When Jesus Wept

Chapter 21



The old cottage and still more ancient vineyard transformed dramatically, resurrected through the enthusiasm of Patrick, the energy of Carta, and the eager participation of Samson. The men divided their time between saving the dilapidated house and restoring the fields.

The cabin boasted only two rooms, separated by a wall containing the central fireplace and a space for cooking. I worked when I could spare time from my winery, and within two weeks the roof was sound, and the missing chinking in the walls repaired. Soon after, the chimney was repaired and the flue was drawing properly.

Inside two more weeks, Patrick and Carta had constructed a sturdy table and chairs for the front room. They added a clothes chest and a bed with a wooden frame and rope mattress for the back.

Patrick hung oiled-leather coverings over the two openings that served as windows. He also installed a new front door. It was strapped by leather hinges to a pole that rotated in sockets in lintel and floor. Thereafter he swept the paving stones and declared himself satisfied with the house.

He set to work repairing the water supply by cleaning the well and cistern.

While I had only visited occasionally, supplying such tools, lumber, and stone as the job required, I gave Samson leave to see to the property’s vineyard.

One afternoon I rode over to inspect the progress. The rows in between the vines had been shorn of weeds. The trellis work had been repaired. Beside a cistern near the vines was a heap of debris, shoveled from its depths. Carta was dumping yet another bucket of dirt clods before dropping the pail back into the opening by its rope.

Samson greeted me as I arrived. He waved a cutting and summoned me to examine it. “See here, sir. If I may say so, there’s life in this old vine yet.” He split a cane with his knife and showed me a tiny fragment of green at its core. “Waiting, as it were,” he said. “Dormant-like. It’s as if it was waiting to be watered by its true master. Not give away its secrets to one as won’t appreciate it, if you take my meaning.”

I summoned Carta to join us. “I understand completely,” I said, squinting at the hillside and the angle of the sun and digging in the soil with the toe of my sandal. “Afternoon sun. Limestone substrate. Good drainage. Fallow these many years. What you’re saying is that this planting, brought back to production, may rival Faithful Vineyard for the quality of its produce. Not sure how I feel about that. What if Patrick sells his crop to a rival winemaker? What if he knows all our secrets and outdoes us? And you, my faithful winemaker, helping him surpass me?”

Samson looked stricken. “Sir, he never would. I mean, if I may say so, he never …”

I smiled to show I was teasing, then clapped him on the shoulder. “You and I will have to make him such a fine offer for his crop that he is never tempted, eh?”

Carta chuckled to see the old man’s chagrin at being caught by a joke.

My horse, tethered beside Pleasant the donkey to a venerable, thick-trunked vine, tossed up her head and whinnied.

Around the hill, striding rapidly into view with a no-nonsense manner, came a file of Roman soldiers, together with their decurion.

I was suddenly apprehensive, but not for myself. “Either they’re looking for rebels or they’re after—”

“Patrick,” Samson muttered.

I turned in place, trying to appear unconcerned as the approaching Roman officer watched my every move. Barely moving my lips I said, “Where is he? In the cottage?”

Samson shook his head.

“God be praised, then. He’s not here. We’ll have a chance to warn him.”

Samson hung his head. “No, we won’t.”

Now I looked around openly. “Where is he, then?”

Samson gestured toward a ladder’s upright posts jutting out of the cistern. “He’s plastering the walls.”

I took in the situation. “Keep quiet and let me deal with this,” I urged.

Then the squad of soldiers arrived and stamped to a halt.

The decurion, a swarthy man with a twice-broken nose and a cast to his left eye, greeted me. “You are David ben Lazarus, owner of this property?”

“I am.”

“You have a slave named Patrick who has some skill with metal work? And we hear he worked out a way to turn back a plague from your vineyards. Clever fellow, we hear. Where is this slave?”

“He’s now a free man,” I replied. “No concern of yours.” I felt myself begin to sweat.

The officer tipped the front of his helmet back on his low forehead and brought his right eye to bear on my face while his left wandered over the vineyard. He looked surprisingly pleased at my answer. “See, it’s this way. Rome can requisition any freeman or any slave for the good of the empire. This Patrick is needed for the good of the empire’s forges. But I don’t have to explain anything to you. Where is he?”

“I haven’t seen him,” I replied cautiously.

“He has been seen coming to this location every day this week.”

Who among my neighbors was spying on me for Rome?

I shrugged and said nothing further.

“Search the house,” ordered the decurion. Five of the ten men surrounded the cottage to guard against escape, and the other five entered with short swords drawn.

The officer regarded me critically. “You wouldn’t be trying to hide him from me, would you?”

“I said, I haven’t seen him. Listen, Decurion, this is a mistake, and Centurion Marcus Longinus won’t like it.”

“Oh, ho,” the Roman chortled. “Longinus, is it? Not a good time to use that name. He’s in bad odor with the higher-ups, is Longinus. Stripped of rank and sent off to the wilds of Galilee to chase bandits, I hear. No, preaching to me of Longinus won’t help you here.”

The troopers emerged from the cottage. How long could it take to search a two-room cabin?

“No sign of him, sir,” the leader of the squad reported.

I felt myself holding my breath. A few more minutes and they would march away. After dark we could rescue Patrick and send him away … where? To my sister’s estate in the Galil, perhaps. Somewhere until this could be straightened out.

“Look, Decurion, why don’t I pay the bounty for you to hire a substitute?”

The Roman scratched the stubble on his chin and squinted at me with his left eye. “Not up to me. I’ve got my orders.”

Leaning close enough to the decurion’s powerful odor almost gagged me, but I said in a confidential tone, “Would it be better if I paid the bounty directly to you, Decurion? Cleaner and quicker that way?”

The Roman swayed, clearly tempted by the offer. I jingled my money pouch to indicate my willingness to shell out a bribe.

But the officer shook his head. “New chief centurion is a right unpleasant chap. Had the skin flogged off one of my mates for having a spot of rust on his armor at inspection.” He looked regretful but determined. “Nope, can’t chance it. I’ve got my orders. ‘Bring in Patrick the smith,’ and that’s what I aim to do.”

“Just not here and not now,” I returned, trying to sound agreeable. “Look, it’s a warm day. Why don’t you and your men come inside for a moment? I have nothing to offer you but water, but you can have that before you march …”

As soon as the word was out of my mouth, I saw my error, but it was too late. First one of the decurion’s eyes, and then the other pivoted from well to cistern, taking in the ladder rails protruding above the rim.

Before I could blink, he whipped out his sword and held the point to my throat. “Search the cistern, men,” he commanded.

As they marched Patrick away, a prisoner surrounded by guards, the decurion was laughing. “Don’t need a cell for this one,” he chortled. “Take away his peg at night, and he’s good as pinned. Can’t run far, now, can he?”

“Patrick,” I called after him, “don’t worry. I’ll get this straightened out. I’ll tell Adrianna your wedding is just postponed for a bit.”

“Postponed is right,” the decurion mocked. “I hear the legion’s going campaigning against the Arabs next week. Maybe he can wave good-bye to his sweetheart as he goes away.”



I rode north toward Galilee, leaving a household of mourners behind in Bethany. It was almost like death. Patrick was taken before the completion of the house and the wedding. All felt the ultimate loss for Samson, Delilah, and Adrianna.

My actions were tempered by the still vivid memory of Porthos’s death. I was convinced there was no resisting our oppressors by force. If Patrick was to be saved, the answer lay with those we knew in places of influence.

I could not think of anyone but Marcus Longinus. The centurion was now suspect and assigned to duty far from Jerusalem because of his favorable sympathies toward Jesus. Even so, he was still honored and well respected among the rank and file of the legionaries.

His post in Capernaum was a journey of many days. When I arrived, I was aware Patrick could already be on the way to a military camp on the border of Parthia.

It was almost sunset, the beginning of Sabbath, when I arrived at the military barracks of legionaries lead by Marcus Longinus.

The Galilee outpost was established at the caravansary occupying the crossroads of the caravan route. Westward lay the port city of Caesarea Maritima, built by Herod the Great to honor Augustus Caesar.

Two sentries at the gate stopped me from riding in. “Halt!”

Remembering to dismount before I addressed them, I stepped off my mare.

“What’s your business?” demanded a burly Syrian mercenary.

“I have traveled far to speak with Marcus Longinus, your commander.”

The two put their heads together. “Our centurion … is a friend to these Jews,” one muttered.

The Syrian demanded, “What’s your name, then?”

“David ben Lazarus.”

While the Syrian barred my way, the other soldier opened the pedestrian gate and hurried away. Through the portal I glimpsed a half dozen sweaty, unsaddled horses tied at the rail. I heard the clank of hammer upon hot iron coming from the blacksmith shop.

The smell of roasting pork and baking bread was in the air as the cooks prepared supper for the company. Off-duty soldiers roared and laughed as they played dice. Another honed his short sword and shouted at the stable boys carrying fodder for the livestock.

Minutes passed before Marcus emerged and tersely ordered the sentries to take my horse into the stable to be fed and watered. Marcus and I remained outside the gate. Only when they retreated did Marcus address me.

“Peace be with you,” I said.

“And also with you,” he answered with a question in his eyes. “Friend, is it well with you? With your … family?”

We walked away from the caravansary before I answered. To the west the deep orange ball of the sun melted on the far horizon. Banners of salmon and pink streaked the sky.

“I’ve been riding for days to reach you.”

“Your Sabbath has begun. Shabbat Shalom.”

“Shabbat Shalom.”

“Mary? Is she well?”

“She is well.”

“And Carta?”

“He has become a member of our family.”

His mouth curved in a tight smile of relief. “Why have you come?”

“I need your help … my friend.”

“You have it, if I am able to give it.”

“The officers from the Jerusalem garrison have conscripted Patrick of Verulamium. He belonged to Rome for twelve years. A blacksmith and a barrelmaker. He lost his leg in service and was put on the block. Once he was my slave, as I bought him at auction from the army. He is very useful to me.”

“You freed him?”

“He earned his freedom by helping save my vines from the locusts. He is soon to be married.”

“You say you purchased him, yet you set him free.”

“A good man. A skilled fellow, Patrick. A Briton as you are.”

Marcus rubbed his cheek. “Ah, Lazarus. What you don’t know … Patrick was safe from conscription as long as you bought and paid for him. As long as he belonged to you, they could not conscript him … at least not without paying you his value.”

“His value, slave or free, is incalculable to my business.”

“Surely his fame as a clever fellow got back to the officers in Jerusalem. Herod Antipas and Pilate no doubt asked, how is it that the vineyards of the estate of Lazarus were saved and not the estates of Herod and the sympathizers of Rome?”

“Well, Patrick’s gone. They took him by force, and we were helpless to stop them.”

Marcus pondered for a long moment as a supper bell clanged. “I know your laws about the Sabbath. You can’t enter the dwelling place of a Gentile … my men are eating now.”

“I cannot eat with you.”

“But will you violate your laws to save a life?”

“My heart knows what is right.”

“I have learned the Lord’s teaching. You people accuse him and condemn Jesus for healing on Shabbat. Yet you will pull an ox from a ditch on Shabbat. Now, to save a one-legged blacksmith, will you come with me?”

There was no longer any question. “I came for that purpose.” I followed Marcus through the gate of the outpost. The courtyard was now deserted. I heard the rowdy laughter of men eating in a dining hall to our right. To the left, the clank of hammer on iron continued in the blacksmith shop.

Marcus led me toward the forge. And there, bent and sweating over the red-hot iron, Patrick labored on. Sparks flew with every hammer blow. He did not look up. I saw the fresh bloody brand of a military slave with the number of Marcus’s cohort burned on Patrick’s forearm.

I stopped midstride as Marcus stepped aside. He addressed Patrick in the language of Britannia.

Patrick did not reply.

Marcus took my arm and pulled me forward into the light of the fire. “He has not spoken one word since he came three days ago. He barely eats. Speak to him,” Marcus instructed me.

I said quietly, “Patrick?”

At the sound of my voice, he paused, still staring at the yellow glow of the iron. He did not look up. His eyes brimmed.

Tears spilled over and hissed on the metal as they fell. “I am dreaming,” he whispered as he wept. “I hear the voice of my brother.” His shoulders shook with silent sobs.

“Patrick!” I was at his side in two steps. The heat of the forge was on my face. “Look up! Not a dream!”

He cried out and flung the hammer away. Standing erect, he wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my neck. “It’s you! You came for me! My brother! My father!”

I wept with him. “My brother. My son.”

“What’s to be done? They’ll never let me go!”

Marcus observed our reunion in silence for a time.

“How is my darling girl?”

“Adrianna weeps for you, her only love. Her hopes are smashed. Her heart broken.”

At this news, Patrick could not control his grief. “Poor darling girl. Poor Adrianna. Better I never gave her hope!”

“Samson and Delilah try to comfort her, but they love you so. Like their own son. Delilah’s tears salt our bread with sorrow.”

“I am lost! All is lost! What is to be done?”

Marcus cleared his throat. “If you were the slave of the House of Lazarus, you could not be conscripted unless your master was paid fair value for a slave.”

Patrick groped for a stool and sank down. He buried his sooty face in his hands. “It was all false! False! There is no freedom within the reach of Rome.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. He commanded, “Be a man. Stop sniveling. Look at him! David ben Lazarus! How can you call this creature worth his salt? Such a weakling is no good to Rome here in the frontier!”

I protested. “But … but … Patrick is …”

Marcus growled, “A worthless weakling, I say! One legged. Mostly mute! He is worse than a woman!” He stepped forward, raising his hand as if to strike Patrick. “What good are you to Rome?”

Patrick looked at the heap of horseshoes he had forged. He blinked at Marcus in astonishment. “Sir …”

Marcus shouted, “Why did you lie to the officers? Why did you tell them you were a free man?”

Patrick tried to speak. “But, sir, I am …”

“Shut up, weakling! Liar! Your master has come for payment from us … or to claim you.” Marcus turned his fury on me. His voice carried across the courtyard. The clamor of soldiers in the dining hall fell silent. “All right, Jew. So! You identified him. This is the man. One leg! Ha! They send the rejects to me and expect me to manage! But you say he is your slave and has value to your estate. What then is the price for him?”

I could hardly think what price I could ever place on Patrick. “I … I … he is my barrelmaker and I …”

Marcus bellowed. “Thirty pieces of silver? You demand the full price of a healthy slave? You must be mad! What use is he to Rome? You think I could justify paying such a price? What would my officers say if I showed them the accounts of this post and then pointed to a cripple and said, ‘For this one-legged slave I was required by law to pay his master …’ They would take it out of my hide!”

At last light dawned. I fully entered the charade. “I will not take one denarius less! Thirty pieces of silver or I will appeal to the judges. Rome has stolen my slave and—”

Marcus roared back. “Take him! Take the sniveling creature!”

“I will!” I shouted.

Marcus lowered his voice. His expression softened. “Patrick, your life belongs to David ben Lazarus. There is safety in that. Do you understand?”

Patrick’s chin jerked down once. His eyes were wide. He spoke in the tongue of his homeland. I guessed he was thanking Marcus.

Marcus took charge. “All right, then. Be of good courage. It’s settled. I will prepare papers of release and put my seal on it while you saddle your horse and mine. It’s Sabbath … your day of rest, but for the sake of Patrick, do not rest. Ride through the night. Ride like the wind. The fresh brand of a conscript slave is a danger to you. Blot it out. If you’re stopped, the soldiers on patrol will likely be unable to read the words on my document of transfer. But show them my seal. I will come to Bethany to fetch back my horse. See you take care of him. Now hurry!” He pivoted on his heel and strode out of the forge.

“Come, Patrick. Let’s go. Adrianna is waiting.”

Patrick shook his head slowly from side to side. “Something to do first.” He took the tongs and lifted up the red hot iron of the half-formed shoe. His eyes fixed on the coals of the forge for an instant. Then he moved his arm near to the fierce heat. In a single stroke, he pressed his arm onto the molten metal. Flesh hissed and seared, burning away the mark of slavery. Patrick made a low growling in his agony, then plunged his arm into a bucket of cold water.

He gasped. “Finished. Now. Home.”