The Antiquities Dealer (A David Greenberg Mystery)
I am among the least of these, of whom our Master often spoke in parable. I am not of sound mind because of the horrors I have witnessed in these last days of my life. And surely a man as sickly as I am, on his best day, navigating through life with three limbs defective by nature, cannot be called of sound body on his deathbed.
The least of these, yes. Women and children are more swift than I. And even my brother Jacob says everyone is smarter than I, which I cannot dispute. It is true; ideas do not stick easily in my head. I never learned the trick to reading and writing, so these words I speak to you will have to serve as my Last Bequest. Not that it matters, of course, for all our earthly possessions are held in common anyway.
What is indisputable, though, is no one loves our Master more.
He truly gave me my life; a helpless, crippled beggar on the street. Women and children spat upon me with impunity. And with a gentle smile, He told me I was not a beggar, not a cripple, but a carpenter like He was. And taught me His craft. To honor Him, I have dedicated every day since to making the adze and saw and chisel sing with my good hand and my twisted one; to making cabinets that families entrust with their heirlooms and silver treasures, their menorahs and goblets for the wine blessing; to making tables upon which they light their holy candles and break bread to thank the Lord on the Sabbath. As the Master Carpenter poured life and beauty into dead wood, so did He make a man from this pitiful creature.
Death will be a blessing for me, an end to suffering this madness. I averted my eyes because I could not bear to see the pain on His sweet face. But though I covered my ears, I could not shut out the pounding, pounding, pounding of the mallet driving the nails into his flesh, could not silence their foul Roman laughter from beating upon my ears.
Suddenly, I was enflamed by the need to scramble to His rescue on my shriveled legs, to combat them with my good arm. If the Lord gave strength to little David to defeat mighty Goliath, surely He would give me strength to slay these soldiers. I could envision us carrying our Master back to the bosom of those who adored Him, who would treat His wounds and dry His tears. And even if I failed, He would know I had given my life to save His. I shouted and started forward, intent on seizing one of their swords, determined to take as many as I could with me into the darkness. But Samuel, seeing my intent, held me firmly with his great arms. Struggle and flail as I might, I could not break free and grew quiet.
Then before our eyes, for sport—sport!—one of the Romans, sneering derisively at our Master, jammed a spear into His side, twisting and cutting. From this ragged wound, His life poured like a flood, down His bare stomach and legs unto His feet, to the rocks and soil below.
Our Master tried to teach us that we would gain the whole world by loving our enemies. And I do believe He saw far beyond others, far into the future. But with all the trouble and sorrow I have known and seen—and now this!—let me say, it is easier for a crippled hand to smooth the grain on a splinter than for a wounded heart to love a Roman soldier.
Why, I ask myself, through all of time, has the Lord allowed savages like these, with their shining armored shells and fearsome weapons, to hold sway over His own hardworking, modest worshipers? Why allow the brutal hordes to enter a peaceful village and put to the sword and to fire the innocent and loving? All slain and burned, fathers and mothers, babes and children, holy men and scholars! All faithful Jews, Samaritans, people of so many races whose sins cannot possibly warrant such an ignominious demise. Why does He permit cruelty to prosper, while the pious are crushed?
To a fool like me, such ratiocination as “turn the other cheek” makes no sense. But He saw so much further than I, perhaps believing the Romans could be taught to turn their cheek. I know He must be right, but to my last breath I will so desire to strike a Roman cheek.
***
After the soldiers finished their grizzly duties, the most terrible tempest I have ever seen drove them into their tents, which being of the best military stock, withstood the gale. Huge limbs torn from trees flew through the blackened skies, and the very stones seemed alive. While the family of the thief beside Him and the curious crowd ran away in panic, calling out in fright, we hid together in a nearby, just as we had planned, watching and waiting.
So greatly did the heathen soldiers fear the storm that, through the crash of lightning and thunder, we could hear them crying out to their gods for mercy.
Finally, Yahweh’s terrible anger broke, and we were left exposed to the cold, steady rain of His tears.
And our Master’s tormentors? We could hear the soldiers rolling dice in their sturdy army tents, swearing and cursing and drinking and fighting among themselves. And all we could do was wait and have faith, shivering and staring with envy at their glowing fires and listening to their blasphemous revels. My threadbare cloak and tunic were soaked through, like a washerwoman’s rag, and I knew then I would be sick unto my death when our labors had ended. From our hiding place, we could see Him hanging there, so pitiful, so damaged. I cursed the moon that revealed him.
It was late by the time their drinking claimed the last pair, and they were all snoring under their blankets. Joseph gave the signal. My crutch sank into the muddy soil as I stumbled up the rock-strewn slope. In my hurry, I tripped over a fallen branch and, reaching to catch myself, slashed my good hand deeply on a sharp rock. It bled like a torrent.
Finally, I reached the structure where His mutilated body dangled in the chill. The able-bodied went about their tasks. Joseph climbed the sturdy ladder I had built, while those below supported our Master’s body in place. With his great strength, he plucked the nail from His right hand and tossed it aside. I heard it hit nearby and, feeling my way, crawled through the briars, which cut and scraped my knees and palm, until I found it. A good army nail, forged strong and sharp. The Greek merchant no doubt received a handsome sack of Roman coins bearing the Emperor’s likeness for the lot. Oh, that the soldiers can turn such fine implements to such ignominious purposes. God may know everything, as my Master claimed, but I often wonder if there isn’t much in human governance that is kept from Him.
When they lowered Him down, my fingers felt along the nail’s length until they came to the maker’s mark. It was that of our own forge.
“It is our own mark! It is our own mark!” I shouted like a man gone mad, my tears pouring like a river from my breaking heart. “We made these nails that killed our Lord!” I began to furiously slash my wrist with the nail until our friends stopped me and carried me away.
So, here, I bequeath to all of you beside my deathbed—which I made with my own hands—to you who believed in He who took me in from the streets and transformed me, these nails that tore His tender flesh. These good Roman army supplies sold at such a profit by the fat Greek. These nails that bear his precious blood—and my own—and how many others that were condemned to die so horribly on such poor workmanship as the cross. I leave them in trust to Deborah, who has washed my fevered face and given me sips of cool water…and who will prepare and anoint my corpse. And who, I pray, will bestow upon a dying man one last taste of her delicious lentil soup. Unless, of course, there will not be enough for the mourners at my funeral, in which case I will happily forego this last pleasure in gratitude to these beloved friends, and to the Great Soul who saw to it that I would not die a solitary beggar.
Ed Protzel is a former screewriter who worked developing scripts at 20th Century Fox before turning to novels. He has been recognized for excellence by Literary Titan, Readers’ Favorite, Midwest Review of Books, and Missouri Writers Guild. His published novels include the futuristic mystery/thriller, The Antiquities Dealer, and the Civil War-era DarkHorse Trilogy: The Lies That Bind, Honor Among Outcasts, and in 2019, Something in Madness. He has a master’s degree in English Literature/Creative Writing from the University of Missouri-St. Louis. He lives in St. Louis.
Find Ed at: http://www.edprotzel.com
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