For a while he sat lost in thought and deeply crestfallen, and finally, shaken and profoundly contrite. For from the perspective that a few miles of tramping had given him, he saw the life he had been living with fuller awareness, the miserable life of an aging man who had gone astray, so much so that he had been haunted by the gruesome temptation of hanging himself from the branch of a tree like the Saviour’s betrayer. If the idea of voluntary death so horrified him, there certainly lingered in this horror a remnant of primeval, pre-Christian, ancient pagan knowledge: knowledge of the age-old custom of human sacrifice, whereby the king, the saint, the chosen man of the tribe gave up his life for the general welfare, often by his own hand. But this echo of forbidden heathen practices was only one aspect of the matter that made it so horrifying. Even more terrible was the thought that after all the Redeemer’s death on the cross had also been a voluntary human sacrifice. As he thought about it he realized that a germ of this awareness had indeed been present in that longing for suicide: a bold-faced urge to sacrifice himself and thus in an outrageous manner to imitate the Saviour — or outrageously to imply that His work of redemption had not been enough. He was deeply shocked by this thought, but also grateful that he had now escaped that peril.
For a long time he considered the penitent Joseph who now, instead of imitating Judas or Christ, had taken flight and thus once again put himself into God’s hand. Shame and dejection grew in him the more plainly he recognized the hell from which he had just escaped. After a while his misery lumped in his throat like a choking morsel. It grew into an unbearable sense of oppression, and suddenly found release in a torrent of tears that miraculously helped him. How long he had been unable to weep! The tears flowed, his eyes were blurred, but the deadly strangulation was eased, and when he became aware of himself again, tasted the salt on his lips, and realized that he had been weeping, he felt for a moment as if he had become a child again and knew nothing of evil. He smiled, slightly ashamed of his weeping. At last he rose and continued his journey. He felt uncertain, for he did not know where his flight was leading him and what would become of him. He was like a child, he thought, but there was no longer any conflict or will within him. He moved on easily, as if he were being led, as if a distant, kind voice were calling and coaxing him, as if his journey were not a flight but a homecoming. Now he was growing tired, and reason too fell still, or rested, or decided that it was dispensable.
Joseph spent the night at a water hole where several camels and a small company of travelers were camped. Since there were two women among them, he contented himself with a gesture of greeting and avoided falling into talk. After he had eaten a few dates at sunset, prayed, and lain down to rest, he overheard the conversation between two men, one old and one somewhat younger, for they were lying close by him. It was only a fragment of their talk that he could hear; the rest was lost in whispers. But even this small passage stirred his interest. It gave him matter for thought through half the night.
“All right,” he heard the old man’s voice saying. “It’s fine that you want to go to a pious man and make your confession. These people understand many things, let me tell you. They know a thing or two, and some of them are skilled in magic. When they just call out a word to a springing lion, the beast crouches, tucks his tail between his legs, and slinks away. They can tame lions, I tell you. One of them was so holy that his tame lions actually dug him his grave when he died, neatly scraped the earth into a mound over him, and for a long time two of them kept watch over the grave day and night. And it isn’t only lions they can tame, these people. One of them gave a Roman centurion a piece of his mind. That was a cruel bastard, that soldier, and the worst whoreson in all Ascalon. But the hermit so kneaded his wicked heart that the man stole away frightened as a mouse and looked for a hole to hide in. Afterward he was almost unrecognizable, he’d become so quiet and meek. On the other hand, the man died soon afterward — that’s something to think about.”
“The holy man?”
“Oh no, the centurion. His name was Varro. After the holy man gave him such a jolt, he went to pieces fast — had the fever twice and was a dead man three months later. Oh well, no great loss. But still, I’ve often thought the hermit didn’t just drive the devil out of him. He probably said a little spell that put the man six feet under.”
“Such a pious man? I can’t believe that.”
“Believe it or not, my friend, but from that day on the man was changed, not to say bewitched, and three months later…”
There was silence for a little while. Then the younger man revived the conversation: “There’s a holy man who must live somewhere right around here. They say he lives all alone near a small spring on the Gaza road. His name is Josephus, Josephus Famulus. I’ve heard a lot about him.”
“Have you now? Like what?”
“He’s supposed to be awfully pious and never to look at a woman. If a few camels happen to come by his place and there’s a woman on one of them, no matter how heavily veiled, he just bolts into his cave. Lots of people have gone to confess to him — thousands.”
“I guess he can’t be so famous or else I would have heard of him. What kind of thing does he do, this Famulus of yours?”
“Oh, you just go to confess to him, and I suppose people wouldn’t go if he wasn’t good and didn’t understand things. The story is he hardly says a word, doesn’t scold or bawl anyone out, doesn’t order penances or anything like that. He’s supposed to be gentle and shy.”
“But if he doesn’t scold and doesn’t punish and doesn’t open his mouth, what does he do?”
“They say he just listens and sighs marvelously and makes the sign of the cross.”
“Sounds like a quack saint to me. You wouldn’t be so foolish as to apply to this silent Joe, would you?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean to do. I’ll find him. It can’t be much farther from here. This evening there was a poor monk standing around the waterhole here, you know. I’m going to ask him tomorrow morning. He looks like a hermit himself.”
The old man flared up. “You’d be wasting your time. A man who only listens and sighs and is afraid of women can’t do or understand anything. No, I’ll tell you the one to go to. It’s a bit far from here, beyond Ascalon, but he’s the best hermit and confessor there is. Dion is his name, and he’s called Dion Pugil — that means ‘the boxer,’ because he piles right into all the devils, and when somebody confesses his sins, my friend, Pugil doesn’t sigh and keep his counsel. He sounds off and gives it to the man straight from the shoulder. They say he actually beats some till they’re black and blue. He made one man kneel bare-kneed on the rocks all night long and on top of that ordered him to give forty pennies to the poor. There’s a hermit for you, my boy, he’ll make you sit up and take notice. When he looks at you, you’ll shake; his eyes go right through you. None of this sighing business. That man has the stuff. If a man can’t sleep or has bad dreams and visions, Pugil will put him on his feet again, let me tell you. I don’t say this on hearsay; I know because I’ve been to him myself. Yes I have — I may be a poor fool, but I betook myself to the hermit Dion, the man of God, God’s boxer. I went there in misery, nothing but filth and shame on my conscience, and I left clean and bright as the morning star, and that’s as true as my name is David. Remember what I tell you: the name is Dion, called Pugil. You go see him as soon as you can, and you’ll be amazed. Prefects, presbyters, and bishops have gone to him for advice.”