Abominations: A Novel

By Paul R. Brenner

The Man Whom Jesus Loved
A Novel
Paul R. Brenner

The year is 68 CE. Led by the fanatical Sicarii, the ideological dagger men, Jews seize Jerusalem, execute the Roman garrison, and begin to cleanse Judaea of all impurities and foreign influences, including Greek love. Nero sends Vespasianus with three legions to quell the revolt. Caught in this conflict is the Sacred Community of Men, whose leader
is the man who was Jesus lover, and Joanna, in whose home was held the Last Supper with Jesus. To escape assassination, Jesus beloved flees Judaea for cosmopolitan Alexandria, where he has been accepted as a Visiting Scholar in the famous Temple of the Muses, the Mouseion.

Within days of arriving in the city, fierce ethnic fighting breaks out between Greeks and Jews, disrupting his life and plans. Further complicating his life is Markos, the sexy, wealthy young Greek, who wants a relationship with him, Hakor, the young orphaned Egyptian boy whom he befriends, and Diokles, Director of Visiting Scholars, who takes more than an intellectual interest in him.

He senses he is being followed without being able to identify by whom. When he and his friends are viciously attacked, they discover the Sicarii have him marked for assassination. Finally, to end the chaos, Tiberius Alexander, Governor of Egypt, recalls the legion from fighting bandits in the south of Egypt. As they attack the quarter, our
hero is trapped and comes face to face with a Roman centurion with drawn bloody sword eager to kill. Will he survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 24, 2008
• ISBN: 9781450069700

Paul R. Brenner

Short Bio Paul R. Brenner Paul lives in San Francisco. He is passionate about nature, spirituality, and justice. He enjoys gardening, hiking, lunches with friends, working out, jazz, singing in his church’s choir, ancient history and the diversity and beauty of the Bay area. He volunteers with the Creative Healing Project, which brings art to children and teenagers diagnosed with life threatening conditions, from cancer to AIDS.

Book preview

Part One

One

CATCHING THE APHRODITE

Across from the busy morning market in Caesarea, I hold my head under the refreshing cool water of a fountain. Off to the side, I notice the shadow of a stooped-over figure next to me. It reminds me of that uncomfortable incident nearly fourteen years ago with Paulus in Jerusalem. Withdrawing, I shake my head and stand straight.

However, instead of conflicted Paulus, a well-defined, muscular Roman—naked—is splashing his face and body while the rising sun sends dancing rays across his glistening skin. He winks at me and flashes a broad smile. I assume he is one of the centurions who has been preparing for war by demonstrating his phallic power with the finest of Caesarea’s exoleti. Their raw, raucous pleasuring continued unbroken throughout the night, disrupting my sleep and reminding me when my nights were abandoned to such joy.

I return his smile. Three other centurions run out the inn, joking and jostling one another. They call to the man at the fountain, Petrus, cover your ass and get your gear together. We’re late and must get going. He slips on his tunic, and, as he turns to join them, picks up his armor and helmet, kicking over one of my travel bags. He turns to me—running backward while putting on his helmet—shrugs his shoulders laughing, and shouts, Excuse me. How ’bout next time? He blows me a kiss. While adjusting weapons, helmets, and armor, they race to join the legionnaires on their way to Vespasianus to crush the Jewish revolt, recapture Jerusalem, and extract brutal Roman revenge. I stand there as the dry northwest wind, already hot, swirls and gusts through the streets and into the marketplace, blowing my hair into disarray while tightly molding my old khlamys, my favorite short Greek cloak, to my back and buttocks. Perhaps I should have listened to Joanna and gotten a new one.

I examine the marketplace to locate something to eat. At the far end, I spot a cart of fresh bakery goods being unloaded on a stall close to the harbor. I adjust my khiton and khlamys, put on my shoulder bag, and lift my two travel bags. With the single-mindedness of an Olympic athlete racing to the finish line, I twist, dodge, swerve, and sway while threading my way through the maze of congested aisles jammed with buyers and sellers.

Rounding a corner, the travel bag in my left hand rams into the extended ample hindquarters of an overdressed, bejeweled, heavily made-up matron with raspy voice, fussing at a vendor while leaning over to examine a pomegranate. The impact sends her spinning into a sweating teenage male slave at the next stall, knocking from his hands a bag of mixed fruits and vegetables. She squeezes the pomegranate so hard it bursts in her hand, releasing its red seeds into her cloak and the slave. Clumsy Greek! someone mumbles. Excuse me, I’m so sorry, I mumble and continue on my way.

’Bout time Madam Fat Ass got brought down, I hear someone else say, and laughter joins his comment. The matron is pushing away the slave and wiping off the sweat, meanwhile spreading more red juice on her cloak. Oh, how dreadful! Disgusting! Vile! she wails. I disappear into the crowd like a snake slipping into its hole.

The earthy aromas of fresh-baked wheat and barley breads, honey buns, and cakes reward my efforts as I arrive at the stall. I resist the temptation to look back at the matron’s continuing complaints. Instead, I take a deep breath, lower my travel bags, and purchase a warm, sticky honey wheat bun smelling of cardamom.

While savoring my dulcis panis, I look at the harbor and count seven round-hulled sailing ships in anchor. Heavy in the water, an eighth ship is steering past the lighthouse and leaning to the side as it turns toward the sea with its large square wind-filled sail.

I finish the last bite and try to guess which ship might be the Aphrodite I will board for Alexandria. Licking my fingers clean of the honey’s stickiness, I dry them on my fl apping khlamys. Beyond the harbor, the shining turquoise color of the sea’s border gives way to a deep blue that reaches to the horizon. Overhead the sky is clear, but in the far distance, I notice a concentration of purple-black clouds hanging over the water, streaking rain so thick it looks like a tapestry falling into the sea.

My mind is a bramble of twisted thoughts, my chest tight as an unfurled sail, and my breath shallow and labored. I wonder if things will be better in Alexandria? Should I not stay and support the scattered members of the Sacred Communities of Men and Women instead of fleeing for my safety? Is my continuing existence such an offense to the dagger men, the fanatical Sicarii, that I remain a primary target in their apocalyptic cleansing of the land to hasten the inauguration of the Messianic Age? Am I also such a threat to those reconstructing the story of Iesous as the Khristos that they too would like to see me disappear? Am I the best person to write the story of the relationship of the Teacher of the Good with those of us who live outside the prescribed roles and assigned behaviors for men and women? Does my relationship with him as lover thirty years ago actually make any difference for the story that must be told?

At least in Caesarea, no one is going to try to kill me, I reason; although for reassurance, I glance around the crowded marketplace just to be sure there are no men looking like Sicarii lurking nearby. What fanatical Jews—even in disguise, I argue to calm myself—would dare to enter Caesarea after all Jews had been driven out? I may be on the list of the Sicarii for their ultimate solution to the problem of Jews like me who are Hellenized, but now they are preoccupied with the unrelenting advance on Jerusalem by Titus Flavius Vespasianus with three legions—the XII Fulminata, the XV Apollinaris, and the V Macedonica. Nothing in Caesarea suggests the bitter violence of the revolt against Rome, except for the volume of activity in the harbor and the absence of Jews.

For the voyage, I purchase dried apricots, dried fish, flat bread, and almonds.

Rearranging my three carefully rolled scrolls, two of papyros and one of leather; two worn quills and ink, and the letter from Maria Magdala to the Sacred Community of Women in Alexandria, I place the food alongside the wine in my shoulder bag.

Picking up my two travel bags, I head out the market toward the approach to the harbor.

As I pass the last stall, a hunched-over woman with stringy hair is haggling over the price of two spotted sea bass with a young man, whose rising voice indicates his frustration. The smell of the fish is so sharp I suck in my breath. I look left at the tall Corinthian columns of the temple the client king, Herod the First, erected for his patron, Caesar Augustus, when he founded Caesarea ninety years ago. Gesturing and laughing, two centurions wearing helmets with plumes of chestnut-colored horsehair and red woolen cloaks flapping in the wind are trotting down the steps, each carrying the vitis, his vine stick badge of office.

I turn to face the broad promenade surrounding the harbor. It is busier than the market. Slaves are unloading and loading cargo and supplies, and officials are collecting fees, weighing trade, and writing on tabulae the deposits of money and goods involved. Standing out from the commercial activities are small groups of passengers with their slaves, waiting to board, while crews prepare their ships for departure.

Watching the ships rocking in place in the harbor and having never sailed, I am reminded of nausiasis. What if I throw up on board and embarrass myself? Then I hear Joanna’s nagging voice in my head: get zingiberis. Retracing my steps back to the herbal stall and irritated at my forgetfulness, I purchase slices of zingiberis and return toward the harbor. I recall the first time I ate it as delicious gingerbread. Xenos, my Greek tutor from Alexandria, introduced it to me when I was an adolescent. I put down my bags, sit on a stone bench overlooking the harbor, and lift it to my nose, enjoying the zesty smell. Folding some in a piece of bread, I find that it tastes peppery and makes my eyes water—unlike when baked with honey. While stoking my hands over the chest of my khlamys as if pressing out the wrinkles, I marvel at how my life has gotten to this juncture.

Two years ago, when Jewish resentment against Rome finally erupted into open revolt, men and women of the Sacred Communities were gathered in the upper room of Joanna’s villa in Jerusalem’s foreign quarter. Sicarii were on a killing rampage, running through the streets looking for Roman collaborators and others they considered contaminating Judaea. We planned our escape while Menaham, the self-proclaimed King of the Jews, was supervising the execution of the last of the Roman garrison.

To cleanse the temple, he assassinated Ananas ben Ananas, the high priest appointed with Roman approval. Upon entering the temple, Menaham was killed by supporters of Ananas as Jews fell upon one another with even more vehemence and ferocity than they had the Romans. Along with Greeks and Jewish Followers of the Way, we took advantage of the fratricide to flee the city in small groups, traveling only with what we could carry so as not to call undue attention to ourselves—all of us except Joanna.

Reassembling in Sepphoris in Galilee, we assumed we would be safe in a predominantly Greek city that was the area’s Roman headquarters. However, Sepphoris itself became the focus of battles between Romans and Jews, already changing hands three times, and I narrowly escaped to Caesarea.

Before the rebellion started, I had written the Temple of the Muses, the Mouseion, in Alexandria, to get an appointment as a visiting scholar. That way I could work in the famous library while writing my story. Two members of our community, Marcellus and Philippos, have already resettled there to assist in the development of a Sacred Community of Men, and I look forward to staying with them. I will deliver Maria Magdala’s letter. In addition, I’m eager to see my favorite cousin, Mariam, and her family. Shrieking low-flying seagulls overhead intrude on my thoughts and bring my attention back to the present.

I open my eyes and take a deep breath. Exhaling, I stand, and the strong, hot wind urges me forward. I step onto the walkway of the promenade and breathe in the salty, moist air. Seagulls are flying toward the Drusion Lighthouse at the harbor’s entrance.

A row of columns with arched doorways opens to King Agrippa the Second’s trading company, busy with officials and clerks. Overseers are shouting orders. Slaves in torn, dirty loincloths are straining and grunting, unloading heavy boxes, crates, and large amphorae from the first two ships onto waiting horse-drawn carts. Their sweating bodies glisten in the sunlight, and as I pass, my nose is assaulted by the harsh pervasive smells of their unwashed bodies. After pushing one bulky box onto a cart, one slave catches my eye with an intense look of his hazel-colored eyes. Streams of sweat are pouring down his face onto his torso. He wipes his right hand from his throat across his hairy, well-formed chest, down to the dirty low-hanging loincloth where it lingers. He grins shyly as I move aside to avoid the odor and congestion. Two Roman officials are standing in the shade of the portico, discussing the problems of rushing supplies to the XII Fulminata for the campaign against the rebels in the Jordan Valley.

Ahead, slaves are straining as they load amphorae of wine, and it is the Aphrodite. Ten passengers are waiting near its ramp in small clusters on the promenade. With his back to me, the passenger closest to my approach is wearing a deep purple himation—the full-length Greek cloak decorated with broad borders of gold cloth freely flapping in the wind, and a petasos—the wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat of felt held in place by a chin strap that Greeks usually wear when traveling.

"Khaire! Greetings! Excuse me, sir, this is the ship for Alexandria, isn’t it?"

Turning his face to me, he pushes the petasos off his head onto his back, revealing a full head of curled silver hair streaked with black. His body is stout but compact. I watch his large eyes survey my body—from head to sandals and back. Beads of sweat roll down his cheeks, and his breathing is forced and quick. While wiping his face with a large linen handkerchief embroidered with a border of violet hyacinth flowers, he breaks into a broad smile that rearranges the lines on his cheeks and the corners of his eyes. "Xhaire, young man! Are you inquiring because you will be boarding?"

Yes, sir. while nodding my head.

Marvelous! Isn’t this a turn of good fortune? He glances to the heavens smiling, exhales, and rests his interlaced fingers and hands on his belly. This is the ship for Alexandria. I sigh, lower my travel bags to the promenade, and remove my shoulder bag. Our departure is delayed due to a large shipment of wine that just arrived from the vineyards of Agrippa the Second. Even with the war, he is preoccupied with making money, and royalty always takes precedence over us mere common folk.

Well, sir, with all your purple and gold, you could pass for royalty.

Pass? His eyebrows furrow. I catch my breath. He lifts his hands and flashes jeweled rings on every finger. I could pass for a lot of things and have in my life, but I don’t need purple and gold cloth to know I am the very stuff of royalty! By the way, I am Hektor from Sidon, where I make the finest purple dyes money can buy.

"If your himation is colored with your own dye, Hektor, I believe you. I’ve never seen such an intense, vibrant purple."

Fabulous, isn’t it? He lifts the front hem of the himation by the thumb and index finger of each hand as if displaying a piece of fabric for sale. I’m taking a shipment to Alexandria for sale to Malabar and beyond to the Land of Silk, but I also travel to Rome, where I supply the imperial house with a very exclusive shade. He winks.

Unlike you, Hector, I haven’t traveled. I’ve spent all my life on land in Judaea and Galilee. This is my first time on the Great Sea. I’m worried that I won’t travel well.

With your looks, sir, I’m sure you are very well traveled, very.

He smiles. "Have you eaten zingiberis?"

Just had some.

You’ll be fine. He turns toward the ship. "I have always traveled by sea on this wonderful type of sailing ship. It’s called a corbita—from the rounded shape of the hull. He points his stubby index finger at the ship while the gold bracelets hanging about his wrist jangle together like miniature wind chimes. I especially enjoy the way it curves gracefully in a kind of arc from stem to stern. He pauses. I can think of only one other thing with such an attractive, graceful curve."

And long, I add.

It is long, isn’t it, from the stern all the way to the tip?

It sticks out so far.

Yes, it’s very erect, the head…

And large—

Interrupting us is the hoarse voice of the assistant captain. As soon as the captain makes an offering to Aphrodite for a safe voyage, we’ll be on our way. Thank you for your patience.

I’m anxious to get under sail. Things are so unsettled with this revolt. Caesarea is an impressive little city, but it is Roman, not Greek, and preoccupied with war.

I was here once as a young boy to attend the theater with my tutor. By the way, Hektor, I am— but clapping hands interrupt me, and that same voice intrudes once more. Time to board! Time to board! Please move! Quickly now! Be sure you have all your bags. Don’t leave anything on the promenade. As soon as everyone is on board, we’ll be on our way. Hurry Hurry Hurry! Don’t cause any further delay!

Excuse me. I’m traveling with a considerable number of bags, and my son doesn’t always get things well organized. Hektor points across the way to a much younger man trying to balance four large bulky bags with two others still on the promenade. He’s very handsome, don’t you think? While I nod in reply, Hektor makes his way to his son with rapid little steps that jiggle his hips and buttocks back and forth. He holds his arms in front of him as high as his chest, as if rowing the air to gain momentum.

Flowing behind, his himation creates fluttering purple waves in the air. When he joins his son, his voice rises. No No No! Not that one! He points with such an exaggerated sweeping motion of his arm to a very large bag on the promenade that he nearly loses his balance. That one! Remember?

But you said this one! the young man retorts. You always forget, and then get mad. Now make up your mind. Which one?

Hektor puts his hands on his hips while tapping his right foot. He looks at each of the bags. Son, I apologize. I’m so hot I don’t know what I’m thinking anymore. Just… just do something! He wipes his face again with the limp handkerchief. While his son struggles with the bags, it is curious why someone of Hektor’s wealth has no retinue of slaves to take care of such things. Just then, one bag slips and starts rolling toward the water. Hektor’s hands flail in the air as he chases the bag perilously approaching the edge of the harbor. Oh my! Oh my! Stop Stop Stop! he yells as the bag takes one more turn, just short of a fatal plunge. Putting his hands on his hips, he lifts his shoulders, and, looking up to the heavens, gives an audible sigh and lowers his shoulders.

His son, wearing a tight-fitting thigh-length khiton and khlamys, each decorated with bold black Zs around the hem and sleeves, carefully lowers the bags and begins rearranging them on the promenade. Tall, slender, and compact, around thirty, his hair glistens like it had been soaked in saffron. His eyes mirror the bright clear azure of the sky. When he shifts positions, the wind catches his khlamys, exposing long slender thighs above sinuous calves with long prominent sea blue veins. He bends over to retrieve the fallen bag resting on the edge of the promenade. A sudden gust of wind blows his khiton, revealing two oval mounds of firm reddish pink flesh. I smile. This voyage could be more interesting than I had ever imagined.

Two

LEAVING

Well, are you staying or departing? demands a middle-aged passenger with pockmarks on his face and a large mole on his chin. He scurries around me, followed by two slaves bent over from the heaviness of his bags. His look registers his extreme displeasure with me for not moving and breaks my concentration on Hektor’s intriguing son. Putting my shoulder bag over my plain khlamys and picking up my modest handbags, I breathe deeply and move up the ramp.

As soon as I step onto the ship, I feel it rocking under my feet and almost lose my balance. Stopping, I bend my knees and adjust to the back-and-forth motion. I smile. It reminds me of how a pleasure ride with different men requires constant readjustments. I wonder about Hektor’s son.

"Khaire!" I greet the assistant captain. I ordered one of the collapsible shelters. I’m staying on deck.

Yes, sir. He hands me the rolled-up shelter. I walk toward the stem of the ship, avoiding the deeply tanned crew members in short sweat-stained loincloths working to unfurl the sail with arm and shoulder muscles flexing. I find a place for the shelter close to the stem. After putting my bags under the small tent, I walk to the stern with its two large steering paddles. Nearby three elderly Roman patricians are discussing imperial politics in Latin. Unlike the Greek khiton, their tunics, decorated with scarlet bands, hang below the knees, are girded at the waist, and have sleeves to the wrists. They show far less skin and hide the body, which is a considerable blessing, given how they look.

With loud snapping sounds, the large square sail unfurls, revealing the graceful figure of Aphrodite in the center of the canvas. As the breeze catches it, the ship jerks. I lunge forward, crashing against the edge of the ship. Creaking and groaning, the ship leaves the promenade and maneuvers through the harbor toward the open sea. Overlapping orders are shouted between crew members to keep the sail filled with the breeze. The exceptionally developed, defined biceps and back muscles of the rudder men flex as they skillfully turn the ship first to the north to exit the harbor at the lighthouse, and then sharply to the west—to avoid the large breakwater protecting the harbor’s entrance.

Off to the southwest, I spot storm clouds still hovering. My heart is pounding.

Fabius, that’s the lighthouse Herod dedicated to Drusion. A bald Roman aristocrat with heavily wrinkled face points out to his friend, whose unkempt thin white hair is blowing in the wind.

The era of Drusion and Augustus were the golden days of the empire.

Nero has been a great disappointment. The short squat one leans on a cane. His avarice triggered this rebellion in Judaea!

Disappointment! He’s a disgrace to all true Roman men, Gaius, Fabius retorts, looking around, lowering his voice. I still cannot comprehend how he openly assumed the role of a bride, complete with veil, dowry, wedding bed, and wedding torches for his marriage to that slave, that… that Pythagoras.

If size is what matters, I heard Pythagoras is… Gaius extends his hands in front of his groin as robust laughter bursts between them.

That isn’t the worst! Even more disgusting, he went on stage in Pompeii like a common actor and played his lyre—

And, Rufus, I must add, poorly, very poorly, continues Fabius. They chuckle as their eyes dart to one another.

No respectable Roman would appear on stage and betray his virility and status!

Gaius hammers his cane against the deck.

Greek men sing, play the flute, dance, and act. Fabius shrugs his shoulders. "Somehow, beyond my comprehension, they consider it manly. We know better. We’re Romans. We’re viri, real men!"

I fear the values of the republic will never return. Rufus shakes his head.

Yes, that was when the manly virtues of honor, discipline, bravery, restraint, and meticulous attention to appearance directed men’s behavior. Fabius pats his chest.

Now it’s all about self-indulgence, opulence, decadence, pretentiousness, conspicuousness, and the bloody games at the Coliseum. Gaius stabs the air with his cane, nearly losing his balance. His slave catches him by the arm.

It’s like the soul of Rome is being eaten from within. Fabius shakes his finger in the direction of Rome. No one will stand up against Nero, unless they want an abrupt end to their life. He thinks he’s a god, for god’s sake, and the gods are sure to effect revenge.

Let’s have some wine and toast the old days. By the way, that reminds me of an interesting story about Augustus and Maecenas. Did you know that Augustus intervened to give Maecenas an alibi when he was accused of… Gaius is saying as they walk with the support of their slaves. I hear the tapping of the cane on the deck fade away, and I’m the only passenger left at the stern.

I watch Caesar’s temple, the walls of Caesarea, the harbor, and the Drusion Lighthouse slowly disappear in the distance. Beyond them are the distant familiar hills of Samaria, Galilee, and Judaea with their violence and bloodshed. I shiver thinking about the hooded Sicarii with daggers. They attacked me in the street, and I would have been murdered if it hadn’t been for the unexpected arrival of a squad of Roman legionnaires marching around the corner. I want as much distance as possible from that chaotic danger, yet I am sad—for there is much I will miss.

I had lived in Jerusalem as a member of the secret sacred communities some thirty years following Josh’s death. Our communities—one for men and one for women, follow Josh’s teachings about the Good, the Krestos. The lives of those remarkable men and women have been woven seamlessly into the fabric of my own life because of my unique relationship to Josh, my care for his mother, my work as tutor of the children we rescued and raised together in the community, and my service as the scholar for the group. Now everything we had created and accomplished has been destroyed by those committed to washing Judaea in blood to purify it so the violent, jealous Jewish warrior god will reappear. I hit my fist on the railing of the ship.

Excuse me, sir, is everything all right? It is the captain’s assistant.

Oh yes. I was just thinking about the foolish bloodshed in Judaea.

It must be very dangerous there. He looks at my fist, which is still stinging. Slowly I open it and wiggle my fingers. After we’re out about an hour or so, we will be serving wine from Thassos in the area adjacent to Aphrodite’s shrine. At that time, the captain will review our schedule, orient you to the ship, and answer any questions you may have. I will see you then. He bows and leaves.

I walk to the stem of the ship and stand near the graceful carving of the head of a swan projecting out over the water. Absorbing the warmth of the breeze, the flapping of the sail, the humid saltiness of the air, and the gentle rocking of the waves, I feel like I am being given an omen about this new beginning in my life. Finally I will be able to put my hand to the story of Josh without the threat of violence distracting me.

Beautiful, isn’t it? A recognizable voice interrupts my tranquil moment. At sea I feel free, like a gull soaring on wind currents without having to flap my wings, and it’s mercifully cool as well.

I open my eyes and turn in the direction of the voice. It is Hektor. His himation is blowing freely in the wind, making little snapping sounds.

I enjoyed meeting you earlier, and, if I remember correctly, you said you were from Jerusalem. If I may be so straightforward, I was surprised. You don’t look Jewish. I took you for a Greek by your attire, physique, and accent.

When I was a young boy, my father hired a tutor from Alexandria to instruct me in Greek philosophy, science, mathematics, rhetoric, and literature.

That’s certainly a different curriculum from what rabbis teach Jewish boys.

"As different as the summer solstice is from the winter solstice. In addition, my father secured membership for me in the Gymnasion, where I trained in Greek sports."

Your favorites?

Running and the long jump, though I also enjoy wrestling.

It sounds like you enjoy seeing how far and fast and hard you can go.

I guess so.

That’s all any of us can do. If you don’t mind me saying so, you are in excellent form.

At my age, it takes far more effort than it did when I was the age of your son.

Wait till you get to my age. All I can do anymore is observe what once I could enjoy with ease, and please, don’t call me sir, it makes me feel even older than I am. Besides, if I were younger and had the body I did then, I’d do more than just tease you.

Thank you, sir. I catch myself and return his smile. Hektor, you have helped take my mind off the violence I just escaped and my fears about sailing—both welcomed gifts. He bows his head slightly.

Your father must have been quite progressive to have had you instructed in Greek ways. Few Jews have welcomed our culture and ideas, especially in Jerusalem, and I hear that is why Jews are rebelling.

The revolt has nothing to do with the Greeks and everything to do with Nero’s demand to be given the temple treasury on top of all the new taxes.

He has to pay for all the opulence he indulges in, doesn’t he?

"My father was furious when I started wearing the Greek khiton, cut my hair, curled it, bought a strigil, and began shaving. His motivation was not progressive, just pragmatic. I watch how the wake of the boat and the waves of the sea collide with each other. Providing an Alexandrian tutor for a son was considered extremely prestigious. He did it—not for me, but to make himself look good among his peers."

What did your father do?

Actually the business was started by my grandfather, who came to Jerusalem from Alexandria and started to work in the spice trade with Arabia, especially pepper.

There’s a great deal of money in spices, especially pepper. Is that why you’re going to Alexandria, on family business?

Oh no, I’m no longer involved in it.

Oh?

Just about the time my tutor returned to Alexandria, I became a disciple of a remarkable teacher.

A rabbi?

A most untraditional teacher, who was from no rabbinic school or tradition. In fact, he had little respect for tradition and authority, whether rabbinic or priestly.

That must have upset your father.

You have no idea! When he found out, he demanded that I quit, saying I was embarrassing him and ungrateful. In order to keep the peace, I pretended to quit. After all, my voice had just changed. Secretly, however, I continued to follow the teacher. My father died not long afterward, and, as the eldest son, I was propelled into a role beyond my years. I was very successful in managing the family business when I did not have to contend with my father. After my teacher died, I helped support the Sacred Community for Men and Women in our dedication to continue his teachings. In time I transferred the running of the business to my sister and have devoted my energy and resources full time to my teacher’s legacy.

We are again interrupted by the assistant captain who invites us to the captain’s reception.

After we are finished with the captain’s orientation, my son and I will lunch in our cabin. Would you be so kind as to favor us with your presence?

Three

REVELATIONS

Patting his rounded stomach after the meeting with the captain, Hektor laughs, That old windbag blows more hot air than a desert sandstorm and smells worse than a dead fish out of water for three days. Let’s go enjoy our midday culinary repast.

As we begin walking, I, still a bit unsteady on my feet, extend my arms to maintain my balance. May I ask about your son?

Thorgod?

That’s… that’s…

Germanic.

A barbarian?

Suebi!

One of the tribes that fought the invasion of Julius Caesar?

After their defeat, they became a client nation with a puppet king. Thorgod was taken captive in one of their many revolts against Rome.

How did he come to be your son?

Hektor lifts the front of his himation and khiton and steps sideways as we slowly descend a step at a time from the deck toward the cabins. The smell becomes increasingly musty and the crackling of the wood louder. I also become aware of Hektor’s labored breathing. I bought him in Rome.

He was a slave!

I was just returning from a visit with Poppea… I look up at him and frown. You know, Nero’s former wife—the one he kicked to death. I nod and exhale.

And I was passing the slave market when I saw him. He stops, puts his hand up to his mouth, and continues in a softer voice. He looked so vulnerable, so lost, and something about him touched me. I raise my eyebrows. He smiles, then continues, "I mean, more than his obvious exotic beauty. He was not even fifteen at the time—flos aetatis—the flower of youth as the Romans say. I knew any Roman would use him as a concubinus. I knew what that was like and wanted to spare him that degradation."

You adopted him?

Since I never married, he became the son I never had. Good fortune smiled on me, don’t you think? By then we are at his cabin. He opens the door and bows slightly at the waist. Shall we?

As we enter, Thorgod, wearing a khiton with bold black Zs at the edges, is standing by a small table filled with food. Looking up to him, I realize he is even taller than my first impression of him on the promenade. The light from the porthole catches his shoulder-length red-streaked flaxen-colored hair. It glistens as it falls loosely and irregularly across his forehead and over his left eye. His eyebrows are light and thin, and his skin ruddy.

"Khaire! Thorgod welcomes me with a sparkling smile, pushing the hair away from his eyes with long slender fingers. There’s not much space, as you can see, but this corner has a basin for washing. I’ll pour." I hold my hands over the basin as water, cool and clear, flows from a long-stemmed pitcher onto my hands. Across the forearm of his right arm is a narrow white scar in a straight line. Putting the pitcher under the stand, he hands me a towel, and I dry my hands while he washes Hektor’s.

The cabin is compact and well organized. The porthole opens the room to light and fresh air. The ship’s undulating motion creates creaking sounds and irregular rhythms. Along one wall is a bed and small wardrobe. A small table and chairs are on the opposite side. Above it hangs a lantern gently rocking back and forth. However, compared with sleeping on the deck under a portable