“While the citizens pondered and debated exactly what that meant and what would be required to close the abyss, a young man stepped forward. He alone understood that the real strength of Rome lay in her young men. He flung himself into the pit without hesitation, and the chasm immediately closed.”
He stopped, watching her face. “That is a perfect example of what I’m saying. He sacrificed himself for the greater good.”
She was nodding. “And that’s why you leave your home to serve in the army in a far-off land. You are one of the young men, throwing yourself into the pit as well.”
He gave her a sharp look. Now it was he who was impressed with her insight.
Miriam smiled. “Our people would have stood around the edge of the crevasse debating who should be the one to jump. They would probably be there still.” She gave a wry smile. “I can think of one or two who might have pushed someone else in.”
He laughed, thinking of some of the members of the Great Sanhedrin he had met. Then he sobered somewhat. “The second story you may find to be somewhat disturbing, but it too illustrates this national character of ours, this woman we love and call Rome. Before I tell it to you, you need to understand something about our concept of the family. We believe that while love and companionship and physical attraction are important elements of marriage, the primary object of the union between a man and woman is the birth and proper upbringing of children. In this way the permanence of Rome is assured.”
“In our scriptures, we are told that the first man and woman were commanded to ‘be fruitful’—” she blushed slightly—“and to ‘multiply and replenish the earth.’”
“Yes, that would be a commandment for us as well. Because of that, if a woman is unable to bear children, it is viewed as a serious condition, not for her so much, but for the very foundations of the state. Therefore, pietas, or duty, the obligation to have children, even supersedes the bonds of marriage.”
“How can you have a duty to have children outside of marriage?”
“Let me tell you the second story. And this one is not a legend. This actually happened. Some time ago, there was a man named Cato. He was happily married to a woman named Marcia, and they had three children. A longtime friend of Cato’s, whose wife had been unable to bear children, confided to Cato one day that since he was in his advancing years, he was afraid he would die without offspring. Cato immediately offered to lend Marcia to him because she had already proven her fertility.”
He saw the shocked look on Miriam’s face and went on quickly. “Now here is what is interesting. When Cato consulted with Marcia about this, she agreed! She loved her husband, but it was her duty to see that Cato’s friend did not die childless.”
“So she went to his bed?” Miriam cried.
“No, no, not in the sense you mean. That would be highly improper. No, Cato suggested that they get divorced. Marcia agreed and they did, as did the other couple. Only then did she marry the other man. Marcia lived with Cato’s friend until he died, bearing him children as he had hoped. After he died, Marcia and Cato remarried—” He held up his hand as Miriam began shaking her head in astonishment. “She and Cato remarried, but this did not result in them sharing a physical relationship again. They remained apart from each other until their death because that was the proper thing to do.”
Now there was no lightness in him anymore. “Don’t you see? Both Cato and Marcia followed the path of pietas, or duty. They did not let their personal desires, especially any carnal gratification of their senses, override their obligation to the greater good.”
She was shaking her head, staring at the ground. “I’m sorry, Marcus, I can’t believe it.”
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re shocked by what you see as a terrible sacrifice for some abstract concept. In fact, you would probably label that as an immoral act, certainly on Cato’s part, but possibly on Marcia’s as well.”
“Yes,” she said softly, “I’m afraid I would. Or at least a tragic act. How awful for her.”
“No,” he shot back. “Not awful. Wonderful. Inspirational.” His hand came up and took hers, cutting off her reaction. “I don’t expect you to understand, Miriam. But you asked me to explain the character of Rome. Well, that is it. What you find as a repulsive, incomprehensible decision, I view with admiration and the greatest veneration. Marcia’s decision was not an act of immorality. To the contrary, it was a most remarkable act of moral courage! And this is what has made Rome what she is today.”
Her head came up very slowly. “Yes, I think I understand,” she murmured.
VI
Marcus stopped at the front door to the large building that contained their apartment. They had already seen lights in the windows on the top floor, indicating that her father was still up.
“Thank you, Marcus. Thank you for a most pleasant evening.”
“Better than a Greek tragedy?” he said, half-mockingly.
“Definitely.”
He searched her eyes for several seconds, then stepped back a little. “Do you think it is possible for intelligent people to understand another person’s values and principles without feeling like they have to accept them?”
She was caught off guard by the question but immediately nodded. “Of course.”
“That is more than just an idle question, Miriam. Your people and mine have profoundly different values, completely different outlooks on life. We think ours is best; you think yours is. But isn’t it possible that we could come to understand the other’s way of thinking and feeling without being threatened by the differences?”
That was a much harder question, and she hesitated.
“I mean, think of what you said a few minutes ago. You said you believe your god gave you the gift of free will.”
“Yes. Not just us. All men.”
“So, isn’t it possible that we Romans have used our free will to choose a different value system, a different view of the world than you? Does that make us evil in some way?” He held up his hand. “I know, I know. We are guilty of thinking ours is the best way, the only way.”
She saw where he was going now, and it was a thought-provoking question. “So do we, Marcus. We are as guilty of that mode of thinking as your people. I guess that’s just part of human nature. Our way is the right way. Our country is the best country. Our religion is the only true religion.”
He pounced on that. “Yes! I got so frustrated when I first went to Judea. I couldn’t understand how anyone could be so stubborn, so blind, so completely intolerant of other religions. But you and others have helped me understand that it’s something deeper than stubbornness, something far more than pigheaded stupidity—which is, I’m afraid, how Pilate sees things there.”
She was nodding slowly.
“I don’t agree with what you believe, Miriam, but I can understand it. I can respect it and honor your right to hold to those beliefs. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“I see.” And she did. It was an intriguing concept. How many problems in the world would that solve? But in the back of her mind, something was bothering her. He saw it in her eyes.
“What?”
She shook her head, not even sure yet what it was.
“If you don’t agree with me, tell me, Miriam. That’s one of the things I find so stimulating about our relationship. We can be completely honest with each other.”
“No, I agree with you. We ought to build bridges of respect and understanding instead of hatred and prejudice and bigotry.” She stopped, her mind still working rapidly.
“But?”
“But isn’t it possible that one way really is better than another?”
He was clearly disappointed. “Like your way is better than ours?”
“I know it sounds like that, but . . . All right, let me give you an actual example.” She gave him a quick, challenging look. “You won’t like this.”
He grinned. “I’m ready.”
“Take slavery, for example. We believe
that a human being is of infinite worth. No, it’s stronger than that. We believe that each human being is of infinite worth. This stems directly from our concept of God. We believe that God is far more than some vague, imperfect deity. He is our Father. He created us. We are his children. Would you enslave your own brother? Well, ultimately, we think that is what we are—brothers and sisters, all come from the same divine source.”
He was frowning deeply, his brows almost touching. “Do your people see us goyim, us Gentiles, as being your equals, as your brothers and sisters? I don’t think so.”
“No,” she said. “You’re exactly right, most of us do not. And we’re wrong too. In our own way, we’re making the same mistake you are. But that doesn’t alter the other question. You—no, your society, your culture—sees nothing wrong with taking a human being and enslaving them. Whether that comes through conquest in battle or through a legitimate sale, your culture says that fundamentally slavery is acceptable. Our culture, our religion, says that it is wrong, terribly wrong.”
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his, trying to make him understand. “Both views cannot be right, Marcus. They can’t.”
“But—”
“No, let me finish. You have dozens of temples here. I don’t know how many gods and goddesses you have. We believe there is only one God. We believe he is real, not some myth or legend devised to satisfy men’s desire to explain the mysteries of the world. We believe that he actually exists, that he knows us and cares for us and intervenes in our behalf.”
“And isn’t that just an expression of your own desire, your own free will, to find some comfort, some meaning outside yourself? I’ll admit, strange as it was to me at first, I find a certain satisfying logic to your concept. It would be nice if there really were such a being. And if you want to believe that, Miriam, then I respect your right to do so. I don’t feel like I have to convert you to my way of thinking.”
“I know, and you’re right about that. We need to respect each other’s right to believe as we choose. But what I am saying is something different. We both can’t be right, Marcus.”
“Why not?” He was earnestly trying to follow her, but he hadn’t seen it yet.
“Some things don’t matter. Some things are strictly a matter of culture, or taste, or individuality.”
“Such as?”
“The chariot races, for example. I find them enjoyable. I wish it was something that was part of our culture, but it isn’t. But does that cultural difference make you wrong or me wrong? No, it’s simply a matter of preference, of personal taste.”
He was finally seeing it. “Go on,” he said slowly.
“Some things are a question of truth, of right and wrong. Either there is one God or there is not. It doesn’t matter what you believe or what I believe, or what we prefer. If there is such a god, then your concept is wrong. If there is not, then I am wrong and we can worship whomever or whatever we wish.”
She lifted her eyes to challenge his. “Slavery is not just a matter of taste, Marcus. If human beings are of value, then it is terribly wrong. If we are only one of the many creatures that walk the earth, just another animal or insect, then let the strong prevail, let the powerful use the weak in whatever way they can.”
He said nothing. He was still looking at her, but his eyes were far away now.
She laid a hand on his arm, deciding she had let her passion carry her away. “I can understand why you believe as you do, and I can respect your views and your way of life, but some things are fundamentally right or wrong, irrespective of what we feel or believe about them.”
He blew out his breath ruefully. “I’ll say this, Miriam of Jerusalem. You certainly know how to make a man uncomfortable.”
It so surprised her that she laughed aloud. “I’m sorry. My father says I have to learn to control my tongue, not just blurt out whatever is in my head. He truly fears that my strong-mindedness shall keep me from marrying.”
He shook his head reprovingly. “Don’t be sorry. That’s what I find so amazing about you. I’m going to miss these kind of nights.”
She looked up at him, her eyes softening. “I will too, Marcus Didius.”
Then catching her totally by surprise, he stepped forward, took her in his arms, and kissed her softly on the lips. He stepped back, smiling sardonically at the shock on her face. “Good-night, Miriam of Jerusalem. If it is all right, I shall call on you again tomorrow.”
Chapter Notes
The insights and details about the character of Rome come from Shelton, 2, and Grimal, 97–105. The story of Cato and Marcia is found in Grimal, 125.
Mention is made in this chapter of the theaters in Rome. During the early years of the republic, all dramas were held outside, and while quite popular, they were viewed by many as a threat to the general morals of the nation. There were comedies (both of Greek style and Roman satires) and tragedies, as well as pantomimes and what we might today call operettas. Construction of the first permanent stone theater was started by Julius Caesar and completed in 11 b.c. by the Emperor Augustus. He named it after his nephew Marcellus. It could seat twelve thousand people (see A Guide, 44).
To show how some things never seem to change, a playwright named Publius Terentius Afer (often called Terence), who lived two hundred years before Christ, wrote a comedy called The Mother-in-Law. A surviving document shows that as the play opened, the producer begged the audience to remain attentive and stay through the whole production lest “by your neglect, music and drama fade away” (Shelton, 347).
Chapter 17
Dripping water hollows out a stone; a ring is worn away by use.
—Ovid, Epistulae Ex Ponto, IV.x.5
I
In the wilderness of Judea 16 March, a.d. 31
Moshe Ya’abin held up one hand and reined in his horse. In the bright moonlight, two riders—the scouts he had sent forward—were coming fast down the trail toward them. Behind him almost a hundred men pulled up too, reaching nervously for bows and spears. Was there trouble ahead?
Ya’abin nudged his horse forward to meet them.
“Someone’s at the campsite, Moshe,” the scout called as he reined up.
Ya’abin went rigid. “What! How many?”
“Not sure. We didn’t dare get in too close. But they’ve got a big fire going and it was throwing shadows of men against the hillsides. There are several, that’s for sure. We thought we’d better come and get you before going any farther.”
Ya’abin leaped off his horse and dropped to a crouch. The whole column dismounted as well. Using hand signals only, signifying the numbers by holding up fingers, he waved Eliab, his second-in- command, and fifteen men straight forward, on foot. He assigned five to stay with the horses, then sent fifteen more men off to the right and fifteen to the left. As they disappeared into the darkness, he ran back to the remaining men. “You two,” he pointed, whispering urgently, “backtrack the way we came. Make sure no one is following us.”
“But Caleb and Orrak are back there—”
“Do it!” he hissed. Then he motioned for the rest of his band to fall in behind him, and he moved forward a hundred paces to where he had a better defensive position.
A quarter of an hour later, Eliab came back down the canyon. He walked wearily and without tension. “Well?” Ya’abin demanded, getting to his feet.
Eliab rubbed at his eyes. “There’s no one there.”
“You’re sure?”
“We’ve got men out almost a mile in every direction. There is nothing. Not even a shepherd’s camp.”
“Then who?” he started.
In the moonlight, Eliab’s face twisted. “You’d better come and take a look.”
It was a place they had used on more than one occasion as an overnight camp. There was a small spring with a few trees nearby at the bottom of a narrow draw. Low hills rose on both sides so Ya’abin could put men up on the ridge tops and see quite a ways in every direction. That’s why he liked it. There
was no sneaking up on this place without being detected.
As they drew near, Ya’abin sniffed the air. “Lamb?” he said in surprise.
“Yes. There’s a spit. Half a lamb is roasting nicely over the fire.”
Now they were close enough that Ya’abin could see it for himself. The fire had died down somewhat, but he could see the spit and smoke coming from the meat. It smelled wonderful. “So who did we frighten away? Any clue?”
Eliab gave him a strange look, and Ya’abin again saw fear in his eyes. His captain moved forward until he was only ten paces from the fire. In the circle of light, Ya’abin saw his men standing back, looking around nervously.
“I saw the shadows too,” Eliab said. “There were at least two men moving around the fire, but by the time we could sneak up here, there was nothing.”
“So you let them get away?” Ya’abin said in disgust.
Eliab shook his head, and now the fear was palpable.
“What?” Ya’abin demanded.
“Notice anything strange?” Eliab said, pointing at the fire. “Look at the ground.”
Suddenly the hairs on the back of Ya’abin’s neck shot up. Everything looked perfectly ordinary except for one thing. In the soft dirt around the fire there was not a single footprint. Not a goat’s track. Not even the mark of a lizard. They had been here not that many days ago; and yet there was not a mark. And there had been no rain in the interim.
Eliab had spoken in a low voice, but not low enough. A murmur of shock rippled through the men that had come up with Ya’abin.
“It’s haunted,” someone whispered. The man next to him swore softly, more an exclamation of fear than anger. The men edged back as the whispering leaped from lip to lip.
“Silence!” Ya’abin roared. He stalked forward, whipping out his dagger. “Well, the meat isn’t haunted,” he snarled, knowing there was no way he was going to stop what was happening. “Come on, Eliab. Let the rest of these cowering dogs go hungry if they will.”
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