“He speaks truly,” said one of the Sadducees, and fingered his chin from which the beard had been shaved. “From whence do we come?”
“Who knows?” said Marcus.
He spoke of Athens. “There are many who stand with awe before the Pyramids. They ponder on the dead Egyptians. But what are the Pyramids compared with the Acropolis of Athens? And tell me, why do you people of the Jewish Faith look upon the Acropolis with a lift of the heart and identify yourselves so with it? Because it is your own. It is our own.”
He looked at their disturbed and noble faces, and smiled. He stood up. “Pray for me,” he said. “I am sorely afflicted.”
“We, too, are sorely afflicted,” said one of the older Sadducees. “Pray for us also.”
The Romans present loved Marcus. But when they spoke of politics to him they could not understand his replies, for they themselves were pragmatic and concerned only with the immediate. He spoke of legal balances, and they spoke anxiously of the rise of dictators. “It is our fault,” he told them, “that we have dictators. God gave us the gift of freedom. We have despised it in the name of today’s exigencies.”
One of the Romans wrote to his favorite Senator and denounced Marcus as a subversive, a traitor to Rome. But the other Romans listened to him seriously, and nodded. He said, “Just as a builder must have a plan on his paper in order to build wisely and well, so must a people have a Constitution in order to guide them. But we have abandoned our plan and our map so painfully wrought by our fathers. Hence, we have dictators, men who lust for centralized power in order to oppress us.”*
The famous sanctuary of Asclepius, noted throughout the civilized world, was not only a religious and miraculous shrine but a whole community. The inn, or a Katagogion, in which Marcus, his brother and his servant lived, was a two-story structure of some one hundred and fifty rooms, the largest building in the sanctuary, and accepted the very poorest, who slept in the kitchens or the stables or even under the outdoor porticoes for a drachma or two. The very rich had several rooms for their families and their slaves. Nevertheless, rich and poor were served the same simple food of the region, with the exception of wines and those luxuries the wealthy could bring with them. For Asclepius loved all men. The inn was built of tufa and had a colonnade about it of squat white columns, unornamented, through which men could walk and converse in the cool of the evening. Surrounding it was a large circular garden in which children played and laughed at the caged birds and small animals, and fed them. Their nurses and their mothers stood among them, smiling.
Marcus was moved to pity by the sight of many of the children, some of whom were twisted and lame, some blind, some deaf, some with the blank staring faces of the mindless. Some had arms like tortured twigs, immovable. Some had sores which would not heal. Some of the young backs were bent as the backs of very old men are bent. But in this clime, in this shadow of one who had so loved humanity and had so preserved them as to incur the wrath of Pluto and Zeus, even these miserable little ones laughed as though they felt the smiling shadow of him who had pity upon them and did not find them contemptible as the other gods found them.
The purlieus of the sanctuary contained a respectable gymnasium and a pleasant small open theatre, where plays were performed every afternoon or beautiful music played, also a temple to Apollo, the father of Asclepius, Doric in style and very white and airy in appearance, a stadium for horse races and athletic events, the shrine itself, buildings for water tanks, dwellings for the priests and the assistants and servants, Roman baths of curative waters, a temple of Hygeia, another of Aphrodite, and still another of the goddess Themis, and yet another of the sister of Apollo, the goddess of chastity, Artemis. Each temple had been built of the purest white marble and was an epic poem in itself, surrounded by terraces and fountains and green gardens alive with the songs of birds. Around the confines of the many buildings were small structures where the desperately sick and the pregnant remained overnight and prayed and were visited by the priest-physicians, for within the sacred building of the shrine itself no one near death was permitted, nor were those about to give birth.
This whole sanctuary and all its outlying buildings lay in a shallow valley surrounded by low hills dark with cypresses and the sacred oak and myrtle. Above it all arched the incredible and shining blue of the Grecian sky, a blue so intense and so incandescent that Marcus was never weary of gazing at it with something like disbelief. This disbelief had first come to him during his journey to Epidaurus when he had passed over the isthmus that joined the Ionian and the Aegean seas, which were a brilliant violet not to be encountered anywhere else in the world. What mysterious alchemy of earth and heaven had been brewed here to give rise to such a sky, and to the color of such seas? For surely it was a unique phenomenon! He had, on his journey, seen small bays like dazzling amethysts, surrounded by hills a deeper color clothed in mystery. And all the dust had been argent, as pure as snow, under the fantastic hue of the sky. This was surely the land of Apollo, filled with depthless light insistent and burning—the land of the sun. It was no enigma any longer to Marcus that here was the country of the gods, the home of wisdom, of beauty, of poetry, of glory, of a celebration where those on Olympus met those who dwelt on the dusky earth and talked together as comrades. No man could visit Greece, or live in her, without awe. Sometimes Marcus thought that Greece was the Eden of which Noë ben Joel had spoken, flawless, flaming like a diamond, colored with absolute blue and purple and silver. Here human flesh became marble, smooth and gleaming, in the many temples. Here color was not ambiguous, but passionate. Here the sun conferred healing, and the mountains rejoiced. Here it was that Zeus—not the grim Jupiter of Rome—had enveloped Danae in a rain of gold, and Artemis had slept in the radiant forests of the moon. From this land had flashed the light that had illuminated the wilderness of the western world, and had given it thought and philosophy. The harmony and the color and the brightness were portent of immortality, the wisdom the echo of the Lord’s voice. There was not an art—and art is divine—which Greece had not produced, whether it was mathematics, reason, the theatre, poesy, sculpture, painting, column or portico, science, medicine, astronomy, philosophy, or symmetry, proportion or music.
Greece enforced upon man the knowledge that without God he was nothing, whether he was a laborer in the field or a dictator on an enameled throne. For, as Epictetus had said, “Whithersoever I go, there shall I still find sun, moon, and stars, there shall I find dreams and omens, and converse with God.”
Marcus had always believed this from his childhood, but Rome’s might and cynical power had finally confounded him and depressed him. He had been caught up in the whirlwind of despair. He had abandoned hope. He had talked earnestly with man, hoping to enlighten him, when there was no enlightenment. Manhood, he thought now, does not confer wisdom. It often distorts it, for men become too often the slave of the immediate. Again he thought of the words of Epictetus: “Give yourself more diligently to reflection. Know yourself. Take counsel with the Godhead. Without God put your hand to nothing!” And what of my unhappiness? thought Marcus. Epictetus had an answer: “If any be unhappy let him remember that he is unhappy by reason of himself alone. For God has made all men to enjoy felicity and the constancy of God.”
Quintus and Syrius carried Marcus one evening to the Propylaea of the sacred precinct, for he could barely move because of the pains in all his joints and the spasms in his muscles. Here servants of the god bathed him in curative waters and dressed him in a white robe. He sacrificed on the altar. The low rays of the sun entered through the beautiful bronze doors, which would not be closed until nightfall; they transformed the clouds of incense into billows of deep purple. Other sufferers were already there, lying on the pallets laid out for them, and among them was the Sadducee, Judah ben Zakkai, who had questioned Marcus in a worldly manner. He suffered from an affliction of the heart, which no physician had been able to cure. He smiled up at Marcus as the latter bent over him. “What?” aske
d Marcus, with gentle raillery, “is the skeptic here also?”
Judah replied, “Let me remind you of what the Stoics say: ‘Let us sacrifice to the gods. If they do not exist, then it does no harm. If they do exist, they will be pleased and may grant our prayers.’”
“Do you pray to Asclepius or to the God of your fathers, Judah?”
Judah smiled, his pale face touched with mirth. “To the God of my fathers.”
Marcus became grave. “Men give many names to God, but He is only God, and who knows His Holy Name? Have not my Jewish friends told me that no man knows that Name? Let us call Him what we will; it is of no moment to Him, Who loves His children.”
Judah said with sudden intentness on Marcus, “You truly believe!”
Marcus smiled again. “I do, of this moment. But who is not assailed with doubts? Today, I say, ‘Blessed is He.’ Tomorrow, in any travail, I may say, ‘Where is He, if He lives at all?’”
The temple, chastely Doric in architecture, was 25.50 metres long and 13.2 metres wide, and had been built over two hundred years ago by the architect, Theodotus. It consisted of pronaos and cella, and was built of stone covered with white stucco. It was roofed with fir and cypress and in the four corners were statues of nymphs. A large statue of Nike stood on the pediment, heroic and austere. The floor of the temple was paved in black and white marble. The pure white altar burned with a crimson flame day and night and was tended by the priests, a number of whom were always on their knees praying at all hours.
But the great gold and ivory statue of Asclepius remained below the temple floor in hushed quiet. Thrasymedes, the famous sculptor, had carved the statue, which sat upon a throne with one hand on a staff and the other on the head of a sacred serpent. A dog basked humbly at his feet. The face of the statue expressed the calm compassion and wisdom of the physician, his removal from passion, his contemplation of mystery. It was impossible to gaze upon that lofty face without reverence. Marcus, upheld by his brother and servant, looked at the statue and listened to the deep quiet of the sanctuary. Then he was carried upstairs again to the Adyton and laid upon his prepared pallet beside Judah. “It is a beautiful statue,” said Judah. “It is true that pious Jews abhor statues of all kinds, for likenesses of anything in heaven or on the earth are forbidden in the Ten Commandments. But I am a Hellenistic Jew, and I admire beauty. Moreover, that Commandment was given because the illiterate and the stupid can rarely distinguish between a mere symbol and the reality it represents. God feared idolatry of man-made things.”
“But we, who are so much wiser, do not confuse symbols with reality,” said Marcus.
Judah smiled. “You mock me.”
“I do not have a good opinion of mankind,” said Marcus. “That is, perhaps, a lack of virtue in me. Once someone told me that man and the rat are two creatures who resemble each other more than they resemble all others in creation. They are savage and ferocious, killing for mere sport or wantonness and a love of cruelty; they deface; they destroy. They attack the females and the young of their own species, unlike other animals. They are cannibalistic. Moreover, their dung is poisonous. They leave disease behind them. Was it not Sophocles who said that he had no doubt but that rats have a god, too? I often wonder if their god is not in the shape of a man, for rats have the same hatred of man that we have of God.”
He lay down on the pallet. A priest came to him with a cup in his hand, which he presented to Marcus. “It is a distillation of the willow tree bark, which is efficacious in the treatment of the rheumatic diseases. It will, at least, relieve your pain temporarily.” Marcus drank the potion, which was both acrid and of a vinegary taste and puckered his mouth and throat.
Judah studied Marcus’ face, which had relaxed on the pillow. He saw the contemplative profile, the long nose, the firm, if gentle chin, the faintly smiling lips, the sloping brow, the mass of brown and curling hair, and, above all, the deep line of humor that ran from above the nostril on the cheek to far down below the mouth. The open eyes seemed to fix thoughtfully on the ceiling, and they glimmered changefully in the last sunlight as if endless thoughts paraded before him as in a mural. His hands were folded on his breast. Once or twice a furrow of pain ran over his forehead and twitched his lips, but his attitude was of patience and endurance.
The sun sank away. Now the temple was lit only by the scarlet light on the altar. Others lying on their pallets on the floor groaned feebly. Priests moved among them, speaking in soothing voices, and administering medicines and water. Other priests prayed silently on their knees before the altar. Then they began to sing, or to chant, their voices rising in heroic and majestic cadences:
“O Thou, Who never abandoned man,
Have mercy upon us who abandoned Thee!
O Thou, Whose love is wider than all the universes,
Have mercy upon us who have returned love with hatred!
O Thou, Whose Hand is filled with the perfume of healing,
Have mercy upon us who heal nothing, but only destroy!
O Thou, Whose other Name is Truth,
Have mercy upon us whose lips are black with lies!
O Thou, Who moves in eternal beauty,
Have mercy upon us who defame the earth with ugliness!
O Thou, Who are pure and everlasting Light,
Have mercy upon us who dwell in our darkness!
Have mercy, God!
God, have mercy!”
Have mercy, God, prayed Marcus silently. He fell asleep. His last conscious thought was that the pain had left his joints and his flesh, and that the continuous chanting of the priests was like a fragrant wave that carried him into peace. For the first time in many months he slept without dreams, as warm and safe as an infant.
The next morning he awoke to early sunlight and marvelous refreshment, and his body, though still weak, was without pain and flexible. The priests were already moving among the awakened patients, carrying tablets in their hands on which they recorded dreams. Many of the patients exclaimed aloud in joy that their illnesses had left them. The priests smiled paternally. They administered more medicines. Marcus turned his head and looked at Judah, who said, “I slept without gasping and without struggle. My heart is still.”
A priest came to Marcus who said, “I did not dream at all.”
“That is the best of sleep,” said the priest, and gave him another potion. “Nightmares are the travail of the mind.”
“I am well,” said Marcus. “Will this continue?”
The priest was silent a moment. Then he said, “None of the very best physicians know the cause of the rheumatic diseases. But we do know that the rheumatic is a man sad and melancholy of mind, dejected and hopeless of heart. None but the intelligent can feel so, and we have noted that it is the intelligent who are mainly afflicted by this disease. The pain of the mind is often reflected in the body. The sense of frustration in the soul is conveyed in the locked joints. The spasmodic muscles indicate the passionate struggles of the tormented spirit. The rheumatic is a man in a state of constant tension of both thought and flesh.
“I can only remind you, noble Cicero, that if your mind rests on peace your body will so rest.”
“But who can have peace in this world?”
“We can have fortitude, and accept what we cannot change.”
“But, who knows if we cannot change it?”
The priest laughed kindly. “That is the stigmata of the rheumatic. You can but pray that God will bless your efforts; leave all else in His Hands.”
The priest turned to Judah. “Did you dream, my friend?”
Judah hesitated. “I dreamed of my dead mother. She held me in her arms as if I were a child again, and I wept. Then, as I wept, the anguish in my heart subsided and my breath came with ease. When I awoke, my wretchedness had left me.”
“You were weeping in your soul,” said the priest. “For what do you weep, Judah ben Zakkai? Be reconciled to God.”
The two young men left the temple together, after leavin
g large offerings in gratitude. Their friends rejoiced to see them moving in health and embraced them. Quintus, the soldier, had difficulty in restraining his tears of joy, and Syrius kissed Marcus’ hands. The fierce dry heat of the sun made their eyes blink, and flushed their pale cheeks. Marcus sat alone in the inn for a long time, meditating. When he emerged his face was peaceful.
The next day he left with Quintus and Syrius for Athens again.
*From Cicero’s The Moral Law.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Lucent land! thought Marcus, as he sat in the car driven by his brother. The horses and the wheels created great drafts of white, irridescent dust which remained in the hot and radiant air after them, glittering like pale fire. To their right the Aegean was truly a royal purple, running with argent light. To their left rose the cypress-wooded hills, dark and lush. They passed white walls and meadows filled with sheep and cattle, and orchards of twisted silver olive trees, and gardens filled with green vegetables and burning flowers. They passed little cities, crowned by templed acropoleses, and villages crowded with the white, cube-shaped houses of Greece. Each house had a horizontal trellis jutting from it, laced with fruity grape vines. They entered Nauplia and rested in the noonday in a quiet inn above the sea and among dark-blue mountains. Marcus sat on the high terrace overlooking the colored water and while he dined simply on honey, cold mutton, a spicy salad, brown bread and white and cheese, he looked at the sky, the incredibly sapphire sky of Greece, depthless and glowing. It was not hard to imagine that that effulgence was the reflection of the gods, themselves. It was easy to understand how that sky, this ardent but stimulating heat, these aromatic hills, this blaze of plum-colored sea, could give birth to the noblest wisdom man as yet had conceived. The sea, at this hour, was dotted with the scarlet sails of languid fishing vessels, and they dipped like dreaming dancers. Somewhere, behind the inn, young men sang, their voices harmonious and full of joy. Bees hovered over the pot of honey on the white table before Marcus, and he watched them with love and peace. A dove swooped down to eat the crumbs of the bread. Birds cried sweetly; the breeze was full of fragrance and spice.