The Journey Begun (20 page)

Shem smiled for the first time that evening. “So, you are signing on, then.”

Simon nodded. “Did this afternoon. Figure I’m good for one more.”

“I’m glad. You’re a good helmsman.” He added, “You read the sea well and you know which way the wind is blowing.” The last comment hung in the air.

Simon glanced at his captain, unsure if his words held a double meaning. Shem said nothing more.

“Thanks.” Simon let himself out and pondered his next move. He saw the faint halo of torchlight crowning a head of white hair a dozen paces away. Jonah sat on a low stone wall, leaning his chin on his walking stick. He didn’t notice as the young sailor ambled to his side.

“There’s another possibility.” Simon’s voice broke the stillness.

“Shem is the captain of the ship, not the owner. A man named Omer is. He’s a merchant who lives here in Joppa, up there on the hill.” The sailor tipped his head toward an array of torches framing the upper levels of the city. “He may view your offer differently, but it might take some doing to get to see him.” Simon waited for Jonah to catch his meaning.
Jonah
[B32]
 
just looked at him.

“I mean, Omer is an important man, and I’ll probably have to make some promises to get you an audience with him.”

Jonah nodded.

Simon frowned. He wasn’t getting through. “Do you think you might be able to help me arrange an opportunity to talk to the owner?”

Jonah nodded again.

Exasperation spilled into the sailor’s voice. “By the gods, man, do you have any
silver?”

After an awkward pause, Jonah’s eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, yes, I see. Silver. I have some...shekels...umm, just a moment.” He twisted away and fumbled under his cloak. When he turned back toward Simon, four pieces of silver lay in his
hand
[B33]
 
. “Is this enough?”

Simon rubbed the metal discs between his thumb and fingers, his creased brow betraying a mind deep in thought. Jonah reached into his cloak and retrieved another two pieces. He held them out to the sailor. Simon whisked the shekels from his hand and out of sight in one motion. “That’ll do. Meet me here tomorrow after breakfast. I’ll see what I can arrange. It won’t be easy, you know.”

With that, the seaman turned and walked away.

[B34]
 

Lll

The following morning Simon approached Jonah as he was nibbling the last crust of his bread. He looked up bleary-eyed from an uncomfortable night against the cold stone wall.

The sailor pursed his lips. “Sorry the inn was full. You don’t look good.”

“Just tired. Are we ready to go?” Jonah stood and brushed crumbs from his cloak.

“Yes, but listen first. I’m going to try my best to get you in to see Omer, but you’ll be talking to him yourself. I’m just one of his hired crewmen, and me being there would only be an annoyance. You’re better off dealing with him alone.” Simon raised an eyebrow. “Are you up to it?”

“Yes.”

The two men set off and before long, Jonah found himself puffing up Joppa’s mount, struggling to keep up with the spry young sailor. The ancient city spread over a promontory protruding into a natural harbor that dimpled the Philistine coastline. It was the harbor to which Joppa owed its importance, as men settled and resettled the hill for over a thousand years to take advantage of the trade routes and resources the portal to the sea offered. The promise of wealth for the merchant and adventure for the seafarer boosted Joppa’s reputation and her size, and men from everywhere converged on the city to make their fortunes. Even through the pounding of his chest, Jonah couldn’t help but notice the change in the cityscape as he climbed. The simple lime-washed buildings neighboring the inn surrendered to multi-story homes with small courtyards as the sky above him loomed larger and the sounds of the surf receded behind him. He surmised that the city’s social strata tended to rise with its elevation. Simon told Jonah their destination was near the apex of the hill. He was to see Omer ben Penuel, a Judean from Bethlehem and the owner of Simon’s ship.

The sailor halted before a two-story whitewashed building nestled in a garden behind a low wall. Through an archway, Jonah glimpsed a small courtyard. Cedar trellises embraced shrubs and vines, nursing a bright array of color still new to the season. Ornate panels framed a grand double door and four large windows, all of which opened seaward. From here, the ship’s owner could observe all activity in the harbor.

Simon ushered Jonah through the archway and guided him along a narrow path that skirted three tidy flower beds and a shallow cistern half-filled with rain water. When they reached the doorway, the sailor turned to Jonah and slapped him on the shoulder. “This is it. Good luck.” With that he pivoted on his heel, pounded on the door three times, and bolted for the garden entrance.

Jonah’s jaw dropped as he watched Simon duck back through the arch.
Where is my introduction? What were the six pieces of silver for?

The carved door behind him creaked open on its hinges, and a woman’s sharp voice pulled his attention back to the house.

“Who are you?”

Lll

Simon whistled a tuneless air as he tripped down the road toward the inn. He jostled his newly acquired silver pieces loosely in his hand, relishing the clinking of metal against metal in his calloused palm. He felt a momentary pang at abandoning the old man at Omer’s house, then dismissed it.
It’s true that I’d be more of a hindrance at Omer’s anyway.
He nodded further rationalization to himself.
Besides, if Shem doesn’t want the silver, I sure can use it. It’s all fair.

Rounding the wall of the inn, he nearly collided with Shem, who just finished breakfast and was headed for the harbor.

“
Hoi!
Sorry!” Simon stopped clinking the silver discs and dropped his hand nonchalantly to his side. He managed a half-smile at his captain.

Shem’s brow creased. “No problem.” He looked past Simon. “So, where’s your friend?”

“My friend?”

Shem raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, you mean Jonah. From last night. Right.” Simon rubbed his free hand against his hip. “Right. Jonah. He, uh, left.”

“Left? Just like that?” Shem cocked his head.

“Well, he said something about looking for other ships…uh, captains, or someone.” The sailor kicked himself mentally. “I told him there were other ship owners in the city who would probably be willing to sell him passage to—wherever.”

Shem raised both eyebrows. “Ship owners?”

“Sure. You know lots of merchants operate out of Joppa. I told him there would surely be another ship making port within a day or so. He could, you know, ask around—or something.” Another mental kick.
I’ve got to learn to think faster on my feet.

Shem paused and searched his crewman’s eyes. Simon fidgeted under his captain’s stare. “Right. I’m sure he’ll find
another
ship.”

Simon nodded a little too enthusiastically.

Shem cleared his throat before turning to go. “See you on board today? You have some final work to do on the tiller, don’t you?”

“Yes! The tiller. I have some work to do.” Simon nodded again. The lame excuse and the weight of the silver hidden in his hand fed his uneasiness. He wondered if he was sweating. “I’ll take the next supply boat out after I eat.”

Shem nodded. “See you, then.” With that, he turned and strode off toward the quay.

Simon released a sigh of relief and slipped into the inn before Shem thought of anything else.

Twenty-two

mer lounged in his chair and frowned across the chart table at the frail white-haired stranger fidgeting in the center of the room. A stiff morning sea breeze gusted through an open window, ruffling his collar and several odd scraps of parchment littering the table. A pair of gulls fluttered to a rest on the edge of the eaves just above the windows. They added their clucking to the distant rumble of the surf and occasional foreman’s shout rising from the waterfront. The owner of
[B35]
 
Simon’s
ship draped his right arm carelessly across a tide chart and tapped his fingertips in an uneven rhythm on the table. He regarded his visitor with a mixture of frank curiosity and mild suspicion.

Omer perceived his guest’s nervousness, noticing that he shifted from one leg to the other a little too often. He smiled inwardly as the man strove to maintain eye contact with his host, but then faltered and glanced around the room. He knew there was nothing else for Jonah to focus on. The walls were bare and the table, which was the only real object of importance in the room, was dominated by the merchant. The environment was not an accident. Omer planned the setting for maximum leverage over his visitors—business or otherwise.

Jonah clasped his hands over his stomach, then dropped them back to his side. He was clearly off balance, and Omer liked that. The merchant caught his visitor glancing at the empty chair on his side of the table, clearly wishing to be asked to sit down. But the merchant didn’t invite his guest to sit. This was too much fun. So Jonah stood. And fidgeted.

Omer cleared his throat and smiled as Jonah flinched.
[B36]
 

“So—I’m sorry, it’s Jonah, isn’t it?—you want to sail.” Omer cocked his head.

“Yes. I…yes.” Jonah gave up trying to do anything with his hands and just let his shoulders droop.

“But you have no experience at sea.”

“No. But I…no.”

Omer leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table. “Are you in trouble?”

“No. Of course not.” Jonah assumed a serious look and straightened his posture. It didn’t sell.

The merchant twitched the corner of his mouth as he settled back into his chair. “Consider my position. I operate cargo ships. Yes, I have taken on passengers before, but the passengers I do take on usually know where they want to go and are willing to pay a fair price to get there. They’re not only willing to pay, but they’re able to help out the crew with nominal duties during the voyage. Are you following me?”

Jonah hesitated, then nodded.

Omer raised an eyebrow and continued. “They’re able to help because they understand something about ships, or have at least been on one before. They know their limitations—what they can help with and what they can’t—and how to stay out of the way of the crew.” His eyes made an exaggerated sweep over his visitor. “I’m not confident you know anything about any of those things.”

Jonah started to object, but the merchant cut him short with a lift of his hand. “This is a valuable shipment and it’s very important to me. The schedule is tight and the route is complicated. I have no intention of endangering the cargo or the crew by embarking someone who has no experience at sea.” Omer paused to make a quick mental calculation. “Unless, of course, the passenger is willing to pay a substantial surety to offset my risk.”

Jonah blinked. “How much would the fare be?”

Omer appraised his disheveled visitor. “One hundred shekels of silver.”

“Sixty for passage and forty for surety, then, I assume.”

Omer’s head tilted back in mild surprise at the astute observation.

Jonah continued. “Light shekels or heavy?”

Omer stifled a chuckle. Light shekels—one-half the weight of the rarer heavy shekels—were the staple of simple transactions. The bulk amounts he dealt with, though, normally involved heavy shekels. No matter. It was unlikely the vagabond standing in front of him could produce anywhere near one hundred shekels—light or heavy.

“Light. Light would be fine.”

The merchant shifted in his seat and busied himself with organizing the sheaves of parchment on the table, assuming the interview was over. Turning his attention to a recent consignment invoice, he fully expected to hear the padding of defeated footfalls descend his staircase.

Instead, he heard the dull clatter of silver disks hitting the table. His eyes widened as a small pile of shekels steadily grew in the middle of the tide chart, shuffled into order by a hand apparently familiar with handling financial exchanges. The practiced fingers sorted the shekels into groups of ten. When the full amount was spread out in an orderly array, the hand quickly brushed the remaining discs into the cupped palm of its mate and disappeared from view.

Omer stared at the piles of silver for a moment longer and then raised his head. His visitor stood once again two paces away from the table, his hands clasped in front of him as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“Where did—?” He stopped when it occurred to him that he didn’t care where the silver had come from.

“Do I get a receipt?”

Omer glanced at the silver again. He pursed his lips and reached for a small square of parchment near the edge of the table. Taking a stylus, he dipped the sharpened end into a small stoneware cup half-filled with soot-gum ink. A few flourishes of the instrument produced his mark as proof of payment. The merchant picked up the receipt by its corner and blew on it as the glistening black markings soaked into the skin. Pausing once more to assess the
Ba’al’s
new passenger, he handed over the document.

Jonah nodded his thanks. “I’ll try to stay out of the way.”

Omer shook his head and watched the stranger amble to the door and disappear down the staircase.

Lll

Shem leaned on the newly repaired gunwale and watched the supply boat labor under the oars on its final approach to the ship. He sighed. The
Ba’al Hayam
was already shipping much more water than was safe, given her tender condition. She was scheduled to sail early the next morning when the spring tide was at its height. The crew was aboard and securing the cargo in the hold. Using a plumb line against a true vertical beam to check balance, he cheated the load to portside to offset the ship’s starboard list. He gritted his teeth at having to set sail before the ship had fully recovered from its battering less than two weeks ago. The iron-banded mast creaked ominously at the slightest rolling of the sea or nudging of the breeze. The resin gum sealing the basted seams of the sail’s leather reinforcement bands had not yet cured. And that cursed pitch to starboard drove him crazy. He frowned at the wavelets lapping against the prow, wondering how the injured vessel could possibly weather even a moderate squall in the open sea.

He glanced up again. The supply boat, now only a short distance away, began to maneuver its approach to the
Ba’al
. This would be the final load of provisions and last-minute instructions from Omer. It would also carry any passengers manifested for the trip. But this voyage would include no passengers, as Shem had made clear to Omer at their last meeting. So then, who was that sitting on the bow plank of the long boat?

He narrowed his eyes at the wispy white hair and drawn face of the man whose request for passage he had denied the night before. Even at this distance Shem could see Jonah’s whitened knuckles and sallow face obviously straining to fight off motion sickness.

“
Hoi!
 
Mind your hand!” The supply boat’s helmsman lurched with the tiller as the boat came alongside the ship. Jonah jerked his hand back just as the boat ground against the hull.

“Go on! You’re first.” The helmsman steadied the craft and jerked his head toward a rope ladder dangling from the deck high overhead. Shem leaned over the gunwale rail and watched as Jonah shifted on his seat.

“What are ya doin’? Grab the ladder or yer goin’ ta miss it!” The helmsman rolled his eyes and fought to slow the boat.

Jonah turned to see the rope ladder slip within reach. He grasped the nearest rung but took too long to stand up. The moving ladder pulled him off the seat and over the side of the boat. He dangled from the ladder, his feet kicking a froth in the water as he struggled to grab the wet hemp. At last he snagged the ladder with his other hand and hugged it to his chest.

Shem shook his head and spat into the sea.
Not a good start.

Jonah clawed his way up the ladder and tumbled over the gunwale onto the deck. He dragged himself to his feet and found himself face to face with Shem.

The captain stood with his arms folded across his chest and a scowl on his face. “What, by the gods, do you think you’re doing here?”

Jonah gasped for breath. “I-I booked passage.”

“With who?”

“Omer, the owner of the s-ship.” He held out the scrap of parchment with Omer’s mark.

Shem ignored it. “How did you know who the owner—?” He stopped in midsentence. Shem looked over his shoulder at Simon, who loitered by the tiller a few paces away. The helmsman dropped to a knee and began coiling a length of rope, avoiding the captain’s glare.

Shem turned his attention back to Jonah. He would deal with Simon later.

“Well, it appears you’ve gotten your wish to become a sailor. This is a working ship. There are no passengers. Only crew.”

Jonah nodded.

Shem pursed his lips. “Welcome to the
Ba’al
.”

Jonah froze. “What?”

“Your new home. The
Ba’al Hayam
. We just call her
Ba’al
.”

Jonah’s eyes flashed past the captain toward the prow. Carved into the wood above the station where the fresh water amphorae were lashed was a panoply of pagan gods and goddesses—patron deities representing the diversity of crewmembers manning the ship over the years.

“
Ba’al!
Oh, no—”

Lll

 
“He is ours. There is no return.”

“Yes, Mistress.”