Dear and Glorious Physician

by Taylor Caldwell

  One of them, an arrogant bearded man with angry eyes, spoke bluntly. “Who are you, Master?”

  “I?” said Lucanus, surprised. “I am a physician, Lucanus by name.”

  “A Roman?” The query was full of contempt.

  “No. A Greek.” Lucanus smiled.

  “You speak Aramaic well, Master.”

  “I speak many languages.” For the first time Lucanus was aware of the hostility.

  “You wear a sword. Is it customary for physicians to wear swords?”

  “In a peaceful country?” added another.

  Lucanus looked at his sword, and then at the threatening faces. “I am an excellent swordsman,” he said, quietly. “I was the best athlete in Alexandria.”

  No one answered him, but all of them glowered. Then one finally spoke, uneasy at the cold blue steadiness of Lucanus’ eyes. “We are a peaceable people. We dislike weapons.”

  Lucanus shrugged. “I sleep with my sword in my hand,” he said, and rose.

  He had had the thought of wandering about on foot after dining. He abandoned the idea. He went to his room and carefully locked his door and the lattices. He took his sword from its sheath and laid it on the bed. He was suddenly exhausted. He lay down and was instantly asleep. He kept his lamp burning.

  He rose just after dawn, and endeared himself to the landlord by not protesting the outrageous bill; the man sent him on his way with loud blessings, and the girls gathered in the courtyard to shrill farewell to him. He followed the river as well as he could, but sometimes the road wound away from it, and he was in the wilderness again for a short time. Now many of the high hills were broken and bronzed, the color of the earth, against a whitely flaming sky. They echoed back the sound of the trotting horse. Lucanus felt alone in a world of vast desolation; sometimes he saw bleached houses on the hills, with a dusty cypress or two, and he wondered how it was possible for any human being to live in this frightful place. When the road turned back to the brilliantly green river again he rejoiced, and climbed down its banks to bathe his hot arms and legs. At noon he ate of the napkin-wrapped contents of his basket and drank some wine, and panted in the unbearable heat. Patches of the river blazed emerald in partings between trees. But in his hands it was cool and clear and fresh.

  He rode through tiny villages, and dogs followed him, barking and snapping at the heels of his horse. He was now in the province of Decapolis, and he noted that the people were becoming fairer and taller, blue or gray of eye and light brown of hair or beard. When he passed a herd of goats on the road the peasant glanced up at him, smiled pleasantly, and saluted with his whip. Riding through a village, he passed the little house of a carpenter; the man was surrounded by his four sons, and they chattered as they worked on the raw yellow wood which had a resinous odor. Lucanus thought of Jesus and His foster father. So He had worked, with hammer and chisel and saw, fashioning the plain furniture of the countryside. So Joseph had admonished Him for striking a nail crookedly. Lucanus felt closer to Christ near the carpenters than he had felt in Jerusalem or with John and James. A woman came out of the house with a pail of milk and some cups, and father and sons stopped to drink deeply. The woman held a distaff in her hands and smiled at Lucanus. Had Christ’s Mother appeared so, to refresh her Son and her husband?

  That twilight he passed over into the province of Galilee, and would have continued to the Sea of Galilee itself, but he found a little inn just as night fell. He was in the country of Jesus, and when he wrapped his blanket about him in that poor place he felt that he had come home.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  On proceeding the next morning, Lucanus was impressed by the great change in the landscape and the people of Galilee. He passed through a hamlet of little white houses, staring with blinding light under the early sun, surrounded by little fertile gardens and farms and then beyond mountains of a peculiar and gleaming blackness, broken and rough, all against a colorless sky of hot radiance. The clothing of both men and women, whom he passed on the road or saw tending kine and black-faced sheep, was gayer here, and among the dark purple and black robes he saw yellow and red and blue. They were taller than those in Decapolis or Judea, and exceedingly fair, with golden or red hair and bright blue or light gray eyes, and pale or rosy skins. Men were using scythes on the thistles and cacti, preparing the recovered land for wheat and trees, and there was a cheerful air about them, simple and kind and rustic. Children tended small lambs and fowl about rippling little streams that crept from the jade Jordan, and laughing as they splashed in the water or threw stones into it. Women sat on doorsteps, nursing babies or spinning or scolding toddling infants. A deep and quiet peace stood over the countryside, unmarred by the basalt mountains and the heat.

  Lucanus left the river to follow the road, which climbed a black and jagged mount covered with boulders the same color. He reached the top to give his horse a breathing space and looked about him at what lay below. He was instantly stunned and awed by the scene. He was like one who had laboriously struggled over a dark and barren mountain from hell and then suddenly was confronted by Paradise, suffused with an ineffable radiance. For, in a cup of folding mountains, pale yellowish heliotrope, lay the Sea of Galilee, shining and absolutely still, celestially blue and brilliant, with darker blue shadows streaking its flat and incandescent plain. Here was not only calm, but an unearthly peace more than a complete silence. Even as he watched, the cup of mountains brightened, and appeared to coil about the Sea like a protecting python, their hollows filled with gilded, dimpled light; the silent purplish shadows on the Sea deepened over the blue expanse.

  The River Jordan wound away from the Sea, emerald green and surrounded by rich fertility of willows and trees and shade and warm fecund earth. No voice or movement broke the hushed quiet, though on the blackish slope below Lucanus olive and palm groves had been planted, and vineyards and fruit trees. The foliage of the olives had the aspect of fretted silver; the green palms did not sway in the pure and windless air; the pomegranates bore their red fruit on their branches like jewels. Sheep slept about the olive trees, their wool pale gold. There was no cry of bird here in this aureate effulgence. The peace beyond understanding, the light that never lay on land or sea, was here caught as in glowing crystal, eternal and unchanging.

  Lucanus sat on his horse like a statue for a long time, breathing the bright air and basking in the awesome peace. Then he saw Tiberias on the edge of the water, the little city built by Herod Antipas in honor of Tiberius, and accursed and avoided by the Jews, for the city had been raised on the site of an old cemetery which had been called Rakkath. The black basalt of the mountain had been used to build the Roman fortress which guarded the town, and many of the houses, though those in the very center were white and saffron, with gleaming flat roofs.

  Lucanus thought, Here was what He had known, and here is where He walked and taught and brought men to Him without question. He knew this turquoise Sea and these amber mountains shadowed with violet.

  He began the slow descent to the valley and the Sea, over the little rough road. He had just reached the bottom when he heard the sound of hoofs, and six soldiers and a centurion cantered from the fortress towards him, armored and helmeted, with spears in their hands which caught the light like flame. The centurion rode ahead and saluted him, and grimly smiled. “Greetings to the noble Lucanus, son of Diodorus Cyrinus,” he said in Latin, enjoying Lucanus’ surprise. He was a squat, middle-aged man with the Roman’s eagle face and harsh eyes and a sun-browned skin. “I am Aulus, the commander of the fortress.”

  “Greetings, Aulus,” said Lucanus. “But how did you know I was coming?”

  “Your friend, Hilell ben Hamram, wrote me and requested that you be given all honor and comfort.”

  Lucanus, though reminding himself of Hilell’s solicitude, was somewhat chagrined. He had hoped to find a small inn where he could remain for some days, meditating in this holy place and wandering where he would and exploring the territory. But he had no choice
except to smile in gratitude at Aulus, who was watching him. Aulus said, and his hard face softened, “I was a young subaltern under the heroic Diodorus and loved him as a father, for he was a great man, full of virtue. It delights me that I now look upon his adopted son.”

  The soldiers surrounded Lucanus and the centurion, and they trotted towards the little town, and through the gates of the fortress. They led him into the fortress and into a small dining room where refreshments were waiting. Aulus ceremoniously drew out a chair for his guest; here was all blue shade and coolness within the black stony walls. “I cannot offer you ostrich wings or the pointed tongues of flamingos, such as they eat in Rome,” said Aulus. “But we have good fish from the Sea, moist dark bread, a goose, fruit, and wine of the country.” He paused and winked. “Shall we first have a goblet of excellent Syrian whiskey? It is potent and makes a man forget his burdens.”

  Lucanus thought the day early for whiskey, but he accepted politely. The liquor was amber in the goblet, but acrid and burning on the tongue and in the throat. Nevertheless, after a few sips he felt himself exhilarated, and laughed and jested with the centurion. His sun-flushed face reddened; his blue eyes sparkled; he appeared a youth again. Aulus told him that he had engaged apartments for him in the best inn in Tiberias, on the basalt-strewn shore of the Sea, where he would be comfortable. “You are the guest of Rome,” said the centurion. “It is well known that you are under the protection of Caesar.” Aulus paused. In his letter Hilell had merely mentioned that Lucanus wished to tour the country, which intrigued him as a traveler and as a physician. He was also interested in Jewish medicine. After his signature Hilell had drawn the minute picture of a fish. The sun wrinkles about the centurion’s strenuous eyes deepened. He refilled Lucanus’ goblet with more whiskey and pretended to do the same with his. He had observed Lucanus’ original reserve; there was nothing like good whiskey to loosen a man’s tongue. Lucanus exclaimed over the small fresh fish, which had been broiled over coals of wood; he delighted in the well-cooked goose, which had been stuffed with breaded herbs and onions; the salad, fruit, and cheese were simple but fresh and excellent in flavor. The deep blue silence which surrounded them, the whiskey and the food, diminished some of Lucanus’ normal taciturnity. He looked at Aulus with affection. “Never have I eaten so splendid a meal,” he said, leaning back on the bench to sip his wine and enjoy his sense of well-being.

  Aulus smiled; he wondered what the real reason was for Lucanus’ visit to this quiet place. Lucanus had been the guest of Pontius Pilate, that ruthless and haughty patrician; he had dined with Herod Antipas. He had been a protege of Tiberius. He was wealthy, the adopted son of a noble house. Aulus did not believe he was merely touring, and that he would find anything of interest here in medicine. It could be that he was very dangerous, a handsome spy. Aulus scratched his chin and reflected. He had not only himself to protect, but several of his soldiers, who loved him.

  Idly Aulus dipped his finger in his goblet, and, as if thinking of something else, he slowly moved his wet finger over the table and drew a crude fish. Then he looked up quickly at Lucanus with his sharp and piercing black eyes. Lucanus saw the wet image drawn in wine. His face changed, became gentle yet amazed. He returned Aulus’ regard, then deliberately wet his own finger and drew the same image. Aulus frowned, still suspicious and very surprised. He said, “Have things become more orderly in Jerusalem since the crucifixion of that Galilean Jew, Jesus? I have heard they were very bad for a time.”

  Lucanus looked at the wall thoughtfully. He too was suspicious. Then he opened his pouch and drew out his rings and put them on his fingers. They scintillated in the cool dusk of the small dining room, and Aulus looked at them with admiration. “This ring,” said Lucanus, “was given to me by Caesar when I was young. I never used it until three months ago, when I gave it to Pontius Pilate, and he sent it to Caesar.” He waited a moment. “Pilate had proscribed the Christians, who are innocent men. I asked that the proscription be lifted, and so it was. You have heard of the lifting of that proscription?”

  “Yes,” said Aulus. He folded his muscular arms on the table, and his eyes met those of Lucanus directly. “I did not know you were the cause of it, Lucanus.” He looked down at the two drawings of the fish, which had dried red on the white wood. “May I ask why?”

  But Lucanus said, “When Jesus was here in Galilee, did you hear Him yourself?”

  “I did.” The centurion’s face was inscrutable.

  “I heard of Him when I was a child, on the day He was born.” Lucanus then briefly told Aulus of what he had known, and he watched him closely as he spoke. Aulus’ face slowly became illuminated, and softened, and a slow look of exaltation dawned in his eyes. When he had finished, Lucanus showed him the cross on the gold chain about his neck. Aulus was silent for a long time, then he whispered, “Peace be unto you, Lucanus.”

  “And to you, Aulus.”

  Seeing Lucanus’ expression, he knew he need no longer fear. He rose and beckoned to Lucanus, who followed him outside into the dazzling light. Aulus pointed to a mount not far away, on which was a poor synagogue made of basalt, with white painted doors and a flat tiled roof. “There He spoke, often. I could not enter, of course, but I listened at the door. Followed by His disciples, He would stand on the shore and speak to the people. And on a certain day I heard Him preach on the open mount, and I stood among the people, the poor men and women of the region, and listened.”

  Aulus paused. The sun lay vividly on his changed face. “I tell you, Lucanus, it was impossible to hear Him and not feel your heart move in you! Who is He? I asked myself. What gods ever spoke like this, our venal, capricious, and cruel gods? What hope or peace or joy or promise did they ever bring to men, in their corruption and engrossment with their own godly pleasures? But this Man spoke of God’s mercy and love for His children, of His everlasting watchfulness, of eternal life in bliss, of God’s pity and desire that men come to Him, not merely to praise Him and prostrate themselves before Him in fear, but to rejoice with Him through eternity, partaking of His own happiness.

  “What manner of a man is this? I asked myself, amazed. Why does He speak with such authority, like one who brings a message from a great King? Why did the people regard Him with such joy and love, and silence fill them so that they would not miss a word? Why do they follow Him like a retinue, and crowd about Him to look upon His face and touch His garments? The children in their mothers’ arms laughed with pleasure, and He smiled upon them and His face was like the sun itself. Yet what in His appearance could stir one? He wore the garments of a Galilean peasant, with poor sandals of rope, and He had no money, no servants, and He walked on foot.

  “This is a quiet place, Lucanus, but from the hour when He appeared here it took on this peace you observe, this deep and holy peace, and it has never departed.

  “One day, my friend, I stood at the edge of the crowd, listening, and He told the people of a prayer they must say. ‘Father, hallowed be Your Name. Your Kingdom come! Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our sins, for we also forgive everyone who is indebted to us. And lead us not into temptation’. His voice rang over the mountains like summer thunder, and the people prayed with Him. And when they had completed their prayer His eyes suddenly found me, wondering and confused, and He smiled upon me over the people’s heads. From that moment I was His, and I would have died for Him with joy. But I cannot explain why, for I am a Roman, and He was only a Galilean Jew, and a carpenter.

  “Nor did this miracle come to me alone. Several of my men listened to Him also, and He took their hearts in His hand.”

  Aulus sighed. “I was transformed. The world of Rome was not important to me. My anxieties and troubles vanished. I was at peace. I was filled with exultation. The earth was no longer populated with enemies, but with friends. I had only one desire: to perfect myself so that I would be worthy to lie at His feet and look upon Him forever. How can one explain this? One has to experience it for himself. But I can s
ay this: I now see all things shedding a light of their own; the moon never beamed so silvery a light before, nor was ever the sun so radiant to my eyes. Men, to me, no longer have a station; one should not be honored for mere position or wealth, but only for virtue. Moreover, all men to me now are my brothers, even the lowliest. Sometimes I say to myself, But you are a Roman, the master of the world! And it means nothing to me. Again I remind myself, We have the leadership of all the earth, and a voice in my spirit answers, That nation which seeks leadership of the earth is doomed to death, for it is an evil nation, no matter its lofty pretensions; men seek leadership only to dominate and enslave all others.”

  They looked upon the scene about them. The light had changed. The coiling mountains were washed with deep purple of various hues. The Sea had taken upon itself the color of an aquamarine, streaked with cobalt, and the sky was like blue enamel. Lucanus felt from it all a spiritual emanation, profound and vast and unchanging, as if unseen celestial beings hovered over all things, winged with the sun.