|
|
|
|
 |
Pillar
of Fire
Jerusalem
Six hundred and one years before the birth of the Anointed One
CHAPTER 1 Firemaster was Aaron’s birthright. He was the eldest son of Jonathan the blacksmith and it was his chore to set the morning fire in the freshly bricked and mortared furnace that was to be the lifeblood of his father’s newly built smithy. The smelting oven stood as high as a mule’s head. Narrow air vents peppered the walls. A wide chimney vented more air than three men could pump with bellows. And a thick metal door sealed in more heat than ten open hearths could muster on this sultry August morning. Only blacksmiths from Sidon knew the mysteries of steelmaking, and Aaron with his father and brother had worked for years among Phoenician smiths. They were members of Sidon’s artisan guild and were sworn to keep the secret of the smelting oven from Jews in this part of the world. Aaron filled a clay mold with iron ingots, placed it among the white-hot coals and latched the door to let the ore melt while he tended to other chores. There was wood to chop, a row of coal bins to fill and a grinding stone to repair. He filled the coal bins first while listening for the sounds of melting ore coming from the smelter. The iron was supposed to sputter like Mama’s lamb stew, cracking now and again as it turned to a thick soup. Aaron picked up the axe and started chopping on a piece of wood when a loud blast shook the chimney and rattled the rafters. He set the wood aside, walked a quick circle around the oven, and checked for cracks in the new bricks. None had split; the mortar held and the chimney hadn’t come loose. His smithing apron was hanging on its peg by the coal bins. If Papa were here, he’d insist that Aaron put it on to protect him from the heat, but there was no time to worry about what Papa would have him do. The smelting oven needed his tending, now! Aaron swung open the thick metal door. The smelting mold had cracked; red-hot ore spilled out the sides and splattered onto the oven floor. A bad mold. The air pockets hadn’t been properly pressed out of the clay before it was fired and the mold had burst wide open in the heat. Aaron had purchased the mold from the least expensive potter in the city and now, despite the savings, they had lost a full day of smelting. He reached the tongs into the oven to save the ore when another blast splintered what was left of the clay mold. A large fragment hit him in the belly, tearing through his tunic and charring his flesh. He slapped at the smoldering cloth as another blast shot a slug of clay into his right temple, slicing a gash three fingers wide in the side of his head. He went to the ground, his vision blurred and his mind numb to the molten ore that poured from the oven and began to pool at his feet. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, and all he was able to do before he fell unconscious was offer a silent prayer. God of Israel, save me.
In the months following the accident, Jonathan, Aaron’s father, came to work alone every morning. Not a single strand of gray showed on his forty-year-old head of black hair, though the memory of Aaron’s accident gave him reason for his age to show. He marched up High Street at a pace to exhaust men half his age. Walking any slower was too painful. It allowed far too much time to ponder his son’s plight. Jonathan had moved his family to Jerusalem after the war with Babylon, thinking to make a decent living in a city that had lost all its blacksmiths. What he hadn’t planned on was doing it without the help of his eldest son. Jonathan paused for a moment at the clay yards of Josiah the potter. High stone walls surrounded the property and the firing yard within stood silent in the early morning. The potter never required his servants to start work before sunrise. If Jonathan had only purchased the man’s expensive clay molds from the beginning, none of this would have happened. Josiah was the city’s finest potter. He mixed white sand into his clay and cured his pottery before selling it. A mold from Josiah’s firing yard would never have split open in the smelting oven and knocked Aaron senseless. But Jonathan was new in the city, and with his blacksmithing business struggling, he could hardly afford the potter’s prices. Beyond the pottery yard stood the entrance to the now abandoned blacksmithing district. Jonathan lowered his head as he approached, keeping his gaze on the cobblestones and stealing glances up at the shops lining his way. His own pain was deep enough; he didn’t need to stare at the misfortune of others. The men who once owned these shops were gone now, all of them taken captive after the war with Babylon. Broken chimney flues rose above the rooftops like sentries guarding these silent grounds where bellows, anvils, and grinding stones once echoed the cry of commerce. Hardly anything remained of the first shop on the corner. Not one stone remained of the north wall; the chimney was leveled and the hearth wrecked beyond repair. Jonathan would have offered a prayer for the unknown blacksmith; but he offered so few prayers, it was best not to stir heaven to a remembrance of him. The door of the shop across the street whined on its hinges, surrendering to the wind like a white flag raised in defeat. Jonathan peered into the darkness beyond the door. The roof had fallen in, but all you’d need here were a few beams, some packed clay, and a hearty dose of ambition. The walls looked sturdy and when Jonathan tugged on the door frame it didn’t budge, not even the width of a barleycorn. But this shop was destined to remain in disrepair, along with all the other shops in the war-torn district, until other smiths came to Jerusalem and laid claim to property just as Jonathan had with the last shop on the street, the one at the top of the hill. He marched toward it. The precisely rounded chimney flues he’d masoned last month rose from the clay roof like twin spires on a temple shrine, calling him to kindle a fire and make a smithing noise inside. Of all the shops in the district, he’d chosen to rebuild this one. The front door smelled of fresh olive wood cut with his axe and locked with a bright brass latch forged by his own hand. There were new ovens inside and three storage bins for iron ore, copper, and wood. The only thing lacking was a pot of money left on the doorstep by an angel from heaven. With that kind of luck, Jonathan would have no trouble making this shop his shop. The Elders of the Jews hadn’t lowered their asking price in three months, and it seemed he’d pay borrower’s fees forever. In Sidon he’d owned his own property and there was always plenty of work for a blacksmith with the reputable distinction of steelmaker. But here, among the Jews at Jerusalem, he might never raise enough to purchase the property. He was the first smith to arrive after the war and no one could afford his ironwork—far less his steelmaking. Jonathan crossed to the ovens and set three logs over a pile of kindling. He struck the flint over the wood, but stopped when he saw the marks on the floor. The flickering light danced over the dark blemish at the foot of the oven. He had to remove Aaron’s bloodstains; he would never be able to buy this shop from the Elders if they became aware of what happened—especially concerning Aaron’s rescue. If that story got out, he’d be accused of believing in miracles like the Rekhabites, and his business could ill afford such slander. Jonathan took out a chisel and rasped it over the tile, but his scraping didn’t remove the blood and he cursed the day it was spilt. Foolish boy! How did Aaron allow this to happen? If only he’d been more careful, he wouldn’t be suffering the scars of his terrible accident, and Jonathan wouldn’t have to live in fear of the Elders finding out how he was saved. Footsteps sounded at the door. “Who’s there?” Jonathan stood over the bloodstains. “Is that you, Aaron?” “Fine morning to you, blacksmith.” It was neither of his eldest sons, Aaron or Daniel, who darkened the doorway, but a gaunt man with flowing black robes, an even blacker turban tied with a white sash, and a grating voice that seared itself into Jonathan’s mind—not because the words resonated from deep in the stranger’s throat or because they fell from his mouth in labored breaths, but because a wretched feeling swelled in Jonathan’s chest upon hearing the man speak. When the stranger stepped closer, moving the shadows from his face, Jonathan knew him immediately. He usually reserved his reverence for holy men, but the Chief Elder’s visit bordered on holiness and he bowed. Before him stood Zadock, the noblest prince in the city, a man who sat in judgment with the Elders of the Jews and to whom fell the final word on every point of law, including the sale of this property. Why was Zadock here? It was not an Elder’s task to collect rent. Locks of gray hair poked out from under the rim of the man’s turban. “How is Jerusalem’s newest smith?” Jonathan held the chisel behind his back. “I’m the only smith, sir.” “So you are.” Zadock turned his gaze to the smelting oven. “I see you’ve built your invention.” “I learned the steel trade in Sidon.” “Living among Phoenician blacksmiths has served you well.” Zadock’s eyes were dark and impossible to read. “Tell me of your steelmaking skills.” “I can smelt anything you need, sir. Name the work and I’ll see that it’s done to your liking.” Zadock played with the oven door. It creaked open and shut on three metal hinges inlaid into limestone brick with alabaster mortar. “A peculiar piece of work.” “The door holds in the heat.” “I suppose it prevents accidents as well.” “I’ve built the oven to be safe,” Jonathan said slowly. Zadock trained his gaze on Jonathan. “I understand smithing can be perilous work.” “It has its risks.” “That’s what I’m here to discuss with you.” “The dangers of smithing?” “Risks.” Zadock didn’t flinch when he spoke, didn’t even blink. “We have something in mind for you.” Jonathan looked past Zadock into the dark, predawn street to see who accompanied him. But he was alone, and since they had just met this morning for the first time, Jonathan had no way of knowing who we included. “What sort of risks, sir?” “It’s smithing work.” Zadock leaned in close and Jonathan could smell the thick aroma of frankincense on his robe. “We hire only the finest artisans.” “You’ll like my steel.” “I’m sure I will.” Zadock shut the oven door. “You’ll need your own shop. A respectable steelmaker like yourself shouldn’t have to rent.” He swept his arms over the expanse of the smithy. “See me in council chambers the first of next week with an offer for this, this . . .” The sleeves of his robe flapped about like a raven’s wings. “This place.” Jonathan took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. The Chief Elder apparently didn’t know about Aaron’s accident. Zadock strode to the door but glanced back before going into the street. “By the way, my condolences to your son. It’s a miracle he survived.” Miracle? That was the language of Rekhabites. Jonathan dropped his chisel and it clanged on the bloodied tiles until he silenced it with his foot. “It was luck, sir,” Jonathan said. Zadock flicked away the ash that had settled onto his robe. “You’re wise, blacksmith. Very wise.” A subtle smile formed across his face. It was a smile that said Jonathan had passed his first test. “No reason to grant God credit for something he didn’t earn.” Zadock spun around and went into the street, his flowing black robes dancing about his ankles. Jonathan followed the Chief Elder out the door to offer a parting word of thanks, but he was gone, vanished into the thick air of the alley running alongside the shop. He leaned against the doorpost, his head turned toward heaven. Thank you, God, but no thanks. He didn’t need any divine luck to make this property his property. He could do without heaven sending an angel with a pot of money to leave on his doorstep. He’d found his own angel.
Yaush, military governor of Fort Lakhish, stood outside the main gate in his military dress uniform to see to the delivery of wine. He usually let the quartermaster deal with shipments, but with Laban, the new captain of the guard, expected this afternoon, he left nothing to chance. Yaush had new silver buttons sewn onto his tunic and new cloth sewn into the four stripes decorating his shoulders. His brass helmet was polished bright and a red plume dyed from the tail feathers of a peacock sprouted out the top. He had his sword sharpened on the fort’s grinding wheel and he had purchased a new leather kilt that was delivered only last evening. Fort Lakhish stood on the summit of Mount Jershon overlooking the southern leg of the trade route. Nearly two miles of winding switchbacks led from the valley floor to the main gate. Lakhish’s impregnable double walls were built of solid limestone, each block ten cubits wide and weighing more than four oxen could rope-drag to the summit. There were towers at each turn in the wall, including the northeast jog built on the edge of a steep canyon where no sane invader dared attack. The military spared no expense on the construction of their most important fortress. The watchtowers stood high enough to see into the next valley, and the signal station was the largest ever constructed by the Hebrews. The stone platform was stocked with dry timber ready to light and send a signal fire twenty-five miles north to Jerusalem. Yaush scanned the outside walls of Lakhish. The fort was in good repair. There were no weak stones in the wall, the supply bins were well stocked, and the wells provided plenty of drinking water. Though to be honest, his men quenched more thirst down at the inn than they ever did from the well. And Yaush agreed with his men’s tastes. Uriah the Innkeeper knew the secret to making sweet wines, fresh from the vine. So fine that Yaush ordered plenty for Captain Laban’s inspection of Fort Lakhish. Uriah steered his mule cart around the last bend and climbed to the gates. “Good afternoon, Governor.” “Is it all here?” Yaush walked to the sideboard and peered into the cart. “Forty bottles of my newest wine.” Uriah reined his mule to a stop. He was a thirty-one-year-old man who didn’t look a day over eighteen. He had a thin but strong build with brown eyes, rose-red cheeks, and a smile that won over the heart of every customer who frequented his inn. He, with his wife and three children, lived with Uriah’s father in a small home behind their inn. He was a good citizen and a fine father despite rumors that he had religious leanings that were not in harmony with those of the priests. The Rekhabites called Uriah a prophet. But Yaush didn’t worry about the reports. He was old enough to remember living among the prophets of years gone by, and if he weren’t the governor of southern Judah, he would have a mind to entertain some of Uriah’s religious zeal. “Excellent, son.” Yaush slapped the sideboard of Uriah’s cart. “That’s exactly what Captain Laban will need to quench his thirst after the ride from Jerusalem.” “Laban’s coming here?” Uriah spoke quickly, his brown eyes darting about and his broad smile fading. “Do you know the man?” “I’ve heard things.” “Laban is a clever soldier.” Yaush tucked the ends of his tunic under his kilt and straightened the short sleeves over his upper arm. “He’s only been captain of the guard for three months, and from what I hear, he’s made some excellent changes at the other outposts along the trade route.” “I would agree that he’s a clever soldier, but not a wise Jew.” “What do you mean, son?” Uriah started the mule toward the gate. “I’ll deliver the wine to the quartermaster and be on my way.” Yaush took him by the arm. “Tell me what you know about the man.” “Why not ask Captain Laban himself?” Uriah pointed toward the fort’s approach, where a chariot and a company of riders were making their way up the winding trail. Two black stallions led the two-wheeled vehicle, their sleek coats glistening in the afternoon sun. The driver cracked a whip and steered them around the sharp turns and up to the gate. When they came to a stop, Laban stepped out and gazed over the valley below. Yaush took a bottle of wine from Uriah’s cart, pulled the cork and handed it to Laban. “Welcome to Lakhish, sir.” Laban took a long drink. “It lacks bite, but it has a good flavor.” He passed his tongue over his lips. “Where did you get this, Governor?” “I make the wines, sir.” Uriah stepped from behind the front board. “Down in the village.” “Qiryat Ye’arim, a quaint little place.” Laban glanced north to the small town. “You make your home down there, do you?” “My inn is that large building on the main road.” Laban stared over the lip of the bottle. “Uriah, isn’t it?” “Yes, sir.” “I’ve heard of you.” Laban turned the bottle in his hand and smiled as he swirled the wine. “How do you make this so sweet?” “Every family has its secrets, Captain.” “They do, do they?” Laban’s smile disappeared beneath the thin line of his beard. “Men who rise to power keep many secrets.” Laban threw the wine bottle down the hillside and it broke on the rocks below. “What do you know about my family?” Yaush said, “Don’t mind Uriah, he’s just a local innkeeper.” “He better not be one of those Rekhabites.” “Oh no, sir. Uriah’s not one of them.” Yaush got another bottle of wine, pulled the cork and handed it to Laban. “He’s a good fellow.” Laban pushed Yaush aside and turned the full force of his gaze onto Uriah. “Tell me what you know!” Uriah held his ground, the end of his beardless chin brushing the captain’s shoulder. “Thus saith the Lord, put away the evil of your doings.” Uriah’s eyes took on a certain light and Yaush looked around to see if the sun had come out from behind a cloud. It hadn’t. Uriah was standing in full daylight, but his youthful face appeared brighter than before. He said, “It is written in the proverbs that treasures of wickedness profit nothing, but righteousness delivereth from death.” “What do you know about my treasures?” Laban took a step back, his calf rubbing against the winecart’s sideboard. His glance flitted from Uriah, then to Yaush and back to Uriah. “No, don’t answer that.” He shook the wooden planks in the cart, cracking wine bottles and spilling the red liquid between the floorboards. “Take your wine and your foolish faith back to your inn.” He stepped into his chariot and the driver whisked him through the gate, the wheels raising a cloud of dust. Yaush stood with hands on his hips and watched the chariot disappear past the gatekeeper. “This isn’t going to be an easy inspection.” “It’s Laban’s treasures that upset him.” Uriah stood next to Yaush. “Why do you say that, boy?” “I sense he fears them.” “I didn’t think Laban feared anything.” “He will learn to fear the treasures of his wickedness.” Uriah turned his mule cart around and started toward Qiryat Ye’arim.
|
|
 |
 |
