone who might give him shelter? But Rosh had warned them against trusting even their fellow Jews. Roman methods were too sure. Would any man hide a stranger, knowing what it might mean to his family? No, he must keep on the hill. The Romans would not be so likely to look up here.
An icy fog kept drifting over his eyes. In panic he realized that he was not even thinking clearly. He clung now to one chance, and he knew that that chance had been in his mind all along, and had directed his feet even when he was running too fast to think. If he could get to Joel, Joel would take him in. He didn't know why he was sure of this. But on that first day on the mountain he had trusted Joel.
He never remembered how he got to the door in the long wall, or how he had sense enough to pull the folds of his robe to cover the dark stain that spread down his side. Afterwards he recalled that the doorman admitted him and went to summon Joel. But as he stood for the second time in the outer hallway, he was not thinking at all, only concentrating on staying on his feet. Presently he heard a step on the courtyard paving, and a figure approached him, wavering and indistinct against the light. Then his eyes focused, and he saw that once again it was not Joel, but Malthace. She came toward him swiftly.
"Daniel," she said. "You must go away quickly. Joel is not here. He and Father have gone to the synagogue, but they may be back any moment."
Daniel's wits moved slowly. He could not quite take in what she was saying, but he perceived that his one chance had failed. Still he could not seem to move.
"Don't you understand?" she said sharply. "If Father finds you here he will have no patience. Why did you come back, anyway?"
He forced himself to one more attempt. "I must see Joel," he said, his voice harsh. "It is important."
"Nothing is so important as Joel's studies," she flared. "If you cared anything about Joel, you would leave him alone. He can be a famous rabbi someday. He's not going to risk his whole future for a band of outlaws."
Daniel looked at her stupidly. Her voice seemed to be coming from farther and farther away.
"Can't you see?" she cried. "Joel is torn in two directions. But he knows what is right. Please, Daniel, I beg you—go away and leave him alone."
Briefly the mist cleared. He realized that once again he had blundered. The girl was right. He could only bring danger and trouble for Joel. He turned away, saw the door wavering and dissolving in the wall, took two steps toward it, and plunged headlong into blackness.
Consciousness returned slowly. At first he was aware of something soft under his head. For the moment that was enough, and he lay motionless, while pain flowed in again across his chest and side. Finally, as the sharpening pain prodded him awake, he was able to open his eyes. It must be night; he could see nothing in the blackness.' Then he realized that someone was bending over him, and gropingly he made out a woman's head with dark masses of hair, her face a white blur in the dimness. Then he remembered and struggled to move. Instantly the sick blackness roared over him. After a time it all started over again, the pain, the groping, the face of the girl still looking down at him.
"Where am I?" he asked carefully, not moving.
"Hush!" Malthace whispered. "Don't speak out loud. You're in a storage room."
The words reached him from a great distance. He lay trying to grasp their meaning.
"Daniel," she whispered again, "can you hear me?"
"Yes."
"I'm going to go and get something for your wound. Just lie still and don't make any noise. I'll come as soon as I can. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
There was a rustling and a streak of light, then blackness again. He understood only that she had gone and that he did not need to move.
After a time the streak of light fell across him again. The girl was bending over him once more.
"Are you awake?" she whispered. "Here. Drink this. I'll hold it for you."
The cool rim of a cup touched his lips. A gentle hand lifted his head. The wine was strong, with an unfamiliar bitter taste. It spread warmly down his throat into his chest, pushing back the pain.
She set down the cup. "Now I have to pull away this cloth. I'll try not to hurt you."
He clenched his teeth while she slowly eased the blood-stiffened tunic from his ribs. The wine made his head swim. He suspected there must have been medicine in it. He was aware that she was sponging his side, and he smelled the pungent odor of dill and the sweetish fragrance of oil, and felt a soft dry cloth against his side.
"How did I get here?" he murmured.
"I dragged you in. Why didn't you tell me you were hurt? Joel would never have forgiven me if I—if anything—"
She fell silent, bound the cloth snugly against him, and held the wine again to his lips.
"I can't stay any longer," she said then. "Joel will be here soon and he'll know what to do. Don't move. Just wait till we come."
He did not know how long he waited, drifting in a sluggish river. Finally the crack of light appeared, widened, and when it closed there was still light. Joel had brought a candle, the flame lighting up his worried face.
"Daniel—are you all right? Thank God you came here!"
"I—didn't know—where—" Daniel began.
"Don't talk. I heard what happened. They're searching all over town. When Thace told me I knew it must have been you. You were crazy, Daniel!"
"Don't make him talk, Joel." Malthace was close behind. "See, Daniel, I've brought some gruel for you. Can you eat a little?"
Joel held the candle while the girl dipped up spoonfuls of gruel. It tasted warm and good, but the effort was too great. After three attempts he had to close his eyes and rest. Presently he forced himself to speak again.
"I have put your house in danger."
"No. They'll never think of searching Father's house. Let me look at that wound, Daniel." Joel knelt down and cautiously pulled away the bandage. He let out a slow whistle. "You're lucky. Another inch or so! There's a nasty hole. No use arguing, you'll have to stay quiet."