He stopped.
We looked at one another.
"You know this prayer?" he asked.
I didn't answer.
"Well, then," he said sadly. "I'll tell you another - the prayer spoken by John's father, Zechariah, the priest, when John was given his name."
I said nothing.
" 'Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel, for He has visited and brought redemption to His people. He has raised up a horn for our salvation within the house of David, His servant, even as He promised through the mouths of the prophets of old.' " He broke off, looking down for a moment. He swallowed and then he went on. " 'Salvation - from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us . . . and you child' - he spoke here of his son John, you understand - 'and you child will be called prophet of the Most High, for you will go before the Lord to prepare His ways. . . .' "
He stopped, unable to go on.
"What's the use of this!" he whispered. He stood up and turned his back.
I took up the words as I knew them.
" 'To give His people knowledge of salvation through the forgiveness of their sins,' " I said. " 'Because of the tender mercy of our Lord.' "
He stared down at me astonished.
I continued, " 'Through which the daybreak from on high will visit us . . . to shine on those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace.' "
He drew back, his face blank.
" 'Into the path of peace,' Jason," I said. " 'Into the path of peace.' "
"But where is he, your cousin!" he demanded. "Where is John who is to be the prophet? Pontius Pilate's soldiers are outside Jerusalem tonight. The fires told us so at sunset. What will you do?"
I folded my arms and looked at him, the picture he made in his fervor and his fury. He drank the rest of his wine and set the cup on the bench. It fell off the bench and broke. I stared at it - at the broken pieces. He didn't even see them. He hadn't heard the cup break.
He drew close to me and crouched down again so that his face was fully in the light.
"Do you yourself believe these stories?" he asked. "Tell me; tell me before I go out of my mind."
I didn't answer.
"Yeshua," he pleaded.
"Yes, I believe in them," I said.
He stared expectantly at me for the longest time, but I did nothing.
He put his hands to his head. "Oh, I shouldn't have told you these things. I promised your cousin John I would never reveal these things. I don't know why I did this. I thought . . . I thought . . ."
"This is a bitter time," I said. "Yitra and the Orphan are dead. The sky is the color of the dust. Each day breaks our backs and hurts our hearts."
He looked at me. He wanted so much to understand.
"And we wait on the Lord's tender mercy," I said. "We wait on the Lord's time."
"You're not afraid it's all lies? Yeshua, are you ever afraid that it's all lies?"
"You know the stories that I know," I said.
"Not afraid of what's about to happen in Judea?" he demanded.
I shook my head.
"I love you, Yeshua," he said.
"And I love you, my brother," I said.
"No, don't love me. Your cousin would not forgive me if he knew I talked about these secrets."
"And who is my cousin John that he should live his whole life without ever confiding to a friend?" I asked.
"A bad friend, a restless friend," he replied.
"A friend with much on his mind," I said. "You must have been noisy among the Essenes."
"Noisy!" He laughed. "They threw me out."
"I know," I said. I laughed. Jason loved to tell the story of how the Essenes asked him to leave. It was almost always the first thing he told a new acquaintance, that the Essenes had asked him to go.
I picked up the potsherd and started to cut again, fast, holding the measure perfectly still. Straight line.
"You will not ask for Avigail's hand, will you?" he asked.
"No, I will not," I answered, reaching for the next plank. "I'll never marry." I went on measuring.
"That's not what your brother James says," he answered.
"Jason, leave off," I said gently. "What James says is between him and me."
"He says you will marry her - yes, Avigail - and he will see to it. He says her father will accept you. He says money means nothing to Shemayah. He says you're the man her father won't - ."
"Leave off !" I said. I looked up at him. He was towering over me now as if he meant to threaten me.
"What is it?" I asked. "What's really inside you? Why won't you let this go?"
He came down on his knees, and sat back on his heels, so that we were eye to eye again. He was thoughtful and miserable, and when he talked his voice was hoarse.
"Do you know what Shemayah said about me when my uncle went to ask for Avigail? Do you know what that old man said to my uncle, even though he knew that I was behind the curtain, that I could hear?"
"Jason," I said softly.
"The old man said he could see what I was from a mile away. The old man sneered. He used a Greek word for it, the word they used for Yitra and the Orphan. . . ."
"Jason, can't you see through all this?" I asked. "The man's old, bitter. When Avigail's mother died, the man died. Only Avigail keeps him breathing and walking and talking, and complaining of his sore leg."
He was beside himself. He didn't hear me.
"My uncle pretended he didn't understand him, that wicked man! My uncle, you know, he is a master of formalities. He didn't acknowledge this insult. He simply rose and said, 'Well, then perhaps you'll consider . . .' And he never even told me what Shemayah had said, that he had said - ."
"Jason, Shemayah doesn't want to lose his daughter. She is all that the man has. Shemayah's the richest farmer in Nazareth and he might as well be a beggar at the foot of the hill. All he has is Avigail and he must give Avigail to someone in marriage sooner or later, and he's afraid. You come, in your fine linen and with your barbered hair, with your rings, and your gift for words in Greek and in Latin, and you make him afraid. Forgive him, Jason. Forgive him for the sake of your own heart."
He stood up. He paced.
"You don't even know what I'm talking about, do you?" he asked. "You don't understand what I'm trying to tell you!" he said. "I think one moment you understand, and the next I think you're an imbecile!"
"Jason, this place is too small for you," I said. "You wrestle with demons every day and every night in all you read, all you write, all you think, and probably in every dream you dream. Go to Jerusalem where there are men who want to talk about the world. Go to Alexandria again or Rhodes. You were happy on Rhodes. That was a good place for you, with plenty of philosophers. Maybe Rome is where you belong."