“To them both today I brought my understanding, and my importunities.”
He peeled a large ripe plum for Hillel and put it on the small golden plate, and did not wait for the servant to serve Hillel more wine. He poured it himself. Saul watched him and thought with disgust, “He is but another player on words, another deft pleader for the Roman, another compromiser, another agile man who can release himself from a trap. Such men have sold their souls for comfort, for riches, for security, and do not know the sorry bargain.”
As if he had heard the young man’s thoughts Joseph rested his bright dark eyes on him for a moment and a shadow of sadness touched them. Hillel had listened acutely, and had not felt dismay nor repulsion. It was as if a strong cool hand had been laid on a feverish cheek, and so he waited and a faint calm came to him.
Joseph said, “I have persuaded Pilate to release those seized in the city as potential malcontents, who have opposed the Roman obdurately but not with violence. They have been returned to their homes with stern warnings, but they are now in the bosoms of their family. ‘Shall the lamb be sacrificed with the lion?’ I asked Pilate.” Joseph smiled. “He also owes me considerable money, for he is a reckless gambler, and Tiberius Caesar, that harsh and rigid man, does not like gamblers. He has also compromised himself, in company with Herod, with Agrippa in Rome. Fortunately, I have friends whom Tiberius trusts, and so Pilate is not to be recalled.” Joseph paused. He looked at the wine in his goblet. “He has a role to play, and I have seen it in my visions. I am a visionary man.”
Hillel’s face had become tremulous with hope. Joseph lifted his hand.
“I did not use my money nor my influence in Rome to sway Pilate, for that would be more degrading to me than to him. I used Roman reason on him, and the Romans do not like disarray or emotionalism. Nor do I. The emotional man is a man who has lost control of himself. Therefore, how can he rule others or give a judicious opinion? That I said to Pilate, and he knew I spoke in truth. Emotion should have no part of justice, I assured him. Was it just to punish the innocent for the fault of others? Only the Greeks believe that, I told him, and he nodded his head.” Again Joseph smiled. “The Romans, in their hearts, believe themselves inferior to the Greeks. They always welcome one who assures them of their superiority.”
He is a wily hypocrite! thought Saul, with increasing rage.
But Hillel said, “Thanks be to God, Joseph of Arimathaea, that you have saved the innocent! But what of those hundred or more of the Zealots and Essenes who await a monstrous death, in the prisons of the Romans?”
Joseph said with sadness, “They I cannot save. Nor do I believe that they desire to be saved. They are rash and dedicated young men, and it is the young who believe in heroic causes and court death as older men court mistresses. They believe they set a standard for others to follow, that they carry a banner which will strike fire in the hearts of other men. It is beautiful. But not very sensible.”
“So, they will die,” said Hillel.
“Not without glory in their souls, not without exultation,” said Joseph. He poured fresh wine. “To that they have always aspired. I do not deny their love, their patriotism, their devotion to God. But on the altar of these they are more than willing to be sacrificed.”
Saul could not restrain himself. “I, too, am willing!” he cried.
Hillel, even in his agony of spirit, wished to rebuke his son. But Joseph again lifted his hand and said, “And so you are, my child, and so it will be.”
Dread filled Hillel’s heart, for he was a father. He had heard that Joseph had mysterious gifts of prophecy and penetration.
“I would rather my son lived for his people,” he said.
“And so he shall,” said Joseph, with his kind smile. This seemed enigmatic to Hillel. Saul’s eyes were like polished metal, reflecting his deep passions and anger. Joseph went on, “I know when I have a possibility of succeeding, even a faint one, which I will press. I know when I cannot succeed, when it is useless to try. So the children of the desert must die. Pilate said to me, ‘Do you Jews not have a law saying “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth?” And, a life for a life.’ I knew he was adamant on the subject of the deaths of his soldiers and officers. Who can blame him? I was grateful enough that he spared the innocent, though we know they are as inflamed as those men, if more discreet. They are also more pious. They await the Messias, and His deliverance of all men from their sins and their sufferings, blessed be His Name.”
Hillel’s face again became tremulous but before he could speak Saul said, “And you pleaded with Herod, Joseph of Arimathaea?”
“I did. I have persuaded him to give a painless poison to those of the young heroes who showed even the slightest fear of death and suffering. A man should go to his self-evoked death with pride and rejoicing, and even with gratitude.
Those of feebler and gentler spirit should be preserved from the agonies of inexorable execution.”
Hillel dropped his head and clasped his hands on his knee. Joseph looked at him with compassion. “Hillel ben Borush, death is not the supreme terror, nor the most monstrous of calamities, nor is life greatly to be desired by wise men. We know this, as Jews. And it was Aristotle who said, ‘There are circumstances and occasions when the reasonable man will prefer to die and not to live.’ You suffer for our young countrymen, for you are a Jew, and I suffer with you. But man’s life at its best is brief and full of trouble and pain and despair, and there is not a man alive today who will not be dead in less than one hundred years, A century from now, and few among us will be remembered, no matter if they were evil or just, saints or demons, traitors or patriots.” He paused. “Only One will be remembered, blessed be His Name.”
But Saul said in youthful agitation which overcame his taught respect for those older than himself: “You believe that no cause is worth fighting for, no banner worth following, and that men should be complaisant before evil?”
“I did not say that,” said Joseph. “I wished to imply that a giant is not overcome by a flea, and however determined and devoted the flea he cannot slay the giant.”
“Goliath was killed by a stone, flung by David,” said Saul. He was almost panting in his defiance and his scorn.
Joseph meditated for a moment. He said, “God has His reasons, and we know them not. We can only look knowingly on events when they have become past history. It is my belief that God now has a different role for Israel, a spiritual conquest of men, a conquest of love and joy and salvation, and not a conquest by death and blood. Except—” He stopped again, and Hillel looked up from his brooding misery.
“What is it that you wished to say, dear friend?” he asked.
Joseph hesitated. “I have had visions,” he replied. “I may not speak of them, for the time has not yet come.”
“You believe that the coming of the Messias is at hand?” cried Hillel.
Joseph took a pomegranate in his hand and studied its scarlet surface. “What if He has already come?” he asked in a distant tone, as if proffering a theory.
“He has not come!” said young Saul, more scornful than ever. “If He had come, the whole world would now be proclaiming His blessed Name and rejoicing, and the Roman would lie in the depths of the sea as did the Egyptians!”
“You believe, Saul ben Hillel, that God hates the Roman, who is His child also, and that He will send Messias only to the Jews? ‘A Light unto the Gentiles,’ it has been prophesied.” A sternness appeared on Joseph’s face, a rebuke.
Hillel’s sad eyes had become ardent as they fixed themselves on I Joseph. He whispered, “You believe He has come?”
But Joseph was silent. Hillel’s heart began to beat with strong urgency. “I have heard of the Star over Bethlehem, and I have heard that you went to the city of David—”
But Joseph still did not speak. Saul laughed in himself. These old men loved mysteries; they loved to appear elusive and wise. He looked at his father, Hillel, with the light on his drawn features, and was a
shamed for him that he could lend himself to this folly, this blasphemy against God, Who would send His Messias with legions of angels, with golden trumpets which would shatter the highest battlements and with a glory that would daze the earth, and not obscurely, not in the night, not with equivocation.
“I have prayed that I would see His salvation,” said Hillel, humbly.
Joseph gazed at him with a strange long look. “So shall all the just,” he said. He sighed. “Ask me not of the Star, or what I saw in Bethlehem, for the hour has not yet come.” He directed his gaze upon Saul, and though it was intent it was also far, as if seeing what others could not see. Saul was suddenly and dreadfully struck with the thought that such a gaze had been directed on him by the poor peasant in the marketplace. He was filled with a chill fear.
Joseph conducted his guests through the atrium and the portico, and he kept his arm over Hillel’s shoulders in a tender embrace. At the door he kissed Hillel on the cheek, in comfort and said, “Do not grieve. All is in God’s Hands, blessed be His Name.”
“I do not know why, but I am comforted,” said Hillel, and he smiled through fresh tears. He hardly heard Saul’s infuriated denunciations of Joseph as they sat in the litter.
Later, as he prayed in his cubiculum, he heard the return of Shebua ben Abraham, and a loud commotion and men’s disordered voices. He rose and drew his bed-robe about him, and opened the door and peered out beyond the hall into the atrium. It was lighted brilliantly. Shebua was there, struggling in the arms of his servants, who were apparently attempting to restrain him, and he was uttering the most incredible blasphemies and oaths and rages. Hillel’s first impulse was to go to him. Shebua’s toga was covered with the stains wine and meats and fruits, his hair was disheveled, his face pale sweating and distorted. He is drunk, thought Hillel, and remembered that one is not to disgrace another by observing his drunkenness, and he prepared to shut his door.
But there had been something in Shebua’s manner and voice and struggles which was not solely of drunkenness, though he had drunk mightily that night in contradiction with his usual restraint. Hillel paused, watching through his half-shut door, as Shebua fought with his servants and cursed them.
Then, to Hillel’s bewildered pity, Shebua burst into tears, and collapsed in his servants’ arms and they bore him away, and one remained behind to blow out the lamps. Hillel closed his door, and pondered on what he had seen, and he was filled with sadness. What had caused Shebua’s unusual orgy of emotion and chaotic derangement could not be known to him, Hillel, but he remembered that Joseph of Arimathaea had spoken of the oneness of men in spite of their apparent differences. May God have mercy on us, prayed Hillel ben Borush, and went to his bed. May God have mercy on all men, for we are afflicted.
May God avenge us, prayed Saul ben Hillel, and he wept in his rage and sorrow and hatred. And then he found, to his horror, that he could not resume his prayers. There was a deep numbness within him like an awful absence.
Chapter 12
“DO NOT go to the place of execution. I implore you,” said Hillel to his son. “You are young. It will break your heart. Accompany me to the Temple, where we will pray for the souls of those valiant young men.”
“No,” said young Saul. He seemed to his father to be growing more emaciated each day, and there was a cold austerity now on his freckled forehead and a burning look in his eyes. “I would be less than they if I did not suffer in my heart with them.”
“You torment yourself; you bite at your flank as a beast tears at his sores,” said Hillel. “Have you forgotten when we were carried into exile by the king of Babylon, Nebuchadnezzar? Those of us who were not, gathered together to form a rebellion against our oppressors. The Prophet Jeremias saw that this would bring upon our people a greater calamity, and he put about his neck a wooden yoke to symbolize to us our ebullient and reckless hopes before the reality of catastrophe. But the false prophet, Hananiah, tore the yoke from the neck and shoulders of Jeremias and broke it into fragments, saying, ‘Even so will I break the yoke of Nebuchadnezzar, within two years!’”
Saul stared at his father in mute bitterness, his lips pressed together.
Hillel sighed. “Jeremias left the false prophet but God, blessed be His Name, commanded him to rebuke Hananiah, saying, ‘You have broken wooden bars, but I will make in their place bars of iron.’ And Hananiah died within two years. For the hour of His deliverance had not come, and it was not the season. Be certain that God will deliver us, for have we not His promise? The young men who die today are impatient.”
“You speak, my father,” said Saul, “almost with the tongue of Shebua ben Abraham, whom I despise for all he is my grandfather. I do not understand you. It was but two days ago when you sought help for the heroes who die today, yet today you are as ambiguous as Joseph of Arimathaea, whom I despise also.”
“I would not have you suffer,” said Hillel, the father, and could not help himself. But Saul made a faint and tortured sound and left him, swinging his cloak about his shoulders.
It was a day of coolness and the sky was curiously brazen and against it stood the bald mountains, the color of grapes in the still air. Saul went on foot to the Damascus Gate, for beyond, in the barrenness and desolation outside the walls, the ardent young youths were to be crucified by the Romans. Jerusalem was strangely silent, as if all had drawn a deep breath and was holding it, and the shops were shut and no children ran on the stony streets. The atmosphere, quiet though it was, seemed to be half inaudibly filled with mourning, and only the soldiers were visible, clanging in their battle array, and watchful. All the light appeared to have gone from the city, so it was dull and yellow and abandoned, and everywhere were echoes, faintly crying or distantly booming. The Roman banners hung lifelessly above the gates of the city, the bronze eagles among them, as it were, brooding. The soldiers did not prevent any man from leaving the city, and as Saul walked to the Damascus Gate he was joined by speechless men in black, and hooded, with cloths drawn over their faces. And now at the gate the crowd was many, and their footsteps raised the only sound and the sound was doomful.
The gates made a harsh grinding as the grim-faced soldiers swung them open and the crowd poured through, not speaking, not weeping. One could see only their eyes, dark and glittering and passionate. Saul walked among them and thought, I alone of that household come to this direful place! Not even my father deigned to be here with his prayers! And the bitterness increased in him and his head ached savagely and his eyes were dry as dust and as hot.
The land beyond the gate was bare and lifeless, the yellow earth crumbling and full of rubble and stones, and here it was suddenly hot as if the doors of a furnace had opened. Beyond lay the wilderness of Syria, and the hard mountains purple and somber, and the sky that was too close and jaundiced. And there, on a flat open place fifty crosses lay on the ground, waiting, and at the side of each stood a ragged youth, bearded and wild but silent, his eyes fixed on the unanswering sky, the unresponding heavens.
Saul and those who had come with him joined those already there, in motionless and ominous ranks, shoulder to shoulder. There were many young Roman soldiers with cold and angry eyes, unusually silent, for these men they were to execute had murdered their comrades and their officers, had violated law and order, had lifted their hands in violence against those the gods had ordained to rule them in the name of justice and peace.
Saul looked upon the faces of the condemned, the remote faces, the praying lips. Some were younger than he; not many were of mature years. He wanted to weep, but could not. He wanted to curse, but his lips were numb. He wanted to beat his breast. He slowly became aware of the lowest of chanting, hardly to be heard, and knew it to be the prayers for the dying. But Saul could not pray. He could only gaze on the faces of the condemned, who appeared already dead, so motionless were they, so indifferent, so far. It was as if nothing that was of them stood in this place, and that they had already departed.
Then against that terrible
silence a man’s voice rang out, pure and strong and certain:
“‘My help comes from the Lord, Who made heaven and earth! He will not suffer your foot to be moved. He that keeps you will not slumber. Behold! He who keeps Israel does neither slumber nor sleep!
“‘The Lord is your Guardian. The Lord is your shade upon your right hand. The sun shall not smite you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall keep you from all evil. He shall keep your soul. The Lord shall guard your going out and your coming in, from this time forth and forever!’”
The condemned started as one man, the rags and skins of their garments moving in a place where nothing moved, and they turned their young sun-darkened faces eagerly in search and now their faces were the faces of children who had heard the voice of their father.
I have heard that voice before! thought Saul, and the thunder of his heart was in his ears, and he turned with all the crowd and searched for the speaker. But a confusion seemed on all as all eyes denied that their tongue had spoken the solemn promise of the Lord. A dim muttering rose, then died.
The soldiers had turned to statues and they, too, as one man, searched for he who had cried out with such loud faith and even exultation and comfort. But they could not find him. A dull shadow ran over the earth and raised a dry yellowish dust and a hotter breath, and now the brassy sky darkened a little, and a Roman officer looked at it uneasily, for Romans were superstitious and they had heard tales of the vengeance of the Jewish God. Let it be done, he thought, and gestured with his mailed hand, and the soldiers seized the nearest youth and flung him on a cross. Immediately there was the dolorous and awful sound of hammering as nails bit into young hands and feet, and there was nothing else, not even a cry.