Finally, in a wooden voice, Sebastianus said, "I forgive you."
"Thank you, master!" Timonides cried, sobbing with relief. Lifting himself from his knees, he dashed tears from his cheeks and took a seat on his stool. "Your forgiveness is my reward. And I have been rewarded with something else, too. I know now what I should have known all along. That when Nestor's soul was brought before the gods for judgment, they would not have seen a man who had committed murder but a sweet, pure, simple soul. The gods knew that Nestor was innocent! And for this reason, he is not in Hell but in Heaven, in the bosom of divine protection."
He turned to Ulrika. "Dear child, I knew this, and yet I kept this knowledge from myself. What a wondrous thing this meditation is, for the answers to my agony were within me all along! You have given me a precious gift that I will not use frivolously."
He jumped to his feet, shouted, "I shall give you an honest reading now, master," and dashed inside the tent.
Ulrika turned to Sebastianus.
Pain shot through her heart. She tried to think of words. Tried to find a way to comfort him. But all she could do was lay her hand on his arm, to let him know she was there, that she loved him.
For on Sebastianus's face was the look of a man whose faith had been utterly shattered.
37
T
HEY KISSED IN THE shadow of the Ishtar Gate.
It was not a farewell kiss; they would be apart for only a short time. Sebastianus was going to meet with the supreme astrologer in Babylon, and Ulrika had an urgent errand at Daniel's Castle.
Tomorrow they were departing for Rome.
Two weeks had passed since the day of Timonides's startling confession—a day that had set Sebastianus Gallus on a quest of obsession. Needing to restore his faith in the cosmos—to undo the terrible damage wrought by an astrologer's astonishing admission, Sebastianus had embarked on a mission, meeting with every soothsayer, star-reader, and seer in the city. Ulrika had been at his side, trying to help, offering to guide him through the same meditation that had set Timonides free. But Sebastianus was not interested in answers that lay within himself. He sought answers that lay in the heavens.
"I wish you would wait, Ulrika," Sebastianus said now as they stood at the base of the massive city gate through which kings and conquerors once passed. "The priests of Marduk do not yet know of Judah's grave, that he was not cremated with the others. But if they hear of it, they will send guards. Wait until I have seen the Chaldean."
"I will be all right," she said. "Primo is taking me. And I will have Timonides with me. You do not know how long you will be with the Chaldean, and I am anxious to talk to Miriam. From what I have heard, they need to be urged to leave Daniel's Castle at once, and I think she will listen to me. This time tomorrow, my love, we will be far from this place and on our way home."
They were in a hurry to leave Babylon. It was imperative that Sebastianus get his caravan to the Great Green before winter storms closed all sea travel. Emperor Nero would be anxious for a report on the mission, and to see the treasures Sebastianus had brought from China.
But something unexpected had happened at Daniel's Castle. Word had gotten out that Rabbi Judah was buried there, and that he was continuing to work miracles from the grave. How this happened, Ulrika did not know, but as word spread, and more desperate people visited the ruins, the risk grew that the priests of Marduk would discover Sebastianus's secret rescuing of Judah's body—against priestly orders.
Ulrika looked at the shadows beneath his eyes and wished she could kiss them away—wished she could take his pain and disillusionment into herself and bring him peace. Sebastianus's faith in the stars had been destroyed. If Timonides had lied all this time, and if a great catastrophe was supposed to have happened, but instead his journey to China was a success, then what did that say of the stars? Although Sebastianus tried to assure Ulrika he was all right, there was a haunted look in his eyes, and at night, while Ulrika held him, Sebastianus wept in his sleep. Sometimes she would wake up and find him outside, looking up at the night sky. "If there are no messages in the stars, then what are the stars for? Are men just twigs being tossed willy-nilly on a raging river with no rudder, no way to steer their courses? And what of the star-stone that fell the night Lucius died? Was it not a message from him after all, but mere coincidence? Is everything a lie?"
The stars had always been his comfort, his companions, his security. And now they were gone.
The blue-glazed tiles on the towering walls of the Ishtar Gate gleamed in the noontime sun, and a hundred golden dragons stood in frozen splendor. But Ulrika was aware only of a pair of green eyes filled with grief. "Dearest Sebastianus," she said, "my sojourn in Persia taught me that everything happens for a reason. I know now, as you once told me, that nothing is random, that there is indeed order in the universe. When I look back to the day when I made the decision to leave Rome and go north to warn my father's people of a military trap, I was set upon a road by unseen forces, and everything that has happened to me since was for a reason, everything that has happened to us, my dearest Sebastianus, is for a reason. Even Timonides's falsehoods. Ask the Chaldean."
"I love you, Ulrika," he said now, tenderly, laying his hand on her cheek. "I will see you before the sun sets."
"And I love you." They kissed again and then Sebastianus drew back and signaled to Primo, who stood a short distance away. "Keep her close, Primo, and be watchful for temple guards."
Ulrika was uncomfortable riding a horse, except for when Sebastianus was holding her, and as Daniel's Castle was only ten miles away, and the day was balmy and clear, they walked. Ulrika, Timonides, Primo, and six of his trained men followed the busy highway from the city until they came to a small offshoot road, and they took it out into the desert, away from villages and farms until soon they were trekking through desolation.
At Ulrika's side, Primo strode in silence, his thick soldier's body and ugly face set in grim resolve.
Quintus Publius, the ambassador from Rome, was due back soon from his visit to the queen of Magna and he had said he wanted to see no sign of the Gallus caravan. Mithras! Primo thought in frustration. If Quintus found Sebastianus still here, he would have the imperial authority, and soldiers to back it, to arrest Sebastianus and confiscate the caravan, taking them all back to Rome in chains.
They were supposedly leaving tomorrow. Sebastianus had even given orders for the slaves to pack everything up and be prepared to depart at dawn. But even though his master had promised that no matter what the Chaldean in the Babel Tower said today, tomorrow they would leave for Rome, Primo remained cautious. He had received departure orders before, and they were still in Babylon!
"What is going on?" Ulrika said suddenly, stopping on the trail. "Look at all these people!"
The desert track, normally deserted, was busy with traffic. "It is a mob!" cried Timonides.
Ulrika stared at the donkeys and horses, wagons and carrying chairs. There was even a chariot, splendidly arrayed in shining electrum. "The rumors are true," she said. "Rabbi Judah's burial at this place is no longer a secret."
Miriam and her family had established a camp at the oasis behind the ruins—a small outcropping of palm trees, bushes, and reeds fed by an artesian pool. As soon as Ulrika turned the corner of the castle, and she saw the disorganized mob, she turned to Primo and said, "Can you and your men get these people to leave?"
He scowled. The crowd consisted of the elderly, people on crutches, impoverished women holding babies. Families had brought loved ones on litters. They carried beloved daughters and fathers, wasted by illness, and laid them beside the place where the well-known faith healer had been laid to rest. "These people are desperate," Primo said. "They have reached the end of their hope. If they believe they can find a miracle here, then all the war chariots in the empire will not budge them."
Ulrika saw Miriam, at the forefront, trying to control people who were besieging her with questions: "Can you tell me where my son is
?" "Will I ever see my husband again?" "Please cure my cancer."
Primo went first, creating a path through the mob, and when Ulrika reached the distraught Miriam, she said, "How did this happen?"
Miriam came forward with outstretched arms. "It is good to see you again. I handled it poorly! You said that, in your vision, my Judah said he wanted us to remember him. I told a few of our neighbors, and people in our congregation at the synagogue. They came here to pay respects and somehow, they started saying that miracles were happening."
Ulrika's eyes widened. "Were they?"
"Oh, Ulrika, who can say? Some prayed here and went away saying they were cured. Some prayed here and went home to find something they had lost. Some prayed here and returned to the city to find a long-lost loved one waiting for them. Perhaps they were coincidences, perhaps they were the sort of miracles my Judah was empowered to perform in life. I do not know. But it has gotten out of hand and we do not know how to correct it."
Ulrika looked around in dismay. This was far worse than she had imagined. The priests of Marduk would surely hear of this—people bringing coins and offerings that otherwise would go to the temples—and then they would learn of Sebastianus's involvement. "Primo," she began—
"Help us, please. Help my little girl." A young woman carrying a small child pushed to the front of the mob, where Primo's men were using swords and shields to keep everyone back.
"Please help us," the young mother cried out. "We sold our house. I sold my jewelry. When we ran out of money for physicians, my husband sold himself into slavery and I have not seen him since. My daughter and I are homeless and penniless. I do not want to sell myself into slavery because what then will my daughter do? We have no family. Nowhere to go."
There was something in the woman's voice, in her eyes, the posture of her thin body, the tragic rags that hung on her emaciated frame, and most especially, in the way the child lay limp in her arms, that drew Ulrika to her. While others surged around, pressing against Primo's shields, the young woman held her child and pleaded with eyes that had gone deep into shadows from hunger and fear.
"What happened to her?" Ulrika said, noticing that the child seemed to be alert, as she watched Ulrika with big eyes.
Those closest by fell silent, to listen and to see if a miracle was about to happen.
"A fever swept through our neighborhood," the young mother said. "My daughter burned for days, and when she came out of it, she could not walk. It was a year ago. Physicians have said she will never walk again. Please ask Rabbi Judah to help us. I am impoverished, dear lady. I have reached the end of my road, and the last of my hope. Without my daughter I am nothing. Please restore her to life. Show me how to talk to the rabbi. What do I say? How do I address him? They say he cured people when he was alive. And some say he is doing it now."
Miriam stepped forward. "Please go back to the city. All of you! Please leave my husband in peace."
"I will do anything," the young mother said. "Whatever Rabbi Judah asks of me, I will do it."
While Miriam tried to persuade her to leave, the young mother knelt beside her crippled child, bowed her head, and began to softly pray.
The Babel Tower was the tallest in Babylon, rivaling only the ziggurat of Marduk. Legend said that the tower had been built by an insolent king determined to reach heaven and meet the gods face to face. He decided to build the tallest stairway in the world, but in order to accomplish such a feat, he had needed thousands of workers, forcing him to recruit from foreign lands. As a result, with the workers all speaking different tongues and thus making errors in construction, the tower was never completed. A subsequent king converted the eyesore to a lookout tower, shaded and protected from the elements, with a complete all-around view from horizon to horizon, and the night sky with its zodiacal signs.
As Sebastianus climbed the three hundred and thirty-three stone steps that curled upward in a spiral, he struggled with his emotions. Other astrologers had not been able to restore his faith. Worse, they had come up with different horoscopes, which had shocked him. Having relied for years on Timonides for his horoscope, Sebastianus had not realized how widely varied, from astrologer to astrologer, the readings could be. They all used the same constellations and signs, the same numbers and equations, the same charts and instruments, and yet their readings were as disparate as one astrologer telling Sebastianus that his children all praised his name and would give him many grandchildren, another assuring him that his current wife would live longer than his previous two had. Was the science of astrology a sham?
But as his sandals struck each worn step, where hundreds before him had tread, Sebastianus still held hope that the famed Chaldean in this tower would restore his faith in the stars.
When he reached the top, emerging through a small wooden door, Sebastianus had to catch himself and reach for the wall. The vista! The panorama! Desert and river and hills and, most of all, the bustling metropolis that spread before him. It took his breath away.
And then he realized he had come to the end of the stairway. He was at the top of the tower with nowhere else to go. The stone wall was chest-high and the tiled roof was supported on eight columns. There was nothing else.
Where was the Chaldean?
As the wind whipped around him, threatening to strip off his cloak and carry it away, Sebastianus felt outrage rise in him. He had been duped! Was this how it happened? Gullible men like himself paid outlandish sums, only to find themselves the target of a sham? How many, through the centuries, had come up here to find themselves the butt of a joke, to go back down and tell their friends how successful the meeting with the Chaldean had been? For no man would admit to having been swindled.
I shall tell the truth! Sebastianus thought in fury. I shall shout it on the streets of Babylon that the Chaldean does not exist! That there is nothing at the top of this tower but wind and broken dreams!
A bird flew into the tower just then, startling him. It flew around in a frantic flapping of wings—a small kestrel falcon, Sebastianus saw, the color of rust and ink. He glimpsed its eyes and saw a curious film covering them. When the falcon flew into a pillar and bounced off, Sebastianus realized the bird was blind. He watched it fly in circles within the tower and then suddenly it swooped low and vanished.
Sebastianus stared at the spot. Where had the bird gone? It looked as if it had flown right into the floor.
Bending low, Sebastianus examined the marble tiles and saw, when he turned his head one way, an opening in the floor that was not otherwise observable. An enticing smell came from the opening, like sweetly perfumed incense. He heard a humming sound, as if someone were singing to himself. The Chaldean! Sebastianus circled the opening and saw a wooden step. He cautiously lowered his foot onto it, and when he felt the support, continued down.
Twelve more steps brought him to a tapestry. Pushing it aside, he saw a small cozy chamber, dimly lit by oil lamps, furnished with a table and two stools, with hangings on the walls, and shelves cluttered with astrolabes, charts, bowls, and a stuffed owl. As he entered, careful not to bang his head on the low ceiling, he surveyed the room and realized it must lie behind the spiral staircase.
The room was unoccupied, and there seemed to be no more doors or openings. "Hello?" he called out.
When he heard a sigh, Sebastianus turned and saw someone sitting at the table. He blinked. Surely that person had not been there a moment ago. It was the incense, he thought, for now it was strong and heady. Perhaps it contained a substance that caused visions.
Taking a step closer, however, he saw that it was no vision but a person sitting there, patiently waiting to speak. Sebastianus blinked again, and frowned. This must be the Chaldean, he thought, but what an extraordinary creature!
Of surprisingly humble appearance, considering his reputation, the Chaldean wore only a long white robe that had known better days. His long bony hands rested on the table, his head bowed, showing a crown of hair that was blacker than jet, parted in the middl
e, and streaming over the shoulders and down his back. Presently the head came up, and Sebastianus received a shock.
The Chaldean was a woman. Sebastianus was further arrested by the unusual aspect of the face, which was long and narrow, all bone and yellow skin, framed by the streaming black hair. Mournful black eyes beneath highly arched brows looked up at him. The Chaldean almost did not look human, and she was ageless. Was she twenty or eighty?
"You have a question," the Chaldean said in perfect Latin, eyes peering steadily from deep sockets.
Sebastianus took a seat opposite and it seemed that, the closer he drew to the astrologer, the more the incense invaded his head. It took on a cloying scent, with an underlying odor that was vaguely unpleasant. The room seemed to grow dimmer, the walls closing in.
"You have a question about the stars," the astonishing woman said in a voice that sounded older than the ziggurats of Babylon.
"Do they contain messages?"
"All things contain messages. They are all around us. You have but to see."
"Can the stars be relied on for messages from the gods?"
"Why do you trouble yourself about that?" the seer said with sorrow in her eyes.
Sebastianus grew impatient. The astrologer had not asked him for the day and hour of his birth, his sun and moon signs, the constellations that had hung in the night sky when he drew his first breath.
He scanned the surface of the table. It was bare. No charts, no diagrams or equations or astrolabes. "Listen here," Sebastianus began, and then he paused. The Chaldean was staring straight ahead with liquid black eyes. But there was something strange in the look ...
Sebastianus lifted a hand and waved it in front of the astrologer's face. She did not blink.
The Chaldean was blind.
The young mother held her paralyzed daughter as she chanted her prayer: "Rabbi Judah, I beg of you to help us," she whispered with her eyes closed, as Ulrika and Miriam, Primo and his men, everyone looked on in silence. Her prayer was filled with such poignant despair, her voice touched every heart, brought tears to many eyes. "Dear Judah, I have no other recourse, nowhere else to turn. We have not eaten in days. We have no home, no family. Tomorrow I must sell myself into prostitution so that I and my daughter can live. Perhaps I should prefer death. For myself, I might, but my daughter is only four years old. I want her to live. Spirit of this place, whoever you are, if you are Judah, take my legs instead. Take the life that is in my muscle and bone and put it in my daughter's lifeless limbs. I beg of you, lift this curse from my baby and place it on me, and I shall revere you and speak your name for as long as I live."
The Divining Page 31
