‘Is it thought to be a healing water?’ asked Marcellus.
‘Yes—but not by the people of Galilee. Travelers come from afar to bathe in the water from these springs.’
‘Oh? Then Cana sees many strangers.’
‘Not so many in Cana. They go mostly to Tiberias, on the Lake Gennesaret. It is a more important city, and possesses much wealth. It is only the rich who come to bathe in medicinal waters.’
‘And why is that?’ inquired Marcellus. ‘Do not the poor believe in the virtue of these hot springs?’
Justus laughed. It was a deep, spontaneous laugh that he seemed to enjoy; an infectious laugh that evoked companionable chuckles in their vicinity, where many men and women had recognized the big, gentlevoiced neighbor from Sepphoris. Marcellus was discovering something new and interesting about Justus. He was naturally full of fun. You wouldn’t have suspected it. He had been so serious; so weighted.
‘The poor do not have the diseases, sir, that these springs are supposed to cure,’ explained Justus. ‘Only men accustomed to rich foods and an abundance of fine wines seek these healing waters. The Galileans do not suffer of ills arising from such causes.’
It was delicious irony, because so free of any bitterness. Marcellus admired the tone of the appreciative laughter that came from their candidly eavesdropping neighbors. His heart wanned toward them. He was going to feel at home with them.
‘That’s a new thought, Justus,’ he replied, ‘and a sound one. I never considered it before, but it is a fact that hot springs are intended for gluttons and winebibbers. Now that you speak of it, I recall having heard something about this city of Tiberias on Lake Gennesaret.’
‘Often called the Sea of Galilee,’ nodded Justus, ‘but not by the Galileans.' The crowd seated about them had grown attentive, tilting its head at a favorable angle, frankly interested.
‘Big lake?' wondered Marcellus.
‘Big enough to be stormy. They have some rough gales.’
‘Any fishing?’
Justus nodded indifferently, and a middle-aged man sitting in front of them turned his head, plainly wanting to say something. Marcellus caught his dancing eye, and raised his brows encouragingly.
‘That’s one of the diseases that poor people can afford, sir,' remarked the man, ‘fishing!’ Everybody laughed merrily at that.
‘Do they catch them?’ inquired Marcellus.
‘Yes,’ drawled Justus, ‘they have caught them—all of them—a long time ago.’ This sally was good, too; and the friendly hilarity increased the circle of listeners. Marcellus felt that they were showing quite an amiable attitude toward him; perhaps because he was sponsored by Justus who, it seemed, everyone knew; and, besides, Marcellus was doing fairly well with his Aramaic.
‘But they still fish?’ he inquired, artlessly.
A shrill childish voice unexpectedly broke in, from up the row a little way.
‘Once they caught a great lot of them!’ shouted the lad.
‘Sh-sh!’—came a soft, concerted caution from his kin.
All eyes were now turning toward the fountain where a cot was being borne in from the street. The girl was sitting up, propped about with pillows. In her bare, shapely arms she hugged a small harp.
The sculptor in Marcellus instantly responded. It was a finely modeled, oval face, white with a pallor denoting much pain endured; but the wide-set, long-lashed eyes had not been hurt. Her abundant hair, parted in the middle, framed an intelligent brow. Her full lips were almost gay, as they surveyed the crowd.
Two men followed, carrying wooden trestles, and the cot was lifted up until everyone could see. A deep hush fell upon the people. Marcellus was much impressed by the unusual scene, and found himself wishing that the girl wouldn’t try to sing. The picture was perfect. It was imprudent to risk spoiling it.
Miriam gently swept the strings of her harp with slim, white fingen. Then her face seemed to be transfigured. Its momentary gaiety had faded, and there had come an expression of deep yearning. It was clear that she had left them now, and was putting out on an enchanted excursion. The luminous eyes looked upward, wide with far vision. Again she lightly touched the harp-strings.
The voice was a surprisingly deep, resonant contralto. That first tone, barely audible at its beginning, swelled steadily until it began to take on the pulsing vibration of a bell. Marcellus felt a quick tightening of his throat, a sudden suffusion of emotion that burned and dimmed his eyes. Now the song took wings!
‘I waited patiently for the Lord—and He inclined unto me—and heard my cry.’
All around Marcellus heads were bent to meet upraised hands; and stifled sobs, with childish little catches of breath in them, were straining to be quiet. As for himself, he sat staring at the entranced girl through uncontrollable tears. He shook them out of his eyes—and stared!
‘And He hath put a new song in my mouth!’ exulted Miriam.
Justus slowly turned his head toward Marcellus. His seamed face was contorted and his eyes were swimming. Marcellus touched his sleeve and nodded soberly. Their gaze returned to the enraptured girl.
‘Then I said, “Lo—I come.” In the volume of the Book it is written of me, “I delight to do Thy will, O Cod—and Thy law is in my heart!"’
The song was ended and the close-packed crowd drew a deep sigh. Neighbors slowly turned their faces toward their best beloved, smiled wistfully with half-closed eyes, and shook their heads, lacking words to tell how deeply they had been moved. After an interval Miriam found her wings again. Marcellus reached for occasional phrases of her triumphant song, while rushing about in his heart to reacquaint himself with instinctive longings of his own. It was coming to an end now, even as the last rays of sunset filled the sky.
‘To give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,’ sang Miriam, ‘and to guide our feet in the way of peace.’
Twilight was falling. The men bore Miriam away. The crowd silently scattered and took to the highway. It pleased Marcellus that Justus, trudging by his side in the darkness, did not ask him if he had liked Miriam’s voice, or whether he had not been impressed by the unusual occasion.
***
The home of Reuben and Naomi, at the northern extremity of the village, was more commodious and occupied a larger parcel of ground than most of the residences in Cana. The white-walled house, well back from the road, was shaded by tall sycamores. In the spacious front yard were many fruit trees, now gay and fragrant with blossoms; and on either side of this area there was an apparently prosperous vineyard.
It was with some difficulty that Marcellus had curbed his impatience to visit this home where he hoped to meet the crippled girl with the radiant face and the golden voice. Justus had seemed willfully tedious at the two places where they had called on their way; and had it not been imprudent, Marcellus would have dispatched these small transactions by purchasing whatever was offered.
‘Let us first speak to Miriam,’ said Justus, unlatching the gate. ‘I see her sitting in the arbor.’
They crossed the neatly clipped grass-plot and sauntered toward the shaded arbor where Miriam sat alone. She wore a white himation trimmed with coral at the throat and flowing sleeves, but no jewelry except a slim silver chain about her neck with a tiny pendant—a fish—carved from a seashell. On the table beside her cot was the harp and a small case of scrolls. Her curly head was bent attentively over the lace medallion she was knitting. As they approached, she glanced up, recognizing Justus, and smiled a welcome.
‘Oh—you needn’t explain, Barsabas Justus,’ she said when, after presenting Marcellus, he had added that the young man was interested in Galilean fabrics. ‘Everybody in Cana knows about it.’ She smiled into Marcellus’ eyes. ‘We are all excited, sir, over your visit; for it isn’t often that anyone comes here to trade.’
There was a peculiar tone-quality in her low voice that Marcellus could not define, except that its warmth was entirely unself-conscious and sincere. Frequently he had
observed, upon being introduced to young women, that they had a tendency to soar off into an impetuous animation, pitching their blithe remarks in a shrill key as if from a considerable distance. Miriam’s voice was as unaffected and undefended as her smile.
‘Naomi is at home?’ asked Justus.
‘In the house. Will you find her? I think she and Father are expecting you.’
Justus turned away, and Marcellus was uncertain whether to follow. Miriam helped him to a gratifying decision by pointing to a chair.
‘I heard you sing,’ he said. ‘It was the most—’ He paused to grope for an appropriate word.
‘How do you happen to speak Aramaic?’ she interposed gently.
‘I don’t—very well,’ said Marcellus. ‘However’—he went on more confidently—‘even your own countrymen might find it difficult to describe your singing. I was deeply moved by it.’
‘I am glad you wanted to tell me that.’ Miriam pushed aside the pillow on which the lace medallion had been pinned, and faced him with candid eyes. ‘I wondered a little what you might think. I saw you there with Justus. I had never sung for a Roman. It would not have surprised me if you had been amused; but would have hurt me.’
‘I’m afraid we have a bad reputation in these provinces,’ sighed Marcellus.
‘Of course,’ said Miriam. ‘The only Romans we see in Cana are legionaries, marching down the street, so haughtily, so defiantly’—She straightened and swaggered her pretty shoulders, accenting her militant pantomime with little jerks of her head—‘as if they were saying—’ She paused and added, apologetically, ‘But perhaps I should not tell you.’
‘Oh—I know what we always seem to say when we strut,’ assisted Marcellus. He protruded his lips with an exaggerated show of arrogance, and carried on with Miriam’s march—‘“Here—we come—your—lords—and—mas—tersl”’
They both laughed a little, and Miriam resumed her needlework. Bending over it attentively, she inquired:
‘Are there many Romans like you, Marcellus Gallio?’
‘Multitudes! I make no claim to any sort of uniqueness.’
‘I never talked with a Roman before,’ said Miriam. ‘But I supposed they were all alike. They look alike.’
‘In their uniforms, yes; but under their spiked helmets and shields, they are ordinary creatures with no relish for tramping the streets of foreign cities. They would much prefer to be at home with their families, hoeing in their gardens and tending their goats.’
‘I am glad to know that,’ said Miriam. ‘It is so unpleasant to dislike people—and so hard not to think badly of the Romans. Now I shall say that great numbers of them wish they were at home with their gardens and goats; and I shall hope,’ she went on, with a slow smile, ‘that their desire may be fulfilled. Do you have a garden, sir?’
‘Yes—we have a garden.’
‘But no goats, I think.’
‘There is no room for them. We live in the city.’
‘Do you have horses?’
‘Yes.’
‘In Galilee,’ drawled Miriam, ‘horses require more room than goats. Would you like to tell me about your home?’
‘Gladly. Our family consists of our parents and my sister Lucia and myself.’
‘Does your father take care of the garden while you are abroad?’
‘Well—not personally—no,’ replied Marcellus, after a little hesitation; and when she glanced up from under her long lashes with an elder-sisterly grin, he asked, ‘Are you having a good time?’
She nodded companionably.
‘I might have known that you kept a gardener,’ she said, ‘and a maidservant too, no doubt.’
‘Yes,’ assented Marcellus, casually.
‘Are they—slaves?’ asked Miriam, in a tone that hoped not to give offense.
‘Yes,’ admitted Marcellus, uncomfortably, ‘but I can assure you they are not mistreated.’
‘I believe that,’ she said, softly. ‘You couldn’t be cruel to anyone. How many slaves have you?’
‘I never counted them. A dozen, perhaps. No—there must be more than that. Twenty—maybe.’
‘It must seem odd to own other human beings,’ reflected Miriam. ‘Do you keep them locked up, when they’re not working?’
‘By no means!’ Marcellus dismissed the query with a toss of his hand. ‘They are free to go anywhere they please.’
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Miriam. ‘Don’t they ever run away?’
‘Not often. There’s no place for them to go.’
‘That’s too bad.’ Miriam sighed. ‘They’d be better off in chains; wouldn’t they? Then maybe they could break loose. As it is, the whole world is their prison.’
‘I never thought about it before,’ pondered Marcellus. ‘But I suppose the whole world is a prison for everyone. Is anybody entirely free? What constitutes freedom?’
‘The truth!’ answered Miriam, quickly. ‘The truth sets anyone free! If it weren’t so, I might feel quite fettered myself, Marcellus Gallio. My country is owned by a foreign master. And, because of my lameness, I may seem to have very little liberty; but my spirit is free!’
‘You are fortunate,’ said Marcellus. ‘I should give a great deal to experience a liberty independent of all physical conditions. Did you work out that philosophy for yourself? Was it a product of your illness, perhaps?’
‘No, no!’ She shook her head decisively. ‘My illness made a wretched slave of me. I did not earn my freedom. It was a gift.’
Marcellus kept silent, when she paused. Perhaps she would explain. Suddenly her face lighted, and she turned toward him with an altered mood.
‘Please forgive me for being inquisitive about you,’ she said. ‘I sit here all day with nothing new happening. It is refreshing to talk with someone from the outside world. Tell me about your sister Lucia. Is she younger than you?’
‘Much.’
‘Younger than I?’
‘Six years younger,’ ventured Marcellus, smiling into her suddenly widened eyes.
‘Who told you my age?’
‘Justus.’
‘How did he happen to do that?’
‘He was telling me, before we arrived in Cana, about your singing. He said that you never knew you could sing until—one day—you found that you had a voice—and sang. Justus said it came all unexpectedly. How do you account for it—if it isn’t a secret?’
‘It is a secret,’ she said, softly.
They were coming around the corner of the house now—Naomi, first, with her arms full of robes and shawls, followed by Justus and Reuben. Marcellus came to his feet and was introduced. Reuben rather diffidently took the hand that Marcellus offered him. Naomi, apparently pleased by their guest’s attitude, smiled cordially. It was easy to see the close resemblance of mother and daughter. Naomi had the same dimples in her cheeks.
‘We have always gone to Jerusalem to attend the Passover at this season,’ she said, spreading out her wares across the back of a chair. ‘This year we shall not go. That is why I happen to have so many things on hand.’
Marcellus assumed his best business manner. Taking up a brown robe, he examined it with professional interest.
‘This,’ he said, expertly, ‘is typically Galilean. A seamless robe. And excellent workmanship. Evidently you have had much practice in weaving this garment.’
Naomi’s gratified expression encouraged him to speak freely. He felt he was making a good case for himself as a connoisseur of homespun, and could risk an elaboration of his knowledge, particularly for Justus’ information.
‘A weaver of my acquaintance in Athens,’ he went on, ‘told me something about this robe. He was formerly of Samaria, I believe, and was quite familiar with Galilean products.’ He glanced toward Justus, and met an inquisitive stare, as if he were searching his memory for some related fact. Now his eyes lighted a little.
‘There was a young Greek working for Benyosef, a short time ago,’ remarked Justus. ‘I heard him say he had been with
a weaver in Athens named Benjamin, from whom he had learned to speak Aramaic. Might this have been the same weaver?’
‘Why—yes!’ Marcellus tried to enjoy the coincidence. ‘Benjamin is well respected in Athens. He is a good scholar, too.’ He chuckled a little. ‘Benjamin quite insists on speaking Aramaic with anyone whom he suspects of knowing the language.’
‘He must have found you pleasant company, sir,’ remarked Justus. ‘I have noticed that you use many terms which are colloquial with the Samaritans.’
‘Indeed!’ said Marcellus, taking up a shawl, and returning his attention to Naomi. ‘This is excellent wool,’ he assured her. Is it grown here in Galilee?’
‘In our own madbra,’ replied Reuben, proudly.
‘Madbra?’ repeated Marcellus. ‘In the desert?’
Justus laughed.
‘See, Reuben?’ he exclaimed. ‘When the Samaritans say “madbra,” they mean barren land.’ He turned to Marcellus. ‘When we say “madbra,” we mean pasture. “Bara” is our word for desert.’
‘Thanks, Justus,’ said Marcellus. I’m learning something.’ He dismissed this small episode by concentrating on the shawl. ‘It is beautifully dyed,’ he said.
‘With our own mulberries,’ boasted Naomi.
‘Had I known you were acquainted with Benjamin,’ persisted Justus, ‘I should have told you about this young Greek, Demetrius; a most thoughtful fellow. He left suddenly, one day. He had been in some trouble—and was a fugitive.’
Marcellus politely raised his brows, but made it clear enough, by his manner, that they had other things to talk about.
‘I shall want the shawl,’ he said, ‘and this robe. Now—let us see what else.’ He began fumbling with, the garments, hoping he had not seemed abrupt in disregarding the comments about Demetrius.
Presently Justus sauntered away toward the vineyard, and Reuben followed him.
‘Why don’t you show Marcellus Gallio those pretty bandeaus, Mother?’ suggested Miriam.
‘Oh—they’re nothing,’ said Naomi. ‘He wouldn’t bother with them.’
‘May I see them?’ asked Marcellus.
Naomi obligingly moved away, and Marcellus continued to inspect the textiles with exaggerated concern.
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