Great Lion of God (51 page)

He passed his hand over his face, “I am not an articulate man, though my teachers have told me I have eloquence. No matter. It is the faith of the Chosen People which has restored them from exile and calamity and has enabled them to establish a nation and a Temple, and has brought them the Promise of God of a Messias. If that faith is destroyed then God, in His wrath, will smite us again. We cannot permit blasphemy! We cannot allow that God be mocked! To do so is to destroy all that we have so painfully built through the ages, and to cast us again into the wilderness, for millennia upon millennia. Have we not suffered enough? Yes. But the Nazarene has come into the heart of our country and he has permitted it to be said that he is the Messias! Can we allow this blasphemy? No!”

“The Unknown God,” said Lucanus.

Saul winced. “I beg of you, Lucanus, to forgive me, but you do not know what you are saying!”

Lucanus said, “It is evident that you love your God. Therefore, you will not pardon me when I say I challenge Him and possibly even hate Him, for what He has done to mankind, for the afflictions He has heaped upon it, and the darkness and the silence and the agony. So little a beast for so mighty a Force to expend Itself upon!”

This was a novel argument to Saul, who looked at Lucanus with amazement. He stammered when he exclaimed rapidly, “You do not understand! It is man who is the affliction, the outrage against God, the contemptible being who stands on his hind legs and dares to gaze upon the Ineffable and to question It!”

Lucanus saw that he had not been mistaken in his judgment of Saul, whose face was contorted with umbrage and anger. So he said pacifically, “I see we can never come to an agreement, to the defining of terms. I am enraged against God. You are enraged against man. It would take a lifetime to conciliate us, to reach an understanding and, I am afraid, we do not have that lifetime.” He smiled. “We can only argue, after all, from our own intimate experiences, and not from the experiences of others, for who knows what lies in the heart of the individual?”

When Saul did not answer but only sat there, fuming, Lucanus said, “I leave this ship tomorrow for another little island—where I will attempt to alleviate the suffering of the victims of your God. We shall not meet again, Saul of Tarshish, so let us part friends.”

Saul reluctantly took the Greek’s hand and he looked for an instant into those grave and compassionate blue eyes and he thought involuntarily: I should like to have this man as a friend, for all he is a Greek, and a blasphemer against God, blessed be His Name. But I will never see him again.

When Lucanus stood up from his chair under the awning his long tunic gaped at the top and Saul saw that he wore a thin golden chain and that from that chain was suspended a slender golden cross, looped at the top so that it held the chain. Lucanus saw Saul’s gaze fixed upon it and he said, “It was the last gift to me of a girl I loved, who had received it from the physician of her father’s household. He had told her it was the sign of the Unknown God, beloved of all peoples, and the sign of the resurrection of men’s bodies into perpetual life.” Lucanus smiled slightly, but Saul, he observed, was not smiling.

“It fell from Rubria’s hand into mine, as she died,” said Lucanus. “To me, it is a sacred thing.” But Saul said nothing. He was suddenly dazed, for he was remembering his dream of the great Seed which had fallen into the earth and had begotten a harvest.

Chapter 23

“Y
OUR
friend and your pupil, Saul, recalls to me the story of Ixion, in Hades, the accursed one who whirls about with soundless howls, following and fleeing from himself,” said Ianthe to her husband, Aristo.

Aristo regarded her with admiration. He adored his wife more than ever. To him. she was both Artemis and Aphrodite, elusive like a nymph, and as sturdy as Heres. She was a constant delight. He never knew if she was stupid or very wise, and he dearly hoped he would never find out. Her comment on Saul was profound and subtle, but she had spoken it with the blandness of a child and the delectable sweetness of a witless woman. She was truly delicious and he thanked the gods—in whom he did not believe—that he had discovered such a treasure—with a large dowry.

He said, “Ixion. Yes. My unfortunate Saul. He does not know that he dwells in Hades, and walks the fields of asphodels and inhabits the twilight and sleeps with Despair. Like many Jews, he is haunted by his God. Yet his father was once gay and light of heart and had a humor and his conversation was fascinating, and his sister is a veritable minor deity of much beauty and charm. His mother was not a woman of mind, and she was trivial and frivolous, but she laughed happily and resembled a statue and had graces and could sing. From whence this stormy young man came is a great mystery. Still, when a child and a youth he had a boisterous laugh and a wry wit and much impulsive kindness, and simmered with life and his countenance would dance like wine in the sun. If he lives in Hades, he has ventured there of his own will and was not driven there by circumstance, and if he has espoused Despair he sought her out, preferring her groans to love’s embraces.”

“He is not handsome,” said Ianthe. “Perhaps the girls avoid him. Why does he not marry?”

“He has dedicated himself to his God, like the King of Nemi,” said Aristo. Ianthe gave him an amused glance then repaired to her kitchens to oversee her husband’s afternoon meal. He had discovered another joy in her. She was an excellent matron and it was her hand which seasoned the dishes at the last moment so that they made the tongue ecstatic. He went out for a moment to contemplate his land with contentment, his wide groves and orchards, his cattle and his sheep, his horses and his asses, his outer buildings which surrounded his pleasant house, and then the wide river running in gold below the scarlet mountains of Tarsus. He thought about Saul with a certain melancholy. Saul had delayed his return to Jerusalem, and lived alone in his father’s house with the servants who had been freed, according to the Law. on Hillel’s death. But though Aristo invited him often to his own house—he had lured him here but twice—and others also invited him, Saul was more solitary than ever. He had told Aristo that it was his intention to return to Jerusalem before the High Holy Days in the autumn, but it was autumn now and he still lingered. There was a certain silence and lassitude about him which no kindness or affection could penetrate.

Indeed, a kind of apathy had seized on the lonely young man. Each morning he told himself that the next day he must return to Israel, and the days passed and he remained. He felt as if he were one who had been banished from the theater, in which drama was being enacted and great choruses were speaking, and the gates had been closed to him and he did not know why. When the thought occurred to him he laughed at himself for his notions. He spent many hours in his father’s library and many hours in the garden, standing on the black arched bridge over the pond on the very spot, he had been told, his father had stood and had there been taken by vertigo and had fallen into the water. Saul gazed down for long periods into that water and a few times he had been deluded that he saw Hillel’s body lying there, the garments rippling gently, the white face closed and peaceful.

Saul went to his parents’ tomb, but he felt that Hillel did not lie there but lay in the water of the pond. He tried to visualize his father in his seat in the world hereafter, praising God with the seraphim and the cherubim, his radiant face reflected in the bright sea of glass. But he could only see his father sleeping, as if waiting.

His sister Sephorah wrote him in her usual merry fashion, and he did not discern her anxiety for him, and her love, in the richness of her phrases. She wrote of her family, her husband, Ezekiel ben David, her beloved mother-in-law, Clodia Flavius, her uncles—who were eminently prosperous—and her grandfather, Shebua ben Abraham, whose health was declining and who had lost his old placidity and ease of countenance and urbanity. “But he is a very old man now,” wrote the young Sephorah, “and he often wanders in his mind and appears distressed. Sometimes he speaks of our father, testily, as if he were still alive, and a disagreeable thought to him. Yet he often asks when our father will visit him again. It is very strange.”

In her last letter she had written, after the usual prolonged news of the family, which was tedious to Saul who rarely thought of his mother’s relatives: “We have had much turmoil in Jerusalem lately and much excited discussion, and there is much contempt and laughter. A young rabbi from Galilee has been disturbing the people, and the priests and the Sanhedrin are very anxious, for the Romans are scrutinizing him. We are very frightened that if this Galilean causes riots and rebellions—it is rumored he is an Essene, and we know how fervid such are—the Romans will destroy us once and for all. They have been lenient to Israel, as they have been lenient with none others, exempting us from military service, respecting our Sabbath, retraining from using the image of Caesar on their banners, and even minting special coins for us which do not bear the heads of their tyrants. Nor will they bring a Jew before a magistrate on the Sabbath, nor do they profane the Temple but stand in the Court of the Gentiles with respect and listen to our holy men. It is true that they tax us beyond bearing, but not more than they tax other peoples and their Empire is tremendous. They have shown much tolerance, under provocation, for our wild young men of the desert, who have abandoned the ordered world and have disdained it. But we fear that if this Galilean, who is alleged to perform prodigies of miracles, incites the people the Romans will lose their patience and put us to the sword and bum the Temple.—For the last month, we have drawn easier breaths. The wandering rabbi has removed himself from our midst and returned to his hills, and we deeply hope he will remain there. We who have children are always fearful, and look for threats when there are possibly none.”

Even Saul, that scrupulous inspector of his own conscience, his own motives, his own thoughts and their sources, could not understand why the very mention of the Nazarene should immediately inflame him with anger and disgust. He took Sephorah’s letter to the old rabbi, Reb Isaac, who was now bent and his beard and hair thin and white.

“Once,” said Saul, “my sister despised the Romans as I despise them still, and once she admired the Essenes and the Zealots as I admire them—though I am sometimes alarmed by their excesses. One understands that she is the mother of children, and so is distressed for their possible fate, but she is not to be derided for this but rather respected. So if Sephorah, who was well-taught by our father, and loves Israel as he loved it, is made uneasy by this—Nazarene—and fears, then surely we all have reason to fear.”

The old man ruminated, not moving his filmed yet still irascible eyes from Saul’s flushed face. Then he said, “You have lived for a long while in Jerusalem. Tell me. Have you heard of this Galilean before, and have you seen him? Not once have you mentioned him to me.”

The ugly flush on Saul’s freckled face deepened. “I have seen him,” he said in a pent voice. “I have heard him.”

The rabbi waited. But Saul said nothing more. The rabbi said, “And what was your opinion?”

“He is an unlettered man,” said Saul. “He is an ignorant Galilean, though I admit that he has eloquence. He speaks in riddles—”

“A common Jewish characteristic,” said the rabbi.

Saul made an impatient sound. “But these riddles appear to incite the people. As for his appearance, he is fair like most Galileans. Am I not of Galilee, myself, through my family’s blood on my father’s side? He is not—uncomely, yet not beautiful. At times he appears most ordinary. At other times—I have heard—he appears transfigured.”

“You do not hold him in high repute,” said the rabbi.

“No. He is a blasphemer, a mountebank. Surely, Reb Isaac, you have heard from your own friends in Jerusalem, concerning him! He is permitting it to be said that he is the Messias!” Saul’s breath came fast and his eyes gleamed with rage. “I have heard that he consorts with harlots and depraved women, and even with taxgatherers! If that is true, then he is the most degraded of men.”

A curious expression passed over Reb Isaac’s face. “Perhaps he hopes to lead these degenerate wretches to repentance?”

Saul stared at him. “Then you know much of him?”

The old rabbi, seated in his library, turned his ancient head and gazed through the window at the golden countryside. “I know of him. Israel seethes with these wandering rabbis, who sometimes perform miracles. He is one, in these respects, with the others. Yet, we do not hear of the others. Therefore, he is extraordinary, not in fame, not in the world’s awareness of him, but in person. Obscure, apparently unlearned, speaking only in Aramaic, without house or household or money or possessions—like the other poor rabbis—he yet seizes on the imagination of those who encounter him. Why? Is he a prophet?”

Saul felt something enigmatic in the manner and the words of the old man. He became wild with impatience, “A prophet! Never was there so bedraggled a prophet! Nor one less honored. Prophets do not blaspheme—”

The old man smiled wryly. “They were accused, very often, of blasphemy, and were not held in respect, if I remember the Scriptures correctly. So, if the Nazarene is reviled by many, as I have heard, then it is possible that he is a prophet. People never change. If I were to be asked to give one description of an authentic prophet, I would say, ‘He was hated and despised, he was held in ridicule, he aroused the deepest hostility, he was the object of shy malice and derision and contempt, the darkest motives were assigned to him, he was rumored to have a devil.’”

Saul’s face became transparent with pallor but the rage increased in his eyes. “He is not a prophet,” he said, and his voice was somewhat hoarse. “He is nothing.”

“Nothing,” said the rabbi, now staring at him frankly, “never arouses emotion. I discern that this Nazarene disturbs you profoundly. I will not ask why. You have given me a reason: blasphemy. I do not think it is that. I think that not even you know.”