Six

'Peace," said John, and she left. John grabbed a bar of soap, which he had never before used (though his mother had something of the sort that she used for washing clothes; it had to do with lye and fat, for John remembered her making it once, and asked what it was for. "But do not wash yourself with it," she had said, "for it is far too strong. I have something which is quite mild that I use for myself occasionally, but men do not really need it, provided they take care in the stream." John hoped that the soap he had in his hand was the mild variety.

He waded down the steps that went into the pool, and dipped the soap into the rather warmish water and rubbed it over himself, marveling at the suds it made. He scrubbed himself thoroughly, hoping to rid himself of the odor he could not smell because of familiarity, and even soaped his hair and his nascent beard thoroughly. There was some kind of scent added to the soap, and he had hopes that that would cover any residual fishiness that had probably worked itself into his pores over the years.

There was also a towel on the shelf, he discovered as he emerged from the pool, and, shivering, he dried himself off and rubbed it over his hair, and then went to the corner where there was a glass in which he saw his own face clearly for the first time. (He had, of course, seen his reflection in water, and he knew that his mother had a glass she used and cherished, but he himself had never actually looked into a real mirror before.) He was happy to see that the water did not lie; he was quite good-looking, even with his hair a mess.

He took his comb, and put what order he could into his curls (his hair was always rather unruly). Not for the first time, he wished that he had straight hair like most of the men around him; but he knew that in some eyes, it was a sign of beauty. He got most of the tangles out, and thought that he would be able to deal with the rest when his hair was quite dry (it was still a bit damp, despite much toweling); he was reasonably presentable, in any case. "As long as I do not stink any longer," he said to himself.

He wondered how long he would have to wait for his borrowed tunic, when he turned toward the door, and saw it hanging there. Hannah had hung it while he was washing himself. He had not heard her knock; he was probably making too much noise splashing about. She probably wondered why he was taking so long--"Or perhaps she could smell that it would be a major task. I hope I completed it," he said aloud to himself.

The tunic almost fit him, except that it was a bit tight through the chest, and when he had got it on, he wondered what he should do, and finally went to the door and opened it, and sat on a bench inside.

Presently, Hannah appeared, and said, "So you are ready, then. Yes, I see you are."

"Do I still stink?" asked John.

She laughed. "You did not stink before, but it was clear that you were a fisherman. Now no one would know. But I have left some oil in your room that some of the students use on festive occasions--oil of nard--which you should be careful of, since it is quite, shall we say, potent. It would have overcome your fish smell of itself; but it is better to be clean and smell of soap, think you not?"

"I will use it very sparingly, if at all."

"It is well; you do not really need it. Did you notice it on me? And the Master?"

"Ah, is that what it was? I would feel as if I were a king!"

"Kings do indeed use it. But, as I say, be niggardly with it, or you will smell like a fop, not to mention that it is very expensive."

"Oh, dear! I hope I have enough to pay for it."

"Oh, no! It is a gift from Annas, who was concerned that you might think that he was reproaching you for making your honest livelihood--and in my opinion, he was tempting you, perhaps, that there might be advantages in the new profession you are choosing."

"I must remember to thank him. Am I to see him now?"

"I am to take you to him as soon as you are ready. But first, I will show you your room, where you can put those things you are carrying (the pouch with the toiletries; John had his money-pouch fastened round him inside his tunic). "You will find your pack there--which still advertises your occupation somewhat, but will lose its--distinctiveness--as time goes on."

And she opened the door to a small, rather Spartan room, with a bed, a seat, and a table on which there were a couple of small codices. John went over and opened one, which, as he turned the pages, seemed to be the prophesy of Malachi, a book he fortunately had read--or more accurately, puzzled over--in the previous year, because he had discovered that Samuel's father also had that name.

They said nothing as John looked around and out the window onto a kind of courtyard, and then Hannah beckoned, and led him back to Annas.

"Ah, and there you are," he said as John entered. "Do you feel better?"

"I am quite refreshed, thank you. I hope I have removed the--the traces of my past."

He laughed. "You smell now of soap, nothing more."

"I have not had a chance yet to use your oil. I give you many thanks."

"Yes, well I would not use much of it. And also remember, that if you use it constantly, you will become accustomed to it, and will not smell it, and, as has happened with a few, when you enter a room, you could knock over the people in it with the odor. The fish smell is nothing in comparison to it."

"It must be powerful indeed, for Hannah already warned me about it."

"Of course, she would. You would be well advised to listen to her; she is a very wise woman. But let me take you to the students and introduce you. You will be staying but a week, I see from the letter."

"Yes. My father thought it advisable not to stay longer. I can discover what the life is like, and you can learn in that time whether I would be suitable for it; but he thought I should return home afterwards and give serious thought to what could be a complete change of life for me."

"That was prudent indeed; I fully concur. This way. Can you read, by the way? --Oh, of course you can, if you wrote the letter your father dictated."

"Yes, I can read a little. I had read the prophesy of Malachi, that I saw on the table in my room."

"Ah, you had a chance to look at it. Very good. One of our classes is studying it at the moment. You might find it enlightening."

"I am sure I will."

"It is one thing, you know," said Annas as they walked down a corridor, "to read what the prophet says, and it is quite another to understand when it was written, and what the circumstances were. He did not paint a very rosy picture of the behavior of those around him."

"I wondered at that."

"Well, it was just at the return from the exile into Babylon, and neither the priests nor the people had a very clear idea of what was expected of them--understandably enough, after seventy years--and Malachi, or whoever used that name, (John suddenly realized that it meant "my messenger") was warning them that the Master was not disposed to overlook their laxness, whether they thought it was laxness or not."

"Did they reform?"

"Oh, yes, under Ezra and Nehemiah. At least for a while. You know how people are." John was not quite sure he did. "But there is also the question of what the prophet meant, and how what he said applies to us. That sort of thing, you understand."

John supposed that "that sort of thing" was what he was going to spend years discovering.

They opened a door into what was evidently a classroom, with several sets of benches, at which were seated students grouped into different ages, some quite young, and others even older than Andrew, poring over scrolls or codices, with instructors walking through the room answering a question a student had as he raised his hand, or prodding another who seemed to be daydreaming, or reprimanding others who were talking about something other than the text before them. There must have been a dozen of them in all. "As you can see," said Annas, "we are a rather exclusive--not to say 'elite'--group. If we accept you, you will have to work hard. You in particular will have to work very hard to catch up to those your age, who have been studying here, some of them, since they had but seven years. But I do not wish to frighten you unduly; others have done it with success, and your father informs me that he and your tutor think you quite brilliant. They would, of course. We shall see."

Then he raised his voice and said to everyone in the room, "Men," (they were all men, or boys) "I wish to introduce you to a potential student, John, son of Zebedee from Galilee, who will be spending a week with us, studying you and what you do, while, of course, we also shall be studying him to see if he is a suitable candidate. He will then leave us for--" he turned and looked a question, which John answered in a whisper--"a month or so, and will make his decision, while we also make ours. Please welcome him. And Daniel," he said to a boy a little older-looking than John, "he gives you thanks for the loan of his tunic for a day or so, while his is unavailable."

There was a murmur, and one of the youngest--he must have been around eight years old--came up to John, and said, "Will you be beginning with us? You look quite old."

"I know not," John replied. "I already know how to read and write, so perhaps not."

"Oh," said the boy, and returned to his place.

"I think," said Annas, "that if you simply resume your studies, and let John wander through the room, he will be able to see what you are doing, and perhaps can find a place where he feels comfortable. Then he can join that group, and see what it is like to study here." And he nodded at everyone, and left.

John, rather at a loss, went to the back of the room, and watched some of the boys, who seemed to be about his own age, as they discussed what was written in the scroll they were all reading. There was only one scroll, of course, for each group of students, because they were so expensive. Some were of papyrus, but some--the important ones, evidently--were of parchment, and the whole room smelt of leather, dried reeds, and ink; the smell was another magic to John.

As he paused by a boy, he recognized the one Annas had pointed out, who stood up and said, "Does my tunic fit you satisfactorily?"

"Oh yes, you are Daniel, is it not?" said John. The boy nodded. He was a bit taller than John, and noticeably thinner, with a very sharp nose. "I give you thanks for lending it to me. I will return it tomorrow, I suspect; my clothes all had to be washed." He reddened with shame. Well, it would have to come out sooner or later, he supposed.

"I notice that it is a bit small across the chest," said Daniel, running his hand--rather caressingly--across John's breast. "I hope it is not uncomfortable." He smiled. John was not pleased with the smile.

"It is a bit tight, but it is fine," he said, not returning the smile, but in what he managed to make a friendly, but not too friendly, tone.

"What were you? A blacksmith? With that chest and those arms." And he reached over and felt John's biceps, with another smile.

John took his arm away, and said, "No, I was a fisherman, and I rowed the boat most of the time."

"Ah, yes, I see," said Daniel. "It must be hard work."

"One becomes used to it."

"I can see that. Though I doubt if I could." John shared his doubt.

There was a bit of an awkward pause, and Daniel asked, "Can you read?"

"Yes."

"Oh, good. Then you will not have to start with the little ones. Greek?"

"No, only Hebrew."

"A pity. Some of the writings, you know, are only in Greek--though a few of those have been translated into Hebrew. But generally, it is the other way round; everything was translated into Greek two or three hundred years ago, in Alexandria--"

"Alexandria?"

"In Egypt, you know." (John felt like an ignoramus, but Daniel chose to ignore it.) "And so, we have to learn Greek as well as Hebrew, because we can compare the texts we have with that translation, to see if we can discover what the original writer wrote."

"But would not the Hebrew be what he wrote?"

"Well, you see, the problem is that there are often many versions of the text--in Greek as well as Hebrew, of course--because of the way they are published."

"I do not understand."

"You do not know how books are published, then."

"I never even thought about it."

"Well, Several scribes gather together in a room, each with a blank scroll, and one person stands at the front and reads--as clearly as he can--the scroll to be copied. The scribes take down what he says, and when they are done, there are twenty copies of the same book."

"It sounds quite efficient," said John, interested.

"In theory, it is perfect. But the problem is that not every scribe hears what the reader says accurately, which is one reason why there cannot be too many in one room; as the room becomes large, it becomes harder for all to hear perfectly, and so scribes sometimes write down what they think the reader said, rather than what he actually read to them. And of course, when one of the mistaken scrolls is then used as the one which is read from, the mistake becomes multiplied. Attempts are made to correct this, but they are not always successful; and so one must take the different texts and try to puzzle out which one must be what the original author actually wrote--or dictated, of course. And there is also the problem that not even every author could actually write himself, and so he himself would not be in a position to correct his own scribe."

"It all sounds very complicated."

"Daniel," came a quiet voice. "Enough! Let the poor boy observe us, and go back to your studies." This from a middle-aged man whose beard had two white streaks on its sides. Daniel smiled again at John, and said, "Later, we can talk," and sat down, poring over his scroll with a partner, who pointed out to him where they were.

John walked around the room and found the place where Malachi was being discussed. He sat down at the end of the bench and listened as they pulled the text apart and examined every word, giving its history and its many possible meanings, and speculating on which meaning it could have in this context, and how their interpretation of what it meant stacked up against various other texts from other parts of Scripture, and what various commentators (who seemed to be legion) had to say.

As he listened, John wondered how they could put together what Malachi was actually trying to say from such a hodgepodge of words. Each word was labored to bring out what it meant; but when John had read the text, he was interested in what the whole thing told him. He supposed that this was because of his ignorance, and somehow or other, what they were doing made the whole message clearer--but certainly, to his untutored ear, it only made everything confusing.

He suddenly felt tremendously depressed. He wondered if he would ever be able to concentrate on such minute details, which, he assumed, must be important, because they were spending time and sometimes heated disputes about them, and, more than this, he wondered if he cared about doing so.

"But," he thought to himself, "I am totally new to this, and certainly out of my depth. But perhaps I can learn to swim in this water, and after a while, I will grow used to it, and learn to like and even love it." He felt inclined to doubt this, however.

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