Great Lion of God (44 page)

It was dark now in the room. Saul stood up, bent and slow as an old man, and he went into the workshop and brought a taper mutely to Aristo, and Aristo understood that he must light it at the lamp in the workshop and then light this lamp on the chest. Sighing, he did so, in silence. Saul had resumed his seat on the floor, and was again rocking back and forth.

The wretched little lamp hardly lightened the room. But now Saul was looking up at Aristo, and he said in a hoarse voice, “Tell me.

However, Aristo himself could not speak, so he gave Saul Reb Isaac’s letter, which he had written at Aristo’s dictation. Saul bent forward and read it slowly. His father had been ill a long time but had not desired his children to know or to be alarmed. He had died peacefully in the pond, into which he had fallen during giddiness. He lay in the tomb beside his wife, Deborah. He had not suffered, except from weakness. It was possible that he had fallen into the water because he had expired on the bridge. His son would say Kaddish for him on the Sabbath, of course, for a year. Reb Isaac spoke eloquently of Hillel’s character and his nobility of soul. The old man sorrowed, not for Hillel, who now lay in the bosom of Abraham, but for his children. He was certain that he would not wish his children to grieve, but to rejoice that the long travail of living had ended for him and had delivered him to bliss and the Vision of God, blessed be His Name.

“Truly, my son,” the old man had written, “your beloved father could all his life say with David: ‘How amiable are Your Tabernacles, O Lord of Hosts! My soul longs, even faints, for the courts of the Lord. My heart and my flesh cry out for the living God! Yes, the sparrow has found a house and the swallow a nest—Blessed are they that dwell in Your House. They will still be praising You!’

“So your father lived, longing for his King and his God all the days of his loving life, and now he will sorrow and long no more, but rest in peace. The Lord gives, the Lord takes away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord!”

Saul muttered, “The Lord gives, the Lord takes away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord! Hear, O Israeli! The Lord our God, the Lord is One!”

Aristo compressed his lips. He would never understand these Jews! The gods afflicted: wherefore should they be praised? Prometheus was a nobler Titan than this. He defied the gods—and who should not, for was not the lot of man dark and desperate and ordained to suffering, his soul flickering out at the last like a little lamp in the eternal night? For this fate then, this fate that moved poets to tears, should a man rejoice? He should rejoice only at the moment when he dies, for he is finally delivered from life, the evil Fates having cut the cord of his existence and returned him to the nothingness from which he came.

He said, “Saul, you have duties, as I have remarked before. I have letters from your father’s lawyers. You are a man of property and much wealth, my Saul, and you must consider what you must do.”

Saul rose. “I go to the Temple,” he said, “where I will pray for the repose of my father’s soul.” He stopped and looked at Aristo, and now his whole countenance appeared to shatter. “Why did he not write me and call me to him? Why did not you tell me? I would have flown to him at once! O, I am indeed afflicted, that I never looked upon my father’s dying face and begged his blessing!”

Aristo sighed. “My chariot stands without,” he said.

Saul bent his head and wept. “No, I must walk,” and he left the shop in his slashed garments and with the ashes on his head, and that low wailing began again.

Chapter 19

A
RISTO
did not see Saul again for four weeks, for those were days of family mourning. So the Greek remained in his inn. He had no taste for Roman arenas and gladiators and pugilists. He had lost his lust for women, except on rare occasions. He was alone in Jerusalem, which he strongly disliked for its air of brooding and ominous destiny and pent and silent violence of spirit. Even the Roman soldiers were less hearty here, and went about with gloomy faces. Aristo struck up a few conversations with their officers, and was invited to a few dinners, and entertained at his inn in return. “This Israel,” said one officer, shaking his head. “It is more than I can endure. No one can ever comprehend the Jews. Pontius Pilate, once moved to generosity and expansiveness, offered to put a statue of the Jewish God in the temple of Jupiter, so He could be honored, also, and had to withdraw the offer hastily, for all Israel vowed insurrection even if the last man among them died! How can a reasonable man understand such a people? And what a Deity they possess! He is a veritable Pluto! Without an entrancing Proserpine, of course. In truth, there is no beauty in their God, nor in His Heaven, and who would desire to go there?” He shuddered.

“They love Him. One conjectures why,” Aristo said. “Nevertheless, you must admit that their Temple is grand and lovely, so it is possible that their God does not despise beauty.”

Aristo attended a few Greek theaters and gloried in the spectacles. But he was growing bored when he received a letter from his friend, Telis, asking him to visit him at his house, he having returned from a mysterious journey to a small, and possibly barbarous, little Jewish town called Capharnaum. Telis mentioned that it was a poor market town of no significance. But he, Telis, had a tale to tell! Aristo must dine with him that night.

Aristo was only too happy. He arrayed himself magnificently, as befitted a man of much land and many groves and considerable money, and he remembered that Telis had promised to introduce him I to his stockbroker who was a man of enormous talent, in Jerusalem. I So he hired a fine litter with silken curtains and rich cushions and was carried in state to Telis’ house. He understood that though the majority of men deplored the panoply of wealth—especially if they were wealthy themselves and indulged themselves in that panoply—they had a low opinion of men who dressed and lived simply. Aristo had put his most fiery large opal, surrounded by diamonds, on his right index finger, a chain of emeralds about his neck, gemmed armlets on his arms, a golden girdle about his waist, and jeweled sandals on us feet. His cloak was of cloth of gold. “I am a veritable Zeus, blazing,” he said to himself with satisfaction. He would remind Telis that he knew stockbrokers of great gifts in Tarsus, which was a seat of culture. He also had Roman stockbrokers and was invested in a ship, le had not, certainly, mentioned to Telis that he had once been a pave, and from some gestures and intonations Telis had unwittingly displayed at times Aristo suspected that Telis had himself once endured that state. Gentlemen do not recall unpleasant matters to each other. Aristo had hinted that a dear friend of his, the noble Hillel ben Borush, had left him a considerable legacy—which was quite true—and had also hinted that the legacy had been given in gratitude, which Aristo hoped was true.

The house of Telis was on the lower flank of a mount which was unusually green with trees and groups of cypresses, and it was a large and impressive building of white stone and gardens and gates, and Aristo was duly impressed. It was sunset, and the house beamed with rose. Telis met Aristo in the portico and embraced him and his voice was full and round as if greeting a friend one has known for life but has not seen for a long time. His manner was high and exuberant, his walk swift, his gestures vivid. He conducted Aristo into the atrium, which was colorful with Persian rugs, lively with bright murals on the walls, and large and stately and excellently furnished with tables of lemonwood and ebony and carved chairs inlaid with ivory and mother of pearl and gorgeous with velvet cushions of every hue. There was a fountain in the center, of alabaster, somewhat indecent and depraved, but beautifully carved, and the leaping waters were scented with the odor of lilies. Aristo was careful not to display undue admiration, for this incited contempt as for a base fellow who had never seen luxury before.

However, it was also evident that Telis expected some comment, discreet, as from a connoisseur, and from one who knew the worth of treasures. So Aristo kindly remarked that this bronze or alabaster statuette on a golden or black onyx pedestal was surely worthy of a Zeno, or even a Phidias, and those Alexandrine lamps in purple or crimson glass were among the most delicate and graceful he had ever seen. Even his friend, the noble Hillel ben Borush, of Tarsus, noted for his magnificent house and treasures, had no better than these, and everyone knew that Hillel was a discriminating collector of art. He had had emissaries not only in Greece but in Alexandria, also, being somewhat of an Egyptologist (and may gods overlook the lie, thought Aristo, if there are gods, for was not my Master a man of better taste?).

These amenities now concluded, Telis clapped his hands and the overseer of the hall entered and Telis ordered him to tell his mistress, the Lady Ianthe, that his master and his noble guest, Aristo, were prepared to dine. While waiting for the summons from the Lady Ianthe they would enjoy a goblet of wine in the atrium, which was pleasantly warm.

“The Lady Ianthe is your wife, Telis?” asked Aristo with some surprise, for Telis had never spoken of a wife before.

“No. My daughter. A childless widow, alas, who now dwells with me. She cossets me like a devoted wife, and I do not reject the cosseting, for she is my only child.”

Aristo preferred the company of young women, and girls, and he was somewhat distressed at the thought of a middle-aged widow, for Telis was at least sixty for all his newly virile appearance and the color in cheeks and on lips which had not been there on the ship. Aristo hoped that Telis observed the “old” Greek order, and that Ianthe would not be present at dinner, and then he remembered how Telis had jested over the “old” Jewish women who kept hidden in the houses of their husbands. “What is more charming than a fair face at a feast?” he had asked. “Women are not intelligent, but they are enchanting to gaze upon.”

Chilled wine was brought, and the goblets, wreathed in vine leaves were of carved silver and the wine was marvelously colored and the flavor delightful. Aristo made a judicious face on tasting it, and knowing his host was watching, gave a slight nod, the cultured accolade, again, of the connoisseur. He wondered, not without amusement, if Telis knew he was attempting to deceive him, and so the air between them took on a mirthful sparkle. He glanced at Telis and wondered anew at the new animation of his host, his vivacity, his color, the vitality of his hair and his look of absolute health. Was fit possible that this man was the pale and tenuous shadow he had net on the ship from Tarsus, the shadow who had a cancer and had but a short time to live?

“You are looking much improved in health, Telis,” he said.

Telis’ face took on a light of ardor and his dark eyes glistened. “Ah!” he said. “That is a miraculous tale, which I intend to tell you tonight!”

“You have met one of those holy Jewish rabbis who cure in a twinkling?” asked Aristo, with incredulity.

The overseer returned to announce that the dinner was waiting, and Telis rose and said, “Let us dine, if it please you, my friend. Then, we will converse.”

They entered the dining hall and Aristo was again deeply impressed by the large beauty of the room, which was far handsomer ban the dining hall of Hillel’s house, and crowded with treasures, and here large Chinese vases stood in corners filled with gilded sheaves of wheat and exotic flowers and huge green leaves, and the air was scented. The white marble floor gleamed where it was not hidden by beautiful Persian carpets, and the table was covered with cloth of silver and five slaves were waiting, beautiful boys finely clad, to serve the lord and his guest.

Also waiting was a lovely woman, apparently not yet thirty, and her ripest and sleekest years. She was tall but slight, and she was clad in a blue silken chiton with a jeweled circlet about her slender waist, and her sandals were jeweled also, and her white arms were bare and smooth and exquisitely formed, as was her neck. She had the rue Grecian face, with the round full chin, the daintily curled red Kips, the long nose that tapered from her white brow, without an indentation at the bridge, and the cairn smooth brow. Her eyes were like silver coins and very bright and sparkling and her lashes were autumn colored, as were her brows, and her auburn hair was dressed pi the Grecian manner and bound with silver ribbons. Brilliant earrings clung to her rosy ears and cast their reflection on a cheek like pink alabaster. Aristo had not seen so enthralling a woman since the Delightful Deborah bas Shebua, and he silently, with his eyes, gave er the worship of a Greek due a woman like a goddess. She saw us, and smiled demurely, and dropped her eyes.

Her father took her hand tenderly and again she smiled, this time with deep affection, and Tells said, “Is not my Ianthe a veritable naiad?”

Ianthe blushed, and Aristo was delighted, for he could not remember seeing a woman blush before, and this was no virgin but a widow. She sat beside her father and it was evident that she intended to give all her attention to his comfort and to help him to the most tasty morsels, and Aristo marveled at such devotion and envied Telis. The woman, of course, was a fool, but an adorable fool, and Aristo approved of beautiful women who were fools.

Alas, that his next thought was that all this luxury, all these jewels, were not the result, of a certainty, of honest dealing and virtuous affairs. Aristo suspected that his host was engaged in some nefarious business, such as smuggling under the noses of the Romans, if not worse, as well as open pursuits. So, Aristo envied him, and wondered if his friend, Telis, could not give him a confidential word or two when they were alone.

Aristo was confirmed in his suspicions when he saw the silver platters, and the silver and enameled plates and the golden spoons and knives and the gilded goblets. The napkins were of the silkiest of Egyptian linen and scented with rose. The repast was not like Roman repasts, of which Aristo had recently sadly learned from his new Roman friends. It was Greek—though, thank the gods, the wine was not resinous. But it was of a Greek style that could only have been inspired from Olympus, which cultivated Jews now favored above their own fashion in food. There were tiny brown fish broiled in butter and smoked British oysters, and butter as sweet as honey, bread as white as snow and hot as Hades, roasted lamb in a divine sauce with mushrooms and touches of rosemary and bay and ginger root from China, artichokes in sour wine and garlic—a mere suggestion of the latter, unlike the Romans—a roasted pig so small that it was evident it had not even had time to suck, and russet and crackling and luscious and stuffed with herbs on a gleaming platter with a pomegranate in its mouth, and rolled cabbage leaves filled with spicy hot meat and grapes steeped in wine and honey, and gilt bowls heaped with a medley of fruits and nuts and a carved board bearing many choice cheeses, and pastries so delicate that they appeared fashioned of clouds, enclosing sweetmeats that oozed a thick red jelly. And wine whose bottles were so dusty that they attested to age and mellowness.