“There are whispers…. That they have come to bring the Mashiach”

For days, they have traveled across the countryside; a muffled tattoo on springy ground. Now, as they ride into Jerusalem, the cobblestones ring with the sharp sound of the horses’ hooves. There is no chance of melting into the people on the streets, the workers of the wall, the horsemen arriving with dispatches or deliveries. Eliyahu finds himself tense, though he does not know why.

The guards direct them around the perimeter of the city, and they stare: foremen pointing, workers, red-faced and sweating, ropes and stone, bricks and cement. Calling, climbing, pouring, hefting, grunting, lifting and there it is: another brick lifted and laid.

They do not linger, merely take in the sights as they ride directly to the offices of Abraham Castro. They dismount, and stand, waiting for him to come out to them.

Eliyahu has heard of the man; it is impossible not to. The Egyptian Jew wears a turban on his head, but he eschews the modest colors of the Jews, wearing instead a silk cloak of burgundy. When he moves, Eliyahu sees that the man’s turban hangs with chains of gold. He is accompanied by a secretary.

“We carry with us deep respect and gratitude for the graciousness of the Sultan.”

Castro nods, his eyes on the parchment in his hands.

He stares at each of them in turn, and if he is surprised by the ragtag group of workers from Tzfat, he does not show it.

“You will need to register with the administrative office,” he says. He points to a large tent pitched a short distance away.

Yannai steps forward. Eliyahu watches, braiding his fingers together, as if he is a Kohein, giving a priestly blessing to Yannai’s efforts.

Yannai raises his voice. “We would only hinder your workers, if you set us to work on the wall.”

“How so?” The man is only half listening. He has already started talking to his secretary.

“None of us know Arabic. We would not be able to follow instructions.”