“One day,” said Aulus, in a low voice, “they brought ten lepers to Him, weeping women and men and children. They cried to Him for mercy, and the people moved away from them in fear. But He touched them and lifted His hands over them, and they were cured instantly, and the great crowd rejoiced, and the former afflicted fell at His feet and kissed them. I saw this with my own eyes! You must believe me.”
“I believe you,” said Lucanus, gently.
That evening, Lucanus wrote down all which the centurion had told him over a period of long hours, all the parables which Christ had uttered in Galilee, all the glorious things which He had said. Lucanus remembered the stone which had been mysteriously removed from the sepulcher where they had laid Him after His crucifixion. As that stone had been removed, not by human hands, so the stone which had closed upon a dead heart can be moved aside only by the love of God, and the heart made alive again. “Make me worthy to write of You, and to follow You, and bestow Your grace upon me, O Father!” he prayed, humbly.
When Herod had built Tiberias in honor of Tiberius, the Jews would not enter the desecrated place. But Herod had had many Galileans seized and impressed into service and houses in the town. They were the wretched ones who had seen and known and loved Jesus, as well as those from Cana and Magdala and Capharnaum, towns near the Sea. What surcease and joy must He have brought to these poor and struggling lives! He had made their lot endurable, those who battled with the black and rusty soil and moved the somber stones of the region, and who were oppressed by the Romans and their own masters.
The inn to which Aulus had taken Lucanus was very large and pleasant, and the innkeeper was a kindly man who was proud of his simple but lavish table and the cleanliness of his chambers. The building stood on the shore of the Sea which was strewn with heavy black basalt stones, tumbling down the slight incline to the azure water. Before it was a flagged terrace, and great willows with whitish trunks spotted with brown leaned over the small and faintly rippling waves. Lucanus sat on the terrace in a comfortable chair, alone, though all about him travelers drank at little tables and ate sweetmeats and conversed with gestures and in eager voices. Many of them were merchants. Lucanus was glad when they rose to enter the inn for the evening meal. Now he could watch the mountains deepen to a deeper purple, and the Sea take on their motionless reflections. Moment by moment the scene became even more silent, vaster, more imminent. The sky darkened to an intense violet, and the water changed with it. The sun left the earth; a crescent moon, fiery white, rose above a mount and looked at her image in the water, and stars danced not only in the sky but on the Sea. From the small synagogue on the mount to Lucanus’ left came the chanting of prayers, intensifying the quiet.
God had seen and heard all this. He had prayed in that little synagogue; He had gazed at this very moon, this hyacinth water shivering with stars, these willows, these black cypresses, these bushes with their yellow, lily-like flowers, these pomegranates near the jade river, these palm and olive trees surrounding Tiberias, this green valley.
Blessed am I that You have given me life to know You, said Lucanus in his heart. I am undeserving; have mercy upon me, a sinner.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Lucanus remained in Tiberias only a few days. During that time he wandered over the valley and the mounts; he stood at the door of the synagogue and listened to the prayers of the people therein. He stood where Christ had stood, and looked down at the Sea of Galilee, ever changeful, supernally blue and quiet. Then he left for Nazareth, seeking for Mary. He longed for her, she who had borne God and had nurtured Him and dandled Him on her knee, had brought Him to teachers and to the Temple, had loved Him above all else, and had watched Him die a loathsome felon’s death. Thinking of her, Lucanus reverenced her in his heart and the thought of her was a joy. Blessed was she above all women of all generations.
Aulus parted from him with grief. “If we do not meet again on earth, then we shall meet in heaven,” he said, embracing Lucanus.
As his horse mounted the stony hill Lucanus looked behind him at the Sea, and he thought that only in Paradise would there be such peace again, such vast blue tranquillity, such smiling calm. Then on the top of the mount he looked towards Nazareth in the distance, on its parched, light brown hills with their white outcroppings of broken stones. The flat-roofed houses were the color of their surroundings, glittering in the sun, and girdled sparsely by thick green trees and pointed cypresses somber against the hot sky. The little town perched there as if struck into eternity and not to be moved again or lost. Beyond it the distant mountains were fold upon fold of deep brown, like a barrier. Heat waves quivered over the wide scene, giving it an unearthly appearance. Lucanus rode down the mount to a little valley strewn thickly with huge lumps of black basalt, between which there was sparse grass, wan and bleached in the sunlight. Here sheep grazed, guarded by shepherds sitting on boulders. The men looked sharply at Lucanus, their headcloths sheltering their sun-browned faces. He greeted them, and they greeted him in return, full of curiosity. He looked at them and thought, They knew Him, and they saw Him and talked with Him; perhaps many of them played with Him in His childhood.
A great sensation of excitement rose in him as he left the valley and climbed the mount to Nazareth. He sweated in the heat, and wet drops poured into his eyes. Clouds of white-hot dust followed him, surrounded him, and choked him, forcing him to cough. But he kept his eyes on Nazareth and spurred his horse, longing for shade. The mountains echoed back the clattering and stumbling of the horse, and the crashing of stones in his wake. Then, finally, he was on the outskirts of Nazareth, on a steep narrow little street swirling with dust and boiling with playing children and bordered with tiny open shops selling roast lamb and mutton, sausages and cheap wine, and household equipment, sandals, and colored cloths. The clamor here was almost a relief to Lucanus after the silence of the mountains, and as he rode on through more little streets a thick purple shade was occasionally cast by an oak, a carob tree, a tall pine or cypress, an acacia, a myrtle or a group of dusty date palms. In the center of a round cobbled place, made of the prevailing black basalt, there was a well, and girls were filling jars and chattering; the ropes creaked, and the buckets dripped bright drops in the sun. The maidens looked at Lucanus, startled, their blue or gray or light brown eyes curious under their colored headcloths. It was a poor place. There were no fine houses, no fountained gardens, no tall walls flowing with red or pink flowers, no litters, no chariots, no well-dressed figures of men and women. Behind some of the houses grew small patches of vegetables, or grapevines hung on stakes. Every street was noisy with dogs and donkeys, the latter patient and heavily burdened with produce for the shops. He stopped at the well and asked the girls if they could direct him to the house of Mary, the Mother of Jesus.
They looked up at the tall fair man on his good black horse, and his bearing made them shy and wary. They tittered and glanced at each other. Then one, speechlessly, pointed up a street leading from the square. Lucanus went on, leaving the girls buzzing excitedly. This street was even poorer than the others, and was at the farther end of the little town, and there were only a few houses upon it. These houses were exceedingly low, with short ladders leading to the flat roofs, where people could gather after sunset for coolness. Through open doors Lucanus could see stone steps descending steeply to cool caves below, where the families lived during the heat of the day and ate their meals.
Lucanus reined in his horse and looked about him hesitatingly. His horse moved impatiently, and twitched his head and tail at the thick flies. In that blinding light of noonday the little steep street had an infinitely desolate air; dust wavered over it. No one was about. Lucanus picked the nearest house and descended and went to the open doorway and looked within, and then looked down the steps leading to the cool cavelike lower room. There were few, and very poor, articles of furniture in the tiny room above the steps, a homemade chair or two, a bench, a table. The walls were plastered, and shimmered with reflections f
rom the sun outside. From the cave below came a pleasant gurgling of water. Lucanus called, and, on receiving no answer, he stepped within the narrow door and glanced down the steps; he could see a tiny well in the floor of the cave, a stone floor, some iron pots, and a black chimney. He called again. There was a rustle of clothing now, and a woman appeared at the bottom, looking up at him silently.
“I am searching for Mary, the Mother of Jesus, lady,” he said. “I have come a long way to speak with her.”
Without answering she came up the stairs, and he saw, by the reflection of light, that she was young and lithe, dressed in cheap, dark blue clothing with a white headcloth on her head. As she rose up the steps, her face lifted to him, he saw that she was exceedingly beautiful, with a smooth pale face, tapering to a dimpled chin, a delicate nose, pale pink lips and the most charming blue eyes he had ever seen. A lock of golden hair escaped from under her headcloth. She had the figure and slenderness of a young girl; her feet were bare and white.
Then she stood before him in simple dignity, and said, “I am she.”
Lucanus was amazed. From all that he had heard, Mary would now be forty-eight years old, yet she had the aspect and youthfulness of a young princess, gently patrician and infinitely sweet. No line marred her flesh; she smiled inquiringly at Lucanus, and her small teeth were like perfect pearls. Yet, as he looked at her, she appeared subtly to change, to become older, to be filled with sorrow and sadness, to be bowed a little. And then again, she was mysteriously young and straight, calm as a statue, with a still white forehead.
Lucanus, without understanding why, began to tremble. He was suffused with reverence and love. He wanted to kneel before her and kiss her work-worn hands. And she gazed at him without curiosity, and her blue eyes seemed to pierce into his soul.
“I am Lucanus, a Greek physician, Lady,” he murmured. “I have come a long way to see you, for I love and serve your Son, though I have never seen Him except in my dreams.”
She was not astonished. She gave him a tender smile. She spoke and her voice was as murmurous as a softly struck harp. “Let us sit behind the house, in the shade, Lucanus,” she said, and led the way behind the house to a bench against the wall. All her movements were full of grace, and as pliant as a willow, and there was a high stateliness about her. They sat down, side by side, and Mary looked into the distance dreamily. All at once Lucanus was certain she knew all about him, but how that was he did not know.
Two or three goats busily cropped low thistles in the bleached grass. A few fowl scraped in the dust. And beyond them grapevines climbed on stakes and filled the hot dry air with perfume. Mary sat, her hands folded on her knees, and her profile was exquisitely quiet and lovely.
Lucanus began to speak. He told her of his life, his teachers, Diodorus, his mother, his studies. He told her of his long bitterness, and then his long searching. He told her the stories he had heard of Jesus, and of his visit to James and John. She did not question him once, or interrupt; her profile was soft with her visions. The short blue shade lengthened; a goat came to nuzzle Mary’s knee; little chickens scrambled about her feet. The pale mounts in the distance became golden brown under a golden sky.
Then, having completed his tale, Lucanus fell silent. He looked at Mary’s profile, and it appeared to contain in it all the features of the women he had loved, his mother, Iris, Rubria, and Sara. Her quietness invaded him; he was filled with peace. He forgot that she was a poor Galilean woman, the widow of a poor carpenter. She held the ages in her still hands; she was a queen among women. And again that mysterious change appeared in her, fluidly moving over her features, giving her at one moment an old and grieving look, and then, at the next, changing her to a girl, a virgin, a pure and untouched one.
“You wish to know about me,” she said at last, very softly, “and about my Son. I will tell you. But first you must be refreshed,” she added, in a motherly tone. She rose and walked to the grapevines and plucked a cluster of grapes and brought them to Lucanus. They were big and round, amber-streaked on red and purple, glowing like jewels. He took them from her hand and began to eat the grapes. The juice was warm and sweet, and his thirst was abated. He looked at Mary gratefully; it was as if she had given him life in this fruit, and she sat and smiled upon him, her face luminous in the shade.
She began to speak, and all the hot hushed air about her was filled with her gentle and musical accents. She spoke of her old cousin, Elizabeth, whose husband was Zachary, a priest. They had no children, which was a sorrowful thing to them. They lived in a small town in Judea, and they were very fond of the young Mary, who was only fourteen years old, and she visited them often on the way to Jerusalem for the holy high holidays, and they would accompany her and her parents the rest of the journey. And always, with her parents, came her espoused husband, Joseph, a carpenter, a good and kindly man.
And one day, while Zachary was officiating as a priest in the temple in his little city, an angel appeared before him near the altar as he was burning incense alone in the priest’s office. The people awaited without the office, praying at this hour. Zachary, seeing the angel, was greatly troubled, and full of fear, but the angel said to him, “Do not be afraid, Zachary, for your petition has been heard, and your wife, Elizabeth, shall bear you a son and you shall call his name John. You shall have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth. For he shall be great before the Lord; he shall drink no wine or strong drink, and shall be filled with the Holy Spirit even from his mother’s womb, and he shall bring back to the Lord their God many of the children of Israel, and he shall himself go before Him in the spirit and power of Elias to turn the hearts of fathers to their children and the incredulous to the wisdom of the just, to prepare for the Lord a perfect people.”
But Zachary cried aloud, “How shall I know this? For I am an old man and my wife is advanced in years!” The great angel answered him, “I am Gabriel, who stands in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to bring you this good news.” Then Gabriel appeared angered at Zachary’s doubt and continued, “You shall be dumb and unable to speak until the day when these things come to pass, because you have not believed my words, which will be fulfilled in their proper time.”
The angel stood there a moment, palpitating with light, his mighty wings folded. Then he was gone, and Zachary was alone with the smoking altar and a terror and awe in his spirit. When he emerged from the office he could not speak, and tears ran down his old cheeks, and the people knew that he had seen a vision. Visions were no rare things to these simple and pious people; legends of the appearances of angels and portents ran through all their conversation. They questioned Zachary excitedly, but he could only make dumb and bewildered gestures.
Zachary was a poor man, for all he was a priest, and he returned to his little miserable house and looked at his wife, weeping silently. Later, to her great and almost disbelieving joy, she, in her old age, conceived, and she hid herself for five months, saying, “Thus has the Lord dealt with me in the days when He deigned to take away my reproach among men!”
Mary paused and looked at Lucanus, and her blue eyes were bright and smiling with tears. It was as if she were rejoicing again with her cousin, Elizabeth, in this miracle and recalling her words with tenderness and understanding.
The time was approaching for her own wedding to Joseph, whom she loved and to whom she was espoused. She was fourteen, and ripe for marriage, but sometimes she was troubled about whether or not she would make that kindly man an excellent wife. She was the only child of her parents, and she had been pampered dearly by them, and what little they had had been given to her with devotion and love. Her mother had spared her much work; she did not have all the knowledge of wifehood and homekeeping which other girls possessed. She could spin and sew and cook somewhat, and keep a garden in a small way. Her parents had been more concerned with her piety than with humble duties, for they were very devoted to the Lord their God and spoke of Him always and not only at prayers.
Mary’s face changed as she spoke, and she gazed at the sky with quiet ecstasy. From the time when she had been a very young child, hardly able to walk, she had loved and known God. He filled her days like the sun; she conversed with Him when she lay on her poor pallet. Her heart rejoiced in Him with passionate faith and joy. She could rarely think of anything else; her whole life was absorbed in adoration. The trees and the earth spoke of Him to her; He was in every spring flower she saw; His presence beamed from the sky and in the hearts of fruit. She saw His shadow at night, when the moon was full; she lived and breathed in the thought of Him. Sometimes rapture filled her unendurably, and she would steal away from her parents and friends and relatives to meditate upon Him. Every stone and tree and star possessed a nimbus of gold, for He was there. Often she would weep without knowing why, and her heart would shake. Her spirit would expand and enlarge; she wished only to serve Him, and spend her life reflecting upon Him.
But of household duties she knew very little; sometimes her mother reproached her mildly, and then reproached herself for not being a better teacher of this young girl. And Mary, finally, was also troubled, thinking of the goodness of Joseph, and wondering if she would be a good Jewish matron, as he would expect, blessing the candles, observing every meticulous detail of the sanitary and dietary laws, and being an honor to his house.
Dear and Glorious Physician Page 74