Dear and Glorious Physician (62 page)

Lucanus raised his head. He was full of awe and sorrow, and yet also he was filled with joy and surety. He touched his hand to Priscus’ forehead, and Priscus opened his eyes. “There is nothing else,” he said, in a dying voice. “There were rumors that on the third day He rose from the dead, but the rumors were suppressed, and His followers proscribed, and they fled from the city in fear. And it was at that time that I became very sick, and wandering, and the pain began in my stomach, and I knew that He had condemned me to death for my part in His execution.”

But Lucanus smiled joyfully, and placed his palm against his brother’s gray and shriveled cheek. “No!” he exclaimed. “How could God condemn you? It was prophesied from the ages that He would die in that manner, for the salvation of all men, and not only for the Jews. I have known it always. Did He hate you? No, He loved you! You have spoken of His compassionate glance at you, and His understanding. He wishes you to come closer to Him, and rest in His heart, and be one with Him. Listen! I tell you He loves you, and is with you always!”

Priscus’ sunken eyes brightened. He leaned his cheek against Lucanus’ hand; tears slipped along his eyelids. “It is true?” he urged. “It is true?”

“Yes, it is true. And He is risen! Oh, truly He is risen!”

“And He was surely God?”

“He is surely God.”

Lucanus bent forward and kissed his brother’s forehead. Their eyes were close together, the dark and the blue. Lucanus smiled lovingly, and with strength. Priscus murmured, nestled his withered body closer to his brother, and suddenly slept in utter exhaustion. He appeared not to breathe. An expression of peace and contentment settled over his dying features. He was like one who has come home after a terrible journey which had been filled with threatening monsters. He was like one who had been exiled to the fiery desert, and then been summoned to return.

Lucanus rose and looked down at the sleeping and stricken man. He clasped his hands together and murmured:

“O You who have brought me from the waste spaces, and the darkness, and the barrenness, out of Your love and Your eternal mercy! O You who are compassionate beyond imagining, You who have haunted my life to bring me to You! O You who know the sufferings of men, because You have suffered them! Oh, hallowed are You in my soul, and I implore that You will accept my life that I may serve You! Always have I loved You, even when I contended with You out of my lack of understanding! Be merciful to me, a sinner, a man without importance! Hear my voice that calls to You.

“Be pitiful to my poor brother, who was granted the merit of seeing You in our flesh. He loves You, and knows You. Bring him peace; bring him surcease of pain. If he must die, then grant him a quiet death, without more anguish. Are You not compassionate for Your children? Do they appeal to You in vain? No, never do they appeal to You without Your help and Your consolation! Here is my brother, who loves You. Be You merciful to him, and lead him to You!”

Priscus slept like a weary child. The sweat dried on his face. Lucanus bent and kissed him, his voice murmurous and loving. Then he turned down the lamps and left the room.

He entered the dining hall, where sat Nicias and Joshua, Arieh and Hilell and Plotius. He did not know it, but his countenance shone like the moon, and they started and stared at him. He looked at Arieh and Hilell and cried, “I have heard my brother all this time! And I tell you that he knew God, and saw Him crucified, and he is blessed! And surely, as it was said, God has risen! Surely He has risen, blessed is His Name!”

The others sat like statues, and paling. Then Joshua rose to his feet and held out his hand to Lucanus, and said, “I knew it. From the beginning, I knew it!” Arieh and Hilell rose then and stretched out their hands to Lucanus and smiled, and he saw their tears. But Plotius, disturbed, frowned and pulled at his lips.

Long after all others were asleep, except the overseers of the hall and guards, Lucanus wrote his Gospel on the Crucifixion. His chamber doors were opened to the sea-voiced wind and the aromatic scents from the gardens. Sometimes, half dreaming, his stylus in his hand, he lifted his golden head to listen to the wild sweet trilling of night birds and to the ceaseless splashing of fountains. All about him burned lamps of gold and silver and glass, and often, not seeing them, he would stare at the murals on the walls.

How much, he thought, had Priscus told him, and how much had he seen spiritually through Priscus’ dying eyes? Priscus was not a young man of much descriptive power, yet he had imparted to Lucanus through those hours the grandeur and tenor of Golgotha, so that Lucanus might have been an eyewitness himself. It was as if he himself had touched the cross, had seen the Man on it, had received His effulgent and merciful smile, had looked at Mary and had been torn by grief for her, had listened to the howlings and lamentations of the people. What was that cry God had given on the cross, in Hebrew, which Priscus remembered but could not translate? Lucanus paused thoughtfully. As a Greek he was precise; he would put nothing into his Gospel except what Priscus had seen and remembered, and what, through his eyes, mysteriously, he himself had discerned. While Lucanus wrote, his eyes frequently filled with tears, and his heart swelled with adoration. Sometimes he could not bear his emotion; he would rise and walk restlessly up and down his chamber. There was no weariness in him. Occasionally he would drink a little of the sweet Judean wine, or eat a date or a piece of bread. Nor was there sorrow for Priscus in him now. The young soldier was safe; he had seen God with his own eyes. The sorrow which Lucanus felt was for Iris, his mother, and those others who loved Priscus and who would mourn him. But I cannot mourn him, thought Lucanus. He has been blessed.

The night birds fell silent, and then suddenly the cool dawn air rang to the cries of other birds, and the fountains sounded nearer. The Gospel of the Crucifixion was finished. There would be other parts to add, after talking with Mary and the Apostles. A shaft of rosy sunlight, thin and tenuous, struck through a white column, and Lucanus rose and stepped out onto the colonnade beyond his door.

He had never seen a more beautiful or peaceful view, high on this hill. The sea, to the west, was the color of ripe grapes, flowing in towards the east where the light climbed. The harbor bobbed with tall galleons, their topmost white masts just touched with a fugitive pink. The western sky arched in purple, and in its lower reaches the stars continued to burn faintly as they sloped behind the swell of the earth. Like weary Artemis, the pale moon followed them, sinking down to rest. Caesarea was hardly awake; the city lay between the sea and the hill on which Pilate’s palace stood, crowding masses of flat white roofs glimmering like snow. All about this particular mount rose similar mounts, silvery with olive trees, murmurous with the voices of palms and cypresses, though some were as bare as brass. But the gardens falling gently away from the twin palaces of Pilate and Herod were freshly green, filled with winding paths of crushed red or white stones, delightful with fresh arbors and beds of flowers, fragrant with resinous trees. The pure air flowed over it all, clarified and iridescent as the earth brightened, and the white statues scattered through the gardens began to shine faintly.

Lucanus sighed with pleasure and fulfillment. A clean wind rose from the sea, and the crests of the water sparkled with delicate rose. Lucanus looked at the eastern sky, wide and pure, quivering with light scarlet, and above this lake of trembling fire the heavens had taken on themselves a tint of jade, fathomless and intense. He left the colonnade and went to the back of the palace, walking softly on the graveled path. And then he frowned. No windows looked upon this other side of the hill, and in consequence it was bare and yellow, filled with sulphurous boulders; even the light that was beginning to emerge here had a citron hue, like the desert, and the air that rose from it was sluggish and hot. He had instantly emerged from beauty into ugliness. He was conscious, for the first time, of being weary, and his eyes smarted. He walked down the hill a distance, feeling the crumbling of the yellow dry earth under his sandals, hearing the falling away of small stones under his tread. It was desolate here, and the desolation had been created by man.

He sat down on a boulder, sighing and rubbing his eyes. He gazed at the ripple of the surrounding mounts, which were quickening moment by moment. In a few minutes the sun would spring upon the most eastern mount like a warrior in golden armor.

Lucanus heard a pattering and shifting on the stones, and looking down, he saw a yellow dog, the color of the earth itself. The dog, seeing his gaze, halted and gazed up at him. It was a medium-sized animal, and each hair of its prettily curling coat sparkled in the sharp and barren air. It had a curious and sinuous look about it, wild and shy, and very wary, and its flat head was thrust forward, sniffing, and its eyes glowed like savage rubies. Lucanus felt its suspicion, and he smiled. This was no dog of high breeding, daintily pampered and petted and fed delicacies from patrician tables. It had apparently been abused, for it regarded Lucanus with fierceness, and he could see the quick movement of its ribs as it panted a little.

He loved animals dearly. He whistled softly, held out his hand and snapped his fingers. The dog leaped back a few paces, never taking those savage eyes from him. Then all at once it was very still, its head still thrust forward, its eyes peering at him as if in astonishment. Behind it was a shrubby growth of dusty bushes, dry with yellow powder. Lucanus smiled again to see a litter of four half-grown cubs emerge, whimpering, and they crowded about the larger dog, who was apparently their mother. “Come,” murmured Lucanus, holding out his hand and snapping his fingers reassuringly. The dog lifted her ears, and from her throat came a hopeful questioning. Then her mouth opened, showing her teeth in an almost human smile of joy and affection, and she bounded up the slope towards Lucanus and flung herself, evil-smelling and pungent and dusty, onto his breast. Her sharp paws planted themselves on his shoulder; she nuzzled his neck, his face, then lapped his cheeks in frenzied kisses.

He was not revolted by her odor of carrion. He held her in his arms and murmured to her like a father. Poor creature! He remembered that God had blessed the animals of the earth long before He had created man. The wild heart beat against that of Lucanus as if in feverish longing and love. The cubs warily climbed the slope and watched their mother with amazement and examined Lucanus, sniffing about his ankles. Then, sighing, they settled on his feet and laid their small heads against his flesh. He continued to stroke the mother and to speak to her, and she clung to him as if wishing to merge herself with him. From her throat came an inexpressibly desolate muttering and imploring.

How comforting were animals! They were never evil; they lived without hypocrisy according to their natures. They hunted, not for sport, but for food. They had a wild innocence, and a lovely playfulness, and their loyalties were sure and without malice. The Greeks declared they had no souls. But, surely, that was not true. They had the souls of infants, simple and artless, and even their passions were infantile, and not corrupt, as were the passions of men. Did they know God? Who could answer that with surety? Incapable of virtue, they were therefore without true guilt. Even the audacious tiger, the terrible lion, the trumpeting elephant, the varicolored serpents were incapable of real wickedness, as man was capable. Therefore must not God love them?

The dog suddenly stiffened in Lucanus’ arms. She lifted her head rigidly, then snarled, and she tore herself from him and leaped upon the ground with a howl that was, all at once, familiar to him. He had heard it in Syria, in the outskirts of Alexandria, on the silvery hills of Greece, and he was astounded. The dog howled to her cubs, and they sprang from Lucanus’ feet, surrounded their mother, and fled with her into the bushes and disappeared instantaneously. They were jackals, the most hated and most loathed of animals, the carriers of rabies, the eaters of carrion, the despised of man and beast! Lucanus had never seen them before, for they were creatures of the night, the despoilers. He looked at his hands, which had actually fondled jackals, and at his feet, on which jackals had lain, and he was filled with a bemused wonder, for he knew that they both hated and feared man, and avoided him like death itself.

He looked behind him, and far up on the slope, yellow and hot and dusty, he saw a group of petrified soldiers, among them Plotius and Joshua, the physician, and a man he had never seen before but whom he knew for a Roman. The man was clothed in a white toga, and had a severe pale face with an eagle nose, and his head was bald and just fringed, about the ears, with a rim of black and scanty hair. His bare arms were circled with gold and rings glittered on his fingers in the first sunlight. And all of the men were absolutely silent, and wore aghast expressions. Lucanus rose; he felt slightly foolish to be found here on this awful slope. He began to climb. Then Plotius stepped forth with a strange look.

“Those were jackals, Lucanus,” he said, in an odd tone, looking deeply into the eyes of the other man.

“Yes, I know,” said Lucanus, smiling. “I must wash my hands at once. They carry rabies.” Plotius’ strange expression intensified. “They sat about you,” he said, “and the mother embraced you. Never have I heard of such a thing before.” And he shuddered, and still regarded Lucanus with that wondering look.

“I did not know immediately that they were jackals,” said Lucanus, as if impelled to apologize. Plotius put his arm about his shoulder and squeezed him. And then Lucanus saw that there were tears in the soldier’s eyes. Lucanus started.

“Priscus!” he cried. “Priscus!”

Plotius smiled a most peculiar smile. “No, he is not dead. He — is much better.” He seemed abstracted as they climbed together. Then Joshua, detaching himself from the group, came down to meet them. His roguish eyes were misty, and he held down his hand for Lucanus to take it, and helped to draw him up the hill, in silence. The stranger waited, and he looked at Lucanus curiously.

Joshua said a mysterious thing. “I do not wonder at the jackals. I do not wonder that they did not flee from him, but embraced him.”

“Nor do I,” said Plotius.

Lucanus laughed. “Poor creatures,” he said. He wished to go at once to his brother and see if he needed attention. But now he was face to face with the stranger. Plotius addressed him. “Noble Pontius Pilate, this is our dear and beloved physician, Lucanus, son of Diodorus Cyrinus.”

Then Pontius Pilate, the haughty procurator of Israel, did an unprecedented thing. He put out his arms and rested them on the shoulders of Lucanus, and he kissed his cheek. The others watched, amazed, for this cold and imperious man, accustomed to adulation, never spoke except impersonally, and with briefness, to anyone, as though no man were worthy of his consideration.

And Lucanus thought, Here is the man who tried to save Jesus, but the market rabble, murderous as always, would not let him. Had he been moved also, as had Priscus? Pilate was smiling at him, the pallid furrows of his face deepening.

“I have heard much of you from Caesar,” he said. “Once Caesar said to me, ‘I have found one just man, uncorrupted, and good, and without guile or greed, and his name is Lucanus, and he is a physician. I remember him in my darkest moments’.”

Lucanus flushed with embarrassment. “Caesar does me much honor,” he said. “But it is not true. I have been the blindest of all men, and the most bitter and the most unreconciled, and without merit.”

Pilate took his hand and examined the ring of Tiberius. “You have had this a long time, but never have you sent it to Caesar, and never have you asked anything of him. That alone is a marvel.” He examined, then, the ring of Diodorus. “You wear this ring worthily, Lucanus.” He sighed. “I have sent my wife to Rome, for she is sick of the spirit.” He paused. “But I had a dream two nights ago that I must come back here. I believe in dreams. My wife had the strangest one, much earlier, and I should have listened to her, but did not.”

“The dream spoke truly, noble Pilate,” said Joshua. He took Lucanus’ arm gently. “Come, let us go to your brother, who wishes to talk to you.”

Lucanus’ anxiety returned, and he forgot to wonder at Pilate’s words. “He slept the night? Is he in pain?”

“He slept the night. He is not in pain,” said Joshua, in an ambiguous tone. He looked long into Lucanus’ eyes, as if seeking.

Lucanus began to walk swiftly, and now only the physician was with him. Joshua said, as they mounted the wide marble steps of the house, “Nicias sits beside your brother, and is speechless, and he weeps.”

“Why?” cried Lucanus, with foreboding.

“You will see. I tell you, your brother is much better.”

Lucanus began to run, and Joshua puffed after him, exclaiming, “We are not young men, and I am not an athlete like you, my dear Lucanus!” But Lucanus fled like the wind through the brilliant sunlit rooms and came to the apartment of Priscus. When a slave opened the door Lucanus precipitously flung it open faster, and sped into the antechamber and then into the bedroom. He rushed to the bed of Priscus, expecting a corpse, but he saw, to his complete amazement, that Priscus was sitting high on his cushions and enjoying his breakfast. Beside him, sitting in silence, was Nicias, his head bent on his breast as if meditating.

“Welcome, welcome!” said Priscus, putting down a huge goblet of goat’s milk. “Dear brother Lucanus! You have helped me; I slept like a babe last night, and awoke without pain, and only hungry.”

Lucanus stared at him, stupefied. Priscus’ gaunt face was smooth and flushed with the slightest pink. His sunken eyes sparkled youthfully. He flung out his arms. “I could rise from my bed now, for I am well!” he said. “Look at me; do I have the aspect of a sick man? But I must remain here, these foolish doctors say, when health pulses loud and strong in my body!”

Nicias stood up and bowed deeply to Lucanus. “O Aesculapius!” murmured the physician. “You have consummated a miracle.” He reached for Lucanus’ slack hand and kissed it humbly. His eyes were full of tears.

“I did nothing, except pray for him,” stammered Lucanus.

“It was enough,” said Nicias. “Do the gods deny their brothers anything?”

“It was enough,” said Joshua. “Does God deny His chosen anything?”

Priscus heaved a deep dry sob and leaned his head against Lucanus’ arm. “In my dreams it was told me that when my brother came he would free me from pain.”

Lucanus put his hand to his forehead and rubbed it dazedly. “I do not understand,” he muttered. Then he flung the coverlets from his brother’s body and felt over his stomach and liver, and his glands. The ominous tumors had disappeared. The flesh was thin and emaciated, but also firm, and the pulse was strong.

Lucanus straightened. “It is not possible!” he cried. He looked at Nicias and Joshua imploringly. “We made an error.”

“No,” they said, and smiled at him.

“Through you God wrought His miracle, as a witness to us,” said Joshua. “As He cured men by His touch or His word, so He cured your brother at your pleading. Blessed are you, Lucanus, for you are one of His own, and we have seen with our eyes and have heard with our ears, and we magnify His Name.”

Lucanus sat down abruptly and stared before him. Then he rose and again examined Priscus minutely. No tumors resisted his fingers. Priscus lifted a bunch of grapes and ate them with heartiness, but his eyes were soft on Lucanus. “I knew you could help me,” he repeated. “I knew my illness, and it was mortal. But you cured me.”

Lucanus sat down and averted his face, and it streamed with tears. Oh, that You should have chosen me, I who hated You! he cried in himself. Oh, that You condescended to me when I reviled You! Oh, that You walked with me, when I rejected You, through all the years of my life! Forgive me, Father, for I knew not what I did!

He turned his face to the physicians, and said, “It was not I who cured my brother, but only God. It was not I who had merit, but only God. Praise Him, for He is good and merciful, and hears His children, and does not afflict them without a reason.”