Great Lion of God (90 page)

“I have, in my pouch, something I will drop into his whiskey when you gain his attention for a moment,” said Lucanus, “and another to follow in the wine which increases the desire to drink it. I know he is austere, so he will not eat to satiety. The pills will restrain his emotions for several hours, and then we will renew them.”

Timothy’s young light blue eyes moistened and he bent his head and went away, and, sighing, Lucanus went to his own chamber.

They met again very shortly and the innkeeper led them to a distant table in the clamorous dining room which smelled of the manure outside and sweat and vinegar and heat and dust. The fierce and brilliant sunlight streamed through the open windows. The party of three had a measure of privacy in this corner and here it was not so hot and not so bright. Saul seated himself between his friends and again his face glowed.

“Tell me all!” he commanded Lucanus. He looked suspiciously at the three small cups, tarnished and greasy, which the innkeeper put before them with a flourish.

“The best Syrian whiskey, from a secret place in my cellar!” said the innkeeper.

“Excellent,” said Lucanus, and lifted the cup. He glanced at Saul then at Timothy. “Timothy, you are the youngest here, so I beg of you that you give us a toast, for on this occasion we shall honor youth.”

Timothy said, “We thank God, King of the Universe, for this meal.”

A toast by the youngest was something new in Saul’s experience, and he decided it must be a Greek custom on some special occasion. Timothy, who had never dissembled before, turned very red. He began to stammer, gazing at Saul. “I believe there are five whom we may baptize,” he said. The little cup in his hand trembled. Saul smiled at him kindly. “I spoke to at least six score,” he said, “but let us be happy for the smallest harvest, for these Greeks are very slippery men, indeed.”

Timothy saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Lucanus had deftly dropped something in the whiskey before Saul. He murmured, trying to smile, “But Lucanus is a Greek, and so was my father, may he rest in peace.”

“I regret my stupid remark,” said Saul. He looked with distaste at the whiskey, began to put it beside the hand of Lucanus, but Lucanus said, “What! Are you refusing to drink this nectar with me? If I remember rightly you and I enjoyed such whiskey on board a certain vessel long ago. Drink, my dear friend. I command it. It is only courtesy.”

“I do not dislike it,” said Saul. “I grimace as a habit, a foolish one, implying to others that meat and drink are beneath me,” and he laughed loudly and roughly, like a boy, and others at a distance, hearing, turned and stared at him, then laughed also, for it seemed to them that Saul must be drunk. In their turn Timothy and Lucanus forced themselves to laugh, not entirely without true mirth, for Saul’s ridicule of himself was disarming. He drank the whiskey, looked down into the cup and said, “This does not taste like Syrian whiskey, as that rascal averred. It was probably illegally distilled somewhere in the hills of Macedonia and the Roman customs stamp forged.”

“A merry practice of my countrymen—forgery,” said Lucanus. He poured another cup for Saul who drank it and said, “It improves.”

“I have observed that about whiskey,” said Lucanus. “Ah, here is the wine. Let us taste it and see if it is as promised.” The innkeeper, with many gestures, wiped the inside of the cheap glass goblets with a fairly clean cloth and poured the wine as if pouring a libation on an altar, and the others watched, fascinated.

The wine, though hardly Bacchian, was tolerable, and the dinner, though hardly Lucullan, was not to be despised. Timothy observed that Lucanus magically dropped another pellet into the wine at Saul’s hand, when Timothy asked a question of the physician and Saul looked intently at him, for the question was clumsy. Saul ate sparingly, as usual, but he drank more copiously and now a deep flush was on his face and his blue eyes opened wider as if the lids had relaxed. He said, “Lucanus, you have not told me what has brought you here, not where you have traveled, for I have not had a letter from you for over a year.”

Lucanus said, “I have traveled in many climes and cities, and have found what you, yourself, have bewailed: Defectors, schismatics dissenters, complacent fools, self-ordained oracles who interpret Our Lord to suit their thought or their position or their vices or their virtues—and often I do not know which is which! As Cicero has said there is nothing so absurd but what some philosopher has said it, and this, alas, is notably true of the members of the Church. There is not a little obscure bishop in some dusty town who cannot tell you exactly what was meant by this parable or that, and smiles superbly when you mention the Jerusalem Community and Peter, who is the bishop of all. Our Lord did not abrogate the law of human nature, which remains as pigheaded and as egotistic as ever, and arrogates to itself the divine prerogative of defining divine law. One conjectures, at times, if these little men do not sometimes lecture God before permitting sleep to overcome them at night, and sternly call to His attention some error which they wish to be corrected at once.”

Lucanus’ expression was so dismal that Saul laughed. He did not know it but he was laughing at almost every remark now and Timothy watched him dubiously, wondering if Lucanus’ pellets were not too efficacious.

“To paraphrase Caligula,” said Saul, “I would that the troublemakers had but one neck.”

“Fortunately,” said Lucanus, “I am a physician, and nothing surprises me overmuch about man. We know that the Church will survive and the gates of hell will not prevail against her—for has not Our Lord so said? But it will not be with the aid of man! But I bring you a letter from your nephew, Amos ben Ezekiel, who is worthy of his uncle, and who is not only a better physician than I but far more eloquent. I was never a man of long-suffering, but Amos is not only patient—he has a sunny nature which wins hearts.”

Saul’s face brightened with pride and affection. “He resembles my father,” he said.

He spoke fondly of his sister, the widow Sephorah, who now had only her children, and one of them an evangelist. “I shall visit her soon,” he said, “for she is lonely and we are young no longer.

Lucanus spoke of his travels and of those he encountered, and the perils he had known, and Saul listened with avid sympathy. The harsh lines of his face melted away. He drank another glass of wine and ate of the cheese and fruit and bread, and listened with all his attention, and Lucanus watched him covertly as he spoke. Saul’s weariness appeared to have been banished. A certain serenity and calm, foreign to his nature, had taken possession of him, a certain loose passiveness of hand and shoulder. He found remarks of Lucanus’ amusing rather than irritating, when the Greek referred frequently to the obduracy and rebellion of the scattered churches, and the resentment of the elders when he, Lucanus, tried to correct them, and the knowing smirks of the deacons.

Then Lucanus, his face darkening, said, “It is very petty and very human, and can be borne. But what cannot be borne is the pompous and noisy pretension to supreme virtue and righteousness in some of our militant brethren in certain places, which arouses the anger of those not converted. If they did not display it overtly, nay, if they did not conspicuously and loudly seek occasions to be publicly overheard, it would not be so dangerous. It is not well for the weak to inspire the wrath of the strong; sweet reason and a gentle tongue are not cowardly, even in the mighty, and they are prudent in the defenseless. Truth should not blow a brassy trumpet nor write graffiti on the temples of others, for such trumpets do not incite admiration nor do such scribblings attract tolerant attention. The Jews learned that long ago, and learned to live in peace with their neighbors. But our little brothers remind me that Our Lord said we should bring the Gospel to all nations, and they are determined to do it immediately, at once, with fanfare, and all by themselves, no matter whose wrath they raise and whose sensibilities they offend.”

“I know,” said Saul, and his tone was not irascible as usual and Timothy stared at him. “Every man a little Moses, screaming from his own tiny Sinai. That is what comes of self-interpretation—a new Tower of Babel. I know it is dangerous, but men have so many religions now and so many temples and gods and so many insistent devotees and priests, that in the confusion it may be that the Christians are not too threatened.”

Timothy was astonished. This was unlike Saul ben Hillel who could roar like a jungle beast at foolish and obstinate and opinionated men. But Saul was actually smiling benignly and leaning back in his chair in an attitude of happy lassitude and physical comfort. His eyes, however, were glazed and strange, and suddenly he yawned widely and shook his head as if in amusement at himself. Then he gave Lucanus a sudden and unfathomable look.

“The heat overwhelms me today, and the wine,” he said in apology. “Too, I am young no longer.”

Lucanus said, “Let us retire to our chambers and rest until the cool of the evening.”

“Alas,” said Saul, “I am to meet at the house of a few friends today, and it is already late. Do accompany me, Lucanus, and you also, Timothy. They are men of mind and culture and while they are not Christians as yet I am praying for this culmination, for they have influence in Athens.”

He yawned again, so widely that all his big white teeth were visible, and tears came into his eyes. He shook his head and laughed once more.

“An hour’s rest,” said Lucanus. “Come. I am a physician. Will you not obey me, my dear friend, and grant me this concession?”

He stood up and his face was so earnest and grave and commanding that Saul said, “Very well. But only an hour.” He too stood up, staggered, caught at the table, and forced himself upright. He was aghast. “Can it be I am drunk?” he asked, ashamed.

“No,” said Lucanus, and took his arm, and the others in the dining room grinned and winked at each other. “You are weary. Come. I have something most serious to tell you, dear Saul, and this is not the place. When you are in your bed I will impart some news to you.”

Saul’s eyelids were drooping, and he shook his head over and over. Lucanus dropped a small pile of golden coins on the table, an act Saul was seemingly incapable of observing now. Then Lucanus motioned with his head to the pale, mute Timothy, and the young man took Saul’s other arm and they led him from the room. There was loud laughter behind them, another thing which the sensitive Saul did not heed.

They climbed the dirty gritty stairs to the hot rooms above and Saul’s legs were heavy and his feet seemed to sink into the floor and he said, “I have never been drunk. I did not drink much. Have I become ill? This cannot be! I have no time for illness!”

“You are not ill,” said Lucanus, “but you are very tired, and even the warhorse must drop his head and slumber and listen to no drum until he has slept.”

“The corridor swims,” murmured Saul, as if he had not heard. “The air is afloat with mist. Yet, I feel no sickness, no weakness. I wish only to sleep a little. Of a certainty, I have never been so drowsy before, and the thought of my bed delights me.”

He fell on his bed with a rich sigh of pleasure and a comfortable murmur. But Lucanus drew the one chair in the miserable room to the hardly less miserable bed with its soiled blankets, and sat beside Saul, who looked momentarily surprised in his drowsiness. Timothy, trembling, stood at the foot and clasped his hands hard together. Then, at the motion of Lucanus’ head he drew the ragged woolen curtains across the glare of the high small window, and the chamber was immediately plunged into a hot dusk.

Then Lucanus bent over Saul, laid his hand on the other’s flushed cheek and said, “Open your eyes, Saul, and look into mine, for I must have your attention.”

Lucanus reached to the table on which stood a candle and he held it out to Timothy and said in a peremptory tone, “Go at once, do not delay, and light this candle at the fire in the kitchen, and bring it back with all haste!”

Saul heard this and partly raised his head off the pillow and stared at Lucanus. Lucanus held his hand tightly, as if forcing his own tired strength into Saul. In a moment, the door opened rapidly and the panting Timothy returned with the lighted candle which blinked in the dimness like a painful red eye.

Lucanus moved the candle slowly back and forth before the dilated eyes of Saul. Saul was still half-raised in his bed. Lucanus murmured, “You will gaze intently at this flame and when I snap my fingers you will sleep. But you will hear all I say in your sleep and will awaken at my signal, and you will be calm, accepting all.”

To his astonishment, Saul struck the candle with the back of his hand and sat upright and looked at his friend with eyes no longer slack and moist. They glowed like blue flame. He said, gently, “My dear Lucanus, I am no fool. I have seen hypnotism before, when Egyptian priest-physicians used it for the benefit of their patients. Though I gave no sign of heeding I have been aware since your arrival that you are burdened with sorrow, and so I know you bring dreadful news. I also saw you drop pellets in my whiskey and wine, and I am grateful for that, for I am weary, and I knew it was to calm me. Am I a child or a man? Am I to be soothed by drugs and hypnotism, for fear I will not be able to bear another burden, another grief, another despair? If you think I am a child, then I will be offended. If you consider me a man, tell me all, and as quickly as possible.”

Lucanus put aside the candle, and his whole ascetic face trembled, and Timothy quaked anew. “It is well,” said Lucanus. “I regret that I thought to spare you, Saul, for indeed you are a man among men and not a weakling whose emotions must be dulled for fear of hysteria and madness. But above all, I am a physician, and the habit of ministration is hard to overcome, and we are often of the opinion that it is best to spare others the sword of sorrow and anguish, and thus we denigrate mankind. We are men—or we are whimpering children.”

He spoke quietly, but his large eyes filled with tears and he bent his head and began to speak in a low voice.

Lucanus had visited the Christian community in Tarsus two months before, which Peter had asked him to do because of defectors and quarrels arising there. An evangelist, too, was needed for the heathen. “The Christian community,” Peter had written, “in Tarsus, has begun to question my authority and they are antagonizing the Gentiles and those not yet converted.” So Lucanus had obeyed.