Spaniards, and Germans, Phoenician seamen, Edomite longshoremen—and so many others that a listing would be endless, Caesarea being perhaps the most cosmopolitan of all seaports—all of them rocked with pleasure, belched and farted at the actors, interrupted them, pelted them, and generally took advantage of what they sensed, even if they had not the taste to measure—that this was a bad and tedious play and that the Jewish noblemen in their gay pavilions would not interfere, so long as the horseplay remained within the bounds of semi-order, which meant anything less than a full-scale riot.
The heat increased as the play went on and with it Berenice’s irritation. Were it not for the fact that Gabo appeared to be absolutely enthralled as the story unfolded, Berenice would have defied her father and forced her way out through the guards. But she knew how long and eagerly Gabo had looked forward to this, and she decided to endure it to the end—a determination that made her glow with a sort of virtuous self-approval.
Her brother, wiping his brow, observed that while he perished of thirst, those Italian louts were drowning themselves in iced wine. He did not like Latus, whose low birth and business career—which had brought him to his present position, that of a very wealthy knight—he now recalled. “Trust his kind to have ice here,” he said angrily—and Berenice felt, at that moment, a sense of annoyance. She might have articulated it by specifying that if one desired to be as much of a snob as her brother was, he should arm himself with more wit. Young Agrippa had qualities, but he was not clever.
Staring at Germanicus Latus, Berenice caught his eye. He smiled at her. He had that Italian gift of honoring a beautiful woman—or, more to the point, of being able to make a sixteen-year-old girl aware of the fact that she was beautiful and very much a woman. He made motions to show how devastated he was at the distance that separated them, and Berenice, in response, made motions of great thirst. She did not have to repeat the suggestion. He spread his arms in pseudo-tragic apology and issued quick orders to his servants. Meanwhile, King Agrippa’s attention had been attracted, and Latus now made signs to beg his forgiveness. Now Berenice saw that her father had provided his own cool liquid refreshment. Only she and her brother, apparently, were not equipped to deal with their thirst.
Her brother sent Joseph Bennoch, the page, for the wine, which was in a glass beaker set in a wooden bucket of ice. The beaker was very large, holding at least a quart of liquid, and with the bucket and the ice made a weight under which the page staggered. As he brought it to their pavilion, Berenice’s father watched, and Germanicus Latus made signs that the king was to have the first drink. “Ice? Isn’t that ice in it? I thought I saw ice.”
Berenice dipped into the bucket, found a piece of ice, and held it dripping. Several of the guests in the pavilion gathered around, for ice was no common thing here in Caesarea in the heat, and some of them had never seen a chunk of ice before. Ice was cut during the winter months on the high lakes in Lebanon and then packed in sawdust, to be sold through the hot months at fantastic prices, so much so that it was called, in the Aramaic, the language of Palestine, the gold that melts.
“Throw it here, child,” Agrippa called in great good humor, his friends and advisers around him, and feeling more and more superior as he watched the Emperor Claudius’ inept play unfold. For many years, he had been a close friend of the emperor, and there is a particular satisfaction in observing the literary cropper of a close friend.
The people around Berenice stood aside, and she threw the piece of ice to her father, who caught it deftly, grinning across the seats at Latus. “Old devil! Trust you to find ice! No ice in Caesarea for the king, but let a Roman set up court there, and there’s ice and
The heat increased as the play went on and with it Berenice’s irritation. Were it not for the fact that Gabo appeared to be absolutely enthralled as the story unfolded, Berenice would have defied her father and forced her way out through the guards. But she knew how long and eagerly Gabo had looked forward to this, and she decided to endure it to the end—a determination that made her glow with a sort of virtuous self-approval.
Her brother, wiping his brow, observed that while he perished of thirst, those Italian louts were drowning themselves in iced wine. He did not like Latus, whose low birth and business career—which had brought him to his present position, that of a very wealthy knight—he now recalled. “Trust his kind to have ice here,” he said angrily—and Berenice felt, at that moment, a sense of annoyance. She might have articulated it by specifying that if one desired to be as much of a snob as her brother was, he should arm himself with more wit. Young Agrippa had qualities, but he was not clever.
Staring at Germanicus Latus, Berenice caught his eye. He smiled at her. He had that Italian gift of honoring a beautiful woman—or, more to the point, of being able to make a sixteen-year-old girl aware of the fact that she was beautiful and very much a woman. He made motions to show how devastated he was at the distance that separated them, and Berenice, in response, made motions of great thirst. She did not have to repeat the suggestion. He spread his arms in pseudo-tragic apology and issued quick orders to his servants. Meanwhile, King Agrippa’s attention had been attracted, and Latus now made signs to beg his forgiveness. Now Berenice saw that her father had provided his own cool liquid refreshment. Only she and her brother, apparently, were not equipped to deal with their thirst.
Her brother sent Joseph Bennoch, the page, for the wine, which was in a glass beaker set in a wooden bucket of ice. The beaker was very large, holding at least a quart of liquid, and with the bucket and the ice made a weight under which the page staggered. As he brought it to their pavilion, Berenice’s father watched, and Germanicus Latus made signs that the king was to have the first drink. “Ice? Isn’t that ice in it? I thought I saw ice.”
Berenice dipped into the bucket, found a piece of ice, and held it dripping. Several of the guests in the pavilion gathered around, for ice was no common thing here in Caesarea in the heat, and some of them had never seen a chunk of ice before. Ice was cut during the winter months on the high lakes in Lebanon and then packed in sawdust, to be sold through the hot months at fantastic prices, so much so that it was called, in the Aramaic, the language of Palestine, the gold that melts.
“Throw it here, child,” Agrippa called in great good humor, his friends and advisers around him, and feeling more and more superior as he watched the Emperor Claudius’ inept play unfold. For many years, he had been a close friend of the emperor, and there is a particular satisfaction in observing the literary cropper of a close friend.
The people around Berenice stood aside, and she threw the piece of ice to her father, who caught it deftly, grinning across the seats at Latus. “Old devil! Trust you to find ice! No ice in Caesarea for the king, but let a Roman set up court there, and there’s ice and
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