In his preoccupation with the westerners both all too real and as yet all too imaginary, Moishe had barely noticed the passage of time. The fifth court, to his surprise, was nearly done. The sixth was rising with gratifying speed. The masters of the Diaspora were increasingly less pleased with the Temple and its builders, but the Lord, it seemed, did not share their opinion.
Work under the western wall was not going so well, but it was progressing. None of those involved had seen fit to inform the guests of that particular portion of the Temple's building. It was a tactical decision, made before Moishe could offer his own suspicions. An enemy who knew of the caverns and of the weakness that they represented could bring down the Temple.
Such summer heat as Chengdu knew had descended, and with it an influx of idlers and pilgrims from the lower plains. To them this heat was blissfully cool. They filled the city and crowded the Temple, gaping at its wonders.
The city's market had in past years shown a tendency to spill over into the first court of the Temple. The priests allowed it because the merchants paid a portion of their profits into the Temple's coffers. It was a useful arrangement, permitted by the Khan, whose treasury took its share of the profits as well.
In that crowd of gawkers and pilgrims, it was a great deal more difficult than it had been to keep watch over the westerners. The guards were in more difficulty than the watchers and spies-they were more obvious and therefore easier to elude.
The westerners, of course, were not even slightly amused by the sight of commerce in the Temple-and never mind that both the First and Second Temples had been markets in their day. This was a more righteous age, said the Rebbe of Prague. When by the Lord's will there was a Third Temple in Jerusalem-for he would not grant that this was the Third Temple itself-its courts would never suffer such an outrage.
He said this to Abraham Han Li, who so far had managed to leave these troublesome guests in Moishe's care. But there was no escaping the occasional press of duty. He had refused the Rebbe's invitation to dinner seven times already-Moishe had kept count.
"Accept once," Moishe said, "and the duty is done. I'll make sure you won't be asked again."
"Swear to that by the honor of your ancestral clan," said Abraham Han Li, "and I may-may-consider it."
"Agree to it, master," Moishe said, "and you won't have to look at them again until we celebrate the eve of their departure."
"May that be soon," growled the chief architect. "Very well. I'll waste an evening that could better be spent building the Temple, and you will waste it with me."
Moishe suppressed a sigh. Duty was duty, as he had reminded his master. Abraham Han Li would suffer duly for it: he would have to hear from his host that his entire great work and devotion to the Lord was a false construction, the child of a delusion.
He maintained a remarkable degree of calm in the circumstances. Moishe was proud of him.
"Tisha B'Av," said Barak.
Moishe had been seated beside him, an arrangement to which he would have objected strenuously if he had been on his guard. A place well down the table, among the least of the rabbinical students, would have suited him much better. But this was the westerners' banquet. They had seated him near the head of the table, between Barak and the assistant to the Rebbe of Prague.
It was a banquet in the western style. Its dishes were heavy and strange, its spices familiar but oddly combined. Guests were expected to bring a knife and a spoon to the table. There were no chopsticks; nothing so civilized. Moishe overheard one of the younger Chinese rabbis murmur to another, "Knives at the table-barbaric! I wonder how many banquets end in bloodshed?"
Thank the Lord, none of the westerners seemed to understand the dialect of southern Hunan. In any case they had their own obsession, and it had nothing to do with food or the eating of it.
"Tisha B'Av," Barak said. "It's nearly upon us. Do you observe the rite?"
His expression was bland, his tone courteous. Moishe was careful to respond in kind. "Certainly we mourn the sorrows of the people, and the downfall of the First and Second Temples, each on the same day of the same month, half a thousand years apart. Is there any Jew in the world who does not?"
"I had wondered," Barak said, apparently unoffended to be lectured like a child. "So much else is… different."
"It's the same God," Moishe said, "and the same Books of the Law. Interpretations will vary even within the schools of the west-is that not what the Talmud is? Sacred argument that goes on for years, centuries-voices out of time, offering opinions and counteropinions. Ours is a lively faith, honored sir, and very much alive. And living things grow. They change."
"Not all change is desirable," said Barak. "Some in the west would say that the Christians are a radical sect of our own faith. We disagree. The Messiah has not come-though wars have been fought in his name, and nations have risen to oppress us because we refuse to accept their falsehood."
"Christians are harmless eccentrics in our part of the world," Moishe said. "We had one here not long ago, calling us heretics and condemning us for building a temple to an outmoded God. Our rabbis demolished his arguments. He ended the day a convert. You may have seen him in the newest court. He has a divine gift for working stone."
"Ours are seldom so easily persuaded," Barak said with little pleasure. "The sad truth of the matter is, they rule the world."
"Not our world," Moishe said. "And not yours, either-not for long. Our Khan has taken his Horde westward, and where the Horde goes, so does the Covenant. Your Christians will fall. You'll take back Jerusalem then, if you want it; the Khan has said so."
Barak's lips tightened. "We spoke with him," he said, "east of Poland. He was gracious." And that was not easy for him to admit. "He told us what he meant to do. Some of us were deeply gratified."
"But not you."
"Outside of the Lord's Word," Barak said, "I believe only what I see."
"Ah," said Moishe, and only that. He knew what Barak had been seeing in Chengdu, and had a fair sense of what he thought of it. He took care to shift the conversation to less dangerous topics: the quality of the bread, the flavor of the western wine.
It was, all in all, not the most pleasant banquet that Moishe had attended, but it was useful. Somewhat to his surprise, Abraham Han Li concurred. The chief architect was singularly dedicated to his art, but if he was forced to participate in mere human diversions, he could be surprisingly and piercingly astute.
"Tisha B'Av," he said. "They were making particular reference to that. Almost as if we were being taunted-or warned."
"The day on which both Temples fell-twice," Moishe said. A chill walked down his spine. "You don't think-"
"It's not my duty to think," Abraham Han Li said, "of anything but raising this Temple within the time allotted by God and the Khan."
That was manifestly true. Moishe bowed to it, and the man. "Master, Tisha B'Av is only half a month away. They're visibly hostile. What if they're plotting something? What if-"
"There is no army descending on us," said Abraham Han Li. He met Moishe's start of shock with a sardonic arch of the brow. "What, you thought I didn't know about that? I had a visit from the commander of the city garrison. He wanted me to know that he meant no disrespect to the son of the Red Wolf khan, and certainly none to my second in command, but what did I think of this obsession of yours? That forced me to depart from duty for a not particularly pleasant hour."