Great Lion of God (58 page)

He went first to his shop on the Street of the Tentmakers. Had it always been so narrow, so dark, so ill—smelling—and so subdued? The rattle and clang of the looms was louder, now, than the voices in the shops. Had it been that way before? He dropped his few pouches and his one small chest, and looked about the dusty gloom of his own shop with a sense, not of homecoming, but of exile. He shook out his blankets and they smelled musty. He pushed open shutters. The mice had been busy here and there, and he cursed them. He went to the nearest market and, standing on the black cobblestones, he drank some poor wine and ate some cheese and bought a grape leaf heaped with hot and steaming spiced meat. A merchant was arguing nearby with another miserable merchant, and though they were hidden from Saul by the wall of their little shop he could hear them clearly.

“I tell you, He was truly the Messias!”

“Quiet. You will be accused, like Him, of blasphemy and heresy. Or of incitement against Rome. If the priests don’t seize you by the neck the Romans will!”

“You are laughing at me. But I say to you again, that I saw Him send light and sight into the clouded eyes of a blind man, who had his station at the wall of the Temple, begging!”

“I have heard of this from many of our penniless rabbis in the past. Is that all the proof you have?” The merchant chuckled.

“No. It was something else. I saw His Face, and I knew Him for the Messias. My heart told me; my soul quivered—”

“If you do not tend that fire your meat will quiver into cinders!”

There was a muttered cursing, a wave of smoke that bellied out into the street, a stench of overcooked meat. Saul was frowning, and eating without awareness. Titus Milo Platonius had said the same thing: “I saw His Face, and I knew Him for the Messias.” The merchant said, panting and choking somewhat, “Laugh if you will, Amos, but it is true, and one day you will know it is true.”

Saul walked slowly past the shop and with pretended unconcern he lanced within it, to see two burly men with white and black headcloths and garments chopping meat and seasoning it on a plank of wood not too clean, and mixing it with onions, and stirring it in pots. Their hands were soiled and their nails grimy. Saul dropped his grape leaf on the stones. He still idled. He caught the odor of the men, rank and tinged with garlic, and he saw their heat—flushed coarse faces and their big red mouths. He smiled darkly to himself. From among these, Yeshua of Nazareth had drawn his followers! He was welcome to them, and to their base, vulgar acceptance of Him. There were only a few men of family, like Joseph of Arimathaea and his cousin, Milo, who had been so deceived.

He returned to his shop, bathed and put on his better clothing and went to the house of his grandfather, Shebua ben Abraham. He had bought, in Tarsus, gifts for his sister and her five children and in spite of his frugality he had spent considerable money. He had also brought a tithe for the Temple in Jerusalem, as was customary. The gift for his sister was a flexible golden serpent with ruby eyes and a glittering tongue, to be worn on the arm, a silly Egyptian trifle in his estimation but one sure to please Sephorah. For her children he had bought golden small replicas of the Ark of the Covenant, piously inscribed, and excellently wrought. It came to him, as he placed them in a pouch, that he had bought nothing for Sephorah’s husband, that silent gentle young man with the lake-blue eyes. Saul was annoyed. But one easily overlooked Ezekiel, who never had anything to say for himself.

For his favorite of Sephorah’s children, Amos ben Ezekiel, he had made a special gift, an ornate cap of black, red and white, signifying the Tribe of Benjamin, elaborately bordered with gold embroidery and heavily inset with precious jewels. At the top was a round fringed circle of blue, the sign of the Pharisee. The expensive thing was not to Saul’s taste, but immediately he saw his sister’s face he knew that he had delighted her. She put it on Amos’ fair curls and stood off to admire it. The boy smiled at her indulgently. Though he was now a man, according to Jewish tradition, he still wore the purple-bordered tunic of adolescence.

Saul, at his request, made in a letter to Clodia Flavius, was admitted to the women’s quarters of his grandfather’s house. He knew that the Roman lady had granted him a rare privilege: Men Were rarely admitted to the women’s quarters by ladies of propriety, and only on specific invitation, though women, if they desired, could invade the rest of the house. Clodia had told Sephorah, “Men are very tedious and vain and childish, and a woman of sense can endure them only infrequently. Hence, the ladies of my generation, and all true ladies even in these degenerate times, adhere to the old ways of a woman’s sanctuary.” Sephorah’s two older sons, Amos and his brother of fourteen years, were received in these plain but pleasant quarters only for certain hours of the afternoon. Within a short time they could not enter except on special occasions, and on invitation. The younger boys, still children, and the little maid, lived in the women’s quarters with their mother and grandmother.

Clodia Flavius had become plump and even more sedate over the years, though her eyes were still clear and observant and mildly severe, and she sat in an ebony chair near Sephorah, who everyone believed was now a most decorous young matron. But her golden eyes were still dancing and merry and eloquent as she looked at her beloved brother, though her hair, bright as gilt, was concealed by a headcloth. Her clothing was modest and demure. She sat with her hands folded patiently in her lap. Saul, for the first time in his life, approved of her, though he had never ceased to love her.

He had come here for a definite purpose, and Clodia sensed it within a few moments and she looked at him openly and waited.

Saul drew Amos to him with a gentle but peremptory hand, and the boy stood at his knee and looked at him with Hillel’s soft brown eyes, which had an inner radiance of intelligence. Amos was tall and slender, with a beautiful strong mouth and a complexion of rose. So Hillel must have looked in his youth, thought Saul, with the familiar pain at his heart.

“I should like to ask you a few questions, my nephew,” he said, and glanced at Sephorah. “With your grandmother’s and mother’s permission.”

Clodia’s thick eyebrows twitched and Sephorah bent her head serenely.

“I was told of your illness, before the Passover,” said Saul and now he looked steadily into the boy’s eyes. “Tell me. Did you eat anything—peculiar—or drink it before your illness? Anything that your brothers and your sister did not eat?”

The boy shook his head, puzzled. But suddenly Clodia and Sephorah exchanged a quick look, and leaned forward in their chairs.

Still fixing the boy with his fierce and commanding blue eyes, Saul said, “The servant, the old man, Cephalus, the Greek, did he not give you a sweetmeat or a pastry—before your illness, or a cup of wine, which your brothers and your sister did not share?”

“No, my uncle,” said Amos. “Cephalus does not come to these Quarters, and I did not leave them before my Bar Mitzvah, though sometimes I saw Cephalus from a distance. I have spoken to him but three times in my life.”

“When?” The word was as sharp as the crack of the whip.

“Once, when I was very young,” said Amos, the puzzled frown still between his eyes, “and I had strayed into the garden of my grandfather’s father, Shebua ben Abraham. He returned me. He carried me over his shoulder, like a lamb. And I saw him after that a year ago, when he delivered a message to my grandmother from my grandfather, David ben Shebua.” Amos paused.

“And the third time?”

The boy moved uneasily at this intent questioning. He was afraid of Saul, who could be very intimidating. “After my illness, Saul ben Hillel.”

Saul clasped his hands over his knees and studied the youth grimly, as if doubting his every word, and Amos looked back at him with increasing uneasiness. Once he glanced at his mother who had become pale and still.

“Tell me,” said Saul. “Did you ever accept any dainty or wine, or even a cup of water, or a fruit, from any other member of my grandfather’s house, from any servant, who came to you secretly and quietly and offered it to you, and you ate or drank apart from your brothers and your sister?”

“No,” said Amos. He was now clearly alarmed at this interrogation, the lawyer’s intensive interrogation which had frightened others older than he in the past. His under lip quivered, and he caught it quickly between his teeth, remembering that he was no longer a child.

Saul sat back in his chair but his daunting eyes did not leave the boy’s face. He studied him even more grimly. “Perhaps you forget,” he said. The boy shook his head.

“Are you implying, Saul ben Hillel, that my grandson was deliberately poisoned or drugged?” asked Clodia Flavius. “If so, you are in error.”

Saul did not look at her. He still gazed at his nephew.

“Amos,” he said, “how long did you feel languid or indisposed before you fell into that great illness?”

The boy suddenly looked sheepish, and Saul leaned toward him, waiting. “For two weeks, perhaps,” confessed Amos. “But I told no one, fearing that the festivities attending my Bar Mitzvah would be delayed, and I would pass the occasion in my bed. I did not desire that. But I was stricken at last, three days before, and from that day I remembered nothing.”

“Nothing?” The word was relentless.

The boy’s white lids fell over his eyes. “I remember nothing of my illness, except for an hour before I became unconscious. I believed I was dying. My fever consumed me like flames. My head was like cracking stone. I could not even drink water. Then all became dark.”

“Ah,” said Saul. “Remember Amos, remember. During those weeks before did you eat or drink anything strange, and alone? A berry in the garden, perhaps, which not even birds eat, or a root, or a fruit you found, or an enticing sweetmeat left idly on a seat in the garden?”

Now Saul’s own quick temper suffused the boy’s cheeks and his eyes sparked, and not with alarm. “Saul ben Hillel,” he said in a firm voice, “I am not an infant.

I do not put chance articles into my mouth. Nor am I an idiot, who thrusts oddments between his lips!”

Clodia smiled tightly and Sephorah, looking at her again, also smiled.

“You are disrespectful,” said Saul. “Your deportment has been neglected. I am your uncle, and I have a serious reason for questioning you, for do I not love you, and is it not my wish to protect you from evil superstitions and delusions and the enticements of dark spirits? Therefore, answer me without impudence or quickness, and be temperate.

“Tell me. You fell into a stupor of illness and fever, and do not remember your illness which lasted three days. What is your next memory?”

But, to Saul’s own surprise, the boy became silent and an undescribable expression appeared on his fair face and a melancholy and a curious sadness. Saul took his hand. It had become cold and faintly tremulous. “Tell me, Amos ben Ezekiel,” he said, “for I hold you dear and would not have you harmed. Has anyone asked you this question before?”

“No,” whispered the boy, and now his lips were trembling.

“So it is that I ask you,” said Saul.

“I—dreamed,” said Amos, and tried to take away his hand, but Saul held it strongly.

“Of what did you dream?”

“Is it lawful,” asked Clodia Flavius in her sturdy Roman voice, to question of these things, Saul ben Hillel?”

“It is,” said Saul, still not looking at her. “For the sake of the boy’s soul. I am not inquisitive. I know the Kabalah. I know why I question. Amos, of what did you dream?”

The boy uttered a deep sigh, which was almost a moan. “I awoke in a beautiful country, more beautiful than any vista in Israel.” His voice was hushed and low. “There were mighty ivory and gold mountains in the distance, shining, though I did not see the sun. The sky was very blue. And between me and the mountains there were vast valleys and gardens and many quiet trees and flowers, and the air was full of singing, but I saw no singers. I stood on the bank of a river as green as grass and swiftly flowing. It seemed very deep and wide. And on the farther shore—”

“Yes?” said Saul. The room was completely silent now.

“My grandfather stood there, Hillel ben Borush, in white garments that were like light. I knew him at once, for I had seen him before he died.” Now the boy looked directly into Saul’s eyes, not defiantly, but with a demand that he be believed. It was a man’s imperative gaze, stern and reserved.

Saul was much moved, despite his growing anger and his conviction that the boy had been secretly drugged by a servant, a follower of Yeshua of Nazareth, in order to create just this occasion.

“I believe that you dreamed you saw my father, Amos.”

But the boy’s voice rose clear and decisive. “I did not dream, my uncle. I saw him. And he smiled at me and beckoned to me, but the river lay between us. And then he lifted his hand and the river narrowed to the width of a brook and he reached his hand to me, and I took it and I stepped over the brook and we laughed together, and watched the river widen again.” His words were now loud and tumultuous. “The singing in the air increased and I wanted to weep with joy, and my grandfather said to me, ‘Blessed is that man who dies in his youth and has not sinned, and who awaits here the return of the Messias, Who sits at the right Hand of His Father, blessed be His Name!’”

“What blasphemy is this?” cried Saul, truly appalled. “What is the meaning of your words, Amos ben Ezekiel?”

“I do not know!” said the boy, with emphasis. “I only know what my grandfather said.”

“But the words mean nothing, they are nonsense, for the Messias has not yet left Heaven, and He has not yet come unto man. Do you not understand this, Amos? Do you not understand the absurdity of your dream?”

The boy repeated, “I only know what my grandfather said.”

“All dreams but the dreams of holy men and the prophets are ridiculous,” said Saul. But the boy did not look away from him and the soft contours of his cheeks had hardened and he reflected his appearance of when he would be a man in truth. His brown eyes were no longer soft or dreaming. They were resolute and courageous.