He did not know at what moment the Cross began to brighten, and at what moment the Cross itself began to ripple with pale rosy shadows. It was as if his soul became aware of it long before his conscious mind, and so he was not alarmed. He was also dreamily aware of an unseen Presence, which was one with the Cross, one with the light, and one with himself. The Presence was like a shaft of deeper luminosity, and full of enormous masculine tenderness. Lucanus said aloud through pale lips, “The Unknown God.”
During the past two years his youth and the abundance of his life, his passionate enjoyment of knowledge, his ambitions, his dearest love for Rubria, his sense of belonging to the world and to those who loved him, his dedication to medicine and his engrossment with Keptah, the very joyousness and buoyancy of his age, and his leaping health and delight in all things had obscured, made dim and illusory, what he had known or felt as a child. Even the Unknown God had become one of the Pantheon, and the aspects, tales, and benevolences of goddesses had intrigued his young heart with a tremendous fantasy of beauty. His days, for over two years, lay like a colored and vivid river behind him and before him, full of promise. Cusa was a Skeptic, and Lucanus had come to question things humorously, even the dreams and mysteries he had known as a child. As if he knew, Keptah himself had spoken less and less of the Unknown God, and had confined himself to lessons in medicine. Sometimes his morose and withdrawn face had made Lucanus feel a sense of uneasy guilt.
And now in these moments his life became as a phantom, the life of a very young child, and he was again in the presence of the grand Miracle, which did not reproach him but only welcomed him. He did not understand the meaning of the Cross with his mind; only his heart understood and it as yet had no words.
He was filled with ecstasy, as if visions had opened before him, magnificent, yet dolorous with supernatural sorrow beyond the comprehension of men.
The flickerings on the Cross became deeper in hue and more intense, so that the white walls, floor and ceiling paled like clouds, and were as tenuous. Slowly, moment by moment, the rosy and unquiet hue resembled the flowing shadows of blood, welling, falling and drifting from the arms down the whole enormous body of the Cross. The pearly luminousness that flowed through the temple moved swifter, as if ethereal presences were gathering in greater concentration. The boy was conscious of no fear, only of growing wonderment and love so profound that his body could hardly contain it. The scarlet reflections from the Cross glimmered on his face, his white tunic, his clasped hands, and in his eyes, and on his bent knees.
Slowly, drawn as if by a spell, he stood up and mounted the shallow steps and stood on the level with the Cross. It was a tree of intermingling red and white, palpitating with a force unknown to him. He dared to put out his hand and touch it; it was cool to his touch, and yet it vibrated slightly. All at once he was overcome with a passion beyond rapture; he felt himself drawn into the very heart of the Cross. His legs weakened under him and he slipped to the platform and wound his arms about the shaft and leaned his cheek against it, and without the slightest conscious knowledge his whole body trembled with adoration and the deepest peace he had ever known. He closed his eyes; he was at the core of the universe.
The bronze door opened silently, as if touched by an unseen hand, and four men stood on the threshold, one of whom was Keptah. They stood in the aperture and saw the prostrate boy, his arms embracing the foot of the Cross, his cheek against its shaft. Three of the men, much taller and broader even than Keptah, smiled tenderly and glanced at each other. They approached the platform on feet seemingly shod in velvet, and they stood without a word and contemplated the Cross for several moments. Then all four knelt, bowed their heads on their breasts, and closed their eyes. Their lips moved in prayer.
Three of the men were dressed as stately kings, for they were kings in truth. Their tunics and their robes shimmered with crimson, blue, and white and the most delicate jade. Girdles of hammered gold, inlaid with barbarous jewels, clasped their waists. Headdresses of the purest white silk were bound about their heads, sewn with gems that glimmered in the celestial light. About their necks hung huge broad necklaces of gold and silver, one reaching down to the other, and then another, and fringed with precious metals, and intricately webbed with jewels of many colors. Their bare brown arms bore broad and gemmed circlets below the shoulder and about the wrists, and their feet were shod in golden sandals. Their Eastern faces were blackened by desert suns, and their short beards were virile and glistened with scented oils. From under thick black brows their Orient eyes gleamed like full dark stars, and their noses were the noses of eagles, beaked and masterful, and more than a little wild, as were their red lips.
When he became aware of Keptah and the strangers Lucanus did not know. But it did not seem strange to him that they were there, and he gazed at them with quiet acceptance, and waited, his arms still embracing the Cross. When they rose he did not move, for it was as if they had forgotten him or did not see him. They left the temple, and he drowsed or slept again, and this was something he could not explain to himself later. He had the deepest reluctance to leave the Cross; while he lay there he sensed safety and peace and the fulfillment of all desire.
Keptah stood apart from the strangers in the garden while they communed with each other, bending their ears towards the speaker in the deepest gravity and then nodding. They spoke in a tongue even Keptah did not know, but which had familiar resonances to him, as if he were hearing echoes of his childhood.
Then, as if coming to a conclusion, they smiled at Keptah affectionately, and one of the strangers approached him, and when he knelt the stranger put his hand on his head in blessing. He spoke now so that Keptah could understand.
“You are not mistaken, my brother,” he said. “You were truly right. The boy is one of us. But he cannot be admitted to the Brotherhood, and why he cannot I dare not say. There is another way and light for him, through long and arid places, gray and desolate, and he must find them. For God has work for him to do before he reaches his ultimate journey, and a unique message to give him. Do not be disappointed; do not weep. You have done well, and God is pleased with you. Many will be called from the utmost ends of the earth, and when and how they are chosen is not in our hands, but only in God’s. Teach him what you can teach him, then let him go, but be sure he will not wander in darkness, and that he will come again to the Cross.”
One of them looked musingly over the garden, as if seeing a far vision. “He will come to her, and sit at her knees,” he murmured. “She will speak to him of the things she pondered in her heart, and about which she will speak to no other man. She is hardly older in years than Lucanus himself, and she too must suffer her anguish, which she accepted on the night of the angelic annunciation. He will see her beauty and sweetness, and hear her tender voice. But that is in the future, and it is not ordained for now.”
“I have wanted to see her, and touch her robe,” said Keptah, his voice trembling. “I have dreamt of the vision of the babe in her arms.”
“You will see,” said one of the strangers, in a low tone. “If not here, then in heaven.”
“Mysterious are the ways of God,” said still another. “We can but obey.”
“I have nothing to give,” said Keptah.
“You are giving your life. You are faithful and full of knowledge.”
Keptah rose, then bent and kissed the hems of the strangers’ robes, and his eyes were blind with tears. They raised him and embraced him, and left him for the granite building in the distance. “Give me wisdom,” he whispered after them.
Lucanus came through the open door, dazed and blinking, and found Keptah alone. The boy and man stared at each other, too full of thoughts to speak for a little while. Then Lucanus said, “Who were those men? They seemed like kings.”
“They are kings,” said Keptah, gently. “They are the Magi.”¹
He took Lucanus’ chill hand and led him away, saying, “Do not ask questions I cannot answer. It is not permitted
for me to speak.”
¹Matthew 2:1.
Chapter Six
“One of our great priests in Babylonia, or Chaldea, once declared that if a man deprive himself of the good things of the world, which are permitted by the world and by God, he will be called sternly to account,” said Keptah. “This is something which the long-faced and ascetic moralists, and the intellectual Jewish Pharisees, would deny, and possibly this would be denied also by our good master, the tribune. Nevertheless, it is true. This philosophy is not to be challenged by the statement of Socrates that to want as little as possible is to make the nearest approach to God. It comes down, as I have always told you, my young Lucanus, to individual interpretation, and what is happiness to one man, and good and morality, is hateful to others.”
Lucanus laughed. “It is no wonder, Keptah, that Diodorus is always complaining that you are a Sophist, and that you qualify one pleasing statement with one that is displeasing, both equally true.”
“My Greeklet,” said Keptah, with indulgence, “I have told you: I am a tolerant man, and that is why I appear complex to the simple, and devious, and not one to be trusted. To be a man of learning, one must know not only his own argument but the arguments of others. It pleases me that you can understand that a statement that is repugnant to one’s beliefs can be as true as one that is pleasurable. All this, of a certainty, pertains only to the affairs of the world, which I find endlessly amusing.”
They were sitting in Keptah’s favorite wineshop, much patronized by the men of business, students and scholars and merchants, of the many races in Antioch. The street outside, cobbled in black stones, blazed with hurting light, its narrowness blowing with sharp white clouds of hot dust, and clamorous with the complaints of camels and donkeys, the voices of rude men, and the shuffling of multitudes of hurrying feet, and the clatter of wheels. On the opposite side the whitish-yellow buildings threw back the heat and light like palpitating mirrors, before which passed men and women in garments of red, blue, black, yellow, green, and scarlet. But in the wineshop it was cool and quiet and shadowed, filled with the odors of wine, good cheeses, and excellent small hot pastries. Wooden bowls, heaped with the briny and very small black olives of Judea, and grapes from local arbors — purple and opalescent and shining even in the dimness — and pomegranates like globes of red fire, and other fruit, and clusters of golden dates oozing their drops of honey, lay upon the scrubbed white tables. The rough walls of the wineshop had been decorated by a local artist who, though he exhibited crudeness and lack of training in composition and delicacy, compensated for these in a creation of vivid color and innocent lewdness. The red-tiled floor was gratefully cool to the hot feet of Keptah and his pupil, as were the goblets of chilled wine to their lips.
The head of Lucanus was a halo of brightness in the refreshing gloom of the wineshop, and attracted the notice of the dark men at other tables. One tall man, swarthy and turbaned in the Eastern manner, was especially enchanted. His narrow face, cunning but vital, and illuminated by a pair of extraordinarily brilliant eyes and tapering to a thin short beard, finally could not turn away from the contemplation of the young Greek. His clothing, dim crimson and pale green, assured any spectator that here was a man of position, as did the many flashing rings on his fingers. His servants stood near the open door, drinking small goblets of wine, and all were armed with daggers and had a purposeful look, their strong dark legs revealed sturdily from beneath their colorful tunics.
The stranger finally leaned towards Keptah in his long robe of pale linen and spoke in Greek with an execrable accent: “I have been listening to your discourse, Master, with much interest. Permit me to introduce myself: I am Linus, the merchant, from Caesarea, in Judea, and I deal with the silks and jades and ivories of Cathay. My caravan is on the way to Rome.” He spoke to Keptah, but his restless eyes were fixed in delight on Lucanus, who, becoming aware of him for the first time, unaccountably blushed under that intent and roving regard. The boy moved uneasily.
Keptah studied Linus coolly and with deliberation, marking in particular the hypnotized stare at Lucanus. He pondered. It was not too soon, he finally decided, to permit Lucanus to learn something of the darker and more pungent aspects of life. He said, with politeness, “And I am Keptah, physician to the Tribune Diodorus, Proconsul of Syria.” He hesitated. “From Judea, you say. Are you a Jew, Master?”
Linus’ face had changed momentarily when he had learned Keptah’s position. The proconsul had a reputation much disliked among the merchants along the Great Sea, and this Keptah was his physician. Linus composed his features into an expression of respect, which was not entirely assumed. Moreover, he was pleased. This boy with the hair like the sun was most evidently the slave of the esteemed physician, and so matters very likely could be negotiated, as he had suspected. “May I be permitted to offer you a bottle of wine, Master Keptah?” asked Linus. “With my compliments.”
“If you join us,” said Keptah, gravely.
Linus rose with alacrity, and he was a man of grace and height and swiftness. As his garments parted a little, Keptah saw that he wore a broad necklace of intricately engraved gold, in the Egyptian manner, but which was now being affected by some of the young fashionable bloods among the Romans. Lucanus, still flushed and uneasy without understanding why, moved his chair a little to make place for the merchant, and while doing so he felt a slight pinch on his knee which he comprehended as a message from Keptah. The physician also gave him a swift glance, which, interpreted, was a command for him to hold his tongue under all circumstances.
It was not odd, to Linus, that a slave should sit so familiarly with his master, when this boy was evidently the darling and beloved of that master, the pampered and coddled one, used for certain purposes. Now that he was closer to the boy Linus was more and more entranced. He knew just the Roman senator who would find this lad a joy, and who would not cavil at the price. A thousand sesterces would not be too much. Linus smiled, and the canine whiteness of his teeth was a blaze against the brown darkness of his crafty and intelligent face.
“No, Master Keptah, I am not a Jew,” he said. “May Baal forbid! I am of an older race, a Babylonian, though equally splendid races of the East have contributed to my blood.”
Lucanus looked at Keptah, who again pinched him under the table. “Most interesting,” said Keptah, imperturbably. The shopkeeper came to the table and Linus in a lordly fashion ordered the best wine, and Keptah nodded approvingly. Keptah said, “Abraham of the Jews was a Babylonian. Perhaps you have heard of him, Master Linus?”
“Ah, yes,” said Linus, carelessly. He grinned again. “When I am in Judea I am a Jew, when in Syria I am a Syrian, when I am in Rome I am a Roman, and when I am in Greece I am a Greek.” He laughed lightly.
Keptah helped himself to a few tiny black olives, and said, “And when you are in Africa, doubtless, you are a Negro.”
Linus’ smile faded abruptly. His jeweled hand flashed to his dagger. Keptah serenely spat out the pits of the olives into his dusky palm, then threw them on the floor. “A clever man is a chameleon,” he said, with excessive admiration. “All things to all men. I see you are a philosopher, as I am, when I am not distilling potions and attending to the family of the illustrious Diodorus.” He looked up, and his enigmatic eyes fastened themselves on the merchant, whose hand was slowly withdrawing from the dagger. “I believe I mentioned that I am the physician in the house of the Proconsul of Syria, a Roman of great virtue and influence? And particularly ready with discipline, and the sword.”
Linus, whose less lawful activities had brought him twice to the attention of Diodorus, smiled winningly. “I trust he pays you well,” he said, with insinuation. Keptah made his face inscrutable. “Ah, yes. As well as a thrifty gentleman will permit himself, and my master is famous for his thrift. One of the ‘old’ Romans. I remain with him because of my attachment to the family, though I have received excellent offers from others.”
Linus relaxed, leaning back in his
chair with a graceful posture. He stared again at Lucanus, who had found this conversation bewildering. The shopkeeper arrived with the bottle of fine old wine, holding its dustiness reverently in his hands, and bowing. Keptah and Linus critically inspected it, nodded their acceptance, and the wine was poured into silver goblets befitting its importance and rarity. Keptah poured a small amount into Lucanus’ goblet, and the boy could smell the fine and delicate fragrance. “You will not meet wine like this in the house of Diodorus, may the gods bless his penurious purse and his barbarian tongue,” said Keptah.
Linus, who had smarting and memorable recollections of the proconsul, thought he detected contempt and derision in Keptah’s voice, and was more at ease than ever. “Nevertheless,” said Keptah, with a furtive and quelling glance at Lucanus, “he is careful of those who serve him well, especially his physician. We have a mutual respect for each other, and appreciate the value of each other. That is why he has assigned me four well-armed slaves for my protection. They await within the sound of my voice, in the street yonder, guarding my litter.”
Lucanus’ pink lips parted in astonishment at this falsehood, but Keptah was now sipping his wine with the air of a pleased epicure. Linus’ black eyebrows flew up in surprise, but he did not doubt Keptah’s word for an instant. Here, he thought, is a man of consequence, and he has an elegant and assured air, an air worn only by those much esteemed. The shopkeeper, in honor of the wine, brought a brazen bowl to the table, and a plate. “Ah,” said Keptah, in appreciation, “artichoke hearts in vinegar and oil, with a discreet touch of capers and leeks. There are a few Roman dishes to which I am partial.” He dipped a piece of bread into the bowl and daintily ate of what he had fished up. “It is true that the Romans are not civilized, but occasionally they have inspirations.”