“Should anyone today, in this modern Roman world of force and might and materialism, proclaim what the Babylonians and Jews have known for centuries he would be called a fool, a madman, or a magician, and he would be suppressed. Nevertheless, I believe all these things will come to pass. The story we have heard tonight from the lips of the centurion, Antonius, is doubtless true — from his own viewpoint. Perhaps that Jewish rabbi, the teacher, knows some secrets which seem supernatural to us, but which are part of the natural law we have not yet discovered. And again, and this seems most reasonable to me, the physicians who attended the servant of Antonius made an error. The servant was not mortally ill; he would have recovered in any event.”
Lucanus broke a piece of bread, stared at it apathetically, then laid it down. “I have seen that you were much moved by the story of the centurion. You thought that the Jewish rabbi is one whom you have awaited. Do not be deceived.”
He looked at Ramus, whose face glowed steadfastly. The Greek sighed. “I have told you that you can speak, that there is nothing organically wrong with your throat and your organs of speech. You are in the grip of hysteria. But one of these days you will speak, and it will be no miracle.”
His head ached; little trickles like ice water ran over his flesh; his joints complained. He rose from the table and said, “I am cold. I will go to bed.” He drew the screen about his bed, between himself and Ramus, and took out his pouch. He felt his pulse; it was normal. His skin was warm, but only normally so. He performed certain tests on himself, and nothing was wrong. Yet he was overcome with a sense of profound illness. He said to himself, I am not an emotional man, but for some very foolish reason I was disturbed by the centurion.
He went to bed, and he heard Ramus make his preparations for lying on his own couch. When Ramus looked behind the screen, Lucanus pretended to be asleep. Ramus blew out the lantern, and then all was still, except for the murmuring and creaking of the ship, the distant sound of oars lapping water when the wind died, and some far-off voices of the watch. After a while Lucanus slept, but with fitfulness and nightmares ridden by terror.
He stood in a vast hollow room whose walls and ceilings were like cloud, without beginning and end. He was all alone, and he was overwhelmed with a sense of universal emptiness and fear. Then, before him, a great cross arose, white as snow, and rosy shadows ran up and down it, and across it. Its top rose into infinitude; its arms embraced the universe. He stood at the foot of it, and began to weep, and said to himself, I have made myself not remember! And he cried out in a tearing voice, “Lord, come unto me!”
He sank into deep space, black as night, and without a bottom. And then from utter vastness, from the ends of creation, he heard someone call to him tenderly, “I have not forgotten you, O My servant! I have known you from the beginning of time, and you shall hear My voice.”
Lucanus awoke in the darkness with a violent start. The ship groaned and muttered to itself. He began to drowse again, trembling at the thought of his dreams. Once he thought he saw a flicker of light, but it died away. He turned restlessly. His flesh felt as hot as fire, and he told himself vaguely that he had a fever. He fell into sleep again, and again desolation pervaded the shifting dreams, and a sense of loss and searching. He was on a glittering and blazing desert, the sand like the huge waves of the sea. He was consumed by thirst. He wandered on and on, looking for an oasis, or a sign of life, or a palm tree, or a line of camels against the burning horizon. He fell on his face into the hot sand, and said to himself, Now I must die, for all about me there is the uselessness of my life, as a desert, and there is nothing to quench my thirst. Instantly cool water flowed against his lips, and he drank eagerly, and could not have his fill of it. His eyes were blinded by the light about him, and he heard a voice say gently, “I am He who alone can quench your thirst, O My servant, Lucanus!”
He was staggering on a thin and boulder-strewn road that climbed about a lofty mountain whose summit was blowing with clouds. The mountain had no trees, no grass, no verdure. Its rocks, and its yellowish-white cliffs, appeared to be flowing with fire. Monstrous stony heads, like the heads of a Medusa, or the heads of Furies, thrust themselves from the cliffs, or reared themselves in his path. His back was bent with an awful burden he could not see; his shoulders screamed with the pain of its weight. He fell against the side of a cliff, and panted desperately, telling himself he could go on no longer. And someone said to him with a voice that filled all space, “Come unto Me, all you who are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest!”
Lucanus awakened again, drenched with sweat. The ship complained, wallowing. The darkness was a suffocation; he started to rise, to look for water, but fell asleep again. And now he was hungry beyond all hunger he had ever known or imagined. It was a roaring pit of anguish and desire in him. He bit his hands and groaned. Then, in the mist of pain, he saw two hands, and they were breaking bread, and the hands gave him a piece, and he devoured it and was satisfied. And a voice said, “This is My truth, and only it can relieve your hunger.”
He was in the wreck of cities; he could see the curve of the world, and it blew with smoke. He walked among the wrecks, from horizon to horizon, under a murky sky. There was no moon, no stars, no sun, no hope. The cities fumed like burning skeletons. Then, far above, Lucanus saw the star he had remembered as a child, and it moved, and he began to follow it, running furiously. And as he did so he heard a chorus of mighty voices, singing from out all eternity, as if countless multitudes were rejoicing. He called out, “Wait for me! I am lost!”
The dreams became more confused, more insistent, running into each other, merging, springing apart, spiraling into nothing, to arise more clamorous, more confused, more weighted with awfulness and prophecy. He struggled to awaken, and a shaft of sunlight poured on his wincing face through the porthole. Someone held a mixture of water and wine to his lips, and said, “You are ill. Drink, and rest.” He fell into sleep again, but it was as if he lay on a bed of fire, and he moaned. Hands moved him, and he was drenched as if in a flood.
He heard concerned voices about him, after what seemed many ages. He looked, but could see nothing but the lights of lanterns, blurring like rainbows. Something hot and acrid was in his mouth, and he swallowed, and his whole throat became inflamed. A wet coolness swathed him, and he sighed in gratitude. He felt his head raised, and water poured between his lips. Lanterns appeared, retreated; the sun came, and it retreated; a moon shone through the porthole, but while he was looking at it the stars were there instead. Dawns wheeled into sunsets, then wheeled again into dawns. He said, aloud, “Am I dead?” No one answered. He felt exhausted; his body had no weight. His head was a globe of flaming glass. He wanted to rest, but nightmares leaped about him.
Then one morning, in a cool and pearly dawn, he awoke and saw a nodding stranger beside him in a white robe. He could not move; he could hear the ship and the whining of the sails. A gray rain hurtled itself against the porthole, and there was a flapping sound made by the curtains. The stranger, in his chair, nodded and dozed. But Ramus was not there.
Then Lucanus, with sudden calm clarity, knew that he had been dangerously ill for a long time. He lay quietly, spent, his flesh moist and clammy, his mind clear. But what was the fever that had assailed him? He had had no premonitions of it, no gathering malaise. He turned on his bed and felt the wetness of the coverlets from his own sweat. He thought of his dreams, and was overpowered at the memory.
The stranger moaned and stirred, shook his head, and opened his eyes. Seeing that Lucanus saw him, he bent over the sick man and said, kindly, “You have been ill of a fever for fourteen days, Master, but now you are recovering. I am the ship’s physician. For many days I did not believe that you would live. But, thanks to the gods, your life has been returned to you.”
Lucanus tried to speak, but his voice was only a whisper. “It was malaria, no doubt.”
“No, Master. It was a mysterious illness. I have nursed you since your servant disappeared, and pas
sengers heard you crying through the walls.”
Lucanus lay very still, looking at the other man. He moistened his dry lips, and the physician gave him water, yawning, and smiling with contentment that he had brought his patient back to life. Then Lucanus said in that hoarse whisper, “Ramus? He has gone?”
“Yes, Master. But what else can one expect from servants, who are disloyal and selfish and care only for themselves? When the ship docked at midnight, on the first night out, he must have left the shift abandoning you, for he has not been seen since. Ah. He left you a letter, on this tablet here on the table.”
“Read it to me,” pleaded Lucanus, and his weakness enveloped him.
The physician, shrugging, lifted the letter and began to read. The pearly light was now suffused with rose and gold, and the ship rocked gently.
Ramus had written, “Forgive me, Master, for I must leave when the ship docks tonight. I must go to find Him whom I have been seeking and about Whom the centurion told us at twilight. I looked to see if you were awake, but you were sleeping, and then I knew it would be best if I did not wait, for had you pleaded with me I could not have left you. My whole life’s searching is in Israel, and when I see Him He will lift the curse of man from the sons of Ham, and I shall speak again, adoring Him. I leave you with prayer and tears, for I loved you more than I loved my father and my brothers, and you have not been master but my friend.”
With despair Lucanus thought of that lonely dark man, mute and helpless, going away on foot searching for his hope. He would be a stranger; he could make only gestures. There would be forests to strive through, and deserts, and molten mountains to climb, and hostile cities and hostile villages. There would be, always, hostile men. He would die of thirst, or hunger, or be attacked by wild beasts; he might even be seized and sold again into slavery. Tears came weakly to Lucanus’ eyes, and he turned his head on his cushion and did not speak. Finally he slept, and when he awoke at sunset his strength had returned, and he could not understand. He had become almost emaciated, but he was strong again.
He sent for the centurion that night and showed him Ramus’ letter, saying bitterly, “I do not doubt that you believe that you told me the truth, and that it was, to you, exactly how it all occurred. I myself, as a physician, have my own explanation. But your intemperate tale, Antonius, has sent my friend to his certain death.”
The centurion said gravely, “No, I have sent him to his life.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Is it not time, my son, that you should tell me?” asked Iris, as she sat with Lucanus in the autumn gardens.
“There is nothing to tell,” replied Lucanus in a dull tone. His lassitude, which was of the spirit and not of the body, would not leave him. His sister, Aurelia, had been married six months and was already with child, in the home of her husband.
“I should be happy that you did not leave us this time,” said Iris, with a meditative sigh. “Perhaps I should not press you for any confidences, for you might become restless again and go away.”
He tried to smile at her, but all things were an effort. She sat with him in the cool sunlight, and her eyes were fixed on the deciduous trees, whose baring branches were like fretted gold against the bright blue sky. A fragrance of wine, of apples, of laurel, and of ripening dates blew softly through the iridescent air; the distant hills were the color of plums. Lucanus thought that his mother’s face hardly changed over the years; its clear translucence was like a girl’s; her body was still slender, her eyes still possessed of their vivid hue, her hands fair and chaste.
“When I go, Priscus and his family will remain with you, in this house, and there is also my brother, Gaius Octavius. Are you not happy that your daughter-in-law and the children are with you now? The house sounds with their laughter.”
“You forget,” said Iris. “You were the child of my youth. I am fifty-five now, and have long outlived the years of expectancy, and so I am old, and my memory goes back to Antioch, and I see you as a babe, on a blanket near my feet in the sun, while I spun my thread. Neither Priscus nor Aurelia nor Gaius is so dear to me as you, my strange, my very strange, son.”
Lucanus, sitting with her in the outdoor portico, reached out his hand and laid it upon hers, and she smiled at him with tears in her eyes. “If only you had married,” she murmured, and held his hand against her cheek for a moment. “If you had married Sara bas Elazar. I have come to love her as my daughter, since she came in the summer and remained with us to recover from her lung fever. She looks at you and loves you as I looked at and loved Diodorus. What greater treasure in the world is there than love? She has followed you into many cities and into many ports. Why have you always rejected her?”
“I have told you, my mother. There was no place in my life for love and a wife and children, and a quiet hearth. Once you told me I was selfish. Perhaps you spoke truly. I know nothing any longer; I am like the shell of a coconut, floating aimlessly on the sea, its living part removed, moving in and out with the tide. Once I had a battle — I have a battle no longer, for my very spirit is weary to death, and nothing seems to me of any importance. I have not left this house because I have lacked the will to leave. I have hurt you; forgive me. But you are one to whom the truth must always be spoken.”
He turned his face aside, and she saw his profile, stern and pale, like stone, worn with the years to an ascetic fineness. He said, “Once I knew what I wanted; I was full of fire. There was a time when I rose each morning ready for the struggle. But I am approaching forty now, and it could be that my vital forces are draining, and that the abeyance of age is creeping over me. I remember what Joseph ben Gamliel quoted from his Scriptures to me, though I do not remember the exact words. It was an admonition to young men not to forget their Creator in the days of their youth, before the evil days of satiation and weariness came to them, when they would say, ‘I have no pleasure in them’.” Lucanus smiled slightly, and with tiredness. “I never forgot God; He has haunted my life, until a few years ago, when He suddenly departed from me, and left the field where we battled daily. I miss my old Adversary,” and for the first time in months Iris heard the old wry humor in his voice.
“But Keptah told me that God never leaves men,” said Iris.
Lucanus shrugged. “I tell you, He has left me. There is a great silence where He once was; we contend no longer. Perhaps it is because He knows that He has won, and I am no longer a worthy contender. My vanity is wounded!” and he laughed a little.
But Iris knew that her son was not as flaccid as he believed himself to be. She would hear him at night in Diodorus’ great library; she could hear him pacing. She could feel his seething restlessness, as though he were searching for something. Long after all slept, his lamp burned, sometimes to dawn. A man who was totally without interest or fire relaxed into apathy. But the eyes of Lucanus were strained and tormented.
“What is it that you want, my son?” asked Iris, full of pain and pity.
“I want nothing. I can truly say, I want nothing. And that is the terrible trouble.”
Conversation wearied him, and Iris knew this, and they watched the leaves fall and the tips of the cypresses become tinged with light and the hills darken in color. After a prolonged silence Iris said, “I was afraid for you to see Clodius.”
“And I was aghast when I did see him, that young man crippled in his childhood with the paralysis, and unable to walk without the support of two strong slaves. What did my sister, who is so beautiful, wish with such a man? But that was before I understood.”
He had been appalled when Clodius had come to this house to see him and his betrothed and her family. The young man had a simple and gentle face, with candid dark eyes and delicate features. The eagle profile of the patrician Roman had softened in him; it had a dreaming and accepting expression. Lucanus had anxiously hoped that he at least possessed some intellect, some inner power, some strength of spirit and character. But Clodius was as limpid as Aurelia, and as uncomplex, and yet as unkn
owable.
And of what did they talk? Lucanus listened without any sense of invasion. He wished to know. Then the very simple truth came to him: they loved all things, without reservation, without malice, without hypocrisy, without fear, whether it was a slave or a leaf, a dog or a horse, the grass or a tree, a man or a little scampering animal. At first Lucanus was aghast. The world would eventually rob them of this absolute love; it was childish and stupid to believe that they lived in a bright and lovely garden where no evil would ever intrude. He thought of the time when death would eventually enter their house and strike down a beloved child or a beloved servant, or one of them themselves. He thought of the sickness which would darken their hearth-side, or the natural anxieties of living, or petulance, or irritation, or some long and hopeless disease. What then of the garden and the love?
One day he found his sister alone, playing with some kittens in the garden, and he sat beside her and tried to tell her of these things. He spoke as one speaks to a child, and she listened, smiling, her rosy lips parted, her large brown eyes soft and pellucid. She does not understand me in the least! he said to himself, impatiently. Then Aurelia had said, “I understand you, my brother. Clodius and I have talked about this many times. Certainly we know that the world is full of pain and death and injustice and misery. Have we not eyes? Are we children? We have heard and seen.”