Dear and Glorious Physician (29 page)

“And I said to him, ‘Child, who is your teacher?’ And he smiled at me with a smile like the sun and did not answer. It was then that the curtain parted in agitation, and a rough bearded man and a beautiful young woman, dressed in peasants’ garb, burst into the court.”

Again Joseph paused. He smiled, and his smile was infinitely sweet and remote. Lucanus slowly seated himself. He said inwardly, I must not listen! This is obscure nonsense. But he listened, and waited for Joseph to continue.

“I shall never forget that young woman, Lucanus, for her face was the face of an angel, radiant beyond describing. I remember that I was instantly astonished at that face, rising from neck and shoulders clad in cheap dull garments. A blue cloth floated from her head, and I saw her shining hair and her pure brow. How can I describe her? There are no words in any language. She must have been about twenty-seven years old, not a great age even for a woman. She gave the impression at one and the same time of being as old as Eve and as young as the spring. History and the future were blended in one; she was without time and without years. I knew she was the boy’s mother at once, for she had a queenly aspect.

“The bearded peasant said nothing, though it was apparent that he was distressed. He stayed near the curtain, but the woman advanced to the boy, and he turned his head and looked at her. And she said to him, ‘My son, why did you leave us, so that we missed you on our way home, and no one had seen you? We have sought you in great anxiety.’

“The boy did not answer for a moment, and then he said, very gently, ‘Why did you search for me? Do you not know that I must be about my Father’s business?’ And his eyes beamed with tender love at her.”

Joseph fell into silence, and Lucanus waited. But Joseph did not speak again, and Lucanus said impatiently, “Is that all?”

“That is all.”

Lucanus bit his lip. “You have explained nothing, Joseph ben Gamliel. Who was that boy?”

Joseph rose, and Lucanus rose with him. Joseph put his hand on his shoulder and regarded him with deeply penetrating eyes. “That you must discover for yourself, Lucanus.”

He smiled at Lucanus with sudden sadness. “It is said in our Scriptures that God will not always strive against the spirits of men.” He hesitated. “When God strives against the spirit of a man it is for a most holy and mysterious purpose, and that purpose sometimes remains hidden from the man to the day of his death. In your case, Lucanus, I do not believe it will always remain hidden from you.” He lifted his hands in blessing. “Go in peace, my pupil, you dear and most beloved physician.”

It was only when he stood on the deck of the ship in the harbor of Alexandria and looked at the gaudy and vociferous city crowded against the ardent blue sky that Lucanus was startled to feel a pang of nostalgia. He let his eyes rove over the city, and all at once he wondered where the years had gone and why he had never felt any fondness before for his companions and his teachers, and why time had been as a dark dream to him. He had presented excellent gifts to his teachers at his farewells, but he knew now that they had been given without feeling, and he was ashamed of himself. It was too late to go to the masters and say what he felt in his heart, “I loved you and reverenced you, for teachers are the noblest of men and labor for little and only from the fullness of their unselfish souls. In your name, and in my memory of you, I will do the best I can, and remember you always.”

The big galleon heaved sluggishly at anchor. Smaller craft with sails of red and blue and white and yellow and scarlet darted as if in mischief around its greater bulk like dragonflies, hurling their reflections vividly on the still and purple water. They were filled with half-naked fishermen, their brown bodies glistening in the hot white sun, their red mouths open to emit curses, jeers, laughter, and song. As they fled by the Roman galleon they looked far up at Lucanus and greeted him or joked obscenely in their hoarse voices, or called up for alms. Smiling as he had not smiled in many years, he opened his purse and tossed the coins to them, and the coins seized the sun and glittered in gold or silver. The men caught them deftly, and as they were gay rascals they kissed the coins, bowed ironically, and made lewd comments, then darted off again. The water lapped placidly at the ship. It was still being loaded from the pier; black Nubian or Scythian slaves rolled heavy barrels of oil and honey and wine up the ramp or carried bales of cloth or kegs of olives or baskets of coconuts. Others brought up bags and wooden boxes loaded with spices and other produce of the East. Then a sound of wailing rose from the crowded pier, and a number of chained slaves, men and women, black from the desert, were whipped up the ramp, and Lucanus, watching them, no longer smiled. He turned and gazed at the desperate and weeping faces, and something rose up in him in a passionate anger. Some of the women carried infants; here and there a little child ran beside a father or mother, crying. The slaves were herded below, where the lamentations were more subdued and yet more insistent.

Two Roman centurions who had been assigned to guard him during the journey appeared at his elbow, and he looked at their sunburned and youthful faces with aversion. “Master,” one of them said, “we are at your service.” They were delighted to be returning home, even though in attendance on a Greek, which they thought demeaning. Therefore they were grateful to Lucanus. “I need nothing,” he said, curtly. One of them took off his helmet and said, “Whew!” and wiped his sweating face. “A scurvy city,” he said, nodding towards Alexandria. “I broil under my armor like meat under flame.”

“Why do you not remove it then?” asked Lucanus. The two young soldiers were shocked at this impropriety, and withdrew to a distance. Lucanus smiled faintly. It was not the fault of these boys that the slaves had been driven to the ship, and he had been illogical in displaying his dislike. He glanced at the soldiers who stood and watched the docks and the loading of wares, their thumbs in their leather belts and their backs even straighter than usual, as if rebuking him. He looked about for Cusa, who was fussily supervising the purple awning over a section of the rear of the ship, a section which was to be reserved for Lucanus. He called Cusa, “Attention!”

Cusa looked at him irritably, then issuing renewed warnings and threats to the perspiring seamen who were struggling with ropes and fabric, he swaggered importantly to Lucanus, clad in a very rich tunic of Egyptian cotton, bright red with an intricately embroidered border of yellow silk. His thin beard had been anointed with perfumed oil, and his hair also, and he carried a slim Alexandrian dagger in a silver sheath at his belt. “You smell,” said Lucanus, “like a harlot.”

“Hah!” replied Cusa, with a lascivious grin. “How would you know that?”

“Never mind,” said Lucanus. He indicated the offended young soldiers with a nod of his head. “Bring up a jug of our best wine. If we have a best wine.”

“For them?” asked Cusa, incredulously.

“For them.”

“But, Master, the wine of the country is good enough. Is that not of which the Romans brag, that, as cosmopolitans, what the country produces is palatable to them no matter what it is?”

“I said,” remarked Lucanus sternly, but with a twinkle in his eyes that had never appeared there since he had been very young, “the best wine we have.”

Cusa considered. Then he regarded Lucanus with an open candor that did not deceive the young man. “Master, you know we never have any best wine. Without disrespect to you, I must admit that you have no palate.”

“Thief,” said Lucanus. “You always take care that the best is on your own table. Did I not catch a glimpse only a short time ago of several crusted and webbed bottles being tenderly carried aboard by you, cradled in your arms like a cherished infant? Bring one to me, and three goblets. I myself am curious to taste such nectar.”

Cusa bridled. “Master Lucanus, I bought those bottles out of my own purse, from the generous stipend paid to me by Diodorus Cyrinus.”

“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.