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During the next few months Tolmai came to know Caesarea well. Or at least he thought he did - his ignorance became obvious when he met the man he came to know as the philosopher.
The first time Tolmai saw the philosopher, he was strolling near the agora. He stood out from the crowd, a tall, gaunt man of uncertain age, his face almost completely hidden by long dishevelled hair and a full beard. He seemed oblivious of the people around him. He would stop for a moment where two roads crossed as if determining which way to go, and then he would proceed onwards, nodding to himself as if in confirmation of his decision. He walked with a measured, deliberate tread, pausing frequently to examine the buildings as if there was something important to be seen. Then he turned a corner and was lost to sight.
Tolmai was used to strange people. Some of the pilgrims to Jerusalem had looked very odd - he and the other local boys always had a good snigger during festival times. But Caesarea outdid Jerusalem - people of all races and beliefs could be seen in Caesarea. Outlandish dress, grotesque hairstyles, strange complexions, outlandish tattoos. Africans from Libya, Nabateans from Arabia, Macedonians, Galatians, Cilicians, even Nubians with their glossy black skins.
But even with all the diversity within Caesarea, the philospher stood out from the crowd. It was not so much his appearance but his actions that caught Tolmai's eye. Everyone else was rushing about trying to earn a living, but the philosopher clearly trod a different plane. He examined the city as if it had something to tell him, the inhabitants he ignored. His clothes were threadbare, but he did not seem to be troubled by that, and Tolmai never saw him beg. But one day Tolmai found out how the philosopher managed to maintain himself - to his cost.
Tolmai had discovered he had a weakness, and with two denarii a day to spend he could afford to indulge it. Tolmai had discovered food.
Hot crusty bread fresh that morning which he crammed into his mouth on his way to work. Baked fish with spices and roast lamb with herbs that could be bought pre-cooked. Olives, dates, and all sorts of fruit. Tolmai turned a blind eye to the fact that his two denarii a day wasn't going as far as he thought. But there was no hurry, he told himself. He would start to save soon enough, although the right day never seemed to arrive. The future seemed a long way off.
The day he met the philosopher he had bought some cooked fish - they sold an infinite variety fish in Caesarea and this was his favourite, garnished with a special sauce he liked and wrapped in hot fresh bread. It was midday and he settled himself on a breakwater with his feet dangling over the edge and a flask of wine in his hand. But then he realised he was not alone.
'Ah! Fish!' said a voice from above him.
Tolmai looked up startled. Fish? Of course it was fish...
The philosopher was smiling down at Tolmai, his eyes deep with emotion. He spread his arms wide as if he was trying to encompass the whole world.
'Yes, fish! What glorious things are fish!' Then the philospher simply stood there, beaming down at Tolmai. It was impossible for Tolmal to ignore him and he was obviously not going to go away.
'Yes, fish,' said Tolmai sourly. 'Things with fins.'
But the philosopher was not deterred. His voice rang out across the wharves.
'What glorious bounty men cull from the deeps! What abundance! What a cornucopia of splendour from Neptune's realms!'
'I don't know about that...'
'Commerce is such an unfortunate necessity! So belittling! To think that the bounty of the gods should be mere things of trade!'
He sat himself firmly down beside Tolmai.
'What a glorious thing is a fish! And hot fresh bread! And is that some sort of sauce I see? Possibly made from the secret spices from beyond the Indus? What fragrance arises from herbs of the gardens where the eight-armed goddess holds sway!'
Tolmia felt resigned to his fate. He would have liked to have pushed the idiot off the breakwater into the water, but the philosopher was a lot taller than him.
'No doubt you would like some fish.'
The offer was to say the least ungracious, but the philosopher appeared not to notice that.
'What generosity! The gods are truly bountiful! One does not expect to meet such glorious munificence!'
Then the philosopher had to stop talking - his mouth was full of fish. It was swiftly followed by some of the bread, liberally smeared with the sauce of the secret spices from beyond the Indus.
'Possibly you would like some wine to wash down the god's munificence?' Tolmai enquired tartly.
The philosopher nodded and took the flask. His mouth was far too full to speak.
'Ah! That was truly magnificent!' he said when it was all gone.
Tolma surveyed the bones that were left. He felt distinctly hungry.
'I am from Sardis,' said the philosopher expansively. 'You may call me Olympiodorus.'
Tolmai followed his own golden rule. Only a fool would tell a stranger his real name.
'I am from Joppa. My name is Magdanax.'
They left the breakwater together. Somehow Tolmai found he had promised to show Olympiodorus around Caesarea - he did not for the life of him remember why. However it soon became not so much a matter of him showing Olympiodorus around, but of Olympiodorus showing him.
At first Tolmai was impressed. Olympiodorus' knowledge was so mucher deeper than his. Tolmai knew the major buildings essentially as landmarks, but he was completely unaware of their history or function. They examined the theatre - Tolmai had never dreamed of going to a performance - and Olympiodorus went into ecstasies over its painted plaster floor.
'Absolutely unique!' he cried.
They walked around the city with an ecstatic Olympiodorus pointing out the magnificent baths and the superb gymnasium and the scores of sublime temples to the gods.
'Ah! Herod's palace! What a great man Herod must have been! Such perspicacity! Such style!'
Olympiodorus had a habit of interjecting sudden comments into their wanderings.
'Yes! The temple of Astarte! Such a sense of history! And yet so modern in its way!'
They stopped at the ruins of the old city that had been incorporated into the walls of Caesarea.
'Straton's Tower! Obviously!'
But something seemed not quite right. Olympiodorus' comments seemed arbitrary and superficial, as if he had picked them up from reading some particularly sketchy guidebook. Tolmai could not contradict what Olympiodorus said, but he began to treat it with a certain scepticism.
'So who was this Straton?' he sniffed.
'Ah! You may well ask! Who was Straton! Indeed!'
And with that they walked on to look at the hippodrome.
Tolmai saw a lot of Olympiodorus over the next few weeks. It was impossible to say they were friends, Olympiodorus was far too egocentric for that. Olympiodorus treated other people as if they were there solely for his benefit. He would unexpectedly appear and assume as if with some divinely bestowed right that one would drop everything for Olympiodorus.
He never begged, but he never went hungry. In fact he seemed to go for several days without eating anything at all. It was as if the concept or regular meals had never crossed his mind. Then one day his nose would crinkle as he passed an establishment that sold food, and he would stop in his tracks as if had a revelation from the gods. 'Ah! food!' And once the idea of food had occurred to Olympiodorus, it never left him until his gastronomic needs were satisfied.
Those were the days Tolmai tried to avoid. For a self-proclaimed humble philosopher, Olympiodorus had a very expensive appetite.
Tolmai saw Olympiodorus once on one of his hungry days prowling around the street where the best restaurants were located. His nose appeared to be leading him. He went from establishment to establishment, standing outside savouring the aroma, his nose visibly twitching as it absorbed the smells of grilled fish or roasted lamb with fine herbs. It was invariably the most expensive dishes that attracted Olympiodorus.
Tolmai hurried by, praying Olympiodorus would not see him, but fortunately only things edible were on Olympiodorus' mind that day.
Later that afternoon Tolmai saw him in a restaurant. A very expensive restaurant, much frequented by the wives of ex-patriot Romans of senior rank. Olympiodorus was seated at a table with a Roman matron and her two children. She wore an expression of utter incredulity. How could this be happening to her? And in such a fashionable place!
Her two children were staring open-mouthed at Olympiodorus as he devoured the food that had been meant for them. He swallowed in great gulps the finely-minced lamb wrapped in vine leaves and the tiny decorated pastries stuffed with honey and preserved fruits that the cook had prepared for the children with such meticulous care.
Tolmai had a sneaking admiration for Olympiodorus' capabilities of appropriation. It was not only food that he seemed to obtain with such ease.
One day Olympiodorus decided his robe was unsatisfactory, although it seemed quite serviceable to Tolmai. In Tolmai's opinion, it certainly was not out of place on a man who did not work for a living, such as himself.
Olympiodorus spent hours dragging Tolmai around the cloth market. He passed from trader to trader, examining the linen, draping lengths against his body and testing the strength with his teeth. He was totally without self-consciousness, completely unaware of the scrutiny he was being given by the traders. Was he a potential buyer? Or was he merely wasting their time?
He stopped at one trader, making his usual mess as he haphazardly rummaged through the trader's carefully arranged wares, but then his eyes gleamed. He held up a length of cloth, staring at it in wonderment. His voice was suddenly delerious with joy, booming across the market place.
'Ah! That is what I call cloth!'
The trader looked at Olympiodorus puzzledly.
'Sir?'
'Cloth! The noble art or weaving! The divine art that has been granted to us by the gods! The inticacies of warp and weft! That is what I call cloth!'
The trader looked at the cloth. It was of reasonable quality, but otherwise unexceptional. And the trader was also a Jew. Since when was weaving a divine art? Only women weaved, it was a despised trade for men. The weavers in Jerusalem had their quarters near the Dung Gate.
'Sir?'
'Where would we be without cloth! Where would the world be without the skills of the weavers? The patience of the shepherds who tend the sheep? The cycle of life that provides the wool? The whole world owes a debt of gratitude to the gods that taught such sacred skills! How can mere men repay such gifts!'
The trader re-examined the length of cloth puzzledly.
'Are you interested in this length, Sir? It is of excellent quality...'
'Quality!' Olyimpiodorus was in full throat now. The whole market was listening.
'Quality! Tell me, noble Sir! What is quality? Is it something that men can judge? Or is it something the gods bestow? Is this only an assemblage of strands torn from the back of some humble quadruped? Wool woven by merely human hands? Or is it something more? Something that we mortals cannot grasp with our mundane intellects? I tell you, Sir! What we have here is not just cloth! What we have here is the very idea of cloth!'
Olympiodorus had planted himself full-square in front of the trader's stall, absolutely immovable, his oration ringing through the market. The traders mouth hung open, his eyes glazed.
'Cloth!' declaimed Olympiodorus. 'What do we know of cloth? The weft and the warp are determined by human agency! Mere attributes of manufacture! But should we not be concerned about is its essence? Its quiddity? Where I ask you is the man who comprehends the essential being of cloth? The gods have granted this great boon, this advance in the history of mankind. but who amongst us grasps the truth? Cloth! Cloth! We would freeze without cloth! Our buttocks would be exposed to the mercy of Neptune's storms! We would sieep naked with nothing to cover us when the night winds scream! How can one say this is a mere man-made artifice? I tell you! - this length of cloth is not a mere commodity to be sold! Men should sing praises and offer sacrifice! This is a gift from the very gods themselves!'
Tolmai backed away hurriedly. He did not want to be associated with Olympiodorus. But Olympiodorus continued, his arms flailing wildly as he declaimed about the magnificence of cloth, the mysteries of cloth, the nature of cloth, even the divinity of cloth.
Suddenly the trader folded up the length of cloth and thrust it at Olympiodorus.
'Here! Here is your cloth! Please take it and go away!'
But once again Olympiodorus' voice was ringing out across the market.
'What munificence! What generosity! But I cannot accept your cloth! I am merely a humble philosopher, one totally unskilled in the arts of sewing and suchlike intricacies! What use would such suberb cloth be to me? How can I accept such a priceless gift? That would be sacrilege! This cloth was destined to be made into a tunic by hands more skilled than mine!'
The trader stared at Olympiodorus with mindless eyes. He took back the length of cloth.
'Come back tomorrow, please. By tomorrow I will have had it sewn...'
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