Locked up and farewelled, I walked through the night-stained streets of Capernaum, alone with my thoughts. Foremost among them: the lies I tell myself.
Let's be honest — I lied. When I said I wasn't interested in this self-made preacher? Complete nonsense. Of course I wanted to see him. Not to spill my tragic tale or beg for meaning.
But maybe… to catch a glimpse of him and say, "Look at me — I'm a dealer, a builder, a man of means. You and your father? Just sawdust and wind."
He had, at least, found a new mission. And I? I was drifting. Not forever, mind you — I'd come up with something. I always did.
But what gnawed at me most wasn't my ruined business or wounded pride. It was the truth behind that one small lie — the one I fed myself. That I only wanted to prove him a fraud.
No. The real reason was simpler and far less noble.
I wanted to know what that gesture meant — that strange, silent motion he made when we met. I couldn't get it out of my head. And more than that… the heat. That unearthly warmth radiating from his skin — not just a fever, not just body heat — but something unnatural, like fire kept under the flesh.
My people would shrug, point at the clouds, and whisper:
"This is the Will of the Gods."
But that answer never satisfied me. Never. Of course, I kept my doubts quiet. No need to draw the attention of the wrong kinds of people. Not the simple ones — I could handle them — but the ones who carry torches and licenses to kill. But meeting a madman prophet and laughing in his face while asking about thermoregulation? That was harmless. Nobody would impale me for that.
Convinced now that I did want to see this Jesh, I was glad I'd swallowed my pride earlier and casually asked Avdei where the man lived. He'd given me the address. Turned out, it was just around the corner from my own home.
Shame burned under my skin. I used to know every odd-numbered dog bark in this city. And somehow I'd missed a living legend, camped right next door. Shameful, but forgivable. The sawmill had been eating my time like termites.
Feeling oddly uplifted by my decision, I reached my modest house — only to be greeted by a less philosophical sight.
Raban.
Standing with two goons of the friendliest-looking variety. Big lads. Wide necks. The kind that breathe heavy when they blink. I wasn't too scared — I still had fast legs — but their weapons made running seem... optimistic.
One held a qamak — a short-handled axe I'd used myself in the shop. I knew exactly how easily it could take off a thumb. Or a head. The other wore a Roman-style caestus — a boxing glove laced with metal studs. Neither man was trying to hide his armament. If anything, they were showing off. Shame they couldn't do the same with their brains.
But I'm bluffing. I could only "fight" them from my knees — with my mouth pressed to the dirt, whispering prayers I didn't believe in.
Raban grinned at me like a lizard spotting lunch. He waved cheerfully, and I responded with a hand to my chest and a polite bow:
What a joy to see you, old friend! What brings you to my door at such a blessed hour?
He played along — but with notes in his voice that didn't quite match the melody:
It's very I've come to remind you: don't try your usual tricks. Just… honor your debt.
Could it be any other way, my dear friend? His tone turned sharp, his eyes flared: You were a friend. I'm tired of your games! He snarled, and the two brutes twitched their weapons — like bored gladiators before a show. So I thought of something Something more creative than bruises or broken ribs… and my boys can count your ribs one by one... I wonder, can they even count? Shut your mouth! – The fat cat clearly lost his creative stride because of my – At first, I thought I'd cut off your balls and tell the whole city about your little loss, but… What made you abandon such a refined plan?
I was playing with fire. I should probably rein in my tongue before someone else does it for me — physically.
But my former buddy didn't stop — he'd already caught his verbal rhythm:
Doing that would just give you the wrong kind of People would come to laugh at you and, while they're at it – place an order.
Brilliant plan! Mind if I borrow your thug's hatchet? If that'll help me get rich…
Silence! So I figured it'd be way better to spread a rumor that you've sold your soul to dark forces and turned to cursed That in your workshop, you're building an army of wooden soldiers to overthrow Rome itself!
All I could do was whistle. I hadn't expected that kind of grandeur from empty-headed Raban. Sorcery and high treason in one neat bundle.
Let me guess, your daughter gave you that one?
He hesitated and probably blushed (it was dark, I couldn't see if his cheeks went red):
Well, yeah. She's By the way, she sends her regards to you. But that's not the point! All of Judea will turn against you – and that's enough to make my heart sing. Alright, alright, I get – I raised my hands in a peace offering. – There's no arguing with you. I'll catch a couple hours of sleep and by dawn I'll go find a buyer.
Now we're talking! That's the Don't let me down this time, warlock.
The sparse light thrown by the moon was just enough to capture my most innocent and sorrowful expression. No one in history had ever surrendered to the will of the powerful quite like I did at that moment.
The procession of my accusers departed, while I stood awkwardly at the door of my house, then turned around. I didn't feel like sleeping — not at all. Too much had happened today. I was overstimulated, and now I wanted only one thing — action. And answers. Those, most of all.
So I went where that mysterious Jesh was supposed to be staying. Even if he was asleep – I'd wake him up! I needed to see him right now.
My sandals tapped out a rhythm in step with the frantic thoughts pounding inside my skull and hammering at my temples. Too much had piled up today, but it really was too early for sleep. I was officially unemployed — let Raban be mad all he wanted — I'd sleep when I got back, and only then, fresh and clear-headed, would I start the search.