It is the smarting nip of cold that releases me from my anxious thoughts. I wrap my threadbare robe more tightly around my shivering body. I suddenly become aware that a silence has fallen over my city. Fear overtakes me. Activity has stopped and everyone is staring up at a swirling dark whirlpool of cloud that is rolling ominously over the library and the amphitheatre. Shadow has covered the earth. All is quiet save for the bleat of goats, the anxious barking of dogs and the squawking of gulls. A lone billow of cloud breaks free from its mother and re-forms as a titan’s finger—a sliver of grey stretching out its long dark nail. The cloud finger points down from the heavens to Artemis’s temple. And in the next moment, as I exhale, the silence becomes a whisper becomes a shout becomes a cacophony.
‘An omen,’ they cry, and run to the temple. Prayers cascade from my lips. I give silent thanks for Denisia’s friendship and loyalty. I know my city—I have lived here long enough to be an adopted son. If the priestess had revealed last night’s desecration, if that had become known, the inhabitants of this city would have fallen on us as rabid beasts. The Ephesians would have slit all our throats.
I hear a voice. ‘Father Timothy, the Lord be praised—I have found you.’
Brother Heracles is a dwarf. He stoops more than I do and his hair is whiter than mine, even though he is not yet half my age. A former owner thought it a great joke to name his misshapen servant after the ancient colossus. When he tired of him, the owner sold Heracles to a travelling circus troupe. But the wife of the circus owner had been baptised into our way and championed the dwarf’s release. She’d been appalled by the cruel jokes made at his expense and the savagery of the beatings he’d had to endure to satisfy the audience. Out of gratitude, he too accepted our faith and has been a steadfast servant to the Lord ever since. Born on the northern shores of the Hospitable Sea, his tribulations and sufferings have not once shaken the code of respect that is shared by his people. As I am an elder, he will only address me as Father.
He spies a clearing in the mob marching to the temple and runs across the square to me.
‘What is it, Brother Heracles?’
He takes a moment to recover his breath. ‘Father,’ he finally splutters, ‘we are graced with a visitor. Father Able has come from Colossae.’
The little man then takes my hand, seeking to guide me back home. The generosity rooted in the soil of his homeland will not countenance keeping a guest waiting.
I have a darker heart. I would gladly evade that scoundrel Able.
I am untethered, reduced by such an ungenerous thought. It is me who is half a man, not Brother Heracles. He is the proof of the righteousness of our faith: it is the lowly, the despised and the broken who best comprehend the words of the resurrected son.
‘Lead the way, brother,’ I command. ‘We must of course welcome our guest.’
Heracles and I have long practised an ungainly but by now harmonious step. He makes rapid leaps to compensate for his short steps but they perfectly match my elderly shuffle as we lock step, hand in hand. Our grip tightens as we pass the long shadow of Artemis. The crowd gathering before the temple steps is dense and unyielding; we have to squeeze our way through the crush. The omen has long dissolved and slashes of blue sky are visible through the shifting cumulus. The aged priestess is standing on the top step, haranguing the mob for its impiety and the meanness of its offerings. The flower-sellers are all smiling as the admonished crowd push and fight to be the first to buy garlands of petals and fruit for the goddess.
As we make our escape on the other side of the crowd I hear her call out, ‘Brother Timothy, I expect you to keep your promise.’
The crowd is too busy proving themselves most devout and find no sinister meaning in her words. But I turn to her and nod. Her eyes are closed, her hands are cupped and raised above her head as she implores her goddess to show leniency to her adorers.
We turn into our alley. Smoke from the burning hearths and cooking fires obscures the sloping frames of the precarious dwellings. At the end of the teeming dank lane is our home.
The adults and children are out scrounging for work, scavenging for food, or begging. Only the very ill and the nursing mothers have been left behind. The women are at their domestic tasks: cleaning or pounding grain or kneading bread. They greet us: ‘He has risen, he is returning.’ And we answer them: ‘Truly, he has risen. Truly, he is returning.’ They go back to their work.
Heracles drops my hand. His voice low, his apology clear in his mumbling, he says, ‘The esteemed father is in your room.’
We have no property—all is shared as the anointed son has commanded. It is only our community’s respect for my venerable age that grants me the favour of a bed of my own and a room to myself. These are gifts, not possessions. But today my emotions are not worthy of my belief. My mood is foul as I climb the swaying planks. I knock sharply and do not wait for a reply as I enter my room.
My antipathy only increases when I see him stooped over my small desk, one hand laid over the papyrus parchment. But as I storm over to him, I remember that Able cannot read. My anger dissipates. Those frail shoulders, those tremulous hands and those thin, unsteady legs. We have both lived too long.
He stands, peers confusedly towards me, even though the shutter is open and the room is bathed in clear light. His shattered eye, destroyed long ago by a brutish gaoler in Rome, is an unsightly carapace. But his other eye too is now dead, sunk in a milky pool. He is nearly blind. I announce myself and we embrace. The breath that wheezes through his toothless mouth is surprisingly redolent. He exists on a frugal diet of vegetables and fruit, and forbids himself meat and milk. I fancy that my own breath is unpleasant to him for he sucks in his lips. A little of my ire returns. But I quell it and say cordially, ‘He has risen, brother.’
He pecks my cheek and responds, ‘Truly, he has risen.’
I return the kiss. ‘He is coming, brother.’
‘Truly, he is returning.’
Our greeting over, we are strangely tongue-tied. To break the silence I offer him the stool. He refuses and I offer it again. Only on my third bidding does he sit himself down while I arrange myself warily and painfully on the low bed. His sightless gaze follows the rustling of the bed straw and he turns to face me. But his blindness is such that he stares high above my head.
He clears his throat. ‘I hope you don’t mind, brother, but while I was waiting for you I examined your room. It is a large one.’
He is swallowing his spit, the knuckle on his throat rising and falling like a buoy at sea. The motion disgusts me. And his words are an affront.
‘It’s not that large. I have continually asked the brethren to let me sleep in the dormitory. But they refuse.’
He grins as he nods. ‘Of course, of course, you are the supervisor and head of the assembly in Ephesus. It is a small luxury and undoubtedly deserved.’
I take the advantage of my still-functioning eyes and examine him carefully. He is unbearably thin. The trek from his home to here is long and must have been arduous—the skin on his face and on his arms is blistered, on his nose it has peeled and become scabrous. Still faintly visible are the three Latin letters carved on his brow so long ago: the F and the G and V, the fugitivus of the runaway slave. It is a reminder that should lead me to sympathy. But in recalling his beauty as a youth, I find the old man before me even more repugnant to behold. How is it that we have become so hideous? He is younger than I but looks older. His puckered mouth that he constantly chews and licks as he sucks in air with the desperate terror of a fish caught in the nets; the gnarled fingers and bony wrists, skin marked by pox and scabs; the tufts of hair that protrude from his sunburned ears studded by thick yellow wax. He is vile—so much worse than me. I glance down at his naked feet. One foot is engorged, adorned by red pustules close to bursting. My pride is chastened.
‘What happened to your foot?’
‘It is nothing—an adder bit me while I walked. But the Lord protected me and the poison w
as expelled in a night’s fever.’
Amid the swelling and bruises, the two crimson slashes of the bite are visible.
I am wicked. Able is my brother, and one beloved by the apostle, our teacher, Paul. ‘I have some nettle balm. Let me rub it into your foot; it will be soothing.’
He makes protestations but I must atone for my vanity and pride. I find the salve and then, kneeling before him, start rubbing it into the diseased foot. As I do he slurps and kneads his gums in contentment. The enormous blisters crackle as I rub them, then burst, releasing their poison across my hands. I swallow my nausea.
‘You should have sent us warning of your arrival—we are not prepared for you.’
He lifts his chin and tilts his head, as if to survey a room he cannot see. ‘All I need, Timothy, is a cot and some bread. We are not used to comfort in Colossae. I will sleep with the brethren.’
My anger returns. Sanctimonious, overweening in his servility—Able has not changed. I finish my chore, get up with a groan and walk to the water jug. I wash my hands. Thoroughly.
Able clears his throat. ‘Timothy, I was sent for. I received a message from your brethren asking me to come to Ephesus.’
My flesh turns cold. I feel ill at the treachery. Then it is as if I am emptied: all that is solid within me is replaced by weariness.
‘Are you angry?’
I set down the water jug but I do not turn to face him. I can’t bear the sight of him. ‘Who sent for you?’
‘Does it matter?’
I walk to the window and look up at the Lord’s sky. I close my eyes, willing the screen of the heavens to split, for this to be the moment of the Saviour’s return. I am too old and too tired and I have no strength for this.
Able’s sightless eyes are searching for me. ‘Brother,’ he says cheerfully, ‘you are the overseer of Ephesus and I am overseer to the assembly of Colossae. We are chosen and we are equal.’
I detest that word: overseer. The Saviour has not yet returned and these old donkeys, many of them not long freed men, are jostling for lordships in the coming kingdom.
The heat of the sun warms my face. I open my eyes and the punch of the glare is a reminder of my Lord’s power. I am sickened by my ungenerous heart. I am not equal to my teacher. None of us are masters and none of us are slaves.
‘Why did they send for you?’
He shuffles on his seat, guided by my voice. ‘People are distressed that you give shelter to temple prostitutes and share your feast and your thanksgiving with them.’
The petty hatreds from the east—they come loaded with them on their broken backs, along with their destitution and their hunger.
‘They are also our brethren,’ I answer. ‘They too have been baptised and born anew to the Lord.’
‘They are whores.’
I know how to answer him. ‘And the Saviour will ask us, “Are we without sin?” Only the Lord can judge.’
‘Only the Lord can judge, Brother Timos.’ His answer is swift and infuriating. ‘But the Saviour did not mean the adultress to continue in her wickedness. Do you shelter whores that continue to sin?’
Their vengeful hatred extends even to children. Barius and Apollodoros, bonded to the brothels, are not yet men; Goldenhair and Verga are just shy of maidenhood. It is these children whom his words condemn.
As I struggle for a response, my tongue silenced by his unctuous piety, I look again to the sun and my eyes are slammed by an iridescent light: the force of it is so strong it becomes a gust that enters my mouth and nose and eyes and fills my body.
I was wrong.
My beloved, my teacher, my Paul. The sky is not empty and his voice is that rending of Heaven that I was longing for. Emboldened by the force of the sun within me, I am not the old spent man in his cell, I am young and full of vigour: I am sitting next to my beloved as the frightened, beautiful slave kneels before us and the sour reek of the crippled Roman guard fills my nostrils.
My back to Able, I answer him with Paul’s words. ‘Till the kingdom comes, brother, each man will remain in the condition in which he was called.’
I turn to the old man who was once a beguiling youth. ‘Weren’t you a slave when you were called?’
This time my words shake him. His responding rage is of such intensity I feel its flutter against my skin.
He points to the brand on his brow. ‘I obeyed. Brother.’ He makes spit of that last word. ‘I obeyed and went back to my owner. I returned to the place I was called, as Paul requested, to await the advent of the Saviour.’
Having unsettled him, I can afford charity. ‘And the brethren you condemn are also in the place they were when they were called.’
His strength is equal to mine—I fear it may be greater. He has collected his will, and his fury is evident in the straightening of his back.
‘I returned to my owner as Paul commanded, but I returned as a child of the Lord. I did not foul my body or my spirit. I became his slave again but not his whore. I told him, “Slice my throat—I prefer death to your dishonouring me.”’
I must trust that compassion begets compassion. I step away from the window, kneel before him, the crack of my hipbone so loud it makes him start. I touch his thigh, bring him back from fear.
‘Able, your master Philemon belonged to our way, he believed what we believe. These lads and girls you condemn have been promised to the false gods. If they relinquish their servitude in the temples they will be killed.’
It is as if he can see me. The pearly cloud of his intact eye stares right into mine. ‘Then they will be righteous and pure when they are risen to the Lord.’
The blood of my father, Greek, ancient, honourable and proud, swirls and engulfs my body. I am my father’s blood, I can hear his insults: ‘You chaste and dickless charlatans! You are fanatics to a death cult!’
‘They are children,’ I insist.
‘I was a child too!’
And suddenly he jolts, his mouth twisting into a hideous grin. ‘You are the overseer of Ephesus, Timos, the supervision of this assembly is yours. I won’t interfere.’
‘Thank you.’
But my concession is premature. The grin does not leave his mouth. ‘That is not the only concern the brethren have, however.’
‘What else?’
‘They are unhappy that you will not immerse their children.’
Again, the sting of betrayal. The fierce blood of my father and the wise words of my teacher seep from me and take my strength with them.
‘I do not baptise infants,’ I answer weakly.
‘These men and women, these poor souls who have suffered so much, they want their children to be with them in the raised kingdom. Your heart cannot be unmoved by this.’
We are as the psalmists: How long, Lord, how long must we wait?
‘Able,’ I say carefully, ‘you and I are disciples to the apostles. We know that only those who repent of this world are able to enter the coming kingdom. I can only baptise those who can make such a vow.’
I am astonished: he has reached for my face, his touch is gentle and full of care.
‘I am glad I cannot see you, Timos. I can trace your wrinkles, I can feel your age, but within the blank canvas of my eyes I imagine you as I first met you in Rome.’
Closing my eyes, I too reach for his face, his shrunken and weathered skin. I force memory to return to me the image of his youth.
We abandon our touch at the same moment.
‘Is it a gospel you are writing?’
‘Yes,’ I answer. ‘The younger brethren have demanded it of me for years. I have succumbed.’
‘The life and death and the resurrection of the Lord?’ There is a harsh click to his tongue as he asks the question.
‘The life and death and the resurrection of the son.’
He works his mouth, his tongue darts across his gums. ‘And are you writing of our teacher Paul?’
‘Of him as well.’
‘Of his vision?’
&nb
sp; ‘Of his encounter with Yeshua the Saviour.’
He sniffs, his mouth contorts and he puckers greedily; as he does so comets of red and black disturb my sight, they burst into dazzling white light; my cell seems at a tilt, a stab of ferocious pain is at my hip and I put my hand on the wall to steady myself. It is as if he were sucking the living air from the room.
‘The young are curious,’ he says, ‘as they should be. They are also easily swayed by rumours and lies. It is good that you, beloved of our teacher, are writing a gospel.’ He puts a halt to his slurping. A tremor of reticence creeps into his voice. ‘I too am writing one.’
You cannot write—you are an illiterate. At once, I am appalled by my Greek pride.
‘I will be glad to read it,’ I answer. ‘We will share it with the brethren here in Ephesus.’
He waves a hand up and down, acknowledging my civility. Then he springs a question. ‘What did the apostle Paul tell you of his encounter with the Saviour?’
A shadow falls across the room. In the endless void of open sky a cloud has suddenly appeared to mask the sun. I resist my first impulse, born from my father’s blood, to discern in it a warning.
I keep my voice even and unhurried. ‘That for three days he was enclosed in light, with Jesus our Saviour by his side.’
He nods in contented agreement to this. ‘The resurrected Lord was the light that blinded him. Is that not so?’
My knees tremble, my head feels heavy and a swooning rocks the room. ‘Excuse me, brother.’
Cautiously, that I might not faint, I walk over to my bed and fall on it. I mean no dishonour to him. I want to stop the shifting of light in my eyes, to still my nausea. I lie across my bed, concentrating on the rise and fall of my chest.
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