Glory and the Lightning (27 page)

Now she could see the heavens again clearly and they both gazed at them in a silence that was more than speech. At last Al Taliph said, “Men and women do not speak the same language, as you have remarked before, my love, even if they use the same words. That is our curse or possibly a divine mercy. When I speak of God it is with the terrible awareness that I must deserve His own awareness of me. But when women speak of God it is with importunity for favors and a superb confidence that His Ear is open to them always and that He is even gratified that they remember Him. Enough. Let us live our lives as harmlessly as possible—even if we invariably fail. Who knows but what our intentions have weight also with Him, and that He understands?”

He dropped to his knees suddenly and bowed his head into the dust and grass, and was still, and Aspasia watched, marveling at his complexity, shaking her head the while. But her love for him was like a wild and renewed fire in her heart and she yielded to it. Was it possibly enough that one should love even if understanding failed? Had not a philosopher said, “Love, or perish”? So, Eros like Justice, must remain blind and forgive always.

Al Taliph rose from his knees. The hood fell from his head and his dusky face was very moved yet still. Could it be, thought Aspasia, that the God of men and the God of women are two different Deities?

He held out his hand to her again and she took it, and he said, “Come.” So she went with him to his tent and lay down beside him and returned his caresses. In the midst of them she again wondered at the treacherous hearts of women, who forgave all enormities against them because they loved and could not help the loving.

Before they parted at dawn Al Taliph said, as if their conversation had not been interrupted, “Empires, and men, to survive, must grow spiritually and intellectually, or die. That is the teaching of God and nature for all that lives. Once forgetting, they will be extinguished and only the vulture and the fox and the wild ass will inherit.”

He went with her to the door of her tent and he looked at the eastern sky inscrutably. A huge crown of fire was slowly rising there and she knew that he had forgotten her in the mystery of his own being. She was not appeased, yet she was not offended. Above all, she was baffled, and remembered again that Thargelia had warned her maidens that it was impossible for the sexes to know each other. Did they embody the principle that no man can understand another, and all were walled up in their own flesh as a tree is walled mutely in its bark, no matter whether they were men or women? As men could never comprehend God then it was possible that no human creatures could completely perceive the motives and being of their fellows.

There was but one virtue above all others: compassion. For it was superior even to understanding, which could lead to stern judgment, and judgment was with God and it was His prerogative.

CHAPTER 16

The caravan came upon the ancient city of Damascus one early evening just before sunset. It seemed to Aspasia that the walled city approached the caravan rather than the caravan approaching it over the plain. The walls were golden and gleaming in the light of the descending sun, and piercing above them could be seen the glittering turrets and the tall thin towers and illuminated domes against a sky the color of heliotrope. Here, then, awaited the “Market of the Desert,” so named by merchants, and famed for its Wine of Helbon, its delicate woollens, linens, dried fruit, damasks, exquisite and weblike silks of many colors, its Tyrian purples, cushions with golden and silver tassels, leather work of incredible intricacy, gemmed filigree work in gold and silver, enamels, inlaid wood and metals, its marvelous brocades, its incomparable Damascene steel weapons, its works of art in brass and copper, and its covered Street called Straight, wherein dwelt rich merchants and their shops, the banks and the bankers, many markets, fountains, and inns. It ran from the Damascan Gate from east to west, and few there were who had not heard of its wonders, its scenes, its opulences, its wealth, its commerce and its power. Older than the memory or records of man, Damascus had been assaulted many times by lustful enemies, Egyptians, Israelites, Assyrians and others, but she survived and was soon to be termed “immortal.”

It was a fervid city, this jewel of the desert, hot, dusty, narrow of street, arched of gateways, violently colored, both perfumed and stinking, paved with stones polished by countless sandals and boots, teeming with men and camels, sleepless, blowing with red torches at night, glowing blindingly at noonday, restless, eager, sophisticated, cynical, and boasting the greatest craftsmen and artists in the world in endless profusion. Over all was the scent as of heated spices and burning stone and offal and urine of both men and beasts, and here were palaces of eastern splendor seen nowhere else in the world, and alleys noisome and noxious, and beggars and thieves and poets, and florid gods and winged Baals and the Ashtaroth—female deities—all with worshippers in an atmosphere of genial tolerance. It was a dazzling city, if without the grandeur of others, exciting and excitable, trembling always with the yellow dust that whirled over it, sometimes incandescent in the sun like golden particles, and pearly under the moon. Here could be heard the tongues of many nations and many races, and every man hurried in spite of the heat, his face thrust forward as if he desired to run and not walk. Veiled women were everywhere, in stalls, selling flowers and sweetmeats and spiced morsels of meat and rice and wine and fabrics and vegetables and fruits and cheeses and ornaments, and their shrill cries and quarrels were louder than the complaints of streams of camels and horses and mules ever-flowing through the streets as caravans came and left. Almost every street held an inn, poor or lavish, for travelers and merchants. Faces could be seen in hue from the purest smooth white to the gleaming blackness of an Ethiopian or Nubian.

The bronze Gate of Damascus was opened swiftly by guards, who recognized the illustrious banners carried by the caravan of Al Taliph. Above the arch blew gay pennants and on the apex there was a crouching stone statue of an ambiguous creature, half lion, half woman, winged and crowned, with a beautiful and majestic face. Aspasia was enraptured as the caravan slowly passed through the gate, and entered a narrow rising street walled on both sides. On the tops of the walls stood throngs awaiting the cooler air of evening, chewing delicacies from their palms, arguing, laughing, curiously eyeing the caravan, joking, spitting and staring. Aspasia could hear music rising and falling everywhere, music alien to her ears. She had thought the market places of Miletus and Persia unbearably noisy. They were muted compared with the uproar that now assailed her, the sleepless uproar of a city beyond her imagination. When the caravan wound its way through the street men and women in varicolored robes took refuge in slits in the walls. As the sun fell to the horizon torches began to sputter from sockets and lanterns began to move restlessly like illimitable stars.

Aspasia’s women were discreetly amused at the girl’s wonder and entrancement, for they had often been here before, and they smirked behind their veils. Her own veil was hot and suffocating on her face, but she did not draw it aside. She saw the countenances of the Damascan men and she acknowledged their handsomeness and their great lustrous eyes, ever moving. They saw the tall girl in the doorway of her tent, and marked the slenderness of her body even through her demure garments and showed their pleasure in smiles and inclinations of their heads. Once, in laughing defiance, she pulled aside her veil briefly, and the men who saw this struck postures of dazed admiration, and a few walked beside the tent until they were driven off by the guards uttering imprecations and displaying threatening whips.

Then, on the Street called Straight the caravan separated itself from the four tents, and the occupants alighted under guard at the entrance to a very large walled inn. They entered a courtyard in which was centered a tiny garden with a fountain. Windows peered down from all four walls, and were crowded with faces inspecting the new arrivals, especially the women, thinking many of them were beauteous slaves to be displayed tomorrow in the slave markets. A red light filled the courtyard, flittering from the torches, and the air was filled with insects and moths.

The turrets and towers and domes began to shine under a soaring moon, as if touched and plated with silver. Aspasia and her women were assigned two handsome chambers in the inn, rich with silks and brocades and divans and fat pillows and cushions, carved Chinese tables and ivoried chairs, the floors soft with rugs of many bright patterns. Aspasia discovered that the windows were barred by beautifully wrought iron in a vine-like shape. A dinner was brought to them of roasted lamb and vegetables simmering in garlic and olive oil, and dates and honey and soft pale bread and wine and assorted cheeses, and sauces and condiments of pungent odor and enticing aromas, and heaped fruits. She dined, listening to the music and the voices and the clamor of the city. Bells began to ring at random until all the air was pervaded with their dulcet or imperative tongues. Gaiety filled her, and excitement, and gratitude and love for Al Taliph who had condescended to give her such gratification. The vessels of oil flickered with light in the chambers, and were sweetly scented, partly to lull the senses and partly to cover the pervasive stench of latrines below.

Aspasia fell asleep on her cushions, after bathing in water redolent of jasmine, and she smiled in her sleep, her golden hair streaming about her. Her happy face had the innocence of a lily, and her women hated her and envied her.

In the morning, Aspasia, after dining, was summoned to the chambers of Al Taliph. She was surprised, for he rarely summoned her before evening. She drew her veil across her face and arrayed herself in thin white linen and silver and went, attended by two of her women, to Al Taliph. His chambers were sumptuous, and he was half-reclining on a divan, appearing at ease and content. Near him stood Thalias who bowed at her entry, and Al Taliph smiled. He held out his hand to Aspasia and she sat, as usual, at his feet and looked at Thalias. Then she pushed aside her veil and he saw her face, fresh and curious if a little anxious. Almost imperceptibly he nodded his head. So, the letter had been sent many long days ago and Aspasia sighed.

“It would seem, my white rose, that my Damos and friend, has brought his wife to this inn to thank me for the little girls given to her, and to thank you also.” A risible flash passed over his eyes. “She is in the next chamber, Hephzibah bas Ephraim. Do you desire to see her?”

“If my lord has no objections,” replied Aspasia. Al Taliph laughed lightly and touched her cheek. “Your lord has no objections,” he said, as if he mocked her. Thalias let his eyes drop as though embarrassed. A eunuch opened a door at a little distance and Aspasia rose and left the room, and also her women.

The chamber beyond was evidently used for dining and when Aspasia entered a young woman rose shyly, unveiled, and dressed very soberly, and her manner was both timid and sedate. She had a plain young face that was also appealing, as if she implored kindness. The two little girls sat side by side on cushions and happily devoured handfuls of a sweetmeat composed of honey and ground almonds, and they were rosy and clean and patient.

Hephzibah had beautiful blue eyes and her partly uncovered hair was soft and brown. She seemed a little abashed at the sight of Aspasia and her pale lips trembled a little. She said, in Aramaic, “I wished to thank you, Lady, for your great condescension in giving me these small daughters, whom I already cherish, though I saw them first this morning.”

Aspasia was touched. “It was not I. It was Al Taliph who did so, a gift for you.”

At the mention of that name Hephzibah’s face changed, and Aspasia wondered. Hephzibah drew a deep breath and looked aside. “Yes,” she said. “That is what my husband told me. He also told me something else.” Now she looked directly at Aspasia. “Lady,” she said, “you are not only as beautiful as Ruth or Rachel but as great of heart as any of the Mothers of Israel.”

Aspasia did not believe that Thalias had spoken of her beauty to Hephzibah, and she smiled gently. “Damos is fortunate in you, Hephzibah bas Ephraim, and you—” she paused, “are fortunate in him.”

For another strange and unspoken reason the other woman’s eyes glistened with tears. She took Aspasia’s hand and kissed it. She whispered, “I thank you for Damos also.”

Aspasia was alarmed. She glanced over her shoulder but no one stood there. She whispered in reply, “There are certain things a man should not tell his wife and I am surprised at Damos’ indiscretion. Let us not speak of this, now or at any other time.”

“What my husband tells me is ever safe in my bosom,” said Hephzibah and lifted her head. “But if a man cannot confide in the woman who loves him to whom can he confide?”

When has Al Taliph ever confided in me? thought Aspasia with a pang of sadness. But she looked at the other woman with interest. Here was no woman whose husband despised her femaleness but gave her honor and all his secrets, and it seemed enviable to Aspasia and she was filled with longing. True, Al Taliph spoke with her always of philosophies and abstruse things, but never had he permitted her to see him as he was, himself, except for that night under the stars. Even then she had found him enigmatic. She yearned for a man who would trust her utterly as Damos apparently trusted his wife, and who put his very life into her hands. Truly then, and only then, could a woman be happy and content and proud, and never feel herself deprived or lonely or forgotten.

Hephzibah, though always she had been sheltered and loved and respected, had a woman’s intuition and she was seized with confused pity for this beautiful girl who suddenly seemed so bereft and desolate. A bar of sunlight wavered over Aspasia’s face, yet it only increased her air of melancholy. Hephzibah turned to the little girls, touched each fondly on the cheek and said, “This is Ruth, and this is Rachel, my daughters.” The children leaned their heads briefly against her breast then ate another sweetmeat with childish voracity.