Dear and Glorious Physician (54 page)

Priscus tried to avoid what he feared would be a weighty conversation by several lusty remarks on the grape harvest, the condition of the orchards, his plans to restock the stream with more fish, his pleasant curses on the limp attitude of freedmen and slaves, his suspicions about his overseers’ honesty. His voice was happy, his face unlined, his manner easy.

Lucanus said, “As you know, Priscus, I am leaving soon. You must bear with me; you are the head of this household, and what you think, and what you do, is of the greatest importance not only for your family but for your country.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Priscus, helping himself to a bunch of purple grapes from the plate on the table. He sighed; he was patient, and he loved Lucanus. “I always do my duty; I find it easy, I must confess.” He sat down and ate the grapes with enjoyment, spitting the seeds into his hand and putting them in a little pile on the table, for he was very neat.

“Your real duty,” said Lucanus, “would not be easy.”

“So you have told me often,” said the soldier. He polished an apple on the short sleeve of his tunic. “But I never understand, and you cannot forgive that.”

“I suspect you understand only too well,” said Lucanus, grimly. Priscus bit into an apple and offered Lucanus the plate, which he impatiently refused. Priscus shrugged. “All too true, perhaps,” he said. “But, I am several centuries too late, I believe. What can I do about Rome now, in my generation? Let us be reasonable, Lucanus.” His brown eyes were suddenly without laughter, and a little hard, when he stared at the other man.

“Your father died doing what he could,” said Lucanus.

Priscus’ thick eyebrows drew together. He chewed the apple absently. “Yes,” he said, “and, as you have said, he died. What profit was his admonition, his death? Did it move one man a jot? Did it make one corrupt senator less corrupt? Did it inspire one Cicero, one Cincinnatus? Did it make Caesar less than what he is? I remember that you told me that Caesars do not seize power; it is thrust upon them by a degenerate people who have lost their virtue and their strength, and who prefer security to manhood, ease without work, and circuses to duty. Did what my father said on the day he died arouse the conscience of one man? Was it ever inscribed for the ages? No. He could not, even in his own lifetime, do one single thing to stop the course of history.”

“You misunderstand me, Priscus. I know that it was inevitable that Rome become what she is. Republics decay into democracies, and democracies degenerate into dictatorships. That fact is immutable. When there is equality — and democracies always bring equality — the people become faceless, they lose power and initiative, they lose pride and independence, they lose their splendor. Republics are masculine, and so they beget the sciences and the arts; they are prideful, heroic, and virile. They emphasize God, and glorify Him. But Rome has decayed into a confused democracy, and has acquired feminine traits, such as materialism, greed, the lust for power, and expediency. Masculinity in nations and men is demonstrated by law, idealism, justice, and poesy, femininity by materialism, dependency on others, gross emotionalism, and absence of genius. Masculinity seeks what is right; femininity seeks what is immediately satisfying. Masculinity is vision; femininity ridicules vision. A masculine nation produces philosophers, and has a respect for the individual; a feminine nation has an insensate desire to control and dominate. Masculinity is aristocratic; femininity has no aristocracy, and is happy only if it finds about it a multitude of faces resembling it exactly, and a multitude of voices echoing its own tiny sentiments and desires and fears and follies. Rome has become feminine, Priscus. And feminine nations and feminine men inevitably die or are destroyed by a masculine people.”

Priscus still tried to lighten the subject. He said, jokingly, “My soldiers, the legions of Rome, are no females, Lucanus!” But he frowned and considered. What was a man to do? He was absolutely impotent when the people unanimously preferred soft slavery to hard freedom.

So Priscus said, “I grant you that you are correct. But I have told you that my father was born too late. He died of a broken heart. I was born even later. I do not intend to die of a broken heart. What price my attempting to call even a single man to sobriety and heroism? It would accomplish nothing.”

“Again you misunderstand me, Priscus. I understand that you can not halt history, for decay and death are inevitable in republics. The only society which can endure with grandeur in the world is an aristocratic society, governed by chosen wise men, priests, scientists, heroes, artists, poets, philosophers. Republics breed exigent politicians, and these politicians always, without end, create democracies, and death. If men would only watch diligently, so that masculinity would not depart from a nation! But it never happens.

“Priscus, you as a husband and a father, and most particularly a father, can cultivate the masculinity of free and noble men in your children; a man must always begin in his own family, and then reach forth for his neighbors. He may fail, but at least he has tried. It is not in the failing that a man is judged, but by the lack of his efforts. At the last, man is judged singly, and never in the mass.”

Priscus was annoyed. “I did not make this world, Lucanus. I cannot change it. Should I then beat my head against a wall and crush my skull? I live my life as usefully as possible, serving my country, closing my eyes to her fatal defects which I cannot eliminate, enjoying my existence, my family, my home, my friends. Forgive me, but for all your philosophy you have never enjoyed life. Who then is the more fortunate?”

“Is that all there is to living, Priscus?” asked Lucanus, sadly, knowing well that his brother had understood. “Merely enjoying life? Surely a man has a greater destiny than that. His life has a greater meaning beyond this world.”

Priscus stood up and stretched his arms over his head, and yawned. “You must tell me, Lucanus,” and there was a light mockery in his robust voice.

Lucanus was silent. He suddenly thought of Keptah, of Joseph ben Gamliel, of all the philosophers and devout men he had known. He said, hesitatingly, “It is possible that man’s destiny is beyond his death, and what he does here decides that destiny.”

“You do not believe that!” said Priscus, laughing. “You are the most skeptical of the Skeptics. I have heard you speak many times in this house.”

Lucanus was silent again, and he despised himself. He saw the awful responsibility of adults, whether father or brother, that they must forever teach the young that they are more than animals, that their lives have a subtle but greater meaning than what appears superficially. Lucanus put his hand to his head, which suddenly ached. Priscus, looking at him, narrowed his eyes.

“Do not accuse yourself, Lucanus. You spoke always from out of conviction, if bitterly. Could you have made me different from what I am? No.”

Yes, thought Lucanus, with gall in his mouth. He said, “And you are satisfied, Priscus? You want nothing else but what you have?”

Was it possible that Priscus was hesitating? Lucanus looked up, in hope. Priscus was now serious; he was scratching his chin, as he absently flexed his muscular arms. Then he spoke, as if to himself.

“I have been hearing rumors on my last campaign. Foolish rumors, perhaps. They came out of Syria, or perhaps it was Armenia, or Egypt, or Israel. I do not remember. But the rumor is to the effect that God is manifesting Himself somewhere, and that He will change the world very soon.”

He looked at Lucanus and laughed sheepishly. “Naturally that is a foolish rumor. Our religion is full of the manifestations of deity, as you know; the gods are always cavorting and interfering with men, or quarreling vastly among themselves. Yet,” and he paused, “this rumor appears entirely different. A great revelation is at hand, so it says. And the world will be regenerated.” He clapped his hand on Lucanus’ shoulder. “So be of good cheer, my brother. Perhaps all is not lost.”

He went off, humming. Had Lucanus been listening he would have heard that Priscus’ footsteps were not as brisk as usual, that they lagged somewhat, as if the soldier were thinking. But Lucanus did not hear. A great terror, a great hunger, a great restlessness, was upon him, and he remembered, though he tried not to remember, his awful dreams when he had been ill of the fever.

“We cannot land at Crete, Master Lucanus,” the captain of the ship said.

“Why?” asked Lucanus, with concern. “I have four patients there whom I promised to see at this time, and who have been under my care.”

“Master, it is dawn,” said the captain, significantly, “and if you will accompany me on board I will show you the reason.”

Lucanus accompanied him to the upper deck. The calm blue sea, streaked with the pink and gold of dawn, lay about them, and they stood not far from Crete, green and lighted with the first sun, bordered by a muffled halo of foam. A huge Roman man-o’-war stood close to the port, its tall white sails snapping idly in the dawn breeze, its pennants floating against the sky. About it, like little fish around a mother, was a feverish activity of small boats which appeared to be crowded densely with people about to climb aboard the man-o’-war under a shower of whips. Their wailing voices, frail and far, echoed across the water.

The captain leaned on the railing and meditatively picked his teeth. He was a rascally dark Levantine with black mustaches. “There has been an insurrection,” he said, watching with interest. “The people of this town, inspired by the young men, dared to defy Rome and demand their freedom! Is it not ridiculous that so small an island — and the whole island is boiling — should defy the might and power of Rome? What has it gained them? Their streets are heaped with young corpses; men and women and children by the multitude have been seized and enslaved, and are now being taken to Rome for sale. Puny fools! They never had a single hope. But, I have heard, while fighting they called on the Greeks, the Syrians, the Egyptians to join them in their battle for liberty! They received only expressions of sympathy, or silence. I understand they sent couriers with torches racing, for months, over the world, demanding a general uprising against the Roman tyrant. But the others preferred to issue expressions of moral approval in their courts of law — and then went off to dinner. Other countries, I have heard, hastened to assure the Roman proconsuls and the tribunes that they had no intention of joining ‘the disorder’, and wished only the opportunity to continue to exist amicably with Rome.” He laughed hoarsely.

More small boats were rushing eagerly towards the man-o’-war, loaded with rebels, as if placating. Lucanus now saw plumes of smoke rising from the town, and little darts of scarlet. He thought of the Cretans who had struck one furious blow against the Empire, praying and pleading that the subject nations join them. But they were alone, as all men who fight for freedom are alone, and the pusillanimous peoples, sobbing sentimentally for them, preferred not to be valiant. Men deserve their slavery, their subjection, their suffering, thought Lucanus, with bitterness. They are never really oppressed; they permit oppression.

But perhaps the instinctual love for freedom still lived everywhere, stifled sternly, yet still existing, if so small an island, so small a people, dared lift valorous hands against imperial Rome. Lucanus shook his head. It was always too late. He could not endure the cries and wails and screams of the enslaved men and women and children, and went below. His door opened without a knock, and the captain came in and sat down near him in a chair and stared at him. “Death,” said the captain, “is always the price a man must be prepared to pay for his dignity.”

“When he loses his dignity as man, then he is no longer a man,” said Lucanus. “The Cretans, who appear to have been crushed, have had their moment of glory. May God be with them.”

“It is evident no one else will be,” said the captain, snickering. “But they possibly do not have even the sympathy of the gods, who find men deplorable.”

The ship turned about and sailed away. At the next port Lucanus received letters from home, but none, as he had expected, from Sara bas Elazar. Priscus had joined Plotius in Jerusalem. He had written, “I find the Jews very interesting. At the present time all of Judea rings with the name of a Jewish teacher, one Jesus of Nazareth, who prefers to talk with rabble rather than join the wise men in the city. The rumor among the ebullient populace is that he is their Messias, one prophesied from the far ages who will deliver them from Rome! Is that not ridiculous? The priests despise him as a barefoot peasant. He is surrounded by followers as destitute as himself. Naturally no one of consequence takes him seriously. Some of our soldiers declare he performs miracles like a veritable god; one must discount the words of the ignorant, and our soldiers are superstitious. I like Judea; the weather is salubrious, the people of a quick countenance. Moreover, one needs not to fear to eat in their taverns, even the humblest, for everything in the way of food is scrupulously handled and clean. Last night we officers were invited to dine with Herod Antipas, who is a cautious man, and who appears, at this time, to be very troubled. I heard he was almost abstemious in his habits, which is possibly false, for he drank even more than we, and then he burst into tears and talked of one John whom he had had to put to death because of his wild rebellion which stirred the people. This happened almost two years ago, yet Herod still seems disturbed about it. The country seethes.”

Lucanus read this letter over and over, and thought of the centurion, Antonius. He shook his head. A miserable, obscure, unlettered Jewish rabbi! He laughed slightly. Was he the Unknown God, as the centurion had declared? God would surely manifest Himself in the person of a great king, a mighty wise man, a noble, a patrician! But this was certainly in accord with the mystical nature of Jews, who saw God everywhere. Then Lucanus thought of Sara, and what she had written him so many years ago about the youth who had accosted her by name, and had consoled her.

He pondered on it. He told himself that in every country there were always rumors of miracle-workers, of the swift appearance of gods clothed with light, of strange happenings. A world reduced to dull and monotonous peace under the Romans turned to myths and superstitions.

Nevertheless, a terrible unease took possession of Lucanus. He felt Judea pulling him like a resistless tide. He began to think of visiting his brother in Jerusalem, and then he recoiled inwardly. He wanted none of the disturbing mysticism of the Jews; he had had enough of men like Joseph ben Gamliel.

At the next port of call he received numerous letters, not only from home but from Sara, and from strangers in Jerusalem. And when he read Sara’s letter he became as still and cold as stone, and all emotion was numbed in him, for now he knew that Sara was dead. She had written:

When this reaches your hand, my dear beloved, my most dear Lucanus, I will have been gathered to my fathers, for I am dying. Do not be grieved; do not weep. Rejoice with me that I have had my call from God, who was never absent from me a moment in my life. Pray for me, if you will. When I left Rome I knew that death was upon me, and I was happy. I returned to Jerusalem to die among my people, to die in my home, with no regrets, no longings, no worldly desires. For I was joining my parents and others who loved me. Death is not a calamity to him who dies; it is only a calamity to those he leaves behind, for death is deliverance and joy and eternal peace and bliss.

The days of man are short and full of trouble. What is there in the world that can offer consolation? Do not sorrow. I will be with you always, and will pray for you, and our parting is brief. God be with you, and may He bring you His blessed peace. I look upon you from the skies, as you hold this letter in your hand, and I pray that you are not weeping. You will find my brother, Arieh. Before I was finally confined to my bed I saw Him whom you are seeking, and I mingled with the crowds on the street, and touched His garment, and He turned to smile at me compassionately and told me to be of good heart and that my prayers were already answered. Bring my brother home, for now I know beyond all doubt that you will find him. Farewell, but only for a little while, my Lucanus. I kiss your lips and your eyes.

Lucanus was not weeping, as Sara had feared. He felt nothing at all but a great emptiness and silence in him, an abandonment of all sensation. Calmly he read the letters from strangers in Jerusalem, friends of Sara, sonorous letters assuring him that she had died without pain, that her body had been laid in the sepulcher of her fathers, that she had drawn her last breath with a peaceful smile. There were letters from lawyers who were the guardians of the wealth of Sara’s family, which they were keeping for the son of Elazar ben Solomon, who was now about twenty years old. They were skeptical men, these lawyers. Nevertheless, Sara had convinced them; they expressed confidence that Lucanus would find the son of Elazar, the brother of Sara, and return him to his people.

Lucanus put aside all the letters and poured himself a little wine. He drank slowly, vaguely wondering why no storm rose in him, why no passion of sorrow, for one he had so dearly loved. Then, as a physician, he knew he was mercifully dulled by shock. He drank more and more, until the walls of his cabin tilted. He drank again, and fell on his bed and did not awaken for twenty-four hours. When he came to himself he was violently sick, and he was grateful for his retching and aching body, for his roaring head, for, concerned with his physical misery, he could not think.

Days later, as the ship went on its way, he felt that he was moving in a hollow world. He went about his work in silence. He smiled not even a little any longer. He feared sleep; he saw the faces of all he had loved and lost in his dreams. He heard their loving voices. And he said to them, “Do not comfort me, for you are dead, and in the grave there is no remembrance.”

The dull and colorless months went by, dribbling into each other like clouded puddles. He wrote briefly to his family. A fear came on him when he saw their letters, and a trembling. He was afraid of fresh bereavement, fresh dolorous news. But Aurelia had a fine son, and was again with child. Cusa had two grandchildren. Gaius was actually contemplating marriage with a virtuous maiden of an old sound family, but very poor. “I am pleased with her,” Iris had written. “She is very learned. It was inevitable that if Gaius ever married he would marry such a maiden. It has been almost a year since you visited us, my son. I understand that in your grief for Sara you do not wish to look at our happiness, and to hear the voices of your nieces and nephews, or even your mother. But I am growing very old. Return to your home, if even only for a few days, that I may see you again.”

But Lucanus could not go home. He shrank at the thought of the living, and their faces; he dreaded their love and comfortings, and their tenderness. He could remember Rubria now without pain. But he could not remember Sara now without agony, an agony that never left him. At each port, when the ship docked, he would look among the crowds for her face. When letters arrived, he looked for one from her. He walked in his desolation; he administered; he sat in the gardens of his little houses; he read, he ate, he slept. He lived like a specter. Once, very calmly, he opened his physician’s pouch and looked at a medicine he had brewed, which, given minutely in a goblet of wine, would relieve pain, but which, taken in quantity, would swiftly kill. He held the vial in his hand until it became hot in his fingers. Then he put it away. But always he thought of it in his awful loneliness and cold despair.

He found, at one port, that he had missed his brother, Priscus, by only an hour. Priscus had left him a letter before departing for Rome for a furlough of a few weeks. Priscus had written of his anticipation to see his family, and reproached his brother for neglecting them. He sent Lucanus a message from Plotius, and then went on to write about Jesus of Nazareth, the beggarly Jewish teacher whose influence was growing in Judea. He wrote lightly, but it was apparent that he was deeply serious. “I have talked with many of those who claim he has cured them instantly, by the touch of his hand. In truth, there was a beggar here whom I knew by sight, sitting against the wall of the Temple, who had been blind by birth. At one time I gave him alms, for he had a noble face and considerable learning. Then one day I found him surrounded by many excitable people, and his eyes were open and seeing! I could not believe it, my dear Lucanus! The man was not a fraud; I swear it, yet he looked at me with open and living eyes, and when I spoke to him he ran to me and grasped my hand and cried out, ‘The Son of God opened my eyes when I implored Him!’

“Truly, my brother, I have seen this myself, and there is no doubting it. I have been told that this teacher has raised the dead, has cast out madness from men’s minds, and that all within the sound of his voice feel ecstasy and joy. He goes from town to town, from village to village, healing, it is said, and when the people speak of him it is as if they are possessed with divine rapture. Is he Apollo, appearing in the guise of a poor Jewish carpenter? Or Mercury? Or Eros? Is there some great revelation at hand? The learned men, and a caste here who call themselves the Pharisees, either laugh loudly or are angered. It outrages them that a man who possesses nothing, who is unlearned, who has no family, no personal power, no recommendations from distinguished men, can draw multitudes to him at the instant of his appearance. They are afraid that he will eventually advocate an uprising against the Romans on the part of the Jews, and here they have a legitimate fear, for his influence is stupendous among the people. In that event, if there is an uprising, there will be general bloodshed, and I dislike the thought, for I have come to admire the Jews and I visit the houses of those who do not think the presence of a Gentile, and worse, a Roman officer, is pollution. But Israel is a very small country, and is of no importance. It is only that when I am there I feel that something portentous is about to happen. Is that not strange? I return there in three months.”