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Authors: Taylor Caldwell
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good and evil? Not to know is not to be man. Or the gods,” he added, even more softly.
He moved away, and there was no sound about him.
It was as he had said. When Diodorus, in the morning, cautiously asked Theodoras about the night’s festivities the slave replied joyously, “Thanks to you, Master, it was a glorious night! Never have your servants been happier!” He bent his creaking knees and kissed the hands of Diodorus. The sun was bright on his withered face. “We shall remember it forever,” he said.
Then Diodorus had summoned Keptah, who came to him on feet which seemed to glide. “You spoke to me of good and evil last night, and knowledge,” he said. “Your language was very obscure.” Diodorus paused. He gazed at Keptah, not as a master looks at a slave, but as a man looks at a man. “You have studied the words of Aristotle during your years at Alexandria. You remember that the sage spoke of absolutes. Do you not believe in absolutes?”
Keptah was not perplexed; he knew that Diodorus had given their last conversation long thought. He knew all that was to be known about the tribune.
“No, Master, I do not.”
“And why not?”
“Because, Master, there are no absolutes, except in God.”
“But Aristotle was a great philosopher! Are you presuming to contradict him?” Diodorus turned in his chair with affront.
Keptah smiled his subtle smile. “Did wisdom end with Aristotle?” he asked.
Diodorus scowled, but he was shaken. “Then the last word has not yet been spoken?”
“Master, not yet.”
Diodorus scowled even more fiercely. “No absolutes! No last word!” He was dismayed. It was bad enough that politics were always so unstable, that life was capricious. But philosophy, surely, and philosophy such as Aristotle’s, was an eternal and unchanging thing. What was a man to hold to in an unpredictable world, if not philosophy, if not the memory of his fathers, the temples of his gods, and wisdom? He glanced up at Keptah, and saw the strange deviousness of his eyes, the obscure outline of his bloodless lips.
“Tell me,” said the tribune, “what was it you did to the slaves last night?”
“It was only a form of hypnotism, Master,” said the physician. “A delusion, if you will.”
“Whose delusion?” Diodorus was irate.
Keptah shrugged delicately. “Who knows, Master?”
Diodorus had dismissed him irritably. The thoughts raised in his mind by Keptah were too disturbing, so he suppressed them as soon as possible. He had not remembered them again until now.
And now he regarded Keptah; he was more firmly convinced than ever that the slave considered him, the mighty tribune, a very simple man. It was simplicity, then, to believe in virtue, in patriotism, in morality, in honor, in duty, and Diodorus suspected that to Keptah, the mysterious, such simplicity was absurd. But surely a man who believed in no absolutes was a corrupt man! Was it well for such a man to attend the little Rubria? But who, in Antioch, or even in Rome, had so gifted a physician as Keptah?
It was then, for a reason unknown to him, that Diodorus suddenly remembered Lucanus.
He put his hand to his pouch surreptitiously, and felt the stone and the little bag of herbs. He saw that Keptah was watching him, while not appearing to watch. He said, like a sheepish schoolboy, “I have here an amulet.”
Keptah raised his winged black brows, and said, courteously, “An amulet? Ah, amulets often possess supernatural qualities.”
Diodorus frowned. Was the man mocking him again? But Keptah was most serious, and he was waiting politely. He almost thrust the strange stone into the physician’s hand.
Keptah studied it. And then the most unreadable expression passed over his face. He turned his back to the lamps so that he stood in shadow, and Diodorus peered over his shoulder. In Keptah’s hands, in the dimness, the stone
He moved away, and there was no sound about him.
It was as he had said. When Diodorus, in the morning, cautiously asked Theodoras about the night’s festivities the slave replied joyously, “Thanks to you, Master, it was a glorious night! Never have your servants been happier!” He bent his creaking knees and kissed the hands of Diodorus. The sun was bright on his withered face. “We shall remember it forever,” he said.
Then Diodorus had summoned Keptah, who came to him on feet which seemed to glide. “You spoke to me of good and evil last night, and knowledge,” he said. “Your language was very obscure.” Diodorus paused. He gazed at Keptah, not as a master looks at a slave, but as a man looks at a man. “You have studied the words of Aristotle during your years at Alexandria. You remember that the sage spoke of absolutes. Do you not believe in absolutes?”
Keptah was not perplexed; he knew that Diodorus had given their last conversation long thought. He knew all that was to be known about the tribune.
“No, Master, I do not.”
“And why not?”
“Because, Master, there are no absolutes, except in God.”
“But Aristotle was a great philosopher! Are you presuming to contradict him?” Diodorus turned in his chair with affront.
Keptah smiled his subtle smile. “Did wisdom end with Aristotle?” he asked.
Diodorus scowled, but he was shaken. “Then the last word has not yet been spoken?”
“Master, not yet.”
Diodorus scowled even more fiercely. “No absolutes! No last word!” He was dismayed. It was bad enough that politics were always so unstable, that life was capricious. But philosophy, surely, and philosophy such as Aristotle’s, was an eternal and unchanging thing. What was a man to hold to in an unpredictable world, if not philosophy, if not the memory of his fathers, the temples of his gods, and wisdom? He glanced up at Keptah, and saw the strange deviousness of his eyes, the obscure outline of his bloodless lips.
“Tell me,” said the tribune, “what was it you did to the slaves last night?”
“It was only a form of hypnotism, Master,” said the physician. “A delusion, if you will.”
“Whose delusion?” Diodorus was irate.
Keptah shrugged delicately. “Who knows, Master?”
Diodorus had dismissed him irritably. The thoughts raised in his mind by Keptah were too disturbing, so he suppressed them as soon as possible. He had not remembered them again until now.
And now he regarded Keptah; he was more firmly convinced than ever that the slave considered him, the mighty tribune, a very simple man. It was simplicity, then, to believe in virtue, in patriotism, in morality, in honor, in duty, and Diodorus suspected that to Keptah, the mysterious, such simplicity was absurd. But surely a man who believed in no absolutes was a corrupt man! Was it well for such a man to attend the little Rubria? But who, in Antioch, or even in Rome, had so gifted a physician as Keptah?
It was then, for a reason unknown to him, that Diodorus suddenly remembered Lucanus.
He put his hand to his pouch surreptitiously, and felt the stone and the little bag of herbs. He saw that Keptah was watching him, while not appearing to watch. He said, like a sheepish schoolboy, “I have here an amulet.”
Keptah raised his winged black brows, and said, courteously, “An amulet? Ah, amulets often possess supernatural qualities.”
Diodorus frowned. Was the man mocking him again? But Keptah was most serious, and he was waiting politely. He almost thrust the strange stone into the physician’s hand.
Keptah studied it. And then the most unreadable expression passed over his face. He turned his back to the lamps so that he stood in shadow, and Diodorus peered over his shoulder. In Keptah’s hands, in the dimness, the stone
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