Go to Next Story -- Return to Contents/Index

 

Young Zachariah

 

 

            Calpurnius Falco looked expectantly at the man.  There, silhouetted against the noonday sun, waited the first taxpayer to pay his fee.  Somewhere, among the long line winding around his new station and down Jericho's main street, he expected a complaint or challenge.  His dagger hand twitched and back arched.  He walked over and looked out his window to gauge the size of the line.  But nowhere in this group were these reflexes justified.  Today, not one voice was raised in protest as he began his work.  An undercurrent was there, waiting for the cue.  Looking out over the crowd, he could see it in both the idlers and those waiting to pay: that fierce desire for freedom and justice so typical of the Jews.  Ever since the uprising, Galilee had been a hotbed of revolt, a place were no gentile, especially a publican, was safe.  But this was Jericho, not some desert village, and he did not expect problems here.

            Slowly, with the faintest tremor in his hands, he motioned for his first customer, who waited impatiently at the entrance, to approach, eyeing his assistants on each side of the table and the guards posted on each side of the door.  After signaling nervously to his assistants, he motioned for the collection to begin.  Since he was collecting new taxes, he expected idlers to be loitering outside his office, grumbling about the latest Roman abuse.  These townsfolk were delaying paying their taxes.  Many of them would wait until the deadline--that point when soldiers from the fortress would pay a visit to their homes.

            Everyone living in Jericho was on his list; no one was exempt after he turned it in.  As Unculus and Regalus gathered their money, he would cross off each resident's name only when he or she paid their fee.  But there were always those idlers like the ones he saw now, who hoped to see dissention in the ranks.  Too often there were one or two rowdies among them just waiting to set them off.

            With trepidation, therefore, Falco walked momentarily away from his table.  His assistants temporarily drew back.  The line came suddenly to a halt.  Looking carefully out his window now, ready to dodge a stone or rotten piece of fruit, he wondered why it was so especially quiet at such a time.  Was this just a well behaved city? he wondered. . . Or was their mischief afoot?

            A ripple went through the crowd as he peeked out, like a stone dropped into still water.  Eyes flashed, heads slowly turned, until finally they focused upon someone in their midst.  A commotion grew within the gathering of idlers and the line waiting at his door, as shadows stretched down the path.  There came a tap-tap-tapping and rustle of gravel as two figures now emerged from the crowd: a young boy beside a spry, stately-looking old man.

            In the publican's eye came understanding and a measure of relief.  This old man was obviously a man of authority here.  If it was not for his presence, there might be trouble now.  The publican knew the crowd was hostile about the latest tax, and the old man's reputation probably kept it at bay.  With a subtle signal or facial gesture he could just as easily create dissention, though it seemed unlikely that the townsfolk would actually attack.

            Calpurnius Falco now found himself looking up at his visitor.  He was at least a head shorter than the old man.  It was discomforting for him to have someone come so close, especially when he had to look up.  It was as if the stranger knew him from somewhere and was about to make a scene.  For a few moments after the old man and boy entered the room, the two men stood there in silence appraising each other, gentile face to face with Jew and publican eye to eye with town elder: two worlds and two lifestyles--as far apart as men could be.

            Somewhere in his wanderings he was sure that they had clashed; he could see it in the old man's eyes and his faint but crafty smile.  For his part, recognition came more slowly.  Such busy-bodies, the keepers of public morality, included priests, rabbis, rich merchants, and pharisees.  Normally, they were no threat to him.  He had found them everywhere in Palestine: in major cities, out-of-the-way towns, small villages, and often on the road, shaking their heads, clucking like chickens amongst themselves, blaming him behind his back for the latest dues, toll, or provincial tax.

            The main difference between his present station and his outposts before was the sheer number paying taxes.  There were a lot more clients in a city like Jericho.  Compared to posts in Galilee, these Judeans were a peaceable lot, even though they were much too quiet.  In Galilee they were stoning tax-collectors on sight.  These folks seemed to be waiting for just the right moment, perhaps until the old man arrived.  Now that moment was here, and a low buzz of derision began in anticipation of what was in store.  If he was lucky, there would not be a riot today and no one would be killed.  Otherwise, if his instincts were wrong, he was in grave danger and the quiet he was receiving was merely a lull before a storm.

            His small attachment of guards, which would have served him will in a small village, now seemed meager against this mob.  Again he thought of his dagger.  His hand twitched.  But, given the size of the crowd outside, the impulse seemed ludicrous and, had the action been carried out, quite insane.

            It seemed as if every idler in town had gathered for this event.  He would just have time to kill this old fool before they tore him to shreds.  If things got out of hand, the guards, he was quite sure, would drop their swords and run.  Already, they were probably searching for an avenue of retreat.  A similar situation occurred in Nain: a hellhole of brigands and vagabonds.  At Nain, though, he had been given Roman guards.  If a problem had arisen, they would have cut a path through this vermin, until they were safely on the road.  His protection today, he reminded himself, were Syrian cutthroats, without an ounce of Roman blood.  They barely knew what end of the sword to hold.  Most of them, he was sure, would show their backsides after leaving him to the mob.  How he ever thought he was safe under their protection seemed incredible now.

            After coming forward a few paces to get a better look at the old man's face, he felt foolish.  Backing slowly away into the shadows, trying not to show cowardice, he reached behind himself to make sure his assistants were still there.  Sure enough, he could feel Unculus' garlic-ridden breath at the back of his neck and feel his hand holding the hilt of his sword.  But, after looking askance both ways, he realized that Regalus was nowhere in sight.

            "Where is he?" he growled under his breath. "He was just there a moment ago.  Where did Regalus go?"

            "He is behind me sir." Unculus whispered shakily. "We're no match for this mob!  It's not like it was on the road.  Now there's nowhere to escape!"

            "Get up here beside me, you scurvy dogs!" the publican gnashed his teeth. "I expect this from those auxiliaries the Romans sent me, but I've paid you both good money!"

            "Zechariah," the old man declared "this little fellow is our new publican.  His name is Calpurnius Falco.  I met him in Jerusalem many summers ago, collecting dues in front of the temple.  As you can see by his eyes, he is a Greek--the smallest one I've ever seen.  As you can see by his tools, he is a Roman.  And yet truly he is neither.  You see Zechariah, Falco is a slave of the Romans, too, just like us, but he likes it.  It makes him feel important--like a big man!"

            "Slave?" Zechariah smiled at Falco. "He doesn't look like a slave grandfather.  But he is, like me, small for his age.  He's wearing gold necklaces and rings.  He has a big money box full of coins."

            "The boy's right." the publican smiled at Zechariah. "I'm not a slave.  I'm a free man: a citizen of Rome.  Unless you've come to pay your taxes, please remove yourselves from this room!  Let me do my job!"

            "All men are slaves," the old man continued. "but all slaves are not men.  It is questionable if you are a man Falco; you're much too small!  At least you are proud of what you are.  Yet you are worst than a mere slave; you're a parasite!  Even to the Romans, that is the lowest form of life!"

            "You're Ibrim Bar Samuel, that old scribe I met in Jerusalem!" Falco gave him a crooked smile. "Fortunately for me, I was only an apprentice then.  You gave my master a tongue-lashing!  I remember the spittle flying out of your rabid mouth!"  "Shame on you Ibrim!" he wagged his finger good-naturedly. "You create trouble everywhere you go!"

            In the center of Falco's teeth as he spoke, Zechariah spotted a gold tooth.  On each of the publican's earlobes there dangled gold baubles which jingled as he moved.  It reminded the boy of one of the desert nomad princes he had seen shopping in town.

            Clearly, this was the richest man Zechariah had ever seen, and yet he was defending himself against an old man who, after making poor investments all his life, barely had enough to buy himself a new pare of shoes.

            Far from being repulsed by Falco's profession, Zechariah quietly admired the man's gold.  The taxes they paid, he learned from his friend Sylvius, were raised just enough to give the collector a commission, which was his only pay.  His father, who had been a good businessman, had taught him the value of riches, only to lose it all when he died.  Grandfather's business sense, grandmother many times complained, had evaporated their funds.  By following the strict guidelines of the Torah, he had let opportunities pass him by.  By investing in the welfare of his people, he had deprived his family of their inheritance, which would force his grandson to start at the bottom where grandfather was now.

            One of Grandfather's big investment, the local synagogue, which he thought would endear him to his neighbors, had brought him acclamation but not a mite for his own purse.  Day by day, as their funds dwindled and grandfather invested in other unproductive projects, Zechariah watched the old man still struggling to earn a wage for them as a scribe while hoarding what little they had left, trying to convince him that men like Calpurnius Falco were wrong and he was right, even though Zechariah knew it was tax money that kept cities like Jericho alive.

            As the old man lodged his complaint about the new civic tax, Falco, in the comic gesture of a mime, pulled out a parchment and wrote it down.  Whenever Ibrim harassed Eusybius, the previous publican, the tax collector would grow livid with rage and demand that he leave.  Falco was different than grandfather's other victims.  Although his servants and guards were edgy, he kept his head.  He was going to show these bumkins who was in control.

            While listening to a general attack on his office, Falco continued writing down his complaints with exaggerated strokes.  Then, without saying another word, Ibrim pulled the boy out of Falco's office, as if it were suddenly unclean, and resumed a dignified gait outside through the crowd.  Zechariah tried not laugh as Ibrim began tapping his walking stick rhythmically on the cobblestones below.  It was clear to him, however, that his grandfather was upset.  He had finally found a publican with a backbone and a sense of humor, who seemed proud of what he did.

            What impressed Zechariah most of all, however, was the man's diminutive size.  Falco was small, just like himself.  In spite of his grandfather's imposing presence, the little publican had faced him down.  During mere eye contact, he forged a link with the boy with the faintest of smiles.  It was a look which told Zechariah that size was not the measure of a man.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            When the crowds were safely behind and they were within a few meters of Ibrim Bar Samuel's gate, grandfather finally spoke.

            "Zechariah!" he snapped. "Wake up boy, you act like you're in a daze!"

            "Yes, grandfather." the boy looked up into his glowering face.

            "Answer me honestly boy," his eyes narrowed to slits "you admired that rogue, didn't you?"

            "No, grandfather." the boy lied, but it was as if grandfather had read is mind.

            "I saw him smile at you.  Don't try to deny it!" he said accusingly. "You kept staring at his money chest and the jewelry he wore!"

            "I stare at many things." Zechariah said evasively. "I heard you tell him that he was a para. . . "

            "Site, boy, parasite!" the old man tapped him gently with his cane. "I also called him a blood-sucking, depraved lackey.  Don't forget that.  I could've said a lot more!"

            "Yes," Zechariah nodded his head impishly ". . . and you also called him a slave."

            "A figure of speech." grandfather continued to frown. "What I meant was that he was a captive of his own greed, like the drunk is on wine or the epicurean is on food."

            "What is an epic-epic. . . curean?" Zechariah made a face.

            "An epicurean is someone like your poor father who eats too much fine food." grandfather explained, unlocking the gate and ushering the boy in. "Our God gives us food to sustain our bodies and wine for our feasts; he doesn't want us to act like pigs.  He also gives us enough so we can live comfortably, yet he doesn't want us to take advantage of our neighbors or friends, like Falco is doing now."

            "Mother said father's heart gave out." Zechariah murmured to himself. ". . . My father was a good man!"

            "Yes, he was a good man." grandfather sighed by the entrance, seeing his wife greet him at the door. "But his money did him no good!"

            Zechariah had always listened to grandfather's wisdom in the past.  The old man had taught him the ten commandments and the tradition of his people, at least as much as he could understand.  But his hatred of wealth had never made sense to the boy.  Many of his friends in school were from rich parents.  Sylvius always had a fine lunch to eat between classes, and he always wore a new pare of shoes.  His companion's parents, like father, ate the best meats and sauces and the finest cakes.  Falco, he believed, was richer than them. . . He even had gold in his teeth!  And yet he was small, just like himself, the smallest adult he had ever seen!

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            As Zechariah's family sat down for the noonday meal, the boy listened to grandfather utter "Here O Israel, the Lord our God is one Lord!", break off chunks of bread, and pass them down the line.

            After the Shema, staring at the piece in his hand, Zechariah heaved a broken sigh.

            "I wish we had some butter." he blurted out now.

            "We'll have butter at Shavuoth." his mother smiled sheepishly. "Grandmother is also going to make honey cakes with nuts."

            "Wonderful!" Zechariah made a face, as he picked at his crust.

            "Your son is an ingrate!" the old woman scolded, giving her daughter-in-law a disapproving look. "The bedouin children live on olives and goat's cheese.  The poor beggars in the street eat garbage and sometimes starve!"

            "Zechariah remembers the feasts given by his father." she replied with melancholy. "The boy's friends taunt him with their rich foods."

            "He should be thankful for what he has!" grandmother said, gnawing at her own piece of bread.

            But Zechariah wasn't thankful.  Something had awakened in him today.  He began wondering how many sweetmeats, cakes, and other delicacies he could buy with Falco's gold.

            Perhaps due to their poverty, grandmother was an unimaginative cook.  Mother had always relied on servants, until father died.  Unlike Sylvius' parents meals, which included several kinds of breads, meats, sauces, varied fruits, and cakes, their meal now was simple and unchanging.  The closest they came to eating meat was fish: fish for breakfast, fish at midday, and fish for supper too.  Rarely did they eat lamb or fowl.  When they ate bread, it was always the same flat, round, and course loaves eaten at supper, with the exception that there was less of it.  Butter was scarce, except on special occasions and for holidays such as Shavuoth, and cheese was limited to the crude form grandfather loved.  There were no fine sauces, vegetables, or fruits, except the bitter and hard-to-eat pomegranates from grandfather's garden.  There were no fine wines or fruit juices as in Sylvius' house either.  What he had in his mug to drink was the same thing everyone else at the table was drinking: water from grandfather's well.

            When the meal was over, grandmother did not bring out sweetmeats or cakes as Sylvius' mother did, except on special occasions.  She would shoo he and the old man away while she and mother cleaned up their mess.

            He couldn't even snatch a piece of fruit when they weren't looking.  There were no fig trees, berries, or grapes to pick freely as at Sylvius' house.  Grandfather would occasionally pick him one of his awful pomegranates then expect him to peel it himself.

            What Zechariah would give for one ripe fig!  What price would he pay to taste fresh honeycomb or a Lebanese pastry, instead of this burnt fish and moldy bread?

            At Sylvius fine house, everyone sat around on silk cushions, listening to the sound of the fountain nearby.  Servants would bring out course after course in the manner of the Romans.  Occasionally, a musician would play something softly on a lute or even sing as they ate.  Here in grandfather's crowded little house, there was not a fountain or servants.  The only sounds allowed at grandmother's strict table were the sounds of slurping, munching, and a frequent belch.

            The fine manners and lifestyle he admired at Sylvius' house, he realized, were purchased by money, not ancestry or tradition.  Whereas Sylvius was what grandfather called a Hellenized Jew, with little knowledge of his heritage or tribe, Grandfather as well as Zechariah belonged to the tribe of Judah, in which came kings and from which the messiah would be one day be born.

            Grandfather was very proud of his tribe and his standing in town, but Zechariah was tired of being poor.  When he thought about the publican, he felt ashamed for admiring his wealth.  But Calpurnius Falco was not ashamed.  Falco must be far more wealthy than anyone he knew, and he was not even a Jew!

            What demon had grabbed a hold of him to make him yearn for gold, instead of his people's tradition?  Why did he, living as he did in grandfather's house and sitting at his table, suddenly want what his grandparents considered forbidden: fine clothes, fine drink, and fine food? . . . Was it so wrong to want to be rich as they once were?

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            That evening grandfather took Zechariah for their usual walk.  In the past, the boy had enjoyed exploring Jericho's market district.  Even though they couldn't buy what they saw, it gave him a chance to dream about what he once had.  His father would often buy him the most expensive treat he could find.  But grandfather, even when he still had some of father's money left, had always been stingy.  On occasion, as this evening, he would take the boy to the bakery downtown and allow him to smell the aroma's filtering out of Yusef Bar Zadok's shop.  Only once, during Zechariah's long captivity with his grandparents, did he buy him a roll.

            This evening little Zechariah craved a pastry, even a cheap, unsweetened roll to make him feel as if his life was worth something.  The summer recess for school was coming to an end; soon he would be walking that way with his friend Sylvius, so that he might occasionally mooch a meal off his parents before he got home.  But he couldn't wait until then.  Those additional weeks he must spend without those culinary delights seemed unbearable now.

            "Grandfather!" he suddenly cried. "I know now how the beggars and bedouin boys feel!  Please buy me a roll!"

            "Very well Zechariah." replied grandfather, stroking his long, white beard. "For all her goodness, your grandmother is a terrible cook!  This evening I shall buy us each a roll and a dip of honey to kill the taste of that fish!"

 

 

Go to Next Story -- Return to Contents/Index -- Contact ^the Writer's Den