A crowd began to gather in the courtyard, murmuring, pointing. Malkiel felt their stares piercing the back of his head. He glanced nervously at his master, who put his hoary hand over his. Malkiel was comforted.
The judge entered, and the murmuring died down. “Malkiel ben Naftali?” Malkiel swallowed hard. “Yes.” “What brings you here?” “I love my master,” he recited the much-practised words, “and my wife and children; I will not go free.” “And you, sir,” the judge turned to the master, “do you love your servant?” “Yes.” “Then come forth, both of you.”
Malkiel gave the old man his arm and they stepped down, moving through the parted crowds toward the courtyard gates. Just like the day I was sold, thought Malkiel. Only no one held his hand then.
He had faced the court alone that day, a trembling youth of 16. Three months earlier he had arrived in Jerusalem, ignorant and penniless, and had fallen in with a gang of petty thieves. It wasn’t long before he was arrested. That day in court, Malkiel thought his life was over. A convicted criminal. A thief, robbed of his freedom. An indentured slave.
But soon he grew to love his master. He loved accompanying him to the market in his livery, his opinion consulted before each purchase. He loved being introduced to Jerusalem’s nobility. He loved Arsai, to whom he was wedded at 18, and little Danel and Keret who followed. He did not want to leave.
“I love my master,” he repeated, as they bound him to the gatepost, “and my wife and children; I will not go free.” They handed his master the awl. Malkiel closed his eyes. A cry, yet the voice was not his own. He opened his eyes. The old man was lying on the ground. “The master is dead,” announced the judge. “The servant must go free.”