Chapter 8

Lysias was flattered and bewildered to have so gracious a note from that haughty old Sadducee, David Ben-Zadok.

A bright young Jewess, well versed in the classics, orphaned and in need of employment (wrote David), might be available to make repairs on the dilapidated Corinthian library recently acquired by His Highness the Tetrarch. The letter was written in Greek, which still further pleased the steward with implications that he was a person of some culture.

But just why this crusty old lawyer, who had made no bones about his contempt for the Tetrarch, should show any concern about the reconditioning of these valuable but unsightly scrolls was not clear. One thing was sure: the old man hadn’t bothered to offer the suggestion from any love of Antipas. Maybe he wanted an excuse to have a peek at that library himself: he was known to be something of an antiquarian. Lysias gently fingered the old scar on his ear, an involuntary aid to deep meditation, and reflected that there must be more in this situation than met the eye.

But—no matter what might be the crafty Sadducee’s motive in proposing a remedy for these dreadful scrolls, it would be a great relief to the steward if, upon his master’s return from Rome in the spring, he might be shown this costly collection in better dress; for it had been Lysias himself who had recommended and negotiated the purchase, and the Tetrarch had been noisily dissatisfied.

Much embarrassed by the shabbiness of the old books, Lysias had tried to impress His Highness with the importance of their great antiquity. Digging deep into the most ill-conditioned of the wicker hampers, he had brought up a mildewed scroll and held it toward Antipas, who wrinkled his nose and put his hands behind him.

‘This scroll, sire,’ Lysias had announced in a tone of reverence, ‘was written by Aristotle. It is titled, The Directions and Names of the Winds. I do not mean, sire,’ continued Lysias, ‘that this is a scrivener’s reproduction of the book. This is the original—done by the hand of the master himself!’

‘Well—whoever did it,’ grumbled Antipas, ‘it stinks. And I don’t want it put anywhere where I have to look at it.’ Then, noting the steward’s chagrin, the Tetrarch had added, ‘I dare say some people would be proud to have a mummified cat of Aristotle’s—with a gold collar set with emeralds—perched on the mantel.’ Turning away, he had sauntered toward the balcony window, where, pausing, he had laughed aloud.

‘And after they’d had Aristotle’s cat on their mantel for a score of years,’ he called back to Lysias, ‘some learned expert, with great knowledge of dead cats, would come along and say, “Hell!—that cat never belonged to Aristotle! Much more recent! Besides—Aristotle hated cats! But he never so much as kicked this cat: it isn’t half a century old!”‘

‘What is my lord’s pleasure, then, in regard to the scrolls?’ Lysias had inquired, meekly.

‘Box them up again. Keep them in a dry place where they will suffer no further decay. Some day, perhaps, we will have them repaired.’

Lysias was going to feel more comfortable when the Corinthian scrolls were restored. Quite apart from his responsibility for their extravagant purchase, he had a sentimental interest in them, for he too was a Corinthian; and the same Roman raid that had despoiled his home and enslaved him at twenty had likewise brought disaster to their neighbours of the House of Timotheus, a wealthy shipowner and generous patron of the arts.