Jesh's new place, where he'd recently moved, really was just one street away from my own home, and it was noticeably poorer than mine – which cheered up my weary and almost broken soul. I was nearly there when a shadow slipped out from a nearby alley and reached for the pouch at my belt.
My sharp elbow turned out to be faster than the ghostly figure. Turned out – it wasn't ghostly at all, and the shadow yelped and jerked its hand back. I grabbed it by the scruff and yanked it toward me, saying:
That's right! Go find some drunk piss-soaked fool to mug. Couldn't lie in wait near a tavern? A hook-nosed man with hair twisted into braids shot back: I already found
I had to hit him in the ribs again. Turns out I did know a thing or two, even if I was no fighter.
You bastard! Just wait… – the thief
Wait for what?! Should've brought a partner instead of being I tried going solo too – and look where that got me. What's your name? My name is… Say your real name and don't make shit up. No tricks, scum, got it? – Something in me snapped. Why was I so mad? Maybe because today everyone and their dog decided to screw me over?! Well, at least I could take it out on him. That's what they call me. If you stop beating me, I'll tell you where the owner of this house went.
Now that caught me off guard. I didn't expect the bad luck to pile up so high for one poor ex-tax collector.
What do you mean… where the hell did Jesh go?
Went off with his folks to a wedding in Got invited. Now let me go, you piece of…
For that little outburst, I gave him another good smack and then shoved him into the dirt. He rolled around in it plenty, hissing out some curses (probably at my whole bloodline), and all I could hear was:
"He's gone. He's gone! He's gone?!"
I couldn't take it — I slammed my fist against the door in despair, and as expected, no one answered. I did it again, and again, only to get yelled at by some sleepy old man from a nearby house, who threw something at me that reeked to high heaven. Same kind of stench that clung to everything going on in my life right now.
Fork in the Road.
In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was — Comfort.
Which I had to forget real quick the moment I laid myself down into this circus of hay, amphorae, and sacks of salt. The whole crew was shaking, tumbling, rearranging itself, and somewhere between all that junk was me, bent like a damn question mark. A trade caravan is meant to haul goods, not humans — but I paid generously (still had a few shekels on me), so they let me in the wagon.
We were already rolling through Samaria, heading slowly toward Galilee. No rush. Though I
would've preferred otherwise. Still, I was making good time. From the bits of convo drifting back to me, the big ceremony was delayed — which meant I'd probably arrive just in time for the main event.
Everywhere you looked — same damn thing.
Rocky hills, shabby villages with flaking plaster, then more of those hills, but now with scraggly bushes clinging to them. A few half-dead shepherds with even thinner sheep wandered nearby (probably because Rabbi ate all the feed). And scattered around the road, these cracked-up roadside shrines. The gods' statues were broken, chipped, and half the time not even standing — just flopped over sideways like drunks.
That's pretty much how I was too, slouched down, flipping through my new prized possession — something I'd only recently started reading when I got a little free time. Which I constantly complained I never had. I mean, a book like that had to be opened. It deserved attention — unlike the endless sermons of that Jesh guy.
Back when I had a brief stint as a tax collector, me and the boys hit the port to squeeze a generous "off-the-books" contribution out of our pal Publican Zacharias. See, he'd bribed the harbor chief to fleece a couple Greek cargo ships — unlucky bastards who drifted into Zacharias' greedy little radar.
While I was climbing through the holds like a proud little weasel, I found this grimy diary — more like a stitched parchment with an olive-wood cover fastened by copper studs. I snapped off the bronze clasp holding it shut and was literally struck speechless. Nah, not by the translator's foreword — that was trash:
"This is an Aramaic translation of the great Heron of Alexandria's original Greek work." There were a ton more intro paragraphs after that, which I skimmed past — and then saw this:
Some weird contraptions, like doodled machines, each with instructions. Diagrams. Explanations. There was even a statue that, if you dropped a coin in the right slot, would pour water into a cup! And a big rotating sphere that could heat water. And a bunch of other mind-melting stuff!
Totally insane. And yet — not insane. 'Cause it was invented by a person. I quietly swiped the diary, stuffed it under my tunic, took it home and let it sit there — waiting for better days.
Now, finally, I could study the diagrams, read the dude's thoughts, soak in this wild new knowledge. I was learning a bunch of new words, understanding how basic gadgets worked, and slowly realizing that all these so-called miracles? They didn't need divine intervention at all. I always kinda suspected that — but now I had proof for my sinful little thoughts.
Man can create his own Gods!
My growling stomach saved me from drifting too far into that heretical territory. I leaned over the side of the wagon and looked with envy at the one next to us — its bottom lined with sacks of dates sloshing around like drunk toddlers. I was seriously thinking of buying a few, just to shut up my miserable belly.
Hitting the road without any food — probably the dumbest thing I've ever done. Well, besides giving up a cushy job just to go investigate some fire-trick pulled off by a trick master I know.
The two drivers were lazily flicking the reins, same movement again and again, probably the thousandth time. A fly landed on one of their noses and got more laughs than their whole job ever had. So I took the chance to politely ask one of them to stop and sell me some grub.
The laughter cut off in an instant. The cart drivers exchanged glances. One of them flicked the buzzing fly off his nose and fully switched his attention to the buzzing me. A worried, mysterious look crept over his face, and he translated it into a line that was no less ominous:
Dark times are upon us, my