Great Lion of God (99 page)

After some time, as Felix feared, the Jewish delegations from the High Priest began to arrive with long and detailed accounts of Saul’s transgressions of the Jewish Law. Felix listened with his exaggerated air of long patience. He said, “Enough. My prisoner is a Roman, and your complaints are all ecclesiastical. Yet your own Sanhedrin has not condemned him with any specific charge. You are dismissed.”

So the High Priest, Ananias came to Caesarea with a man of great eloquence, an orator named Tertullus. Felix said at once, “If these are more ecclesiastical complaints I will not hear them. If you have a charge against my prisoner concerning Roman law, then I will hear you, if you do not tax my patience with irrelevancies.”

Tertullus bowed. He said, “Lord, I, too, am a Roman citizen as well as a Jew. I revere Rome. We desire to live in peace with her. My charges against Paul of Tarsus are concerned with Roman law.”

Felix glanced at Ananias. He detested the High Priest, who was not only tall but had a patrician appearance, which he, Felix, did not. Moreover, Ananias did not hold Felix in high regard and this was evident in the cold gleam of his blue eyes and the expression about his mouth. Felix waited for the High Priest to speak, but Ananias waited for Tertullus.

Tertullus said, “Lord, since you came to Israel we have enjoyed great quietness, and very worthy deeds were done to this nation by your providence. We accept it always, and in all places, most noble Felix, with all thankfulness.

“I will not be tedious, and hope that in your clemency you will hear my few words. For we have found this man, Saul of Tarshish, a pestilent fellow, and a mover of sedition among all the Jews throughout the world, and a ringleader of the sect of the Nazarenes, who have also gone about to profane the Temple. We took him, and would have judged him according to our Law, but Captain Lysias came upon us and with violence took him out of our hands. He then commanded this man’s accusers to come to you, by examining of whom you may have knowledge of these things.” (Acts 24:1-8)

Felix motioned to Saul to speak, and Saul said, “Captain Lysias used no more violence than was necessary to save my life, lord.” This pleased Felix, for it vexed him to have Roman soldiers criticized. He smiled at Saul and motioned him to continue. Saul denied the charges of sedition. He declared that no one had found him in the Temple disputing or quarreling with any man, nor did he incite the people nor had ever incited the people against Rome, nor had he profaned any law whatsoever, Jewish or Roman. (Acts 24:10-16)

Saul then challenged Ananias directly to deny these things, but Felix wearily raised his small dark hand and said, “He will only repeat what other delegations have said against you, Paul of Tarsus, and none of these things are relevant to a Roman.”

Saul bowed and smiled. Then his worn face became serious and he said, “These men, including the one who calls himself the High Priest, have only doctrinal charges to bring against me, though these doctrines they claim are false are part of my sect, the Pharisees. For we believe in the resurrection of the dead, and the Sadducees do’ not, and I have proclaimed my faith, which is ancient and which was given to us by God, blessed be His Name, through His prophets. But the Sadducees, who now rule the holy city, consider that faith ridiculous, and wish to impose their secularism on a devout and prayerful people, saying that only man is important and is ruler of the universe, and that God is dead. But,” and he looked at the High Priest directly, “we will oppose that edict of the Devil with our lives, if necessary, and if that is sedition so be it.”

Felix yawned, glanced at the water clock. He said, in a virtuous tone, “Whosoever declares the gods dead is blasphemous, and a fool.” He said suddenly to the High Priest, “Are you one of those Sadducees?”

Ananias’ pale cheeks turned pink. He gave Saul a vicious glance, then returned to Felix. “Lord,” he said, “the matter is not so simple.”

“It never is with you Jews,” said Felix. He scratched his ear. “My own wife, Drusilla, can never state a case plainly, in a few words, and in this she is even worse than other women. They prattle for hours and say nothing, but my wife can talk for days and end with the very sentence she began. I think that all Jews, and all women, are born lawyers, and I dislike lawyers.”

He knitted his black brows at Ananias, who was gazing with a martyred air at Tertullus, who seemed to have lost his eloquent talent of oratory. Felix said, “If you have only doctrinal matters to charge against this man—who denies even these charges—then I must hold him only on your charges against him concerning Rome, and we will judge of that later. It is now outside your province.”

He said to Saul, “The charges of sedition against Rome are serious, and though these men have no proof, but only their sly opinions, which I do not trust, and no Roman has as yet charged you, I must hold you for a space, to consider the matter.”

Chapter 52

T
HE
wife of Felix, the Roman Procurator, was named Drusilla, and she was of the House or Tribe of Benjamin, like Saul, himself. Drusilla was short, resembling her husband, and was a fat and bustling little woman with an air of uncommon sense and capability, and she was childless, a woman in her middle-age. She was also astonishingly like Clodia Flavius, the mother-in-law of Sephorah, Saul’s sister, except that her eyes were like little balls of black glass, knowing and disillusioned. She ruled her household vigorously, and was not disturbed by her husband’s frolicking with slave girls; in truth, she approved of it, for he had a way of interfering in household matters and scrutinizing bank accounts and complaining over expenses, for he was a restless man. The girls kept him occupied and pleasantly tired, so Drusilla did not object. She loved the little violent Roman, and he loved and revered her, and was terrified of her, and complained of her to anyone who would listen. Hearing those complaints, Drusilla would smile indulgently and herself prepare a special delight for his delectation at dinner.

She thought long about Saul ben Hillel, of her own Tribe, in Herod’s Hall, and she knew his history. Like herself, he was also a Pharisee. She had sent the old Jewess to cook his meals and serve him, for the Pharisees were very rigorous concerning food. She listened to Felix’s half-jesting stories of Saul’s miraculous powers. It was rumored that he had raised a dead man in Ephesus, and had instantly restored hundreds to health again by the mere laying-on of his hands. “It is not a strange story,” she told her husband. “Many wandering rabbis throughout our history possessed such powers, given to them by God, blessed be His Name.”

“But they did not contrive to get themselves so generally hated as Paul of Tarsus,” said Felix. “So it is possible that he is not holy. Why are you Jews so obsessed with your God?”

“I have told you many times,” said Drusilla. “He chose us. We did not choose Him.”

“Hah,” said Felix. “You Jews are not more virtuous or worse, than other men, and you resemble all races! Wiry did not your God choose us Romans? We already have an Empire for Him, better-administered, it is obvious, than your priest-ruled Israel.”

It had long been Drusilla’s hope that Felix would become a Jew, but he had made a certain lewd remark concerning this, including the fact that his favorite female slaves might complain about the matter. Drusilla had smiled comfortably, without offense. But she thought of Saul for a long time. Then one day she went to Herod’s Hall, accompanied by two middle-aged women of her household, and Saul received her with great courtesy. “Greetings to the Lady Drusilla,” he said, “and I am doubly honored, for we are of the same’ Tribe, I am informed, and you are also a Pharisee.”

Drusilla explained in Aramaic that she wished to inspect his household and to order his comfort. She inquired about many small details, and in the meantime she was shrewdly studying him with her small wise eyes. Then she asked him to accompany her to his garden, where she desired to see if the vegetables and flowers were receiving the rightful care, and she left her slave women behind. She walked beside Saul, panting in the heat and frankly wiping her damp red face with her headcloth, and heaving. Saul impressed her, though he was not of great stature nor of a handsome appearance, but was old and his thick hair was white and he wore no beard because of his skin affliction, and she could discern that he was bowed of legs even through his long tunic of brown linen, and he had an afflicted eye. However, when he spoke he immediately commanded attention and Drusilla reflected that never had she heard before such a strong and beautiful voice, persuasive and firm and eloquent.

“Rabbi,” she said, after they had considered the garden, “I trust you do not hold animosity toward my husband for your confinement here.”

Saul was surprised. He looked down at Drusilla and said, gently, “Lady, your husband has been very just toward me, and I know his situation, and thank him. He could do no other but what he has done. I have appealed to Caesar, in Rome, for consideration of my case, as I am a Roman citizen. The Procurator, Felix, dispatched my appeal at once.” He smiled at her. “I find here some rest and peace, and have time for meditation, and my health, sorely depleted, is being restored, so I know it is God’s Will that I be here, so that I will be worthy of the battlefield again.”

Drusilla nodded. “It is a sensible thought,” she said. She hesitated, and then said, “You are a Nazarene. Tell me of your belief. Do you truly believe that the Messias had already been on earth in our flesh, that He died for our sins, and sits now at the right Hand of the Father?”

Saul’s heart quickened. He led Drusilla to a bench under a great green tamarisk tree, where it was cooler, and he sat down beside her. Again he told her the old story of his vision, but to him it was eternally new, it had just occurred, he was still in transports, still overcome with joy and rapture and wonder.

Drusilla had fixed her eyes intently on his face as she listened, and then those eyes, so hard and so shrewd, softened with tears as Saul spoke—and it had been many years since her last tears—and her soul was profoundly moved, and she said in herself, “Truly, this man speaks truth.”

He recounted to her his earlier persecutions of the Christians, or Nazarenes, and then his missionary journeys, lightly jesting about his hardships, stonings and beatings. And she thought, “He is an intrepid man, of courage and valor, and such men are rare.”

After he had fallen into silence Drusilla looked at the harbors, visible over the walls, and then at the incredible scarlet of the sunset filled with golden and green celestial sails and the red orb of Mars shining alone in the silent tumult of color. Looking with her, Saul said, “‘The Heavens declare His glory, and the firmament shows His handiwork!’”

“Blessed be His Name,” said Drusilla. She wanted to weep and did not know why, and her heart, so realistic and so desiccated, swelled as if with spring moisture.

“Rabbi,” she said in a voice her husband would not have recognized, “I must consider these strange things which you have told me.” And then she wondered at herself, and why she was so shaken. She rose slowly and ponderously from the bench, and she walked to the walls in silence with Saul beside her, and they gazed together at the awesome spectacle of the sky and the sea, which was stained red by the sunset, and the vastness of the water. The huge tumbled rocks which divided the two harbors were wet, and the scarlet light made them run as if with blood. A wind arose from the land and it was scented with resin and dust and fertile fields and grapes.

Saul said in a low voice, quoting from the prophet, “‘For Sion’s sake I shall not be silent. For Jerusalem’s sake, I shall not rest.’”

Drusilla bowed her head—that round big head—and prayed also, as she had not prayed since she was a girl. Then she looked at Saul and said, “You must tell me more, on another occasion, and perhaps my husband will listen also, for he is inclined to good will toward you, Saul of Tarshish.” Suddenly she smiled, and brilliantly, and her face was the face of a maiden, and her plain thick features became beautiful.

“It is nonsense,” said Felix, yawning at the table expansively, for his wife had prepared the dinner herself with cunning and with spices and with wine sauces, to please him and to soften his belligerence; “But it is a very fair story, and full of mystery. I am not like many Romans, denying the gods. But another god would be redundant.”

“There is but one God,” said Drusilla, deftly refilling his wine goblet. (As he was frugal and bought only the cheapest of wines, she had ordered a delicious old wine for him from the marketplace, and her own thrifty soul winced at the price.)

“Nonsense,” repeated Felix and lifted the goblet to his lips, and he smacked them. “The local wine is improving. How could it be possible that one God could rule not only the world but all the universes beyond it? He would have to employ lesser gods, and goddesses, so you see how ridiculous it is when you claim there is but one God. He would never rest.”

“‘He who guards Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps,’” quoted Drusilla.

Felix shook his head and chuckled. “I thought I had made a good Roman of you,” he said. Drusilla gave him another sweetmeat of delicate pastry filled with poppy seeds and dates. Felix chewed on it thoughtfully and with appreciation. “Still, there is too much for one God.”

“He has angels and archangels,” said Drusilla.

Felix smacked his hand on the table with triumph. “So! Auxiliary gods and goddesses!”

“It is not the same,” said Drusilla. “Your prisoner, Paul of Tarsus, has a wondrous tongue and is full of stories, like all Jews. Let your girls alone for an afternoon and talk with him, and it is as if another Jeremias—or Homer—speaks.”

Felix uttered a rude and cynical word. Then he said, “I love poetry, for does not our Emperor, Nero, love it also?” He grinned at Drusilla. “I shall avail myself of the pleasure your poet, Paul of Tarsus, offers—if there are not spies about to report to that abominable High Priest, Ananias, who will not be satisfied with anything save Paul’s death. Nor do I wish to incur the wrath of King Agrippa.”