“Here it is!”
Ya’abin moved swiftly forward, then stopped when he saw Eliab bent over and peering into a deep cleft in the rock.
“It’s a dead goat.”
“A dead goat!” He swore again. He grabbed the other torch and started forward, bending over as the ceiling dropped. Then he stopped. The imprint of one set of footprints was clearly visible in the dust. They led to where Eliab stood. “Wait!” Eliab was partially blocking his view, but he could see part of a carcass. Something was wrong. “Eliab? Are there any footprints around you? Any marks showing how that got in there?”
Eliab peered around, then stiffened. “No, Moshe! There’s not a mark.” He started backing out, holding the torch out in front of him.
Ya’abin felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “You’re sure? No goat footprints?”
Eliab looked again. There was fear in his eyes. “Nothing, Moshe.”
When Eliab reached him, Ya’abin thrust him roughly aside. Holding his own torch ahead of him, he dropped to his knees and crawled forward. He recoiled in disgust at what he saw. In the flickering light of the torch, he could see the matted black hair, the gaping stomach, the raw flesh where something had gnawed at the carcass. The goat had been dead at least a week. Maybe more. And yet he and his men had stayed in this cave just two nights before. It hadn’t been here then.
Chills were marching up and down his back. There was not a mark in the thick dust other than where Eliab had been. Ya’abin’s mind was working furiously. How could that be? Even if someone had stood back and heaved the carcass into this crevasse—which was probably not possible—there would be signs where the body had hit the ground and slid forward. There was nothing.
He backed out and stood up. His men stood staring at him. He saw a nervous tic pulling at the corner of Eliab’s mouth.
“Get that goat out of here!” he commanded, cuffing the nearest man.
“How did it get here?” Eliab asked in a low voice. “There’s not a mark in the dust.”
“Demons!”
Ya’abin jerked around. One of the men behind him had whispered the word to his comrade. “What did you say?” he roared.
The man fell back, mumbling something, then stared at his feet.
Swearing under his breath, Ya’abin turned again. The man he had cuffed hadn’t moved. “Get that out of here!” he screamed.
“We can’t sleep here tonight,” Eliab said. “It will take a day or more to air the cave out.”
“We’ll sleep up on top.”
Ya’abin looked around. He didn’t like what he saw in the faces of his men. He swore again. “It isn’t demons. It isn’t some evil spirit. It’s a dead goat. That’s all. Now get out of here and find us a place to make camp.”
IV
Rome 15 March, a.d. 31
In spite of all that she had said to Livia five days before, Miriam found herself looking forward to Marcus’s arrival. He had gone with her father to Ostia to make arrangements for Mordechai’s return to Judea. When they returned, Marcus had asked if she would like to accompany him to the theater that evening. So now she stood before the brass mirror on her wall and brushed her dark hair until it gleamed like oiled ebony in the lamplight.
“Handsome?” That had been Livia’s question. There was no question about that. He was boldly handsome with his dark hair that curled slightly around the nape of his neck. His features were angular, with a distinct cleft in his chin. His cheek bones were high and the jawline strong. His deep green eyes often laughed at her from behind a sober expression. He was intelligent, quick of wit, and a thorough gentleman. He could be enormously charming when he set his mind to it but also exhibited depth and sensitivity as well. There was no mistaking the fact that he found her attractive, which was always a compliment to a woman. More importantly, he genuinely respected her as an individual and treated her as though she was his match in ability and intelligence. So many of the men who had been attracted to her had faintly demeaned her womanhood. To them, her role would be that of a dutiful, meek wife and mother to their children, but never as one who had any significant identity of her own.
And yet. She stopped, watching herself in the mirror. Was she romantically attracted to him? She had said no, almost too quickly, but it was true. She enjoyed being with him. Her life in Rome had been filled with interesting activities, but here was companionship that truly stimulated and stretched her. But that didn’t change the fact that she was a Jew, and he was Roman. That went much deeper than her religion. In spite of his sensitivity, he had a Roman’s natural arrogance and cultural sense of superiority. His callousness toward slavery still left her cold.
She had been tempted more than once during their many long talks to speak to Marcus about Jesus of Nazareth. She never did, of course, because of her father, but she had run through the imaginary conversation more than once. Where her father would react with fury if he knew of her baptism, she guessed that Marcus would show only tolerant boredom. “Well, Miriam,” she could hear him say, “if that is what is important to you, well then . . . ” He would give a diffident shrug and the whole matter would be dismissed, like a parent dealing with a child’s request for some petty indulgence.
A knock on the door brought her around. She expected it to be one of the slaves assigned by Marcus’s father to see to the needs of their visitors from Jerusalem, but it was her father. “Marcus is here.”
“Thank you, Father. I’ll be right down.”
He watched her and something in his eyes softened. “You look lovely, Miriam.”
She turned in surprise. “Why thank you, Father.” She realized as she said it that she never called him “Papa” anymore. But she was touched by this sudden, if only brief, return to normalcy.
She looked at herself once more in the mirror, then started toward the door. He didn’t move, just continued to watch her. Suddenly a little embarrassed, she forced a smile. “We’re going to the Theater of Marcellus. There is a new satire that everyone is talking about.”
He nodded absently and stepped back to make way for her. As she passed him, he finally spoke. “I’m glad Marcus is back,” he said. “It has been good for you.”
She gave him a startled look, then nodded. “Good-bye, Father. Marcus says that we shall be back long before midnight.”
V
“Would you be terribly disappointed if we didn’t go to the theater?” Miriam asked.
Marcus slowed his step, looking at her in surprise. Then a slow smile stole across his face. “I thought you liked the theater.”
“I do, but it’s such a beautiful evening. I’d rather walk.”
“Well, actually I was misinformed. I was told it would be one of the new comedies. We’ve got several excellent satirists in the city at the moment, but it’s actually a Greek tragedy tonight. Euripides, I think. They can be pretty depressing.”
She looked up at him. “Then that settles it. Let’s walk until it gets dark.”
He laughed softly. “Wonderful.” Then: “I shouldn’t admit this, and my mother would be horrified if she heard me say it, but I far prefer a good chariot race in the Circus Maximus.”
Miriam laughed with genuine pleasure. “Actually, I shouldn’t admit this, and my father would be horrified to hear me say it, but I think I do too.”
His expression made her laugh right out loud. “Does that shock you?”
“Oh, no, it’s just that when we went to the races when I was here before, you seemed as though you were merely enduring the experience.”
She was suddenly demure. “I was afraid if I leaped to my feet and started screaming for my favorite driver to go faster, you might think I was less than feminine.”
“I know some very cultured women who are passionate followers of the charioteers,” he said with a chuckle. “Including my mother.”
“Really? But you just said she would be horrified.”
“Oh, she doesn’t object to my interest in the charioteers, only my
lack of enthusiasm for drama.”
“I knew there was more than one reason that I liked her.” And Miriam meant it. She found Marcus’s father somewhat distant and aloof, but she and his mother had become very good friends.
They were approaching the entrance to the Roman Forum, but he motioned them to the right. “Would you like to go up on the Capitoline Hill? That’s always a pleasant walk and not nearly as crowded. Perhaps we can see the sunset as well.”
“Yes.” As they turned and started up the path, Miriam looked at him. “Actually, that is one of the things that has surprised me about Rome.”
“That women like chariot racing?” he teased.
“No, the place of women in general. The women of Rome are probably the most emancipated and independent of any in the world that I have heard of. I’ve noticed that women are held in the highest respect by all levels of society.”
“That’s true, not only because as mothers they bring forth the sons and daughters Rome needs to thrive, but also because they are the primary means of instilling the Roman virtues into their children. We view that as a most critical role. Why wouldn’t we venerate them?”
“But it’s more than just motherhood,” Miriam said. “The women I’ve come to know here are truly helpmeets in their husbands’ affairs. They often serve as trusted confidants and counselors. We believe that too—though many men may not practice it well—but in many cultures that is not the case. I read that in ancient Greece even wealthy women were confined to so-called ‘women’s apartments’ within the home. Not so here. Take your mother, for example. She is the matron of your villa in the fullest sense of the word. She directs the servants and manages the affairs of a complex household.”
Marcus was pleased at that comment. “As you know, in the Roman home, total authority rests with the pater familias, the father of the family. His authority is absolute. If he chooses, he can even have one of his children put to death if the offense is serious enough. But beneath that larger umbrella of the father’s authority, the woman of a family does have tremendous power. And you’ve probably observed that even away from the home, women are treated with deference and respect.”
“Exactly my point. Men make way for them in the streets. They are given special seating at religious ceremonies, public games, and affairs of state. Your mother even told me that a woman’s testimony is acceptable in court—something that would be unheard of in some countries.”
“That is correct.” Then his face darkened a little. “Unfortunately, in the last few decades since the fall of the Republic and the rise of the Empire, some of that traditional esteem for women has eroded. Divorce is on the rise, and more and more wealthy women find the burden of childbearing and child-rearing boring and tedious. That is one of the things I find admirable about your people, Miriam. Family is important to you too, and your women view motherhood as their highest duty.”
She thought of some of her friends back in Jerusalem—wealthy, beautiful, aristocratic. Some of them found the idea of carrying a child inconvenient and destructive to their beautiful figures. This attitude was not widespread, but among the upper classes it was becoming more and more common.
They walked slowly on. There were many people out, enjoying the lingering daylight. Spring was here in its fulness, and it seemed like everyone was out to enjoy it. From time to time, someone would recognize Marcus and smile and say hello. As they passed on, they would give Miriam a careful scrutiny.
“I’m afraid we are starting considerable gossip tonight,” she said after it happened for the fifth or sixth time.
“What’s that?”
“Never mind. What were you thinking?”
He looked down at her. “At that moment I was thinking about Ostia.”
“Father says you have a sailing date.”
He frowned briefly. “Yes, a week hence, right after the birthday celebration for my father. That’s assuming the weather does not change again. Spring sailings can be a problem, but Pilate wants me back in time for Passover. He wants me and Sextus to meet with Simeon and Yehuda personally and evaluate how they are doing with Ya’abin.”
In her conversation with him earlier, Miriam had learned that if she exhibited too much interest in Simeon, Marcus grew suspicious, so she changed the subject. “Tell me something, Marcus.”
“As you wish.”
“When you speak of leaving Rome it is with obvious sadness.”
“Ah,” he said gallantly, “but that is partly because of you.”
She brushed that aside with an embarrassed laugh. “Perhaps a little, but it is much more than that. You miss Rome, don’t you.”
“Oh, yes. Always. It’s been wonderful to be back for a time. I’m glad Pilate had a need for some business with the emperor and would let me take care of that at the same time as my father’s celebration.”
“So, tell me, what it is about Rome that means the most to you? I’ve noticed that you often speak of Rome as if it were a person, a woman. So tell me about her. Tell me about her personality, her character. Introduce me to this woman you love.”
He laughed easily. “Yes, perhaps that is the proper way to think about her.”
They were approaching the top of the Capitoline Hill where stood the Temple of Juno, queen of heaven and patroness of women, and nearby, the Temple to Jupiter, her brother and husband. Both were elegant temples with high, fluted columns all around. Marcus motioned to a stone bench near the path that led to Juno’s temple. “Ready to sit for a time?”
“Yes. I love it up here.”
Once settled in, he leaned back, pulling up one knee with his hands. He was musing. “The character of Rome? That’s an intriguing question, and yet really not difficult to answer, if you are talking about the ideal. You will recognize, of course, that the ideal is never achieved in totality. As I said, it has been eroding in some ways in recent years.”
“It is no different for us,” she answered. “But tell me about the ideal.”
“This ideal—or better, these ideals—are the foundation of our character. We also believe they are the primary reasons why Rome has become what she is today. How does an obscure village on a rather unimportant peninsula become a great city, and eventually an empire more vast and powerful than any the world has ever known?”
“Good question,” Miriam said, not really minding that she was playing to his vanity, this national pride that was so much a part of the Roman personality.
“We attribute all that we have, all we have done, all that we are to the daemon which inhabits the soul of every true Roman.”
“Demon?” Miriam asked. While demon in her culture generally had a negative connotation, she knew that to the Romans the daemon referred to the inner spirit, the inner fire that possessed a person and motivated all he did. She wasn’t sure how he meant the word in this particular context, however.
“Yes, we call it pietas, or duty. Pietas pervades every aspect of our lives. It shapes and molds all we do. It is drummed into us from the time we are born and reviewed and reemphasized until we die.” He had grown very solemn now and spoke gravely. “Pietas, virtus, gravitas, fides. Duty, virtue, soberness, fidelity—these are the great imperatives of character, the sacred duties that constitute what it means to be Roman. They are the absolutes that infuse all other motives. There are other qualities as well, such as self-discipline, diligence, and austerity, but those four are the foundation of all that we hold sacred.”
He smiled at her. “Do you know where the word luxury comes from?”
Miriam shook her head.
“It was first an agricultural term. Luxus describes a profusion of undesirable and spontaneous growth in vegetation—a garden gone to weed, a vine that proves to be all leaves and little fruit. Thus luxuries originally were anything that burst their bounds and got out of control. When a person becomes addicted to wealth and comfort and ease, he or she is lacking in self-discipline, and this gives birth to the baser instincts—greed, voraciousness, laziness.
”
This surprised Miriam. The family of Antonius Marcus Didius was one of the wealthiest in Rome. Their villa was huge, two or three times as large as her father’s palace in Jerusalem. If anyone lived in luxury, it was this family. And yet . . . Now she marveled. It wasn’t really luxurious in the traditional sense of the word. Everything was of the highest quality throughout, but it was neither ostentatious nor pretentious. It was elegant and expensive, but simple and tasteful. Marcus had been in her home in Jerusalem. Did he view her family as living in luxury? It struck her as odd that it hadn’t occurred to him that his comment might have applied to her and thus offended her.
He was watching her curiously. She realized she had gotten lost in her thoughts and smiled for him to go on.
“Anyway, these qualities, these character traits have a little different meaning for you than for us. Virtue for us means not compliance to some moral code given by the gods, but self-discipline, surrender of the vir—the inner strength of a man, what makes him ‘virile’—to the greater good. The individual’s will is always subject to the greater good of the familia and the civitas—the family and one’s citizenship.”
“Whereas,” Miriam broke in, “for us, individual will and identity take priority. We believe it is a gift from God.”
He grinned. “Yes. That’s one of the reasons we Romans have such a hard time understanding you Jews. Some would say you are quarrelsome and intractable—” the grin broadened—“which I must admit I felt for a time when I first arrived. But I have come to see that this way of thinking is the product of a different way of viewing life. And that view leads you to value a fierce individuality.”
“Yes,” Miriam said, surprised at his insight.
“Let me tell you two stories that illustrate how we view this idea of surrendering one’s own self for the greater good of the community. We have a legend that many years ago the earth opened up, creating a deep chasm in the Roman Forum. All efforts to fill the gap were unsuccessful. When a soothsayer, an oracle, was consulted about the problem, she said that the chasm would remain until what most gave Rome her strength was cast into the pit as an offering to the gods.
Fishers of Men Page 94
