Читать книгу The Joseph Dialogues - Alan Sorem - Страница 7

Joseph’s carpenter father first approached me in the year that the Senate in Rome named Octavian “Imperator Caesar Divi Filius Augustus.” Fine Latin words that are meaningless to those who are far from Rome. Our trade in the prosperous regions of the East continues to be conducted in Greek; those who pride themselves on bilingual excellence tell me that the words mean “Emperor Caesar Augustus the Divine Son.” We knew him simply by his Greek name, Sebastos.

Other than recurring tax levies, the affairs of Rome in those days caused few ripples for us on the eastern shore of the Great Sea. From Rome, Augustus controlled Egypt and other wealthy lands in North Africa. As Julius Caesar’s stepson he had inherited two-thirds of the assassinated emperor’s wealth. In every crisis he had ample funds to resolve matters quickly. In the West, the Iberian tribes were a recent conquest. The concerns of ever-expansive Rome at the time I write involve battles for conquest of the Germanic tribes along the Rhine.

For men of our times, destiny was determined at birth. I grow and sell timber, as did a host of ancestors that stretch back to a military man, Demostrate, who cut trees and constructed bridges for Alexander and his army along his long march of conquest.

What is known and revered in family lore is this: when Alexander died in the East and his army made their way back to Macedonia, Demostrate chose to settle along the way, as did many others. He purchased land in the south of the province of Syria, land filled with trees valuable for woodworking—cedar, cypress, poplar, oak, and olive.

For fourteen generations of sons with Greek names, we have been wood merchants. Illness took my two older brothers and now I, Alexios, am the final son in this trade. It will end with me. Years ago my beloved Sophia died in childbirth, as did my stillborn son. My heart has never found joy in the thought of marrying another. The family trade will end with me.

But I digress.

For some time now I have been the premier tree farmer in the southern part of Syria. My laborers prune my trees carefully, and they are beautiful to behold as they grow strong and true. For every tree I cut, two are planted to assure a continuing supply. It was no surprise to me that Joseph’s father, a Jew from Galilee in the South, would hear of me as he searched for wood of a superior quality.

He was nearing sixty when we met. Cheerful of countenance, he was a simple, honest man who did not dicker over prices, a great difference from others who visited my storehouses of hewn cedar and cypress and other woods. We’d reach a point in the sale at which he would clap his hands, beam at me, and exclaim, “That’s that, then.”

I believe it was on his fifth annual trip that his son accompanied him, a young man in his twenties.

“My only child,” his father said, smiling, “but the Lord has been gracious to me. Joseph has the strength of three men and the wisdom of four.”

The next year Joseph came alone and I learned the truth of the first part of his father’s words. It was a day when no laborers were present to load the long horse cart. Once we had reached agreement on the price, Joseph proceeded to pull the trimmed and bucksaw-hewn trunks from their bins onto a loading table. He found the midpoint of each one, grunted, lifted, and slowly proceeded to the nearby cart. When he had loaded the last tree trunk in the cart, he turned and laughed at my amazement.

“In my other work, I help carry stones from quarry to cart for a friend.”

Not for several more visits did he accept my invitation to stay the night and become better acquainted over cups of fine wine.