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searched my memory and could not recollect anything past breakfast with Martha.
    “When? After breakfast?”
    “It was two days ago, David.” She stroked my forehead with a cool cloth. My head felt three times its normal size, and one side of my mouth would not work properly.
    “An accident?” My body hurt too much for this to be a small matter.
    Behind Martha, a burly Greek in a turban spoke from the corner of the room. “You were beaten by the Roman soldiers, my friend.”
    I blinked at him. “I don’t know you,” I said bluntly.
    “I am Porthos, whom you helped in pursuit of a cutpurse when we entered Jerusalem. I chanced upon you unconscious in the street outside the home of your friend Judah ben Perez.”
    Some glimmer returned. “I went to visit Judah. Yes?”
    Martha nodded. She gently touched my cheek. “Yes. David, do you remember what happened?”
    “No. I … something about … a thief … and this fellow Porthos. And then … climbing the Street of the Stairs to Judah’s house. But then … nothing.”
    Martha glanced toward Porthos, imploring him to explain.
    He moved nearer, pulling up a stool. “As a Roman contingent passed the house of your friend, a cart spilled its load and the ambassador’s horse threw him. He will live, but Judah and his family were arrested.”
    “But that cannot be … Judah?” A row of spiny stitches stretching from the corner of my mouth toward my ear prickled my cautious fingers.
    “Yes. I regret that when you tried to give testimony, you were beaten nearly to death.” Porthos patted my arm.
    “And you. Helped me. Saved my life.”
    The big man leaned back as though my comment was a wasp to be avoided. “No. Not me. I am not so courageous as you. I did not interfere with your beating. I saw the villains drag away your friend Judah and lead his family away. He fought like a lion. The women went meekly. And then, only after everyone dangerous had gone, I gathered you up and brought you home here to Bethany.”
    Martha said, “I barely recognized you. Your face is badly swollen.”
    I touched my cheek and winced. I managed to sit up. “What’s to be done?”
    Martha and Porthos exchanged a glance.
    “You must get well, brother,” Martha said in a matter-of-fact tone.
    I argued, “I mean, what’s to be done for Judah? Innocent! For Jemima and their mother. Arrested unjustly!”
    Porthos furrowed his brow. “Many on the street witnessed the accident. And it truly was … an accident. A few tried to speak up for Judah, but you see … look at yourself. Clubbed into silence. An example for others who may wish to set the record straight. Truth makes no difference to tyrants.”
    “But surely I can go to the high priest. Give testimony to the Sanhedrin.”
    Porthos shook his shaggy head. “It was not a matter for the Jewish council to deliberate and judge. It is a Roman matter. Your friend was tried and condemned the very same day. That’s all I know.”

    I recovered quickly from my injuries and returned to my work.
    Samson and his winery goats were a small legend in the world of the Roman Empire. My estate also sold enormous wheels of cheese produced from goat herds that grazed on the pastures. Samson’s pets had nothing to do with dairy production, yet, from the time I inherited the property, I devised a seal showing three goats on a wine vat. This was pressed into the wax that protected the cheese.
    This seal and Samson’s goats were destined to safeguard more than the cheese.
    Samson and I were in the barn where new barrels for the harvest were being made by my cooper, a young man of about twenty-five. My barrelmaker was a British slave named Patrick. From his youth he had been trained as a blacksmith and barrelmaker, tasked with building containers to hold provisions for the Roman army. His foot was crushed when a stack of barrels shifted during a rough sea voyage. To save his life the gangrenous leg had been amputated below the knee. Unable to march or