Source

by James A. Michener

  “No sect is minor,” the old scholar from Babylonia repeated, “if it enrolls the emperor.”

  “We have outlived many emperors,” the Biri rabbi said.

  The discussions now turned to a series of troublesome incidents which had begun to disturb the Galilee, and when the rabbis finished exchanging information it was found that in all towns except Makor there had been disturbances in which young Jews had resisted the Byzantine tax collectors, whose demands had become indeed excessive. In Kefar Nahum resistance had been so vigorous that Byzantine soldiers were required to put down the protests, but open fighting had not developed. When viewed together, as part of an emerging pattern, the brawling was ominous.

  And then the Biri rabbi broached the fundamental problem: “The tax collectors say they must raise more money to build churches for the new sect. My Jews cannot accept such impositions, and the soldiers cry, ‘You crucified Jesus, didn’t you?’ and tempers are inflamed.”

  At this point Rabbi Asher, now one of the older members of the group, proposed the working rules which were to guide the rabbis: “God asks us to share this land with a vigorous sect of His religion. Children who are growing into manhood we treat with dignity; let us treat this new movement in the same way. Gently, gently.” And of the expositors present that day, only the Babylonian referred to Christianity as a new religion; the others saw it as a continuation of that series of Jewish particularist movements which had included the Essenes and the Ebionites. At best, they considered Christians as comparable to the Samaritans: Jews who accepted only the Torah and refused to believe in the divine inspiration of the rest of the Old Testament. As the Biri rabbi rationalized: “The Samaritans cut our holy book in half while the Christians double it with a new book of their own. At heart each remains Judaism.”

  It was in this unsettled mood that Rabbi Asher said farewell for the last time to the expositors of Tverya. Unaware that he would meet with his colleagues no more, he departed without pausing for a last look at the grape arbor beneath whose protection the fence around the Torah had been built, or at the bearded faces who had argued with him so passionately during the past twenty-two years. When his white mule ascended the hill to Sephet he did not turn to inspect the autumnal splendor of Tverya, with its Roman buildings slipping silently into desuetude, but next morning as he started for Makor he did catch a final glimpse of the Sea of Galilee, and along its western shore he saw for the last time Tverya, that beautiful city, home of the Herods, haven of those who loved quiet nights, sacred to the birth pangs of two religions, where Jesus slept and rabbis argued, where Peter fished and great Akiba lay in death, the city where soft waves whispered along the shore as the Talmud was being born, Tverya, Tverya.

  For some moments Rabbi Asher sat astride his mule, gazing down upon the gray-white city where he had worked for so long—how sweet those conversations had been, how elevating—and he entertained the unhappy thought that some day, since he was now sixty-nine, he must reach the point when he would be too old for this constant traveling. But he had no idea that he was to be halted neither by age nor by faltering faculties, but by the maturing of forces which as yet he only dimly perceived, and it was to the cauldron where those forces were being brewed that he now directed his mule. The animal shook his withers, then moved ahead and Tverya was no more.

  As he rode that summer’s day through the quiet forests of the Galilee, Rabbi Asher ha-Garsi was the epitome of what God had intended when He called forth the rabbis to guide His people through the dark centuries that loomed ahead. He was a hard, thin man with a white beard and gentle blue eyes; as a descendant of many generations of Jews who had lived in or near Makor, he carried in his body reminiscences of Egyptian warriors who had stayed in the area, of long-nosed Hittites who had served as mercenaries, of Phoenicians who had drifted down the coastline from Tyre and Sidon, and of Romans and Greeks who had married with local girls. Rabbi Asher liked to think of himself as a pure Jew, and he was—just as seventeen hundred years later, kibbutzniks in this same area who looked like Russians or Germans or Americans or Arabs would also be pure Jews—for to be so required an inheritance of mind and not of blood. Rabbi Asher, being a descendant of the notable Family of Ur, had begun as half Canaanite, half Habiru, though what those terms meant no man had ever been able to say, but he was also all the other strains that those two vital groups had absorbed through the millennia. He was, in short, a Jew.

  As his white mule wandered down the road between the encroaching trees, birds of summer darted through the shadows, saluting the bearded old man who was passing by. Asher smiled. He was thinking of the earthy saying of Akiba: “When their love was strong they could sleep on the edge of a sword, but now when they have forgotten, a bed sixty feet across is not sufficient.” He also remembered the summary of all philosophy which Akiba had offered his disciples: “My teacher Eliezer told me that only one rule was required by a Jew if he wished to live a good life. ‘Repent the day before you die.’ And since no man knows when he shall die, he is prudent if he lives each day a life of true repentance.” Rabbi Asher had tried to live as if on the morrow he were dead.

  When the old man approached his little town he saw as he had anticipated that Byzantine workmen were building small homes near the olive grove, for here the thirty families to be dispossessed by the Christian basilica were to be resettled. Asher hoped that the removals were being made without incident, and he kicked the mule’s flanks to speed him up the incline leading into town.

  He found Makor in ferment. When his arrival became known, representatives of the thirty families crowded into the small stone house attached to the synagogue to launch their protests. Shmuel said, “I’ve worked forty years building my shop. People won’t leave the town to buy bread.”

  “We’ll have to find new quarters in town, that’s obvious,” Rabbi Asher promised.

  Ezra the shoemaker had a different problem: on each flank of his old home he had built additional rooms for his two sons and their wives, but the house provided by the Byzantines at the new site lacked space for three separate families. “For our one house inside the walls we should receive three outside.”

  “That’s reasonable,” the old man said. “I’m sure the Byzantines will listen.”

  “Not to me,” Ezra said.

  “To me they will,” the rabbi assured him, and when he had heard all the complaints he thought: There’s no problem here that men of good will cannot adjust, and he left the small house by the synagogue and walked around to the rear, to where Father Eusebius was directing his workmen as they staked out the actual lines of the basilica, and when he saw how enormous it was to be—almost twice the size of his substantial synagogue—he gasped. Was this an accurate measure of Christianity? No wonder his Jews were protesting.

  But when he approached Father Eusebius to question him about the demolitions, the tall Spaniard forestalled any complaint by striding across the rubble and extending both hands. “I’m glad you’ve come back, Rabbi Asher! I want you to see what we’ve done to protect your synagogue.” And before God’s Man could reply, the black-robed Spaniard led him to the square-cut wall of the synagogue to demonstrate how the basilica was leaving an open space of nearly ten yards as protection to the Jews. “We shall exist side by side in peace,” the Spaniard said.

  Then, before Rabbi Asher could comment on this gesture of conciliation, Father Eusebius led him away from the demolition area and into his office, a single lime-walled room with an earthen floor and on the spare walls a silver crucifix from Italy and a wooden icon panel from Constantinople. It was a quiet, austere room marked by a rough wood desk and two chairs, and if it did not reflect the patrician derivation of its owner it did bespeak a certain hard manliness. As soon as Rabbi Asher was seated, feeling chilly and out of place in the presence of the graven images, Father Eusebius smiled and said deprecatingly, “I’ve been remiss in one matter, Rabbi Asher. I did not keep myself informed about the removal of your Jews to their new locations outs
ide of town. Certain injustices have developed, about which I heard only last night. I’ve directed my man Yohanan …”

  “The stonecutter?”

  “Yes. I directed him to find a place in town for the baker. People can’t be forced to walk long distances for their bread, can they?” He raised his thin white hands gracefully above the desk in a gesture of supplication. “So if the baker comes complaining to you, tell him he’s justified and will be cared for.”

  Finally the little rabbi found a chance to speak, and his first concern was not about general principles nor the large issues that were beginning to loom over the Galilee. He discussed the human problem of the stonecutter. “Did you say that Yohanan was working for you?”

  “Yes. We’ll need a large mosaic in the basilica.”

  The words aroused suspicious implications. Why large? To make the basilica more impressive than the synagogue? Why mosaic? Because the Jews had trained a fine workman who was now available at no preliminary expense? And why that ominous phrase “we’ll need”? For what reason was there this need? Why did any religion need so large a building?

  As if he had anticipated the rabbi’s questions, Father Eusebius said quietly, “We’re building what must seem a great church because many pilgrims will be coming to Makor. You know that in the years ahead …”

  “Are you here permanently?”

  “Yes. I’m to be bishop. I’ve been sent here to …” The stately Spaniard hesitated. He had been about to say “convert the area,” which was his specific commission, but tactfully he concluded, “build up the area.” Then, as if his unconscious mind were at work, he added, “You mustn’t think harshly of Yohanan.”

  “For quitting his work at the synagogue?”

  “No. For taking his son away from your groats mill. The young man’s working here, too.”

  For Rabbi Asher this was a hard blow. In his business he needed Menahem, but this was not his first thought. From infancy he had looked after this forsaken child, finding him homes, seeing that he was cared for. He had given him a job and an almost fatherly love and had lately sponsored the process whereby Menahem might be drawn back into Judaism, and now to find that he was working in the basilica was a shock; but Father Eusebius did not propose discussing this personal matter. “Rabbi Asher,” he began in his official voice, hands folded severely before him while his gaunt, handsome face was outlined against the white wall, “I’m glad you came home … most glad.” He paused, but his guest was still thinking about Menahem and the mill. “I’m glad you returned, because you’re needed here.” Again the slim priest hesitated, but the rabbi said nothing. “You’re needed because some of your quick-tempered young Jews are beginning to cause trouble. Over taxes, I believe. So far our governor has proved most lenient. Possibly because I have cautioned him to be so. But, Rabbi Asher …”

  The Jew rose as if he were about to leave the room. He wanted to talk directly to Menahem, to see if the young man had stolen the ten drachmas so that he could be sold into slavery and restored to Judaism. He nodded respectfully to the priest, as he had nodded to his colleagues in Tverya when he took leave of them, and started for the door.

  “Rabbi Asher,” the Spaniard said, not raising his voice but speaking in a tone which required attention. “Sit down. Your son-in-law Abraham is among the leaders of this hot-headed group. You must command him to cease his provocations or they will lead to trouble.”

  “Abraham?” For a moment Rabbi Asher could not visualize anyone to go with the name. He had little respect for his son-in-law, even if the young man had married Jael in a moment of crisis, but at least he could respond to the legal aspect of the problem. “Oh yes! The rabbis at Tverya were discussing this matter. Excessive taxes and quick tempers.”

  “I’ve directed our tax collectors to ease the burden,” Father Eusebius said. “And I’ve diverted our workmen to build new homes for your Jews. Now you, Rabbi Asher, must co-operate by instructing your son-in-law Abraham and his cronies to stop their dangerous agitations.”

  “Abraham?” the little rabbi repeated in a kind of daze. It was not likely that Abraham ben Hababli posed any threat to Byzantium. “I’ll reprimand him,” he promised.

  “Please do,” the Spaniard said.

  Rabbi Asher left the austere room with its graven images and hurried to his mill, where he found one elderly workman turning the stones while unfilled bags lay about the floor. “Where’s Menahem?” he asked.

  “He’s left us,” the man replied, slowly revolving the upper stone so that small amounts of cereal fell onto an earthenware platter.

  Deeply worried, Rabbi Asher went by small alleys to the large area where the basilica was to rise, and there he saw Yohanan and Menahem piling the rubble of destroyed homes into sacks which slaves from the African desert hauled to the edge of town, emptying them into the wadi. Father and son spoke politely to the rabbi, who asked, “Menahem, may I speak with you?”

  The young man, taller and huskier from his work in the open, followed the rabbi to a spot where the slaves were not working, and there God’s Man asked, “Have you done as we planned? Ten drachmas’ worth, before witnesses?”

  As if that bizarre episode were a nightmare from his irrational past, Menahem moved away and said apologetically, “I’ve been so busy working here …”

  “Have you left the mill?”

  “Yes. I’m helping to build a large mosaic here.”

  Rabbi Asher thought: Again that word large. Why should largeness seduce sensible men? But Menahem was speaking hurriedly, as if ashamed of his defection: “At first I’m to be in charge of finding the colored stones. My father’s to be an architect. But when the floor’s ready we’ll both work on the design.”

  “But, Menahem! Your plan to become a legitimate Jew?”

  The young man wished to say, If you had honestly wanted me as a Jew, I’d be one now, but out of respect for the old rabbi he said, “I’ve much work to do, Rabbi,” and he walked away. At this moment there was shouting at the eastern wall and signs of flame, so both Menahem and Rabbi Asher ran to that quarter, where Byzantine soldiers were thrashing a young Jew while workmen tried to extinguish a fire which was eating at a storehouse in which tax collectors kept the produce paid by the citizens of Makor. Before Rabbi Asher could intervene to protect the boy being beaten he saw the tall figure of Father Eusebius stalking through the crowd, pushing citizens aside as if they were chaff, and with a cold, dark visage, looking at the fire.

  “You! You!” the Spaniard shouted at various Jews. “Halt that blaze!” It was no use. Flames had caught hold of the contents of the building, grain and olive oil, and it was obvious that all must be consumed. In white-lipped fury the priest looked at the latest outrage of the Jews, then moved to where the soldiers were beating the supposed arsonist. For a long moment Eusebius watched the punishment, then cried, “Enough!” But the culprit was dead.

  A great sigh rose from the assembled Jews, accented by the crackling of the flames and the hopeless shouts of the fire fighters. Father Eusebius, satisfied that the building was lost, left the scene, but as he passed Rabbi Asher he said coldly, “This is what I meant when you would not pay attention. Now the German army will march down from Antioch, and it is your doing.” Like a sword unsheathed he moved through the crowd to his white-walled room, where he prayed for some time, then sent messengers to Ptolemais with a report that the Jewish insurrection was getting out of hand: “I am afraid you must bring down the German army stationed at Antioch.”

  That fateful night the two religious leaders of Makor, Father Eusebius and Rabbi Asher, each conducted meetings which would have strange results in the town. Rabbi Asher’s was with his son-in-law Abraham, a stocky, dull-minded young man who sat close to his wife Jael and argued with surprising vigor against his father-in-law. “The Byzantines have gone too far,” the young man said. “No, we will not turn back. Jael will tell you why. If we must fight, we’ll fight.”

  Then Jael, twenty-one years old, expl
ained to her father, “Abraham’s right. We can have no peace with the Byzantines. The tax collectors …”

  “Father Eusebius promised me that taxes would be lowered.”

  Jael laughed. “They’ve been increased. Somebody has to pay for that church.”

  “But …”

  “Wait till you see the new tax on your mill,” she said contemptuously. “The soldiers grow more arrogant. You saw what they did this morning.”

  “But the boy had set the warehouse on fire.”

  “I set the fire,” Abraham said boldly. His wife took his hand and held it during the rest of the conversation.

  “You?” Rabbi Asher asked, and the incredulity in his voice betrayed his low opinion of his son-in-law. Were callow fools like this challenging Byzantium?

  “And with the coming of Father Eusebius,” Jael continued, “the repressions have speeded up.”

  “No!” her father protested. “Father Eusebius wants us to live together peacefully.”

  “Yes! Yes! On his terms. He is very gentle when Menahem leaves the groats mill and goes to work for him. If our people stand by quietly when their old homes are destroyed he’ll build them new ones out of town. He does nothing wrong, but those who do wrong are encouraged by his presence.”

  “We shall not halt our war against the Byzantines,” Abraham repeated stolidly, and Rabbi Asher, looking at the almost brutish young man, realized for the first time that a younger generation was on the move in Makor, one over which he had little control.

  While this gloomy discovery was being made in the rabbi’s home, a meeting of mystical significance was under way in the austere room occupied by Father Eusebius, who sat behind his rough-hewn desk while Menahem occupied the chair facing him. “Tell me again, slowly and with no exaggeration,” the Spaniard said.

  In his work with Father Eusebius, Menahem had come to respect the cool efficiency of the Spaniard. He had watched him weigh facts, such as which houses to tear down, and reach a conclusion on the evidence. And once he spoke, the dark-haired priest was willing to abide by the responsibility he had taken upon himself. Menahem found him a just, courageous man, dedicated and hard-working, not easy to know but solid like a rock when known. He now stared at Menahem, deep lines in his cheeks, a cold but just face resting on his left hand. “Slowly and with no lies,” he repeated.