"God is silent. Now if only man would shut up." – Woody Allen
In the beginning was the Word — and that Word was Boss.
That’s exactly who the new tax collector was quietly cursing under his breath. He’d only just started in his new role and was already absurdly proud of his dusty, threadbare clerk’s robe. Hand-me-down
from his predecessor — ‘cause nobody’s gonna spend coin on some random who landed a sweet gig purely through the pull of a well-connected Raban.
Damn... Lucky me, huh?
It’s a blessing, really — to have someone who can vouch for you and, when needed, toss you a shoulder to lean on. Greasy and unwashed, sure — but solid. And filthy rich. The post he got me? Chef’s kiss. Maybe not the most respected title, but you’re always near the coin, and you don’t have to bust your back at a forge or in some field. If only they didn’t make us start at midday, man...
I chucked what was left of my coarse barley flatbread and groaned as I pushed myself off the stone. My lower back popped in protest.
Can’t be sitting around like that!
Even my body knows I’m not paid to lounge. Gave myself a once-over — tunic? Check. Leather belt? Check. Coin pouch and tiny tablet? Right there. Robe still clinging on by the grace of some saint? Present.
Only thing messing with the vibe were my busted-ass leather sandals… But that’s fine.
Gonna earn. Gonna upgrade. Like, everything.
Slicking down my frizzy curls, I set off through the scorched streets of Capernaum.
Our fine city was slapped together on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, and according to the local gossipmongers, the biggest fish in town was just… Fish. ‘Cause everything here ran on fishing — built on it, lived off it, stank of it.
But I had my doubts.
I mean, today it’s me, and only me, walking out to collect a default payment from the owner of a lumber mill. And I sure as hell didn’t look like no fisherman. Neither did the pottery-selling women I passed by without a second glance as I made my way down the endless line of limestone-and-clay houses.
These houses — they’re the backbone of Capernaum. Where we all live… well, almost all of us. Personally, I had plans to one day score a house fit for Roman aristocracy. Ambitious? Yeah. But hey, that’s me — a man with his eyes on the shining future.
I always knew where I was going. In your hometown, you don’t get lost. Every alley, every crooked lane — even the kids kicking around a dried fig stub — they’ve all explored it top to bottom. Even that goat flopped right in the middle of the road from heat exhaustion knows this place like scripture.
Everything here — the eternal muds, gravel, dust underfoot; the sweat-stink, the burnt-offal reek, the sharp snap of basil — it’s all part of me.
It’s the root of who I am. And yeah, I both love it and hate its guts. On one hand — it’s in my blood. Not from my mother though, she couldn’t give me the eternal drink of newborns. I sucked that from a goat. Truth. On the other hand — I spent my whole damn life dreaming of Jerusalem. Just a peek, one eye open. Better yet — wide-eyed and never leaving. Ideally? That’s the plan.
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Wandering through all that daydreaming, I finally made it to my target — the place I’d already
visualized as a fat sack of coin. Shame you can’t just shake the building and have the money pour out. Nope — gotta talk. Convince. Maybe even threaten. That’s life.
That’s my duty. That’s the job.
I yanked my belt up a notch and strode into the courtyard with a bouncy, bureaucratic swagger — and immediately tripped over a log left right at the gate.
Ah, perfect. Definitely the right place — they process wood here, no doubt.
No wasting time. I headed for the low limestone house with the flat roof. Didn’t even make it to the door before a little girl flew out — cheeks streaked with dirt, tiny squashed-up nose — and immediately started yelping:
- You here for Mar David, yeah? Oh no, oh no, what a shame — he’s real sick! Poor Mar’s been struck down by weakness...
I acted like I wasn’t the least bit surprised by the girl’s sudden ambush and rehearsed little speech (though I was, in fact, floored), and straightening my back, I barked:
- Out of my way, Take me to your Rabbi. Can he speak, or is he completely out of it? She dropped her head to her chest and gave a couple of tiny sobs:
- Completely gone… Rabbi Jesh ben David is in charge
- Where can I find him to have a word? — I asked in my most official
She pointed toward the workshop next to David’s house. The place was no joke — damn thing was massive! I whistled inwardly and thought the old man had no business biting off more than he could chew. Should’ve thought twice before getting into this mess — and figured out how he was gonna pay taxes.
But whatever. Not my job to sit around and analyze other people’s decisions. Let them sort out their own headaches.
Turning away from the sniffling girl, I strode across the courtyard like I owned the place. Didn’t even knock — just walked straight into the workshop.
The walls were clay, scorched in spots, and the air reeked of sawdust (what else, right?).
The carpenter’s son stood where you’d expect — by the rope-driven lathe, sneaking glances toward the glue-boiling pit. What was he hoping to find in there? Maybe he figured the ashes might still spit out some spare coins.
What was on my tongue came out just as it was — sharp and mocking. I tossed the words at him:
- Hey, you deaf or just rude? You Jesh ben David, right? Then answer for your sick father and sort out this tax mess, since you’re acting head of the business now. Or else I’ll be marching into your home to check just how sick David really is — or whether you cooked up this whole act to dodge your dues!
I promised him divine wrath with a heavy stare — and the insolent (unbelievable!) ignored me completely.
He set his mallet down on a nearby bench (thank the gods — the last thing I wanted was a kneecap incident), and calmly grabbed a pair of tongs. Aiming carefully, he started pulling splinters from his worn-out hand.
I glanced quickly at the long, jagged scar curling down his left cheek, sizing up the risk of direct contact — and… my ego just couldn’t take it anymore.
How dare he treat me like this? Me! A government official! Someone to be — if not revered or worshipped — at least feared, and treated in accordance with my station!
So I puffed out my chest and started marching toward him, my tone low and menacing:
- You’ll regret this, carpenter! Oh, you’re going to suffer for this insolence! You blind or just thick? I’m an official! I can strip you of everything you have. So stop playing the fool and pay what’s due.
What happened next felt like a hallucination. Or something close to it. I can’t explain it to myself — let alone anyone else.
Without warning, Jesh dropped what he was doing, took two quick strides toward me — and then placed the edge of his palm to his own forehead, then to mine.
I yelped. The heat of that touch scorched me — worse than a blacksmith’s forge! Or maybe it just
felt that way because I was scared half to death by the weirdness of it. The fire wasn’t just physical
- it flared up inside me
My mouth twisted — in pain, in rage, in sheer indignity — and I stared into his eyes. Blue. Strangely blue. Not something you usually saw around here.
And what I saw in them? Absolutely nothing.
No ocean. No stars. No revelations that might set my soul ablaze. Nothing at all.
But then… I did see something. Something worse than the heat, worse than the shame. I saw pity.
That all-consuming, unbearable, stomach-turning pity. The kind that makes you feel like a beggar without even holding your hand out.
How did I recognize it? Oh, I know pity all too well. As well as a moneylender knows the absence of a conscience. My father used to look at me like that — when sending off his so-called “wayward” son into the world. My friend Raban, too, when he thought I wasn’t looking. But he was allowed. He showed me the light, after all.
Now I saw that same look in Jesh’s eyes. But something was different. His gaze wasn’t pitying me exactly — it was pity for the role I played. As if he thought I was just forced to act like this because of my rank. That I didn’t actually want to be this way.
But that’s not true. This is who I am.
I wanted to tell him that. I was ready to shout it, to shove it in his face — but when I opened my mouth… the words caught in my throat.
And still, not a single word from him. Not one. Just that unblinking, unwavering stare.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to get out. Or, as I told myself — make a “tactical retreat.” Step by step, I edged backward, my eyes glued to the floor.
He never looked away. Not once.
Then I slipped out of the workshop and broke into a near-run across the courtyard, not even noticing the girl by the gate — still standing there, smug little smirk on her face.
Should I be ashamed of running like that? Maybe. But honor only matters when you’re not this terrified.