Campbell The Doomed Disciple

God Doesn't Write Tragic Endings
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 979-8-3509-3418-2
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 400 Seiten

Reihe: The Doomed Disciple

Judas was no hero. But this story is not about Judas. This is not the story of Judas the villain, who plotted to betray his Master for greed. This is not even the story of Judas the man, who was placed on the brink of greatness and made a horrible choice. This is not the story of the man who failed - though it is told through his eyes. This is the story of the Man who came to save him.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Campbell, Paul

Leseproben

II The day was warm when Judas stepped out of Joseph’s office and into the central courtyard of his home. The weather was finally cooling from the dry months, but summer still lingered as fall approached. Smells wafted from the kitchen in preparation for the noonday meal, and Judas’s stomach rumbled. He had eaten at Joseph’s table often during his time as the man’s steward, and he would miss the sumptuous meals: not only the fresh produce from the man’s farmland, but also imported delicacies and spices from his trading enterprises. Joseph funded three merchant ships that sailed from Joppa, and he made the most of them. Judas glanced at the house servants bustling about the courtyard as he left. None paid him any mind. They were used to him meeting with the master. From their perspective today was no different. Joseph’s comment bubbled up in Judas’s brain: You could keep your reputation. Joseph had confronted him in secret. So far as anyone else knew, Judas still held his job. He still had a chance to leave on his own terms. “Zed!” he called as he passed the stables, motioning for one of the servants to follow him as he continued. A plan was forming in his mind, but he didn’t have much time. Zedekiah quickly set down his shovel and hurried over. “Sir?” he asked, wiping his brow with the back of his arm, smearing the dust and sweat. “Send messengers to every farmer who leases from our master. I must speak to them all—individually—today. No time to waste. Send them to my house. I’ll meet them there.” Zedekiah was a household servant, but he had been in Joseph’s employ long enough that the other servants followed his orders. Plus, Zed had an ample supply of discretion—and he owed Judas a favor. “Right away, sir,” Zed replied, hurrying off to fulfill his commission. Judas continued on toward his home at a quick walk. It wasn’t his home, exactly; it was the house of whomever happened to be steward, and it belonged to the estate. Judas was the steward, so he lived there—at least for the next few hours. It was about two miles away and closer to the fields than the master’s mansion so that the steward could manage and supervise the workers more easily, and they could have quick access to answers or redress if the occasion warranted. Normally, Judas didn’t mind the walk, but today it was all he could do to keep a dignified pace. Men of position did not run. Messengers ran and beggars ran. Running was a direct affront to polite society—plus it would warn the farmers that something was wrong. Judas kept a dignified pace until he reached his dwelling. He quickly shut the door of his simple, one-room house and began gathering his things. He didn’t have much: an extra cloak, a coat for winter, and a little money he had kept back for emergencies. Everything else came with the position, and although Judas had been embezzling from his master since nearly the beginning, he was not about to stoop so low as to steal household supplies. He would leave this little house as it had been. However, he did take some food. He stuffed everything into his bedroll and quickly rolled it up. It looked a little thicker than usual, but nobody would be the wiser. He checked the bright rectangle of light on the floor that streamed in from the window. He still had plenty of time before sundown. He turned his attention to the accounts, settling himself down at his own simple desk that doubled as his table. He brushed off a few crumbs from breakfast and opened the most recent tallies. He hesitated for a moment and glanced over the entries. Everything looked in order. Somehow, Joseph had stumbled upon a discrepancy between the numbers Judas reported and the numbers the farmers paid. Looking back, it wasn’t surprising. Joseph was constantly among the workers. He often hired day laborers himself. But Judas hadn’t cheated the day laborers. He couldn’t quite hit on how his master had discovered the change—not that it mattered now. He flinched at the sudden knock on his door. “Sir?” Zed’s voice came through the wood. “Samuel of the olive grove is here, sir.” “Excellent, Zedekiah. Send him in. Send in the next when he leaves.” “Yes, sir,” Zed said, opening the door and ushering Samuel in. Judas wasn’t surprised to see the old olive farmer here first. The groves were nearby. Samuel was an old man, but hardy. There was not a servant in Joseph’s house that looked the least impoverished. Joseph was a generous master. Judas had nothing bad to say about the man except that he was far too trusting. Perhaps that would change. “You want’d t’ see me, sir?” Samuel asked, standing with his hands clasped in front of him. “Yes, come in, Samuel. Quickly, now. Have a seat,” Judas replied, glancing again at the creeping square of light slowly inching toward sundown. “You lease land from Joseph, yes? He will be going through all his holdings with a fine-toothed comb in the next few days. How much is required to lease his land?” Samuel licked dry lips and dropped his gaze. “Well, it’s been rather harsh these years. Wit’ increas’d taxes from Rome, an’ ‘em flies this year...” He drifted off. Judas had no time for the usual negotiations. “How much do you currently owe Joseph?” he asked, cutting directly to the chase. “Oh. Well. A hun’erd measures of oil... sir,” he admitted. “But the hot summer’ll take care of ‘em flies. If the God of our fathers looks fav’rably on next’s harvest, should almost cover what’s due. I don’t see need to be concerned over—” “Here it is,” Judas said, cutting him off. He spun the book so it faced Samuel. “Samuel ben Simeon. Deficit: one hundred measures of oil.” He tapped the entry. “See it?” “I do, sir.” The workers were another matter, but the farmers who leased Joseph’s fields could all read and write—at least enough for business, if not for the study of the Torah. Judas was an educated man, but not all Jews were so lucky. If every Jew could read, the scribes would be penniless. Judas pushed a quill and inkwell toward the grizzled farmer. “Cross it out and write fifty.” “What?” Samuel said, stunned. “Cross it out and write fifty!” Judas repeated, eyes continuing to glance toward that creeping square of light. He needed more time. “Me, sir?” “Yes, you!” He sighed, forcing down his impatience. Farmers were not accountants. “You must write it in to prove that we both agreed upon this sum. It’s my account book; if there is an error, the blame will fall to me. But there will be no error, I assure you. Your debt is reduced. Congratulations. Joseph knows it has been a hard year. Take the blessing and go! I haven’t time to explain every detail.” Samuel still struggled to process what was happening. “But... Tha’s nearly a year’s wages!” “Yes. You gain a year gratis. You’re a hard worker, and you deserve it. Now, write it in quickly! I have other people to see!” “Yes, sir!” Samuel said, quickly taking the pen and crossing out a year’s salary from Joseph’s income. “Blessings be on you and your master’s house!” He stood, nearly in tears, and hurried from the house. Judas waited a moment for the next farmer to enter, until he grew impatient. “Zed! Next!” he shouted. Through the mud brick walls of his house, Judas saw Zed flinch in his mind’s eye. He smiled to himself as Zed threw open the door and practically tossed another farmer inside. “Jonathan. Good to see you,” Judas said before the man could collect himself. “Sit down, if you please. Quickly. How much do you owe?” “How much do I owe?” Jon asked stupidly. Judas sighed irritably. “You lease land from Joseph. Each year, he receives a portion of your crop based on a set sum or the equivalent in coin, etcetera, etcetera. The harvest is over except for some late pomegranates. You’ve had ample time to sell the crop. What do you owe?” “Well, that’s true, but Joseph has never expected payment immediately. I’ve always—” “The ledger says a hundred measures of wheat. Is that correct?” “Now, I may come up a little short on that,” Jon protested. “Wheat’s down this year.” Again with the bargaining. Usually, Judas relished the back-and-forth, the challenge of making a deal which convinced both parties they were the ones getting a bargain. Today, he did not care. “Doesn’t matter. Cross it out and write in eighty,” Judas said, tapping the entry with a nervous finger. “I—what, sir?” Jon said, looking up at him sharply. If every farmer was going to be so tedious, Judas would never get done in time. “Consider it a bonus for faithful service.” “Sir! Even with the drop in wheat prices, that’s—” “Nearly a year’s wages,” Judas finished, nodding to speed things along. “I know! Put your sign by the entry to make it official. Give an offering at the...