Great Lion of God (45 page)

Ianthe never ceased a soft and gentle murmuring as she selected morsels for her father to eat, but that murmuring did not annoy Aristo. It merely added to his enjoyment. He watched Ianthe’s white hands deftly moving, deftly serving. She had little time to eat, herself, though the boys expertly served her and Aristo, gliding like beautiful statues about the table.

Somewhere, there was the benign and musical stirring of zithers and the threnody of a harp, and all was harmony, and the lamps glowed and the wine was beyond compare.

Aristo noticed that his host, so tenderly coddled by his daughter, ate magnificently and with gusto, and his plate was constantly refilled, and he drank like a Roman centurion. Moment by moment he was a man rejoicing, who could not have enough of the rejoicing, and sometimes, when she gazed at him, Ianthe’s charming lower lip trembled even though she smiled. There was something very mysterious here, Aristo reflected. Moment by moment Telis became younger and more vibrant and heartier, and his lips gleamed with oils. The man was transformed almost into a youth. Aristo began to feel like Tantalus, and his impatience grew.

The Bacchian feast drew to a close and Ianthe retired after bestowing so sweet a smile on Aristo that he was stunned for several moments. When Telis began to speak Aristo was forced to make a strong effort to hear and understand him. But finally his astonishment grew and his disbelief.

“When you left me at Caesarea, dear friend,” said Telis, “so that I could visit my old acquaintances there, I became extremely ill. I woke, one morning, after distressing dreams, to discover my bed soaked with my blood, which had flowed from my mouth. My friends called their best physicians, including one who waits upon Pontius Pilate, himself, and they announced, with shakings of the head, that I was in extremis from my cancer. I could not lift my head from the pillows, nor could I swallow aught but a little wine, and I prepared to die.

“This was sorrowful to me, for I have lived a life of excitement, if not actual joy, and I still consider life, as we Greeks say, the Great Games. I have property and extensive lands in several countries, and my bankers and brokers are comparatively honest men—as much as it is possible for bankers and brokers to be, which is not extraordinary, alas—but I still wished to engage in the Great Games, and I have a daughter, who is the light of my soul.” Telis sighed. “You will have observed that women of intelligence are not devoted nor greatly tender, for they have sharp eyes for men’s deficiencies of character and are not averse to conversing about them on all occasions, even before guests. If a man ails, they are wont to regard him coldly and suggest that he rise and go to his countinghouse or his business or other affairs, as the household needs money and the bankers are pressing, or a daughter requires a dowry or a son is entering adolescence and there are celebrations to be arranged. Moreover, the gods need sacrifices, and God help the household which neglects them! I will admit,” added Telis, “that under such prodding and pressure we do rise from our sick beds and before sundown arrives our malady has mysteriously disappeared. Nevertheless, a little tenderness and commiseration—while they will delay our recovery—soothe a man’s soul and are balm to his flesh. Often a man’s ailments are not of the flesh at all, but of the spirit, something a woman of intelligence will not tolerate in the least. I fear such women suspect men do not possess spirits.

“On the other hand, the stupid woman is sweetly servant to her husband, or father, and she will indulge him with tenderness, and not urge him to rise and put on his garments and leave the house and apply himself to his affairs. She will persuade him to rest in his bed, and will bring him delicious morsels and feed him with her own hands, and order the best wine for him, and will sing, if she has a pleasant voice, and stroke and cool his brow, and keep the household quiet about him while he contemplates his illnesses and listens intently to the grumbling of his body, and indulges himself with grave thoughts concerning life and death and the meaning of it all. As I have said, this is not conducive to the quick restoration of health—illness under these circumstances can become delightful and lingering—but does a man live for money alone, or even good health?” At this Telis winked and Aristo laughed.

“So,” said Telis, “I grieved over my daughter, Ianthe, who will inherit my entire estate. As she is beautiful as well as wealthy, she would be a prey to evil and exigent men. A thought comes to me: Is Ianthe stupid at all, or is she one of those rare women of intelligence who pretend to be stupid in order to please men? There are moments, when I come upon her diligently working over the household accounts, and swiftly writing in books and summing up, and scrutinizing the reports of bankers and my investments, that I am impelled to believe that she is a genius of a woman, in that she pretends to stupidity but is, in truth, a woman of mind. But so long as she does not claim to be an Aspasia and insist upon the recognition, I will not complain. However, I feared for my Ianthe, for even an intelligent woman is no match for taxgatherers and ruthless lawyers and bankers and brokers, who regard a woman without male protection as their natural prey, to be devoured.

“I also did not wish to die for I do not cherish the thought of extinction, nor do I believe in the gods nor in the Elysian Fields—dreary country if one is to believe the priests. I also have a charming mistress, and I love good food and excellent wine, and though my life until I was thirty years old was dire in the extreme, I now live pleasantly. So, I did not reflect on death with equanimity.

“While struggling with the blood that constantly welled up into my throat, and I fought to breathe, I remembered the story I had recently heard from Jerusalem of the mysterious young rabbi who cured so many with one word or one gesture. He had a few dingy followers from his poor province of Galilee. Nevertheless, he was acclaimed as being far more proficient in the matter of instant healing than other Jewish rabbis of whom I had heard. I had also been told that his followers, and even himself, claimed some mysterious direct contact with the Godhead, which is unusual among these holy Jewish healers. I do recall, before I left a year ago or more on my travels, that one wild man from the desert roared into Jerusalem, prophesying this rabbi, saying he came to ‘prepare the way.’ All laughed at him. Now, this is strange. It is said that Herod did not laugh at him at all, and asked him if he was the reincarnation of one of their prophets—a peculiar name. I believe it was Elias. Who knows about these Jewish gods? At any rate, King Herod Antipas appeared to be impressed by this stormy man from the desert, one of their screaming Essenes or Zealots, or the gods know what they call themselves, though they are a poisoned thorn in the side of the Romans, and for that they have my gratitude.”

Telis motioned to a boy and the goblets were refilled. Three of the boys were listening closely, their eyes large and intent, but Telis and Aristo were unaware of this.

“Herod,” said Telis, “is half a Jew and half a Greek, as are most of the cultivated men of Israel. It was amazing, therefore, that such a man, the Tetrarch of Israel, and powerful, and a friend of Pontius Pilate, and a sacrificer to the Roman gods as well as an observer of Jewish laws, and brother-in-law to Agrippa in Rome, and a man of no small mind and of much learning, should even condescend to listen to the ravings of a bearded and sweaty and unwashed denizen of the desert. However, incredible though it seems, Herod did listen. He was even prepared to honor that wild man! Is that not astonishing? But even the most distinguished men are sometimes superstitious. How did that wild man repay such unbelievable kindness and condescension from a king? He reviled him, he accused him of the most monstrous of crimes, he shouted before him that he was an adulterer and a murderer, and perhaps even worse!”

“No!” exclaimed Aristo. “That is beyond belief. A beggar—and a king. But, in truth, nothing surprises me very much concerning these Jews. I have even observed in Tarsus, on their High Holy Days, the most noble among them scouring the streets for the most degraded and abandoned, inviting them to feasts and filling their hands with drachmas. I often believe they are mad. But continue.”

“Thank you. I believe Herod’s patience was finally exhausted. He had the madman beheaded because of his insulting prophecies and his revilements. And then Herod brooded. No one knows why. Even his brother’s wife, whom he took from his brother and married, a lovely woman named Herodias, could not console him, and she is a veritable Aphrodite, I have heard. I tell you all this because the wild man from the desert spoke of that unknown holy rabbi to whom were accredited the most astounding of miracles. Such rabbis love their God, but this particular rabbi—” Telis shook his head wonderingly.

“Go on,” said Aristo, after a few moments.

“Yes. You know that we Greeks have an altar to the Unknown God. It is related that one distant day He will establish Himself on that altar for our ultimate worship, for it is said that He is greater than Zeus, himself. The Egyptians and the Babylonians and the Persians have this tale, also—and await Him. It is an old story. He will rule the world of men, when He comes, forever. The Jews call Him their Messias, but He belongs to all.”

“So I have heard, from my noble friend, Hillel ben Borush.”

“Ah, yes. To be concise about it, it is rumored that that holy rabbi, lately appeared, is the Unknown God.”

Aristo burst out laughing, and laughed until there were tears in his eyes, and one of the boys, seeing his crimson face and hearing his gasping, refilled his goblet hastily. Aristo drank the wine in one gulp, and it appeared that he was about to choke. Merrily, he looked at his host with a mist over his eyes, and waited for companion laughter. But, to his surprise, Telis was very grave and completely silent, and he was looking down at his clasped hands and appeared to have heard Aristo’s mirth. The newly ruddy cheek swelled and contracted, and to Aristo’s stupefaction a tear dropped upon it.

“I saw the Unknown God,” said Telis.

Has he gone mad, himself? asked Aristo inwardly, with dismay.

“Please bear with me,” said Telis, and now he looked at Aristo with such passion, such emotion, such urgency, that Aristo was freshly astounded, for he had considered Telis a realistic and pragmatic man whose reason controlled him at all times and who had nothing but disgust for the man of vehement and disorderly mind.

“I have lived in Israel a long time,” said Telis. “I know that very often rabbis appear whose followers claim that they are the Messias of the Jews, for they perform miracles and are blameless men. So there is a law in the Sanhedrin that such rabbis, or teachers, or dwellers in the desert, must be brought before the Court for questioning, and examination, for even the wise and learned men of the Sanhedrin are eager for their Messias. But at no time did the rabbis claim to be the Anointed One, and were sad that their followers so shouted. They wished only to serve their God in peace, they said, and then the Sanhedrin dismissed them. They did not blaspheme, these meek and gentle men. As you know, a blasphemer, among the Jews, deserves death and he usually is visited with it.

“But, I heard in Caesarea, this new rabbi was not denying that he was the Messias, among the poor people of his province, nor was he rebuking his followers for so claiming. It was nothing to me. It was enough that he was a miracle-worker. I lay in my bed in the house of my friends, and contemplated. I made inquiries. The miracle-worker was in his province of Galilee, in the miserable little town of Capharnaum, on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. My friends, who are superstitious, offered to send a retinue for the Jewish rabbi, and escort him to their house—they are excessively kind. It is a long distance to Capharnaum.

But that night I had a most mysterious dream. I dreamt that a large white hand, like marble, extended itself to me and a voice—a most beautiful voice—said to me, ‘Come. I await you in Capharnaum.’ So in the morning, though I was still too weak to raise my head, I told my hosts that I would leave for that wretched little town in the blasted hills. They are Greeks, and they were aghast. They called to me a Jewish elder, of much renown in Caesarea, who told me that though the majority of the Jews believe that the Messias will appear in heavenly splendor, so that all nations will know Him instantly, it was also prophesied that few or none would know Him.

“The elder repeated the words of one of their prophets from the Holy Books: “‘He was despised and rejected by men, a Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. And, as one from whom men hide their faces, he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Surely, he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows! Yet, we esteemed him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities. Upon him was the chastisement that made us whole, and with his stripes we are healed.’

“I confess,” said Telis, “that I did not understand these words, which meant nothing to me. But the elder did not urge me to desist from going to Capharnaum. I had told him my dream. He covered his head, in the way of Jews, and appeared to pray, and then he raised up his hands upon me and blessed me and asked that I be given strength. After he left me I was indeed given some strength and I prepared for my journey, in accordance with my dream.”

Aristo could say nothing. It was as if he had suddenly been seized by a spell. He looked at the full and ruddy face of his host, and at the sparkling youthful eyes, and was silent.

“My friends were kind,” said Telis. “I left the next morning in their most luxurious car, and covered with fur rugs, and attended by their most solicitous servants. It was a long journey to that area of black basalt hills and earth and desolate mountains and starved little valleys. But it passed like a dream. I slept and rested. I was taken by the most ardent desire to look upon the face of that holy rabbi. My blood still oozed from my mouth. At times I was delirious and fevered and we halted often at various inns. There were even other times when I believed I was already dead, for all was a haze before me in which glittered brilliant threads of light. Often I was not aware at all. Death was at my throat. A heavy languor had my limbs, and I rejected food.