men of our times, destiny was determined at birth. I grow and sell timber, as did a host of ancestors that stretch back to a military man, Demostrate, who cut trees and constructed bridges for Alexander and his army along his long march of conquest.
What is known and revered in family lore is this: when Alexander died in the East and his army made their way back to Macedonia, Demostrate chose to settle along the way, as did many others. He purchased land in the south of the province of Syria, land filled with trees valuable for woodworking—cedar, cypress, poplar, oak, and olive.
For fourteen generations of sons with Greek names, we have been wood merchants. Illness took my two older brothers and now I, Alexios, am the final son in this trade. It will end with me. Years ago my beloved Sophia died in childbirth, as did my stillborn son. My heart has never found joy in the thought of marrying another. The family trade will end with me.
But I digress.
For some time now I have been the premier tree farmer in the southern part of Syria. My laborers prune my trees carefully, and they are beautiful to behold as they grow strong and true. For every tree I cut, two are planted to assure a continuing supply. It was no surprise to me that Joseph’s father, a Jew from Galilee in the South, would hear of me as he searched for wood of a superior quality.
He was nearing sixty when we met. Cheerful of countenance, he was a simple, honest man who did not dicker over prices, a great difference from others who visited my storehouses of hewn cedar and cypress and other woods. We’d reach a point in the sale at which he would clap his hands, beam at me, and exclaim, “That’s that, then.”
I believe it was on his fifth annual trip that his son accompanied him, a young man in his twenties.
“My only child,” his father said, smiling, “but the Lord has been gracious to me. Joseph has the strength of three men and the wisdom of four.”
The next year Joseph came alone and I learned the truth of the first part of his father’s words. It was a day when no laborers were present to load the long horse cart. Once we had reached agreement on the price, Joseph proceeded to pull the trimmed and bucksaw-hewn trunks from their bins onto a loading table. He found the midpoint of each one, grunted, lifted, and slowly proceeded to the nearby cart. When he had loaded the last tree trunk in the cart, he turned and laughed at my amazement.
“In my other work, I help carry stones from quarry to cart for a friend.”
Not for several more visits did he accept my invitation to stay the night and become better acquainted over cups of fine wine.
3
On the day of Joseph’s sixth annual visit, as usual in early spring of the year, the choice of woods lasted into early afternoon so that loading of the cart took longer than usual. On this occasion, he accepted my invitation to stay the night.
We dined on chicken and sliced vegetables from the garden. My housekeeper washed up and left us with another jar of wine. We moved to more comfortable chairs near the hearth. The evenings were cool and a fire had been lighted earlier.
There was a matter I had been thinking about since his last visit. I leaned toward him after we had dispensed with idle chatter.
“My friend, you need a wife,” I told him bluntly.
He laughed. “Alexios, such a sudden change to a serious subject.”
“I have been thinking. You are in the same situation that I find myself. My brothers had no children. Nor do I. It is time to marry and have children.”
“We shall both be rude,” he responded. “What you suggest seems more suited to yourself. You are older than I by at least ten more years.” He smiled to take the bite from his words. “Less time to be a father.”
I leaned back in my chair and raised my cup of wine to him.
“Ah, but I was married. To a beautiful, wonderful woman. We were to have a child, but her heart was not strong enough for a long delivery. Our son died with her.”
Joseph stared at me. “I am so sorry to hear of this. My father never mentioned it.”
“It was before he came to me.” I shrugged. “I have made my peace with the life I have and do not wish to search for another wife.”
“There is yet time for a son and heir. Or several sons.”
“No. For me a housekeeper is sufficient. She makes excellent meals at a reasonable cost, keeps the house clean, and washes my clothes when needed. She never argues with me about anything and returns to her own family at the end of the day, leaving me in peace.”
I turned the issue back to him.
“Surely your father has spoken of this marriage matter?”
“Yes.” He turned his gaze to the logs in the hearth that gave us warmth from their ruddy embers. “It seems a more pressing matter for you.”
I laughed. “To find someone whose only duty is to produce a son? Is that what I am to do?”
“Alexios!”
“That is the relationship you suggest. For the sake of a possible son or sons to carry on the work?” I snorted. “It would not be fair to the woman! In my heart I still mourn my Sophia.”
Joseph was silent.
I pressed him again. “Surely in Nazareth or elsewhere in Galilee there is a woman for you who will bring you the joy of many children.”
“My father has spoken of this.”
“Has he been more specific? Names?”
Joseph laughed and turned to me. “Once or twice he has said to me, ‘Pass by the town well today at midday and watch for the one who curtsies to you.’”
“And what has come of this?”
“Nothing but girls giggling as I pass by.”
“No curtsy?”
“Oh, yes, but well hidden in the flock of gigglers.”
“Hmm. I think your father should be more definite.”
Joseph’s eyes turned to survey the fire in the hearth. “My mother presses him. I sometimes hear them speaking of it.” After a pause, he said, “You still have time for a son. Or sons.”
I stood and grasped the tongs by the hearth and settled the logs.
“I will get a good price for my land and trees. One day. But you, an only son. A son in his twenties. Surely you have sufficient means by now to afford a wife.”
I turned back to him but he avoided my eyes.
“There is not always harmony in my house,” he said.
“Your father is a man of good cheer.”
“Indeed. A man innocent of malice. He is not the problem.”
“A common story,” I remarked
