The Ironsmith by Nicholas Guild

intrusion, sire,” Eleazar replied, bowing from the waist. “If this is not a convenient time…”
    â€œNonsense! We’re finished here.” He pulled himself up into a sitting posture, his legs dangling over the edge of the block, and then, scowling at the slave, waved a hand in dismissal.
    â€œGo on, go on, you fool. See if the stones are sufficiently heated.”
    He turned back to his minister and smiled. “Come and take a little steam with me,” he said, as if to an intimate and trusted friend. “You look as if it would do you good.”
    Eleazar sighed and proffered his thanks to his benevolent master. He hated from his soul all these foreign innovations, and Antipas doubtless knew it, but it made no difference. He stepped into a changing closet, put off his priestly garments, and wrapped himself in a strip of linen that would hardly have done for a loincloth.
    When he came out, Antipas was already in the steam chamber.
    â€œOne cannot entrust this to a slave,” the Tetrarch said in Greek, the language he preferred in private, as he ladled water over black, twisted stones. The water hissed and bubbled, and the air was rapidly thickening. “The steam has to gather at a certain rate or one doesn’t begin to sweat properly. I learned the trick in Rome, when I was a boy.”
    He looked about him, admiring the white marble that enclosed a space hardly bigger than a tomb, and suddenly he grinned with mischief.
    â€œSit down, Eleazar. Here you may relax. Here, with just the two of us, we can for the moment put court etiquette aside.”
    Eleazar sat down, but he could not relax. He had been acquainted with Antipas for thirty years, and had served him for twenty, and he knew that the man was never so dangerous as when he assumed this affable manner.
    â€œNow. What did you wish to see me about?”
    They talked of administrative matters first. It was perhaps an hour before the First Minister broached the subject which had tortured his mind ever since the preceding evening.
    â€œSire, there is the question of this preacher, John.…”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œJohn, Sire—called ‘the Baptist’. He immerses people in the Jordan, claiming to take away their sins.”
    â€œOh, him. What of him?” The Tetrarch seemed to go inside himself for a moment, as if to recall some detail of the matter. “He insulted my wife, didn’t he?”
    â€œHe said your marriage was an unclean thing, Lord.”
    â€œThat’s right. I remember now.” And then, suddenly, he laughed. “But you, in your time, have said no less.”
    This seemed a comment wisest ignored.
    â€œCaleb, it appears, has arrested him,” the First Minister continued quietly, as if breaking bad news.
    â€œYes. I remember he said something about it.”
    â€œThen you gave your permission?” The inquiry was made to sound as bland as possible.
    â€œYes, I suppose so. Why? The fellow is dangerous.”
    â€œPerhaps, sire,” Eleazar said at last. “Perhaps not. But I suspect he is more dangerous in prison than out of it. Many people revere him as a prophet, and even more respect him. If we put him to death—and we will almost be obliged to if we hold him for any period of time—then those people will be outraged.”
    â€œWhat do I care if they are ‘outraged’? I am the law in Galilee and Perea, not they.”
    â€œYes, sire. But discontent can boil over at any time. If there is a riot, then you will be forced to use soldiers to quell it. The Romans are watching us, and they might overreact.”
    The Tetrarch seemed not to have heard. Sweat was collecting in the creases of his face and he looked exhausted. He took a corner of his linen wrap and wiped his forehead, then his eyes.
    But he had been listening. Any mention of the Romans always caught his attention. He could, to a degree, ignore the opinions of his subjects,