of an unorthodox one for kindling fire to cook his porridge on the Jewish sabbath; whereupon, in the name of Peace the dissenter throws boiling porridge into the orthodox one’s face; and Diomed, coming with soldiers to keep the Peace of Rome is hit in the eye with a rotten fig hurled by a child still raw from his circumcision. And somebody sends a report to Rome, (a) Diomed is keeping the peace, (b) Diomed is persecuting the Jews. Isn’t that the way it goes, Diomed?’
‘Something like that,’ I said; and I suppose I managed to keep a certain irritation out of my tone, because Afranius’s chatter was received with a laugh.
Melanion grumbled: ‘Bah! Gods! … Once upon a time a traveller, passing through the Land of the Cat-worshippers, stopped to watch the people flaying alive a miserable wretch in the market-place. He asked a bystander: “What has this man done?” “Why, he is guilty of the most unpardonable blasphemy, sir!” the bystander replied. The traveller asked:“What? Does he worship dogs, then?” “Nothing so trivial,” the bystander told him, “we worship Egyptian cats – this misbegotten son of a filthy mother worships Persian cats.” Gods! Bah!’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Afranius, ‘I have had conversation with one or two perfectly reasonable people who took kindly to the Nazarene school of thought.’
‘Oh, as for that,’ said Melanion, ‘granting certain premises, anything you fancy is reasonable … granting certain premises. One of the most reasonable men I ever met died of apoplexy because he had himself wrapped in three layers of lambs’ wool to travel across Arabia in the summer. He was convinced that he was made of blown glass, and might get broken if dropped. And he never ate very hot food on a cold day, for fear he might crack. What could be more reasonable – granting certain premises? Only he was not made of glass, and his pure reason was pure madness.’
‘Enough, Melanion, enough!’ I said. ‘This is as bad as the blind beggar-woman of the Black River.’
‘Who is she?’ asked Tibullus.
I said: ‘Oh, another seer, or prophet, or whatever you like to call her; only she has caused no riots. I saw her once in Damascus. Her eyes are white and her hair hangs to the ground. She has an interminable song, which her disciples say has been sung since the beginning of the world. It has to be sung without pausing, so when she stops to eat or drink, one of her disciples takes up the refrain, and the moment she dies someone else will continue, all in the same unearthly monotone:
‘“… The womb is a lonely room where you wait sleeping until you must pass through a dark passage into a light that is blindness because it is too strong to see by; dazzled you must wander weeping yourself to sleep until you must pass through a dark passage into a lonely room where you must wait sleeping until you must pass …”
*
– and so on, and so on, to drive you mad. It is believed that when the song works itself out to its logical conclusion, the world will end in a glorious light and everything will be purified.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ said Melanion. ‘And soon I must go and look at my Soxias, and then sleep an hour or two.’
Afranius said: ‘I fancy, today, Soxias will be rather angry with himself for letting young Paulus win his Eurynome. Eh, Diomed?’
I said: ‘It is a very beautiful piece of work.’
‘Soxias is not much of a one for vain regrets,’ said Melanion. ‘He’d better not be. The only one who will tear his hair when the story gets out – it’ll be all over Tarsus by tonight – will be Paulus’s father. The worth of Barbatus’s collection gone just like that!’
I had thought of this earlier; in considering the actions of a man like Soxias, every motive must be taken into account, but I feigned surprise. ‘It was Paulus’s cup, to dispose of as he pleased,’ I said, thinking: ‘Who are we to suppose that Paulus loves his father as
‘Something like that,’ I said; and I suppose I managed to keep a certain irritation out of my tone, because Afranius’s chatter was received with a laugh.
Melanion grumbled: ‘Bah! Gods! … Once upon a time a traveller, passing through the Land of the Cat-worshippers, stopped to watch the people flaying alive a miserable wretch in the market-place. He asked a bystander: “What has this man done?” “Why, he is guilty of the most unpardonable blasphemy, sir!” the bystander replied. The traveller asked:“What? Does he worship dogs, then?” “Nothing so trivial,” the bystander told him, “we worship Egyptian cats – this misbegotten son of a filthy mother worships Persian cats.” Gods! Bah!’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Afranius, ‘I have had conversation with one or two perfectly reasonable people who took kindly to the Nazarene school of thought.’
‘Oh, as for that,’ said Melanion, ‘granting certain premises, anything you fancy is reasonable … granting certain premises. One of the most reasonable men I ever met died of apoplexy because he had himself wrapped in three layers of lambs’ wool to travel across Arabia in the summer. He was convinced that he was made of blown glass, and might get broken if dropped. And he never ate very hot food on a cold day, for fear he might crack. What could be more reasonable – granting certain premises? Only he was not made of glass, and his pure reason was pure madness.’
‘Enough, Melanion, enough!’ I said. ‘This is as bad as the blind beggar-woman of the Black River.’
‘Who is she?’ asked Tibullus.
I said: ‘Oh, another seer, or prophet, or whatever you like to call her; only she has caused no riots. I saw her once in Damascus. Her eyes are white and her hair hangs to the ground. She has an interminable song, which her disciples say has been sung since the beginning of the world. It has to be sung without pausing, so when she stops to eat or drink, one of her disciples takes up the refrain, and the moment she dies someone else will continue, all in the same unearthly monotone:
‘“… The womb is a lonely room where you wait sleeping until you must pass through a dark passage into a light that is blindness because it is too strong to see by; dazzled you must wander weeping yourself to sleep until you must pass through a dark passage into a lonely room where you must wait sleeping until you must pass …”
*
– and so on, and so on, to drive you mad. It is believed that when the song works itself out to its logical conclusion, the world will end in a glorious light and everything will be purified.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ said Melanion. ‘And soon I must go and look at my Soxias, and then sleep an hour or two.’
Afranius said: ‘I fancy, today, Soxias will be rather angry with himself for letting young Paulus win his Eurynome. Eh, Diomed?’
I said: ‘It is a very beautiful piece of work.’
‘Soxias is not much of a one for vain regrets,’ said Melanion. ‘He’d better not be. The only one who will tear his hair when the story gets out – it’ll be all over Tarsus by tonight – will be Paulus’s father. The worth of Barbatus’s collection gone just like that!’
I had thought of this earlier; in considering the actions of a man like Soxias, every motive must be taken into account, but I feigned surprise. ‘It was Paulus’s cup, to dispose of as he pleased,’ I said, thinking: ‘Who are we to suppose that Paulus loves his father as
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