Damascus

by Christos Tsiolkas

  ‘At Benjamin and Agatha’s.’

  Should he add that Thomas is there? He looks across at James. The old man is full of cheer, he has a grandchild on his lap. Saul decides to say nothing.

  ‘You must stay with us.’

  Saul looks around the crowded room and laughs. ‘There is no room, sister.’

  She raises her eyebrows in mock anger. ‘There is always room for one of the apostles.’

  He could kiss her, he could kiss her feet. For her faith in him, for the trust she shows that he was chosen by the Saviour.

  ‘Then I will stay,’ he affirms, and then adds timidly, ‘I will return with our brother Timothy.’

  James, overhearing, lifts his shaggy grey head and booms out over the feasting crowd, ‘Timothy cannot stay.’

  ‘He is of our way and he has been baptised,’ Saul responds brusquely.

  ‘Your friend Timothy is not one of us.’

  ‘His mother was born a Jew.’

  This does not satisfy James. ‘Has he been circumcised?’

  The light abruptly extinguishes as when the flame of a candle is exposed to harsh wind.

  ‘Yes,’ he answers firmly, ‘he has been circumcised.’

  James nods in satisfaction and peace, smiling widely at Saul. Vipers stir in Saul’s chest. Blood does not matter: so spoke their Saviour. Saul is closer to the Lord and to the son than this illiterate peasant. What does James know about the law and the prophets and their faith? He looks at the boy bouncing on the old man’s knee and recalls Thomas’s slur against James. Is this scrawny boy—insipid, you can tell by looking at him, with a lazy mouth—is he to father a dynasty? Can a king of the Jews arise from such a wretched house, from such poverty and ignorance?

  Pride, arrogance, envy: they are the weaknesses of his spirit, equal to the illicit cravings of his flesh—Saul knows this, understands this of himself. The Saviour came from such a house, and so that must have been part of the Lord’s purpose at Creation.

  ‘Friend,’ says Saul, and as he takes James’s hand and kisses it he is convinced he speaks truth, indeed he knows it to be true, ‘our brother Timothy is one of us.’

  As he climbs the path that winds to the summit of Mount Scopus, the blade in his hand feels as heavy as virgin quarry rock. He can hardly breathe from the exertion of carrying it. He follows the well-worn track to Benjamin’s house. The villagers he passes eye him with cold suspicion. They are either mistrustful of the bizarre sect that their neighbours have bonded themselves to, or weary of the proclamations of yet another Saviour. He should feel glad to be amongst his own, not a stranger amongst the Strangers, the burden that has been his for so very long now—but the knife he carries seems a heavier weight.

  As he turns into a narrow lane, nearing the house, he can hear laughter. It is both raucous and harsh and he knows it comes from Thomas. He enters the courtyard to see the man stripped to his waist, a fold of cloth all that shields him from base nakedness. And then Saul feels that his heart might have stopped: his beloved, his Timothy, is lying on the ground. Has the mad Twin felled him? Saul tightens his grip on the knife: he will murder him. But then he sees that the lad, equally and shamelessly nude, can’t get off the ground because he is laughing so much. Thomas is standing above him in the mocking stance of a victor—as if they were children, as if they were play-acting at being gladiator and prey. Arms still raised in victory, Thomas sees Saul and nods. There is a thick flush of hair in his pits, a grey pelt of fur all over his chest and belly and his shoulders. A beast, thinks Saul, the man is an animal. No wonder they mock us and doubt us. This man is a twin to our Saviour?

  Still giggling, the boy rises. His slender limbs are smeared with dirt and sweat. ‘I’m no match for him,’ he says to Saul. He’s proud, shameless.

  Saul wonders how he can believe it’s possible to bring these childlike Strangers to the Lord, raised since birth as they have been with fairy tales of woodland spirits and lascivious gods? He could say that James has not given him his permission, that he is unable to cut Timothy. He could throw the blade into the dirt. That would end the foolish child’s happiness.

  ‘Wash yourself, make your prayers,’ he barks to the boy. ‘What I am about to do is sacred.’

  On hearing him, the oafish Twin comes to stand between Saul and Timothy. ‘Don’t do this, Saul—you know it’s not necessary.’

  He will pledge himself to James; he will give up his mission to the Strangers. Let there be nothing of agreement between himself and Thomas.

  ‘Prepare yourself for the ceremony,’ he orders the youth.

  Timothy runs to him. The boy’s kiss, his long embrace, the heady sting of his sweat and his youth, even these cannot diminish Saul’s rage.

  Saul goes to prepares himself for what is to come, reciting his prayers as he washes himself thoroughly. He doesn’t know why his hand is so unsteady; he has performed this rite countless times. He has circumcised all his nephews, and so many of his neighbours’ and brethren’s children. But this time his hand shakes; it will not be still.

  Benjamin has washed the boy and has also made him drink cup after cup of the sweet and potent newly fermented wine—Timothy is drunk to the point of nearly passing out. As Saul enters the tiny bedchamber he sees that Benjamin is trying to get the lad to smear a wild-nettle balm over his sex. But Timothy is so drunk that he can’t make sense of Benjamin’s urging. He is sprawled on a coarse rug, mumbling in Greek, the words so slurred they are incomprehensible. Saul grabs the bowl of paste and rubs it over the boy’s loins, hoping it will numb him.

  He then holds the blade over a flickering flame until its edge glows red. Benjamin is there to assist him; Thomas is nowhere to be seen. Satisfied the knife is clean, Saul takes several tremulous breaths and takes hold of the hood of skin that covers the youth’s sex. With his other hand he flicks the blade and cuts where the thick skin meets the silken head. Even in his drunken oblivion, the boy heaves and screams as his blood spurts. Benjamin has to push down on Timothy’s chest with all his strength to restrain him. Still the youth twists and convulses and the blood will not stop spraying. His screams are a torment. Thomas bursts into the room, stares in horror. The blood will not cease. The shock of its scarlet gush has turned Saul to stone. Never has he been witness to such an eruption. And the screaming, it is unbearable—the boy’s suffering is unending.

  Thomas, now enraged, takes the blade from Saul and pushes him away. With one hand Thomas pushes down on the boy’s wound, and with the other he holds the knife over the fluttering flame. In the wan candlelight, Thomas’s hand is black from the surging blood. And at this sight, will returns to Saul. He snatches back the blade, and it is he now bending over the lad, it is his hand stemming the flow of the blood. He must save Timothy. All that matters is that it is he—not the Twin, not Benjamin, no, not even the Saviour—it is he, Saul, who must save this boy. He lifts his hand and swiftly and firmly presses the heated blade across the boy’s wound. Timothy releases a howl, bestial and eternal. The room shudders from the violence, and all around is the gamy stench of seared flesh. Thomas and Benjamin, in dutiful attendance now, grimly hold the boy down. And as Saul glances at his own blood-soaked hand, feels the warm seeping damp, a revelation comes to him. It is only blood. It is only of flesh. With this thought, the light descends and the Spirit fills Saul with its warm radiance. This is love, this light; this is love. This is the knowledge that the Saviour brought. That blood does not matter. For blood comes from flesh. And flesh does not matter.

  The screaming has abated; the boy has fallen listless—and the blood has stopped flowing.

  Saul lifts the still-glowing blade.

  The boy mumbles, groans, words splutter from his mouth. Beloved? Is that what he is saying?

  ‘Beloved,’ whimpers Timothy: to Saul, to Thomas? ‘Thank you. You have brought me to Israel.’

  And Saul answers, in a hush that only his Lord can hear: ‘Forgive me, my son—for you were already of Israel.’

  Fr
om this moment on, Saul will attest that to be in the light of the Saviour is to be drained of the blood of kin and of loyalty to land—of all that has gone before. Channah is right to hate him. To know this love is to be reborn as a stranger to the womb that carried you, the seed that formed you, the family that raised you and the kingdom that claimed you.

  Saul sits beside exhausted Timothy as he sleeps, clutching his hand, soothing his fevered brow. If Benjamin and Thomas are still there, he cannot tell. The light and his beloved are all that there is—all that exists in the world. Saul prays to the light and begs to always be in this calm and in this love and in this grace. He now understands perfectly this most ruthless of commandments, this once unspeakable but now unbreakable new covenant of the Lord. Finally, in his anguish and remorse for his beloved, Saul knows it. Blood no longer matters.

  ‘Suffering turns us into egotists, for it absorbs us completely: it is later, in the form of memory, that it teaches us compassion.’

  —MARGUERITE YOURCENAR, ALEXIS

  Such luminance, such clarity. It is as if the very source of light itself comes from this great inland sea. The blue of sky was never so blazing and it is as if in this light I am endowed with immortal gifts: that I can see to the end of the world.

  Along its shore are spread fishermen and their craft—they are mending nets, or bringing in their hauls or setting sail. Across the expanse of water, boats gently rise and fall to the eternal music of the receding and returning waves. But none of that exists, we are invisible to men and we cannot see them; the world only consists of this Galilean Sea, my Thomas and me. His smock and sandals are abandoned on the rocks and he is running into the water. He turns, naked and unashamed, and calls out, ‘Come, lad, come be replenished in this splendid sea. This, my friend, is the Lord’s sea!’ I am made speechless by the wonder of my beloved. He is an old man, his hair as grey as winter, but his vitality is born of a heroic and ancient grace. Age doesn’t diminish such strength; it perfects it. This is what the first man must have looked like, our first father Adam, made in the glory of the Lord’s very image. ‘Come,’ Thomas roars one more time, and then plunges under the water. Fear of him vanishing releases me. I strip off my garments, stepping gingerly across the stones as the sharp rocks bite into my heels and the cold water laps at my feet. The fear grows, it battles the light: I do not trust the spirits and creatures that live below the waves. And just as I am about to scream, to implore the Lord to return Thomas to me, his head and shoulders break the surface. He turns, finds me, and laughs, a boom that rings along the shore and reaches the sky. His reappearance reminds me that I too am now naked. A bashful reticence overcomes me. I look down and I am young, I am handsome again. And then the shock, my horror, as my sex is revealed whole—the bond made with my Lord has been undone. My beloved, understanding my shame, roars again: not only the fishermen but the whole of the world must be able to hear him: ‘Are you obsessed by your cock, boy? Why do you stare at it so?’ I am bewildered, befuddled: I have returned to Galilee, I am in Israel, yet I am as I was when a Stranger. I find my voice. ‘Brother,’ I call out to him, ‘I was a Jew and now I am a Stranger again. How can that be?’ At this, he abandons his paddling and turns to me, incredulous. I hear him speak even though his lips do not move. ‘Circumcision is nothing and to be uncut is nothing—it is only our faith in the Lord that matters.’ It is Thomas’s voice, but he is speaking the words of Paul, my teacher. Shame flares through my body. I feel the tongues of the fire even though I am immersed in cold water. In my exhilaration and happiness I have forgotten my Paul. Thomas has dived back into the water, and when he comes out again it is as if the sun has been suddenly vanquished by night; I cannot discern his features. Is it Thomas, is it Paul? A curious sensation cuts my breath and stops my heart; it is equal terror and wonder and all violence. Is it possible that I am to be granted the vision that has eluded me? Can it be that Jesus the Saviour is with me? Then the shadow’s voice breaks through, the sun pours illumination across the world and it is my Thomas speaking. It is his voice, his laughter. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Timos, you were made perfect already by our Father the Lord.’ Those words quell my shame, return my joy, and I plunge into the water. And there the miracle occurs, for even though I cannot swim I find that my body has become as joyous and reckless as that of a porpoise. I dance, I dive, I tumble and turn in the water, breathing in it as freely as I breathe on land, and my brother is beside me and around me and we circle and leap and play, and he tells me, ‘This is where my twin and I learned to swim, in this very water. This is where we fished and played and laughed as children.’ His hand ducks under the waves and he flicks a finger at my sex; he floats on the water and says, ‘It’s only your piss-rod, Timos, nothing but a piss-rod. My twin would always show his off, just because it was a little bigger than mine—just a little bigger, mind, I promise you that.’ And with his laugh, I am no longer fish, I am now a bird of the sky, and not only can I ride these waters but I am flying across this sea and my strength outstrips that of my brother’s skill and I am being carried by the Lord and I am across the waters and I know that I could easily reach the distant shore. I stop, the warm sun kisses my face, the great lake is a bed that I am lying on, and though I know I could sleep here, I could fall to eternal rest here, I know that my brother is no longer with me, that I have left Thomas far behind. I am looking up to the sun, the water lifts me towards the sun, and all that is evil is undone. This is the kingdom to come. But as I face the burning orb a thick cloud gathers weight and speed and it blackens the world, and when I turn my gaze back to shore there is nothing. The fishermen, their craft, Thomas: all are gone. And I scramble and my strokes are useless and the water is no longer air, the water is now death and I must use all of my will and strength to return to this empty shore. And as I do, finally, exhausted, near collapse, as my feet touch earth, I see Paul, I see my teacher, he is coming towards me, he is calling me but I cannot hear his words, and he shouts, his chest heaves and rolls, he must be bellowing, and as I break free of the water and I stand on land, I see him point to my nakedness and I hear his words—‘I was wrong, Timos, I was wrong’—and when I look down to my body, below the blood-soaked pelt of my loins, where there was once my sex there is now only a gash, raw and violently purple meat; flyblown, host to crawling, feasting maggots. And I look back to my teacher and it is the horror in his eyes as much as that grotesque sight which makes me scream.

  I awake. It is still night. I am mortified to find that my hand has reached down to my loins. I cup the slug that is my sex, I feel for my sacs. I am whole. All that remains of the ill-omened dream is the stink of my sweat. I am drenched in it. I rise, crouch over the chamber-pot, and release my urine. In the quiet of night it sounds shockingly loud, and I am not surprised to hear a knock on the door. I call out to wait and I hurriedly dress and open the door.

  ‘I heard you scream, teacher. Are you not well?’

  Brother Impetuous is my favourite. We are not meant to favour one over another—we are all equal in the eyes of our Lord. But I have never been able to master such a virtuous equilibrium. Impetuous is still a youth. Even in the faint light from the moon, the wispy beard that he is attempting to grow is comical. I resist the urge to tickle him under his chin.

  ‘It was a wicked dream that awoke me, brother,’ I answer him. ‘There is nothing to fear.’

  ‘Was it also ominous?’

  ‘Not at all. I suspect I overindulged at our table.’

  He nods. I know the rumours that circulate amongst the younger brothers: Uncle Timothy is fond of his wine. He places a palm over his chest as he says, ‘He is coming, brother.’ I do the same as I answer, ‘Truly, brother, he is returning.’

  I don’t go back to bed; it will be impossible to sleep now. I struggle to get to my knees and groan as a jolt of pain shoots up my left side. The younger brothers encourage me to use a cushion, or at least a rug, but I have always refused. The first amongst us, those such as my b
eloved Paul, they prayed with their knees on rocky ground or on wooden planks. I refuse to do otherwise.

  I speak my prayers, the words come easily, but I cannot find peace. Snatches of the dream return to me.

  My dearest Paul, you came to me tonight. Surely that must be an omen.

  I force my will to turn away from the nightmare; I intone the words that Paul taught me in my youth. ‘The Lord God is with me and I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?’

  There is an affliction that comes with age. It is not what the young think it is—a loss of memory. It is rather the blurring of time with memory. This ailment can strike at any moment, from full wakefulness to fitful sleep. As I try to lose myself in the sacred words, the face of my teacher vanishes and instead I see the Twin. He also came for me tonight. It feels as if he is here beside me: I inhale his smell, I sense his fury, his impatience. And I hear his laughter, the infectious sound that collects one up as does the great north wind and takes you soaring with it to the heavens. I see him, I hear his laugh and his voice, and I am overwhelmed by the need to abandon this world and return to the lull of sleep.

  My brothers, my teachers Paul and Thomas, are more real to me than this room I am in. I am drugged by the power of the dream: I cannot make order of my prayers, I cannot remember the ancient words.

  I bow, kiss the rough floorboards, beg mercy from my God.

  What is required is work. In activity I lose myself to the Lord as fervently as I do in prayer. But it is still night and I dare not leave the room; it would be selfish to awaken the others. Fortunately the moon is nearly full and I take my desk and move it so that it catches the beams shafting through the window. I kneel before the table, take my quill and dip the tip in the thick ink. I let it drip to a point and on the rough-skinned and virgin parchment I begin to write.

  For the last year I have been recording the words of our Saviour. It is a task that I have been urged to do by the new generation. At first I resisted such requests, believing that they betrayed the promise of our Redeemer and mocked our first vow that is also our first prayer: Truly, he is returning. But if youth is impatient and ruthless, it can also perceive the necessity for change that we, the elderly, resist in our resignation and our adherence to the old ways. Our family grows: we are three generations now. And another just born that will need to be instructed in the teachings of our prophet.