Chapter 10

Voldi had never met anyone with so wide a range of interests as his companionable new friend from Rome. Proconsul Nicator Mencius knew something about everything, classic and contemporary.

The Arabians were not very much concerned about history, not even about their own. Here and there in the high mountains massive sepulchres of their national heroes bore extravagant, weather-beaten epitaphs, but almost nobody tried to decipher them; for, in the opinion of Ishmael’s tough posterity, it was as effeminate to be able to read as not to be able to ride. Literacy was left to the professional scriveners whose unenvied occupation was practised mostly by men with crippled feet or weak chests.

There was no written history at all. Vagabond minstrels—rating no better than jugglers—toured the country, attending the auctions, fairs, and festal events, where they chanted the ancient legends and mumbled interminable epic poems extolling the prowess of Arabia’s distinguished kings and champions, but there was nothing resembling a comprehensive, sensible, sequential story of the Arabian people; and as for the average Arab’s knowledge of the world outside, it was practically non-existent.

The Arab knew that he should hate and despise the Jews. That prejudice he had had in his milk. He never paused to examine it. It was as natural and necessary as breathing and heart-beats. He likewise loathed the Romans, though his attitude toward them was of distrust and suspicion rather than the forthright contempt he felt for the Children of Israel. As for other foreign nations—Egypt, Greece, Persia, Macedonia, Pamphylia, Cyprus, Crete—they were but outlandish names that were rarely on his tongue or in his thoughts. He knew nothing about them—and cared less.

As the grandson of a Councillor, Voldi had been taught to read and write the language of his own people; but it was not much of an accomplishment, for there was almost no Arabian literature, nor did many occasions arise when it was of advantage to know how to write.

At Fara’s gentle insistence—and because it gave him a reasonable excuse for spending longer evenings in her company—he had studied Greek under the competent supervision of Ione; and, spurred by their encouragement, he had done very well with the language. As for the contents of those venerable scrolls which they employed as text-books, he had very little interest in them. He was too polite to say so, but privately he considered Aeschylus a morbid old owl, Pindar a windy dreamer, Herodotus a tiresome bore, and Homer a shameless liar.

Mencius was now introducing Voldi to a new world. He did not parade his knowledge. Indeed, he seemed honestly apologetic because he knew so little. But in the opinion of his young friend from Arabia, the Roman’s wealth of information concerning past and present world affairs was related to Voldi’s meagre store as everything was related to nothing.

This morning, as they rode slowly toward Gaza, now only two miles distant, lagging far enough behind the shuffle-footed caravan to avoid the worst of its dust, Mencius found plenty of entertainment for himself and enlightenment for Voldi by calling attention to certain historic landmarks along the old highway.