Pyrenees, about 40 AD

 

Before there was any earth or sea, before the canopy of Heaven stretched overhead, Nature presented the same aspect the world over, to which men have given the name of Chaos.

(Ovid, Metamorphoses)

 

Exile is never the same thing for everyone. For certain people, it is almost death. Death to ambition, to love, to lost illusions, to hope. It is indeed a terrible punishment,  for that proud and ambitious being that is political man. Equally, it is so for a man of letters who, just like the politician, needs the Forum crowds, needs the breath of public air to live fully. For those people, the loss of Rome is worse, in a sense, than death, for it is a forgetting deeper than the tomb. The atmosphere of barbarian countries, the savage flavours of their landscapes, of their customs, the indifference of their wild people to the exceptional being exiled amongst them, all this, for those sad exiles, is a refined form of torture.

But for others, exile is a chance, a discovery, an opening of the spirit. For young people running without direction, drifting to shipwreck, exile, far from being a punishment, can be a blessing. Then there are those souls, weary and sensitive, for whom exile from Rome is voluntary, an attempt to recapture an idealistic defiance. Still others are exiled neither as punishment nor as voluntary quest, but because it's their job: the army. From Iberia, from Dalmatia, Gaul, Germany, Syria; from Britain, from Egypt, from Sycthia, from everwhere in the world where the imperial eagle stretched his great iron wings, the legionaries came to inhabit foreign lands, became used to constant exile, and used, too, to guarding exiles of all kinds.

In the garrison town of Lugdunum Converanum, one met all kinds of exiles. Whether voluntary or forced, happy or unhappy, the sunny town in the foothills of the great green mountains, a town that carried the brilliant name of the sun-god Lugh, sheltered many such tragic or comic stories. And each exile, in this town of exiles, had to accomodate himself or herself with what they had left, washed up on what sometimes seemed like the last shore of the known world. When one is young, of course, and preferring to live in the present, the rustic mountain life carries a few small pleasures, even were it the smell of herbs or the sight of an immense sky bisected sharply by the knife of the mountains. One can thrill at the mountains' immensity, at the unimaginable violence that made those peaks thrust upward, reaching back from an age of chaos to create the landscape of men. It is easy to do so, because one can have the illusion of freedom then, of escape, of pure, wild experience, of new life beginning. But when one is old, full of regrets, of memories, it is only conversation, Word, not Deed, which can save you from such profound boredom, from such a humiliation as dark as the bottomless lakes of the mountain valleys.

So it was that the young Roman and the old Galilean had come to frequent each other, at Lugdunum Converanum. It was not friendship or affection in the beginning, only mutual convenience. One was looking for a pastime; the other needed to talk. It was as simple as that. Over time, though this simplicity had become both deeper and more simple, more stark, in a way the companions found both troubling and reassuring.

The youngest son of a noble Roman family, naive conspirator trapped by the charm of a devious traitor, the young Roman, whom everyone in Lugdunum Converanum nicknamed Phoebus, because of his blond hair, was one of those rare beings for whom exile had become beneficial. His brother was one of the Emperor's favourites; and it was that which saved him, that and the fact that Caligula was in good humour that day. But he was exiled permanently from Rome, never to return under pain of death. His family had arranged for him to be sent to this benighted country because through his mother, who was of Aquitanian stock, they had a small estate which would have to do now for Phoebus. They had made it perfectly clear to him that he was never to trouble them again; the dishonour and danger had been potentially too great for them to forgive him. And so he was now quite alone.

Far from dejecting or twisting him, however, this decree had somehow just added to the attractiveness of his person and his character, adding little touches of melancholy to his bland sweetness, sharpening the expression in his blue eyes without fuelling rage. From the overgrown child he had been before his exile, Phoebus had grown into a calm, hardworking young man, rather serious, without ambition or anger but also without real hope. He lived for the day only, except where it came to the crops on his estate, and never thought of Rome, or his family.

It was perhaps that strange mixture of melancholy, gentleness and inarticulated loss that had attracted the other exile, his friend from Galilee. He was a long way from being young, a man already into old age, with a subtle, impassive face, a proud glance, and the manners of an intelligent despot. Which is what he had been. Nicknamed Vulpes--the Fox--behind his back by the local notables, this man had once been one of the great politicians of the tumultuous and difficult province that was the land of the Jews. Herod Antipas, tetrach of Galilee, had been exiled to Lugdunum Converanum only a year previously, with his wife Herodias and her daughter Salome. The three of them quarrelled frequently over the cause of his exile, for it was Herodias' brother Agrippa who had been the agent of their misfortune. He had whispered into the suspicious ear of Caligula a story of a plot supposedly planned by Herod. For the forty years of his cunning political life, the tetrach had, until then, been able to balance out the demands of the romans with those of his people. He had always intrigued, without ever dipping a toe too deeply into treacherous waters. But this time, it was well and truly over. Caligula was deaf to all entreaties and pleadings and veiled threats; he sent his forces to send Herod and his family packing to the remotest part of Gaul, a long way indeed from anything that ever meant anything to him.

Poor Herod! For him, exile was, if not death, at least mortal boredom. The savage green landscapes around him left him indifferent, even hostile; the lamentations of Herodias and Salome seriously irritated him; local politics was without any flavour; and cultured pleasures were few and far between in Lugdunum Converanum. The local notables, with that Roman suspicion of all sons of Abraham in general, and that one in particular, left him alone. In any case, what would those bloated officials and rough military men have had to say to the old tetrarch? Surrounded by barbarians and second-rate or ignorant Romans, Herod, through boredom or even nostalgia, had begun writing a history of his God-intoxicated people, and through it, even to start rediscovering that same jealous, omnipotent God. But the arrival of Phoebus lent a particular savour to this new quest, and hope was beginning to rekindle in him.

 It was not that the young man was more intelligent or cultured than the others, but he had two advantages over them: his slight air of melancholy, and his attentive silence. He listened to Herod reading out passages from his book--stories of prophets, of martyrs, of angels and evil spirits, of pacts with God, of great kings and wicked rulers, of immoderate love and bloody tragedy, and, especially, of Exiles who were finally avenged, all the history of the People of God, in sum--listened with a glowing face, amazed eyes, open mouth. For Herod, the reaction of the young man brought a regain of his own strength, of his spirit, of his hope. But for Phoebus, who had been brought up in a cold and conventional world, who had never heard such tales, in such language, a new universe was opening: a universe at once mysterious and knownable, a universe where a being could freely converse with One God, a being for whom religious faith was the wellspring of Being itself. He was, quite simply, overawed and moved, and Herod, who, truth to tell, had been above all a cynic all his life, was strangely stirred by it, and his stories became richer and more convincing and more beautiful through it.

These readings were held on long afternoons in Herod's villa. Herodias and Salome, not invited to what to them in any case were long and tedious recitals, observed the two new friends with a certain malicious enjoyment. 'Here he comes, ' they would tell each other, 'our lord and master's latest disciple--the gentle Gentile!'

Sometimes, though Herod and Phoebus would go for long walks or rides in the countryside, with the manuscript in a pannier. At first, if they went to Phoebus' estate, the young man would point out the crops he was growing, the plans he had for future ones, but he had soon learnt that Herod had no interest at all in such things, and so he had fallen silent. The old tetrach had asked him nothing about his past life; Phoebus had not thought to talk about it at all, for he knew that he had done so little with his life, whereas Herod had done so much, enough for ten men. So he listened, and sometimes asked respectful questions, and Herod was glad to enlighten him. Sometimes, though, even the pleasure of Phoebus' company was not quite enough, and he wondered bitterly if he were not wasting his time. He knew what Herodias and Salome thought of the young man, and wondered if they were right--was Phoebus his disciple? Such a man, from such a noble family--for of course Herod knew precisely just who Phoebus' family had been--could have been very useful indeed, in Rome. But here, what was the use? What was the good of having such an obscure disciple, so far from Rome? What was the good of opening the sprit of a pagan to the knowledge of the One God, when His People were still under the pagan yoke? Wasn't it a kind of betrayal? He did not know; and usually, he could cast such doubts aside, for the truth was that whatever it meant, he needed that particular pagan's company. And then, one day, it all ended..

 

It was a beautiful day at the tail-end of spring, and the two companions had ranged further away than usual. Phoebus had suggested a picnic by a lake some distance away, and Herod had insisted on taking slaves and supplies to make it not a barbarian occasion, but one fitted to a man such as he was. Phoebus had smiled and shrugged but not disagreed. And so they had gone in a litter and with mounted slaves, swaying up paths towards the lake. Towards midday, they reached the place--a strange and rather beautiful landscape, with rocks and caves on the heights, but below green meadows filled with bee-loud flowers, bordering the lake whose waters this day looked not black, but a deep, deep blue. Everything seemed stilled in this place, time halted, a sheen of golden light over all, and even the movements of the slaves, working hard to set up the meal, seemed to have a grace and a languor that was not quite natural. Phoebus and Herod talked softly, and laughed, and by and by ate a meal notable not only for its copiousness as its refinement. Lassitude and friendship hung over them, and Herod felt almost reconciled even to this barbarian place, whilst Phoebus felt a strange excitement gripping him as he sat back in the shadow of the trees, listening to Herod, the rocks and caverns at his back, the bottomless waters of the lake before him. His mouth was dry. His throat ached. He did not know what was wrong, but being a simple man, he thought of simple cause and effect. Yes. He was thirsty. He needed a drink..He was parched. And there was no more water in the leather bottles they had carried. But up there, on the rocks, near the cave, there was a spring. A spring of fresh clean water, a water he could almost taste on his tongue. He began to speak, to tell Herod where he was going, then looked over at his friend, and saw that the old man had gently fallen asleep, fallen asleep in mid-sentence, fallen asleep with his head pillowed against his hand.

 

Time halts. Phoebus picks up a leather bottle, gets to his feet, looks at the slaves, who are themselves resting. He looks at the lake, shining in the sun, and then slowly turns up the rocky slopes. It seems to him he can hear the voice of the spring, from here. It speaks gently, in a musical woman's voice, young clear, sparkling. I am thirsty, he thinks. I have been thirsty all my life. It calls to him, and he goes towards it. 'Come to me, come to me..'

'I am coming,' he whispers. 'Wait for me..'  And as time hangs still, he begins to climb the rocky heights towards the mouth of the cave. He stands beside the spring, and drinks, hands cupped under it. Time stands unmoving. And then he stands, looks around, and disappears into the darkness of the cave.

 

Time begins again. Herod wakes suddenly. His eyes are gritty; there is a sour taste in his mouth, his heart is beating unpleasantly fast, and there is a roaring in his ears. He looks around him. Everyone is asleep. But Phoebus--where is Phoebus? He sits bolt upright, trying to push away the sticky sensation of sleep, of unsummoned, sudden sleep. Around him, the golden light has thinned, the lake no longer seems so blue, but greying, the bees have deserted the flowers. The beginnings of fear, unrecognised yet, knock against Herod's ribs. He thinks, crossly, he's just gone for a walk--the rocks--he's young--strong--physical. But when he turns to look at the rocky hillside, and the cave, that jolt comes again, the unease that something's happened to his friend, his dear friend, golden haired Phoebus with his guileless air..

He sees a movement up there, on the slope, near the mouth of the cave. He squints, calls out, 'Phoebus?' No answer. The figure is very still, hunched in a strange kind of way. Now real fear invades him. The young man, losing his footing on the treacherous rocks, falling..lying crumpled...He begins to hurry, to climb towards the cave, but as he comes closer, sees that it is not Phoebus, but someone else. At first, he sees the person only from the back, a long black braid against a plain brown and white woolen dress, a bent head, shining a little, bent over..She does not hear him until he is almost on her, and then she turns, quickly, and he gets an impression of a small, pointed face, great dark eyes, brilliant as the deepest mountain lake. He sees in the same instant what she has been doing--she was on her knees in front of a little stone altar, a rustic shrine, a slab of stone covered with flowers and little pieces of wool, of bone, of small coins, and a little cup of shining water, taken no doubt from the spring that falls gently through the rock nearby..She has been praying, making offerings of some sort, to some god.

Seized by an emotion he can find no name for, Herod turns abruptly away from the sight, he who had always found exotic cults fascinating, and says roughly to the girl, 'Who are you? What are you doing?'

She looks back expressionlessly for a moment, looks back at the commanding stranger with his cruel, impatient face. Gently, she says, 'My name is Lexia, my lord. I am the daughter of Odan, who has land near here. And as to what I am doing--I am praying, sir, to the great god Artahe, in the hope he might see fit to accomplish the greatest desire of my heart.' She sees the darkness gathering on his face, and takes it for the shadow of more questions, questions she is used to, for the Romans are curious about other people's customs, 'He is our god, sir, the god of the mountains, great and terrible and kind, and he can take many forms, but especially that of the bear..'

In his instinctive revulsion towards this humble paganism, in his concern for Phoebus, too, Herod has forgotten all the foxy lessons of his long reign. Even when one is a prince, it is best not to mock the beliefs or superstitions of one's subjects; if they are inoffensive, it is best to tolerate them, to absorb them, and if they are harmful, why, they are confronted head on, destroyed, like that fool of a John the Baptist with his tiresome harangues on the immorality of the tetrarch of Galilee. But when one is exiled from one's country, abandoned in the middle of strange landscapes and people, it is far better to be quiet on all such things, for one never knows with whom one is dealing, and even a shabby girl may be the child of some local warlord whom the Romans have to appease.

But none of these things mean anything to him now. Back to the cave, he motions violently towards the altar, snapping, 'That god you adore, he does not exist. He never has. None of them have, except for..'

Her eyes widen. 'Ohhh,' she says, on a long, drawn-out whisper, and he thinks at first she is protesting against his words, the violence of his movements towards her repulsive little shrine. But in the next instant, the hair rises glacially on the back of his neck, his spine is seized with iron, his eyes open on emptiness, a nameless terror. An ordinary man would have fled, without turning around, or crumpled in fear. But Herod has never been without courage, and so he turns, facing the cave, the black empty mouth of it where..

Empty. Not empty at all, but filled, filled with immensity, with something arising from the very depths of the earth, from the blackness of eternal night, from the fires of Chaos: a bear, enormous, of a supernatural height and width, standing on its hind legs like a man. It is black, completely black, its mouth is open, revealing a darkness as limitless as that of the cave, its claws are long, shining, and its eyes..oh, its eyes are small narrow, intelligent, and fixed on Herod, who feels the force of that look like a physical shock. An instant, their glances hold; and the old tetrach suddenly feels himself invaded, weakened, at the point of defeat. He sways; he begins to bend the knee, to bow the head, as the the girl now doubt is doing, her face glowing, terrified, beyond words or even thoughts.

A fall of pebbles behind him; the girl's voice, joyful, released, 'It is you..really..you came!'

A voice, so terribly familiar, laughing, 'Yes..it is I..and you who..' Then a silence, sudden, shamed, almost, and Herod, jerked out of terror, out of fearful adoration, whispers, 'Phoebus? Where were..' But his eyes cannot help flicking back to the cave mouth, where..

Where there is nothing. The cave mouth is empty. Empty. Nothing there at all.

The cold prickles all over Herod's scalp, but his cheeks are burning hot. He says, 'The bear..he..you fool, how could you go..'

But Phoebus is not listening. Phoebus is looking at the girl. If Herod is all red, but so cold inside, Phoebus is pale as death, but burning inwardly. The gentle melancholy that filled him before has transformed, metamorphosed into an intensity of feeling as joyful as it is terrifying; for life has opened to him, and he will never turn back from it now. He whispers to the girl, 'I followed your voice..'

She whispers back, 'It was Artahe brought you to me, I knew he would,' and they hold hands, perfectly oblivious to Herod who stares at them with the cold invading his soul, who watches them moving away from him, hand in hand. He does not know what happened, he does not want to know, he cannot move, he cannot tear his gaze away from them moving away down the rocky slope, away from his life, and into theirs. And behind him, the cave mouth, yawning with emptiness, with an absence..an absence..

Ah, he cannot bear it anymore! Jerkily, he begins to climb slowly down the slope towards his camp, and the hot rage sizzles and rigidifies in the iciness of his heart. Phoebus had always been a pagan, would always stay a pagan, for Romans, for Gentiles never truly understood. And he would always be alone, for this country of his exile would be his tomb, and his memory forgotten.

 

When he reached home, he went straight to his room, where he took out the manuscript he had laboured over. He did not read it, nor even glance at it, but put it straight into the fire the slaves had so painstakingly built up against the cool of the evening. He stood unmoving, watching the parchment crackle, seeing the last of his life's work devoured by flames, and felt nothing. Nothing except this, a wound that would bleed all the rest of his life. Not the loss of Phoebus, no, for he was unworthy, unworthy of everything. But something far more terrible, and incurable: the knowledge that if he, Herod, had really, in his heart, in his soul, held to the pact of his people with God, if everything for him had been more than a marvellous story, an extraordinary adventure to impress a pagan, than he would never have seen him. Never seen It. Never seen Artahe, savage god, the Bear, surging out of the deep wellspring of chaos, to stand mute and terrible at the mouth of the cave, blocking out the Light for ever.