When Jesus Wept

Chapter 6



David?” Martha’s calm voice was like still waters in my roaring ears. “David? Are you awake, my darling brother?” I squinted into the light as my sister smiled down at me. Pain stabbed through my head. My body ached everywhere.

“What … happened?” I stammered. The light streaming from the window was too bright, even though my eyes would barely open. “An accident?”

“A Greek Jew named Porthos brought you home,” she explained.

“Home? From where?” I struggled to sit up, but she pushed me back on my bed with one finger.

“From Jerusalem.”

“From Jerusalem? Why was I in Jerusalem?”

“You went to visit Judah. And his sister. Do you remember now?”

“No.” I searched my memory and could not recollect anything past breakfast with Martha.

“When? After breakfast?”

“It was two days ago, David.” She stroked my forehead with a cool cloth. My head felt three times its normal size, and one side of my mouth would not work properly.

“An accident?” My body hurt too much for this to be a small matter.

Behind Martha, a burly Greek in a turban spoke from the corner of the room. “You were beaten by the Roman soldiers, my friend.”

I blinked at him. “I don’t know you,” I said bluntly.

“I am Porthos, whom you helped in pursuit of a cutpurse when we entered Jerusalem. I chanced upon you unconscious in the street outside the home of your friend Judah ben Perez.”

Some glimmer returned. “I went to visit Judah. Yes?”

Martha nodded. She gently touched my cheek. “Yes. David, do you remember what happened?”

“No. I … something about … a thief … and this fellow Porthos. And then … climbing the Street of the Stairs to Judah’s house. But then … nothing.”

Martha glanced toward Porthos, imploring him to explain.

He moved nearer, pulling up a stool. “As a Roman contingent passed the house of your friend, a cart spilled its load and the ambassador’s horse threw him. He will live, but Judah and his family were arrested.”

“But that cannot be … Judah?” A row of spiny stitches stretching from the corner of my mouth toward my ear prickled my cautious fingers.

“Yes. I regret that when you tried to give testimony, you were beaten nearly to death.” Porthos patted my arm.

“And you. Helped me. Saved my life.”

The big man leaned back as though my comment was a wasp to be avoided. “No. Not me. I am not so courageous as you. I did not interfere with your beating. I saw the villains drag away your friend Judah and lead his family away. He fought like a lion. The women went meekly. And then, only after everyone dangerous had gone, I gathered you up and brought you home here to Bethany.”

Martha said, “I barely recognized you. Your face is badly swollen.”

I touched my cheek and winced. I managed to sit up. “What’s to be done?”

Martha and Porthos exchanged a glance.

“You must get well, brother,” Martha said in a matter-of-fact tone.

I argued, “I mean, what’s to be done for Judah? Innocent! For Jemima and their mother. Arrested unjustly!”

Porthos furrowed his brow. “Many on the street witnessed the accident. And it truly was … an accident. A few tried to speak up for Judah, but you see … look at yourself. Clubbed into silence. An example for others who may wish to set the record straight. Truth makes no difference to tyrants.”

“But surely I can go to the high priest. Give testimony to the Sanhedrin.”

Porthos shook his shaggy head. “It was not a matter for the Jewish council to deliberate and judge. It is a Roman matter. Your friend was tried and condemned the very same day. That’s all I know.”



I recovered quickly from my injuries and returned to my work.

Samson and his winery goats were a small legend in the world of the Roman Empire. My estate also sold enormous wheels of cheese produced from goat herds that grazed on the pastures. Samson’s pets had nothing to do with dairy production, yet, from the time I inherited the property, I devised a seal showing three goats on a wine vat. This was pressed into the wax that protected the cheese.

This seal and Samson’s goats were destined to safeguard more than the cheese.

Samson and I were in the barn where new barrels for the harvest were being made by my cooper, a young man of about twenty-five. My barrelmaker was a British slave named Patrick. From his youth he had been trained as a blacksmith and barrelmaker, tasked with building containers to hold provisions for the Roman army. His foot was crushed when a stack of barrels shifted during a rough sea voyage. To save his life the gangrenous leg had been amputated below the knee. Unable to march or work, Patrick was of no further use to Rome.

He had come to my vineyard five years earlier when old Samson recognized value in Patrick’s skill. Upon Samson’s advice I purchased Patrick for a few denarii at the slave auction in Caesarea Maritima. We brought him home in a wagon. Though Patrick knew few words in our language, Samson showed him an enormous stack of cured wood, the blacksmith forge, and tools for barrelmaking. The young cripple seemed pleased. Leaning on one crutch, he hobbled about the shed. He nodded and grinned his approval. He selected one lightweight, straight-grained piece of palm wood, hefted it in one arm, and said, “Not good. This not for wine.” And he tossed the palm plank toward his cot.

The morning after his arrival, I heard the blows of hammer on metal and smelled smoke from the forge. When Samson and his goats came to fetch me, we hurried to the workshop.

Patrick was already at work and walking.

Samson declared, “Sir, you got a bargain in this one. In the night the lad fashioned himself a wooden leg. Lined it with fleece for his stump and fastened it to his body by leather straps attached to his belt. I have the feeling he’ll be an asset to our winemaking, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”

Years had passed, and Patrick’s cleverness and skill were indeed assets. The quality of the wine depended much on the quality of the barrels. Patrick’s work was admirable. Our cooperage now had three apprentices under Patrick’s supervision.

He stood as tall as any strong man and worked as hard as two. He had modified and perfected his wooden leg until he walked with an almost imperceptible limp.

Patrick now spoke our language with almost no accent. He addressed me with the same affectation he had learned from Samson. “If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, it’s got to be all oak. Away with the palm. Though I prefer palm for my false leg, it plays the grapes false in the fermenting.”

Samson agreed. “Bitter, in my opinion, sir.”

“And also acacia wood. Acacia. No good, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Patrick added. “I say oak is the wood. Harvest in the winter … less sap. And—”

The clatter of shod horse hooves interrupted our discussion.

Samson moved toward the door of the barn and stood framed in the light. “Romans.” Samson’s goats gathered round his legs. He turned his face toward me. “Two soldiers, sir.”

At that news, Patrick retreated to the lean-to that was his living quarters. He drew the curtain across the door. I knew he feared his former masters with good reason. His apprentices left off their labor.

Moments passed and a Roman sergeant in leather body armor walked toward the shop. He demanded of Samson, “Where’s your master, old man? The woman at the house says he’s here.”

I stepped forward. “I am David ben Lazarus, master of this estate.”

The brute-faced Roman slapped his fist against his chest. “Hail, Caesar.”

“Shalom,” I replied, unwilling to respond in like manner.

“You are a friend of Judah ben Perez,” he demanded.

“I am.”

“You have been making inquiries, so we hear. Saying around Jerusalem things such as, ‘Where is Judah? What have they done with his mother and sister’ … and such as that.”

“And do you have news of my friend?”

I noticed that Samson and the goats had stepped into the shadows, where a stack of barrels leaned against the wall.

“News? Ha! Of a man accused of sedition? There will be no news … The tribune sent me to give you this warning.”

“And what is that?”

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “He sent me to tell you to shut up and quit asking the questions. For your own safety. A favor to you.”

I could not help but ask, “Why would a Roman tribune wish to warn a Judean grape grower?”

At this, the sergeant cracked a wide grin. “For the sake of them three milk goats.” He jerked his thumb toward Samson and the trio of animals around his legs.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow …”

“Tribune’s been a great lover of them cheeses of yours. He wants a wheel in return for his favor.”

I nodded at Samson. “Fetch the sergeant a wheel of the Three Goats, if you please.”

Samson hurried from the shop.

The sergeant was not finished. “Tribune says he never tasted better cheese as from them three milk goats there. Wondrous, he says. Dreams of it on campaign. Then he hears the very goats are not more than a few miles from where he is stationed. A miracle, he says. One wheel provided on every new moon will satisfy his appetite. But you are to quit asking the question about your friend. Consider them all dead and shut up about it, or there won’t be anything he can do to help you.”

Samson returned with the heavy, wax-sealed round of goat cheese. He placed it into the sergeant’s arms. The soldier examined the seal, then peered at the three goats nudging Samson’s legs.

“Aye. That’s it. These are the very milk goats, then? Best cheese in the empire.” He slapped his fist against the cheese. “Hail, Caesar!” The sergeant turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode away.

We were all silent, except the goats, who laughed and gently butted Samson’s knees.

“Well, then,” Samson said at last. “That’s that.”

Patrick emerged from behind his curtain. He was on crutches, and his half leg dangled. He shrugged and explained, “They would not want to take a lame man back into service.”

Patrick’s apprentices eyed him with surprise and returned to work.

I clapped Samson on the back. “We must never let on, eh? The three goats who grace the seal of our cheeses are neutered males you raised from kids and could not bear to slaughter.”

“Aye, sir. Wethers, every one. My dear boys never gave a drop of milk for cheese, sir. Nor will they. It would indeed be wondrous and a miracle of biblical proportion. That’s why they smile so.” He scratched their heads affectionately. “Our secret, eh, boys?”