“A thunderbolt hurled me!” cried Priscus, rising. He rushed at Lucanus again, and Lucanus, hardly moving, threw him once more. This excited Plotius, burly and broad. He demanded a contest with Lucanus, and suffered the same flight through the air. Both were now very excited.
“It is very simple,” explained Lucanus, apologetically. “I cannot tell you how often this has stood me in good stead when dealing with ruffians and thieves in the cities. It was taught me by my Chinese teacher in Alexandria, on my oath I would keep it secret.”
He was willing, however, to reveal his secrets of discus throwing, boxing and fencing, and the broad jump. He even defeated the dexterous Plotius at fencing. “Eheu!” exclaimed Plotius, wiping the sweat from his face with his big arm. “You are like a youth!”
“It is not a matter of strength,” said Lucanus, who was enjoying himself. “It is the matter of using your strength skillfully and expending as little as possible.”
Priscus and Plotius wished to take him to the circus near Caesarea, but Lucanus had no love for games and the brutality of gladiators. When Pilate announced that he must return to Jerusalem and offered to take Lucanus with him, the physician agreed eagerly. The time had arrived for his departure. He embraced the disconsolate Priscus and gave him loving messages for his family in Rome. Then, accompanying Pilate and Plotius, he took his leave of Caesarea, and Joshua, the physician, whom he had come to love not only as a colleague but as a brother.
Plotius insisted that Lucanus visit the temple of Zeus and Apollo in the city, as the caravan of horses and chariots left the mount. Herod had built the huge and magnificent temple for his friend, Pilate, and the procurator was proud of it. A long double colonnade of gigantic columns led to the temple, alternating in white marble and dark red porphyry, which gave it an exotic appearance. The high roof of the colonnade was frescoed in bas-reliefs of gamboling gods and goddesses, centaurs, nymphs, dryads and naiads, satyrs and Pans, their smooth and voluptuous limbs twining together, their faces laughing and mischievous. The brilliant air gave them a living appearance of movement. The floor was paved in varicolored marble, red and blue circles on white. But the tall temple, wide and square, was oddly austere, and here was revealed the uneasy Grecian spirit of Herod, for there were no frescoes, no bas-reliefs, on the gleaming white walls and ceilings. Two enormous statues faced each other, in a sitting position, three times the size of men, Zeus, with his beard of white marble and Apollo of red. They stared at each other with cold and unearthly faces, their hands on their knees, as if in challenge. Altars stood before them, fuming with incense. And there was a flat altar, on which burned a golden lamp, and on which was inscribed, “To the Unknown God”.
Lucanus stood in meditation before the lamplit bare altar. Pilate put his finger reflectively to his lips and stared at the great and simple stone. Plotius dropped a few coins in a bronze box at the feet of Zeus. Sunlight streamed into the temple, and a vast and shining silence filled it. Each breath or movement echoed back from the walls and the ceiling; even the faint hissing of the lamp could be heard. Lucanus turned his head and looked at the mighty figure of Zeus, with his beard, his stern features, his deep eyes. The Greek recalled Moses, and smiled sadly at the thought of Herod, a man torn between two worlds and two religions. Apollo’s face, though remote, had a more restless expression: the eye sockets gave an aspect of volatility to his features, as well as defiance. It was as if, in the very carving of his robes, in the lift of his tremendous head, he were about to rise and demand a contest of Zeus for control of mankind. And Zeus, in an attitude of Olympian repose, sat in godlike surety and grandeur. Lucanus was positive, in that radiant and shifting light, that a slight smile played on the bearded lips.
The entourage took the narrow road near the ancient sea, which was of such a cerulean hue that it entranced the eye. Very calm, it lay like a blue floor extending to the horizon, on which ships, their white sails floating, glided majestically. Horses quickened on the road, for it was a long ride to Jerusalem. The air was soft and pure, though yellow dust rose in clouds, for here the land was sandy. To the left of the travelers rose the mountains, low and coiling, some brazen and bare in the incandescent heat, some marked with winding stone terraces enclosing patches of cultivated land, emerald and fertile. Groves of olive trees, like old silver, thrust their crooked branches into the air; sheep browsed or slept under them, leaving their fecund dung to be used by the trees. Clumps of date palms climbed down the slopes; among their dusty fronds could be seen the warm gold of clustered fruit. Vineyards basked in the sun, on the steplike terraces, and fruit trees leaned against the yellow stones, and cypresses stood in sentinel groups, dark and watchful, their spears unshaking. On the lower slopes of the mountains, fresh and lush, cattle were grazing, and little springs rose from the earth, bubbling like quicksilver. Children guarded them idly; a flock of geese ate scattered grain, and quarreled among themselves. Here and there a low house stood in its green patches, surrounded by vines and flowers, and women spun on the doorsteps and lifted their heads to watch the clattering entourage go by. A dog or two barked. It was early morning, but the birds were silent in the hotness.
Lucanus was filled with peace in this peaceful countryside, the sea on his right, the mountains on his left. He sat in Plotius’ chariot; mounted men rode before, carrying the fasces and eagles and pennants of Rome, their broadswords at their sides, their helmets glittering in the sun. Plotius began to sing lusty soldiers’ songs. Pontius Pilate sat in his own bronze-carved chariot, palely silent, his head bent as if thinking. A slave stood over him with an umbrella of purple silk. Peasants, barefooted, clothed in sweaty black or dark orange or deep blue, walked along the side of the road, carrying baskets of fruit on their heads, or vegetables in baskets on their arms. They silently moved aside to let the important entourage pass, and gazed after them darkly with fierce and resentful eyes. One man was tugging at a refractory donkey, who followed the chariots with a derisive hee-hawing like a string of coarse oaths, and the peasant smiled grimly.
And always, scattered here and there, were the stony fortresses of Rome, on the roofs of which stood soldiers who saluted. Banners hung sleepily in the quiet and blazing air. A sharp scent rose from groves of pine trees, where peasants were bleeding them for their resin. Girls gossiped at occasional wells, where they filled their jugs; they looked at the chariots and the riders with dark and repudiating eyes, the folds of their headcloths filled with iridescent dust, their brown feet bare and supple. So, thought Lucanus, it is not as peaceful as I thought. The people hate the Romans, these simple people of the earth, unlike their more sophisticated brothers in the cities who do business with the enemy and laugh and drink with him. The entourage paused to buy figs and dates from a peasant, who silently dealt them out on broad green leaves, and they stopped to drink from a cold spring and stretch their bodies. Later they sat in a cool grove of pines to eat an excellent meal of cold fowl, beef, olives, pomegranates, pickled lamb tongues, and wine.
“I detest traveling,” complained Pontius Pilate, wiping his hands fastidiously on a white linen napkin. “And most especially in this alien land. The wine is loathsome.” But it was sweet and honeyed and mellow on Lucanus’ lips. Pilate’s face was flushed, and he sighed. He said to Lucanus, with an affectionate glance, “I have slept like an infant, thanks to you, my dear Lucanus, and though sometimes my thoughts are heavy I am no longer depressed. I have sent Caesar’s ring to him, and he will return it to you by courier.”
They went on their way. The mountains seethed with heat. They passed hamlets of houses built of yellow clay, protected by clumps of dark cypresses. The earth danced in heat waves; the sea flashed like blue fire. Here and there the mountains took on a curious square aspect, sulphurous and harsh. White walls along the road poured with purplish or rosy flowers. Once they heard the azure thunder of a narrow cataract on a mountainside. Little vivid green valleys lay like fingers between the mounts.
Here, along this road, going to Jerus
alem from His home, He must have walked many times, thought Lucanus. He knew this dust, these hamlets where He paused to refresh Himself, these groves, these wells, these cypresses, these flowers, these tiny meadows. Did He sit on yonder stone, speaking to His weary followers? Did He reach for a cluster of dates in that clump there? Did He eat a handful of those small black olives, dripping with brine? Did He smile at these sheep? Did He gaze at that scintillating sea? Did He enjoy a red pomegranate? There is a pond there, like a blue mirror. Did He bathe His tired feet in it? And what did He say, in His gentleness, to those girls at the well? And what did He think of the round or square Roman fortresses on the soil of His country? He must have gazed on their pennants and soldiers and pondered. The air is so silent and luminous here; did He listen to the echoing hoofs of Roman horses and the wheels of Roman chariots as I listen to them now? Lucanus was filled with awe and humility.
They turned around the flank of an encroaching mountain, and a flat plain of glowing red poppies lay at their right, mixed with strange yellow flowers, all burning under the sun. And there was a field of grain, pure gold, and bending slightly, and harvesters at work, calling to each other in rough Aramaic. They stopped their toil for a few moments to watch the entourage thunder by, and their silence was ominous. The flaming sky arched over the mountains, and the light was fearful on brazen hills. Pilate would have approved their bare starkness, for did not the Romans need the cypresses for their ships? That they had made the hills desolate was not important.
Then they heard a most dolorous wailing or chanting.
“ ‘The Lord is my shepherd!’ ” cried hoarse voices in Hebrew. “ ‘I shall not want. In verdant pastures He gives me repose. Beside restful waters He leads me ... !’ ”
Here the earth was parched and crumbling, and the air swirled with dust, and the barren mountains, slowly darkening, lifted their somber heads at a little distance.
“A Jewish funeral,” said Plotius, pointing to the right with his whip.
“Let us watch,” pleaded Lucanus, and Plotius halted his chariot at once, for he could deny Lucanus nothing, even this foolishness. The riders went on apace, then pulled up their horses and waited curiously. Pontius Pilate’s chariot came alongside that of Plotius, and he said, “What is wrong?”
“A Jewish funeral,” repeated Plotius. “Lucanus wished to watch it.”
Pilate’s brows drew together incredulously.
Weary, bearded men clothed in dusty black were carrying a black coffin, and women, clothed in gray, followed, weeping. One stood apart, chanting the Psalm of David, a black cap on his head, his hands clasped, his eyes raised to the sky. The scene was infinitely dolorous in that dry and dusty place, in that poor cemetery, and in this burning silence. The mourners were unaware that Romans had paused to watch them. They straggled over the blasted earth in a pathetic line.
The chanter cried, “’He refreshes my soul! He guides me in right paths for His name’s sake! Even though I walk in the dark valley I fear no evil, for You are by my side, and with Your rod and Your staff that give me courage!’”
Other men joined in faintly; the bearers bent under the weight of the coffin, for they were old. The women raised loud and desperate voices in grief, and struck their breasts as they followed the men. And then Lucanus saw that still another stood apart, a young man who looked not at the sky but at the ground, fixedly, and who did not join in the echoing chant. His face was terrible and stony. He appeared unaware of all things; the few present did not look at him, except for the chanter, the rabbi, who glanced towards him rebukingly and lifted his voice higher.
“ ‘Only goodness and kindness follow me all the days of my life!’ ”
The young man started then, looked about him wildly, and put his hands over his face. A frightful cry burst from him, sudden and sharp, then he was still again.
Lucanus did not know why he climbed down from the chariot and stood in the dust, and why he began to walk towards the funeral party. “What is wrong with him?” demanded Pilate, with some petulance. The mounted soldiers watched Lucanus, standing in a group, and staring.
The chanting rabbi was now murmuring prayers, and then he saw Lucanus approaching him, Lucanus in his thin white tunic bordered with gold, and with his sternly beautiful face and yellow head. The old rabbi blinked at him confusedly; his red-rimmed eyes were sore with dust and sorrow. Then a look of cold affront passed over his dark face, and he saw the others on the road, the hated arrogant Romans with their eagle-crowned fasces, their rich chariots, their fine horses, their helmets, and their swords and banners.
“Must you intrude here?” asked the rabbi of Lucanus. His features worked desperately. He cried, “Let us be, you Romans, you worshippers of evil spirits! You befoul this place where our sacred dead sleep in the dust!”
Lucanus lifted his hand, and said, very gently, in Aramaic, “Peace be unto you, Rabbi.”
At this Jewish greeting the rabbi fell silent. He studied Lucanus’ face and saw only kindness and love there, and sympathy. Was this man a Jew also, touched to the heart by this little funeral of the poor? The rabbi’s eyes filled with tears. He looked at the coffin-bearers, who had paused at a raw grave in the ocher earth.
“Peace be unto you, also,” quavered the rabbi. Then he murmured, “It is my daughter, my only child, who is dead. My little one, the ewe-lamb of my old age, and beautiful. She died this morning in childbirth, and yonder is her young husband, who will not be reconciled, and who curses God in his heart.”
Lucanus looked at the young husband, so stricken, so silent, with his hands over his face. He stood in the blinding light, clothed in black, tall and slender, and he was alone only as those who suffer the death of love can be alone. “He is desolate, Rabbi,” said Lucanus, and thought of Rubria.
The rabbi struck his breast, and tears ran down his furrowed cheeks. “Am I not desolate also, Master, I her father, I a widower, who have no one now but a feeble grandchild? Yet I praise God, and bow to His will, and know that He gives, and that He takes away. But for Rebecca’s husband there is hope, for he is young and he has his parents, and he will marry again in spite of his oaths, his cries of hatred for God, and all his despair.”
But Lucanus could not believe this, for in the posture of the bereaved husband he saw limitless agony. He hesitated, then slowly approached the young man and put his hand on his shoulder. The young man did not move, but he murmured incoherently, “Oh, if only He were here, He who paused to talk to us and raised the dead! He would call to my wife, and she would rise and return to my arms!”
Lucanus looked about him in the fierce light. The bearers had placed the coffin at the edge of the grave, and were waiting. The women stood together, weeping softly. All of them were now gazing at the rabbi, Lucanus, and the husband in the dazed immobility of grief.
Lucanus said to the young husband, “He is not dead, but lives. He is not deaf, but hears. He has not gone, but is amongst us.”
His head began to reel in the heat and light, but a slow rapture was unfolding in his heart. “Let us go to the grave,” he said, and he took the husband’s arm. But the young man resisted like stone. “I have told you,” said the rabbi, “that he will not be reconciled, will not bow to God’s will.” And the old man wept aloud. “Be you reconciled, David!”
“Be of hope, David,” said Lucanus, and again drew the arm of the husband. David dropped his hands; he turned on Lucanus a face as dry as the dust itself, and thin and pale, and yet handsome. His eyes glowed like fire. “Hope!” he cried, in an awful voice. “I loved no one but my wife, and we were children together, and now she is nothing but clay, and her spirit has fled from me!”
Lucanus was trembling, and he did not know why. Everything appeared to expand and contract before him, and all things had a crystalline aura to his eyes, and there was a command in him, like a great and imperative voice. “Let us go to the grave,” he repeated.
David’s bitten lips shook; his eyes fixed themselves emptily on Lucanu
s. And now he did not resist; stumbling, he walked beside the Greek, his head bent. The others watched them come, followed by the praying rabbi. Then they stood by the grave and the coffin.
Lucanus was silent. He gazed at the coffin and felt the mounting tumult in himself, and the louder command, so that his ears heard nothing else. Then he said, “Open the coffin, so that I may see the girl.”
The others stood like black and gray statues, absolutely still, and looked at Lucanus with wide, wet eyes.
Lucanus’ voice rose strongly. “Open the coffin! I would see the girl.”
David’s face suddenly ran with tears. He leaned against Lucanus’ shoulder. “You have heard him,” he said, in a rusty voice. “I am her husband. Open the coffin. I would see her face for the last time.”
The bearded men glanced helplessly at the rabbi, whose old lips worked. Then he said, weakly, “He is her husband; I am only her father. Open the coffin, for he would not look on her face before.”
They opened the coffin, tugging at its black-shrouded thinness. The nails squeaked in protest. But the lid opened. Lucanus bent over the coffin and saw within its raw-wood depths a young girl, not more than fifteen, lying in her shroud, her hands folded on her breasts. Lucanus lifted the cloth from her face; an odor of herbs and fragrant oils rose in the hot air. David fell on his knees, sobbing aloud, and clutched the side of the coffin and looked at his dead wife.