The Big Fisherman (30 page)

'Tell me, Fisherman,' demanded the Prince huskily, 'was that child really blind?'

'Aye, sire,' said Simon; 'and now she can see!'

The Prince held tightly to the Big Fisherman's sleeve, his wide, baffled eyes questing more information, but Simon tugged away and pressed on toward the outer air. Circling the preoccupied multitude, he made for the rear—and the highway. He walked as a man in a dream, as one suddenly transported into a different world. A strange assurance of security possessed him—and a curious sense of peace that was quite beyond his understanding.

Lysias was flattered and bewildered to have so gracious a note from that haughty old Sadducee, David Ben-Zadok.

A bright young Jewess, well versed in the classics, orphaned and in need of employment (wrote David), might be available to make repairs on the dilapidated Corinthian library recently acquired by His Highness the Tetrarch. The letter was written in Greek, which still further pleased the steward with implications that he was a person of some culture.

But just why this crusty old lawyer, who had made no bones about his contempt for the Tetrarch, should show any concern about the reconditioning of these valuable but unsightly scrolls was not clear. One thing was sure: the old man hadn't bothered to offer the suggestion from any love of Antipas. Maybe he wanted an excuse to have a peek at that library himself: he was known to be something of an antiquarian. Lysias gently fingered the old scar on his ear, an involuntary aid to deep meditation, and reflected that there must be more in this situation than met the eye.

But—no matter what might be the crafty Sadducee's motive in proposing a remedy for these dreadful scrolls, it would be a great relief to the steward if, upon his master's return from Rome in the spring, he might be shown this costly collection in better dress; for it had been Lysias himself who had recommended and negotiated the purchase, and the Tetrarch had been noisily dissatisfied.

Much embarrassed by the shabbiness of the old books, Lysias had tried to impress His Highness with the importance of their great antiquity. Digging deep into the most ill-conditioned of the wicker hampers, he had brought up a mildewed scroll and held it toward Antipas, who wrinkled his nose and put his hands behind him.

'This scroll, sire,' Lysias had announced in a tone of reverence, 'was written by Aristotle. It is titled,
The Directions and Names of the Winds.
I do not mean, sire,' continued Lysias, 'that this is a scrivener's reproduction of the book. This is the original—done by the hand of the master himself!'

'Well—whoever did it,' grumbled Antipas, 'it stinks. And I don't want it put anywhere where I have to look at it.' Then, noting the steward's chagrin, the Tetrarch had added, 'I dare say some people would be proud to have a mummified cat of Aristotle's—with a gold collar set with emeralds—perched on the mantel.' Turning away, he had sauntered toward the balcony window, where, pausing, he had laughed aloud.

'And after they'd had Aristotle's cat on their mantel for a score of years,' he called back to Lysias, 'some learned expert, with great knowledge of dead cats, would come along and say, "Hell!—that cat never belonged to Aristotle! Much more recent! Besides—Aristotle hated cats! But he never so much as kicked this cat: it isn't half a century old!"'

'What is my lord's pleasure, then, in regard to the scrolls?' Lysias had inquired, meekly.

'Box them up again. Keep them in a dry place where they will suffer no further decay. Some day, perhaps, we will have them repaired.'

Lysias was going to feel more comfortable when the Corinthian scrolls were restored. Quite apart from his responsibility for their extravagant purchase, he had a sentimental interest in them, for he too was a Corinthian; and the same Roman raid that had despoiled his home and enslaved him at twenty had likewise brought disaster to their neighbours of the House of Timotheus, a wealthy shipowner and generous patron of the arts.

The Timotheus family and their rich possessions had been ruthlessly disposed of. Timotheus himself had been put to death; his uncommonly beautiful wife had committed suicide; their two elder sons, Leander and Philetus, school-mates of Lysias, had been taken to serve as scribes and accountants in the office of the Prefect of Achaea. A younger son, Demetrius, who had already won some local renown as an athlete, was carried off to Rome in chains, too savagely rebellious to be of much use to anybody looking for a servant. Lysias had often wondered what became of the handsome, reckless Demetrius—beaten to death, perhaps, for insubordination.

The Roman looters hadn't known what to do with the books. There was an enormous quantity of these scrolls, and not a man among the invaders knew enough about literature to identify the extremely valuable writings and give them special care. The books had been stored in a damp cellar and much of the writing on the rotted papyrus was presently indecipherable; but, regardless of their physical condition, many of these scrolls were historic treasures. Think of it!—to own a book written by Aristotle! In his own handwriting!

Of course, reflected Lysias, you couldn't expect Antipas to have much reverence for the old scrolls. Antipas was a Roman, and Rome had no veneration for the past. Let the dreamy Greeks attend to the rotted scrolls—and the tombs and the epitaphs.

The old Sadducee's note was answered forthwith, Lysias obsequiously thanking the eminent David Ben-Zadok for the great kindness tendered his master, the Tetrarch. And he would be glad to see the young person about the scrolls at her early convenience.

Lysias had spoken the truth. He was glad at the prospect of having some more attractive company than the kitchen afforded. The Tetrarch's palace could be a very lonely institution when the family was abroad. By experience the steward had learned that the less he mingled with the servants the better account he could give of his stewardship upon his lord's return. On occasions he had shown himself friendly with the gardeners and vine-growers, only to encourage their laziness and disobedience. As for the kitchen crew, he had discovered that any playfulness in that department would certainly be paid off in impudence and disrespect.

The new employee would rate a higher classification on account of her learning. The servants themselves would understand that without being told. Lysias would invite this girl to have her meals with him. He hoped she would be comely, though that was almost too much to expect if she was—as old David said—well versed in the classics. Pretty girls didn't know anything. Indeed, the really beautiful ones were forthright fools—all but Salome, of course. Salome was a deep one. Lysias worshipped her. And he was afraid of her, too. Once, when Salome had had too much wine, she had encouraged Lysias to kiss her. She had managed the kiss and it had left Lysias dizzy and weak in the knees. Then she had savagely slapped him on the mouth with the back of her hand. The huge jewels in her rings had bloodied his lips. Salome had laughed. She enjoyed rough play. She wasn't punishing him for offending her. Quite to the contrary, she had been delighted with his caresses. But the sight of pain and the scent of warm blood gave her a queer little thrill, she said, while repairing his wounds.

Sometimes the Tetrarch too was confined to his rooms for a few days while the cuts on his face were healing. On these occasions, only old Glaucus, the ex-butler, was permitted to minister to His Highness. Lysias surmised that Glaucus was the repository for many a secret, his suspicion being based mostly on the animal-like ferocity of Herodias' hatred for him.

Also, there was a tell-tale quality to the old fellow's impudence. Herodias couldn't be blamed for despising him. Shamelessly trading on the stranglehold he apparently had on the Tetrarch, Glaucus could be found on warm autumn afternoons in the most comfortable chair in the sunniest corner of the patio, with a tankard of wine at his elbow and a fat, elderly terrier asleep at his feet—as if he had every right to all the luxuries that the establishment afforded. This type of impertinence could mean only one thing, according to Lysias: Glaucus knew something about Antipas and Herodias guessed what it was. And it was making a haggard, sharp-tongued, short-tempered old shrew of her. Sometimes a whole week would pass in which Herodias and Salome frankly avoided one another, though they both took pains to be polite in the presence of the servants.

Some day, reflected Lysias, as he sanded and sealed his letter to David, some day there was going to be quite a lot of trouble here at the palace; plenty—and plenty more—of trouble. . . . There would be an eruption of the Volcano Herodias—and somebody would get hurt.

* * * * * *

Life at the palace was not only endurable; it was pleasant and interesting. Esther's relationships were quickly and comfortably defined. Lysias was disappointed but not disgruntled when she declined his special hospitality by explaining that it would make her unhappy if favours were extended to her which made the others envious. She also imputed to him a wealth of high-minded gallantry that was quite too nebulous for assessment; but made such a favourable impression that Lysias spent a whole afternoon conducting her through the palace; ordered the furniture unshrouded in the great banquet-hall, and invited her to sit in His Highness's tall, gold-plated, throne-like chair, where she projected a brief, unspoken query to the King of Arabia: 'Do you still think it's impossible?'

Her appearance in the kitchen, ready to make friends but not over-eager to the point of condescension, instantly gave her top rating. Claudia stated the situation neatly when she declared, after Esther—having carried her own dishes—had returned to her work, 'I like her! If she was only a little better than me, we would probably hate each other, no? . . . But she is so very much better than me that we don't need to hate each other.'

Work on the Corinthian scrolls was fascinating; like a game to play. Esther was not wholly unfamiliar with the task. The old books that Zendi had picked up in Petra had required repairs. You carefully unrolled the long, narrow strip of papyrus, detached it—whole or in pieces—from the spools, weighted it down on the library floor; and, wherever it was broken, pasted it together. If the text had been damaged badly, you copied as much as was legible and inserted the patch, with an editor's note explaining how much was missing. Then you sanded and scraped the mouldy old spools down to the bare wood and redecorated them in black and gold.

Sometimes the girls came up from the kitchen and helped hold the strips of papyrus in place for splicing. Lysias frequently drifted in to express approval.

On the morning of Esther's third day at the palace, Claudia remarked, after the breakfast things had been cleared away, that she must now go out to the prison—'and feed my wild man.'

'Wild man!' echoed Esther. 'Are you not afraid?'

'No—no—no! That was what you call a joke! He is not wild: he just looks wild—with shaggy hair—and bony, like a starved cat. It is because he does not eat. And he is very sad. I fear he will die if he does not eat.'

'Why is he in prison?' inquired Esther.

'Ah—I don't know.' Claudia waved a shapely armed salute to her own disinterest in the matter. 'He talked too much, maybe—no?'

'He is a prophet,' assisted Anna, without conviction. 'He says the world is coming to an end.'

'And for that he is locked up?' asked Esther, apparently unconcerned.

'There was more to it than that,' explained Murza. 'He sees the rulers overthrown, and the Empire smashed, and the poor made rich, and—'

'That's right,' put in Claudia. 'That's what he says. I've heard him! All hell's going to break loose! . . . How would you like to take him his breakfast, Esther? Then you could hear him for yourself. And perhaps he will eat for you: you are so very pretty. You need not be afraid of him. He will not harm you.'

Esther pretended reluctance; hoped he was well guarded.

'Guarded?' laughed Claudia. 'A tough legionary from the fort was in charge of him for a day, but he hasn't been seen since. He is on a big spree, no doubt. But the prisoner is well locked in and there are no others in the jail to help him escape.'

Assuming Esther's consent to feed the prisoner, Claudia had been preparing the breakfast-tray, making an appetizing arrangement of a plate of red apples, a dish of berries, a smoked perch and several small barley-loaves.

'Here you are,' she said; 'and here is the key to the prison door. You open the front door and there is a small corridor. The cell is the first one. There is a barred window in the door. You pass the food through the bars. Don't try to make love to him. It's no good. He is cold.'

'For once,' called Murza, from the pantry, 'Claudia speaks the truth. It's no use to make love to the man. It has been tried—by experts.'

A startling 'Hush!' broke in on Murza's malicious comment, presumably offered by the sober Jewess, Anna.

'Her Highness,' explained Claudia naively, 'is restless and lonely. You never saw her—no? . . .' And when Esther had shaken her head, Claudia sighed and remarked in a confidential half-whisper, 'Her Highness does not like to grow old. But—who does? . . . Come—let me show you the way.'

Beyond the circular carriage-court a narrow path led through a trellised arbour toward a sturdy stone structure some two hundred yards distant. Having given minute directions, Claudia returned to the house and Esther proceeded on her errand. Her heart quickened as she reached the low wall that bounded the prison area. She wondered whether John, the baptizer, would recognize her. There were broad stone seats inset in the wall, doubtless for the convenience of sentries. Depositing the tray on one of the seats nearest the entrance, Esther inserted the huge key and was trying unsuccessfully to turn it in the obstinate lock when a resonant voice deep in the prison startled her with the suggestion, 'The key is crooked. Bear down on it—and a little to the left.'

There was no mistaking the identity of that haunting voice. Labouring with the protesting key, she pressed her weight hard against the massive door and it grudgingly opened.

'Over here, my daughter,' called the voice. 'You are a stranger here.'