The Phoenicians worshiped their gods with rites different from the ones Hellenes used. And yet, as Sostratos had seen in Sidon, they’d come under the influence of Hellenic architecture, so that from the front their shrines looked much like those to be found anywhere in the Hellenic world from Syracuse to Rhodes. The same held true for other barbarians like the Samnites and Karians and Lykians.
Not here. Seeing this temple in the northern corner of Jerusalem was almost like a blow in the face: it reminded Sostratos just how far from home he was. A stone wall defended the perimeter of the temple precinct. It wasn’t the strongest work Sostratos had ever seen, but it was a long way from the weakest. Laughing, he said, “I thought this was part of the citadel.”
“Oh, no, best one.” Hekataios of Abdera tossed his head and pointed northwest, up toward higher ground. “There’s the citadel, surrounding the governor’s palace.”
Sostratos craned his neck. “I see. It’s well sited. In any fight that breaks out between the governor and the Ioudaioi, the governor and his garrison here have the advantage of the ground.”
“Er-yes.” Hekataios dipped his head. “I hadn’t thought of it in quite those terms, but you’re perfectly correct. The palace, of course, dates back to Persian days, so the Great Kings must have been nervous about trouble from the Ioudaioi even then. An interesting point.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Sostratos said. “How old is the temple?”
“It was built in Persian times, too,” Hekataios answered. “But it’s supposed to lie on the spot where an older temple stood before Jerusalem was sacked.” He shrugged regretfully. “History in these parts is pretty much a blur before the days of the Persians, unless you want to believe all the mad fables about Queen Semiramis and the rest of those absurdities.”
“They are hard to swallow, aren’t they?” Sostratos agreed. “Hard to make any real sense of history when you’re trying to investigate times too distant to let you question the people who shaped events.”
“Just so. Just so,” Hekataios said. “You do understand how these things work, don’t you?”
“I try.” Sostratos realized the older man took him for a merchant and nothing more. With some asperity, he said, “I may have to buy and sell for a living, O marvelous one, but I’m not an ignorant man on account of that. I studied at the Lykeion in Athens under the great Theophrastos. I may not be lucky enough to study full time”-the look he sent his companion was frankly jealous-”but I do what I can in the time I have.”
Hekataios of Abdera coughed a couple of times and turned as red as a modest youth hearing praise from his suitors for the first time. “I beg your pardon, my dear. Please believe me when I tell you I meant no offense.”
“Oh, I believe you.” That wasn’t the problem. The problem was all the assumptions Hekataios had been making. Sostratos didn’t know what to do about those. He doubted he could do anything about them. Hekataios was obviously a gentleman from a privileged family. Like anyone who didn’t have to get his hands dirty, he looked down his nose at men who did. He was polite about it; Sostratos had met plenty of kaloi k’agathoi who weren’t. But the bias remained. With a sigh, Sostratos said, “Let’s go on toward the temple, shall we?”
“Certainly. That’s a good idea.” Hekataios sounded relieved. By talking about the curious customs of the Ioudaioi, he could escape talking- and thinking-about the curious customs of the Hellenes. “We can go into the lower court here-anyone’s allowed to do that. But we can’t go into the upper, inner, courtyard, the one surrounding the temple itself. Only Ioudaioi are allowed to do that.”
“What would happen if we tried?” Sostratos asked-he wanted to get as close a look at the temple as he could. Unlike the shrines in Sidon, this one, he could see even from a distance of several plethra, had been built by men who knew nothing of Hellenic architecture. It was a plain, rather dumpy rectangle of a building, oriented east-west, its face adorned with sparkling gold ornaments, a curtain over the entrance. In front of the temple stood a large altar-ten cubits high and twenty broad, Sostratos guessed-of unhewn white stones.
But Hekataios of Abdera was tossing his head in dismay. “What would happen if we tried? First off, they wouldn’t let us. The priests of the Ioudaioi run things here-Antigonos’ men don’t. Second, if we did manage to sneak into the inner court, they would say we polluted it just by being there. They take ritual cleanliness very seriously. Didn’t you see that in your travels through Ioudaia coming here?”
“Well, yes,” Sostratos said. “But even so-”
“But me no buts,” the other Hellene said. “What would happen after we tried to go into the inner court is that Jerusalem would see rioting of a kind you wouldn’t believe. Even if the Ioudaioi didn’t murder us-and they probably would-Antigonos’ men would want to, for causing so much trouble. You have to be a dangerous madman to want to try to go up there. Do you understand me?”
“I suppose so,” Sostratos said sulkily. Hekataios waited. Sostratos realized something more was expected of him. The guard at the gate had warned him about the temple of the Ioudaioi, too, so it really was a problem for Hellenes. More sulkily still, he gave his word: “I promise.”
“Good. Thank you. You worried me there for a moment,” Hekataios said. “Now we can go on.”
“Thank you so much,” Sostratos said. Hekataios of Abdera ignored his sarcasm. They entered the outer courtyard. Looking around, Sostratos remarked, “It’s all cobblestones. Where are the bushes and saplings that mark off a holy precinct?”
“They don’t use them,” Hekataios said. “They think this is enough.”
“Strange,” Sostratos said. “Very strange.”
“They’re strange people. Hadn’t you noticed that?”
“Oh, you might say so.” Sostratos’ voice was dry. “What I think is especially peculiar is the day of rest they take every seven.”
“They say their god created the world in six days and rested on the seventh, and so they think they should imitate him.”
“I understand that,” Sostratos said. “It’s not what bothers me. I don’t believe their god did what they say he did, but never mind that. If they spent that seventh day relaxing, well and good. But it’s more than that. They won’t light fires or cook or do anything much at all. If soldiers attacked them, I don’t think they would fight back or try to save their own lives. And that’s crazy, you know.”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I agree with you completely,” Hekataios of Abdera told him. “One thing quickly becomes plain when you start looking at the way the Ioudaioi live their lives: they have no sense of proportion whatsoever.”
“Sense of proportion,” Sostratos echoed. He dipped his head. “Yes, that’s exactly what they’re missing. Nicely put, noble one.”
“Why, thank you, my dear. You’re very kind.” Hekataios looked suitably modest.
“I was talking with my cousin-he’s back in Sidon now-on the way here,” Sostratos said. “One of the proverbs from the Seven Sages came up: ‘Nothing too much.’ I don’t believe that one would appeal to the Ioudaioi.” He didn’t think it appealed to Menedemos, either, but he didn’t care to discuss that with a near stranger.
Laughing, Hekataios dipped his head, too. “You’re right. The loudaioi, I think, do everything to excess.”
“Or sometimes, as with their day of rest, they even do nothing to excess,” Sostratos said.
Hekataios laughed again. “Oh, that’s very nice. I do like that.” He made as if to clap his hands.