Amid the flickering of the lanterns and torches on the docks stood the ubiquitous Roman soldiers, helmeted, the famous short-sword fastened to their leather girdles, their legs spread, their faces apparently indifferent, their breasts armored in thick leather. Behind them seethed and fluttered welcoming relatives of the passengers, and behind them was a crowd of chariots and cars and horses and workers waiting to unload the vessel and big wagons and asses and yoked oxen. The shifting light of torches splashed them redly, illuminating a face here and there then plunging it into darkness, catching a waving hand then losing it. The noise, to Saul, was overwhelming, the heat unexpected for all it was autumn.
“We have a long journey to Jerusalem,” said Hillel, coming to his son again. “We will stay the night in an inn. It is possible that some of our kinsmen may be greeting us. I hoped we could have landed at Caesarea, but there was no ship leaving Tarsus for another three weeks and I wished to spend the High Holy Days with my people.” He thought of Deborah with melancholy.
The soldiers would not permit friends and kinsmen to rush upon the ship, with the possibility of foundering it, but their captain made way for a group to embark and Hillel said with happy astonishment, “David ben Shebua, and his brother, Simon, and that is surely the young Ezekiel, bridegroom of our Sephorah, and Joseph ben Shebua also, and, no! It is! My dear cousin Hannah’s husband, Aulus, the centurion!” Hillel’s eyes were suddenly filled with tears.
His cousin, Hannah, and her family and her husband, were his only living kinsmen for his had been a family of few children and he was the last child of his dead parents.
It was Aulus, himself, the centurion, who was, with calm and stately Roman gestures, ushering the kinsmen upon the ship and all the passengers stared to see who was so honored and so conducted, and the captain made his way to greet the Roman officer. Saul looked at him with contempt, in the light of the lanterns now lit on the galleon. Aulus was a man of some forty-five years, short but powerful, with a jovial and bearded face under his helmet, big white teeth, a huge nose and kind strong brown eyes. He was the first to embrace Hillel, seizing him in his bared arms and kissing his cheek. He smelled of sweat and hearty food and garlic and leather. “My dear Aulus,” said Hillel, much moved. “Shalom.”
“Shalom,” said Aulus. He struck Hillel an affectionate blow on the shoulder. “I have come to conduct you to Jerusalem.”
Then the family of Deborah was upon them, the elegant David scented and urbane, clad in fine wool and silk of purple and gold, the less elegant older brother, Simon, but a man evidently well-dined and prosperous and exceedingly plump and jeweled and arrayed in blue and silver with an Alexandrine dagger in his girdle, and Joseph ben Shebua, his twin brother and almost a replica, but less sleek. All, of course, wore no beards and all had their sister Deborah’s marble complexion, richness of lips and her blue eyes with auburn lashes, and their uncovered heads showed their tawny hair carefully arranged, curled and perfumed in the Greek manner. However, in spite of their jewels and gold and garments Simon and Joseph exuded a certain complacent grossness, an oiled polish, which offended Saul who waited while his father was lovingly greeted. The youth Ezekiel, but little older than Saul, himself, stood apart in shy respect and deference, and Saul saw that he was thin and somewhat small and insignificant and dark and very Latin in appearance. He had his mother’s Roman nose, her definite and prominent profile, but his eyes were the eyes of his father, David, lake-blue and shining. His clothing was not as elaborate and rich as his father’s. He wore a long tunic of white linen bordered with gold embroidery, and a brown cowled cloak, and there was but one ring on his finger and no gemmed bracelets clasping his arms such as clasped the arms of his father and uncles.
The family did not cry “Shalom!” to their kinsmen, as Aulus, the Roman, had cried. They embraced Hillel calmly and greeted him and made him welcome. They regarded Saul with some curiosity, and were polite, and David thought that the youth had not improved in appearance but indeed had lost that bright color which had once given him an appearance of exuberance. Hillel answered them as gravely and formally. He was somewhat disturbed that the young Ezekiel was with his father, David. It was unseemly. A bridegroom did not look upon his bride until the day they were espoused, but the family of Shebua evidently thought that anachronistic and old-fashioned and unworthy of Sadducees who were civilized and cosmopolitan. Ezekiel was David’s youngest son, and not handsome, but he had his mother’s virtues and was very intelligent, so David had forgiven him his lack of comeliness. It was unfortunate, and a little amusing, that the Roman mother had made the youth into a reasonable image of a Pharisee and had sternly urged upon him his Jewish duties and faith.
They are not Jews, thought Saul with bitterness and disdain. They are Hellenistic heathens. He saw Aulus grinning at him amiably and turned away. He looked at his sister; she had, to his surprise and approval, dropped her veil over her face so that her features could be seen but mistily and her maidens were grouped about her discreetly. But her uncle, David, lifted the veil aside and in the mingled lantern and torchlight all saw her virgin beauty and Ezekiel, her bridegroom, turned crimson with shyness and admiration. The uncles kissed the girl’s cheek and listened to her whisper of greeting, and were proud of her. “She is as lovely as our lost Deborah,” said David, and he thought of the girl’s rich dowry. But, after a glance at Hillel, he did not bring forward his son.
Servants of the house of Shebua carried the chests and coffers of the travelers to ornate and lavish cars, beside which waited the chariot of Aulus and the horses of his legionnaires. The horses were drawn by Arabian steeds, as black as night, as lustrous as silk, and their harness was silver and their hoofs gleamed as if shod with silver also.
Saul found himself in the car of his uncle, Simon ben Shebua, and Ezekiel, and he sat down grimly on yellow silk cushions. The other occupants were two men, servants, who were to do the driving, and they were arrayed in fine linen and were cloaked and helmeted as soldiers, to Saul’s fresh scorn. Now they moved off the docks, the crowds staring, the Roman legionnaires riding about them; a few men made mocking sounds, some of them ribald. Ahead galloped and Saul was infuriated to see the banner of Rome unfurled by the soldier who rode at his side. When Ezekiel timidly asked him a question about his journey he affected not to hear him, but wrapped himself in his dull brown cloak and pulled his hood over his head. Simon saw this and thought that the son of Hillel ben Shebua resembled a peasant in his manners.
Joppa was all about them, hot, with narrow streets paved with rounded black stones which glistened in the new frail moonlight and the glare of fluttering torches, and crowded. The bazaars were still open. Saul could hear the angry voices of merchants or their wheedling tones, and he saw women with dark faces and with baskets heaped with fruit on their heads, and oxen and asses, and he could smell the vehement odors of the city. He saw Roman guard-towers and Roman soldiers and the banners of Rome, and he saw faces he recognized as Greek and Syrian and Arabian and other motley races, churning about in the bazaars or hastening through the streets, their voices hoarse, their language incomprehensible. Walls rose and disappeared; there was a scent of hidden gardens, of pine and fountains and manure and roasting meats. Camels turned corners and their riders glowered at the rich entourage that was sweeping to meet them. Once or twice there was a burst of music and women’s laughter and songs from behind walls, or the crying of children. Hillel had said that Joppa resembled Tarsus, but Saul found nothing, in this pungent and sweetly fetid air, spicy and hot, of the city of his birth.
But, it was his land, his country, he told himself. He was a Roman citizen, but he was a Jew above all. This land was flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, however alien it appeared to him in Joppa. He saw family groups on the flat roofs of some of the houses, which were pale brown in color with narrow windows, and climbed steeply. The gutters were noisome and rank and evil water ran between stones, and Saul detected a sudden stench of urine and offal. The light wind h
ad died; the odor of salt was lost as they penetrated farther into the city toward the broad Roman road.
They stayed the night in a quiet and comfortable inn, already prepared for them by the family of Shebua. But Saul lay awake and intense until dawn, his emotions not to be known even by himself, and aware only of a heavy sadness and a solitude of spirit.
Chapter 7
THEY set out at sunrise for Jerusalem and saw the last of the sea, dark purple under a purple sky, the east, over the hills, turning lilac and gold. Hillel ben Borush rode for a pace in the rushing chariot of his friend and cousin, Aulus Platonius, his gray-gold beard flowing behind him, his hood partly covering his face, his cloak streaming in the cool morning wind. It was hardly a pleasure in which he cared to indulge, and he stood beside Aulus and gripped the rail of the chariot, much to the amusement of the charioteer who sat on the one wooden seat in the pounding vehicle. It was evident that Hillel feared for his life and did not trust the four black Arabian geldings who tore into the air and the breeze as if still puissant. They foamed at the mouth and tossed their heads and flecks of foam snapped backwards and Hillel clung as if his life depended upon it. But he wished to talk to the beloved husband of his only remaining kin. The chariot led the procession, and the standard of Rome clapped in the wind to Aulus’ right, and Aulus stood sturdily, leather wristlets protecting his wrists, a red cloak flaring from his shoulders, his helmet firmly fixed on his round head, his beard lively and fluttering, and his short sturdy legs braced expertly as he drove. He loved activity, danger and rapid movement and no clash of stone against the iron-rimmed wheels of the chariot did more than sway him a little, whereas poor Hillel expected momentarily to be thrown to the road.
Deborah’s brothers had always been a weariness to Hillel and the hours he had spent with them last night had been sufficient for him. God knew he would be forced to endure their company for a considerable time in Israel. He preferred this seemingly reckless charge into the morning—at least for a time—to riding with his kinsmen.
“How goes it with you, dearest of friends?” shouted Aulus over the uproar not only of his chariot but the entourage behind him and the clatter of wheels and hoofs.
Hillel shouted back, “Not too happily.” Aulus sighed, thinking of the beautiful dead Deborah. He had seen her but three times in her short life and had thought her both entrancing and stupid, desirable traits in a woman. His own Hannah was the noblest of women with a sweet round face like a plate and a soft voice which assumed no contradiction, and a temperament which would not have permitted it.
The earth began to lighten as the hills lost their darkness and became of a pale copper and saffron color. Aulus glanced at his friend’s face and saw his sadness. Hillel’s profile was brooding and melancholy as he sought out landmarks which he had almost forgotten in his years in Tarsus. Hillel said, “What do you think of my son, Saul, my only son, whom you have never seen before, Aulus?”
“I saw him but fleetingly,” said the Roman. It was not like this forthright soldier to be evasive and Hillel turned his head to him.
“Come now,” he said. “We were a time on the deck, awaiting our chests and baskets and coffers and pouches, and there were many lanterns and torches, and I saw you watching my son while you directed your men and the sailors and chattered with the captain. Do not be afraid of offending me, for there is no malice or cruelty in you, Aulus, but only truth and honor.”
The Roman wiped the dust from his lips with the back of his hand and stared over the heads of his raging horses. “One does not need many words to describe a man. If you say a man is weak, or effeminate, or untruthful or cowardly or a libertine, you have drawn his portrait. Your son, Hillel, has power.”
“Power!” exclaimed Hillel, in wonder. “I have thought him strong and impatient and restless and determined and sometimes contentious, but I did not think of power.”
“Power,” repeated Aulus with a sagacious nod of his head. “The power of an ‘old’ Roman or perhaps of an ‘old’ Jew. It is implicit in his eyes, in his glance, in his movements. He also possesses authority, which is only an attribute of power. I think of him as a soldier. To say a man has power is not always flattering, for he can use that essence of soul to the destruction of others. That, Saul will never do, and I say this to you truly. He is a young man of honor, like his father.”
Hillel murmured his thanks, and dared to take one of his gripping hands from the rail to touch one of his friend’s. Aulus smiled at him, and now, in the growing light, Hillel could see the white shine of Aulus’ great white teeth through his bearded lips. Aulus was glad that Hillel did not question him further. He had not been pleased with Saul. The youth had been too removed, seemingly too indifferent to all about him, but Aulus had seen that he saw everything and that nothing stirred him. He was like one who lived in iron, or who was tormented of soul.
“And how is our Milo?” asked Hillel, referring to Aulus’ own son who was five years older than Saul.
Aulus’ broad chest expanded with pride. He pushed his helmet back a little from his brown forehead. He smiled happily. “In Rome at present, with the Praetorian Guard. It is a vast honor to be chosen for the personal protection of Caesar. He is a fine soldier, my Milo! But he is of two warrior races, is he not?”
Hillel had almost forgotten that his people were indeed of an irascible and warlike breed, proud and stiffnecked, valorous and brave. The Sadducees were always vexing his thoughts and the Pharisees were too concerned with the minutest phrases of the Book, and raising an awful clamor at the slightest breech of a single paragraph of the Scriptures. When they were not expostulating and arguing they were writing commentaries which unnerved scribes. Between these two there was little space to reflect on the prowess of other Jews and the intrepid history of Israel. In an absent tone Hillel asked, “How are our Zealots and Essenes?”
Aulus grinned with wryness. “They keep us occupied,” he said. “It is conducive to leanness in my men, for this climate, you must admit, is not so salubrious as Rome nor so mild, and the stony hills are endless and the caves countless. Your Zealots and Essenes still believe it is possible to defeat Rome and throw us into the sea. They must be admired for patriotism and dedication if not for extreme intelligence, and reason.”
But Hillel could not smile at this. Those unfortunate and zealous young men, loving their God and their country above all else, and endlessly harassing the mighty Roman! It was useless—but it was also noble. There were some who did not ignore the Romans as did the Pharisees nor fraternize with them and admire them, as did the Sadducees. If it was folly to resist it was more heroic than not resisting. And had not God rescued the Israelites from Pharaoh and from the walls of Babylon when all seemed hopeless? Who knew the future? The dream of freedom never left the hearts of men.
Now the sun, like a golden and conquering warrior, mounted the farthest somber hill and the earth was flooded with dazzling light. It was autumn, and the harvests were in and many of the fields on each side of the road were yellow and smooth as a good cheese and sun-darkened shepherds in rough robes and headcloths were moving through the last garnering with their sheep. Little villages flew past the entourage, pale saffron of brick and stucco—narrow small houses with slitlike windows and streets between them little more than stony slits themselves. Here and there walls appeared, careful yellowish stone laid neatly upon stone without mortar, crowded with climbing vines whose leaves were like blood. The sun was hot but the air was cool and flowing, and now the sea was lost to the left. Cypress trees, dark and stately and rigid, sometimes lined the road, then gave way to copses of climbing pines resinous and stimulating, then to silvery olive groves heavy with green or dark fruit, then to rows of yellow citrons or pomegranates bending under globes like polished fire. Gray boulders and high thistles clustered at the roadside, surrendering to meadows suddenly green and radiant in the morning light, and vineyards whose vines were thick with opalescent grapes. The approaching hills, and those distant on eithe
r hand, were gray or copper and worn as huge ancient stone. The Romans had denuded them of cypresses to build their ships, and though many were terraced like giant steps and carefully cultivated with vegetables and vineyards, they had a desolate look, blasted and hungry. They were less mountains than barriers between the crowding villages and towns of yellow or brown brick. Goats clambered on those hot terraces. Now bending palms cast a sharp shade, and rattled, and glistened with a dust as the entourage roared by.
But little brooks and rivers shone and gamboled in the tawny autumn light, and the whole country was exuberant and vital with the odors of stone, floating golden dust, fields, grapes, fruit, barley and wheat, hot green grass and resin. Farmers were abroad, with their sons, carrying baskets in which they placed bunches of sweet syrupy dates and figs and pomegranates and olives and citrons, and herds of cattle moved on the meadows and girls with geese ran across the road, laughing, their gay headcloths streaming in the brilliant air. There would be another crop to lay for wheat in the spring, and many farmers, black-cloaked, with white headcloths, were plowing, the patient asses going before, the dark earth turning and steaming. Once or twice, as the entourage raced by, an encroaching small hill gushed with blue or green water, and little children splashed in the pools below and goats came to drink, and fowl. Haystacks dotted the yellow land, and stacks of wheat and barley, and flat-roofed little farmhouses with white walls peeped shyly from groves of palms or sycamores or karob trees. Crimson and purple flowers lay in eddies in the drying grass.
Great Lion of God Page 14