Damascus

by Christos Tsiolkas

  Timothy makes to stop me but shrinks back, comprehending he must not touch me in my rage. The old man has more daring. He flings out his arm, his palm splayed to stop me. Before I can even register his warning, he strikes the boy across the cheek.

  I’d have bashed the little bastard’s head in but at least this appeases me.

  The boy doesn’t cry. He waits for another blow. But instead the old man is caressing the inflamed cheek.

  ‘I am not your father, child,’ he says. ‘There is only one father and He is the Lord. Jesus the Saviour is coming, and when he returns there will be a kingdom of peace in which we will have no fathers and no masters. We will all be one, as sons and daughters of the Lord.’

  I have to look away, disgusted by such absurdities.

  He cares nothing for my agitation. He takes hold of the boy’s shoulders, no longer affectionate but now stern.

  ‘Be patient till that day, little brother,’ he counsels. ‘But until then you will return to your father and you will ask for his forgiveness. That is the law and that is right.’

  I want to add: And if your father decides to turn you over and push a pike right up your arse and up through your useless guts he has every right to do so.

  The boy knows it too, knows what is his due. ‘He will flay me.’

  ‘I promise you he will not.’

  My hand searches for the talisman on my belt. That is not the prisoner’s promise to make. The natural law of blood must be honoured. These blasphemers will not up-end the world. The father will destroy this son, that is the only righteous law.

  The boy now stands. He no longer seems soft and effeminate. Finally, he has assumed dignity and manhood.

  ‘I will do as you say, teacher.’ He cups his hand into a fist and bangs it across his breast. ‘Uncle,’ he says to the old man, ‘may I ask for a thanksgiving before my return?’

  Joy transforms the prisoner’s face. He grins and nods, turns to Timothy. ‘Timos, bring wine and bread. We have much to thank the Lord for today.’

  As Timothy goes to do his bidding, the boy and the prisoner sit next to each other on the bed. The old man starts speaking, charging him to remember every word of the story he is going to tell him so he can recite it faithfully to his father when he is home again—after he has fallen at his feet and begged for forgiveness.

  ‘It is said,’ he begins, ‘that Jesus the Saviour spoke of a rich farmer who had two sons. The elder one was diligent and honourable but his younger was profligate and impatient. He’d asked his father for his half of his inheritance and then spent it all on wine and on women. Soon his share was exhausted.’

  I listen to this ridiculous fable as he speaks, silently praying that my son will never be so disloyal. I’ll cut his throat if he is, I swear it to The God and to all the gods. The boy listens silently.

  ‘This son,’ continues the prisoner, ‘is now poor and destitute. He returns to his father and he says, “Father, I will be your slave, I will become your servant—I have squandered my inheritance.”’

  I cannot help myself, I speak my thoughts out loud. ‘Such a son deserves nothing less than to be enslaved.’

  The old goat beams at me. ‘See?’ he retorts gleefully. ‘What Vrasas says is the truth of the world.’

  Then he winks at the boy, as if my words are a joke. ‘But the loving father was joyous on seeing his son return and he ordered that the fattest of their lambs be thrown onto the fire for a feast.’

  I dare not say: That is why that father bred a rubbish son: he indulged him and spoiled him. That was surely the meaning of such a fable, but the old fool does not stop there. He continues to tell how the eldest son asks his father: ‘Is it just that you give our best offering for sacrifice to a dissolute and undeserving child?’ That brother is correct—he speaks the truth. But so bizarre is the weak and death-loving god they follow, that is not the truth that is spoken.

  ‘No,’ says the prisoner. ‘For the Lord is heartened and most pleased when one who is lost returns.’

  He kisses the boy on the lips. ‘These are the words of Jesus our Saviour, and these are the words you will repeat to your father when you greet him again.’

  What travesty and what ugliness this cult believes—such madness and corruption! I will go to a temple, any temple, I will beg for forgiveness from Apollo or Minerva or Venus or even from Jupiter himself, I will scrub myself raw to wash away the dirt of such words.

  The boy smiles and nods. This is a cult that inverts justice and denies punishment. Even the air in the cell is soiled.

  I am relieved when Timothy returns with a small flask of wine and a portion of bread. The three form a circle, on their haunches, and the two watch with reverence as the old man tears at the crust.

  I listen to their communion and I am appalled. ‘This is the body that was sacrificed.’ So is it true that they are indeed flesh-eaters? ‘This is the blood that was spilled.’ Are they ghouls?

  The immensity of their sacrilege is overwhelming; I can hardly breathe. I push open the door, walk down the corridor, kick open the gate and am in the street. The sun is on my skin; my God wraps His strong and conquering arms around me. I gulp, hungry for the warmth and light, stand there open-mouthed, face to the sky, basking in the rays from The God. With every breath I make a plea—‘Let me raise my son honourably’—and make a vow—‘I condemn those blasphemers’—and I am returned to peace. I lay a fist across my breast five times—one for my God and one for the gods and one for the First Amongst Men and one for my ancestors and one for my descendants—and I have protected myself against their worship of death.

  I walk to the small fountain that feeds from the pipes below the streets. It is behind the dwelling I guard, in a small courtyard that is near empty. I squat before the fountain and wash my face, the pits under my arms, my hands and my neck. I can still hear them at their incantations and sorcery; the shutter is not drawn and their chanting escapes through the small cell window. I block my ears to expel their evil babble. I make further promises to The God.

  I take my hands away from my ears. They are speaking as men now—I can just make out what they are saying. The boy is making a vow to the old man; I can hear him saying, ‘I will return to my owner.’

  All is clear. To my owner. Now I understand.

  I do not fear their spells of death, the evil spirits they raise through sorcery. As I storm across the yard, it is as if I am defying the cruelty and shame of my rotten leg. It is as if I am again a young soldier at war, filled with only one urge: to cut the throat of an enemy. As I burst into the cell, I am an avenging fury, a righteous warrior.

  The boy is in the old pederast’s arms. Timothy is coming towards me with his hands out—can that sweet womanish weakling think he can stop me? I push him and he falls to the floor. I tower above the bed and the shock I see in the craven face of the slave boy makes me more fierce as I grab his thick hair and pull back his head like a beast one is ready to slaughter and I raise my elbow and I bring it down hard as I call on The God and all the gods to do justice and the bone of my elbow smashes into the slave’s eye, and he is screaming, thrashing as in a seizure, but I will not let go of him, nor let his hand reach for his burst eye. I am ready to tear off his face, to kill the animal, when the old man bellows with an authority that must be beyond him, must come from the savage, desert God he worships. It has none of his usual shrillness or weakness—it rings out in a fierce command.

  ‘Vrasas! The boy belongs to a noble—kill him and you must pay. And if you cannot pay, you or your son will be bonded to the boy’s master.’

  I am a soldier. I call forth all my strength and I control the desire to kill. The old arse-fucker, the old death-lover, he counsels correctly. I release my grip on the slave and he shrieks and brings his trembling hands across his face as the blood gushes. I have damaged him—that eye will never heal. I have enacted some justice. I have killed his beauty.

  There is one more thing I have to do. I unsheath my dagger. The
old man jumps from his bed with an unnatural grace, but I push him back. I take the shivering slave and I grab a handful of his hair and scrape it from his scalp with the knife. I do it again and again, till the blade is wet and coated in blood and scraps of his skin. The dirt around our feet is covered by matted and bloodied clumps of his hair. I continue until he is completely shorn. Then I grab him by the throat, fill my mouth with phlegm and spit in his face, right into the bastard criminal’s broken eye.

  I am righteous and I am with the gods. I let him fall.

  I walk to the prisoner’s water jug, raise it and tip water over my arms and my hands. I make my prayers.

  The slave is keening.

  ‘My beloved,’ the old man says to Timothy, ‘you will take Able to Chloe’s house. They will hand him over to a judge. But tell them to treat him as a brother.’

  Brother? He calls this fugitive scum a brother? This is the madness and corruption of his raped and crucified god. I spit again, right into the old goat’s water jug.

  The prisoner walks over to the degenerate slave and crouches before him. ‘Son, if I could, I would come with you. If I could, I’d bear your punishments. Your master Philemon is a brother.’ He smiles at the distraught slave. ‘He will be lenient.’

  I turn away in revulsion. If the owner is any kind of man, he should show no mercy.

  ‘Get up, boy, get up,’ the old man says, shaking the slave, but his voice is tender and cajoling. ‘You are going home.’

  Still moaning, the boy is on hands and knees.

  I step forward. I don’t trust these vermin atheists to honour their word. To whom would they forswear honour?

  ‘I will take him.’ I kick the slave. ‘Get up, you useless cock-muncher.’

  He obeys immediately. He has been returned to grovelling obedience, to what and who he is. I have done right, by my God and the gods. I have served justice.

  His eye seeps and bleeds and is already swelling. He will never be an object of lust again. That eye will never see and that brow will be forever ruined by the brand of the runaway. His crime and his dishonour will mark him till blessed death takes him. May his master deliver the fatal blow on the slave’s return, so that justice be done. May he order that they crucify the cunt.

  We deliver the criminal. The woman I hand him to is freeborn and dignified; I have to believe that she will deliver the slave to his deserved punishment. I leave that fool, Timothy, at the dwelling of the demented sect. I can hardly bring myself to farewell him. His tunic is soiled from the slave’s blood and tears. May judgement soon be passed on the old atheist. Such a handsome young man should be giving himself over to everything that is potent and manly, he should be fucking a hundred slaves and whores and foolish peasant girls, he should be thinking towards marriage and to children. This cult the old man has bonded him to has destroyed all that is vital.

  That night I do not return to sleep on the roof. Such are the dishonours I have been witness to this day that I fear pollution. Has my prisoner got enough provisions and water for the night? I don’t care. Why do they keep him under house arrest? Why do our lords and senators protect vermin such as he? This is why they rebel against us in the north and the east—they smell our corruption and dissipation.

  I have only one thought, one need, one will: to be with my wife tonight. As I climb into our bed, her mother starts complaining. I tell her to shut her cantankerous old mouth, and I take my wife. It is not customary to be with her so soon after the birth, but I need to kiss her flesh, to feel her plump nipples in my mouth, to inhale her scent, to forget what I have seen. I suck and kiss and taste my wife, I fill my senses with her; and I fill her with my seed. I have to do it. I will ask the gods to grant me clemency. At the temple of Venus and the temple of Mars and the temple of the Great God and the temple of my God and the temple of the Augustan Mortal Made a God, I will kneel and make sacrifices at each altar. But first, tonight, I must embrace and release myself into the intoxicating tastes of my beloved wife. I must be a man tonight to erase all that I have witnessed today.

  Everywhere there is talk of insurrection in the east. The Syrians and Judeans grow proud and violent and reckless; they defy our legions and they defy Rome. Everywhere there is talk of crushing them, once and for all. We have been too soft with them. We have allowed them to disregard our gods and thus they have no respect for us. We hear of a soldier murdered in their city, that whore Jersusalem. We respond by entering their meeting houses here in Rome on their slothful day, we run them out of their homes and march them through the street, we hurl abuse and curses at them. We beat them with righteous fury. We have made exceptions for them, but where is their gratitude? They mock our clemency and perceive it as weakness. We should crush them: march on their city, take it in siege, smash down those ancient walls; we should plunder their gold and bugger their sons and daughters. We should reduce their temple to rubble and banish forever their jealous and angry God. We should make them our slaves.

  A fleet of ships carrying grain from Egypt is lost at sea. The gods are punishing us for indulging the death-worshippers—they will make sure our city goes hungry. To appease them, we root out the secret houses of their unhinged cult that feeds on flesh and drinks blood and worships a corpse nailed to a gallows. We march their acolytes through the streets, we flog them and beat them, we bash their heads against the stones. ‘You worship death, do you, cock-munchers? Good, then you can have it!’

  Hunger. Misfortune. Rebellion. All because of our weakness and leniency. Our indulgence of the death cults: Syrian, Judean and Egyptian. What are these kingdoms? They were once slaves. What should these kingdoms become? Slaves again. We soldiers whispered these things amongst ourselves but the whispers have become louder and now they are heard everywhere. We all demand: Make them our slaves.

  I hold my son. Lupus has grown pudgy, and he has a loud, insistent cry. Thanks to The God and the gods that he is healthy. I hold him in my arms and tell him stories of his ancestors, of our mountain home and of the cold springs that erupt from the ground there. I tell him that he will be what I am and what his ancestors were—he will be a soldier. I leave him with Arté and his sisters; the girls are in thrall to him, fight each other for who will be next to hold him. My Arté is with child again. And I know it will be another son.

  For we are doing The God’s work on the streets—we storm the meeting houses and dwellings of the death cults, ordering them to kneel and to pray to our gods. When they refuse, we slit their throats. We offer their blood to our Emperor and to our city and to her gods. And those effete senators and nobles who have shielded the blasphemers and the Jews, they are terrified of us, terrified of our power. They won’t let their sons walk around the streets of Rome at night. They know our strength, they know our rage, they know that we are blessed by the gods. They know we are right. And my God and the gods, they hear us: Make them slaves! The First Amongst Men hears our roar: Make them slaves! The world hears our promise: We will make them all slaves!

  That is how I know I will have another son. We are taking back our city, we are returning it to the gods.

  And my prisoner? His sorcery is spent; those who have shielded him have slunk away. At the barracks, collecting the old man’s rations, I am ordered to keep a closer watch over him and to deny him any day leave. I understand my orders: the prisoner does not have long to live. He craves death, he calls for it, he holds out his arms for death’s embrace. Death listens and the blade is sharpened. Death is answering his prayers.

  Timothy comes to see him. He is the only one who braves the streets—he is the only friend left. On seeing him, the old man is almost senseless with joy. He grasps at Timothy, kisses his hands, his neck, his face, his hair. Their devotion to each other is so ferocious they are unable to speak. No father has loved a son more than this, I think, then swiftly touch the medallion on my belt, asking first my God for forgiveness and then begging mercy from the shade of my father. I remind myself that theirs is not an honourable affection. The
ir love corrupts.

  ‘Beloved,’ the old goat moans, ‘you must leave.’

  The young man will not let him go. ‘I will not abandon you.’ His voice muffled, his lips brushing the old man’s ragged tunic.

  ‘You do not abandon me, Timos. You have to go back to Greece and Anatolia and bring the world our good news.’

  ‘I will not, I cannot.’ He is as a child. His true father will be cast into shame in the underworld.

  The prisoner takes the younger man’s hand. ‘Listen to me: is he not returning?’

  This time those words do not act as a balm. Timothy shakes his head. ‘I will not leave you here alone.’

  The old man draws upright, fury lending power to his bones.

  I lean forward eagerly, hoping he will hit the younger man.

  ‘Do you understand nothing?’ he says firmly. ‘I’m not alone. I’m with the Lord and with the son and in fellowship with everyone who knows this truth. This is your duty: to spread our truth. I command you to leave.’

  ‘No, brother, no. I have to stay in Rome.’

  I swallow my rage: as if Rome wants you.

  And the old man, for he understands, replies, ‘Rome isn’t safe.’

  Timothy reaches for the old man’s hand, but he is pushed away. He tries again, like a brazen infant desperate for his mother’s tit. The old man crosses his arms and the boy collapses to the ground, defeated.

  ‘If it isn’t safe for me, then it isn’t safe for you,’ Timothy pleads.

  ‘I don’t matter. And you don’t matter.’ The prisoner points towards me. ‘And the sullen Vrasas keeping guard doesn’t matter. All that matters is the Lord and His promise. You will spread that promise. You have to: that is your duty and your test of loyalty.’

  My medallion digs into my palm. My son matters and his son matters and my descendants matter. Stand up, boy, I want to roar at him. Stand and be a man!

  The old prisoner’s voice softens. ‘We of the first generation will soon be gone. Your task now is to instruct the new generation. They will be the ones to witness the Saviour’s return.’