Джеймс Миченер - The Source

“The stonecutter?”

“Yes. I directed him to find a place in town for the baker. People can’t be forced to walk long distances for their bread, can they?” He raised his thin white hands gracefully above the desk in a gesture of supplication. “So if the baker comes complaining to you, tell him he’s justified and will be cared for.”

Finally the little rabbi found a chance to speak, and his first concern was not about general principles nor the large issues that were beginning to loom over the Galilee. He discussed the human problem of the stonecutter. “Did you say that Yohanan was working for you?”

“Yes. We’ll need a large mosaic in the basilica.”

The words aroused suspicious implications. Why large? To make the basilica more impressive than the synagogue? Why mosaic? Because the Jews had trained a fine workman who was now available at no preliminary expense? And why that ominous phrase “we’ll need”? For what reason was there this need? Why did any religion need so large a building?

As if he had anticipated the rabbi’s questions, Father Eusebius said quietly, “We’re building what must seem a great church because many pilgrims will be coming to Makor. You know that in the years ahead …”

“Are you here permanently?”

“Yes. I’m to be bishop. I’ve been sent here to …” The stately Spaniard hesitated. He had been about to say “convert the area,” which was his specific commission, but tactfully he concluded, “build up the area.” Then, as if his unconscious mind were at work, he added, “You mustn’t think harshly of Yohanan.”

“For quitting his work at the synagogue?”

“No. For taking his son away from your groats mill. The young man’s working here, too.”

For Rabbi Asher this was a hard blow. In his business he needed Menahem, but this was not his first thought. From infancy he had looked after this forsaken child, finding him homes, seeing that he was cared for. He had given him a job and an almost fatherly love and had lately sponsored the process whereby Menahem might be drawn back into Judaism, and now to find that he was working in the basilica was a shock; but Father Eusebius did not propose discussing this personal matter. “Rabbi Asher,” he began in his official voice, hands folded severely before him while his gaunt, handsome face was outlined against the white wall, “I’m glad you came home … most glad.” He paused, but his guest was still thinking about Menahem and the mill. “I’m glad you returned, because you’re needed here.” Again the slim priest hesitated, but the rabbi said nothing. “You’re needed because some of your quick-tempered young Jews are beginning to cause trouble. Over taxes, I believe. So far our governor has proved most lenient. Possibly because I have cautioned him to be so. But, Rabbi Asher …”

The Jew rose as if he were about to leave the room. He wanted to talk directly to Menahem, to see if the young man had stolen the ten drachmas so that he could be sold into slavery and restored to Judaism. He nodded respectfully to the priest, as he had nodded to his colleagues in Tverya when he took leave of them, and started for the door.

“Rabbi Asher,” the Spaniard said, not raising his voice but speaking in a tone which required attention. “Sit down. Your son-in-law Abraham is among the leaders of this hot-headed group. You must command him to cease his provocations or they will lead to trouble.”

“Abraham?” For a moment Rabbi Asher could not visualize anyone to go with the name. He had little respect for his son-in-law, even if the young man had married Jael in a moment of crisis, but at least he could respond to the legal aspect of the problem. “Oh yes! The rabbis at Tverya were discussing this matter. Excessive taxes and quick tempers.”

“I’ve directed our tax collectors to ease the burden,” Father Eusebius said. “And I’ve diverted our workmen to build new homes for your Jews. Now you, Rabbi Asher, must co-operate by instructing your son-in-law Abraham and his cronies to stop their dangerous agitations.”

“Abraham?” the little rabbi repeated in a kind of daze. It was not likely that Abraham ben Hababli posed any threat to Byzantium. “I’ll reprimand him,” he promised.

“Please do,” the Spaniard said.

Rabbi Asher left the austere room with its graven images and hurried to his mill, where he found one elderly workman turning the stones while unfilled bags lay about the floor. “Where’s Menahem?” he asked.

“He’s left us,” the man replied, slowly revolving the upper stone so that small amounts of cereal fell onto an earthenware platter.

Deeply worried, Rabbi Asher went by small alleys to the large area where the basilica was to rise, and there he saw Yohanan and Menahem piling the rubble of destroyed homes into sacks which slaves from the African desert hauled to the edge of town, emptying them into the wadi. Father and son spoke politely to the rabbi, who asked, “Menahem, may I speak with you?”

The young man, taller and huskier from his work in the open, followed the rabbi to a spot where the slaves were not working, and there God’s Man asked, “Have you done as we planned? Ten drachmas’ worth, before witnesses?”

As if that bizarre episode were a nightmare from his irrational past, Menahem moved away and said apologetically, “I’ve been so busy working here …”

“Have you left the mill?”

“Yes. I’m helping to build a large mosaic here.”

Rabbi Asher thought: Again that word large. Why should largeness seduce sensible men? But Menahem was speaking hurriedly, as if ashamed of his defection: “At first I’m to be in charge of finding the colored stones. My father’s to be an architect. But when the floor’s ready we’ll both work on the design.”

“But, Menahem! Your plan to become a legitimate Jew?”

The young man wished to say, If you had honestly wanted me as a Jew, I’d be one now, but out of respect for the old rabbi he said, “I’ve much work to do, Rabbi,” and he walked away. At this moment there was shouting at the eastern wall and signs of flame, so both Menahem and Rabbi Asher ran to that quarter, where Byzantine soldiers were thrashing a young Jew while workmen tried to extinguish a fire which was eating at a storehouse in which tax collectors kept the produce paid by the citizens of Makor. Before Rabbi Asher could intervene to protect the boy being beaten he saw the tall figure of Father Eusebius stalking through the crowd, pushing citizens aside as if they were chaff, and with a cold, dark visage, looking at the fire.

“You! You!” the Spaniard shouted at various Jews. “Halt that blaze!” It was no use. Flames had caught hold of the contents of the building, grain and olive oil, and it was obvious that all must be consumed. In white-lipped fury the priest looked at the latest outrage of the Jews, then moved to where the soldiers were beating the supposed arsonist. For a long moment Eusebius watched the punishment, then cried, “Enough!” But the culprit was dead.

A great sigh rose from the assembled Jews, accented by the crackling of the flames and the hopeless shouts of the fire fighters. Father Eusebius, satisfied that the building was lost, left the scene, but as he passed Rabbi Asher he said coldly, “This is what I meant when you would not pay attention. Now the German army will march down from Antioch, and it is your doing.” Like a sword unsheathed he moved through the crowd to his white-walled room, where he prayed for some time, then sent messengers to Ptolemais with a report that the Jewish insurrection was getting out of hand: “I am afraid you must bring down the German army stationed at Antioch.”

That fateful night the two religious leaders of Makor, Father Eusebius and Rabbi Asher, each conducted meetings which would have strange results in the town. Rabbi Asher’s was with his son-in-law Abraham, a stocky, dull-minded young man who sat close to his wife Jael and argued with surprising vigor against his father-in-law. “The Byzantines have gone too far,” the young man said. “No, we will not turn back. Jael will tell you why. If we must fight, we’ll fight.”