Great Lion of God (54 page)

Saul, unable to move, now understood that he had not gone blind, for he heard the cries for “Light! Light! Light the lamps!” from his house, and he let his pent breath leave his lips slowly and held to the bench lest he be thrown from it in the heaving of the earth.

He thought to himself, “This is the terrible Day of the Lord, which Joel prophesied,” and he was exultant, then terrified again, for had not the prophet Amos rebuked the people, saying, “Woe to you, who desire the Day of the Lord! Why would you have the Day of the Lord? It is darkness, and not light; as if a man fled from a lion, and a bear met him. Or went into the house and leaned with his hand against the wall, and a serpent bit him. Is not the Day of the Lord darkness and not light, and gloom with no brightness in it?”

Despite his terror, Saul was convinced that this, indeed, was the dreadful Day of the Lord, when God’s wrath would sweep with the whirlwind and the thunder over the face of the earth and all things and all cities and all men would fall before it, and the earth would rush apart in earthquakes and devour all the works of men forever.

His breath came with shallowness and constriction. The earth subsided, but the deep growling remained for some time, as immense stone slipped over stone in the unfathomable abyss below, and chaos was created and chasms disappeared in the endless night. The cold black air quivered like curtains against Saul’s cheek and arms and throat and feet. He did not know if the earth was still trembling or if it was now only his flesh.

Staring into the darkness he waited for what was next to come hardly aware of the cries and shrieks coming from his house. The wind began to fall; it was becoming less furious. The bitter chill was moderating. A breath of warmth touched Saul’s body. Then moment by moment the night receded, and a pale shine began to lighten the zenith. All at once the sun rushed into being again, as effulgent as ever, and as warm, and the growling in the earth subsided, and all was calm and sweet and placid and birds began to chirp and question and a strong and passionate fragrance rose from the blooming ground.

“Thank God,” said Saul aloud, and rose up. He tottered for an instant, like an old man with the palsy and understood that he had felt the deepest fear of his life, more awful than the fear of death.

He went to his house. His servants were prostrate on the floors, their arms covering their heads. They were weeping, but whether with fright or with relief Saul did not know. They raised their heads and showed him their tears.

“It was an eclipse of the sun,” he said to them, kindly. “All is well now.”

It was a compassionate lie, and he knew it, but he did not know the cause of the phenomenon. He had studied both astrology and astronomy, in Tarsus and in Jerusalem. No eclipse had been predicted for this Eve of the Passover. Had there been a strange storm over Tarsus? He had never heard of such a one before, but then his life had not been long. Still, his father had not spoken of a storm like this, nor was there any record pertaining to any like it. Earthquakes were not uncommon in this part of the world, but quite frequent. Still, it was very odd that the sun had disappeared and night had descended—the deepest night he had ever known—and the earthquakes had accompanied the disappearance.

He went to his chamber and sat down and pondered. Had the phenomenon been observed all over the world? He would write to Jerusalem at once.

Then it came to him that something fearful, something dire, perhaps, had happened in the world, something inexplicable, something of calamity and terribleness, and God had uttered a Word and the firmament had been shaken and the foundations of eternity had trembled and the world had been convulsed, Saul pressed the palms of his hands together and shivered.

He decided not to delay in going to Reb Isaac’s house, and then to the synagogue, though it was far from sunset. It was still only the middle of the afternoon. He dressed himself in a white tunic, the best he possessed, with an embroidery of gold at the throat, the gift of his sister who deplored his usual raiment. Over this he threw a brown toga, of not so fine a material as the tunic, and put on his new sandals. He called a quaking servant for the small chariot and drove away to the house of Reb Isaac. The fields and the streams of the valley basked in the gentlest light, but Saul saw disturbed groups gathered in the porticoes of the houses he passed, and standing on the grass, discussing vehemently. He passed a temple to Isis. It was crowded, the people swarming in the portico and he could smell sudden incense and could hear the incantations and prayers of the priests within, and the rising wails of flutes and the cry of harps and zithers.

The house of Reb Isaac was calm, but the old rabbi was very pale and his hands had a tremor. He said at once to Saul, “I thought it was the fearsome Day of the Lord.”

“And so did I,” Saul answered. Then seeing the old man’s suppressed agitation he impulsively embraced him. “It will be explained,” he said, as if to a child.

“Will it? Will it?” muttered Reb Isaac. “I wonder, with all my heart.”

Two days later when Saul again walked in his garden he saw that the lilies were wide open to the sun, their golden stamens shining, and that from them rose a perfume of such intensity that it was like a prayer.

Chapter 25

S
AUL
wrote to Jerusalem to his sister, Joseph of Arimathaea, and to Rabban Gamaliel, asking them if they had observed “a remarkable and uncommon phenomenon,” which had occurred on the Eve of the passover in Cilicia. He, Saul, considered it a local occurrence, not significant, but “interesting.” He sealed the letter and sent it to Jerusalem, not without some sheepishness. In the meantime, he rationally explained the event over and over to himself and particularly to Aristo, who merely cocked an eyebrow over one of his black and restless eyes and smiled. He made but one observation: “My Saul, I believe it a most ominous event. If I believed in the gods which thankfully I do not—I would say that Olympus had been convulsed to its very heart, and that Zeus had decided to destroy this world out of some divine wrath but had been restrained at the last moment, probably because it came to him that if the world were destroyed so would be thousands of lovely maidens. That is a thought not to be borne lightly.”

Saul did not care for this levity nor did he speak of his own terror on that day. A black storm cloud, he suggested, had gathered over Tarsus for a space and then had withdrawn. “So black a storm cloud,” said Aristo, “that only the sun had gone but the stars peeped out. I saw them myself. No, Saul, I am inclined to believe that the event was preternatural.” And he laughed, seeing that he had vexed Saul.

The spring, golden as dawn, melted into the green and abundant summer and a luminous haze softened the mountains. Saul became more and more impatient, as he was more and more convinced that he was awaiting a call and yet was not receiving it. Again, each day he resolved to return the next to Israel. Then early one morning his overseer came to him in great excitement to inform him that he had a noble visitor, a Roman, a captain of the Praetorian Guards. “Titus Milo Platonius!” exclaimed Saul, hurrying in from the gardens, his hands brown and damp with soil, and he was delighted; and amazed to see his handsome cousin awaiting him in the atrium. The men embraced affectionately. Milo removed his helmet and loosened his belt, and looked about him with pleasure. “And all this, for a man without wife or child!” he said. “Not even I, in Rome, have such a villa.” His strong brown face was heavily furrowed with weather and his cropped brown hair revealed streaks of gray, but his old spare elegance was with him still, and his manner of military grace, and as always he was stately.

Saul showed him to one of the guest chambers and clapped for servants to attend the noble soldier and refresh him. Saul had not known such pleasure for a long time, so long a time that he could not remember. He realized how lonely he had been in his father’s house for nearly a year, and now the house was warm with love and friendship again, and he eagerly awaited Milo’s joining him in the summer portico, where colorful flowers bloomed tall in Chinese vases and pots and a fountain cooled the hot bright air. He clapped for wine and light refreshments, and threw his kitchen into wild dismay as “light refreshments” were usually not encouraged in this house. But by the time Milo came out into the portico the cooks had contrived some delicacies and had unearthed some good wine from the cellar and had brought in a salver of young green onions, radishes and some hot artichokes swimming in oil with a touch of rosemary. From some mysterious hiding—place—not so mysterious to Saul who lightly frowned—they had “discovered” some marvelous cheeses. (They pamper their stomachs, the servants! he thought, but was reluctantly pleased.)

Milo had removed his leather armor and wristlets and cloak and military garb and had dressed himself in a short yellow tunic bordered in red Grecian keys, and his tanned legs were still the legs of a sturdy youth and his feet arched in their fine sandals. He even wore an armlet of wide plain gold.

“I suppose, dear cousin,” he said to Saul, “that you wonder at my appearance here in Tarsus.”

Saul was astonished. He considered. “No,” he confessed. “I did not think of that at all, and that is very peculiar. I was only glad to see you.”

Milo smiled, showing almost all his white teeth, and he studied Saul shrewdly. He sampled the refreshments, sipped the wine, and revealed his pleasure. Even his big protruding ears were brown, and his hands were bronzed. He looked at Saul with his father’s kind eyes, and appeared to think and turn his thoughts about.

“I am returning to Rome from Jerusalem,” he said, as if he were examining each word. “My parents are old. My father also wishes to return to Rome, where he hopes to be elected a tribune. He is old now. So is my mother. I had not seen them for four years, nor had I seen my sisters and their children for that time, and I have some leave. Do not concern yourself about my men; they are ensconced in an inn in Tarsus, and they are young lads who have never been in this city before and are, without doubt, now investigating the feminine possibilities here.”

His smiling face became suddenly very serious, and he ate some bread and cheese as if lost in his own thoughts. Seeing this, a vague uneasiness came to Saul. But Milo said, “My ship stopped in Tarsus, and I decided to visit you.”

“Otherwise, you would not have done so,” said Saul, and was surprised by his own disappointment, for he thought affection had brought Milo here.

“You are wrong,” said Milo, and gave his cousin his quick if somewhat saturnine smile. “I choose that ship because I wished to visit you.”

“Ah,” said Saul, and with his old impulsiveness he stretched out his hand to his cousin and they grasped each other’s fingers in a brief firm clasp. Then Saul said, “You have something grave to tell me. In the Name of God, blessed be His Name, tell me at once, if it is bad news!”

“It is not bad news,” said Milo. “It is most portentous news.”

“Of my family?”

“In a manner of speaking. But it concerns—” Milo paused, and did not look directly at Saul now but out upon the shimmering gardens. It was as if he feared, as customary, any extravagant language, for was he not a Roman? Yet, what but extravagant words could convey what he must convey? “It concerns,” Milo continued, his brown cheekbones coloring as if with embarrassment, “the whole world.”

Instantly Saul’s thoughts flew to the phenomenon of the Eve of Passover, and the letter he had recently written. But he did not speak. He only looked at Milo with the bright blue metal of his eyes, and waited, and a sensation of extreme tenseness came to him.

“I am Jew, as well as Roman,” said Milo, and expertly fished out an artichoke with his fingers and slowly savored and chewed and swallowed it. He contemplatively, then, licked his fingers, ignored the luxury of the warm water in a silver bowl, floating with rose leaves, and wiped his hands on a napkin. The fastidiousness of the savoring was familiar to Saul, the Jew, but the roughness of the Roman manners would have, under other circumstances, annoyed him. Then Milo, as if wishing to escape Saul’s penetrating eyes, bent over the cheese salver and made a delicate choice in long deliberation. After he had removed his selection to his silver plate and buttered some bread, he went on, lifting his eyes for only an instant to Saul’s, and Saul was freshly amazed at the stern yet thoughtful light in them, for never had he seen it before.

“I sacrifice to Mars, my patron, in his temple,” said Milo. “I give the deepest devotion to Jupiter, though I cannot, in all truth, consider Julius Caesar and Gaius Octavius Caesar divinities. But I honor them also, in their temples, though I laugh in my heart. Do I believe in the gods of Greece and Rome, and several of the Egyptian gods? I do not know. They are full of splendor and beauty and are understandable by men. They partake of our nature. And they are subtle as well as gross. On the other hand, I am my mother’s son, and so I have been circumcised and was presented in the Temple—I believe a slight sum passed from my father to the priests—and I was Bar Mitzvah, though the other boys taunted me as a ‘bloodthirsty Roman,’ and as a child and a lad I learned the Five Books of Moses, and all the prophets, and Jewish customs and the things forbidden, the Torah, the Psalms—and all that you have studied, Saul. In those days, I was called Titus Milo ben Aulus,” He smiled again, and Saul thought the smile wry.

“Now when I go to the Temple or the synagogue, I stand in the Court of the Gentiles, but what I hear from within the Temple stirs my blood with ancient cries and movements. But when I stand before the altar of Mars, I am also so stirred, and I believe in my patron with absolute faith—just as I believe in the God of Abraham and Jacob.”

Saul said, “The Greeks believe that all religions contain a measure of the truth, but not the whole truth, Milo.”

Milo caught the reserve in his cousin’s vibrant voice, and he said, quickly, “But you do not?”

Saul hesitated, “I would be lying if I said I believe the Greeks. I believe that there is but one Truth, blessed be His Name, and I await His Messias.” Again he hesitated. “Forgive me if I have offended you, but I cannot lie.”