The house of Telis was on the lower flank of a mount which was unusually green with trees and groups of cypresses, and it was a large and impressive building of white stone and gardens and gates, and Aristo was duly impressed. It was sunset, and the house beamed with rose. Telis met Aristo in the portico and embraced him and his voice was full and round as if greeting a friend one has known for life but has not seen for a long time. His manner was high and exuberant, his walk swift, his gestures vivid. He conducted Aristo into the atrium, which was colorful with Persian rugs, lively with bright murals on the walls, and large and stately and excellently furnished with tables of lemonwood and ebony and carved chairs inlaid with ivory and mother of pearl and gorgeous with velvet cushions of every hue. There was a fountain in the center, of alabaster, somewhat indecent and depraved, but beautifully carved, and the leaping waters were scented with the odor of lilies. Aristo was careful not to display undue admiration, for this incited contempt as for a base fellow who had never seen luxury before.
However, it was also evident that Telis expected some comment, discreet, as from a connoisseur, and from one who knew the worth of treasures. So Aristo kindly remarked that this bronze or alabaster statuette on a golden or black onyx pedestal was surely worthy of a Zeno, or even a Phidias, and those Alexandrine lamps in purple or crimson glass were among the most delicate and graceful he had ever seen. Even his friend, the noble Hillel ben Borush, of Tarsus, noted for his magnificent house and treasures, had no better than these, and everyone knew that Hillel was a discriminating collector of art. He had had emissaries not only in Greece but in Alexandria, also, being somewhat of an Egyptologist (and may gods overlook the lie, thought Aristo, if there are gods, for was not my Master a man of better taste?).
These amenities now concluded, Telis clapped his hands and the overseer of the hall entered and Telis ordered him to tell his mistress, the Lady Ianthe, that his master and his noble guest, Aristo, were prepared to dine. While waiting for the summons from the Lady Ianthe they would enjoy a goblet of wine in the atrium, which was pleasantly warm.
“The Lady Ianthe is your wife, Telis?” asked Aristo with some surprise, for Telis had never spoken of a wife before.
“No. My daughter. A childless widow, alas, who now dwells with me. She cossets me like a devoted wife, and I do not reject the cosseting, for she is my only child.”
Aristo preferred the company of young women, and girls, and he was somewhat distressed at the thought of a middle-aged widow, for Telis was at least sixty for all his newly virile appearance and the color in cheeks and on lips which had not been there on the ship. Aristo hoped that Telis observed the “old” Greek order, and that Ianthe would not be present at dinner, and then he remembered how Telis had jested over the “old” Jewish women who kept hidden in the houses of their husbands. “What is more charming than a fair face at a feast?” he had asked. “Women are not intelligent, but they are enchanting to gaze upon.”
Chilled wine was brought, and the goblets, wreathed in vine leaves were of carved silver and the wine was marvelously colored and the flavor delightful. Aristo made a judicious face on tasting it, and knowing his host was watching, gave a slight nod, the cultured accolade, again, of the connoisseur. He wondered, not without amusement, if Telis knew he was attempting to deceive him, and so the air between them took on a mirthful sparkle. He glanced at Telis and wondered anew at the new animation of his host, his vivacity, his color, the vitality of his hair and his look of absolute health. Was fit possible that this man was the pale and tenuous shadow he had net on the ship from Tarsus, the shadow who had a cancer and had but a short time to live?
“You are looking much improved in health, Telis,” he said.
Telis’ face took on a light of ardor and his dark eyes glistened. “Ah!” he said. “That is a miraculous tale, which I intend to tell you tonight!”
“You have met one of those holy Jewish rabbis who cure in a twinkling?” asked Aristo, with incredulity.
The overseer returned to announce that the dinner was waiting, and Telis rose and said, “Let us dine, if it please you, my friend. Then, we will converse.”
They entered the dining hall and Aristo was again deeply impressed by the large beauty of the room, which was far handsomer ban the dining hall of Hillel’s house, and crowded with treasures, and here large Chinese vases stood in corners filled with gilded sheaves of wheat and exotic flowers and huge green leaves, and the air was scented. The white marble floor gleamed where it was not hidden by beautiful Persian carpets, and the table was covered with cloth of silver and five slaves were waiting, beautiful boys finely clad, to serve the lord and his guest.
Also waiting was a lovely woman, apparently not yet thirty, and her ripest and sleekest years. She was tall but slight, and she was clad in a blue silken chiton with a jeweled circlet about her slender waist, and her sandals were jeweled also, and her white arms were bare and smooth and exquisitely formed, as was her neck. She had the rue Grecian face, with the round full chin, the daintily curled red Kips, the long nose that tapered from her white brow, without an indentation at the bridge, and the cairn smooth brow. Her eyes were like silver coins and very bright and sparkling and her lashes were autumn colored, as were her brows, and her auburn hair was dressed pi the Grecian manner and bound with silver ribbons. Brilliant earrings clung to her rosy ears and cast their reflection on a cheek like pink alabaster. Aristo had not seen so enthralling a woman since the Delightful Deborah bas Shebua, and he silently, with his eyes, gave er the worship of a Greek due a woman like a goddess. She saw us, and smiled demurely, and dropped her eyes.
Her father took her hand tenderly and again she smiled, this time with deep affection, and Tells said, “Is not my Ianthe a veritable naiad?”
Ianthe blushed, and Aristo was delighted, for he could not remember seeing a woman blush before, and this was no virgin but a widow. She sat beside her father and it was evident that she intended to give all her attention to his comfort and to help him to the most tasty morsels, and Aristo marveled at such devotion and envied Telis. The woman, of course, was a fool, but an adorable fool, and Aristo approved of beautiful women who were fools.
Alas, that his next thought was that all this luxury, all these jewels, were not the result, of a certainty, of honest dealing and virtuous affairs. Aristo suspected that his host was engaged in some nefarious business, such as smuggling under the noses of the Romans, if not worse, as well as open pursuits. So, Aristo envied him, and wondered if his friend, Telis, could not give him a confidential word or two when they were alone.
Aristo was confirmed in his suspicions when he saw the silver platters, and the silver and enameled plates and the golden spoons and knives and the gilded goblets. The napkins were of the silkiest of Egyptian linen and scented with rose. The repast was not like Roman repasts, of which Aristo had recently sadly learned from his new Roman friends. It was Greek—though, thank the gods, the wine was not resinous. But it was of a Greek style that could only have been inspired from Olympus, which cultivated Jews now favored above their own fashion in food. There were tiny brown fish broiled in butter and smoked British oysters, and butter as sweet as honey, bread as white as snow and hot as Hades, roasted lamb in a divine sauce with mushrooms and touches of rosemary and bay and ginger root from China, artichokes in sour wine and garlic—a mere suggestion of the latter, unlike the Romans—a roasted pig so small that it was evident it had not even had time to suck, and russet and crackling and luscious and stuffed with herbs on a gleaming platter with a pomegranate in its mouth, and rolled cabbage leaves filled with spicy hot meat and grapes steeped in wine and honey, and gilt bowls heaped with a medley of fruits and nuts and a carved board bearing many choice cheeses, and pastries so delicate that they appeared fashioned of clouds, enclosing sweetmeats that oozed a thick red jelly. And wine whose bottles were so dusty that they attested to age and mellowness.
Ianthe never ceased a soft and gentle murmuring as she selected morsels for her
father to eat, but that murmuring did not annoy Aristo. It merely added to his enjoyment. He watched Ianthe’s white hands deftly moving, deftly serving. She had little time to eat, herself, though the boys expertly served her and Aristo, gliding like beautiful statues about the table.
Somewhere, there was the benign and musical stirring of zithers and the threnody of a harp, and all was harmony, and the lamps glowed and the wine was beyond compare.
Aristo noticed that his host, so tenderly coddled by his daughter, ate magnificently and with gusto, and his plate was constantly refilled, and he drank like a Roman centurion. Moment by moment he was a man rejoicing, who could not have enough of the rejoicing, and sometimes, when she gazed at him, Ianthe’s charming lower lip trembled even though she smiled. There was something very mysterious here, Aristo reflected. Moment by moment Telis became younger and more vibrant and heartier, and his lips gleamed with oils. The man was transformed almost into a youth. Aristo began to feel like Tantalus, and his impatience grew.
The Bacchian feast drew to a close and Ianthe retired after bestowing so sweet a smile on Aristo that he was stunned for several moments. When Telis began to speak Aristo was forced to make a strong effort to hear and understand him. But finally his astonishment grew and his disbelief.
“When you left me at Caesarea, dear friend,” said Telis, “so that I could visit my old acquaintances there, I became extremely ill. I woke, one morning, after distressing dreams, to discover my bed soaked with my blood, which had flowed from my mouth. My friends called their best physicians, including one who waits upon Pontius Pilate, himself, and they announced, with shakings of the head, that I was in extremis from my cancer. I could not lift my head from the pillows, nor could I swallow aught but a little wine, and I prepared to die.
“This was sorrowful to me, for I have lived a life of excitement, if not actual joy, and I still consider life, as we Greeks say, the Great Games. I have property and extensive lands in several countries, and my bankers and brokers are comparatively honest men—as much as it is possible for bankers and brokers to be, which is not extraordinary, alas—but I still wished to engage in the Great Games, and I have a daughter, who is the light of my soul.” Telis sighed. “You will have observed that women of intelligence are not devoted nor greatly tender, for they have sharp eyes for men’s deficiencies of character and are not averse to conversing about them on all occasions, even before guests. If a man ails, they are wont to regard him coldly and suggest that he rise and go to his countinghouse or his business or other affairs, as the household needs money and the bankers are pressing, or a daughter requires a dowry or a son is entering adolescence and there are celebrations to be arranged. Moreover, the gods need sacrifices, and God help the household which neglects them! I will admit,” added Telis, “that under such prodding and pressure we do rise from our sick beds and before sundown arrives our malady has mysteriously disappeared. Nevertheless, a little tenderness and commiseration—while they will delay our recovery—soothe a man’s soul and are balm to his flesh. Often a man’s ailments are not of the flesh at all, but of the spirit, something a woman of intelligence will not tolerate in the least. I fear such women suspect men do not possess spirits.
“On the other hand, the stupid woman is sweetly servant to her husband, or father, and she will indulge him with tenderness, and not urge him to rise and put on his garments and leave the house and apply himself to his affairs. She will persuade him to rest in his bed, and will bring him delicious morsels and feed him with her own hands, and order the best wine for him, and will sing, if she has a pleasant voice, and stroke and cool his brow, and keep the household quiet about him while he contemplates his illnesses and listens intently to the grumbling of his body, and indulges himself with grave thoughts concerning life and death and the meaning of it all. As I have said, this is not conducive to the quick restoration of health—illness under these circumstances can become delightful and lingering—but does a man live for money alone, or even good health?” At this Telis winked and Aristo laughed.
“So,” said Telis, “I grieved over my daughter, Ianthe, who will inherit my entire estate. As she is beautiful as well as wealthy, she would be a prey to evil and exigent men. A thought comes to me: Is Ianthe stupid at all, or is she one of those rare women of intelligence who pretend to be stupid in order to please men? There are moments, when I come upon her diligently working over the household accounts, and swiftly writing in books and summing up, and scrutinizing the reports of bankers and my investments, that I am impelled to believe that she is a genius of a woman, in that she pretends to stupidity but is, in truth, a woman of mind. But so long as she does not claim to be an Aspasia and insist upon the recognition, I will not complain. However, I feared for my Ianthe, for even an intelligent woman is no match for taxgatherers and ruthless lawyers and bankers and brokers, who regard a woman without male protection as their natural prey, to be devoured.
“I also did not wish to die for I do not cherish the thought of extinction, nor do I believe in the gods nor in the Elysian Fields—dreary country if one is to believe the priests. I also have a charming mistress, and I love good food and excellent wine, and though my life until I was thirty years old was dire in the extreme, I now live pleasantly. So, I did not reflect on death with equanimity.
“While struggling with the blood that constantly welled up into my throat, and I fought to breathe, I remembered the story I had recently heard from Jerusalem of the mysterious young rabbi who cured so many with one word or one gesture. He had a few dingy followers from his poor province of Galilee. Nevertheless, he was acclaimed as being far more proficient in the matter of instant healing than other Jewish rabbis of whom I had heard. I had also been told that his followers, and even himself, claimed some mysterious direct contact with the Godhead, which is unusual among these holy Jewish healers. I do recall, before I left a year ago or more on my travels, that one wild man from the desert roared into Jerusalem, prophesying this rabbi, saying he came to ‘prepare the way.’ All laughed at him. Now, this is strange. It is said that Herod did not laugh at him at all, and asked him if he was the reincarnation of one of their prophets—a peculiar name. I believe it was Elias. Who knows about these Jewish gods? At any rate, King Herod Antipas appeared to be impressed by this stormy man from the desert, one of their screaming Essenes or Zealots, or the gods know what they call themselves, though they are a poisoned thorn in the side of the Romans, and for that they have my gratitude.”
Telis motioned to a boy and the goblets were refilled. Three of the boys were listening closely, their eyes large and intent, but Telis and Aristo were unaware of this.
“Herod,” said Telis, “is half a Jew and half a Greek, as are most of the cultivated men of Israel. It was amazing, therefore, that such a man, the Tetrarch of Israel, and powerful, and a friend of Pontius Pilate, and a sacrificer to the Roman gods as well as an observer of Jewish laws, and brother-in-law to Agrippa in Rome, and a man of no small mind and of much learning, should even condescend to listen to the ravings of a bearded and sweaty and unwashed denizen of the desert. However, incredible though it seems, Herod did listen. He was even prepared to honor that wild man! Is that not astonishing? But even the most distinguished men are sometimes superstitious. How did that wild man repay such unbelievable kindness and condescension from a king? He reviled him, he accused him of the most monstrous of crimes, he shouted before him that he was an adulterer and a murderer, and perhaps even worse!”
“No!” exclaimed Aristo. “That is beyond belief. A beggar—and a king. But, in truth, nothing surprises me very much concerning these Jews. I have even observed in Tarsus, on their High Holy Days, the most noble among them scouring the streets for the most degraded and abandoned, inviting them to feasts and filling their hands with drachmas. I often believe they are mad. But continue.”
“Thank you. I believe Herod’s patience was finally exhausted. He had the madman beheaded because of his insulting prophecies and his rev
ilements. And then Herod brooded. No one knows why. Even his brother’s wife, whom he took from his brother and married, a lovely woman named Herodias, could not console him, and she is a veritable Aphrodite, I have heard. I tell you all this because the wild man from the desert spoke of that unknown holy rabbi to whom were accredited the most astounding of miracles. Such rabbis love their God, but this particular rabbi—” Telis shook his head wonderingly.
“Go on,” said Aristo, after a few moments.
“Yes. You know that we Greeks have an altar to the Unknown God. It is related that one distant day He will establish Himself on that altar for our ultimate worship, for it is said that He is greater than Zeus, himself. The Egyptians and the Babylonians and the Persians have this tale, also—and await Him. It is an old story. He will rule the world of men, when He comes, forever. The Jews call Him their Messias, but He belongs to all.”
Great Lion of God Page 35
