When Jesus Wept - By Bodie Page 0,19
with more force than needed. “They are dead.”
“I don’t believe it,” I challenged.
Longinus frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Ben Lazarus, do you have any other family?”
The remark caught me off guard. “Only my sisters … why?”
“Because it is better for you … and for them … to believe what I say about the House of Perez. Let it alone.”
“Is that a threat?”
The officer shrugged. “Call it a warning.” Longinus seized the jug and refilled his cup, offered me another, and when I refused, emptied his in a single, long swallow. He met my eyes squarely. “I have nothing against you, ben Lazarus. In a different time and place we might have been friends. But hear me: I had nothing to do with the fate of Judah ben Perez or his mother or his sister. But neither can I do anything to aid them. Nor can you. All you will accomplish is to bring the wrath of Rome down on your head, and Jove help you if that happens, for even your god with the unutterable name won’t be able to.”
Emotion swelled in my chest, threatening to choke me. “Judah’s my friend, Centurion! Almost a brother. And he’s innocent.”
Longinus clenched his jaw, then raised his square chin until our eyes locked again. “I know that,” he admitted. “And I admire you for your loyalty and courage. But leave it alone, for now. If there comes a time when anything … anything at all … can be done for them, I give you my solemn oath I will attempt it, but until then, let it go. For Mary’s sake, you understand? Will you agree?”
Numbly I nodded, then left without speaking again.
I met with Joseph of Arimathea, the elder, a wine exporter, with ships sailing from Joppa. He had been a great friend of my father and had lived in Rome for a time. He became the chief exporter of Judean goods to the Roman colony in Britannia. Trade with the Gentiles had made him very wealthy.
Joseph had worked closely with Judah ben Perez and was well connected throughout the Roman Empire. With Judah gone now, Joseph stepped in to help those of us who did not have the connections needed to sell our produce. He was in his midfifties and from the tribe of Levi. Though his lineage qualified him for priestly duties, an accident in his youth had left him maimed and ritually unable to serve at the Temple. He wore a patch over his left eye and was missing two fingers on his left hand. He had focused his intelligence on business. His contacts with Gentile merchants gave him the ability to conduct his affairs without suspicion or interference from the Roman government.
Today’s meeting was intended to ask Joseph’s advice on pricing and marketing. We met in the storage caverns hacked out by my grandfather beneath the limestone hills.
The air at the surface sweltered with the midday sun, and I felt sweat trickling between my shoulders. But once inside the first bend in the tunnel leading downward, the atmosphere was noticeably cooler.
“Instant relief,” Joseph remarked with admiration, “and the same all year round.” He had visited my underground warehouse before and never failed to comment on how perfect it was for storing wine.
Samson stepped forward from the shadows to greet us. His wizened face and bent form suggested a barrel stave brought to life. “Always the same, if I may say so, your worship. It may boil or freeze out there,” he jerked his head upward, “but the life of the vine rests in comfort beneath.”
“Ah, Samson, still here I see, and as poetic as ever. Another year, another vintage, but like fine wine, you just get better with time.”
My vintner beamed his gap-toothed smile under Joseph’s praise. “Your pardon, sir,” he corrected, “but the best wines don’t really get better, they just get … different. A great vintage possesses fine qualities throughout its life but chooses to reveal them gradually as time passes.”
“Samson has no need to prove his value any more than he has already,” I said. “However, as I think you’ll see, he’s still revealing new abilities.”
“Just a suggestion I made,” the steward demurred. “Really the master’s doing. This way, gentlemen, if you please. This way.”
Leading us onward with a crablike, sideways shuffle, Samson directed our course past a series of side tunnels, each devoted to some aspect of my craft. In one rested the great fermenting casks.
In another branch, dimly seen by the light of a