Her appearance, her love, touched Diodorus’ secretly soft heart. But it was necessary not to betray such an unmilitary weakness. He flung up his hands in a gesture of rageful surrender. “I have said, so be it!” he cried. “I shall also say that I despise an exigent man, be he master or slave. Keptah, I have respected you; now I have contempt for you.”
“The contempt of such as you, Master, is worth the honor of all other men,” said Keptah, and Aurelia laughed aloud, as if with delight.
Keptah waited for his dismissal, and when it was given he bowed deeply to Diodorus and Aurelia, and went at once to his own locked pharmacy, where he compounded his potions and ointments, and where he kept his powdered bodies and organs of animals and insects and strange herbs and dried blossoms and inorganic substances about which no other physicians knew, except those like himself.
This pharmacy was part of his own quarters, far from the quarters of the other slaves. It was not necessary to warn them away; they were terrified of Keptah and his abstruse air and stateliness. They were even more terrified of the magic behind that locked door. They whispered that he visited the crematoria and withdrew the blood of the dead before their incineration, and used it in his remedies. Sickening odors sometimes floated about him, like an aura, and sometimes lights glimmered long after midnight through his window. Some of the slaves swore that these were not the lights of lamps, but moving sparkles like stars, and that these sparkles often hovered on the window sills like cold fireflies.
Keptah compounded some liquid, which was brown as rust and had an unearthly smell. He poured it into a small ewer, and then held the vessel in his hand. He stood in his pharmacy, with the spectral shelves and jars all about him, and he became as still as stone, his eyes suddenly fixed on the sky beyond his window. His heart jumped, hurried like a fleeing lamb, then stopped and began to labor.
“It has come,” he whispered aloud. And then, with exultation, he repeated in a trembling voice, “It has come! Blessed are my eyes that they have lived to see it!”
He felt in his breast for a small object, and drew it out. It was made of gold, and was of a simple shape. He pressed it to his lips, and bowed over and over, and he said, again and again, “Holy. Holy. Holy.”
He fell to his knees and his head dropped on his breast, and he hardly seemed to breathe, caught up in some enchantment beyond the knowledge of the world. The object he had withdrawn from under his robe dangled before him on a golden chain, and the lamplight struck it so vividly that it shone like the sun, and it enlarged before Keptah’s dazzled eyes until it appeared to encompass the universe.
The moon was only a pale and nebulous shadow far down in the sky when Keptah let himself out of his private door into the courtyard. But the palms interfered with the sky, and he glided away into the darkness, which was mysteriously tremulous with argent shadows. He had a need for open space in which he could contemplate. He asked himself, over and over, with his heart beating heavily in his ears, Will They let me go? Will They let my eyes see? I shall soon be a freedman, there is nothing to halt my going for a while. He clasped his hands on his breast convulsively and prayed that They would consent.
He walked through the tangled gardens far beyond the house, and noted again how every leaf, every blade of grass, was quivering with gentle and unearthly silver. It was a holy reflection to him; sometimes he paused to smile and to touch a thick and glimmering leaf, and then to glance at the sky. Those astronomers, who were not Chaldeans like himself, must now be talking fearfully of comets, though no comets were expected. But his Brotherhood knew. He wished he could join them; he had prayed, in the past, that if the Star came in his lifetime, he might be among his Brotherhood at that hour. The Star had come, and it was a long distance to go on foot to Antioch, where the Brotherhood would be keeping their joyous vigil, their dark eyes full of mystery and thanksgiving. They had kept that vigil for so long that its beginning was lost in time, from the days of Ur, from the days of the flourishing of Bït Yakïn, from the days when they had come from some far desert, when they were still a priestly people — the Kalü — before they had been called Babylonians by the Jews. “It is not given even our wisest to know the hour; only He knows,” Keptah had been taught. “Not even the Holy Ones in heaven know, but only the Holiest of Holies, blessed be His Name.”
Keptah reached an open place in the great gardens, and he was on the low bank of an estuary of the Orontes River. The estuary was narrow, but swift, and it was swifter now, as if hurrying breathlessly to carry the news to the river, and then to the world-lapping seas. The banks were dark, though long lances of quicksilver light flashed through them. But the narrow stream was ablaze with a light stronger than moonlight; its wrinkled surface of black and white danced and ran, whirled and scintillated. Its voice was like the mingling of flute and drum, though there was no wind.
And now Keptah, on the bank, his garments and his inscrutable face flooded with radiance, looked up at the open sky. The Star stood in the heavens, almost as brilliant as the sun, its sharp rays beaming out steadfastly in the silent blackness around it. It had been foretold that it would move, and would point the way. It was still fixed. Then, thought Keptah, They have not as yet chosen those who are to follow.
As he watched the Star, which was so huge, so coldly burning, he began to pray humbly, falling upon his knees. “Oh, Thou for Whom the world has waited so long, blessed am I that it was given to me to see Thy Sign! Blessed is the earth that has received Thee. Blessed is she who has borne Thee in a place I do not know. Blessed is man because Thou hast redeemed man. For the dark places shall now be opened, and the secret places revealed, and the gates of the House of the Lord shall stand ajar to the end of time, and death shall be no more.”
A sudden sense of incredible sweetness came to him, an intense ecstasy, as if one deeply adored had smiled upon him, had recognized him, and had sent him a message of love. Tears ran down his swarthy face; he lifted his hands to the sky in a gesture of worship and rapturous humility.
He murmured aloud, “I have been cleansed. I have been saved. Whatever there was of evil or mockery or doubt in me has been destroyed. I have been bathed in the waters of life. From this hour hence I have been born. Blessed be the Name of the Lord!”
A great quiet and stillness came to him, like a benediction. A great peace enveloped him. It did not matter that he had not been chosen to see with his own eyes Who had been born on this night. For He who had been born was with all men, in every place on the earth, at this hour, and would never depart again.
The Star was too bright for too long a gaze, and Keptah’s eyes dropped. He remained kneeling, in utter quietude, watching the quickening and illuminated stream that ran before him. And then his eye was caught by the smallest movement, and there was a brighter gleam not far from him, down the bank of the estuary. He directed all his attention to it, and he saw that it was a small fair head made almost incandescent by the light of the Star.¹ Now he could see the delicate profile of the child who was sitting on the bank of the estuary, a profile lifted to the sky. The fine long nose, the exquisite curve of cheek and chin, the falling of the golden hair were fully outlined as if with an inner light shining through alabaster. It is the boy, Lucanus, thought Keptah, with wonder.
¹This Star was seen all over the known world.
He rose and moved silently down the bank and stood beside the unaware boy, who was watching the Star. His blue eyes reflected its radiance; he was smiling, his hands clasped on his knees. He sat very still, as if entranced, not blinking, his white throat as clear and smooth as marble.
Then Keptah spoke softly, so as not to startle the child: “Lucanus, why are you out of your home so late?”
Lucanus turned his head slowly, and smiled. “It is you, Keptah. I could not sleep, and so I crept from my bedroom, for I had seen the Star through my window. It was as if it had called me, and I could not disobey.”
His voice was serene and unafraid, and he looked upon Keptah with his usu
al respect, though Keptah was still a slave. “Certainly you could not disobey, child,” said Keptah, and sat clown beside Lucanus. Together they contemplated the Star. It is not possible that he knows, Keptah told himself. He asked in himself, Shall I tell him the meaning? He waited for the answer. It came quietly and firmly: No. But there was also a command, and a knowledge, following on the word. Curiously, Keptah scrutinized the boy. He remembered how Lucanus had a way of dogging his footsteps, appearing from nowhere when he attended slaves who were ill, and how he had watched the ministrations of Keptah from a doorway, from behind a curtain, or from some shy and anxious distance. His presence had often irritated Keptah. Boys were inquisitive little animals; they liked to look on violence or pain, some primitive savagery stirring them to excitement. Keptah had considered Lucanus in this manner, until tonight.
He said, “It is a strange Star, is it not?” and intently awaited the answer.
“Yes,” said Lucanus. “It is strange. And beautiful. I feel it is telling us something.” His voice was that of a young man, and not a child, and Keptah, who had rarely heard him speak before, became aware of that voice for the first time.
“And what, Lucanus, do you think it is telling us?”
Lucanus was silent. His fair brows contracted. “I do not know. But this I know, that someday it shall be revealed to me.”
Keptah nodded to himself. He put his dark hand on the white shoulder of the boy and pressed it. “That I know,” he murmured. He turned Lucanus to him, and the boy, surprised, looked at him shyly and closely. Keptah studied the serene and beautiful face, the strong outlines under the delicacy, the ardent curve of the mouth, the passion in the blue eyes.
“I am to be your teacher,” he said, and he smiled. “So it was commanded tonight by the great Diodorus.”
Lucanus’ face glowed with joy and amazement. “And then,” continued Keptah, with gentleness, “you shall be sent by the master to Alexandria for further study.”
Lucanus caught the slave’s hand and kissed it vehemently. “I am your slave, noble Keptah!” he cried, and pressed the swart hand to his breast in a moving and rapturous gesture. Keptah put his other hand on the boy’s head, as if in blessing.
“You have never feared me, Lucanus?”
“No.” The boy’s face expressed wonderment. “I have only honored you in my heart, Master,”
Keptah laughed a little, sadly. “Do not call me ‘Master,’ Lucanus. The noble Diodorus would not approve. He has an immense sense of the proprieties.”
He thought of Diodorus with regret, and not with his usual amusement. It is true, he thought, that there are greater and more eternal things than his absurd and iron ‘realities’. But I was wrong, and cruel, the night the slaves danced so uproariously, to attempt to disillusion him. It is well that I did not succeed.
The Star shone down resplendently on the man and the boy, its rays widening, drowning out all the lesser stars and planets, sending them fleeing across the curve of the sky towards the dawn. Keptah watched it again, forgetting Lucanus, and Lucanus fixed his gaze on that duskily carved and Oriental profile. Lucanus asked, “Who are you, Keptah?”
Keptah was silent for long moments, as if asking himself questions and receiving answers. Then, without looking at Lucanus, he began to speak.
“I am a Chaldean. That I was told years ago, though I did not know at first, coming to the house of Priscus as a babe, and a slave. My father was a Kalu, that is to mean a priest, but who my mother was I do not know to this day. But there was a journey when I was still in my mother’s arms; my father knew mysterious things and he was on his way — to a distant country.” He stared fixedly at the Star. “He believed, wrongly, that it had been ordained for him to see — ” He halted, and moved restlessly.
“On the way to that country the caravan in which he and my mother and I were traveling was set upon by thieves and slavemasters. My parents were killed. I, an infant, was sold with the remaining men and women and children into slavery, and Priscus purchased me and brought me to his house in Jerusalem, and then to Rome.”
Lucanus waited for him to continue, but Keptah was silent. His cryptic face was majestic with a cold and forbidding sorrow.
“Who told you of this, Keptah, if even the noble Diodorus does not know?”
Keptah looked at the boy quickly, and laughed with tenderness. “Ah, you have been questioning the master behind my back!” His laugh ceased abruptly. “Do not look so embarrassed, boy. I am not offended.” He sighed. “Let this be sufficient for you, Lucanus: I was told, but by whom I can never tell you. But I can tell you of Chaldea, or Babylonia, and my people, and it has been given to me to tell you though for what reason it is not as yet clear to me.
“We are so ancient a people that even the Jews, who claim to be very ancient themselves, have not even a legend concerning our origin. But we gave one Abraham to the Jews, who now call him Father Abraham. We first came to the land of Ur from a place unrecorded, and once we had the most flourishing capital, more wise, urbane, and mature than any since on the earth, and its name was Bït Yakïn. But one can grow so wise, if that wisdom is without God, that one grows corrupt — Why do you start so, boy?”
“Nothing,” whispered Lucanus. But Keptah commanded him with his hooded eyes, and the boy said, haltingly, “I am thinking of the Unknown God of the Greeks.”
“Ah, yes. He is the same,” said Keptah, with abstraction.
He went on: “In the beginning, and for centuries,Yakïn remembered God, and flourished, and was mighty, and wise men came from all places to study there under the Kalu, and some mysteries were cautiously imparted to them as well as wisdom. And the wise men took back these mysteries to their countries, and Egypt was one of them, and a man named Moses became acquainted with those mysteries through the Kalü who had been commanded to go to Egypt and teach the young Egyptian prince beyond what the priests of Egypt already knew. You have heard of Moses, Lucanus?”
“Yes, the Jews have told me, in Antioch. He brought the Commandments of God to men.”
Keptah sighed, and said ironically, “And men have been busy for centuries sedulously breaking them all!”
Lucanus feared that Keptah had forgotten him, for he was silent again for so long. Then he spoke.
“Because men are men, they become proud, especially when they have a reputation. Even many of the Kalü became proud, and when that happened they lost their wisdom, for they had forgotten from whence came their knowledge of mysteries. So they became charlatans instead of priests, and necromancers, for they remembered the hidden words of magic and used them for evil ends and gain. These priests, so engaged in raw magic, were no longer astronomers, physicians, scientists and priests. They were wicked men, occupied in vulgar divinations, which they passed on to their sons. And if a priesthood decays, then a people decays, and all Chaldea, betrayed by its priests, was slowly eaten by corruption. And she became as nothing, and fell to enemies. If a nation has not God that nation must fall, but if a nation has God then all the powers of evil, and all the armies, cannot shake its foundations; no, not even if the whole world is arrayed against it.”
Keptah looked at the Star, and his lips moved silently for a few moments.
“So the good Kalu, and there were so few of them, left Chaldea, weeping, and they went to many countries with their secrets, and in these countries they are the wise men of the East, and physicians, astronomers, divinators to the elect, astrologers, scientists and metaphysicians. Only they know who they are; only they will ever know who they are. For they have come to suspect mankind, and for the most excellent reasons. They form an occult Brotherhood, and they choose who shall enter.”
Now Keptah gave his whole attention to Lucanus, and he thought to himself, Why was it I was so blind? He said, “This is not a story which you will learn in Alexandria, and I must charge you not to repeat it to dull ears, Lucanus.” His voice was harsh and commanding.
“I shall not repeat it, but I shall remember it,” said
Lucanus, simply.
Keptah softened. “I know, child. There is no corruption in you. But let me continue. So corrupt and proud did Chaldea, or Babylonia, become that she no longer reverenced the Kalu, and no longer called herself the land of the wise priests, but looked ravenously at neighbors for gold and slaves and land. And she began to call herself the nation of the Kaldi-Kašdi, which is to say ‘conquerors’. And so she warred, and conquered, and enslaved and oppressed, and as all those nations who war must die, so Chaldea died, for war is, above all things, the most foul, the most abominable in the sight of God, the most loathsome, for it destroys what the Holy One has created in His love, and it degrades man to the level of the unthinking ant who obeys without knowing why he obeys and fights without knowing why he fights. For, in truth, in war a man fights for nothing.”
He looked at the serious and thoughtful Lucanus for a long time. Then, as if commanded, he withdrew the golden object from his breast and held it in his open palm. “Look, child, and tell me what this is.”
Lucanus peered at the object in the hand of Keptah, and he shivered. “It is a cross, the sign of infamy, for so on it do Romans execute criminals of the lowest kind.”