The Sacred Land

“It’s not far from the temple, in the north end of town,” the guard answered. “You know about the temple?”

“Some.” Sostratos dipped his head. “We were trying to spot it as we came up to the town. I’d like to, and to have a look around the place when I get the chance.”

“You can do that.” The guard who’d spoken tossed his head. “I take it back-you can do some of that. But only the outer parts are open to people who aren’t Ioudaioi. Whatever you do, don’t try going where you’re not supposed to. For one thing, the barbarians are liable to murder you. For another, if they don’t, we’re liable to. Poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong is bound to start a riot, and the Ioudaioi get excited enough as things are.”

“All right.” Sostratos hid his disappointment; he’d looked forward to poking his nose in wherever he could. “What about the i

“Ask these fellows.” The Hellene pointed to the Ioudaian guards. “You can make the fu

“Good idea.” Sostratos switched to Aramaic: “My masters, can you tell me where to find an i

That almost touched off a riot by itself. Every Ioudaian seemed to have a cousin or a brother-in-law who ran an i

Then one of them said, “My brother-in-law already has an Ionian staying at his i

“What is your brother-in-law’s name? How can I find his i

“He is Ithran son of Akhbor,” the guard replied. “His i

“I thank you,” Sostratos said, and gave him an obolos.

One of the Hellenes said, “You paid him too much. Around here, the governors coin these little tiny silver bits, so small it takes ten or twelve of ‘em to make a drakhma. They don’t even bother counting ‘em most of the time-they just weigh ‘em. One of those would have been about right.”

With a shrug, Sostratos said, “I’m not going to worry about an obolos.” He had some of those tiny silver coins, but hadn’t known whether giving the Ioudaian guard so small a gift would have been reckoned an insult. He waved to the sailors. “Come on,” he told them, and booted his mule into motion. They passed into Jerusalem.

In one way, the place seemed more like a polis than Sidon had. Unlike the Phoenicians, the Ioudaioi didn’t build so high as to seem to scrape the sky. Their homes and shops and other buildings had only one or two stories, like those of the Hellenes. In another way, though, Jerusalem was startlingly different from any Hellenic city. Sostratos didn’t notice that himself; Aristeidas did. After the Rhodians had got about halfway to Ithran’s i

“By the dog!” Sostratos exclaimed in surprise. “You’re right, Aristeidas. I haven’t seen a one-not a Herm, not a carved face anywhere.”

Even the meanest, poorest polis would have had Herms-carved pillars with Hermes ’ face and genitals-in front of houses for luck. It would have had images of the gods, too, and of figures from myth and legend, and, these days, perhaps of prominent citizens as well. Sidon had been similar. The statues had been of a different style and had commemorated different gods and different legends, but they’d been there. In Ioudaia, though…

Slowly, Sostratos said, “I don’t think we’ve seen a single statue since we came into this country. Do any of you boys remember one?”

After some thought, the three sailors tossed their heads. Moskhion said, “I wonder why that is. Pretty strange, you ask me. Of course, everything in this polluted land is pretty strange, you ask me.”

He used such comments to keep his curiosity from getting loose. Sostratos wanted his to run free. When a plump, prosperous-looking Ioudaian came up the street toward him, he spoke in Aramaic: “Excuse me, my master, but may your humble slave ask a question without causing offense?”

“You are a foreigner. Your being here causes offense. I do not wish to speak with you,” the Ioudaian answered, and pushed on past him.

“Well, to the crows with you, friend,” Sostratos muttered. He and the sailors pressed on toward the i

This fellow also looked at him as if he was less than welcome in Jerusalem, but said, “Ask. If I do not like the question, I will not answer it.”

“Well enough, my master,” Sostratos said. When he tried to ask what he wanted to know, he discovered he had no idea how to say statue in Aramaic. He had to describe what he meant instead of simply naming it.

“Oh,” the Ioudaian said after a little while. “You mean a graven image.”

“Thank you,” Sostratos told him. “Why no graven images here in Jerusalem? Why none in Ioudaia?”

“Because our god commands us not to make them-it’s as simple as that,” the Ioudaian answered.

I might have known, Sostratos thought. But that didn’t tell him all he wanted to know. And so he asked another question: “Why does your god command you not to make graven images? Again, my master, I mean no offense.”

“Our god made mankind in his own image,” the Ioudaian said. Sostratos dipped his head, then remembered to nod instead. Hellenes believed the same thing. The Ioudaian went on, “We are forbidden to make graven images of our god, so how can we make them of ourselves, when we are made in his image?”

His logic was as pure as any a Hellenic philosopher might have used. His opening premise, on the other hand, struck Sostratos as absurd. Even so, the Rhodian said, “My thanks.” The Ioudaian nodded and went on his way. Sostratos scratched his head. The fellow had shown him a flaw in logic he hadn’t thought enough about: if the premise from which it began was flawed, everything springing from that premise would be worthless, too.

It’s a good thing we Hellenes don’t use such foolish premises. Otherwise, we might make mistakes when we reason and never even notice ourselves doing it, he thought. He rode on for another half a block, feeling pleased with himself for noticing the holes in the barbarian’s logic. Then, abruptly, he was much less happy. Suppose some of the premises from which we reason are flawed. How would we know? Our logic would be only as good as that loudaian’s.

He spent some little while chewing on that and found no answer that satisfied him. He might have kept right on chewing on it, too, had Teleutas not asked, “Are we getting close to this miserable i

“I’ll ask,” Sostratos said with a sigh.

He didn’t like asking such practical questions of strangers even in Greek. Historical or philosophical queries were a different matter-there his curiosity overcame everything else. But something as mundane as directions? He wished he could get away without them.

Here, though, he obviously couldn’t. Taking a deep breath, he made himself beard another Ioudaian: “I crave pardon, my master, but could you direct your servant to the i

The fellow pointed. The flood of words that followed flowed too swiftly for Sostratos to understand.

“Slow! Slow!” he exclaimed.

More pointing. More quick, guttural Aramaic. Sostratos threw his hands in the air. More than any of his own words, the despairing gesture got through to the Ioudaian. On his third go-round, the man really did slow down, enough so that Sostratos could actually figure out most of what he was saying.