“Very well,” said Lucanus. “I will buy a bottle from you.”
Cusa bowed elaborately. “Permit me, O Baal, to present a bottle to you with my compliments.” He spoke with sarcasm. Then he hesitated and stared at Lucanus imploringly. “It is a crime against the gods to permit those Roman barbarians to wash out their leather mouths with such a wine! Now, I have a good, sturdy Alexandrian wine more to their taste.”
“The best wine,” said Lucanus. “And do not deceive me. I shall examine the sealings carefully.”
“I suppose,” said Cusa, “that it would not be permitted if I should bring up a fourth goblet and stand meekly at a far distance from those Roman patricians and sip a little of my own, my very own, wine?”
“You may have a little, a very little, of the wine I am purchasing from you,” said Lucanus gravely.
“I am presenting it to you,” said Cusa, with loftiness, and went below.
While waiting, Lucanus watched the city again. The violent colors made him blink. The sun glittered fiercely on the purple water, and evoked smells of hot wood and oil and tar from the ship, the stench of dead fish and the sting of salt and sweat. Its fervid light danced on the smaller craft scurrying below; their sails seemed to burn. The soldiers’ armor blazed. The loading slaves began to sing mournfully, and the overseers rasped at them and cracked whips. More and more wagons loaded with goods lumbered to the wharf.
Cusa, with great dignity, appeared with a silver tray on which stood four goblets, one of silver encrusted with turquoises for Lucanus. He put the tray on a coil of oily rope nearby with a gesture that indicated he was more accustomed to marble tables. The centurions turned their heads and watched with interest, and as they saw the rosy wine they licked their lips furtively. They were astonished when Lucanus called to them, “Will you give me the pleasure of joining me in a drink of this excellent wine, which my teacher assures me is the best in the world?”
They came to him with smiling alacrity, forgiving him at once. Lucanus, waving Cusa aside, poured the wine for them. The sun reflected on it, and it was like a distillation of pale rubies. Lucanus gave them a goblet each, and poured one for himself. He tipped a few drops in libation, and they followed suit. He sipped a little and said, “Excellent. Excellent! My teacher has the most impeccable palate in three worlds.”
“And how would you know that?” muttered Cusa, unappeased. He poured a goblet full like a priest attending an altar, slowly and reverently. At least one of four would appreciate this delight. He stood aloof from the group composed of Lucanus and the soldiers and sipped his wine. This was a wonderful vintage, of the best of all possible years. The sun was in it, and warm sweet fire; it lay in the mouth, perfumed and delicious and intoxicating. Cusa, glancing at Lucanus and the soldiers, was depressed. The soldiers, it was evident, were only aware of the fact that the wine was heady, and as for Lucanus, it was impossible to conceive that he even tasted the exquisiteness. He was conversing, to Cusa’s surprise, with more animation than he had ever displayed before, and with more kindly interest. Now what, thought Cusa, has struck him? I can almost believe he has pulsing flesh and is not rigid marble after all. By Bacchus, was that actually a joke he made? And not one of the utmost delicacy! He must have acquired it unconsciously from one of those ribald students. I wonder if he knows what it really means? Ha, ha, it was very good, very good, and beautifully naughty. Cusa was much cheered. If Lucanus maintained this mood the journey would not be as dull as expected. The teacher, beginning to feel gently exhilarated, did not even wince when Lucanus poured more wine for the soldiers and himself. If he should get drunk, thought Cusa, I would rejoice exceedingly.
The captain of the ship approached Lucanus, but before he could speak Lucanus cried, “My good Gallo, join us! Cusa, bring another goblet!”
Cursing the captain, whom he suspected of having a nose for a bottle, Cusa obeyed and brought up another goblet. The middle-aged captain, a burly man with a coarse but intelligent face, began to relate very indelicate stories, at which the centurions hooted in mirth and Lucanus smiled. Sourly Cusa said to himself that at least these bawdy tales were beyond Lucanus’ comprehension, for a wandering look had come over the young Greek’s face, an indication that he now found the conversation either boring or distasteful. It was evident that Gallo had acquired the jokes in a number of the less exclusive brothels, and even Cusa found them a trifle too ripe for his taste.
Expansively, Gallo said, “It is an honor to have you aboard, Lucanus. You are our only passenger of any consequence. This, as you know, is a cargo ship, but it is fast, and does not dally like ships of pleasure. Even though we make a number of ports of call we shall arrive speedily in Italy.”
“I am anxious to be home,” said Lucanus.
“At one of the ports of call there will doubtless be letters for you.” The captain squinted up at the huge white sails beginning to be unfurled like the wings of giant birds against the sky, and he shouted some admonitions to the sailors who were scampering about on the masts. Lucanus poured more wine, but not for himself. “We have a fair wind,” said the captain, dropping his voice to a normal level. “And when the tide goes out we shall sail. That will be in less than an hour.”
Lucanus looked at the city, and for some reason he did not examine he was suddenly assailed by a powerful longing and sadness. His heart ached in a nameless desire, and he felt lonely and lost. An almost irresistible urging came to him to leave the ship. He forgot the captain and the soldiers. He struggled with his emotions, to which he would assign no face and no voice.
“What is it?” Gallo was asking of a junior officer who came up to him, saluting. The officer murmured in his ear; the captain glanced swiftly at Lucanus, and his smoky agate eyes, so jovial yet shrewd, lighted up, and his sun-darkened face burst into sprays of smiling wrinkles. He turned to Lucanus and clapped him heartily on the shoulder and winked.
“A litter borne by well-clad Bithynian slaves has just arrived on the wharf, Lucanus!” he exclaimed, and winked at the centurions also. “I am no Delphic oracle, but I will wager you three sesterces that it is a noble lady! Ah, what it is to be young! Did I mention that the slaves indicated the lady wishes a word with you before you sail?”
Lucanus started. He looked at the wharf, and saw indeed that a litter waited there, closely curtained and borne by six swarthy Bithynians, whose strong arms were bound by broad silver circlets. The blood rose high in Lucanus’ face, and he began to tremble. “I know no one,” he murmured. “Are you certain it is a lady?” He peered at the shrouded litter.
“I will wager you!” cried the captain. Cusa, hearing this commotion, came closer and also peered at the distant litter, screwing up his eyes the better to see. A woman? That was impossible in the case of this male Vestal Virgin. Cusa shook his head doubtfully. But Lucanus went down the ramp slowly, his head shining in the sun, and the gleeful soldiers and the captain and Cusa leaned on the ship’s railing and gave the litter all their attention.
When Lucanus stood beside the litter he said, “Who wishes to speak with me?” The curtains of the litter parted, and he saw the pale and grieving face of Sara bas Elazar looking up at him. She was clad in deep black, and Lucanus saw that her garment was slashed here and there in the Jewish manner of bereavement, and that her beautiful violet eyes were smudged with sorrow.
“Sara,” said Lucanus, and there was a huge swelling in his throat. She held out her small white hand to him, and he took it. “I should not have come, Lucanus,” she murmured, “for I am in mourning for my father.” Her black hair bore the traces of ashes. She tried to smile, but only sobbed without tears.
Her hand was cold in his. All about them was the bustling of the wharf, the running of slaves, the shouts and cries, but Lucanus saw no one but this very young girl, and he thought, Surely she is like Rubria!
“Sara,” he said again, and now his longing and urging had a face and a voice.
“Joseph ben Gamliel told me that you were departing today
,” she said, her voice faintly hoarse from past weeping. “I had to come to you, though it is wrong and scandalous, to thank you, dear Lucanus, for the surcease you brought my father and the promise you made to him.”
“It was a promise made in the knowledge that it will probably be impossible to fulfill,” said Lucanus, absently. He thought that the spring morning stood in the girl’s eyes; a fragrance like frankincense rose from her garments. Even in her grief she was lovelier than any woman he had ever seen, her brow purer and whiter, her virginal body sweeter and softer. The sun glinted in on her face through the parted curtains, and her cheeks showed the traces of tears.
“You will find my brother, Lucanus,” she said in her dulcet voice. “And I will be waiting, in Alexandria or in Jerusalem. Or,” she added in a lower and shaking tone, “anywhere. You can always find me, Lucanus.”
They were silent then, looking at each other. Lucanus’ face was as pale as her own. Then he said, “Sara. Where I go, no one else can go, no brother, no sister, no mother. No wife. There is much that I must do, and I shall be homeless and a wanderer. There is no room in my life for a personal love, for love to me means loss.”
He suddenly remembered Asah in the courtyard, and her words to her husband, and he shook his head in desperate denial. But he did not release Sara’s hand.
She said, “I can always find you, Lucanus,” and her eyes filled with yearning. Again he shook his head. But he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it and turned away abruptly and went up the ramp again. Even when she called after him, “Farewell! God go with you!” he did not look back.
Lucanus did not use the purple-awninged space reserved for him on the deck, so Cusa took advantage of this and sprawled on the cushions like a king and meditated. Now why, he asked himself, did that incomprehensible fool of a Lucanus stay below all these fine autumn days, coming aboveship only at twilight? He would sit below all day with his books. But at twilight he would come on the rocking wooden deck indicating that he wished no conversation. He would lean on the railing and gaze at the violent sunset skies and the dark fire-slashed sea, unaware of the sailors, the centurions, the captain, and the few other passengers. His face had a closed still expression like stone; his eyes were haggard. He was lost in some tormenting dream from which nothing could arouse him.
At this hour the sea’s voice, quiet and rippling all day, began to clamor fitfully. The white wake, and the white sails tilting against the sky, took on the shadow of blood from the wild sunset, so silent yet so menacing. Once the skies exploded in a short but turbulent storm, black clouds with lightning-bright crests fleeing close to the high and rocking masts, thunder echoing in a giant voice across the mountainous and glaring waters. But Lucanus seemed unaware of this and leaned heavily against the railing, not feeling the drench of warm and smothering rain. He looked towards the east as if trying to cross the lengthening miles with his eyes. He was sick with his enormous emptiness and yearning. Above and below the thunder and the tumultuous gale he heard Sara’s voice.
The ship halted at various brilliantly colored ports during the day, but Lucanus did not come up to see them. It was as if life had become a terrible, hurting thing to him again, as if all his wounds had begun to fester with new infection. His struggles with himself had reached the unbearable state. I cannot love again! he would cry in himself. Love is fetters and chains; love is death. Love is a binding to a hearth, and the fire in the hearth destroys a man’s peace.
Greece did not lure him; he sat below in his hot little room, empty-eyed and with his hands clasped between his knees. “At least, you should glimpse the home of our people,” Cusa urged him, with mingled impatience and concern. But Lucanus only shook his head. “If you would tell me what tears your soul ...” Cusa began. And Lucanus only shook his head again. “You do not eat,” said Cusa. “I have brought my own wine, my precious wine, and you barely sip it.” Lucanus was silent.
One day the sea and air were so calm that the sails dropped and drooped, and the sun was a fury. The ship went on more slowly, as the galley slaves were now the only means of propulsion. At twilight the ship was like a wandering moth on the flat and heliotrope floor of the ocean, and the wake hissed with a barely audible sound. Then Lucanus, on the deck, heard the deep and dolorous chanting of the slaves, and it seemed to him that it was an extension of the misery in himself. They must sing so all the time, he thought. I have not heard it before! I have been thinking selfishly of my own pain. As he thought this, and turned about, he saw some men climbing up the ladder from the lower deck, weightily carrying a naked black man. They pushed the body over the rail, and it sank with a faint splash into the sea.
The slaves watched it disappear, then they lifted amulets hung about their necks to their lips and scurried below. Death came to ships as well as to towns, thought Lucanus. He remembered that he had vaguely heard that ominous sound of a body being consigned to the sea on other twilights. He frowned. Then he went in search of the captain, who was sitting in his own room below with some of his junior officers. He looked up at Lucanus as the latter entered, and Lucanus saw that the broad face was anxious and angry. But the captain rose and smiled.
He said, heartily, “I thought I had offended you, Lucanus. You have not spoken twice to me since we sailed from Alexandria. Will you dine with me?”
“Thank you. But I have dined, Gallo.” Lucanus hesitated, searching the man’s face. “I have just seen a body thrown into the sea. Am I wrong in believing I have heard burials several times lately?”
The captain paused. He glanced at his officers with dark furtiveness, then smiled wider. “Ah, there are always a few deaths on a long journey such as this,” he said. “Bring wine,” he said imperatively to his officers. “Not such excellent wine as yours, Lucanus,” he added to the young Greek. “But adequate, I trust.”
He beamed at Lucanus and offered him the broad seat near the porthole. The captain’s room was hot and stifling; the walls were hung with maps. On a wooden table stood his sextant and a diagram of the stars. Lucanus sat down. There was a curious dry smell in this closed air, and he suddenly recognized it as spice and incense and medicinal herbs. He then noticed that these were burning in a small lamp on the table. A large lantern swayed smokily from the ceiling.
An officer brought in a jug of wine and some goblets, and the captain and his officers and Lucanus drank slowly. For some reason there was an odd, taut silence in the cabin, and Lucanus’ physician’s soul began to stir. He studied the faces of Gallo and the others; they were definitely shut and secretive. The ship barely rocked; it seemed to be moving in thick oil. The chanting of the slaves was closer and shriller.
Then Lucanus said quietly, “Tell me, Gallo.”
The captain looked at him in pleasant surprise. “And what shall I tell you, Lucanus?”
Lucanus gazed at him steadily for a few moments. “You have forgotten, Gallo. I am a physician.” He looked then at the fuming lamp significantly, but he did not miss the quick interchange of glances between the captain and his officers.
“Ah, so you are,” said Gallo, brightly. “And I have not forgotten.” He nodded to the officers, and they left the cabin. But when they had gone Gallo was in no haste to speak. He stared into his goblet, then refilled it, closed his eyes, and pretended to be absorbed in the wine’s bouquet and taste, which were inferior.
Then he said, “I am glad you stay apart, Lucanus, and that you have not mingled with the other passengers. After all, you are our most important cargo.”
“It comes to me, Gallo, that I have seen nothing of the other passengers, though I confess that I have not been seeking their company.”
“They stay below at my suggestion.” Gallo put down his goblet and bent over the diagram on the table.
“Plague?” said Lucanus, softly.
It was as if he had not spoken for a minute or two. Then Gallo pushed aside his diagram and leaned his chin in his palm. “You may have noticed that we have missed a few ports of call,”
he said. Then he slapped his hand on the table, and he was no longer smiling. “I should have told you before for your own protection, but then you were never among others. Yes, it is the plague. We are flying a yellow flag now, which you have probably not noticed. The ports will not let us put in when they see that flag. But there have been only a few cases, and those among the galley slaves.” He sighed. “The cursed East! All the troubles of Rome have come from there. When we reach home we will not be permitted to land until we have been free from the plague for at least a week. That is the law.”
“I am a physician,” repeated Lucanus.
“We carry a ship’s doctor,” said Gallo, annoyed. “You are a passenger. You are not at my service. You are the son of Diodorus Cyrinus.
What would happen to me if I exposed you to danger, or if you caught the plague and died?” His hazel eyes sparkled with umbrage. “I have told you: only the slaves are afflicted, and we keep them locked up far below decks. Last night we did not have a death. It is unfortunate that you saw the burial in the sea tonight. Lucanus, they are only slaves and dogs and criminals,” he added reasonably.
Dear and Glorious Physician Page 32