‘Did Jehovah say that to the Jews?’
Demetrius laughed silently. He had suspected that Marcellus wasn’t very well informed about the various religions, but his master’s almost complete ignorance on the subject was ludicrous.
‘Why—certainly I’ Paulus was orating. ‘Started them off in a garden where he had grown a fruit they were forbidden to eat. Of course they ate it, not to satisfy their hunger but their curiosity.’
‘One would think Jehovah might have been delighted ova their curiosity,’ put in Marcellus, ‘seeing that every good thing we have was discovered through someone’s inquisitiveness.’
Yes—but this made Jehovah angry,’ explained Paulus, ‘so he pitched them out into the desert, and let them get tricked into slavery. Then he told them how to escape, and turned them loose in a wilderness. Then he promised them a land of their own—’
‘And this is it!’ laughed Marcellus. ‘What a promised land!’
“There isn’t a more worthless strip of country in the world!’ declared Paulus. ‘And now the Jews have lost control of it. You’d think that after about fifteen hundred years of hard knocks, poverty, and slavery, these specially favored children of Jehovah would begin to wonder whether they might not be better off without so much divine attention.’
‘Perhaps that accounts for this Messiah business that you spoke about, the other day. Maybe they’ve given up hope that Jehovah will take care of them, and think the Messiah might improve their fortunes when he comes. Do you suppose that’s what they have in mind? It’s not unreasonable. I daresay that’s the way we and the Greeks accumulated so many gods, Paulus. When one god gets weary and impotent, another fresher god takes over. Didn’t old Zeus retire once in favor of his son Apollo?’
‘Not for long,’ remembered Paulus. ‘Apparently the weather hadn’t been very good, so young Apollo decided he would manage the sun; and ran amuck with it. Old Zeus had to straighten out the tangle for the boy. Now—there’s sense in a religion like that, Tribune. Our gods behave the way we do, naturally, because we made them the way we are. Everybody gets tired of the dictatorial old man, and eventually he gets tired too; decides to let his son run the business—whether it’s growing gourds or managing the planets; but he never thinks the young fellow is competent, so he keeps on interfering until presently there is a row. That’s why our religion is such a comfort to us,’ Paulus continued, elaborately ironical.
‘I’m afraid you’re not very pious,’ commented Marcellus. ‘If the gods hear what you are saying, they may not like it. They might think you doubted their reality.’
‘Not at all, sir! It’s men like me who really believe in their reality. They’re authentic—the gods! Some of them want war, some want peace, some of them don’t know what they want—except an annual feast-day and a big parade. Some give you rest and sleep, some drive you insane. Some you are expected to admire, and some you are expected to hate, and all of them are never quite happy unless they are frightening you and assured that you are afraid. This is sensible. This is the way life is!...But these Jews! There they are, with only one god; and he is perpetually right, perpetually good, wise, loving. Of course he is stubborn, because they are stubborn; doesn’t approve of pleasure, because they never learned how to play; never makes any mistakes, because the Jew never makes any mistakes. Tribune, Jehovah can’t help being a pessimist. The Jews are a pessimistic people.’
‘Maybe Jehovah thinks it is a good thing for his children to endure hardship,’ speculated Marcellus; ‘toughens their fiber, knocks off their surplus fat, keeps them in fighting trim. I believe he has a good idea there, Paulus. Sometimes I’ve thought that Rome would be better off if we patricians had to scratch for a living, and stole less from the neighbors.’
There was a considerable pause at this point in the sacrilegious discussion, and Demetrius had wondered whether they hadn’t about exhausted themselves and their subject. But not quite.
‘Rome will have that problem solved for her, one of these days,’ Paulus was muttering, ominously. ‘The scepter is passed around, Commander. Egypt has her day in the sunshine. Darius tramps about, scaring everybody for an hour or two. Alexander sobs because there’s no one left to be subdued. The Caesars drive their chariots over Alexander’s world; so drunk with power that they can’t even bear to let these poor Hebrews own a few acres of weeds and snakes....Ho-hum!’
Demetrius had yawned, too, and wished they would go to bed.
‘But it will be somebody else’s turn—soon,’ said Paulus.
‘When?’ asked Marcellus, exactly as Demetrius thought he might.
‘Well—if justice were served to crazy old Tiberius and his addled stepchild,’ deliberated Paulus, ‘I should think it might be someone else’s turn tomorrow—or by the end of next week, at the latest.... How about a little more wine, Tribune?’
Demetrius had sat up, ready for the summons. It came instantly, and he presented himself.
‘Fill Centurion Paulus’ cup,’ ordered Marcellus. ‘No—none for me.’
And then Demetrius had gone back into the shadow of the tent to resume his waiting. The conversation had taken a queer turn now.
‘Paulus,’ his master was saying, ‘you believe that the gods are manufactured by men. If it isn’t an impertinent question—did you ever try to make one?’
Demetrius, sauntering today along through a narrow ravine, almost oblivious of the long procession single-filing on ahead, laughed as he recalled that extraordinary question and its absurd answer.
‘No,’ Paulus had replied, ‘but it isn’t too late. Shall I make one for you now?’
‘By all means!’ chuckled Marcellus. ‘I assume that when you have him completed he will closely resemble yourself.’
‘Well—not too closely; for this god I’m going to invent is good. He doesn’t just pretend to be good. He really is good! He takes a few bright men into his confidence—not necessarily Romans or Greeks or Gauls; just so they’re honest and intelligent—and entrusts them with some important tasks. He tells one man how to cure leprosy, and others how to restore sight to the blind and hearing to the deaf. He confides the secrets of light and fire; how to store up summer heat for use in winter; how to capture the light of day and save it to illumine the night; how to pour idle lakes onto arid land.’ Paulus had paused, probably to take another drink.
‘Very good, Centurion,’ Marcellus had commented, thoughtfully. ‘If you’ll set up your god somewhere, and get him to producing these effects, he can have all my trade.’
‘Perhaps you might like to assist in his creation, sir,’ suggested Paulus, companionably.
Demetrius had not expected the quite serious speech that followed. As it proceeded, he raised up one elbow and listened intently.
‘It occurs to me, Paulus,’ Marcellus was saying, soberly, ‘that this god of yours, who seems a very fine fellow indeed, might well consider a revision of the present plan for removing men from this world. What happens to us is something like this: a man spends his active life striving to accomplish a few useful deeds, and eventually arrives at the top of his powers; honored—we will say—and a good example to his community. Then he begins to go into a decline; loses his teeth and his hair; his step slows, his eyes grow dim, his hearing is dulled. This disintegration frets him, and he becomes gusty and irascible, like an old dog. Now he retires to a sunny corner of the garden with a woolen cap and a rug around his legs, and sits there in everybody’s way until it is time for him to take to his bed with grievous aches and pains which twist him into revolting postures. When no dignity is left to him, nor any longer deserved, he opens his sunken mouth and snores for a few days, unaware of his inglorious end. Now—I think your new god should do something about this, Paulus.’
‘We will take it up with him, sir,' promised Paulus, agreeably. ‘How would you like to have the matter handled?’
Apparently this required a bit of concentration, for the reply was delayed a little while. When it came, Marcellus??
? tone had abandoned all trace of persiflage and was deeply sincere.
‘When a Roman of our sort comes of age, Paulus, there is an impressive ceremony by which we are inducted into manhood. Doubtless you felt, as I did, that this was one of the high moments of life. Well do I remember—the thrill of it abides with me still—how all of our relatives and friends assembled, that day, in the stately Forum Julium. My father made an address, welcoming me into Roman citizenship. It was as if I had never lived until that hour. I was so deeply stirced, Paulus, that my eyes swam with tears. And then good old Cornelius Capito made a speech, a very serious one, about Rome’s right to my loyalty, my courage, and my strength. I knew that tough old Capito had a right to talk of such matters, and I was proud that he was there! They beckoned to me, and I stepped forward. Capito and my father put the white toga on me—and life had begun!’
There was an interval of silence here. Demetrius, much moved by this recital, had strained to hear above his own accented heartbeats, for the reminiscence had been spoken in a tone so low that it was almost as if Marcellus were talking to himself.
‘Now—I think your god should ordain that at the crowning moment of a mature man’s career; at the apex; when his strength has reached its zenith; when his best contribution has been made; let your god ordain that another assembly be held, with all present who know and revere this worthy man. And who among us would not strive to be worthy, with such a consummation in prospect? Let there be a great assembly of the people. Let there be an accounting of this man’s deeds; and, if he has earned a lofty eulogy, let it be spoken with eloquence.’
‘And then?’ demanded Paulus. ‘A valedictory, perhaps?’
‘No,’ Marcellus had decided, after a pause. ‘Let the man keep silent. He will have no need to explain his deeds, if they were worth emulation. He will arise, and his peers will remove his toga; and it will be treasured; perhaps conferred upon another, some day, for courageous action. It would be a great responsibility to wear such a garment, Paulus.’ There was another long pause.
‘I think the god should prescribe that this event occur in the waning of a golden afternoon in springtime. There should be a great chorus, singing an elegiac ode. And while the triumphant music fills the air—with the vast assembly standing reverently—let the honored man march erectly and with firm step from the rostrum—and out—to face the sunset! Then—let him vanish! And be seen no more!’
After he had gone to bed, last night, and the camp was quiet, except for the footfalls and jangling side-arms of the sentries, Demetrius had pondered long and deeply over this strange conceit—the making of a better god!
This morning, as he marched through the barren hills, towing a file of stupid donkeys who had as much control over their destiny as had he over his own, Demetrius wondered what he might have said if they had invited him to add a desirable attribute to their imaginary deity. Doubtless the world would be a more comfortable place to live in if, as Paulus had suggested, some plan were arrived at for a better distribution of light and heat. And perhaps it would bring a man’s days to a more dramatic conclusion if, as his master had so beautifully visioned, the human career might close with music and pageantry instead of a tedious glissade into helpless senility; though, as things stood, a man’s lack of honor at the end of his life seemed quite compatible with his absurd plight at life’s beginning. If Marcellus proposed to add dignity to a man’s departure from the world, he should also pray for a more dignified arrival.
No—such idle speculations were a mere waste of opportunity if one had a chance to mend the world. There were other needs of far greater import. Surely, this amazingly honest deity whom Marcellus and Paulus had invoked would want to do something about the cruel injustice of men in Cheir dealings, one with another. With hot indignation, Demetrius reconstructed the painful scene of that day when Roman ruffians forced the doors, and threw his beautiful mother aside as they stalked into his honored father’s library to bind him and carry him away to his death.
This nobler god—if he had any interest in justice, at all—would appear, at such a tragic moment, and sternly declare, ‘You can’t do that!’
Demetrius repeated the words aloud—over and over—louder and louder—until the high-walled ravine believed in them, and said so.
‘You can’t do that! he shouted, so loudly that Melas—far on ahead—turned to look back inquiringly.
***
They had all but reached the end of their journey now. For the past hour their caravan had been plodding up a long hill. At its crest, a very impressive spectacle had confronted them. They were gazing down upon Jerusalem, whose turrets and domes were aglow with the smouldering fire of sunset.
‘Gorgeous!’ Marcellus had murmured.
All day, Demetrius had marched beside his master’s tall camel, happy to be relieved of his unpleasant duties at the rear. Early in the forenoon, they had come to the junction of the lonesome valley road and a highway running up from Hebron. All along the thoroughfare were encampments of caravans, making no sign of preparation for travel.
‘Is this not strange, Paulus?’ Marcellus had inquired. ‘Why aren’t they on the road?’
‘It's the Sabbath day, sir,’ answered Paulus. ‘Jews can’t travel on the last day of the week. It’s against their law.’
‘Can’t move at all, eh?’
‘Oh—practically not. They may proceed a little way—what they call a Sabbath day’s journey—two thousand cubits. Look, sir.’ Paulus pointed down the road. Two thousand of their cubits would take them to that group of olive trees. That’s as far as a Jew can go from his residence on the Sabbath.’
‘Quite inconvenient,’ observed Marcellus, idly.
‘For the poor people—yes.’ Paulus laughed. ‘The rich, as usual, have their own way of circumventing the law.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Well, sir; in their interpretation of this statute, any place where a man has a possession is considered his residence. If a rich man wants to visit somebody ten miles away, on the Sabbath, he sends his servants on ahead, a day earlier, and they deposit along the road—at two-thousand-cubit intervals—such trifling articles as an old sandal, a cracked pot, a worn-out rug, a scroll-spool; and thus prepare the way for their law-abiding lord.’
‘Do you mean that—seriously?’ inquired Marcellus.
‘Yes—and so do they. I tell you, sir, these rich Jews will go to more bother about the external appearance of their religion than any people on earth. And they do it with straight faces, too. It is a great mistake to be playful with them about it. They’ve deceived themselves so long that they really think they’re honest. Of course,’ he added, wryly, ‘the opulent Jew has no monopoly on self-deception. All our rich and influential men, whatever their race or country, are subject to this unhappy malady. It must be a tragic condition to possess great wealth and a sensitive conscience. I never thought much about this before,’ he rambled on, ‘but I doubt not the sophists could prove self-deception to rate high among the cardinal virtues. None but the noble would heap upon himself so much sham and shame in the cause of righteousness.’
‘Paulus, you’re a cynic—and an uncommonly bitter one,’ drawled Marcellus. ‘By the way—what must these people, along the roadside, think of our disregard of their holy Sabbath?’
‘Pouf! They expect nothing better of us. And I’m not sure they’d like it if we laid up for the day in honor of their beliefs. In their opinion, we could defile their religion worse by recognizing it than by ignoring it. They don’t want anything from us—not even our respect. They can’t be blamed, of course,’ Paulus added. ‘No man should be asked to think highly of a master who has robbed him of his liberty.’
Demetrius had turned his face away, at that speech, pretending an interest in a tented caravan resting on a neighboring slope. He wondered whether his master thought this remark of the Centurion’s was injudicious; wondered whether he wished his slave had not overheard it.
***
Early the next morning, the militia from Minoa broke camp and prepared to complete the journey into the city. Demetrius had been glad to see the sunrise. It was the first night, since he had been the slave of Marcellus, that he had slept beyond the sound of his master’s call. After the encampment had been made, late yesterday afternoon, the Legate and four of the senior staff officers had decided to ride on into Jerusalem. None of the slaves, except the Syrian camel-boys, had been taken along. Demetrius, left to guard Marcellus’ effects, had slept in the omate tent alone.
Rousing at dawn, he had drawn the curtains aside, and was amazed at the tide of traffic already on the highway; processions of heavily laden camels, rhythmically lifting their haughty noses at every step; long trains of pack-asses, weighted with clumsy burdens; men, women, children, slaves—all carrying bundles and baskets and boxes of every shape and size. The pestilential dust rolled high.
With the speed and skill of long experience, the contingent from Minoa leveled their camp, rolled up the tents, packed the stores, and took to the road. Proudly the uniformed company marched down the highway, the pilgrims scurrying to the stone fences at the trumpet’s strident command. But the pack-train did not fare so well. The laden asses from Minoa, not carrying banners or blowing trumpets or wearing the Roman uniform, were considered by the travelers as of no more importance than a similar number of pack-asses from anywhere else.
Melas, ever anxious to display large knowledge to the newcomer, seemed highly amused by Demetrius’ efforts to keep his string of donkeys in hand. It was quite apparent that the unkempt Thracian was enjoying the Corinthian’s dilemma. At a disadvantage in Demetrius’ company, the odds were all in his favor now. He wasn’t as cultured as the Legate’s slave, but when it came to managing pack-asses in a dense crowd of uncivil travelers, Melas was in a position to offer counsel. He looked back and grinned patronizingly.