‘Perhaps I should let my master speak for himself. He has not instructed me to discuss this matter.’
‘I daresay you are telling the truth; albeit frugally,’ grinned Benjamin. ‘You would never be mistaken for a sieve. But why may we not do a little honest trading? You came to ask questions. Very well; ask them. Then—I shall ask questions of you. We will put all of the questions on the table, and bargain for answers. Is that not fair enough?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,’ parried Demetrius.
‘Well—for one thing—I noticed yesterday that you were surprised and troubled when I showed knowledge of strange doings in Jerusalem, last Passover Week; and I think you would like to ask me how much I know about that. Now—I shall be glad to tell you, if you will first answer some questions of mine.’ Benjamin glanced up with a sly, conspiratorial smile. ‘I shall give you an easy one first. Doubtless you were in Jerusalem with your master: did you happen to see the Galilean whom they crucified?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Demetrius, promptly.
‘Very good. What manner of man was he?’ Benjamin put down his work, and leaned forward with eager interest. ‘You are a bright fellow, for a slave—and a heathen. Was there anything—anything peculiar—about this Galilean? How close did you get to him? Did you hear him speak?’
‘My first sight of the Galilean was on the morning of our entrance into Jerusalem. There was a great crowd accompanying him into the city. Not knowing the language, I did not fully understand the event; but learned that this large multitude of country people wanted to crown him king. They were shouting “Messiah!” I was told that these people were always looking for a great leader to deliver them from political bondage; he would be the “Messiah.” So—the crowd shouted “Messiah!”—and waved palms before him, as if he were a king.’
Benjamin’s eyes were alert and his shrunken mouth was open, the puckered lips trembling.
‘Go onl’ he demanded, gutturally, when Demetrius paused.
‘I forced my way into the pack until I was almost close enough to have touched him. He was indeed an impressive man, sir, albeit simply clad-’
‘In this?’ Benjamin caught up the Robe in his shaking hands and pushed it toward Demetrius, who nodded—and went on.
‘It was quite evident that the man was not enjoying the honor. His eyes were brooding; full of sadness; full of loneliness.’
‘Ah!—wait a moment, my friendl’ Benjamin turned to his shelf of scrolls; drew out one that had seen much handling; turned it rapidly to the passage he sought; and read, in a deep sonorous tone: ‘“—a man of sorrows—acquainted with grief——” This is the prophecy of Yeshayah. Proceed, pleasel Did he speak?’
‘I did not hear him speak—not that day.’
‘Ah!—so you saw him again!’
‘When he was tried—at the Insula, a few days later—for treason.’
‘You saw that?’
Demetrius nodded.
‘What was his behavior there?’ asked Benjamin. ‘Did he plead for mercy?’
‘No—he was quite composed. I could not understand what he said; but he accepted his sentence without protest.’
Benjamin excitedly spread open his ancient scroll.
‘Listen, my friend! This, too, is from the prophecy of Yeshayah. ‘‘He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth.”’
‘He did talk,' remembered Demetrius, ‘but very calmly—and confidently. That was thought strange, too; for he had been cruelly whipped.’
Benjamin read again from the scroll in an agitated voice: ‘“He was wounded for our transgressions—and with his stripes we are healed.”’
‘Whose transgressions’—wondered Demetrius—‘the Jews’?’
‘Yeshayah was a Jewish prophet, my friend,’ replied Benjamin. ‘And he was foretelling the coming of a Jewish Messiah.’
‘That means then that the Messiah’s injuries would not be borne in the interest of any other people?’ persisted Demetrius, if that is true, I do not think this Jesus was the Messiah! Before he died, he forgave the Roman legionaries who had nailed him to the cross!’
Benjamin glanced up with a start.
‘How do you know that?’ he demanded.
‘So it was said by those who stood by,’ declared Demetrius, it was heard by all.’
‘This is a strange thing!’ murmured Benjamin. Presently he roused from a long moment of deep meditation. ‘Now—you may ask me questions, if you wish,’ he said.
‘I think you have answered my queries, sir. I thought you might tell me something more about the Messiah—and you have done so. According to the writings, he was to come as the champion of the Jewish people. The man I saw had no wish to be their champion. It made him unhappy when they urged kingship upon him. At his trial he said he had a kingdom—but it was not in the world.’
‘Where then—if not in the world?’ rasped Benjamin.
‘You are much wiser than I, sir. If you do not know, it would be presumptuous for a pagan slave to attempt an explanation.’
‘You are sarcastic, my young friend,’ grumbled Benjamin.
‘No, sir—I am entirely sincere—and bewildered. I think this Jesus was interested in everybody! I think he was sorry for everybody! Demetrius paused, and murmured apologetically, ‘Perhaps I have been talking too freely, sir.’
‘You have a right to talk,’ conceded Benjamin. ‘I am a Jew—but I believe that our God is the father of mankind. Peradventure the Messiah—when he comes to reign over the Jews—will establish justice for all.’
‘I wish I could study these ancient prophecies,’ said Demetrius.
‘Well’—Benjamin shrugged—‘and why not? Here they are. You have a good mind. If you have much time, and little to do, learn to read them.’
‘How?’
‘I might help you,’ said Benjamin, amiably. He swung his thin legs over the edge of the table. ‘You will excuse me now,' he added, abruptly. ‘I must prepare my noonday meat.’ Without further words of leave-taking, he moved slowly toward a door at the rear, and disappeared.
***
Evidently Benjamin had finished his day’s labor, for the sleek-topped worktable was unoccupied. A door in the far corner behind the largest room, unnoticed by Marcellus on his previous visit, stood hospitably ajar. He walked toward it.
In pleasant contrast to the stifling confusion of the overcrowded shop, Benjamin’s private quarters were simply but tastefully furnished. The orange-and-blue rug that covered the entire floor was of fine workmanship. There were three comfortable chairs and footstools, a couch with a pair of camel’s-hair saddle-bags for a pillow, and a massive metal-bound chest. An open case of deep shelves, fitted around either side and below a large window, was filled to capacity with ancient scrolls.
A farther door opposite gave upon a shaded, stone-flagged court. Assuming that the old man expected him to proceed, Marcellus crossed the room. Benjamin, surprisingly tall in his long black robe and tasseled skull-cap, was laying a table in the center of his high-walled vine-thatched peristyle.
‘I hope I am not intruding,' said Marcellus.
‘It is never an intrusion,’ said Benjamin, ‘to pass through an open door in Athens. You are welcome.’ He pointed to one of the rug-covered chairs by the table and put down the two silver goblets from his tray.
‘I had not know that you lived here, at your shop,' remarked Marcellus, for something to say.
‘For two reasons,' explained Benjamin, laying an antique knife beside the brown barley-loaf. ‘It is more convenient, and it is prudent. One does not leave a shop unguarded in this city.’
‘Or any other city of my acquaintance,' commented Marcellus.
‘Such as—’ Benjamin drew out his chair and sat.
‘Well—such as Rome, for example. We are ovemin with slaves. They are notorious thieves, with no regard for property rights.’
Benjamin laughed gutturally.
‘The slave is indeed a predator
y creature,’ he remarked dryly. ‘He makes off with your best sandals when the only thing you have stolen from him is his freedom.’ He raised his cup and bowed to Marcellus. ‘Shall we drink to the day when no man is another man’s property?’
‘Gladly!’ Marcellus sipped his wine. It was of good vintage. ‘My father,’ he asserted, ‘says the time will come when Rome must pay dearly for enslaving men.’
‘He does not approve of it? Then I presume he owns no slaves.’ Benjaman was intent upon evenly slicing the bread. Marcellus flushed a little at the insinuation.
‘If slavery were abolished,’ he said, defensively, ‘my father would be among the first to applaud. Of course—as the matter stands—’
‘Of course,’ echoed Benjamin. Your father knows it is wrong, but other men of his social station practice it. In his opinion, it is better to be wrong than eccentric.’
‘If I may venture to speak for my father,’ said Marcellus, calmly, ‘I do not think he has elaborated a theory of that nature. He is a man of integrity and generosity. His slaves are well treated. They probably have better food and shelter in our home—’
‘I can readily believe that,’ interrupted Benjamin. ‘They have more to eat than they might have if they were free. Doubtless that is also true of your horses and dogs. The question is: Are men and beasts of the same category? Is there no essential difference between them in respect to the quality of their value? If a healthy, hard-working ass can be had for ten drachmas, and an able-bodied man can be had for two silver talents, the difference in their worth is purely quantitative. It is at that point that I find human slavery abhorrent. It is an offense to the majesty of the human spirit; for if any man deserves to be regarded as of the same quality as a beast of burden, then no man has any dignity left. I, Benjamin, believe that all men are created in the image of God.’
‘Is that a Jewish conception?’ asked Marcellus.
‘Yes.’
‘But wealthy Jews own slaves; do they not?’ Marcellus raised the question casually as if it didn’t matter much how or whether the old man answered it, but the charge stirred Benjamin to instant attention.
‘Ah—there you have tapped one of the roots of our trouble!’ he exclaimed. ‘The Jew professes to believe that humanity was created in the image of God. Thus he affirms that God is his spiritual father. But that can be true only if he declares that all men are the children of God. Either they all are—or none! I, Benjamin, think they all are! Therefore, when I enslave another man, placing him at one with the cattle in the fields, I throw my whole case away.’
Marcellus broke his bread and amiably conceded that it didn’t seem quite right for one man to own another. It was no way to regard a fellow human, he said, even if you treated him kindly. A man shouldn’t be made to feel that he was just another animal.
‘Oh—as for that’—Benjamin dismissed this idea with an indifferent wave of his thin arm—‘you don’t rob a slave of his divine character when you buy him and hitch him to a plow, between an ox and an ass. He has had no choice in the matter. It isn’t he who has demoted mankind: it is you! He is still free to believe that God is his spiritual father. But you aren’tl Now, you take the case of that handsome Greek who trails about after you. Slavery hasn’t stopped him from being one of the sons of God, if he wants to consider himself so; but his slavery has made you a relative of the beasts, because that is your conception of man’s value.’
‘I am not much of a philosopher,’ admitted Marcellus, carelessly. ‘Perhaps, after I’ve been in Athens awhile, lounging on Mars’ Hill, observing the spinning of sophistical cobwebs—’
‘You’ll be able to tie up sand with a rope,’ assisted Benjamin, in the same temper. ‘But what we’re talking about is more than a pedantry. It is a practical matter. Here is your great Roman Empire, sending out its ruthless armies in all directions to pillage and persecute weak nations; bringing home the best of their children in stinking slave-ships, and setting the old ones at hard labor to pay an iniquitous tribute. Eventually the Roman Empire will collapse—’
‘My father thinks that,’ interposed Marcellus. ‘He says that the Romans, with their slave labor, are getting softer and fatter and lazier, every day; and that the time will come—’
‘Yes, yes—the time will come—but that won’t be the reason!’ declaimed Benjamin. ‘The Romans will be crushed, but not because they are too fat. It will be because they have believed that all men are beasts. Enslaving other men, they have denied their own spiritual dignity. Not much wonder that your Roman gods are a jest and a mockery in the sight of all your intelligent people. What do you want with gods—you who think that men are like cattle, to be led by a halter? Why should you look to the gods, when your dog doesn’t?’
Benjamin paused in his monologue to refill their goblets. He had been much stirred, and his old hand was trembling.
‘I am a Jew,’ he went on, ‘but I am not unconversant with the religion of other races. Time was when your Roman deities were regarded with some respect. Jove meant something to your ancestors. Then the time came when Julius Caesar became a god, more important than Jove. Only the down trodden any longer believed in the classic deities who controlled the sunrise and the rain, who dealt out rewards and punishments, who tempered the wind for the mariner, and filled the grape with goodness. And why—let me ask you—did Caesar make a mockery of the Roman religion? Ah—that was when the Romans had achieved enough military power to enslave other nations, buying and selling men, and driving them in herds. By that act they declared that all men—including themselves, of course—were of no relation to the gods! Vain and pompous Caesar was god enough when it became established that all men were animals!’
‘I don’t believe any sensible person ever thought that Julius was a god,’ protested Marcellus.
‘Down in his heart—no,’ agreed Benjamin. ‘Nor Caesar, himself, I dare say!’
‘Is it your belief, then, that if the Romans abolished slavery they would think more highly of the old gods, and by their reverence make themselves more noble?’
Benjamin chuckled derisively.
‘An “if” of such magnitude,’ he growled, ‘makes the rest of your question ridiculous.’
‘Well—as for me’—Marcellus had tired of the subject, as his tone candidly announced—‘I have no interest in the gods, be they classic or contemporary.’
‘How do you account for the universe?’ demanded Benjamin.
‘I don’t,’ replied Marcellus. ‘I didn’t know that I was expected to.’ And then, feeling that this rejoinder was more impolite than amusing, he added quickly: ‘I should be glad to believe in a supernatural being, if one were proposed who seemed qualified for that office. It would clarify many a riddle. Yesterday you were saying that your people—the Samaritans—worshiped on the mountain-tops. I can cheerfully do that too if I’m not required to personify the sunrise and the trees.’
‘We do not personify the objects of nature,’ explained Benjamin. ‘We believe in one God—a Spirit—creator of all things.’
‘Somewhere I have heard it said’—Marcellus’ eyes were averted thoughtfully—‘that the Jews anticipate the rise of a great leader, a champion, a king. He is to set them free and establish an enduring government. Do you Samaritans believe that?’
‘We dol’ declared Benjamin. ‘All of our great prophets have foretold the coming of the Messiah.’
‘How long have you been looking for him?’
‘For many centuries.’
‘And you are still hopeful?’
Benjamin stroked his long beard thoughtfully.
‘The expectation ebbs and flows,’ he said. ‘In periods of national calamity there has been much talk of it. In times of great hardship and persecution, the Jews have been alert to discover among themselves some wise and brave man who might give evidence of messianic powers.’
‘And never found one to qualify?’ asked Marcellus.
‘Not the real one—no.’ Benjamin paused to
meditate. ‘It is a queer thing,' he went on. ‘In a time of great need, when powerful leadership is demanded, the people—confused and excited—hear only the strident voices of the audacious, and refuse to listen to the voice of wisdom which, being wise, is temperate. Yes—we have had many zealous pretenders to messiah-ship. They have come and gone—like meteors.’
‘But—in the face of all these disappointments, you sustain your faith that the Messiah will come?’
‘He will come,’ murmured Benjamin. ‘Of course, every generation thinks its own problems are severe enough to warrant his coming. Ever since the Roman occupation, there has been a revival of interest in the ancient predictions. Even the Temple has pretended to yearn for the Messiah.’
‘Pretended?’ Marcellus raised his brows.
‘The Temple is fairly well satisfied with things as they are,' grumbled Benjamin. ‘The Roman Prefects grind the poor with vicious taxation, but they are careful about imposing too hard on the priests and the influential rich. The Temple would be embarrassed, I fear, if the Messiah put in an appearance. He might want to make some changes.’ The old man seemed to be talking mostly to himself now, for he did not bother to explain what he meant.
‘He might discharge the merchants, perhaps, who sell sacrificial beasts to the poor at exorbitant prices?’ asked Marcellus, artlessly.
Benjamin rallied from his reminiscent torpor and slowly turned an inquiring gaze upon his pagan guest.
‘How do you happen to know about that iniquity?’ he asked slyly.
‘Oh—I heard it discussed in Jerusalem.’ Marcellus made it sound unimportant. ‘It seems there had been a little protest.’
‘A little protest?’ Benjamin lifted an ironical eyebrow. ‘It must have been quite an insistent protest to have come to the ears of a visiting Roman. What were you doing there—if I may venture to ask?’
‘It was Empire business,' replied Marcellus, stiffly. He rose, readjusting the folds of his toga. ‘I must not outstay my welcome,' he said, graciously. You have been most kind. I am indebted. May I have the Robe now?’