‘Marcellus.’ Miriam’s tone was confidential.
He glanced up and met her level eyes inquiringly.
‘Why did you lie to Justus?’ she insisted, just above a whisper.
‘Lie to him?’ parried Marcellus, flushing.
‘About that Greek. You did not want to talk about him. Perhaps you know him. Tell me, Marcellus. What are you? You’re not a merchant I know that. You have no real interest in my mother’s weaving.’ Miriam waited for a reply, but Marcellus had not recovered his self-possession. ‘Tell me,’ she coaxed, softly. ‘What are you doing up here—in Galilee—if it isn’t a secret?’
He met her challenging smile with an attempted casualness.
‘It is a secret,’ he said.
Chapter XIV
JUSTUS was coolly polite today, but remote. He was beginning to be skeptical about Marcellus. Yesterday at Reuben’s house a few facts, unimportant when considered singly, had taken on size once they were strung together.
Marcellus, whose Aramaic was distinctly of the Samaritan variety, had recklessly volunteered that he knew old Benjamin, the weaver in Athens, who had derived from Samaria.
Demetrius, the handsome young Greek who had recently been in Benyosef’s employ, also knew old Benjamin; had worked for him; and the Aramaic he spoke was loaded with Samaritan provincialisms. Clearly there was some sort of tieup between Marcellus and this fugitive slave, though the Roman had pretended not to have known him, and had shown no interest in the story of his hasty flight from Benyosef’s shop. Doubtless Marcellus knew about it, and had reasons for wanting to evade any discussion of it. It all went to prove that you couldn’t trust a Roman.
At sunset yesterday, Justus had strolled down the street by himself, making it clear that his Roman patron’s company was not desired. For a little while Marcellus had debated the propriety of going alone to the fountain. His anxiety to hear Miriam sing again decided the matter.
The whole town was there and seated when he quietly joined the crowd at its shaded outskirts. No notice was taken of him, for Miriam had at that moment arrived and all eyes were occupied. Marcellus sat on the ground, a little way apart, and experienced the same surge of emotion that had swept through him on the previous evening. Now that he had talked with her, Miriam’s songs meant even more. He had been strangely drawn to this girl. And he knew that she had been sincerely interested in him. It was not, in either case, a mere transient infatuation. There had been nothing coyly provocative in Miriam’s attitude. She wanted only to be his friend, and had paid him the high compliment of assuming that he was bright enough to understand the nature of her unreserved cordiality.
As he sat there in the darkness, alternately stilled and stirred by her deep, vibrant, confident tones, he found himself consenting to the reality of her honest faith. His inherent, built-in skepticism yielded to a curious wistfulness as she sang, ‘In the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge. ... My heart is fixed.... Awake, my glory! Awake, my harp!’ Miriam couldn't walk—but she could fly.
Justus had briefly announced that they would be leaving early in the moming for his home town, Sepphoris, where he must attend to some errands.
‘Will we be coming back through Cana?’ Marcellus had asked.
‘If it is your wish, yes,’ Justus had replied, ‘but we have seen everyone here who has weaving for sale.’
There wasn’t much to be said after that. Marcellus could think of no reasonable excuse for a return to Cana. He couldn’t say, ‘I must have another private talk with Miriam.’ No—he would have to go, leaving her to wonder what manner of rôle he had been playing. Given one more day, one more confidential chat with Miriam, he might have told her why he was here in Galilee.
When the last song was ended, he waited in the shadows for the crowd to disperse. Justus, he observed, had moved forward to join Reuben’s party as it made its way to the street. It would be quite possible to overtake this slow-moving group and say farewell to Miriam. Perhaps she might be glad if he did. But on second thought that seemed inadvisable. It might prove embarrassing to both of them. Perhaps Reuben and Naomi shared the obvious suspicions of Justus that there was something irregular about this Roman’s Your of Galilee. After lingering indecisively until the little park was cleared, Marcellus, deeply depressed and lonely, slowly retraced his way to the little camp reproaching himself for having unnecessarily given them cause to distnist him. He saw now that it would have been much more sensible if he had told Justus, at the outset, why he wanted to visit Galilee. Of course, Justus, in that event, might have refused to conduct him; but the present situation was becoming intolerable. Marcellus was very unhappy. He would have given much for a talk with Demetrius tonight. Demetrius was resourceful. Had he been along, by this time he would have found means for penetrating the reticence of these Galileans.
***
It was nearing midday now. They had not exchanged a word for more than an hour. Justus, who had been tramping on ahead, paused to wait for Marcellus to come abreast of him. He pointed to a house on a near-by shady knoll.
‘We will stop there,’ he said, ‘though it is likely that Amasiah and Deborah have gone to Jerusalem. They weave excellent saddle-bags and sell them to the bazaars when they attend the Passover.’
A stout, middle-aged woman came sauntering through the yard to meet them as they turned in at the gate, her face suddenly beaming as she recognized Justus. No—Amasiah was not at home. Yes—he had gone to Jerusalem.
‘And why not you, Deborah?’ asked Justus.
‘Surely you know,’ she sighed. ‘I have no wish ever to see the Holy City again. Nor would Amasiah have gone but to sell the saddle-bags.’ She turned inquiring eyes toward Marcellus, and Justus introduced him with cool formality, explaining his mission. Deborah smiled briefly and murmured her regret that they had nothing to sell. No—everything had gone with Amasiah.
‘All but a little saddle-blanket I made for Jasper,’ she added. ‘I can show it to you.’ They moved toward the house, and Deborah brought out the saddle-blanket, a thick, well-woven trifle of gay colors. ‘Jasper can get along without it, if you want it.’ She nodded toward a diminutive, silver-gray donkey, browsing in the shade.
‘I suppose Jasper is a little pet,’ surmised Marcellus, lightly.
‘Jasper is a little pest,’ grumbled Deborah. ‘I am too heavy to ride him any more, and Amasiah says he isn’t worth his keep in a pack-train.’
‘Would you like to sell him?’ inquired Marcellus.
‘You wouldn’t have any use for him,’ said Deborah, honestly.
‘How much would you want?’ persisted Marcellus.
‘What’s he worth, Justus?’ asked Deborah, languidly.
Justus sauntered over to the donkey, pulled his shaggy head up out of the grass, and looked into his mouth.
‘Well—if he’s worth anything at all, which is doubtful, except maybe for a child to play with—he should bring twelve to fifteen shekels.’
‘Has he any bad habits?’ inquired Marcellus.
‘Eating,’ said Deborah, dryly.
‘But he won’t run away.’
‘Oh, no; he won’t run away. That would be too much of an effort.’ They all laughed but Jasper, who sighed deeply.
‘I’ll give you fifteen shekels for the donkey and the blanket,’ bargained Marcellus.
Deborah said that was fair enough, and added that there was quite a good saddle too, and a bridle that had been made especially for Jasper. She brought them. It was a well-made saddle, and the bridle was gaily ornamented with a red leather top-piece into which a little bell was set.
‘How about twenty-five shekels for everything?’ suggested Marcellus.
Deborah tossed the saddle across the donkey’s back and began fastening the girths. Marcellus opened his wallet. Justus, watching the pantomime, chuckled. It relieved Marcellus to see him amused about something.
Jasper was reluctant to leave the grass-plot, but showed no distress when it came time to pa
rt with Deborah, who had led him as far as the gate. Marcellus took the reins and proceeded to the highway, Justus lingering for a private word with Deborah.
Late in the afternoon they reached the frowsy fringe of little Sepphoris, a typical Galilean village. Everybody waved a hand or called a greeting to Justus as the big fellow trudged on with lengthening strides. Soon they were nearing the inevitable public plaza. A small boy broke loose from a group of children playing about the brick-walled well and came Tunning toward Justus with exultant shouts. He was a handsome lad with a sensitive face, a tousle of curly black hair, and an agile body. Justus quickened his steps and caught the little fellow up in his arms, hugging him hungrily. He stopped and turned about, his eyes brightly proud.
‘This is my Jonathan!’ he announced, unnecessarily.
The boy gave his grandfather another strangling embrace and wiggled out of his arms. He had sighted Jasper.
‘Is this your donkey?’ he cried.
‘Perhaps you would like to ride him,’ said Marcellus.
Jonathan climbed on, and Marcellus adjusted the stirrup-straps, a score of children gathering about with high-keyed exclamations. Justus stood by, stroking his beard, alternately smiling and frowning.
‘What’s his name?’ asked Jonathan, as Marcellus put the reins in his hands. His small voice was shrill with excitement.
‘His name is Jasper,’ said Marcellus. ‘You may have him, Jonathan. He is your donkey now.’
‘Mine!’ squeaked Jonathan. He gazed incredulously at his grandfather.
‘This gentleman,’ said Justus, ‘is my friend, Marcellus Gallio. If he says the donkey is yours, it must be so.’ He turned to Marcellus, and said, above the children’s shouts of amazement at Jonathan’s good fortune, ‘That is most generous of you, sir!’
‘Is he one of us, Grandfather?’ Jonathan pointed a finger at his benefactor.
The two men exchanged quick glances; one frankly mystified, the other somewhat embarrassed.
‘You are one of us,’ declared Jonathan, ‘or you wouldn’t give your things away!’
Again Marcellus invaded Justus’ eyes, but received no answer.
‘Are you rich?’ demanded Jonathan, immensely forthright.
‘No one has ever said “yes” to that question, Jonathan,’ laughed Marcellus, as Justus mumbled an unintelligible apology for his grandson’s impertinence.
‘But—you must be rich,’ insisted Jonathan, ‘to be giving your things away. Did Jesus tell you to do that?’ He thrust his small face forward and studied Marcellus’ eyes with childish candor. You knew Jesus; didn’t you? Did my grandfather tell you that Jesus straightened my foot—so I can walk and run?’
The children were quiet now. Marcellus found himself confronted with the necessity of making a public address, and was appropriately tongue-tied. After a difficult interval, he stammered:
‘Y-yes—your grandfather told me—about your foot, Jonathan. I am very glad it got well. That is fine!’
‘Let us go now,’ muttered Justus, uneasily. ‘My house is close by. Come! I want you to meet my daughter.’
Marcellus needed no urging. They proceeded up the street, their numbers increasing as they went. The news had traveled fast. People came out of their houses, wide-eyed with curiosity; children of all sizes ran to join the procession. One small boy on crutches, dangling a useless leg, waited for the parade, his pinched face alight with wonder. Justus stepped to the side of the road and gave him a friendly pat on the head as he passed.
Now they had arrived at the modest little home. The dooryard was scrupulously tidy. The narrow walk was bordered with tulips. Rebecca, a gentle-voiced, plain-featured matron of thirty-five, met them, considerably puzzled by all the excitement. Justus, on the doorstep, briefly explained; and, with a new cordiality, presented Marcellus.
‘Oh—you shouldn’t have done that, sir,’ murmured Rebecca, though her shining eyes were full of appreciation. ‘That is quite an expensive gift to make to a little boy.’
‘I’m fully repaid,’ smiled Marcellus. ‘It is evident that the donkey is a success.’
‘Look, Mother!’ shouted Jonathan, waving his arm. ‘It’s mine!’
Rebecca nodded and smiled, and the noisy pack moved on in the wake of the town’s young hero.
‘This is a great day for Jonathan,’ said Rebecca, as she led the way into their small, frugally furnished parlor.
‘Yes, yes,’ sighed Justus, sinking into a chair. He was frowning thoughtfully. ‘It’s a great day for the lad—but Jonathan’s pretty young for a responsibility like that.’
‘Oh—he’s old enough,’ remarked Marcellus. ‘That lazy little donkey really should belong to a child. Jonathan will get along with him splendidly.’
‘As for that—yes,’ agreed Justus, soberly. He stroked his beard moodily, nodded his head several times and muttered to himself, ‘Yes, yes; that’s a good deal to expect of a little boy.’ Then suddenly brightening he said to his daughter, ‘Rebecca, we will pitch Marcellus Gallio’s tent there beside the house. And he will have his meals with us.’
‘Of course, Father,’ responded Rebecca, promptly, giving their guest a hospitable smile. ‘Is there anything you are enjoined not to eat, sir?’ And when Marcellus looked puzzled, she hesitatingly explained, ‘I am not acquainted with the Roman customs. I thought perhaps your religion—like ours—forbids your eating certain things.’
‘Oh, no,’ declared Marcellus, amiably. ‘My religion has never inconvenienced anyone—not even me.’ He quickly repented of this flippancy when he observed that his remark had drawn down the corners of his host’s mouth.
‘Do you mean that your people have no religion at all?’ queried Justus, soberly.
‘No religion! protested Marcellus. ‘Why—we have gods on every corner!’
‘Idols—you mean,’ corrected Justus, dourly.
‘Statues,’ amended Marcellus. ‘Some of them quite well done, too. Imported from Greece, most of them. The Greeks have a talent for it.’
‘And your people worship these—statues?’ wondered Justus.
‘They seem to, sir. I suppose some of them are really sincere about it.’ Marcellus was tiring of this inquisition.
‘But you, personally, do not worship these things,’ persisted Justus.
‘Oh—by no means!’ Marcellus laughed.
‘Then you do not believe in any Supreme Power?’ Justus was shocked and troubled.
‘I admit, Justus, that all the theories I have heard on this subject are unconvincing. I am open to conviction. I should be glad indeed to learn of a reliable religion.’
Rebecca, scenting a difficult discussion, moved restlessly to the edge of her chair, smiling nervously.
‘I shall go and prepare your supper,’ she said, rising. You men must be starving.’
‘I didn’t mean to be offensive, Justus,’ regretted Marcellus, when Rebecca had left the room. ‘You are a sincerely religious person, and it was thoughtless of me to speak negligently of these matters.’
‘No harm done,’ said Justus, gently. ‘You wish you could believe. That is something. Is it not true, in our life, that they find who seek? You are a man of good intent. You are kind. You deserve to have a religion.’
Marcellus couldn’t think of an appropriate rejoinder to that, so he sat silent, waiting for further directions. After a moment, Justus impulsively slapped his big brown hands down on his knees in a gesture of adjournment; and, rising, moved toward the door.
‘Let us put up your tent, Marcellus,’ he suggested kindly. It was the first time he had spoken Marcellus’ name without the formal addition of ‘Gallio.’
***
Shortly after the family supper, which he had been too busy to attend, Jonathan appeared at the open front of the brown tent. He stood with his feet wide apart, his arms akimbo, and an expression of gravity on his sensitive lips. It was apparent that the day’s experiences had aged him considerably.
Marcellus, writing at the sma
ll collapsible table, put down his stylus, regarded his caller with interest, and grinned. He mistakingly thought he knew what had been going on in Jonathan’s mind. At the outset, his amazing windfall had dizzied him into a state of emotional instability that had made his voice squeaky and his postures jerky; but now that the crowd had gone home, and Jasper had been shown into the unoccupied stall beside the cow, and had been hand-fed with laboriously harvested clover, Jonathan’s excitement had cooled. He was becoming aware of his new status as a man of affairs, a man of property, sole owner and proprietor of a donkey, the only man of his age in all Sepphoris who owned a donkey. Even his grandfather didn’t own a donkey. Marcellus felt that Jonathan’s behavior was approximately normal for a seven-year-old boy, in these circumstances.
‘Well—did you put him up for the night?’ he inquired, as one man to another.
Jonathan pursed his lips and nodded gravely.
‘Will you come in and sit down?’
Jonathan came in and sat down, crossing his legs with mature deliberation.
‘Did Jasper behave pretty well?’
Jonathan nodded several times, facing the ground.
Marcellus felt in need of some cooperation, but pursued his inquiries hopefully.
‘Didn’t bite anybody? Or kick anybody? Or lie down in his harness and go to sleep on the road?’
Jonathan shook his head slowly, without looking up, his tongue bulging his cheek.
Not having conversed with a small boy for many years, Marcellus began to realize that it wasn’t as simple a matter as he had supposed.
‘Well!’ he exclaimed brightly. ‘That’s fine! Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about it?’
Jonathan glumly raised his head and faced Marcellus with troubled eyes. He swallowed noisily.
‘Thomas asked me to let him ride,’ he muttered, thickly.
‘Something tells me that you refused,’ ventured Marcellus.
Jonathan nodded remorsefully.
‘I shouldn’t fret about that,’ went on Marcellus, comfortingly. ‘You can let Thomas ride tomorrow. Perhaps he shouldn’t have expected you to lend him your donkey on the very first day you had him. Is this Thomas a good friend of yours?’