16
THE WAY OF THE TEACHER
ELEPHANTINE, 26 BCE
As the sun rose to send its first rays of light upon the life-giving Nile, Vorenus sat upon one of the rocks along the northeastern shoreline of the island and watched Caesarion strip off the last of his clothing and walk naked to the edge of the great river.
At twenty-one years old, the young man was clearly in the prime of his life. The son of the beautiful Cleopatra and the powerful Julius Caesar, Caesarion had unquestionably handsome features, with a lean-muscled strength that spoke of both the training at arms that he’d continued to refine with Vorenus and the physical labor of a life that for the past four years had been led on the frontier of Egypt. Four years far away from the glorious palaces in which he’d been raised. Four years away from the kingdoms of Egypt and Rome that had been ripped from his grasp, unrightfully stolen from him by Augustus Caesar.
And yet as he took his first steps into the Nile, walking with his face toward the dawn and the outstretched, saffron-robed arms of the abbot waiting in the water, the young man who should have ruled the world was happier than Vorenus could ever remember him.
All because of Hannah, the mysterious Jewish girl who had taken them to the Ark, who had watched over Caesarion as he recovered from his struggle against Juba the Numidian in trying to control it. She was indeed a lovely girl, and there was no doubt they were attracted to each other from the beginning, but it was also clear that something far deeper than surface appearances drew the two of them together. Vorenus had never seen two people fall more madly in love. If he had any reason to believe in such a thing anymore, he would have called it fate.
It was, he thought as he watched his old friend Titus Pullo limping up the path among the rocks, almost exactly the opposite of the surface passion that most men counted for love.
“Did I miss anything?” Pullo asked when he got close.
“Just started. But I’ve never seen it, so for all I know he’s almost done.” Vorenus scooted over a little to make room on the rock for Pullo to sit.
The bigger man eased himself back onto the stone with a tired sigh. “Well, I’m glad I made it.”
As his friend sat down, Vorenus saw that Madhukar, one of the monks, was walking behind him. So small was the brown-skinned man—and so large was Pullo—that even in his gold-orange robes he’d been fully hidden behind the Roman. Vorenus stood at once and, turning to face the man, placed his palms together, brought the tips of his forefingers up to the bridge of his nose, then bowed.
Pullo, just having seated himself, sighed and nodded at Madhukar. “Can we pretend I did that earlier?”
The monk’s smile creased through the laugh lines upon his tanned face as he returned the greeting of Vorenus. “We can indeed, my new Roman friend. And a pleasant welcome to you, Lucius Vorenus. Your safe return yesterday pleased us.” He let go his hands and nodded toward Caesarion, who had stopped in the knee-deep water and seemed to be reciting something. “As you know it greatly pleased Joachim, too.”
Vorenus rose and gestured toward the place on the rocks that he had vacated.
Madhukar’s smile was, as ever, quick and genuine. “No, dear boy,” he said, waving his hands gently before clasping them behind his back. “You have traveled far more than I these past days. Rest, please.”
Despite the four years that he had been living among these strange monks, it still amused Vorenus that even the ones like Madhukar, who was at least two decades younger than he was, treated him like a young man. It was, another monk had once told him, because he had a younger soul—though for the life of him Vorenus couldn’t think what that meant.
“Joachim?” Pullo asked.
The monk was looking out at the river, so Vorenus casually elbowed his friend in the ribs and with wide eyes nodded hard in the direction of Caesarion.
Pullo looked confused for a moment, but to Vorenus’ great relief he caught on quickly. “He … ah, was waiting?”
Madhukar nodded, his back still to them. “Oh, yes,” he said. “We wanted him to cleanse himself as soon as he was ready, but he insisted that you be here to see it, Lucius Vorenus.”
Out in the Nile, Caesarion had walked the rest of the way to stand in front of the abbot, Rishi, who was waist-deep in the flowing waters. Once there, the young man made the same gesture to him that Vorenus had to Madhukar. Rishi’s face was shadowed by the rising sun, but he appeared to be smiling. He raised his arms, and he spoke something to the sky. As he did so, Caesarion cupped his hands into the water in front of him and brought it up over his face four times, saying something each time.
“Why four?” Pullo asked. He waved away something that buzzed around them on the morning air.
“One for each of the four truths,” Madhukar said without looking back. “The truth of suffering. The truth of the origin of suffering. The truth of the end of suffering. The truth of freedom from suffering.”
Pullo made an agreeable sound, as if he understood, but Vorenus didn’t need to look at his old friend to be sure that the same confusion was on his face that was so often on his own whenever the Therapeutae spoke of their strange ways.
Rishi lowered his arms and, pressing his palms together, once more made the customary gesture of bowing to the young man while touching his forefingers to the space between his nose and brow. Caesarion returned it, and then he took two steps into the deeper water and ducked beneath the surface.
“They call it cleansing,” Vorenus said to Pullo. He kept his voice quiet, for this was, he knew, a solemn moment.
“A cleansing of what?”
“I would say his soul, but Madhukar here would probably correct me on that. He’d say it is only cleansing his body.”
“So I would,” Madhukar agreed.
Caesarion appeared, repeated words after Rishi, then immersed himself once again.
“Why the river? This town has baths doesn’t it?”
“A still bath would not do,” Madhukar said. “Proper cleaning requires living water, which washes away the impurities.”
Vorenus saw Pullo staring out at the silty water of the Nile. He smiled. “Not cleansing from dirt, Pullo. I asked.”
Again Caesarion appeared, and again he spoke something before disappearing under the water.
“Does he do this four times, too?”
“A good guess.” Madhukar’s voice was quieter now. “But it is three times. The first for the wisdom of right view and right intention. The second for the promise of ethical conduct through right speech, right action, and right living. The third for the assurance of focus to achieve right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration. Together these are the Teacher’s Eightfold Path to release from suffering.”
Vorenus had often heard the Therapeutae talk of the Teacher, though they said little of who he was beyond cryptic comments that he had lived in another country far to the east. They were reluctant to say more, Caesarion once explained to him, because they wanted to emphasize the Teacher’s humanity. To exalt him, they feared, would lead people to honor him beyond what he was, perhaps even to worship him. Having seen firsthand how the people were taught to honor Cleopatra as a living goddess—and how they tried to do the same to Caesarion even when he disdained the notion himself—Vorenus thought their concern was indeed valid, even if it did leave him wanting to know more about the mysterious Teacher.
Out in the Nile, for a third time Caesarion spoke, went under, and at last reappeared. He once more exchanged bows with Rishi and then the two men started making their way toward the shore, both beaming.
“It is done.” Madhukar’s voice sounded proud, though Vorenus suspected it was more pleasure at another’s joy than happiness for himself. If there was one thing he’d learned about the Therapeutae, it was that they were selfless almost to a fault.