Free Great Lion of God by Taylor Caldwell Page A

world green and blessed with flowers? Do not the birds sing and the animals of the field dance with glee in the spring? Do not men and women love, and is not their love the loveliest thing in creation? Does not sound of music linger entrancingly on the ear, whether it is made by man or the multitude of the voices of nature? Is not all a delight?”
    “The world is but a snare for our enticing,” said Saul, but he looked about the garden and a secret shadow of wild excitement ran over his face. “We are not concerned with the world, of which evil is the master, but with God.”
    “I still say you insult Him. Moreover, I have seen your father, at sunset, on the conclusion of his prayers, looking about him with a pleasure that is sublime in its innocence and happiness. He does not bend all his thoughts on the evil of the world. He sees deliciousness in it also. He sees brightness and glory. The world is charged with the grandeur of God.”
    As Hillel had often intimated such things to Saul in the past, the youth became vexed. “My father is not a man of deep spiritual dedication,” he said, “and I say this without disrespect for I know he would admit it, himself.”
    “I think, my Saul, that he is more spiritual than you, though, frankly, I am not enchanted by the word.” He put his head on one side like an impudent large bird and said, “I have observed that the Jews and the Romans seem disturbingly similar, both concerned humorlessly with the absolute law, though, of course, the Romans for the last two or three centuries have not been too meticulous about it. We Greeks call them a nation of grocers. But I think they are a nation of lawyers, and so they have esteem for the Jews who, alas, are mentally of such a breed also.”
    “I have not told you as yet,” said Saul. “I am to go to the University of Tarsus, and among other things I will study the Roman law. I would be an advocate for my people.”
    “You will make an excellent lawyer. You believe you are invariably right.”
    It was autumn in the garden and very hot, and in the afternoon. The restless palms themselves were still, and the cypresses and the sycamores and the karob trees had taken on themselves a more shining darkness as the year waned, and the sky was a hard and brilliant turquoise against which the distant mountains, scarlet threaded with green, leaned and tumbled in their grotesque shapes. The valley had deepened to the ripeness of the days, the grass a heavier green, the fields bronze with harvest, and Tarsus, the city, spreading on the banks of the waters—now a flashing purple—revealed with clarity the whiteness of its walls, or their rose or blue or yellow, and their red roofs. Birds were already circling like feathered wheels in the sky, preparing for long flight. And the figs were ripe on the trees in Hillel’s gardens and there was a scent of grapes in the humid air and golden dust and water. The year was dying, thought Aristo, but in death, apparently, there was a last affirmation of life. He looked at the gayly striped awnings scattered over the garden, at the cool grottoes, at the shining whiteness of the graceful statues, at the shimmering pond on which circled the black and white swans, preening, and the ludicrous Chinese ducks who took themselves so seriously and were therefore belligerent. The little bridge over the pond was reflected sharply in the motionless water below, and a young girl stood there on the arch looking down. She was clad in a very short tunic as green as the pond and her golden hair blazed in the sun.
    The fountains were scintillating in the too vivid light, and appeared to throw up long streamers like reaching arms or hands, or the tossings of shaking locks. Aristo and Saul sat beneath one of the awnings and they were sweating freely. A plate of fresh fruit stood on a rude rustic table, and Aristo picked up a plum and thoughtfully devoured it. His rough black hair was rougher with patches of gray, now, but