Great Lion of God

  Saul exclaimed, “I hate him!”

  The rabbi did not speak but only gazed at him.

  “He will destroy Israel!” cried Saul in a louder voice.

  “What? A miserable, beggarly Galilean, however inflammatory? Do we not have guards and magistrates and courts to subdue and suppress him, if he becomes dangerous? Are you not,” suggested the old rabbi, “giving him too much importance in your mind?”

  “He is of no importance at all!”

  The rabbi shrugged. “Then, why do we discuss him? At one moment you show me the letter from your sister, obviously as alarmed as she, and at the next moment, you say ‘He is of no importance at all.’ My son, you have not been candid with me. You say you hate the man, and that I believe, but something stirs in you at the very thought of him.”

  “He is a sorcerer,” said Saul, and then found himself, in spite of his own will, speaking of the Nazarene, of the times he had encountered him, and even of his dream. His voice rose and fell in that great agitation; his hands clenched and unclenched. The rabbi listened and did not move.

  Finally Saul said, “He is a sorcerer, and we are commanded to put sorcerers to death. He looked at me and I became faint and for a little I had no resistance and I would have followed him—I would have sought him, as if at a command—I would have given—” He looked at the rabbi in mingled fright, understanding and horror. “Therefore, he seduced my soul, and is a sorcerer!”

  Reb Isaac looked at that pale and square and implacable countenance with a strange fixity. Then he rose and went to his window, walking lame and slow, and looked out upon the countryside. He said, “It was your father’s prayer, all his life, that he live when the Messias arrives. I believe his—illness—which caused his death came from his disappointment.”

  Saul frowned. He thought to himself, The old man wanders. He has forgotten our conversation. Reb Isaac said, as if musing to himself, “Your father was told a peculiar tale a few years before you were born, that his cousin’s husband had seen a great Star over Bethlehem, from his guard-tower in Jerusalem, during the feast of the Roman Saturnalia, and that it hung in the sky for a number of nights, and then disappeared as abruptly as it had come.”

  “I recall that story, from my childhood,” said Saul. “It was a comet, or a wandering star.”

  Reb Isaac tottered back to his chair and slowly stroked his beard, his eyes contemplating the floor. “I laughed at the story. I suggested to Hillel that it was a Roman soldier’s drunken illusion. I saddened your father’s heart. I would that I could recall my words. He believed, or hoped, the Star was the signal of the birth of the Messias.”

  “I know,” said Saul, with freshly rising impatience. “But, it was not. I know that others saw it, including Joseph of Arimathaea, and my uncle, David ben Shebua. However, they were not deluded.”

  The rabbi sat in thought, pushing his lips in and out through his beard. “I am an old man. You will recall that we say ‘The old men dream dreams, and the young men have visions.’ I have dreams, and they are mysterious ones.” Now he looked straightly at Saul. “I am not certain, any longer, of anything, except God, blessed be His Name.” He pondered. “When you were younger, and were in Jerusalem the first time, you were broken and savage with grief that none came to the rescue of the Essenes and Zealots, who were crucified by the Romans outside the gates of Jerusalem. You accused your grandfather of being a pusillanimous man. Your heart was smitten. Yet now you express your fear that this Nazarene will incite the people, this rumored Essene, and cause the wrath of the Romans to fall upon our people. You speak as your grandfather spoke, and as all the temperate men spoke, whom you despised in your youth.”

  Saul pressed his lips together in vexation. “No, I do not speak like them. My heart is still with the Essenes and the Zealots. I would that my people could drive the Romans from the sacred soil of our country. I would have them die, if necessary, but in a heroic cause, the freeing of Israel, or even in an attempt to free her. But not for a wretched carpenter from Galilee, who is a blasphemer!”

  Reb Isaac sighed. “You believe him a sorcerer, and you have expressed your hatred for him. Yet you have also said that you were drawn to him, that it was as if he were about to give you a command.”

  “Thaumaturgy,” said Saul. “An attribute of evil.”

  “You believe him evil?”

  Saul felt a vague confusion. He let his mind wander over his memory of the Nazarene. Thrice he had seen him in reality. He recalled the Nazarene’s countenance, his manner, the muted thunder of his voice, his glowing gestures and again that unknown sick pain assaulted him. He said, “We know that evil can come in the guise of an angel of light.”

  “But evil does not perform good. That would destroy its nature.”

  Saul looked at him incredulously. “Reb Isaac! You, too, have not been deceived by tales of this man?”

  The rabbi lifted his bent shoulders and then let them fall and spread out his hands. “I have told you. I am not certain of anything any longer. I am an old man. It is only the young who are emphatic and vehement and see visions and scream down what is not pleasing to them, and attack that which they cannot understand. I have seen too much in my life to deny anything, however preposterous it sounds, however amazing it appears. If I were younger I would go to Jerusalem and discover this man.”

  Saul stood up and spat between his teeth, “I will soon return to Israel, and I will see this man again, and I will denounce him to his face!”

  When Saul had gone Reb Isaac stood up painfully, settled the red velvet gold-trimmed cap on his head, folded his hands together and prayed aloud. “Lord, let us know the truth of this matter, for my heart is disturbed and my dreams are strange, and there is not the tranquillity of age upon me but the strong disquiet of youth.” He thought of what the people had said to Moses, “Let not God speak to us lest we die.” The old rabbi shook his head and pondered, knowing it was a terrible thing to hear the Voice of the Lord.

  But Saul did not return to Jerusalem as he again planned. He castigated himself, reproached himself that he was wasting time, that God was vexed with him. He had not reached the knowledge of the immediacy of God’s presence, of which Rabban Gamaliel had spoken, nor had the divine silence been shattered, nor was the way shown to him yet. He could only serve doggedly, as a faithful but neglected servant serves, out of love and devotion. He had periods of ecstasy, flashes of sudden intuition in which all seemed explained, and his spirit glowed with rapture. But the next moment he could not even recall the sensation of the experience, or what he had understood. He had heard nothing. He had actually seen nothing. Yet the very memory of something he could not remember was a burning in his soul, and he lived for those rare episodes. He no longer cried, “Oh, that I might know where to find Him!” He only prayed that he would be given enlightenment. Often he waited, in his prayers, his heart beating, but there was no answer. He felt no bitterness, no angry impatience. He believed himself still unworthy, that he must undergo more purification of the spirit. At times it occurred to him that God wished him to destroy the Galilean, the blasphemer who permitted his ragged and humble followers to call him the Messias, the man born in obscurity, the man without heavenly splendor, without a crown on his head.

  He applied himself to study. He wrote letters. Once, on the plea of a friend of his father’s, he took the case of a man falsely accused of murder and appeared in the court in Tarsus, as the defender, after he had become convinced of the man’s innocence. This exalted him, especially when the man was acquitted and the magistrate had complimented Saul on his lawyer’s eloquence and his dramatic defense of the accused. Saul thought, Does God intend me to be a practicing advocate, defending the innocent and upholding justice?

  He was not content, as he waited. He was like a restive horse. But still he did not return to Jerusalem. It was as if he had been forbidden to return until a certain hour. That thought offended his reason. He accused himself of laziness, of loving, too much, the quiet an
d peace and modest luxury of his father’s house, of taking too much pleasure in the gardens and of spending too much time on the black carved bridge that arched over the pond. Something in him was in abeyance, but it was beyond his capacity to know why, though his mind urged him back to Israel.

  He took to wandering on the roads to the city, when it was quiet and the sun was high and the returning throngs did not fill the roads. He could think little; his thoughts seemed too ponderous for the warm serenity of the autumn weather. They wearied him.

  One day he saw a young boy about thirteen or fourteen playing in the long and dusty grass near the road, with a small dog which barked shrilly. Saul heard the boy’s laughter before he actually saw him and it came to him that there was something familiar in that laughter, as if he had heard it before. Then, out of the golden dry grass and weeds a head arose, shouting at the dog, and then there were youthful shoulders, then flailing arms. The hair was furiously red in color, and the face was strong and square and the eyes were deeply and flashingly blue and the nose was big though well-formed. The color of the countenance was ruddy and sprinkled with ginger freckles.

  Saul found himself, to his stupefaction, looking on his own young appearance. He stood in a trance, staring. The little dog bounded to him, and snapped at his ankles, but he was unaware. The boy rushed out of the bright dust and grass to the road, and Saul saw his own bowed legs, as sturdy as young saplings. Saul also saw enthusiasm and exuberance and humor on the lad’s face, and the wide thin lips parted in mirth to reveal teeth like his own, broad and square and very white.

  The boy halted, abruptly, at the sight of this old man who had seemingly appeared to have dropped from the sky. His smile went away. He stood in silence and looked at Saul. His tunic was scarlet, almost the color of his hair, and his belt was of silver and his sandals, though simple, were artfully crafted of good leather. He wore a boss about his neck, and it sparkled in the tawny sun of the season.

  Saul’s mouth and throat had turned to stone and he could not swallow or speak. The boy stared at him frankly, as no peasant or slave dared to stare, and his look was bold yet pleasant and inquisitive. Saul saw that his throat and neck and legs were sunburned, for the skin was fair, as his own was fair. And he knew at once and his heart plunged and then quickened and he was both affrighted and strangely exultant, though ashamed beyond any shame he had known before.

  The boy waited courteously. The little dog ran to his master and the boy picked him up and nestled the head under his firm chin. He looked inquiringly at Saul.

  Then Saul could speak. “Who are you, child?” he asked. His voice was muted and constricted.

  “I am called Boreas,” said the boy, and he began to grin. “Because I am noisy, it is said, and windy, and stir up tempests.”

  He seemed all movement, though he stood still with the dog in his arms, and he gave the impression of thrilling with energy.

  “And who is your father—Boreas?” asked Saul.

  Boreas pointed swiftly down the road in the direction of the pool which Saul had never been able to forget. “My father is overseer of the lands of the noble Roman, Centorius, and is a scribe and keeps the accounts. He is a freedman,” added the boy, and lifted his proud head. “But I was born free.”

  Saul felt his own face tremble all over. “And your mother—Boreas?”

  The boy shrugged. “I do not remember her. She died when I was born.”

  Dacyl, thought Saul. And now his tormented soul, always ready to accuse him of all sins and all laxnesses and indolence, stirred sternly. It was not enough, thought Saul, that I lay with Dacyl, whom I loved and hated, though neither was her fault. But on her I begot this child who does not know me as his father, and must never know.

  “Is your father a man of kindness?” he asked.

  The boy was astonished at this strange question. Saul noticed that his manner was free and unafraid, and he rejoiced while he waited the boy’s answer. He saw the boy’s eyes widen and stare. Boreas said, “My father, Peleus, is a good and worthy man, Master. He married another woman, after my mother died, and I have three sisters.”

  Do not call me “Master,” thought Saul in his heart. He had noticed that the boy’s voice was his childhood’s own, somewhat loud and dominant and assertive, and quick. Boreas was speaking again. “I have a tutor, from the very house of Flavius, the tribune,” he said, and smiled gleefully at this stranger, as if his words were amusing. “My father wishes me to be a scribe also, keeping accounts and held in respect.”

  Saul wanted to take Boreas in his arms and hold him to his chest and embrace him, and only then did he realize how lonely he was, lonely beyond any loneliness he had ever imagined. He was filled with love, and with pain.

  “It is well that your father is so esteemed,” he said, and his voice was gentle.

  “He is also rich,” said Boreas, with the extreme candor Saul had once known, himself. “A man of much wealth gave him a fortune in Roman sesterces when I was but four years old.”

  Saul’s pulses jumped. “And who was this benevolent lord?” he asked.

  The boy’s red eyebrows rose, and he shrugged. “I do not know, Master. No one knows. It was given through a bank, and lawyers. It is said that once he saw me and liked my appearance, and gave my father large purses in order to nurture me.”

  My father, thought Saul, my father who had no grandson from my loins but this, my father who never told me. And this is my son who will never say Kaddish for me, nor stand beside me in the synagogue, nor look upon my face and call me “Father,” and never rise at my entrance into his house. Nor will his children know me, nor cluster at my knees when I am old. He calls another his sire, and that man has my own and I have nothing.

  “You are a Greek, Boreas?”

  Again the lad shrugged. Now his smile was not so ready. His brows drew together a little, and he studied Saul more acutely, I Saul in his plain long tunic bound with leather, his cloak of rough cloth, his coarse sandals. Saul was not dressed as finely as himself. I So, with a touch of hauteur he said, “My father is a Greek—Master. He was born in Athens and has an education.”

  For the first time he observed that he resembled Saul and again he stared.

  “Who are you—Master?”

  “My name—my name—” Saul halted. Did Peleus know this youth was not of his own loins? Dacyl had spoken of him. For the boy’s sake he must not be recognized by any of the house of the tribune, Flavius, and for his own sake, also. He said, in a voice that spoke farewell, “I am of no consequence, Boreas. I am a stranger, an alien in the land, and I go to the city, and will not pass this way again.”

  Boreas nodded condescendingly. The dog was struggling in his arms, and Boreas shouted with Saul’s own laughing impatience, and the dog fell to the ground and ran. When Boreas had caught him again the stranger had disappeared. There was no sign of him on the narrow and winding road. Boreas considered a moment. He had been attracted to Saul, whose voice had been very kind and gentle, and whose face had shone upon him. But he had also been poor and footsore, and he had no chariot, no horse, not even an ass. It was possible that he was a fleeing slave from one of the great houses along the road. Yet his voice had not been the voice of a slave. Boreas shook his head in bafflement. Then he heard the distant voice of his father calling him, and he ran and forgot Saul at once.

  Saul, who had plunged into a thicket when the boy had turned his back, later made his way back to the road, and his house. He thought of his father again, his father who had not spoken but had recognized his grandson, and out of the greatness of his heart, and his love and his knowledge, had assured the future of Boreas. What pain had he suffered in his nights, what longings to embrace Boreas and claim him? The boy was not even circumcised. He was a Jew, and none knew it now but Saul alone, and the boy would never know. He would never know the God of his Fathers, nor would he hear of Sinai and Moses and all the prophets. He worshiped the gods of the heathens; he would marry a woman of his mother’s bl
ood and Saul’s seed would be lost forever, dwindled away in bodies which would not exist but for that anonymous seed.

  When Saul reached his house he went at once to his chamber and threw himself face down on his bed and gave himself up to grief and remorse and longing for the son he could never acknowledge, who would never stand at his tomb and sorrow and pray.

  I will return at once to Jerusalem, he thought with resolution. But he did not. He lived near Boreas, of his flesh and his blood, and there was a weary reluctance in him to leave this place as yet.

  Chapter 24

  SOMETIMES Saul permitted himself the agonizing pleasure of seeing Boreas at a far distance, in the direction of the pond which he, Saul, never had visited since that last day with Dacyl. On those days he fasted as a punishment for his weakness, and for the danger he had brought near the youth. The fasting was not very onerous, as his tastes were simple and austere, so he sought a way to increase his punishment. He worked in the gardens with his servants, ignoring the cold winds that rushed down from the fiery mountains, and he gathered the grapes and the dates and the pomegranates and raked the leaves and scythed down the grass. When he discovered that he was enjoying this he abandoned it, only to discover that his health had been improved by the labor, and God had sternly warned men to regard their health so that they might better serve Him and be no burden on their family and neighbors. So he returned to the labor. By nature a man of action as well as a man of mind, his flesh hardened in the work and he slept more peacefully at night.

  He even cut wood for the baths and the fires and the stoves. The servants shook their heads, but admired his skill and endurance. He was like one, they said among themselves, who was training for the Great Games. He even learned to ride a horse and would often gallop down a lonely Roman road with a cry of exuberance. For a brief while his youth returned to him, his early youth. He discovered appetite and the comfort one could take in cold goat’s milk and cheese and fresh chill water and good warm bread and fruit and fish and roasted lamb. He even began to like wine and enjoy it. But he visited friends of his family very rarely, though invited, and entertained none. However, he would greet Aristo with real affection and feel an emptiness when the prospering Greek—who had now entered two fine horses for the races and had his own charioteer, and was investing in ships returned to his house.