Glory and the Lightning (26 page)

She stood up, the better to be close to him. The horse’s breath was hot and parched against her cheek. She could see his great white teeth. She held up the letter to Thalias and he snatched it quickly. She whispered above the sound of hoofs, “Send it before Damascus, dear Thalias. I have asked that a reply be sent to you in the city.”

He glanced down at the letter. He saw to whom it was addressed and looked afraid. “Do not fear,” she said. “I have not betrayed you, my dear Thalias. I have given your new name to Thargelia, and the name of the street where you live in Damascus.” She gazed at him with desperate appeal. “Help me,” she pleaded, and clasped her hands tightly against her breast. “Help me as I helped you, for I am in danger.”

He arched his eyebrows in amazement, and she nodded. “I am worse than a slave,” she said. To herself she thought, Yes, I am worse than a slave for I would flee from a love which devours me and yet which I despise. Her large brown eyes, so filled with shifting stars and liquid brilliance, fixed themselves on Thalias with so much despair and sorrow that he forgot to be afraid. He thrust the letter into his robe and his eyes smiled with promise upon the girl. He dug his heels into the horse’s side and the animal sprang forward and away.

Aspasia felt undone and weak. Thalias had not spoken in reply to her plea but she knew she could trust him, for all he was a cautious man. She sat again on the platform, calling upon her inner strength. Finally she rose and in that bloody light of sunset she reentered the tent. Her women were stirring on their cushions, and yawning.

Al Taliph did not send for her that night, nor the night following, and Aspasia did not know whether to be relieved or to be crushed. She longed for him with a terrible longing, and she knew that this was just the beginning of pain and the darkness of grief and the unforgetting. But her resolution remained.

CHAPTER 15

The caravan climbed slowly and heavily to the great high plateau, between the valleys of the Tigris and the Indus, a vast basin surrounded by mountains, and fed by the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, and partially divided by a desert. The air of the plateau was cool, and the mountains were already turbaned by early snow. Here, on the immense wilderness lived lions and tigers, deer, lynxes, wolves, hyenas, jackals, hogs, porcupines, badgers, hares, martens and weasels, whose voices could be heard in shrieking chorus at night, in forests or on the plain. The day was profuse with the cries and screams of birds of uncountable variety. Sometimes the rare and beautiful Persian cats could be found, and frequently tamed, and were the pride of the ladies in the cities, who loved to stroke and fondle and comb them and whisper sweet words into those mysterious blue eyes. The rivers were thick with salmon, sturgeon, herring, perch and bream, especially in the estuaries.

The plateau seethed with the life of the beasts and the birds, and there were small settlements of that “manly and sturdy peasantry, healthy and brave,” of which Darius had spoken with such admiration and pride, and who exemplified for him all that was sound and strong in a nation. “Let such a peasantry become urban and corrupt with civilization, and their country dies, and all its virtues, which sprang from the soil, the free air and the templed forests.” He would also say of them with pride, “A Persian, the son of a Persian, an Aryan of Aryan stock, and shall not we Aryans inherit the earth? We come from the loins of a masculine race.” To which several Grecian philosophers and soldiers had replied ironically, “We are called effeminate by the Persians—whose men redden their lips—but it was we who defeated them with our bows and our ‘womanish’ strength. It was we who began the destruction of that insatiable empire.”

But a Persian philosopher said, also in reply, “We began to decline when we built enormous cities, and forgot our gods. The air of a city is stench, and the temples are corrupt. For cities are not the true habitats of a glorious race; they are its tombs.”

Alone, isolated and almost ignored though Aspasia was, her newly awakened sense of life, of being, of again entering existence as from a moveless dream, of again being part of the world and its sights and sounds and rapturous changes and vitality, its hubbub and unpredictabilities, engaged her growing interest in spite of her sadness. So she had felt on leaving the shelter of Thargelia’s house, but now in greater measure—for in the house of Al Taliph she had been completely immured—she felt a rising expectation, the radiance of hope, however feeble it still was and how accompanied by sorrow. She said to herself, paraphrasing a Greek philosopher: I observe, therefore I am. The natural vivacity of her nature slowly returned, resembling the tingling of a leg or an arm which had been compressed but which now was released. Though she awaited a summons from Al Taliph, which did not come, she felt a little lessening of the wild despair she had originally suffered. She found that there were moments when she even forgot him, and could look upon mountains and rivers, forests and valleys, plains and cliffs and azure pools and cataracts, with eager marveling. She often thrust aside the flap of her tent, to stand in the aperture, gazing like a freed child on aspects she had never seen before. Once she saw a gigantic migration of butterflies in the lambent air, catching sunlight on crimson, black and golden wings, and rising and falling like a colored shawl from India which Al Taliph had once given her. On another occasion she watched the dance of birds against a silver dawn, and she was ecstatic and threw out her arms as if she would rise and join them. All about her were the scents, fragrances, odors and tangs of a new world, far from opulence and heavy perfumes and motionless luxury and monotony. Cool green grass, dark trees whose names she did not know, scattered clusters of red and blue and yellow and snowy flowers, little streams bright and restless as mercury, thunderous green falls of water that shook the pure air and rumbled under the wheels of the caravan, sunsets and sunrises of incomparable majesty, circling ranks of mountains of somber green or ochre or even scarlet as the season advanced, rivers flashing like white fire as they raced under the sun, river islands tufted as if with enormous ostrich feathers, caverns with black mouths—all these she saw with a revived wonder and joy. The voices she heard from men and brutes and birds were new to her; the atmosphere was pervaded with resin and the scent of cold vegetation and colder stone and icy water. She felt she was breathing liquid and shining crystal and not strong air, and sometimes her lungs stung with the sweet unfamiliarity and the purity of it, and her eyes watered. The caravan would enter dim arcades of forests, and Aspasia was awed by the vaulting and living arches above her and the living columns that slowly moved past her. She understood for the first time that there is a subtle difference between knowledge and understanding. The first was taught, the second was a gift to the soul. She had a sudden new comprehension of life and the Godhead, and she was shaken with reverence. Once when she saw a narrow river the color of gold between dark and looming banks and another like a vein of deep purple stained with fire, she could hardly restrain her delight, and worship.

She was conscious again of still being young and alive, of having her eyes filled with constantly changing marvels. The fragile hope in her began to increase. This, then, is what men feared in women, she would think: They fear, if released from a man’s arms and commands, we would see the world and desire to be part of it, and be not in a state of servitude and a victim of random passion, but a member of humanity, itself. So must an exultant slave feel when he discovers that in his heart he is free, despite his chains, and so must a master know fear when he discerns that though he can control the body of his slave he cannot control his spirit.

Her resolution for ultimate and absolute freedom became stronger hour by hour. It was only at midnight, when she slept alone, and the deep silence was about her, that she suffered torments of yearning and her tears wet her silken pillows.

One night the caravan halted at a caravanserai on a wide plain open to the sky. It was walled, square of form; the walls had thin small windows inserted in them, but the lower reaches had only insignificant openings for air. Within was an arcade, surrounded by storerooms; one wall was reserved for sleeping cubicles. The center was not roofed as were the outer sections, but contained a fountain and a well for men and beasts. There was but one entrance, tall and wide enough to admit camels, and was guarded by gates and strong doors. Stone benches were scattered about over the stone floor. Scores of camels and horses and mules could be harbored here and tended and relieved of their burdens for the night. On the second storey were cubicles, similar to the ones on the floor, for masters of caravans, whereas the drivers slept below.

Skilled guards patrolled the caravanserai, and were politely fed by those who owned the caravans, and treated with respect, for the safety of caravans depended on their watchfulness and bravery.

Aspasia saw the slow but steady entrance of camels, men, horses and mules within the gates, though the four tents did not enter. Only their horses were removed and taken inside for the night. Al Taliph’s own armed guards remained without also, and, wrapping themselves in their cloaks after their evening meal—cooked outside over fires—they slept in the cool high grass with their swords in their hands. One sentry remained awake. The caravan fell asleep and there was no sound but the cry of night birds, the rustle of grass and myrtles and oaks and sycamores, and the occasional stamping of a restless camel or horse from within the walls. The enormous mystery of darkness lay upon all who slept, and a great amber moon climbed the amethystine stairs of heaven, and Aspasia thought of the virgin goddess, Artemis, ascending and ever serene and alert, carrying her lustrous shield on her arm.

The women attendants of Aspasia slept, and she let herself down from the platform and gazed enraptured on the heavens. Everywhere lay a deep purple shadow over the plain though far to the west there was still a faint scarlet burning as the sun withdrew his last banners behind him. Then, as Aspasia watched, she caught a single flash of bright green on the horizon, and the sun and his entourage left the sky. The silence and the darkness increased, and the moon became more resplendent and vivid. But it was the stars, not obscured by the hot yellow dust of Miletus or the fogs from the ocean, which caught at Aspasia’s heart.

For never before had she seen such tremendous grandeur, such awesome majesty as that which was now revealed to her in the skies. She had thought the stars to be of a universal whiteness except for the pale crimson of Mars. Now she saw that they were of every brilliant color, amber, blue, cerise, aureate, topaz, rose, carbuncle, garnet and heliotrope, as well as blazing white. They were so gigantic that they appeared close enough to pluck like ripe dates, and some, in their passage, wore trains of fire. She thought that such a countless panoply of kings should be accompanied by retinues with trumpets and that all the world should resound with music and that all men should fall upon their knees and bury their heads in the dust, lest they offend by gazing. It is enough that I was born to see such splendor with these eyes, thought Aspasia. It is enough to live if only for an hour to know them; death, thereafter, would be nothing. What word of man could encompass these, one chord of earthly music do them honor? What prayer sufficient?

She heard a man’s voice near at hand, grave and solemn: “‘The Heavens declare His glory, and the firmament shows His handiwork.’”

She started violently and saw a tall cloaked figure nearby, hooded. Then the voice spoke again: “‘What is man that You should be aware of him, and the son of man that You should visit him?’”

“Al Taliph,” she whispered, and put her hands to her breast. She stood on the grass and trembled, and he came to her and held out his hand and she took it in silence. He led her a little apart and they stood side by side and regarded the incredible spectacle above them, and Aspasia was full of a tumult of joy.

“So the Jews, through one of their singers, questioned,” he said, still looking at the sky. His fingers were warm and strong over hers and a deep content flowed over her. All her anger and disgust and sorrow were forgotten. He had remembered her. She also thought, Alas for the hearts of women. They betray us even in our souls and our resolutions. But the hearts of men are never betrayed thus. When men desert women they have deserted forever. But our souls are steeped in the bitter waters of our tears and always we have our secret longings even if we love again.

She could feel Al Taliph, in the shadow of his hood, looking down at her tenderly as if they had parted only last night with last protestations of love. Now the revelation of God’s glory above her was shattered by the tears in her eyes, so that all became a prism of many dancing colors floating in liquid salt.

Nearby the men slept rolled in their blankets, and a sentry passed after one respectful if curious glance at the man and the woman. Al Taliph said:

“Above us is the Life of the World, the Anima Mundi of the Greeks. He is the Life of all men, and no matter the religion men espouse, His command, above all else, is in them. The Taoists say, ‘As you deem yourself, so deem others.’ The Buddhists were told, ‘Hurt not others with that which pains yourself.’ The Indus say, This is the sum of Duty, that you do naught to others which if done to you would cause you pain.’ The Jews have said, ‘What is hurtful to yourself do not to your fellow man.’ In all other things do almost all religions differ—but not in this. It is the Law. So Zoroaster has said, and Mithras—it is the Law.”

He looked at the sky with an almost humble worship. But Aspasia could not refrain saying, “The Law, among men, does not apply in their dealings with women.”

He answered, “You, my white dove, will never understand.”

“I have been taught, Al Taliph, that that is the invariable reply men make to women, and it is meaningless even to themselves. Yet they utter those foolish words both in extenuation of their enormities, and to confuse.”

She could feel him smiling, though his hand tightened on hers. “It is not lovable in a woman to refute a man with his own words. But I love you for all your sharp tongue.” I have been forgiven, thought Aspasia wryly, for his own offense. But such are men. That I have been taught also.