Arcarius

Yehudah stood still, watching.

People flowed past him like a river around a rock, yet few seemed to notice him. He was simply an obstacle in a busy crowd, something to step around. Yehudah had always been good at fading into the background when he needed to.

He noted a few observations on his tablet, slid the stylus inside, folded it like a book and dropped it into a side pouch.

Yehudah had arrived to work early, setting out while the morning was still forgiving, taking the quieter roads towards the city before the heat settled. The roads were quieter then, with only a few traders heading towards the city while soldiers stood at the larger junctions watching them pass. Yehudah had learned not to look at the soldiers for too long. Men carrying weapons were often offended by interest.

By noon, construction on the Temple's west flank had brought the streets to a standstill once again. Men with tools forced their way between vehicles laden with silks, spices, food and livestock, all waiting for space among deliveries of timber and stone. Soldiers did their best to keep the traffic moving, even if only at a crawl.

The presence of soldiers still angered the local people. A reminder that the war had been lost. Men with better weapons had won. Now they worked beneath the watch of foreign soldiers and paid taxes to rulers most would never see. Their money travelled beyond their borders, while the cities rebuilt around them under the authority of the men who had defeated them.

Yehudah found the arrangement efficient. Better tools, cranes, concrete and meticulous record-keeping had transformed the site into a machine of remarkable precision.. The workers found it insulting. More insulting still was the freedom they had been allowed to keep. Their temples remained open and their priests continued to preach. The enemy did not consider the people's beliefs important enough to destroy. The enemy wanted roads, taxes and obedience. Faith was tolerated because faith cost less than rebellion.

Yehudah had arrived six weeks ago. He had with him a letter bearing the name of a man few wished to inconvenience. The letter secured him immediate employment as an arcarius. His methods quickly distinguished him, and responsibility for the project's finances was entrusted to him. The arrangement had not made him popular.

Men came to Yehudah when labour needed paying or materials required purchasing. Suppliers presented quantities which rarely agreed with those delivered, while workers developed a remarkable inability to remember how many days they had worked. Yehudah was very good at keeping records, and paid only what was owed. He had performed similar duties before, in different places and beneath rulers who had all considered themselves permanent. Men had changed very little. Only their methods of counting.

Money, however, was not what had led him here. It had been a rumour. When he had first heard it, he had paid it little attention. Someone had cured an ailment, though the details had long since escaped him. You could not throw a stone in these parts without hitting a healer, mystic or self-declared baptist. Faith was always strongest during times of desperation, and people would claim to be almost anything for money. Ordinarily, Yehudah would have dismissed the story along with the countless others he had heard over the years. Instead, one small detail had lingered in his mind. Something about removing shadows.

The rumour had proved difficult to trace. Few people spoke to Yehudah willingly, and those who did were careful with their words. Whoever the man was, he appeared to command a quiet respect among those who knew of him, yet nobody seemed prepared to reveal his identity. People protected valuable things. But Yehudah knew from experience that respect always had a price, and he had access to money.

Yehudah was still patiently standing amongst the bustle of bodies. His attention now was on two labourers splitting slabs. One man knelt holding a large chisel against a prepared groove, while the other stood above him with both hands on a heavy hammer. The hammer swung, rising and falling, and after each blow the kneeling man adjusted the chisel before the next strike. Both men had repeated the movement enough times to trust the other completely, which was precisely why the arrangement would work.

The man holding the hammer looked towards Yehudah. There was a brief pause, then the hammer rose and came down badly. Instead of striking the chisel, the head caught the kneeling man's hand and drove it against the slab beneath. The sound was dull but unmistakable. Yehudah heard the bones break before the man screamed.

The noise around them stopped almost immediately. The injured man fell backwards and pulled his wrist against his chest, while the man with the hammer dropped the tool and began apologising with considerably more enthusiasm than Yehudah considered necessary. Blood appeared between the injured man's fingers and ran along his forearm. Several workers moved closer. One attempted to inspect the hand and was pushed away.

Yehudah remained where he was and watched.

The injured man got to his feet. Someone wrapped the hand in cloth and another told him to sit, but he ignored them both. He looked around with an urgency Yehudah had been waiting to see, then began pushing his way through the gathered men with the damaged hand held tightly against his chest.

Yehudah allowed him a short distance before following.

The man moved quickly. Blood had already soaked through the cloth and drops fell onto the dry ground behind him, darkening the dust for a few moments before being absorbed. Yehudah followed the trail past the stores, and between two rows of temporary scaffolding, keeping far enough back to avoid notice. At the road the blood became difficult to distinguish among footprints and wheel marks, and for the first time Yehudah considered that he might have misjudged the situation.

Two tents stood ahead. The first was empty. As Yehudah approached the second, he heard voices from inside. Yehudah stopped beside the entrance.

"There is no pain."

The voice belonged to the injured man. Yehudah pulled the covering aside.

Inside were benches. Precision tools such as measuring cords, brushes, squares, plumb bobs and straightedges hung from hooks, each with its own place. Several limestone blocks rested on timber supports, their surfaces marked with careful charcoal lines.

The bloodied cloth lay discarded on the ground. The injured worker stood in the centre of the tent, staring at his hand as he slowly opened and closed his fingers. He repeated the movement several times, studying each joint as though the hand belonged to someone else. There was blood on his skin but no wound beneath it. No swelling. No distortion. Yehudah had heard the bones break. He knew exactly what the hand should have looked like.

The stonemason stood nearby watching him. His apron was worn smooth with years of use. His forearms were white with limestone dust and his knuckles bore the familiar cuts and scars of a craftsman who worked with stone every day.

He did not appear surprised.

"Close your mouth," said the stonemason.

"But..."

"Close it."

The worker obeyed, although his attention immediately returned to his hand.

"Go back to work."

"They saw what happened."

"You were working."

"What do I tell them?"

"Nothing."

The worker opened his hand again.

The stonemason sighed.

"And stop checking."

The worker frowned.

"Checking what?"

"Your hand."

The worker looked at him blankly.

"It is healed," said the stonemason. "It will still be healed when you get outside."

Only then did the worker notice Yehudah standing in the entrance. His expression changed immediately. Yehudah understood why. The man knew who controlled the flow of money. He also knew the kind of influence required to acquire such a position, and the sort of acquaintances a man like Yehudah must have. To men like him, Yehudah was no better than the soldiers. Perhaps worse. Yehudah stepped aside and allowed him to pass. The stonemason gestured towards two empty stools beside the workbench. "Sit."

Yehudah entered the workshop and accepted the invitation. For several moments neither man spoke. Yehudah studied the workshop before he studied its owner. "You act as though you expected me," Yehudah said.

The stonemason considered this. "You came with a question."

"I have many questions."

"One brought you here."

Yehudah smiled slightly. He was not accustomed to being spoken to this way, least of all by a stonemason. Men had learned to choose their words carefully around him, and those who had not usually learned soon after. Yehudah had not acquired his position by tolerating disrespect. For now, however, he was prepared to make an exception. What this man knew was worth more to him than pride. "I see the shadows move," Yehudah said. "Most men do not see them. I have spent much of my life trying to understand why I can. It is not something an educated man discusses openly, particularly one trusted with responsibility."

"But you discuss it with me." The stonemason watched him for several seconds. "You broke his hand."

Yehudah's smile fell, "I did not touch him."

"No."

"Then you accuse me wrongly."

Outside, hammers struck stone while men called to one another across the construction site. A vehicle rolled past the entrance, its wheels grinding against the road.

The stonemason waited until the sound had faded. "What did it cost?"

Yehudah frowned. "What?"

"The man's hand."

"I don't understand."

"How much did you pay?"

Yehudah glanced towards the entrance. The worker and the man with the hammer were nowhere to be seen. There was no obvious reason for the stonemason to know that money had changed hands. "Two coins."

"Was he worth two?"

"His hand is healed,” said Yehudah.

"That does not answer my question."

"The answer to my question answers yours."

"And yet... you still have not asked it."

"Can you see them?" asked Yehudah. "The shadow creatures?"

The stonemason nodded once, but said nothing.

"Rumor steered me here. That you do not fear them. That you have power over them. If this is true, then you will teach me."

"A teacher, is that what people say I am?" asked the stonemason.

"No, they call you by many names,” said Yehudah. “Most call you Yochanan the prophet."

"And, who do you say I am?"

“I don’t,” replied Yehudah, his expression neutral.

The stonemason said nothing.

"Then, you will teach me!" Yehudah proclaimed.

"Only if you can listen."