Dear and Glorious Physician

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Then there are the Pharisees, grim, sour-faced men, who have set themselves up as the guardians of the Law. They are merchants and bankers, lawyers and doctors. They will not live joyously, nor permit others to live so. They despise the poor and humble and homeless, and the Amuratzem, the peasants. They have even suggested that the Amuratzem be forbidden to approach the altars too closely, for they are unlearned and rough-clad!

  “And there are the rabble, the market-place rabble, who have no love for their country or their God — the petulant, lightless rabble which afflict all cities and all nations, demanding always, greedy, eager for sport, with lusty animal appetites, quarrelsome, milling restlessly, incapable of learning anything, contentious, and dependent. Have you not such a rabble in Rome, and will not Rome die of them, and the taxation they impose on their betters for their idle support?

  “Now when the Messias made such a stir throughout all of Judea, speaking to the gentle and the hard-working and humble, promising them that God will never leave them, but loves them, healing them tenderly, and telling them that though they have no money they are not despised of God, as the Pharisees despise them, assuring them that they are as valuable in the sight of the All High as any emperor or king or silk-clothed priest or Pharisee — then this aroused the anger of the Pharisees. Moreover, it seemed to the Pharisees that the Messias was somewhat loose with the Law, interpreting it to His followers and the people as no Pharisee would interpret it. In the eyes of the Pharisees, He was debasing God to the level of the lowest, uttering heresies which would destroy the spiritual strength of Israel. When His followers acclaimed Him as the Messias, the Pharisees were enraged, for did they not believe that the Messias would come to the Jews as the mightiest of kings, clothed in glory and fierceness and power, surrounded by an angelic host, and would He not at once drive out the Romans and put them to flight forever? Yet here was a humble Man, a member of the Amuratzem, of Galilee, unknown to everyone except for three short years, a nameless Man, in rope sandals and in rough garments, speaking in a common tongue like a peasant — and it was said openly that He was the Messias! Was this not a blasphemy against God, against the prophecy? asked the Pharisees. Worse, He did not deny He was the Messias!

  “The followers, and the people too, were confused. Here was the Messias, yet He expressed no hatred for Rome; He even condescended to cure some Romans. However, the followers and the people, who had been given joy and surcease by Him, loved Him and knew Him, and accepted Him. They were those who acclaimed Him on the road to Jerusalem, and wept as He bore His cross to Calvary. They hoped, to the very last, that when a Roman would drive a nail through His feet the heavens would open and wrath would descend upon the earth.

  “Then there were the priests, many of them members of the Pharisee class, who were honestly horrified at His teachings. They were also fearful that the Romans would use the Messias and His words as an excuse for suppression, bloodshed, and oppressive laws — after all the work the priests had done to placate Rome and keep a measure of freedom for their people.

  “So you have the priests, frightened for their people and their faith; you have the self-appointed guardians of the Law, the Pharisees, who detest the humble; you have the shrill rabble, always searching for a victim. And you have Rome, ever watchful for signs of rebellion against her power. Considering all these, it is a marvel that He was permitted to live as long as He did! Eventually He was denounced to the Roman officials, and that was the end. Or the beginning,” added Hilell.

  He sighed. “I was told that long before His death He prophesied it. He said He had been born to die as He died. God had willed it from the beginning of time, to reconcile His people to Him, to show them that He had never abandoned them, that He loved them and was willing to perish for them, in order that they might see the truth, the light, and the life, and life everlasting and mercy without bounds. He clothed Himself in their flesh to demonstrate that nothing was impossible with God. The men who killed Him were, at the last, only His ordained instruments. Without His death, as well as His life, there would be no fulfillment of the prophecies of the prophets.”

  Lucanus was silent for a long time; he nodded over and over as he thought. Then he said, “You do not know what has happened now?”

  Hilell hesitated. “No. But His followers said He would rise from the dead on the third day, for so He had told them.”

  Lucanus smiled. “He has risen,” he said. “Be of good heart, my dear friend. He has risen! I know this in my soul.”

  The joyousness, the clean bright surety, filled his days. He was like a youth, filled with words and regnant with messages. He looked about him, and it was as if he had never seen before, as if for the first time he had been given sight and ears and understanding. The darkness and the grief had departed from him like a storm. When he smiled at his friends or at those he treated, the sun seemed to shine on his face. He would touch the cross he now wore always on his breast. And he wrote his Gospel.

  They had intended landing at Joppa, but a storm blew, and they were driven off course to Caesarea. Lucanus and Hilell and Arieh stood together at the ship’s railing and watched the approaching coast of Judea, and Lucanus thought, There is my home from which I have always fled. The port of Caesarea was a long black spur of rock reaching out into the sea, and Hilell explained that on one side the Roman galleons unloaded or loaded cargo, and on the other side they disembarked passengers or took them on board. He said, smiling, “I have a dear friend, a Roman officer, who was appointed to this region three years ago. You will like him: a wry and pungent man, of no illusions.”

  Behind the wonderful ship of Hilell a huge black cloud formed like a great tower, outlined with the blazing gold of the descending sun; the sea flowed like liquid rubies. Mars, an amber jewel, stood above the cloudy edifice. The ship glided to the busy spur which was the harbor; several galleons and smaller vessels dipped at anchor, their slack sails stained with scarlet from the sunset. A low ridge of hills lay beyond the harbor, bronze and naked, and the air was poignant with the scent of the East.

  Hilell pointed to the hills and said with some bitterness, “The Romans stripped our land of its dark cypresses for their ships.” Arieh’s blue eyes were sharp and piercing as he looked at the land of his fathers, and his lips trembled with emotion. Hilell, seeing this, put his hand on the young man’s arm and pressed it affectionately. He had a beautiful young sister, Leah, fifteen years old, and ripe for marriage. He began to plan a wedding between her and Arieh, the son of Elazar ben Solomon, a noble name in Israel.

  The ship, masterfully handled, slipped within the harbor, all its gay pennants flying, its sails heeling against the awesome sky of sunset. It was hailed by the other ships, and Hilell saluted, his handsome face smiling. His sailors shouted from the masts. The harbors were busily bustling against the night; lanterns began to appear in the swift twilight. A number of Roman soldiers stood idly watching the work, and their officer came running lightly to the dock as Hilell’s ship cast anchor. “Hilell!” he called, in a strong and delighted voice. “Greetings!” His helmet glowed like fire from the fast-falling sun, which shone redly on his strenuous, masculine face. He began to laugh, standing on the dock, his thumbs in his broad belt, his bare legs spread, his tunic rippling in the light wind. Then as the plank came out from the ship he jumped on it and ran aboard, laughing. Hilell fell into his arms, and they embraced.

  “How did you know we were to arrive here?” asked Hilell. The Roman winked broadly, pretending not to see Lucanus and Arieh nearby. “How do I know?” he said. “I should like you to believe, you mystic Jew, that an angel bent and whispered in my ear, or that an oracle told me, or a priest mentioned it as he examined the entrails of a sacrificed animal. But no. It is my affair to know exactly where you have been sailing these past two months, and whom you have on board.”

  He was no longer smiling. He turned abruptly to Lucanus, who was gazing at him intently. “You do not know me, Lucanus, son of Diodorus Cyrinus?”
he asked in a grave and disappointed voice.

  Lucanus started. He removed his elbows from the railing. “No!” he exclaimed. “It cannot be! Plotius!” And he gripped the arms of Plotius and could not speak.

  Hilell regarded them with astonishment. Plotius said to him, “These Greeks! They are very emotional, though they pretend otherwise.” He held Lucanus off from him, and his soldier’s eyes were moist. “So. Here you are at last; here we meet once more. I was at Joppa two days ago, and there heard the ship would not land there.” He paused. “Lucanus,” he said, like one deeply stirred, “we never wrote to each other, but I always knew where you were, for Caesar had you under his protection.”

  “I cannot believe it,” said Lucanus. “I am very happy! It is really you, Plotius, my dear friend, after all these years.” He laughed a little to conceal how moved he was; the blooming lanterns and the crimson torches swam before his eyes.

  “I swear by Castor and Pollux you have not changed!” said Plotius. His hands were on Lucanus’ shoulders; he bent forward to examine his face. “You are still a young man, and you are old enough to have a gray beard.” He looked at Hilell and said, “This is our dear Hermes, who fled the arms of Julia, of whom I have told you,” and he laughed.

  “Nor have you changed,” said Lucanus, somewhat mendaciously, for Plotius was broader and sturdier than he remembered, and had the heavy outlines of a man of forty-six, and his eyebrows, below the helmet, were threaded with gray.

  “Hah!” said Plotius. “The gods have not given me the secret of eternal youth, as they have given you, my dear Lucanus. Under this helmet I have a bald pate; I rarely remove it, for I am afraid that as with Aeschylus an eagle will mistake my head for a stone and drop a tortoise upon it. I prefer, however, to remember that Pericles too was bald, and retained his helmet for that reason.” He laughed again, and his laughter boomed over the water. He embraced Lucanus once more, then slapped him on the back.

  Lucanus introduced him to Arieh. “Yes, yes, I understand,” said Plotius, heartily. “I have heard of Arieh ben Elazar; the lawyers buzz about him in Jerusalem. I knew he was with you on this ship. Hilell, I am pleased to see that you are not sick, as was reported.”

  “I am very well,” said the other man. “And now you must find us lodgings for the night, Plotius, for I intend to remain here a few days.”

  Plotius’ face changed, became dark and inscrutable. He half turned aside. He did not look at Lucanus when he said, “It is all arranged, since we knew you would arrive here. Pontius Pilate has kindly offered his house for your use, as he will be in Jerusalem for some weeks. I believe he wishes to return to Rome, as his wife has been — disturbed — for some time.”

  “Your own house will do us equally well,” said Hilell. He frowned slightly. “I prefer not to be the guest of Pontius Pilate.”

  “My house,” said Plotius, “was recently sold. I am attached to the household of Pilate now. Now you must not be offensive, my dear Hilell! I know you never liked the procurator — ”

  “I do not like Herod, who built that fine house for him!” said Hilell in a vehement tone. Plotius studied him craftily. “You mean you no longer like Romans,” he said. “Well, then, go to a tavern, you stiffnecked Sadducee! And enjoy the fleas and the dogs.”

  Hilell hesitated. He looked at Lucanus and Arieh. Then he shrugged. “Very well, if my friends do not object, we will go to the house of Pilate — with no pleasure.”

  “I prefer to go where you go,” said Lucanus.

  Plotius looked at him strangely. “I think not, when I tell you that your adopted brother, Priscus, is in Pilate’s villa on the hills yonder, and awaits you.”

  “Priscus! I have not heard from him for a long time! I thought he was in Jerusalem!” Lucanus was freshly delighted.

  “So he was, until a few weeks ago.” Plotius’ tone was very odd and restrained. “He is a friend of Pilate’s, and has been visiting him.” The soldier paused. “The air here is more salubrious than in Jerusalem, and he has had a slight illness.”

  Hilell caught the restraint, the avoidance, in Plotius’ voice, but Lucanus, overcome with joy at seeing his old friend, and at the news of his brother’s presence, did not hear. The three went to Plotius’ large chariot, which was drawn by four black horses. A last light lay over the land, and as the chariot was borne off Lucanus looked about him eagerly.

  There was little to see in this dusk, except an occasional flickering light on a distant vast fortress, or a lamp in a small house, or a grove of spearlike cypresses beginning to lean against a rising yellow moon. Boys and girls, uttering harsh and guttural sounds, ran ahead of the chariot and its leading riders, herding their kine home, or a flock of goats, or black-faced brown sheep. Lucanus guessed, from the smell of dust, that the land was dry and sandy and crumbling. The city lay below them as they mounted the low hills, its flat roofs shimmering, its narrow streets restless with carried lights, its doorways golden. There was so little to see in this rapid darkness, yet Lucanus was more deeply excited than ever he had been in his life. It was not the deep and intense odors, pungent and hot over the sea breeze, heavy with a memory of incense and spice which the very ground exhaled that stirred him. It was not the peppery smell of trees and parched grass, nor the dust. He knew the East well; the odors here were only more insistent than in Alexandria or Cairo or Thebes or Syria. None of these scents moved Lucanus, but only the thought that here had lived the sages and the prophets, the patriarchs and mighty men, the men of Moses and David and Saul and Elias, the land of Goliath, of Gaza, of kings and warriors, of Samuel and Solomon. Here had sounded the thunder of the ages; here God had walked as an earthquake. Here Sinai had bellowed with thunder and had been stunned by lightnings. Here the Commandments had been given to all men. Here had risen the conception that man could be more than man, and that it was commanded that he be so. Here, in this little land, the giants, the Titans, had truly sprung from the ground and the crash of their voices echoed even in the silence. Here was more wisdom than Greece had conceived, more grandeur than Rome had struck under the sun. There was not an inch of ground which was not blessed; there was not a tree but which must stand in wonder. Here the spiritual heroes had had their being, and their shades walked on every path. Here a girl child had carried God in her womb, and here He had manifested Himself to man, and here He had lived and here He had died, and here He had chosen to speak as a man.

  I am home, thought Lucanus, and there was a profound rapture in him. For God, in this small compass, had made His own home among those He had chosen to hear Him.

  The mounted riders before the chariot carried torches like scarlet pennants. They reflected on an occasional tree, on a stone, on the rocky road, on faces, on the backs of the horses. Lucanus saw that they were rising toward two very impressive palaces. Plotius pointed to one. “Pilate,” he said. He pointed to the next. “His dear friend, the tetrarch of Jerusalem, Herod Antipas.” The white and columned buildings glittered in the moonlight; the palace of Herod was crowned with a golden dome. Roman legions began to line the road, saluting.

  The city lay below now, all flat silver-plated roofs, touched with the fire of torches and the paler glimmer of lanterns. From somewhere came the wailing of a woman. “Tomorrow I will show you one of our grandest temples,” said Plotius, proudly. “Two vast statues, one of Zeus and one of Apollo, facing each other, Zeus of marble, Apollo of red porphyry. This is a very strange land! The Jews despise our temples everywhere; they avert their faces, and they the most religious of people! I tell you, there is no understanding the Jews. The worst of them spit when we pass. Many of our soldiers have married pretty Jewish maidens, but only after a most painful circumcision, and only after prolonged weeping on the part of mothers and thunderings from fathers. One would think we were savages from blackest Africa.” He laughed.

  “They wish to keep both themselves and the Law unblemished,” said Hilell, somewhat stiffly.

  Plotius winked at Lucanus. “I tell you,” he re
peated, “they are very strange. They detest Herod, even when he stands in the Temple at Jerusalem and pours ashes on his head and sacrifices. They look on his tears with disdain. Ah, but they are stiff-necked!” He flicked the horses with his whip. “But the land has a curious fascination for me. Priscus will have much to tell you. You must make allowances, for he is not himself.”

  “Why not?” asked Lucanus, with his first alarm, raising his voice over the rumble of the chariot.

  Plotius shrugged. “He officiated at the crucifixion of a miserable Jewish rabbi, and it could be that some spell was laid on him. The Jews have incantations of their own, and I have told you they hate Romans. I am happy you are here. You will laugh his superstitions away.” Once more his voice was peculiar.

  Lucanus glanced at Hilell and Arieh, and they were staring at him mutely in the windy dance of the torches. “As you know,” went on Plotius, skillfully guiding his great horses, “Priscus’ family is not with him, and until that crucifixion Priscus was the merriest and most robust of men, and my favorite officer. He was also a frequenter of the better and more fastidious harlots, and a roisterer in the taverns. However,” he added, “I do remember that he had frequent fits of melancholy and thoughtfulness even before that crucifixion, and he would argue with me about Rome, wishing to be convinced that our nation was not truly depraved and lost and corrupt. Do I not remember my uncle, the senator, who as truly died for his country as any general in battle, and for no reason? But now I must tell you that Priscus has changed.”