Damascus

by Christos Tsiolkas

  ‘Show yourself,’ he screams. ‘You lover of demons, you Nazarene peasant shit, you liar and traitor and blasphemer, you feckless enchanter—show yourself!’

  I get to my feet and draw breath once again, then I lunge at him. I grab him and I keep holding him. I cannot comprehend how his old and feeble body can have such strength but I call on The God, and I hold him. His agitation is such that my own body is bucked by his frenzied movements, but I tighten my grip on him and slowly the night stills. His body is his own again; whatever shade had possessed him has fled. I call the names of The God—Helios, Apollo and Sol—and repeat them to myself. The old man’s lips brush my neck, he shudders as he falls limp into my arms. First there is the warmth and then the wetness: his urine is running down my legs and splashing around my feet. Incensed, I push the demented old fool away from me and he falls to ground.

  He is still shaking but there is no power in his limbs; he curls into himself, he weeps.

  ‘Why do you not return?’ His final lament is as anguished as the grief of a soldier over his fallen comrade, of a mother over the corpse of her child.

  My anger is gone. I crouch next to him, feeling his forehead. It is damp from blood, and his body burns with fever. ‘You are ill, uncle.’

  His eyes spring open. In the darkness the white of his eye shines fierce. A choked gurgle comes from his throat. I cradle his head and pull his tongue loose. But his shivering has resumed—malevolence has returned to the cell.

  I order him to breathe.

  He resists but I have his head in my palms. I order him again. ‘Breathe.’

  He inhales and exhales.

  I too make the call to the sun.

  We inhale, we exhale.

  The God enters us, The God leaves us.

  He is finally at rest.

  I gently lay his head on the ground and search his small room. A rat scurries across his bed and I stamp it with my foot, grab it by its tail and fling it through the bars of the window. By the bed there is a vessel filled with water, mercifully unspilled.

  He has not moved; he is curled as an infant. I wash his face, his bloody hands, I bring water to his parched lips. Then I splash the remaining water over my thighs and legs, wash off his stink.

  His eyes recognise me now. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘You were screaming like a demented madwoman in the markets. I came to quieten you.’

  ‘But how come you were here?’

  I sit next to him. The Goddess is nearing the end of Her reign, The God will be rising soon. I will not return to sleep.

  ‘I couldn’t bear the snores of my wife’s mother,’ I explain. ‘And as it is a gentle, mild night I prefer to sleep on the roof. I’m a soldier, uncle; sometimes the world of women and children is unbearable to me.’

  ‘You are married?’

  He has never questioned me before.

  ‘I am married. I have three daughters; we are awaiting a son.’

  ‘And you don’t enjoy lying next to your wife?’

  ‘I don’t enjoy lying next to her mother.’

  This makes him laugh. And the laughing makes him cough. ‘Is there more water?’

  ‘With morning,’ I answer. ‘I’ll bring you more with the morning.’

  He has unfurled, he is lying on his back now. His tongue slides across his thick, cracked lips. His toothless grin sickens me and I turn away.

  ‘I never married,’ he tells me.

  I scratch at the earthen floor and loosen a pebble. I prepare to listen. It always happens with those you guard: there comes the time when you must listen.

  ‘I have never married, I have never raised children. I abandoned my family and I turned my back on my people. What do you think of that, Vrasas?’

  He has never used my name before. I turn to look at him. His arms are folded across his chest. The bottom of his smock is still soaked. I place my palm flat on the earth and force myself to stand. I go to his bed and take his blanket.

  ‘Get up,’ I order.

  He obeys. I grab hold of his smock to take it off and, as I do so, he raises his thin arms above his head, the way my youngest daughter does when her mother is undressing her for bathing. I take a dry corner of the cloth and wipe him clean, then place the blanket around his shoulders.

  We sit cross-legged, facing one another.

  ‘You are a soldier?’ he asks.

  ‘I was a soldier,’ I reply sourly. ‘I am now your guard.’

  He points to the shadow of scar that runs from my thigh to below my knee. ‘What happened to your leg?’

  ‘War,’ I snarl. ‘War happened to my leg.’

  ‘Do you miss it?’

  Only one who has never soldiered could ask such a question. The answer is obvious to any soldier: with every breath. With every awakening and with each return to sleep. With every breath.

  He reaches for me, puts his hand on my arm. ‘I abandoned my family. I abandoned my people and I turned away from their laws. I asked you, what do you think of that?’

  It is abominable, it is dishonour. It is right they condemn him. I do not know what crimes he is supposed to have committed—I do not know their nature for I have not been told. But if he speaks the truth, he speaks an outrage.

  ‘I only know the ways of soldiers, uncle,’ is what I say to him. ‘It is my occupation to listen and to obey, not to speak or to question.’ I take his hand and put it back on his lap.

  ‘So you always obey the law?’

  His Greek confuses me.

  ‘I always obey my orders.’

  A surge of anger flashes in his eyes. ‘It is as I said, then: you always obey the law.’

  He has dexterity with words. Is he mocking me?

  ‘I obey my orders,’ I answer carefully. ‘The law belongs to senators and lords. The laws change from season to season. I obey my orders.’

  ‘And the law of God, do you obey that? Do you obey Him?’

  Oh, how I detest the sophistry of the Greeks. They have poisoned us all: we Romans, and he and his Judeans with their jealous desert God. We have all become men of the word rather than men of deed. That is how the Greeks poison us.

  ‘A soldier requires discipline, uncle,’ I say in a rush, ‘not knowledge. I obey the gods, I must. But fuck knows what the gods want, what the gods think. Every witch and every sorcerer who pretends to speak for them is a liar. That’s all I know.’

  I thought this would infuriate him. But instead he laughs out loud, his mouth open so wide I can see the sores along his scarlet and black gums.

  ‘I like your answer, Vrasas,’ he chuckles. ‘You are a wise man. Discipline is more useful than knowledge.’

  He says something in Greek.

  ‘I do not know that word, uncle.’

  ‘Discipline,’ he says. ‘Discipline,’ he repeats. ‘And obedience.’

  And it is as if I am no longer there. He looks beyond me and I half turn, convinced by his certainty that there is someone behind us.

  ‘You came,’ he whispers joyously, sounding as carefree as a child.

  I tell him I am off to the barracks, to get him some water and some provisions. I speak to him but he does not hear.

  I leave him sitting there, caressed by the sun, whispering in the voice of a child, over and over again, ‘You came, my Redeemer, you came. You have returned.’

  Ten fingers, ten toes, the clear grey eyes of his grandfather, his cries clear and strong, his skin smooth and ruddy, tiny spherical testes like those of a puppy, a little plump cock with a fine hook of skin. The God shines on us, we are in His embrace, blessed by Him and by His betrothed and all the gods of the celestial realm. They kiss us and cradle us in their arms and we are beloved and honoured by them. We have a son.

  The labour was a long ordeal which my wife endured for a day and into the following night. Throughout it all, I sat in my neighbours’ house. Or, rather, my neighbours sat. I could not. I paced the rooms, the courtyard, the streets outside, listening to my wife’s animal w
himpering and screaming as our son struggled to free himself from her womb. With the rising of the Goddess we heard the infant’s cries, warm and full of blood and life. My eldest clambered down the steps and called for me. I ran over to the house, to where my mother-in-law was cooing over the infant in her arms. I grabbed him from her. We had fathered a son: I counted his fingers and his toes, I inspected his chest and his back, his limbs and his sex. Before I gave my son back to them, I silently spoke his names, like a prayer.

  I will not yet tell my wife. I won’t tempt fate by saying them aloud. The first name is mine, Vrasas, then Mellitus to honour the man who liberated my father, and finally I give my son his name, the name he will carry into the world. It is Lupus, a name from our mountains and what my father was called, denoting strength and cunning and patience—the name he is born to.

  Finally, I have a son. My duty is done and my father can at last find rest.

  I am barred from my home for a cycle of the Goddess. Pelius offers me his hearth but I cannot in good conscience accept his offer. He has five children of his own and is also the protector of his wedded kin. His house is always packed. The solstice has passed and though it is still winter and still cold, the days have started to lengthen, so I claim a space above the prisoner’s dwelling. I pitch a tent on the roof and make my bed there. I don’t care how cold it is—let it snow, let there be rain or hail—my son is born, my son is healthy. I will sleep naked and unsheltered, I will not complain. The prisoner too has welcomed the news; he chatters and gives thanks and fusses like a mother.

  He counsels me, ‘Do not sleep on the roof, brother Vrasas, it is bitterly cold. Sleep here with me; you can share my bedding.’

  I laugh and reply, ‘Thank you, uncle, but I prefer the biting winter air to your never-ending praying.’

  He chides me and calls me ungrateful, but with a grin and with good humour. Have we become friends? I am a father, and spite and jealousy and suspicion have abandoned my heart.

  Every morning, my first duty is to return to my house. I stand in the courtyard, greeted by the salutations of my neighbours. I call up to my family and I receive news of my son. He thrives, my wife strengthens, we are well. I return to the prisoner, I tend him all day, then fall asleep under the protection of the night sky and its gods; his prayers from below, no words comprehensible, just sound and song, lull me to sleep. The god of sleep embraces me. I have fathered a son and I can finally rest.

  I have been dozing on the stoop in the noonday sun. My eyes are closed and The God teases me: He kisses my eyelids, I feel His breath across my lips. I am with The God and He is with me. I am asleep but I am also alert; that is one of the first skills a soldier must learn: to be at rest and to be ready at the same time. I doze but I can hear the women across the street mutter and gossip. They are berating some poor whore, some sister or niece whom they abhor. As a soldier I should call out to them, ‘Cease your jealous gossip, women!’ But I know they cackle about me as well—they could answer back, ‘And who are you, cripple?’ I ignore them, I am at peace with my God.

  A shadow falls across me. I reach for my dagger before I can even flick open my eyes.

  Incandescent gods are before me and I lurch forward to kneel before them. But then I stop myself, bring myself back to the day and to full wakefulness. These are mortals. One a boy and one a man, both of their faces beautiful and alluring; but they are of the earth. Their clothing is ragged and soiled. I collect the praise forming in my throat, swallow, and release a grunt instead.

  ‘Good morning, uncle.’

  His robes are those of the destitute but his manner is poised. He is not noble, but he is well spoken—his family must have some means.

  I answer accordingly. ‘Greetings, sir.’

  I struggle to get up, and he shoots out his hand to assist me. It takes all my strength not to strike him. I shake my head, forbid his pity, and he steps back.

  He has a beard, sparse and wispy bristles, but his glinting eyes are still those of a youth. So too his skin, tanned dark by travel and sun but retaining the softness of the young. He is a child and a youth and a man; all appear before me at once in the same body. I cannot tell his age. The sun is directly above us and I take the opportunity to shield my eyes from the glare. His beauty so startling that I am blushing.

  The younger one is still a boy, soft down covering his upper lip. He keeps his face lowered. He has thick curls such that any vain maiden would covet. Aware of my eyes upon him, he lifts his head, trying to show me courage and pride but finding my scrutiny too intense. He flushes and bows. His large dark eyes are deep alluring pools, and must have been blessed by some sorcerer for I am convinced they would awaken the loins of a dead man. I can feel my own cock stir and I grasp the medallion attached to my belt, silently asking the gods to ward off enchantment. I make sure to sneer before I return my eyes to the older man.

  ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

  He takes a scroll from underneath his robe and hands it to me. The seal is one only permitted to the most superior of castes. I break it and glance at the characters.

  ‘I am grateful,’ he says quickly, kindly, ‘to my patron for vouchsafing our request to meet with my friend and teacher.’

  He stands patiently as my eyes follow the letters. He understands that I can’t read and I am thankful that he has spoken the letter’s contents so as not to shame me.

  I return the letter to him and I unlock the door.

  As soon as they enter the prisoner’s cell, the old man and the older visitor fall upon each other. So tight is their embrace that they form one body; they stroke and kiss each other’s cheeks, weeping and laughing. ‘My Paul,’ the younger calls, ‘my teacher, my soul, my dearest friend.’ And the old man sobs, ‘My Timothy—you have returned, my love, you have returned.’ Neither of them can step back, neither wants to be the first to break the hold. I lower my eyes, shocked and embarrassed by their display.

  So is the boy beside me. We both stare down at the dirt floor.

  When at last the two separate—but barely, as they sit on the old man’s bedding, knees still interlocked, hands clasped, brows touching—they offer prayers to their god, and give thanks. Their words tumble and rush alongside each other, they join to form one tongue.

  ‘The Saviour has risen. Truly, he has risen.’

  ‘He lives, he lives.’

  The force of the words seems too much for the old man—he chokes and returns to weeping.

  The man called Timothy comforts him, gently holding the old man’s face. ‘My beloved,’ he says, the Greek not Attic and long-vowelled but eastern and clipped. ‘My beloved, I am always here with you.’

  The old man raises his smock, stained with sweat and grime, and pats at his wet eyes. He turns to me and the boy, wiping his running nose with his hand.

  Timothy waves for the boy to come over. ‘Come, brother Able. This is our teacher, this is brother Paul.’

  The boy won’t move. I sense his fear. But I hesitate. I have kept guard over this blasphemer long enough to know that amongst his cult even the most noble wrap themselves in rags.

  But it is not possible that this boy is high-born, that a noble’s child could be so filled with fear and humility. I push him. ‘Go,’ I bark. ‘Go to him.’

  The boy walks over to the bed and shyly takes the old man’s proffered hand.

  ‘I have heard much about you, my son,’ the old man says gently. ‘I am a loyal friend of your …’

  He stops. A poisonous spirit has suddenly dashed into this tiny cell; I can sense it in the alarm on Timothy’s face, in the old man’s abrupt stiffening, and in the boy’s naked terror.

  I brush my palm against my tunic, silently call on the gods, and the spirit has vanished.

  ‘… a loyal friend of your father’s,’ the old man continues, his voice steady.

  The boy’s face crumples and he begins a monstrous wailing. The prisoner does not release his hold of the frightened lad; he brings him closer and wra
ps an arm around the boy’s waist. My hand itches with the desire to strike the pitiable child. He is coming into manhood. If one of my daughters were to show such weakness, I would give them the lash. For a boy to do so is unthinkable. I pray to my God that my son is never so humble and weak.

  Timothy is now standing by the window, looking out to the light. I understand that he too must be shocked by the young boy’s diminishing misery. The child’s wailing lessens; he is now on his knees, sobbing into the prisoner’s lap.

  I spit. The lecherous old goat is stroking the boy’s thick curls, he kisses him there. It is unrighteous and unseemly and it takes all my resolve not to march across the cell and fling them off each other.

  ‘Can I stay with you, teacher?’ The boy is wiping his eyes. He is clasping the old man’s knees, as if the old fool were a temple priest.

  Timothy turns to them. His voice is firm. ‘Tell him what he has to do, Paul. Please give him counsel.’

  The old man makes no reply. His hands rest on the boy’s head.

  ‘Tell him, brother.’ There is insistence in Timothy’s voice, and annoyance too. I see it in a flash: he doesn’t like the brat. I spit again, sickened by the childish jealousies of these three arse-fuckers.

  The old man raises a warning hand to Timothy. With his other hand, he lifts the boy’s chin, looks straight at him. ‘Why do you want to stay with me, child?’

  ‘I wish you were …’ The boy hesitates, casting a rapid glance in my direction and an even quicker retreat from my gaze. But not before I glean something cunning in the boy. He is far from noble; far from it. I smell it, sense it—his servility.

  He finally blurts out, ‘I wish you were my father.’

  An anger from deep in my gut rises to my throat and is released as a roar. I take a step towards the bed, my arm rising. There is no shame on this earth or in the world below or in the realm of the gods that is as repellent as that of a son dishonouring his father. If the old death-worshipper doesn’t crush that little bastard’s head against the wall, I will do it for him.