Steven Savile - Silver

Eleazar took the silver coins from Menahem and emptied them into the crucible and fed them to the fire. It didn’t take long for the metal to begin to fuse together. Eleazar removed it from the fire, allowing it to cool slightly, turning his wrist so that he could better see the lump of metal the coins had become before replacing it. This time he left it there until molten, then took the crucible from the flame and emptied the swirling silver liquid into the form. The metal began to solidify immediately, swelling to fill the bar-shaped cavity hollowed out in the sand. As it cooled it lost its luster.

Menahem lost all concept of time as he watched his brother take the silver bar with tongs and beat the metal flat, turning it over and over, each hammer blow shaping it a little more. Sweat dripped from every inch of his brother’s skin. The veins stood out angrily against his muscles. He didn’t stop for a moment, not even to wipe the stinging sweat from his eyes. He returned the silver to the fire, heating the metal until it began to soften and lose its shape, then moving quickly laid it flat on the altar. He took up the hammer and beat it towards its final form. Again and again he turned the silver, beating first on one side and then on the other, flattening it and putting an edge on the blade until even to Menahem’s unskilled eye it began to resemble the dagger it would become.

“As silver is melted in the middle of the furnace, so shall you be melted in the middle thereof; and you shall know that I, the Lord, have poured out my fury on you,” Menahem breathed, the words of Ezekiel’s ministry becoming a prayer on his lips as Eleazar folded the silver, heated it until it was malleable, then beat each fold flat. Each new layer of folds offered the blade more strength.

The sky through the temple window was dark. It could have been any time in the long night.

Eleazar worked on while Menahem watched, fascinated by his brother’s skill. Finally, he was done. He wrapped the hilt with leather, and the dagger was finished.

Menahem took it from his hand.

The blade was curved slightly to resemble a serpent’s tail. The rippled effect on the flat of the blade caught in the moon. It appeared almost as though it had been etched into the metal. There was a beautiful subtlety to it. More, he thought, examining it, there was a truth to it. The blade was strengthened by what appeared to be imperfections in its surface but were in fact the whisper-thin layers between the metal.

The dagger was much like the man wielding it.

Menahem was tempered by the heartbeats of happiness, those fleeting moments of joy and the agonies of disappointment hammered flat around his soul like protective armor.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, holding the dagger reverently.

“How could it be anything else?” bragged Eleazar. “It’s forged from the coins that paid for an entire religion.

As he reached the square Konstantin realized the extent of the crowd. It wasn’t just people lining either side of the street anymore. More than two thousand people had crushed into the small square to witness the benediction. They were talking, excited. It took him a moment to realize what they were saying. The murmur ran through the crowd: “Papa is coming.” He looked at his watch, then up at the huge clock above the door of St. Florin’s church. It was a pointless gesture now. The clock on the church’s facade and his watch said the same thing. Time had run out.

He looked around at the faces of the people. He knew what he was looking for. It was a curious truth that you could see people steeling themselves to kill. It wasn’t just the perspiration; it was in the eyes. They tended to stare straight ahead, focusing on something directly in front of them, unable to look away from it. They didn’t glance around the crowd, which was a natural thing. People’s minds were curious; they were drawn to look at all of the different faces, but not someone about to commit murder. A killer’s focus was absolute. It was understandable with a suicide bomber, not wanting to see the faces of the lives they were about to end, but with a killing like this, in front of the eyes of the world, it wasn’t guilt and shame that kept him from looking, it was determination. A man driven to this kind of murder was almost assuredly driven by fanaticism. Be it the West Bank, Madrid, or the Twin Towers, religion was at the root. Religious extremists, knowing that they were about to die, would be offering a prayer to their chosen deity, squaring it away with them one last time before meeting face to face. So he was looking for someone staring straight ahead, lips moving as they mumbled their final prayer.

He looked up at the guards assembled on the stage. Every one of them stared eyes front. They didn’t look left or right. They didn’t glance down at their shoes.

He was too far away to see if any of them was perspiring unduly, but given the weight of their brightly colored uniforms and the weight of the halberds they held, and the fact that if the BKA had done their job and spread the warning to them that there was an assassin in the crowd, it was a safe bet they were all sweating more than usual.

It was a curious thing, how so many people put so much of their faith in an old man who couldn’t speak their language and had no real way to relate to their lives. Every kind of person was out there in the crowd waiting for the cavalcade to go by.

Konstantin pushed his way into the crowd. There had to be agents in there. If Sir Charles had called in his favors, the entire congregation had to be crawling with BKA men. He saw bikers in their leathers, mothers in summer dresses stooped over their strollers, and boys in German soccer jerseys, and those few desperate enough to come looking for a miracle, hoping Papa’s touch might help their children stand up out of their wheelchairs and walk. He didn’t see anyone who was obviously police. He didn’t see anyone overly anxious. He didn’t see anyone moving sluggishly, either drunk or stoned. That was another thing, a man about to commit suicide, no matter how faithful he was to the cause, didn’t want to be having second thoughts. So more often than not they would be under the influence of some narcotic stimulant in those final minutes. He looked back at the guards on and around the stage. For the life of him he couldn’t see the difference between them. There was no one man who seemed more stressed or less alert than the others.

Konstantin pushed his way through the people, trying to work his way closer to the stage. He wanted to be right at the front when the gun fired its round into the tree. He looked up at the other trees in and around the square. Each one had been strung with the same bird feeders. They were full of birds. He didn’t know if that meant there were more guns primed to fire into these other trees, or if they were relying upon the domino effect to carry the startled panic from one tree to the next.

Down the line he heard voices singing hymns. There was something about songs of praise that lifted the voices of even the worst singers and made them beautiful when they came together.

The murmurs of those closest to him intensified as a car came slowly down the middle of the road and turned into the square. It was a black BMW with its windows blacked out. It was the trailblazer. Konstantin watched it approach, trying to think of ways he could get close to the agents in the car to identify himself. It didn’t slow and it didn’t stop. He watched it pass him and then follow the curve of the railings to park behind the side of the church, out of sight.

Two more cars followed it a few minutes later.

A fourth car came. The sun glinted off the tinted windshields. Four agents walked beside this one, keeping pace with the black BMW. They scanned the crowd, never once allowing their gaze to settle. They were alert. They knew there was a threat. The old man had done his part. The warning had reached the BKA. That was all he could do from Nonesuch; the rest was up to Konstantin. The movement of the agents was synchronized. When one looked left, the other looked right so that together their field of vision was complete. There were no blind spots. They moved with an easy strength, but he could see the tension in their bodies. They were primed, ready for the slightest noise, the first sudden movement; anything that was out of place. They were trained to read the crowd and recognize the signs. More than just body language, this was about the split second between life and death.