like jumping? Or do you study it, like Greek grammar?”
“I think both. Open your heart, Berenice. You have become a woman of great beauty and keen mind, and you are a queen of Israel. I think Israel has waited for a woman like yourself.”
“Why?” Berenice asked directly, irritated as always by poetic obscuration.
“I don’t know,” Philo replied slowly. “This is only something I feel.”
The Roman, Vibius Marsus, spoke flatly and his words were plain enough. He was the very opposite of Philo, a short, black-haired, dark-eyed and heavily muscled man of about fifty. His body was covered with thick, curling black hair, and, unlike a Greek or a Jew, he made no attempt to conceal this, either by shaving his limbs, or by long sleeves or high hose. He was one of those Romans who made a face and cult of simplicity, a brown, short-sleeved shirt, a leather kilt, and plain, heavy-duty army shoes. His hair was clipped short in the fashion of the time at Rome, and his shaved beard gave his broad face a blue sheen. His simple virtues did not, however, bespeak a Spartan existence, and he took for granted the banquet Agrippa served for him and the erotic dances by nude men and women that followed. He ate hugely, drank enough to get quite drunk, and in his drunkenness spun a parable for the edification of Agrippa and Berenice.
“A Jew, a Greek, a Roman, an Egyptian, and a Gaul were in a ship on the Mediterranean,” he told them thickly, “when a great storm arose. A very large storm, believe me. The Greek was the captain of the ship. The Jew was the supercargo. As captain, the Greek decided that the gods must be mollified and the ship lightened, and the Jew, even though he did not believe in the gods, agreed with the Greek. Knowing that a Roman recognizes his duty, the Greek pointed to the Roman, who shouted his praise of Caesar and leaped overboard. But still the ship was in danger, and now the Greek pointed to the Egyptian. Egyptians are exceedingly religious folk, with a great sense of justice. So the Egyptian cried out, Praise Pharaoh!—and overboard he went. Still the ship foundered, and now the Greek looked at the Gaul. The Gauls do proper reverence to the gods, and overboard he went, leaving just the Jew and the Greek. Well, now, the Greek cried out, the fools are dead. Let’s get this ship in to shore.”
Both Agrippa and Berenice laughed dutifully, but neither of them considered the story to be particularly funny.
“Jew and Greek,” muttered the proconsul. “I have governed Syria for a dozen years, but still I cannot afford parties like this one, food like this, girls like this—”
“Whatever girl you desire,” Agrippa said, “is yours. One girl or all of them—as your heart desires, Vibius Marsus.”
“I’m old enough to be your grandfather,” the proconsul said. “But you will give me girls, will you?”
“As you wish,” Agrippa nodded; but Vibius Marsus was staring at Berenice now. His stare, frank, sensual, and uninhibited, did not disturb her. Men had stared at her like that since her breasts budded, since the narrowing of her waist and the widening of her hips proclaimed the fact that she was becoming a woman, and she had survived the two or three post-puberty years of her life in contest and struggle with men. Blocked in so much of her relationship with men, she was driven by no compelling wants or desires; and most men, after their first reaction to her ruddy, green-eyed beauty, sensed the lack of warmth or desire. Vibius Marsus was too drunk to sense it now, and he told Agrippa plainly enough what he wanted.
The boy had to control himself and to struggle for such control, his dark face hardening and becoming like a Greek player’s mask over the somber holes of his eyes. That a Roman could fail to understand what it meant to bear the bloodlines of the Hasmonean and Herodian houses was possible, even natural; for in Berenice’s mind, the Romans were a mongrel race who substituted
“I think both. Open your heart, Berenice. You have become a woman of great beauty and keen mind, and you are a queen of Israel. I think Israel has waited for a woman like yourself.”
“Why?” Berenice asked directly, irritated as always by poetic obscuration.
“I don’t know,” Philo replied slowly. “This is only something I feel.”
The Roman, Vibius Marsus, spoke flatly and his words were plain enough. He was the very opposite of Philo, a short, black-haired, dark-eyed and heavily muscled man of about fifty. His body was covered with thick, curling black hair, and, unlike a Greek or a Jew, he made no attempt to conceal this, either by shaving his limbs, or by long sleeves or high hose. He was one of those Romans who made a face and cult of simplicity, a brown, short-sleeved shirt, a leather kilt, and plain, heavy-duty army shoes. His hair was clipped short in the fashion of the time at Rome, and his shaved beard gave his broad face a blue sheen. His simple virtues did not, however, bespeak a Spartan existence, and he took for granted the banquet Agrippa served for him and the erotic dances by nude men and women that followed. He ate hugely, drank enough to get quite drunk, and in his drunkenness spun a parable for the edification of Agrippa and Berenice.
“A Jew, a Greek, a Roman, an Egyptian, and a Gaul were in a ship on the Mediterranean,” he told them thickly, “when a great storm arose. A very large storm, believe me. The Greek was the captain of the ship. The Jew was the supercargo. As captain, the Greek decided that the gods must be mollified and the ship lightened, and the Jew, even though he did not believe in the gods, agreed with the Greek. Knowing that a Roman recognizes his duty, the Greek pointed to the Roman, who shouted his praise of Caesar and leaped overboard. But still the ship was in danger, and now the Greek pointed to the Egyptian. Egyptians are exceedingly religious folk, with a great sense of justice. So the Egyptian cried out, Praise Pharaoh!—and overboard he went. Still the ship foundered, and now the Greek looked at the Gaul. The Gauls do proper reverence to the gods, and overboard he went, leaving just the Jew and the Greek. Well, now, the Greek cried out, the fools are dead. Let’s get this ship in to shore.”
Both Agrippa and Berenice laughed dutifully, but neither of them considered the story to be particularly funny.
“Jew and Greek,” muttered the proconsul. “I have governed Syria for a dozen years, but still I cannot afford parties like this one, food like this, girls like this—”
“Whatever girl you desire,” Agrippa said, “is yours. One girl or all of them—as your heart desires, Vibius Marsus.”
“I’m old enough to be your grandfather,” the proconsul said. “But you will give me girls, will you?”
“As you wish,” Agrippa nodded; but Vibius Marsus was staring at Berenice now. His stare, frank, sensual, and uninhibited, did not disturb her. Men had stared at her like that since her breasts budded, since the narrowing of her waist and the widening of her hips proclaimed the fact that she was becoming a woman, and she had survived the two or three post-puberty years of her life in contest and struggle with men. Blocked in so much of her relationship with men, she was driven by no compelling wants or desires; and most men, after their first reaction to her ruddy, green-eyed beauty, sensed the lack of warmth or desire. Vibius Marsus was too drunk to sense it now, and he told Agrippa plainly enough what he wanted.
The boy had to control himself and to struggle for such control, his dark face hardening and becoming like a Greek player’s mask over the somber holes of his eyes. That a Roman could fail to understand what it meant to bear the bloodlines of the Hasmonean and Herodian houses was possible, even natural; for in Berenice’s mind, the Romans were a mongrel race who substituted
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