Dear and Glorious Physician (59 page)

“Your own house will do us equally well,” said Hilell. He frowned slightly. “I prefer not to be the guest of Pontius Pilate.”

“My house,” said Plotius, “was recently sold. I am attached to the household of Pilate now. Now you must not be offensive, my dear Hilell! I know you never liked the procurator — ”

“I do not like Herod, who built that fine house for him!” said Hilell in a vehement tone. Plotius studied him craftily. “You mean you no longer like Romans,” he said. “Well, then, go to a tavern, you stiffnecked Sadducee! And enjoy the fleas and the dogs.”

Hilell hesitated. He looked at Lucanus and Arieh. Then he shrugged. “Very well, if my friends do not object, we will go to the house of Pilate — with no pleasure.”

“I prefer to go where you go,” said Lucanus.

Plotius looked at him strangely. “I think not, when I tell you that your adopted brother, Priscus, is in Pilate’s villa on the hills yonder, and awaits you.”

“Priscus! I have not heard from him for a long time! I thought he was in Jerusalem!” Lucanus was freshly delighted.

“So he was, until a few weeks ago.” Plotius’ tone was very odd and restrained. “He is a friend of Pilate’s, and has been visiting him.” The soldier paused. “The air here is more salubrious than in Jerusalem, and he has had a slight illness.”

Hilell caught the restraint, the avoidance, in Plotius’ voice, but Lucanus, overcome with joy at seeing his old friend, and at the news of his brother’s presence, did not hear. The three went to Plotius’ large chariot, which was drawn by four black horses. A last light lay over the land, and as the chariot was borne off Lucanus looked about him eagerly.

There was little to see in this dusk, except an occasional flickering light on a distant vast fortress, or a lamp in a small house, or a grove of spearlike cypresses beginning to lean against a rising yellow moon. Boys and girls, uttering harsh and guttural sounds, ran ahead of the chariot and its leading riders, herding their kine home, or a flock of goats, or black-faced brown sheep. Lucanus guessed, from the smell of dust, that the land was dry and sandy and crumbling. The city lay below them as they mounted the low hills, its flat roofs shimmering, its narrow streets restless with carried lights, its doorways golden. There was so little to see in this rapid darkness, yet Lucanus was more deeply excited than ever he had been in his life. It was not the deep and intense odors, pungent and hot over the sea breeze, heavy with a memory of incense and spice which the very ground exhaled that stirred him. It was not the peppery smell of trees and parched grass, nor the dust. He knew the East well; the odors here were only more insistent than in Alexandria or Cairo or Thebes or Syria. None of these scents moved Lucanus, but only the thought that here had lived the sages and the prophets, the patriarchs and mighty men, the men of Moses and David and Saul and Elias, the land of Goliath, of Gaza, of kings and warriors, of Samuel and Solomon. Here had sounded the thunder of the ages; here God had walked as an earthquake. Here Sinai had bellowed with thunder and had been stunned by lightnings. Here the Commandments had been given to all men. Here had risen the conception that man could be more than man, and that it was commanded that he be so. Here, in this little land, the giants, the Titans, had truly sprung from the ground and the crash of their voices echoed even in the silence. Here was more wisdom than Greece had conceived, more grandeur than Rome had struck under the sun. There was not an inch of ground which was not blessed; there was not a tree but which must stand in wonder. Here the spiritual heroes had had their being, and their shades walked on every path. Here a girl child had carried God in her womb, and here He had manifested Himself to man, and here He had lived and here He had died, and here He had chosen to speak as a man.

I am home, thought Lucanus, and there was a profound rapture in him. For God, in this small compass, had made His own home among those He had chosen to hear Him.

The mounted riders before the chariot carried torches like scarlet pennants. They reflected on an occasional tree, on a stone, on the rocky road, on faces, on the backs of the horses. Lucanus saw that they were rising toward two very impressive palaces. Plotius pointed to one. “Pilate,” he said. He pointed to the next. “His dear friend, the tetrarch of Jerusalem, Herod Antipas.” The white and columned buildings glittered in the moonlight; the palace of Herod was crowned with a golden dome. Roman legions began to line the road, saluting.

The city lay below now, all flat silver-plated roofs, touched with the fire of torches and the paler glimmer of lanterns. From somewhere came the wailing of a woman. “Tomorrow I will show you one of our grandest temples,” said Plotius, proudly. “Two vast statues, one of Zeus and one of Apollo, facing each other, Zeus of marble, Apollo of red porphyry. This is a very strange land! The Jews despise our temples everywhere; they avert their faces, and they the most religious of people! I tell you, there is no understanding the Jews. The worst of them spit when we pass. Many of our soldiers have married pretty Jewish maidens, but only after a most painful circumcision, and only after prolonged weeping on the part of mothers and thunderings from fathers. One would think we were savages from blackest Africa.” He laughed.

“They wish to keep both themselves and the Law unblemished,” said Hilell, somewhat stiffly.

Plotius winked at Lucanus. “I tell you,” he repeated, “they are very strange. They detest Herod, even when he stands in the Temple at Jerusalem and pours ashes on his head and sacrifices. They look on his tears with disdain. Ah, but they are stiff-necked!” He flicked the horses with his whip. “But the land has a curious fascination for me. Priscus will have much to tell you. You must make allowances, for he is not himself.”

“Why not?” asked Lucanus, with his first alarm, raising his voice over the rumble of the chariot.

Plotius shrugged. “He officiated at the crucifixion of a miserable Jewish rabbi, and it could be that some spell was laid on him. The Jews have incantations of their own, and I have told you they hate Romans. I am happy you are here. You will laugh his superstitions away.” Once more his voice was peculiar.

Lucanus glanced at Hilell and Arieh, and they were staring at him mutely in the windy dance of the torches. “As you know,” went on Plotius, skillfully guiding his great horses, “Priscus’ family is not with him, and until that crucifixion Priscus was the merriest and most robust of men, and my favorite officer. He was also a frequenter of the better and more fastidious harlots, and a roisterer in the taverns. However,” he added, “I do remember that he had frequent fits of melancholy and thoughtfulness even before that crucifixion, and he would argue with me about Rome, wishing to be convinced that our nation was not truly depraved and lost and corrupt. Do I not remember my uncle, the senator, who as truly died for his country as any general in battle, and for no reason? But now I must tell you that Priscus has changed.”

“In what manner?”

Plotius’ soldierly voice became evasive. “Am I a physician? I brought him to Caesarea, for I love him as a son. Do not be alarmed,” said Plotius, kindly. “It may be nothing. Both Pilate and Herod have sent their best physicians to care for him, at my request; two of them are with him now, and you may speak with them. They tell me very little. He spends much time in his bed, and appears to have some difficulty in eating. He often bursts into mysterious tears, but the physicians do not permit me to question him. These physicians are very arrogant, and take liberties even with soldiers.” He touched Lucanus’ arm affectionately with the butt of his whip. “Ah, I have disturbed you! Rest assured Priscus is treated like a satrap from Persia by his friends. As his brother, and a physician, you will cure him at once with logic and reason.”

Lucanus was alarmed at the evasion of Plotius. But he knew that Plotius was also obstinate, and did not desire to discuss Priscus any longer. So he said, “On the day of that crucifixion there was a darkness, was there not?”

“Yes. It was also said that many saw the dead in the streets and in the houses. These people are very superstitious! The sun did darken, and was lost for a long time. But it was only a dust storm.” He hesitated. “Priscus can tell you, if you can persuade him to speak. He weeps like a woman when I talk to him, on the few occasions when I have access to him.”

“And why does he weep?” murmured Lucanus, stubbornly.

Plotius smiled at him with exasperation. “I am embarrassed to tell you, my dear friend, for fear of your laughter. He declares it was God, or perhaps Zeus or Hermes or Osiris or Apollo, who died on that criminal cross! Do not laugh at me, I implore you. I am repeating only what your brother has told me.”

Lucanus was silent, and Plotius peered at him with humor. “Do not be distressed,” he said, with some concern. “I am certain he is not mad, but only a victim of some spell or his own imagination.”

“Why is he here?” asked Lucanus in a low voice.

Again Plotius hesitated. “I suggested it, for he went about in a daze for a long time in Jerusalem, and the soldiers noticed it, and his pallor, and his absent ways, and his sudden bursts of tears. Did I wish this scandal to be reported to Rome, and to Tiberius, who has changed savagely for the worst and now hates everyone? I could not have Priscus disgraced, returned to Rome for punishment for behavior detrimental to his reputation as a soldier of Rome. It is very bad in Jerusalem, I tell you! Since that crucifixion there has been much turbulence there, and many soldiers are part of the foolish hysteria. Pilate was forced to proscribe the followers of that crucified rabbi in order to restore peace, and finally they fled the city. But it is still very ominous there; the rabble clash frequently with those who murmur that indeed the rabbi was of the Jewish God. One knows what the market rabble are everywhere, in the name of Mars! They desire nothing but upheaval and riots, for they have the souls of beasts and love excitement, no matter the cause. Faceless, tumult gives them an opportunity to posture as men and become important even if it is only to the law, which they naturally hate.”

Plotius’ voice expressed sullen irritation, and so Lucanus did not speak again. He understood that the anger was not directed against him, but against the universal mobs. Plotius muttered furiously, “Ah, if only we soldiers were permitted to quell rabble! Once it was permitted, and it was salutary. But now the rabble everywhere must be cherished, fed, housed, and amused, for they are a terror. However, who made them so? Venal statesmen who desire their support, and a curse upon them!”

Lucanus sensed that they were now rising through luxuriant gardens, for sweet scents were pervasive everywhere, and the resinous fragrance of trees. He saw distant fountains luminous in the moonlight, like naiads dancing in loneliness against the night. He heard the monotonous tramping of soldiers, and at each gate helmets shone, and bared swords. The golden dome of Herod’s house rivaled the light of the moon. The riders and the chariots turned through the last gate, and Pilate’s house stood before them, gleaming like alabaster.

Once in the magnificent lighted hall, filled with statues and flowers and beautiful furniture, Plotius suggested that his guests retire to waiting chambers and rest until the hour of dining. Lucanus guessed that his friend was uneasy and somber with some secret thoughts, and desired to be rid of him for a while. He said, putting his hand on the burly arm, “Plotius, I am not tired. I should like to consult Priscus’ physicians, for I am very anxious. Too, I have not seen my brother for a long time.”

“Certainly, my dear Lucanus!” said Plotius heartily. “Consider this house, in Pilate’s absence, as your own.” He smiled at Hilell, and clapped him on the shoulder. “I have missed you,” he declared. He stared at Arieh and winked. “There is nothing like a fortune to bring a lost one home! The slaves will take you to your apartments, my dear friends, and later, at dinner, we shall relax and talk of many places.” He pushed his thumbs into his belt, and then took off his helmet. He was indeed bald, but the baldness increased his air of virility. He touched Lucanus on the elbow, avoiding the other’s eyes. “Come,” he said. “The physicians are with Priscus now, and they can tell you much which is unknown to me.”

He did not speak as he led Lucanus through rooms each more charming than the last. Slave girls were singing somewhere to the bewitching sounds of flute and harp. Soft laughter came from behind curtains. Lamplight gleamed on columns of varicolored marble. The muraled walls shimmered with such brilliant paintings that the creatures depicted in them appeared to move in a secret but engrossing life of their own. The marble floors glittered; the whole house was freshly scented. Lucanus reflected that Herod had indeed built a splendid house for his friend, the procurator of Israel. There were glimpses of gold and silver everywhere, and the lamps were of Alexandrian glass. As the two silent friends passed from room to room the sharp and poignant wind from the sea blew about them. Once Lucanus caught a glimpse of the golden dome of Herod’s house through smooth columns, and heard the sound of distant voices and the dull challenge of patrolling soldiers. Otherwise a heavy atmosphere of quiet lay over all things.

They reached a tall bronze door, and Plotius rapped on it smartly. It was immediately opened by an armed slave, who bowed. Plotius said, “The noble Lucanus, who is the guest of Pontius Pilate, wishes to consult with the physicians of the captain, Priscus. Bring them to him.” He saluted Lucanus lightly, smiled a little, and hurried away as if pursued. Lucanus watched him go, frowning. The slave then conducted him into an antechamber and indicated a chair upholstered in cloth of gold, one of many. The slave brought Lucanus wine on a silver salver; the goblets were encrusted with gems of various colors. Lucanus drank, grateful for the wine; he discovered that it had an odor and taste of honey and roses, delicious on the tongue. The elaborate lamps flickered in the slight wind; Lucanus’ feet were sinking into a rich and colorful rug from Persia. Here one could slip into languor, so gracious and so lovely were the surroundings, and so potent the wine. But Lucanus was too anxious. He peered at a door of teakwood, intricately carved, and impatiently awaited the physicians.

They came at last, and bowed to him with dignity, and, as a colleague, he rose and bowed to them also. They were men of stately middle age, and Lucanus perceived that one was a Jew and the other a Greek. They introduced themselves. The Greek said, “I am named Nicias, and this is the physician, Joshua.” The Greek had a subtle and somewhat cold countenance which indicated an impersonal nature. The Jewish physician was smaller, and there was a liveliness and unquiet intelligence in his sparkling black eyes. Both were formally robed in blue togas, edged with gold, and both wore physicians’ rings set with brilliant jewels. It was evident that they were men of much honor and consequence, and that they were surprised at Lucanus’ humble garments.

They sat beside Lucanus, pulling their chairs close to his, in the immemorial gesture of physicians who are about to hold a conference of much importance concerning a valued patient. They drank the wine slaves brought, and stared before them reflectively. Lucanus still waited. Doctors of position were not to be hurried in a vulgar manner. They had a stateliness to maintain, and so they were portentous.

Nicias inquired of Athens, and Lucanus was forced to answer him courteously. Nicias mentioned Isocrates, who was his favorite philosopher, and Lucanus replied learnedly. The Greek was pleased. Joshua leaned forward to listen. “I understand you were educated in Alexandria, noble Lucanus,” said Joshua, with a little patronage. “I believe that Alexandria has lost some repute this past one hundred years. I myself was educated in Tarsus. What is your own opinion of the rival merits of both schools?”

Lucanus, devoured by anxiety, nevertheless replied with forced calm. He understood that these men were probing him for any lack of learning and culture before they would confide in him, and before deciding whether or not he was worthy of their full confidence. It was, he thought with impatience, like a sacred majestic dance into which a stranger had intruded, and during which it would be determined if he should be admitted to the ritual. “I assure you, my noble colleagues,” he said at last with considerable exasperation, “that I am capable of understanding our physicians’ jargon, and that I have had much experience and know the most modern of treatments! Therefore I beg of you to consider my natural anxiety! Tell me what ails my brother.”

Both physicians looked offended for a moment, though the Jew’s eyes irrepressibly began to twinkle. Lucanus, startled, thought he saw Joshua’s eye wink, but he could not be sure, for Joshua’s face remained grave and he retained the physician’s attitude, classic through the ages: projected thoughtful head, right elbow on the arm of the chair, right index finger partly obscuring his mobile mouth. Nicias debated ponderously. Then Joshua, after a quick glance at him, apparently decided that there had been enough formality. He dropped his hand, and said at once, “To be sure, you are anxious, Lucanus. Let me put the matter briefly.” Nicias gave him a chilly glance, which did not disconcert him. “Your brother has cancer of the stomach; the disease has largely invaded his liver also. You have asked us to speak. I do not believe in vague phrases, and so I have told you. You understand he cannot live in his condition. We have done all we could; he has thickly spiced food for his appetite, which is feeble, and all the wine he wishes, and anodynes for his pain, which is ferocious.”

Lucanus sat transfixed, his heart sick with despair. Joshua regarded him with compassion. Nicias locked his white fingers together in his lap. He said, “He may live a month, or perhaps two months, but certainly not for long.” It was as if he were politely discussing the weather with two aristocratic friends and that the matter was of no personal importance. Lucanus, struggling with his misery, unreasonably hated him. And so he concentrated on Joshua, in whom he sensed some human concern and kindness.

“How long has my brother been afflicted?” he asked in a trembling voice.

Joshua shrugged eloquently. “He was already very sick when he was brought here. I should judge he has been suffering from this disease at least eight months. That accounts for his moroseness, his listlessness, his loss of flesh, his grayness of visage, his aversion for meat, his infrequent but draining stomach hemorrhages, his unsteady gait, his swollen ankles. He is in the last stages of his affliction. We can do nothing for him but attempt to alleviate his pain, and reassure him. You will also understand that the disease has caused an instability of temper and fits of weeping, for though he does not know how mortally he is ill his body sends his brain signals of distress and premonition of death.”

Nicias said in a cold and reproving voice, “That is an unproved theory of yours, Joshua, that the brain receives any messages at all. I am firmly of the conviction that the heart is the seat of emotions and premonitions. I prefer the theories of Aristotle, though in some quarters I am considered old-fashioned.” The ‘quarters’ were apparently Joshua himself, and the physicians’ eyes locked for a moment in brief combat.

“Oh!” cried Lucanus, almost beside himself. “Must we have a discussion of various theories now? You say, Joshua, that my brother has cancer. Is that certain?”

“Most certain,” said Joshua, not offended. His eyes were sympathetic. “Would you wish to examine him yourself?”

The three physicians rose. Nicias’ pale eyebrows lifted on seeing Lucanus’ rough and cheap pouch, which rattled with vials in the manner of a rustic doctor. Nicias opened the teakwood door with an air of lofty resignation to the importunities of lesser men. The bedchamber beyond was magnificent, filled with the finest furniture and a gilded bed. Four slaves were in attendance, clothed in white tunics. But Lucanus ran to the bed, crying, “My dear Priscus! I am here at last!”

He snatched up a lamp from a marble table and held it high over the bed. Priscus lay there, and Lucanus was stunned to the heart by his aspect, and almost unable to recognize in this gray and emaciated man his young and beloved brother. The stony lids lay over sunken eyes; the mouth had sunk contracted onto the teeth. For a terrible moment Lucanus thought his brother already dead, for he appeared not to be breathing.

“He sleeps under the influence of our drugs,” said Joshua, full of pity. He put his hand on Lucanus’ shoulder. “He is, at least, in temporary peace, and for that we must thank the merciful God. He suffers much.”

Tears flooded into Lucanus’ eyes as he contemplated his brother by the high-held lamp. Here lay one dearer to him than his blood brother and sister, for he had given Priscus life when he was in death. Here was the brother of the beloved Rubria, and dying as she had died. Here was the heart’s darling of Iris. Here was the son of Diodorus, that valorous and virtuous warrior, whose name was never forgotten. Here lay the house of Diodorus, the son more fitting and valuable to the name of the dead soldier than the scholarly and fastidious Gaius, who shuddered at the sight of swords and banners. Here was one once merry and brown as a nut, innocently gay yet reflective, one who rejoiced in living and who loved his country and his gods. He remembered Priscus’ temperament, affectionate and considerate, kind yet strong, joyously active and eager, loving and thoughtful and full of laughter. Lucanus could not endure it. He put down the lamp slowly and pressed his fingers against his eyes to shut out this most dolorous sight.

“Yes, it is sad,” said Joshua, sighing. Nicias approached the bed, moving like one of the statelier gods, and gazed down at Priscus as one would gaze at a theorem.

Priscus stirred. Lucanus, his eyes still covered, heard the faintest voice, thrilling with weak delight. “Lucanus! It is you! I have waited — ”

Lucanus dropped to his knees and reached for the gaunt and diminished hand. It was cold and dry to his touch, and the pulse was erratic. He saw Priscus’ eyes, filmed with pain and exhaustion, though they had brightened with joy at the sight of him.

“Dear Priscus,” Lucanus stammered, struggling to control the agony in him. “Yes, I have come. Are you in pain?”

The shriveled fingers tightened on Lucanus’ hand like the fingers of a mummy. Priscus wet his parched lips, then gazed at Lucanus resolutely. “Pain,” he said, murmurously, with an effort, “is what all men endure. That you once told me, Lucanus. A soldier understands pain; he is inured to it. But there is a pain of the spirit — Have you heard recently from home?” He said the word ‘home’ in a tone of desperate longing.

“All is well,” said Lucanus, and swallowed the salty bulk in his throat. Priscus would never see his home again; he would never dandle his children on his knees; he would never kiss his wife and lie with her, fondling her long dark curls and brushing his mouth against her dimpled cheeks and breasts. He would never see his orchards and his fields, his cattle and his horses. He would never again swim in the green crystal of his stream, or drink of the wine of his grapes. The loving and simple things of joy and pleasure, which men take so for granted, would never be his again. For he was dying, and Lucanus had understood this at once. The heart of the physician squeezed. Then instantly he smiled, for Priscus was watching him anxiously.

“It is well?” said the young soldier.

“It is well,” said Lucanus. Priscus sighed, and closed his eyes for an instant in content.

Lucanus began to examine him, gently, and his last hope for a faulty diagnosis died. There was a huge palpable mass in the right area of the stomach, which could easily be felt through the thin layer of expiring flesh. Lucanus’ fingers moved to the liver, and there were masses there also. The peripheral lymphatic glands were grossly swollen, especially the supraclavicular. The examination cost Priscus the most unendurable pain, gentle though it was, but as a soldier he kept himself rigid and quiet. His eager eyes never left Lucanus’ face, not for an expression of relief, but only for the joy of seeing him. He knew, in his soul, that he had not much longer to live.

He said, feebly, “My mother. My wife, my children. You must tell them,” and he could not control a wince when Lucanus found a particularly torturous spot, “that I died in peace — of an accident, perhaps. And quickly. They must not know — Ah,” he sighed, when Lucanus removed his probing hands. “You understand, Lucanus.”

“Yes,” said Lucanus. “I understand.” He put his palm against the feverish cheek like a father, and his breast heaved. He tried to smile. “But all is not lost,” he added, in a comforting tone, and in the mechanical fashion of a doctor.

Priscus rolled his head on his cushions. “All is lost,” he said quietly.

“One must have hope,” said Joshua.

“I no longer desire to live,” said Priscus, simply. “You speak of my body, good Joshua. I do not have a care for my body.” He put his hand into that of Lucanus, like an exhausted child. “I must talk with my brother, alone,” he said. “There is much to say before I go on my long journey.”

“I comprehend,” said Joshua, wrung with his own grief, for he had come to love Priscus, as all who knew him did. “But you must not tire yourself.”

“Unless I am relieved of my burden I shall not be able to join my father and my mother and my sister in peace,” said Priscus. “I have little time.”

“Only the gods know that,” said Nicias, coldly. He inclined his head, and Joshua followed him from the room, and at the last, the slaves. Priscus watched them go, and then with forced strength he said to Lucanus, “Lift me on my cushions, dear brother, so I may speak more easily.”

Lucanus lifted him, and he was appalled at the lightness of the soldier’s body, the absence of flesh. But he made himself smile comfortingly. Priscus’ head fell back on the raised cushions, and he panted weakly for some moments. He closed his eyes. “I must speak,” he said, with something of Diodorus’ imperiousness. “You must not tell me not to tire myself. I must say all that I must say, Lucanus.”

“Yes,” said Lucanus. Priscus’ hand groped for his, and he smiled faintly. “It is a terrible story,” he said, after a moment or two, and his face changed and became ghastly, as though he had just died in torment. And then he began his tale.

The lamps flickered or quickened in the sea breeze which came through the columns outside. The odors of the East rode on the wind, and the sounds of the tinkling fountains. And Priscus spoke steadily, with an urging of last strength, and Lucanus did not interrupt him once.

Plotius had been stationed in Jerusalem for a considerable time. He had found the city fascinating and full of excitement. The Jews were a strange people, but never were they dull or flaccid. They looked at the Romans coldly, and avoided them, except for the rich merchants and politicians and the owners of cargo vessels. The lesser and humbler people despised them, except for the high priests whose families were engaged in trade and had their fortunes to make. “The people are at once realistic and as materialistic as are we Romans,” said Priscus, “and yet are full of piety and mysticism. Even the grossest and most exigent of the tradesmen and merchants and manufacturers will thrust aside worldly concerns on the holy days and become as unworldly as shades, forgetting everything. The Temple is filled with the smoke of sacrifices and the scent of incense, and there is wailing and weeping on some holy days, and rejoicing and dancing on others. The Jews weep eternally, even when they smile. And they speak of a Messias who will deliver them from Rome, and Who will set His foot on the prostrate breast of Rome and never permit her to rise again.”

Priscus, youthful and ever full of curiosity, had heard much of the religion of the Jews, for he wished to be friends with those who spurned his friendship. But no one would discuss religion with him, not even his merchant and trader acquaintances. From that subject they would recoil, and their wine-flushed fat faces would darken and turn away. And then he began to hear rumors of a strange, country rabbi, of no learning, from the hills of Galilee, of a people despised by the Jerusalem worldlings and cultured men. He was a man of no family, no wealth. He had nothing but the poor clothing on His back and the rope sandals on His feet. Nor did He possess a horse or a litter, or even the lowliest ass. Yet when He came to Jerusalem He was surrounded by crowds; where He moved, they moved also, listening to Him. It was rumored that He healed the sick and raised the dead. The priests at first laughed, then were angered. It was all nothing to Priscus, who could never understand the Jews, their many quarreling sects, their insistence on certain rituals, their constant vehement arguments about the niceties of the meanings of ancient prophets — even the city rabble would quarrel about these things! They regarded their religion with sternness and devotion, and observed it meticulously. This was true of the meanest man or the highest and most honored. They had no cynical doubts of it, as did the Greeks, nor had they the earthy superstitions of the Romans. That doubtless explained the excitement over the rabbi who was rumored to raise the dead and heal the sick and perform many other miracles. It also explained the wrath of the patrician high priests who detested the common folk and found even their poor sacrifices unworthy. The rabbi was invading their sacred purlieus and was distracting the people from their duties. Almost as bad as this, it was rumored He was inciting the people against Rome, and that was most dangerous.