Dear and Glorious Physician (67 page)

Lucanus received an invitation to dine with Pontius Pilate, and he was about to refuse it impatiently when Hilell said, “You were a guest in his home at Caesarea. And for some reason you haunt him. He is a very uneasy man since the crucifixion of the Christ. Will it vex you to give him some ease?”

“You, my host, were not invited. That is a great discourtesy.”

Hilell smiled. “Let us grant it so. But Romans are careless of courtesy towards those they have conquered. You were about to say that he does not like Jews. We would be intolerant if we were intolerant of intolerance.”

“That is a sophistry,” said Lucanus, but he accepted the invitation. Hilell decked him out in an elegant fashion. “Romans, so materialistic, are engrossed with rich and proper clothing,” said Hilell. “They despise simplicity; they love a show of wealth.”

Lucanus wore a blue tunic and over it a toga of the most delicate yet heavy linen, bordered with gold. His sandals were golden, with a tongue of gemmed leather over the instep. Hilell clasped jeweled circlets about his arms. “You are truly magnificent,” he said, kindly. “You resemble one of the noblest Grecian statues.” He ordered a litter at sunset, and Lucanus was borne away to the house of Pontius Pilate, a large house set within high gates and richly blooming gardens, lively with fountains which danced in the red air of the falling sun. But a wind was blowing from the region of the Street of the Cheesemakers which all the fragrance of tree and grass and flower could not overcome. Pilate said, wrinkling his nose, “The stench is abominable.” Lucanus, remembering to be polite, refrained from remarking on the stenches of Rome, and especially the odors which drifted from the Trans-Tiber when the wind changed. Pilate wore a preoccupied manner as he led Lucanus into a hall even more lavish than the hall of Hilell. Lucanus was overpowered by the splendor, which appeared too crowded and in bad taste. The central fountain was heavily perfumed, and the scent was cloying. The house seemed full of pretty slave girls, who sat on cushions on the gleaming white floor and played flute and harp and lute, and tossed their long locks.

“We will go to the roof,” said Pilate, “where the air is fresh and we have a fine view of the city. I am expecting other guests.” His aloof face smiled coldly. “No one less than Herod Antipas himself, and his brother. He wishes to speak with you, and you must understand that that is a condescension! Once we disliked each other; now we are the best of friends. It was a matter of diplomacy.”

“You have told Herod of me?” Lucanus was disturbed.

“Yes. By the way, he is vexed over my lifting the proscription against the sect which calls itself the Christians. He is prepared not to like you.” Pilate laughed with sudden good humor and led the way up several flights of wide marble steps covered with Persian carpets; Lucanus caught glimpses of rich apartments during his ascent. Music followed them. The roof was very wide and long, and guarded by parapets of high pierced stone in intricate patterns, the floor scattered with rugs, the low chairs and divans sheltered by striped and silken awnings in many colors, the tables set with waiting lamps. The slave girls followed them and struck up music again.

Lucanus was interested in the view of the city at this height. The crimson blaze of the sunset lay on the stony or terraced mounts that stood about the city, giving them an aspect of burning. The twisted and battlemented yellow walls of Jerusalem had a baleful air about them; a tinge of dusty scarlet had settled over the narrow and crowded streets, like the reflection of fire. A dull and murmurous sound came from the streets, hushed and muttering. Lucanus could see the Roman forum, its white walls and columns shining like snow in the smoldering light, and the Roman theater like a serrated cup, and the palaces rearing high above the endless and broken plain of smaller houses, the flat roofs illuminated in a wash of red. Dominating all was the Temple, high set within its own walls, its golden towers incandescent, its walls rosy. As it faced the east at this point on Pilate’s roof, the sky that stood behind it was a deep peacock, contrasting with the flaming skies of the west. In the distance was a vast clump of black cypresses, huddled together or scattered about a great green garden. “Gethsemane,” said Pilate, noting Lucanus’ interest. There was a peculiar note in his voice. He and Lucanus sat down under an awning and drank wine. Pilate became silent, as if thinking. The music rose about them, and a girl sang sweetly. Lucanus listened; the cadence was unfamiliar to him, mournful and haunting. The song was in Aramaic.

“How merciful is the Lord our God!

His mercy is wider than the sea.

His loving kindness embraces earth and heaven,

And His words are joyous to my heart.

Who can know the Lord and His holy thoughts?

Do the hills know Him, or the gray mountains?

Or the vast wilderness where no man walks?

Or the tiger in his pacing, or a tree alone in majesty?

Or a woman who sleeps with a babe at her breast,

Or the dying lonely in pain? Or the golden rivers

Which run to the oceans, or the gardens at dawn?

In the most secret place is He known!”

Lucanus looked at the girl, and her great dark eyes brooded under her brows, and her face was smooth and pale. He was surprised at the words of the song, and he glanced at Pilate, who was apparently not listening. The Roman’s elbow rested on the arm of his chair, and his fingers half obscured his face. He was engrossed with his thoughts, forgetting his guest. Then he said, not removing his fingers, and as if addressing himself only, “It is impossible that He rose from the dead! His followers took Him away, and healed Him, for He had been taken too hastily from the cross.”

Lucanus waited, not speaking. The music fell to a softer and less obtrusive note. Pilate said, still in that distant voice, “I would not be surprised but that that old pious rascal, Joseph of Arimathea, had a hand in all this. He is a counselor, and it is said that he is good and just. I have met him, and despite my skepticism, I have not been able to catch him in a sophistry or in worldliness. It was Joseph who begged His body of me, and laid it in a tomb. I had heard enough rumors of that Man, who, I confess, had no real fault in my eyes! It was the high priest, Caiaphas — One does not oppose priests except at his own peril — they can do much mischief. And I was ordered to keep peace in this country at any cost. Can I be blamed for that?”

Now he looked at Lucanus sharply. “No,” said the Greek, hesitatingly.

Pilate said, “Joseph is a very rich man. It is possible that bribery enters into this somewhere, and that Jesus was removed from the cross while still alive, and taken to Joseph’s house for care and healing.” The Roman moved restlessly. “Because of the rumors that He would arise from the dead on the third day, I posted guards at the tomb so that no chicanery would be employed. The high priest had asked this of me.”

He halted. He averted his head so that Lucanus could not see his face. Lucanus again waited. Then the procurator sighed. “Men are very superstitious; they are also hysterical. My guards later reported to me, and I listened, incredulous. They were almost incoherent. They had kept fires burning about the tomb, and drunk wine, and diced and jested. Could their wine have been drugged by that omnipresent old rascal, Joseph? He swears to me solemnly that this was not so. Yet my men declare, with oaths and fearful glances about them, that before dawn on the third day a great light shone about the tomb, and they were struck senseless to the ground. When they awoke, the stone, massive and heavy, had been rolled back from the sepulcher, and there was nothing within but grave cloths, an empty stone bench, and the scent of spices and ointments!”

He regarded Lucanus pleadingly. “How can a sensible man believe this to be supernatural? This was a grim joke, indeed, intended to deceive and strike awe into the breasts of the simple; a pretense to fulfill the prophecy. Look you, Lucanus, I am an educated man, of a noble family. Do you expect me to believe this nonsense about a miserable unlearned rabbi from Galilee? Who could inspire the gods less?”

“What do you wish me to say?” asked Lucanus, in a low tone.

“Tell me what you believe about this nonsense.” Pilate leaned towards him, and Lucanus saw that he was troubled, and angry at his trouble.

Lucanus felt within his garments and showed, by the light of the red sun, the cross which hung about his neck. Pilate stared at it. “Centuries ago,” said Lucanus, “this Man was prophesied by the Chaldeans and the Babylonians, and then the Jews. The rumors of Him spread to all the civilized world. The Egyptians decorated their pyramids with this Sign; the Greeks lifted altars to the Unknown God. The Scriptures of the Jews written ages ago tell of Him, of His mission, of His birth, of His life, and of His death.”

Pilate was aghast. The crimson light of the last sun lay starkly on his face. He looked at Lucanus piercingly. “You believe all this?” he asked, in an appalled voice.

“Yes. I believe it. I know it.”

Pilate was silent for a time. Then he said in a strained voice, “Then what of me, who delivered Him to death?”

“You were only an instrument.”

“The gods are vengeful — ”

“He is not vengeful. Do not fear.”

Pilate meditated. “You cured your brother who was dying — ”

“No. God cured him. I too was only an instrument.”

“Tell me what I should do!” cried Pilate, suddenly distraught. He regarded Lucanus fearfully. “I have thought much about this. That woman who was being buried — she was not dead?”

“I have told you: she was not dead. There are no dead.”

“You speak in riddles, like the Delphic oracles.”

“Men make riddles and mysteries of the simplest things, Pontius.”

“I am lost,” said Pilate, in a despairing tone. The superstitious Roman’s heart beat very fast. “Who are you, Lucanus?” he asked.

Lucanus frowned. “I am what you know I am.”

“But you have mysterious powers.”

“No. I have no power, no merit. Only God has these.”

“He, then, has bestowed them on you.”

Lucanus shook his head. But at that moment a slave came to announce the arrival of Herod Antipas, the tetrarch of Jerusalem, and his brother, Herod Phillip. The slave girls struck up triumphant music, and other girls ran onto the roof strewing baskets of rose leaves like pink snow onto the floor, and still others sprayed perfume in the air. Pilate went to meet his guests, and, as the lamps on the roof were hastily lighted, Lucanus looked curiously at the two men. Antipas reminded him instantly of a reddish fox; he had a narrow and irritable face, and was jerky and impatient of movement. He wore a short reddish beard, and Lucanus recalled that Antipas grew a beard for approaching Jewish holidays, then had it removed immediately afterward. But Phillip, the younger man, was taller and had a noble bearing, fine and liquid dark eyes, a classic face like a statue, and a quiet and dignified manner. He appeared to be engrossed in somber thought. Antipas returned Lucanus’ greeting and bow with a short word and a glance of hazel-eyed dislike. But Phillip smiled at him and inquired after his health, and asked him courteously how he found Jerusalem.

The men sat down and drank more wine, and night flowed over the city, and torches flared below, and lanterns glittered. Antipas was most apparently in a bad temper; he confined his desultory conversation to Pilate; they had once been enemies, but now they were friends. Antipas’ air toward Pilate was at once arrogant yet almost servile. Phillip glanced at him occasionally, and his black brows drew together. He talked kindly with Lucanus, and told him he had heard much of him. At this Antipas looked over his shoulder threateningly at Lucanus and said in a sharp, foxlike tone, “Yes. We must talk of this!” He jerked a thin shoulder clad in blue brocade and rubbed his beard. Before turning back to Pilate he shot a venomous glance at his brother, who received it imperturbably.

A gong sounded, and they all arose to go down to the dining hall, which sparkled with marble and gemmed hangings and rich lamps. The meal was luxurious. Antipas ate little, and drank wine abstemiously. He complained of many insignificant matters to the powerful Roman. Nothing pleased him either in Jerusalem or in his private affairs. His face softened only when he spoke of his wife, Herodias. At this Phillip straightened in his chair and regarded his brother with kindling eyes, and his mouth took on hard and bitter lines.

“How I should like to live in Rome!” exclaimed Antipas. “There one meets only the civilized and the realistic. But here all is God, all is religious observance, all is tedious religious discussion! Even the high priest can speak only of the commentaries. To the Jews nothing exists except God.”

Lucanus said, “Democritus wrote, over four hundred years ago, ‘If one choose the goods of the soul, he chooses the diviner portion; if the goods of the body, the merely mortal’.”

“That is all very well,” said Antipas, in a disagreeable tone, and with a derisive smile. “But man is mortal also, and the mortal must be nourished.” He paused. He said, almost menacingly, “I have heard strange things of you, Lucanus. There are rumors you perform miracles!” He laughed, shortly.

“No,” said Lucanus, feeling an answering stir of dislike. “I perform no miracles. Only God does that.” His cheeks colored with affront.

“Hah!” exclaimed Antipas. “That is excellent. We have had enough miracle-workers in Judea! Or charlatans! I trust you are not here to excite the people. Or to claim you have a unique mission from God!”

“I am here only to find the truth and to record it,” said Lucanus, with anger. Pilate began to smile. Phillip listened with a goblet of wine at his lips and only his alert eyes shining on Lucanus.

“And I am here to keep the peace among my people, and order,” said Antipas. “I shall be ruthless with troublemakers.” His eyes glistened with threat.

“These Judean olives are delightful, if I may be permitted to say so at my own table,” said Pilate. “What, Lucanus? You appear to have little appetite. My cook is excellent; this roast suckling pig is delicious.”

“Perhaps our honored visitor does not care for swine,” said Antipas, with a nasty smile. Lucanus refused to respond to this goading. He permitted a slave to give him some suckling meat.

He began to wonder why Antipas was so obviously agitated and irritable. The tetrarch put a handful of little salt Jewish olives in his mouth, chewed them gloomily, then spat out the pits.

“So,” he said, “you are here to find the truth and record it. Tell me, are you a Christian?”

“I have been a Christian since the day of Christ’s birth,” said Lucanus. Antipas almost dropped his goblet in amazement; his mouth fell open. “What did you say?” he demanded, incredulously. Phillip leaned forward in his chair, and the subtle smile on Pilate’s face vanished.

“Are you mad?” cried Antipas, slapping his hand on the table. “No one heard of the Christians until four years ago! That Galilean first appeared at that time!”

“Nevertheless, I knew Him from the day He was born. It was my own lack of merit which made me forget Him for many years, my own obstinacy and anger.” Lucanus looked straight at Antipas, who was stupefied. “Let me explain.” He brought forth the cross once more and showed it to Antipas, who suddenly shrank. Lucanus told them of Keptah, of the Chaldeans and Babylonians, of the Egyptians and the Greeks, of their ancient prophecies. He told them of the Magi, and the great cross in their secret temple in Antioch. He told them of the Star he had seen as a young child, and its movement east. Many of the slaves along the walls leaned forward eagerly to hear, and some of their eyes filled with tears.