Great Lion of God

by Taylor Caldwell

  It seemed to him when he left Boreas in the cemetery that his flesh had been torn and that he had left a vital member of it behind him. But he was also comforted. He had arranged with Boreas that they meet in quiet places, where they could speak together and where Saul would teach him the ancient truths of his people. I am not alone! Saul often exulted to himself. And he went to his lawyers to consult with them secretly.

  Chapter 40

  BOREAS said, “But they will jest at you, my father, and mock you, and that I will not endure.”

  Smiling, Saul replied, “Never in all my life have I refrained from an action for fear of public comment, or gibes.” His face changed, Alas, I was sometimes evilly wrong. But in this matter I am correct, and you must obey me.”

  So they went before the magistrates and Saul adopted Boreas as his son, and named him publicly as Enoch ben Saul, and the Magistrates concealed their wonder and their sidelong glances and kept their faces indifferent and grave. They had not had to conjecture; the appearances of the two men spoke the truth. But Saul was a rich man, and he had adopted this young man, and the son would inherit and be rich in return, and magistrates do not smile obliquely at wealth.

  Saul had intensively taught his son the faith of his fathers, and Boreas had a sharp and perceptive and humorous mind, and Saul was proud of him. At length Boreas said, “Now I must be circumcised and admitted to the congregation of Israel.”

  “Not so,” said Saul. “I have argued this with Simon Peter, who remains adamant that a man must first embrace the ancient faith be circumcised, and then only can he be truly called a Nazarene, before the Countenance of the Messias. For I have had thousands of revelations, and I know that the Messias, blessed be His Name, came also to the Gentiles, and it is sufficient for them to learn of the prophets and the patriarchs and all the Scriptures, and Moses, and know for themselves that the prophecies have been fulfilled concerning the Messias. It is true that without the ancient knowledge of the Commandments and Sinai, and the Covenant and the faith which God gave to our fathers it is impossible for a man to comprehend Him. But it is not necessary for him to be a Jew, and be admitted to the congregation of Israel. Ah! One of these days I will meet Simon Peter again, face to face, and we will have this out!”

  Boreas had no doubt, looking at the flushed and kindling face of his father, that this would come to pass, and he smiled fondly at Saul.

  Saul was thirty-eight years old, and Boreas was now twenty-three. It had been in Saul’s mind to send his son to the great University at Alexandria. But Boreas said, “My heart is with the land, and I have been working the farms my—Peleus—left to his children, and my brothers and sisters work them with me, and I would not leave my home.”

  With harsh jealousy Saul exclaimed, “They are not of your blood!

  “In the memory of the good man, their father, they are more than of my blood,” said Boreas, and his face became the stern face of Saul and Saul, seeing that, was touched as always he was touched at these manifestations. “That alone would keep me with them. But even more is the love for the land.”

  It was almost intolerable to Saul that his son, his only son, would not be a scholar. Father and son eyed each other implacably with the selfsame eyes, and it was Saul who finally glanced aside and was forced to smile. A few days later he bought much land adjoining Boreas’ farms, with olive trees and orchards and cattle and meadows land pine forests, and gave them to his son, who accepted the gift in silence though with some tears of happiness, and embraces.

  The fourth year of strange exile was almost over and spring was on the land again. Though Saul chafed now, and sighed, and entreated God, and stamped with furious impatience, he later knew that in these years he had been absorbing knowledge, not through the teaching of men but by the direct teaching of the Messias. The lessons came to him in the silence of the night, in dreams, in visions, in sudden marvelings and intuitions, in sudden quiet excitement when he cried out softly, “Of a certainty, that is true, though I did not understand before!” Then for hours, or days, he would be elevated and exultant, until his impatience overcame him again. Later he was to say, “I was taught by the Holy Spirit and not by the voice of men, and it is a great mystery.”

  One noon he was dining with his son, Boreas, in the cool dining hall, when the overseer came to him and said, “Lord, there are three strangers who desire to converse with you, and they await you in the atrium.”

  Saul frowned, then rose, and Boreas rose and accompanied him in the loving way of a son who fears for the safety of his father. Three men awaited Saul in the atrium, which was open to the blaze of the gardens, and Saul exclaimed, as he recognized two of them, “Amos! Barnabas!” and he ran to his nephew and embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks, and then he flung his arms about Barnabas of the merry face and black beard and dancing eyes. He could not believe it was they, and his joy almost overcame him, and then he seized their hands and was about to exclaim again when he remembered the stranger with them.

  The man was vaguely familiar to him, tall and slender in dark blue robes, his face planed and composed, his large blue eyes fearless and dimly smiling, his hair, once pale gold, now gray and rolling in waves over his fine skull. Saul hesitated. The man wore no cap of any of the Tribes; his head was bare and his pale cheeks were slightly reddened by the sun, and he had no beard. Therefore, he was not a Jew. Nor was he a swarthy Roman, sturdy and overly assured, nor a soldier, nor a dark Egyptian or any other. Saul, studying his features, and trying to remember, felt a sick plunging of his heart, though he knew not why, and he thought with vague confusion, “He is obviously a Greek.” The man had a youthful aspect but it was evident that he was near to fifty years of age.

  The stranger said, and now his voice was recalled also, “Do you not remember me, Saul ben Hillel? We have met twice before,” and his face became sad.

  Saul had a flashing memory of sea and sails and the scent of hot tar and rope, and then a memory of agony and blood and screaming men and the heat of the wilderness. His mind staggered with the onslaught of memories, and then he knew. This was the Greek physician, Lucanus, met on the ship of Tarsus, met dolorously at the martyrdom of Stephen ben Tobias. It was all long ago. It was only yesterday, and the torturing pain assailed Saul, and he could not speak.

  Barnabas, watching, and knowing, said, “Saul, this is our dear friend, Lucanus, who has taught your nephew, Amos ben Ezekiel, much, and Amos, as you know, is now a physician.”

  Amos, knowing also, said, “I am to take his place, as a healer, Saul, while he spreads the Good News, as he has been commanded, wherever men will hearken to him.”

  “He is my dear companion,” said Barnabas, and placed his arm about the shoulders of Lucanus.

  But Lucanus, his face even more sad than before, held out his hand to Saul, and said, “Greetings, my friend, my brother before God and His Messias.”

  Saul looked at that outstretched hand of brotherhood, and then he looked at his own, and to him it appeared that his fingers were wet with blood. He rubbed them on his tunic, then with downcast head he held out his hand and took the cool thin fingers of the physician.

  “We have both come a long way,” said Lucanus, as if consoling the other man.

  “A long way,” Saul muttered. Then Lucanus was embracing him like a father, and Barnabas and Amos—Amos of the golden hair and young beard—smiled at each other.

  Boreas had watched in the shadow of a column with curiosity and interest, and he gazed at Amos intently, for now he knew him as his cousin, of whom Saul had often spoken, and Amos, feeling that gaze, turned his head quickly and stared incredulously at the other young man, recognizing in his face the young uncle of his, Amos, childhood and youth, and seeing, instant by instant, the amazing resemblance. Amos’ fair cheeks began to color with embarrassment, and he saw that Barnabas was also observing Boreas, and Barnabas’ black eyebrows were lifted and his mouth had opened in astonishment.

  Saul suddenly recalled his son. He went to
Amos and turned him fully in the direction of Boreas and said, “Amos, my nephew, this is my son, Enoch ben Saul, and he is your cousin, not only by blood but by adoption.”

  “Greetings to Amos ben Ezekiel,” said Boreas, and he came forward with dignity and held out his hand. Amos looked quickly from father to son, and his color was higher, but with Boreas’ own dignity he embraced the older young man and said, “Greetings to my cousin, Enoch ben Saul. Shalom, my cousin, Enoch.”

  Saul smiled his old brilliant smile and said, “Call him Boreas, for like the wind he loves the land and blows upon it solicitously from every direction,” and he put his arm about his son and they stood side by side, while the others gazed at them.

  Lucanus could hardly suppress his amusement. He had heard much of Saul over the years, and by the malicious tongue of rumor in Jerusalem and Damascus, and he had disbelieved much. He had even reserved opinion when Simon Peter had said, “Both Jew and Nazarene call him ‘the great renegade,’ and I do not wholly trust him, for he is a man of fierce passions and will always have his way, and he is impetuous and impatient and immoderate, and though he now strives for humility there is a hauteur about him and a condescension, in the presence of those of inferior birth, which ill becomes a follower of the Messias.”

  It is possible, thought Lucanus, that there is some truth in all the rumors of Saul ben Hillel, but he is a man of fearlessness and courage and a noble disregard of the opinions and strictures of others, for he stands beside his son proudly and acknowledges him.

  Lucanus suddenly thought of one of his sister’s sons, who was a farmer in the Campagna near Rome, and he recognized a similar farmer like that nephew in Boreas, for Boreas, though fair of skin had arms browned and blackened by the sun, and when Lucanus felt his hand in his the calloused palm and fingers were also familiar. The rays of the burning sun appeared about the eyes of Boreas, and there was that far still expression in those eyes which only the man of the land can reveal, that expression of peace and firmness and confidence, and a pure knowledge which the urban man can never know.

  Barnabas had said to Saul, “Your exile, which was your school, is now over. You go with me and Lucanus to Antioch, where we will teach and bring men to the knowledge and the feet of the Messias.”

  Saul had rejoiced. His only regret was in leaving his son, Boreas. In truth, as the days passed, he began to feel a great and overpowering grief, for something whispered in his soul that never would he see this son again after he left Cilicia. He did not know how he knew but long ago he had abandoned questing concerning his intuitions and so he kept Boreas beside him as much as possible as he sat with his friends and his nephew in his house.

  Boreas did not know why Lucanus, the aristocratic Greek physician, and Barnabas, the revered teacher, treated Saul with a most peculiar deference. It was not his house they revered, the astute Boreas soon discerned, nor his name, nor his wealth, for Boreas now understood that Lucanus, himself, was a man of riches. Boreas, jealous that all should treat his father with respect, was pleased and gratified, though he still did not know the source of the deference. The physician was as erudite, and Barnabas had as much fervor in the faith and was gentle and merry besides, which Saul was not. Yet, as it were, they sat at the feet of Saul, who was very eloquent and could converse without weariness by the hour, and his voice was commanding and impelling and resonant and none ventured to interrupt nor to argue. It was as if they listened to a sage.

  Is it possible that he lay with my mother, a young slave girl whose origin no one knew, and begot me? Boreas would ask himself. To the young farmer this father, only fifteen years older than himself, became as a patriarch, a prophet, another Moses. He knew of the vision on the road to Damascus, for Saul never tired of exulting in it and speaking of it, but Boreas had considered that this was only another miracle on the part of One Who had, in His mercy and love, performed many miracles, and miracles were part of the deep faith of the Nazarenes, who accepted miraculous interventions as common signs granted to many of them. Some had walked with the Messias for forty days after His crucifixion, and even more had seen Him in His risen flesh. But Saul had not walked with Him; he had never spoken to Him in Jerusalem, as Barnabas had spoken. He had not learned patiently from Him in the dust of Israel, traveling the long and weary roads beside Him. Yet, these visitors accorded him the reverence and courtesy they would bestow on renowned sages. I am of his flesh and his blood! Boreas exulted, and was proud, though he did not know why he should be so proud.

  One night, Saul suddenly said to his son, when the visitors had retired to their chambers: “Before I leave with my friends, Boreas, you must marry. I have chosen the wife for you, the daughter of Judah ben Isaac, who is the son of my old mentor, Reb Isaac, may he rest in peace.”

  “I do not know the maiden, nor the family!” Boreas exclaimed.

  “Pish,” said Saul. “Of what moment is that?” He paused, and an unfathomable look of pain darkened his features for a moment. “I know the family. I have already spoken to Judah ben Isaac, though we are not friends any longer, for a reason I will not tell you. The maiden is named Tamara, and she is fourteen years old, and beautiful and modest. Her father, alas, is no scholar, but her mother has taught her the ways of rectitude and the wifely duties, and that is enough knowledge for a woman, for women are weak vessels and are not designed for wisdom. The girl has a handsome dowry, and dowries are not to be despised. Enough. It is arranged.”

  Boreas brooded for a moment. During the meetings of the Nazarenes women were permitted to sit among the men, unlike the women in the synagogues, and though they were gentle and silent they had dignity and the men did not treat them as inferiors, but as sisters equal in the love of the Messias. Many a pretty face had caught the eye of Boreas. It made him rebel that his father had chosen a wife for him, of whom he had never heard, and expected that his son would take that wife meekly and not even see her face until the day of their marriage. Boreas had also rebelled at the note of light or grave contempt that would steal into his father’s fascinating voice when he spoke of women, even the Nazarene women.

  Boreas said, “I will not take this girl to wife until I have looked upon her face, for I could not live with a woman who repelled me.”

  Saul said, “A woman is born to obey her father, her brothers and above all, her husband, and she is born to marry and produce sons for that husband. Are we Romans and Greeks, that our women are bold and infamous and go their own impudent way on the streets and byways and in the marketplaces and banks and halls of commerce? No.”

  Boreas, who had Saul’s own way of rushing into speech without due prudence, said with bitterness, “You are thinking of my mother!”

  Saul paled with anger. Then he thought, “It is true, and I have offended my son.” So after a moment, he said in a milder voice “I will arrange for you to see the face of this maiden—at a distance—and you and I will speak with her father, though the prospective husband is not usually included in a conversation between fathers and if she does, indeed, strike you as repulsive then you need not marry her, though I have wished it, and as your father I can command it.”

  For Saul was now thinking, with mingled pain and melancholy amusement, how he had defied his own father in the matter of Elisheba, though Hillel had commanded him to marry her.

  So the matter was arranged, and Boreas lurked at a distance and gazed upon a young virgin with a face like a lily and eyes like dark stars and with a gay shy smile, and he had loved and had desired her at once. Later Boreas said to Saul, “I will marry the girl, if it is your wish, my father,” and attempted to look resigned and obedient.

  Boreas was accordingly espoused to Tamara bas Judah, and the marriage was arranged to take place before Saul’s departure for Antioch. Boreas could not know the forebodings in the heart of his father, that never would they meet again, and that Saul wished his son to possess as much consolation as a wife and family could bestow on him.

  “You will live in this house, which
I have left to you in my will, with your wife,” said Saul. “The house is yours, and all that I have.”

  There was a conversation Saul had with Lucanus and Barnabas which mystified Boreas, for it was the first time that Lucanus and Barnabas had looked coldly on Saul.

  They were sitting in the gardens of the house of Saul ben Hillel in the late afternoon, after the heat of the day. The sky was no brighter nor more blue than the utterly still pond, in which it and its few little rosy clouds were perfectly reflected, as was the ebony carved and arching bridge with its dragon forms, and the white and black swans and ducks which sailed tranquilly over the water. A cypress or two was also reflected, sharp and black as if rigidly painted. The palms were already heavy with yellow clusters of dates, and the red pomegranates hung among their green leaves and the golden figs were fat in their hanging boughs and the citrons were like gilt amidst their glossy foliage. The fountains flashed like white fire in the sun, blinding the eye, and the walls broke into waves of red and white and purple flowers. The red-gravel paths sparkled like thrown rubies as they wound through grass and flower beds still vigorous for all the hot and passing summer, and an air of glittering peace shimmered over the gardens.

  Saul and his son and nephew and the guests sat under the wide striped awnings with refreshments near their hands, and they discussed the spread of the Church into Greece, Rome, Africa and Asia Minor. “The Good News,” said Lucanus, “travels on the wings of the morning and is carried on the plumes of night.” The great Roman roads, which facilitated swift travel and rumor, were somewhat responsible for it, as well as the mighty commerce between east and west which had its center in Israel. “The moment of history was chosen,” replied Saul, with that catch of joy and excitement at his heart so familiar to him now. He would go with Barnabas to establish more churches, to give heart and courage to the new young ones, to settle any disputes, to bring his revelations to all who would hear. (There were indeed disputes, even so early, for new interpreters rose up like locusts with dissensions and argumentations, and though Barnabas expressed his concern Saul was indulgent. “They need but correction and explanation,” he said, with a hope that Barnabas fervently prayed would be granted.)