When Jesus Wept - By Bodie Page 0,14
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