Great Lion of God (16 page)

Hillel had always been a little incredulous about this, discovering it hard to imagine a great and noble Roman lady governing her kitchen in a strange land among strangers not of her race and religion, and deferring dutifully to what she considered to be her husband’s duty, and managing her household not as a Roman but as a lady of Israel. But then, he would reflect, the Romans resemble us Jews very mysteriously. He had also heard that Clodia regarded Greeks, and Sadducees, with a disapproving eye which, Hillel would think with a smile, must cause the elegant David some disagreeable moments and some embarrassment, as well as the jests of his family and his friends.

But Hillel recalled the words of Ruth: “Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” Clodia had probably never heard, of Ruth but she exemplified her. Clodia, therefore, was a redoubtable lady and, while the family of Shebua ben Abraham affected to find her amusing and rallied David on his wife, they respected and feared her. Even her father-in-law, the aging and urbane Shebua, deferred to her and the wives of David’s brothers were timid before this righteous and determined matron. Deborah, who had first seen Clodia when she, Deborah, had been a child, had often declared that the Roman lady was “gross and with a heavy hand, more fitted to the field than to a cultivated house, and resembled a servant.” So Hillel was heartened. He thought that he would find Clodia very similar to his dead and beloved grandmother, Sarah. But he wondered with some uneasiness if Sephorah who had been reared freely and lightly by her mother, could accustom herself to rarely appearing before men, never dining with them, and secluding herself in the women’s quarters, over which Clodia was the rigorous queen. He had tried to tell the girl of her aunt, and Sephorah, who had heard much from her mother, was laughingly dismayed.

“A veritable Gorgon,” she had said.

“Let us speak of a mother of Israel,” Hillel had replied. Father and daughter had then looked at each other and had laughed a little. It was Saul who had listened with approval of Clodia, and in some way Hillel had felt this a deprecation of Deborah. Yet Hillel was relieved. In many ways, Saul was more the son of a Clodia than of a Deborah and even, perhaps, of a Hillel ben Borush. During the past year, he had become even more so.

Hillel now watched Saul who was leaning on the rail of the ship and looking back at Tarsus, become, in the hot noon light, a broken welter of color on the water, surmounted by those terrible mountains. The youth’s chin was already faintly red with his growing beard; his crest of red hair appeared still virile and arrogant, and his ears were enormous. His profile was set and unrelenting with his thoughts, the big nose arching from his face, his chin hard and fixed, his mouth a straight and somber line. His former high color had left him; he seemed less sturdy, but taller and thinner. Yet his indomitable air had strangely increased with his decline of physical vitality, and if his body was more slender his shoulders appeared wider and more manly. His legs were still deplorable, but lately he had given up the short tunic and wore a robe to his ankles, a brown linen robe with a girdle of dull worked silver, covered by a cloak of the same unpleasant color. But for his remarkable face he would have seemed to be a son of a somewhat unprosperous merchant, simple and plain and unpretentious, bent on securing as much money as possible for goods now in the hold of the ship. He would hardly impress his aristocratic kinsmen in Jerusalem though doubtless Clodia would admire him.

There had never been much communication between Hillel and his son, though Hillel had helplessly struggled to draw closer to Saul from his childhood. He knew that Saul loved him; he also knew that Saul did not place much value on his mind and did not approve of his rare, but telling and amusing, jests about the more fanatic of the Pharisees. Saul, Hillel was afraid, was really indulging his father when he listened with silent respect to his homilies and little parables and his explanations of some obscure paragraph in the Scriptures. Saul, Hillel was sadly sure, had already reached a more subtle and learned conclusion which was possibly correct and not diffused, as in Hillel’s fashion. In short, Saul was the complete and unbending Pharisee and Hillel unjustly blamed Reb Isaac for this and accused himself of not being tolerant and emphatic enough in his own teaching of his son. Hillel sighed again. There was not a fingerful of humor in Saul, except for an occasional ironic comment or some sardonic remark, and these had become more marked and frequent during the past year. The portents of his infanthood were manifesting themselves inexorably.

The old occasional tenderness, the old young impulsiveness, the old artless loud laughter of boyhood, had left Saul a year ago, not slowly, not through illness, but in a moment. He could still speak vociferously and dogmatically, but no longer did his smile offer half an apology or amusement at himself. When Saul spoke now he did not invite argument or disagreement, not even from his father. Only Aristo could make him flush when disputing with him, but now anger would light up those peculiar and compelling eyes. Surely Saul did not think himself infallible! No, thought Hillel, still watching his son, he does not believe himself infallible, but he thinks himself superior to other men in judgment and understanding of the Word of God and the precepts of the prophets and the patriarchs: A Pharisee, indeed, unrelenting, unyielding, even ruthless, in defense of the Holy One of Israel, the guardian of the Book. He talked of the Messias on every occasion, dismissing all other conversation as irrelevant and time-destroying, and therefore sinful and debasing. Sometimes Hillel felt weary.

Hillel, therefore, was anticipating Jerusalem, with its Romans and Greeks and many other races, its teeming cosmopolitan civilization, its many diversities and faces and manners and customs, with a relief he would have believed incredible only a year ago. Saul would be an anachronism in that lively and colorful society, and Hillel was not displeased. He felt a little guilty when he hoped that in some way Saul would not encounter numerous other Pharisees—but it was possible that even Pharisees in Jerusalem had mellowed a little. Saul was young, and the young were susceptible, and Hillel hoped that one day soon the younger Saul would return, eager with life, ready with a jest, boisterous with young laughter, teasing his sister, curious and tireless.

Saul lifted himself from the rail of the deck and slowly turned and faced his father and sister. “Come join us for wine and fruit, my son,” Hillel said, and made room for Saul on the couch on which he sat. The ship creaked and heeled, and other passengers conversed loudly and there was tramping below and runnings up and down the stairs, and the mighty sails seemed to be attempting to lift the ship into the sky. A group of young Roman legionnaires stood at a distance, drinking, exchanging rollicking and obscene jests and swaggering where they stood and clanking their iron-shod feet, and furtively eying the beautiful Sephorah.

Saul saw this and he suddenly gave the soldiers a fierce and despising look. They were astonished; they were only lads and they had been admiring a delectable young lady who had not shown any displeasure. Their mouths fell open. They were insulted by this plainly clad and insignificant youth, with the flaring red hair. They clanged their feet harder on the wooden deck. One or two even touched their swords and they frowned forbiddingly. They were Romans. They were masters of the world. How dared a miserable man from Tarsus resent their conversation or their laughter and favor them with a look which consigned them to the status of the market rabble, or slaves?

Then Saul turned from them and went to his father and sister. Sephorah was half reclining on the soft divan, very conscious of the glances she had evoked from those boys. She wore a chiton of blue silk artfully embroidered in gold and silver and her smooth white arms were bare, as was her throat, and her veil was like a mist over her golden hair, and there were jewels at her neck and on her arms and hands and her feet were shod with scarlet slippers. Her golden eyes glistened and her lips were like wet rubies and her pretty nose was warm ivory and she had assumed an air of worldly languor. Perfume rose from her and Saul was suddenly reminded of the scent of crushed flowers and grass on which he and Dacyl had lain. Torment seized him.

“You resemble a harlot, my sister,” he said through his teeth. There is kohl about your eyes and a paint-pot on your mouth. Your arms are naked and shameless, and your ankles are exposed. Where is your modesty, your decorum?”

Never before had he spoken in such a tone and in such words to his once-beloved Sephorah. The girl paled and shrank. The Roman soldiers listened, even more astonished.

Then Hillel sat upright and for the first time Saul saw his father deeply angered against him, and outraged. The brown eyes became hard and daunting. “Saul,” said Hillel. “Depart from us until you have prepared an apology. We will dine alone.” He still stared harshly at his son. “It is said that he who insults another in public, without provocation, incurs the wrath of God. Meditate on that, while you eat your solitary meal.”

For the first time in his life Saul did not bow before his father’s rebuke.

Instead he gazed at his father with so implacable a face and with such cold and formidable eyes that Hillel was horrified and stricken. It was a stranger who confronted him and not his son, and the stranger was not of his spirit.

Then Saul inclined his head, turned on his heel and left his father. He went down the stairs to the room he shared with Hillel. Hillel watched him go and the sorrow became desolate in his eyes.

“Father,” said Sephorah, seeing this. “Saul is guiltless of offense. He spoke from some misery in his soul. I have discerned this for over a year. His illness devastated him.”

Hillel touched her soft little hand. He said, “No. The change appeared before his illness, before your mother’s death, may God rest her soul. He is possessed, but of what he is possessed I do not know, and I have no pathway to his mind and he bars the way.”

He hesitated. He looked at the avid Roman soldiers who had listened. He thought to invite them to partake of his good wine and fruit in compensation, but by this act he would confirm Saul’s unspeakable behavior in their opinion and be shamed by his own son. He sat for a little under the striped awning with his daughter, while she gently stroked his hand in sympathy, and the blinding light of water and sky dazzled their eyes. Finally he rose in silence and followed Saul, finding him in the small spare room they shared together and in which their chests had already been deposited. The sun glared through the little window. They could hear the chanting of the galley slaves below, a mournful and wordless sound Hillel sat near his son, not speaking, and Saul sat on the edge of his narrow couch, his hands dropped between his knees, his head bent, his red hair disordered. Hillel could see nothing of his face but a clenched cheek, unusually pale, and the jutting of his pugnacious brow.

At last Hillel spoke. “Your insult to your sister, whom you once loved, is unpardonable.”

Saul said, as if muttering between his teeth, “I spoke out of my conscience.”

To this, Hillel said, “It is remarked in Deuteronomy that that man is accursed who elevates his conscience above the divine laws of God. He is a heathen. He will have no place in the world hereafter. What crimes have been perpetrated in the name of the individual conscience, what calamities, what injustices, what errors! A man cannot trust his conscience unless it is in perfect accord with God’s commands, blessed be His Name, for, what is man? A creature of dust and pride, of wanton and willful imaginings, of self-deceits, of vanity, of profound ignorance when he believes himself most wise, of illusion, of fantasy. You will recall that Moses was inspired to kill a man, and thus aroused the anger of God. Yet, what he did, of a certainty, was no doubt urged by his ‘conscience.’”

Saul did not speak for a moment, then, still not lifting his head he muttered, “I spoke, then, out of the teachings of my youth, that women must not disport nor array themselves as harlots and whores, as strange women, and that always they must be of a modest demeanor with bent eyes and a quiet tongue.”

Hillel studied him. He said, more gently, “My son, it was not Sephorah’s raiment nor her manner which distresses you, for always was she so and I confess that I find it beautiful and innocent. If God had desired to make ugliness the mark of a good woman then He would have created no charming ones to delight the eyes of men and to array our lives with color and enchantment. Do not speak to me of temptations! God tempts no man to evil. No, it was not Sephorah, your dear sister whom you once loved. It is something else that has tormented you for over a year. I am your father. Am I unworthy to hear a son’s confidence?”

Saul’s hands came together in a hard wringing between his knees and Hillel suffered for him. The bent head fell lower. “I cannot tell you, my father,” said the youth in so stifled a voice that Hillel could hardly hear what he said. “It is beyond forgiveness.”

For an instant, only Hillel was greatly alarmed and his heart gave a painful throb of fear. Saul continued: “I have violated all the precepts and teachings of my youth, have mortally offended God, have destroyed my place in Israel.”

Hillel could now control the panic he had felt. He said, “What holy Commandment did you violate, Saul?”

It seemed absurd to him, and he could even smile now, that his son, hardly sixteen years of age, a student fanatically devout, an obedient son, a lover of his home, an almost immured one, could have violated a Commandment or committed any other sin of any magnitude. He saw that Saul’s brow was wrinkled in concentration. He saw the side of Saul’s throat move in a convulsive swallow, and he thought, “How disastrous are the thoughts of youth, of what awful and ridiculous exaggeration, and crashing thunders, and fatalities and doom!”

Saul said, “I cannot confess to you, my father, for if I should I should die of shame, and never would you forgive me.”

“You are my son, and I begot you, and what you have done, and will do, will be part of my own being, Saul. If you will not confess, if you will not let me console you, remember that God pardons always a repentant sinner. The only unpardonable sin is to presume that God will find nothing unpardonable. I doubt that you are a great sinner; I doubt you have violated the Commandments. Keep your own counsel. But remember, always, that God will not despise a contrite heart.”