Damascus

by Christos Tsiolkas

  A fury burns in Jerusalem, a wrath so untameable that it threatens to engulf kingdoms and empires. No one is safe. Saul had returned to the Sacred City, as always relieved and grateful to find himself in the city of his Lord; and as always anxious and suspicious of the reception that awaited him there.

  Even on that first day, he had witnessed how the Temple’s priests were now shadowed on the streets by bodyguards, so fearful were they of the Zealot’s dagger. In those first few hours he had been told about Ethan, whom Saul remembers as the arrogant and unfriendly young lad who would treat him with such contempt when paying him for his work in hunting the followers of Yeshua. Ethan’s throat had been slashed by a young rebel furious that the priest was being employed by the royal house. The assassin had shouted, ‘Roman dog,’ as he hacked at the priest.

  Rage burned everywhere. It was only on turning into the narrow lane to James’s house that Saul started, realising that he had not crossed the path of one rich man on the way—the noble and wealthy now also feared Jerusalem’s streets. ‘Roman dogs!’ was the favoured term of abuse. As he entered James’s house hand in hand with Timos, Saul understood that even his own brethren now lived in fear. Their thanksgiving that first night was hushed, their proclamations muted so that their neighbours wouldn’t hear. ‘Be careful, Saul,’ James had warned him. ‘We are not safe.’ But Saul could not resolve to silence, it was an impossibility. After all that he’d forsaken and all that he’d been granted in the light of his new conviction, to be silent would be a betrayal of it all.

  To return to Jerusalem, he and Timothy had travelled from Ephesus through the mountains of Anatolia down to Antioch, where they had been taken to the forlorn and desolate mountainside on which the Strangers left their unwanted infants. There they had kneeled in the cave where Lydia was buried, and prayed for her soul. She had been the first Stranger he had brought to the Lord; how he had wept at the sacrifice she’d made for her faith, for her daughter. ‘You will be first, Lydia,’ he had vowed. ‘When we see each other again, you will be greater than I, greater than Timothy, greater than us all. You will be first.’ They had trekked the desert valleys and traversed the severe peaks of the east, in mourning for a friend now gone, but also in constant joy because of their certainty of an eternal reconciliation with her. The light had bestowed on him that gift of joy, expressed daily in singing and laughing and sleeping on rough rocks and going hungry and ravenously scoffing wild berries and finding pools and streams to wash in. How glad his heart had been on the road; what joy to be sharing it with his Timothy.

  How then can Saul be silent? Not that he was a fool—he hadn’t been reckless. But he had been drunk, an old weakness of his, the wine, so rare now and therefore so welcome. He and Timothy had settled in a tavern and there no one had spoken of dogs, Roman or Jewish—Zealots and rebels had no time for taverns. They hadn’t taken foolish risks, they had been laughing and singing, as if the small dark room they were in was an extension of the glorious road. They had been singing and laughing—what harm could that possibly have done to the world? Saul had no memory of getting back to James’s house, no recollection of crashing into bed, no sense of his arms folding around his Timos—no memory at all. And then he’d felt the violent shaking, his nephew’s face above him, dousing them both with water, Gabriel urging: ‘Wake up, Uncle, they are coming for you.’

  Then everything had been a blur: James giving them clothes, a sister preparing food for their journey, being taken into the cold night, his throat parched, his stomach roaring, making their way through the deserted streets, bribing the Roman sentry to let them pass. Still feeling drunk, stumbling through valley and up mountain, to their sister Agatha and their brother Benjamin, their mules tethered and waiting, of their ride through bitter night into cold morning and warm day, his head pounding and his heart leaping, following the sun’s arc along mountain ridge and desert plain, through another night and into a new day, Gabriel with them, Timothy riding beside him, until they reached the summit of a small hillock and there before them lay the impossible breadth of Creation’s first ocean. The sea breeze kissed their burnt faces. There before them lay Caesarea, the Stranger’s city. When they reached the gates, Gabriel gave him over to the Roman guards, vouching that his uncle was a Roman citizen—‘Roman dog, Roman dog!’—and that a fair trial was not possible in Jerusalem and pledging his own freedom as surety if his uncle were to escape.

  It wasn’t until a bored and weak-chinned young Roman soldier escorted them to the giant stone walls of the prison that Saul had fallen on his knees and given in to tears, knowing what his nephew had risked in bringing him there. Another bribe had again been paid. Out of the tithes that he and Timothy had brought from Ephesus and Antioch? Saul had been too ashamed to ask. And finally he had heard the nature of his crime. Sedition. Saul had proclaimed that Yeshua was king, anointed so by the Lord—a crime to Rome and a blasphemy in Jerusalem. He had wept and raged trying to explain: ‘In the kingdom to come, in the Kingdom to come,’ he’d insisted—but Timothy had kneeled and whispered: ‘They do not understand your meaning.’ And they hadn’t—the Roman guards had thrown him into his cell. Timothy, ever loyal, ever loving, had said he would not leave him, and Gabriel had declared that he would never forsake their blood bond.

  As always, reflecting on his nephew’s kindness, deep in his subterranean cell with no day and no night, Saul’s tears well again and will not cease. I am blessed, he thinks. Truly, the Lord is good.

  Here, in the Stranger’s capital in Judea, in this city built to Rome and named for the eternal emperor, he is safe.

  He hears a rustling, the sound of a body shifting on the straw.

  His eyes have become attuned to the black void of the cell. The other man’s form is faintly discernible as a shape denoted by thin, phosphorous light—but was that his mind seeing things? Saul listens to the harsh rasp of the man’s breathing; a sickness is there, clinging to the man’s lungs.

  ‘Are you awake?’

  The form does not answer. But the breathing stops, as though in fear at Saul’s question. Then an onslaught of coughing racks the night. Carefully, finding his balance in the darkness, Saul rises and makes his way to the man’s bed. His fingers quickly search the dirt floor, brushing aside the rat droppings that litter their cell. Saul finds the cup—blessedly there is still water in it—and groping first chest then neck, finds the man’s lips and brings the cup to them. The man’s tongue laps at the water, makes a last feeble cough, and slumps back on his bedding.

  ‘Thank you, brother.’

  At first, Saul had kept faithful to the vow he’d made to the brethren in Jerusalem and had not spoken to the man. ‘He is no longer our brother,’ James had told him in a terrible rage. ‘No longer my brother in blood, but he is also not brother of our fellowship. He is more repugnant to us now than the most cursed and ignorant of Strangers.’ Saul and the others had agreed to uphold the condemnation. The man was to be disowned.

  On the shocking realisation that he was to share a cell with the pariah, Saul determinedly ignored the man and pretended he wasn’t there. Though the span of their cell was barely five paces, they had wordlessly divided it into two, each taking their allotted half for prayers and ablutions, for sleep and for meals. The outcast had initially attempted to initiate conversation, pleading for charity, listing their mutual amities and their shared persecutions, but Saul had strictly honoured his vow. Soon, the man bowed to his wishes and succumbed to the inexorable silence. Saul had made his intent clear: no reconciliation, no fellowship, no communication was possible with a soul so corrupted and damned.

  Then the rat had bitten Saul. The vermin overran the prison and their scuttling and gnawing competed with the muted steps of their guards above and the scraping of the gaolhouse doors opening and closing. The rat must have been burrowing in the straw bed when Saul’s foot had moved against it in his sleep. He had awoken with a scream, the rat’s razor-sharp teeth sinking deep into his heel. The pain had been imm
ediately unbearable, as if burning needles had been thrust into his flesh.

  The condemned man had woken and called out; it had been a shock to hear that voice, deep and hoarse, that resonant blunt burr, a voice of the earth and of unstinting toil. With his peasant’s wisdom, the man had pissed into his chamber-pot and sluiced Saul’s foot with the urine. He’d then cleaned the wound with the remains of the water, and had then put his mouth over the punctures to suck out the poison, spitting it out and again rinsing the wound in urine. A delirium had overtaken Saul and he had felt himself slipping in and out of the world, beset by dreams and visions, awakening to the agony of the pain flaring in his foot. Through all of it, the man had not once relinquished his hold on Saul. With the arrival of the guard, who always carried a lantern—had he himself called out for wine to dull the torment or had the apostate persuaded their gaoler to bring it?—his fellow prisoner had poured the intoxicant down Saul’s throat. And when Saul was close to stupefaction, the man had taken the flame and held it against Saul’s foot. He had screamed, and then came the bliss of oblivion. When he had awoken, the blasphemer was still cradling him; a strip of cloth torn from the man’s ragged tunic was tied around the wound.

  Saul had made a promise with his brethren in Jerusalem, had sworn a vow to banish the condemned man from the Lord and from their faith and family and from their way and from the world. ‘He is he who does not exist. He has no name and his life is worth less than death’—that had been their shared oath. But on coming to, the pain now little more than an irritating throbbing, Saul could only feel gratitude to the man and his kindness. And his heart could not stay closed.

  ‘Thank you, Thomas.’

  The man had been about to lean forward to kiss Saul, but had drawn back realising the iniquity of his apostate’s touch. But now that Saul, in his fever, had broken his pledge to silence, dialogue was possible between them.

  He dips his hands into the now-empty cup, his fingers touching the chalky ceramic bottom, where some moisture remains. He brings his fingers to Thomas’s lips and places the drops of water on them.

  ‘Thank you, brother.’

  Saul binds his heart again. ‘We are not brothers.’

  He returns to his bed, his back to the fellow. He kneels, then prostrates himself to the invisible Lord, making prayers and thanksgiving. From the next bed comes another violent racking, the wretched clearing of the lungs, the sound raw and ugly, the splat of phlegm on the dirt. Then barely discernible murmuring; the other man is also praying. They pray together but apart, as if now they belong not only to separate sects but even to separate gods; they pray till they hear the bolt being wrenched from the lock, till they see the flickering lamplight.

  ‘Get up,’ the guard orders.

  The other man continues to pray on his knees. Saul rises, wincing and rubbing where the straw has become embedded in his palms. He takes his chamber-pot and bows before the guard. But the guard is looking at the man at prayer.

  ‘Hey,’ the guard calls out again, ‘you too—get off your fucking knees.’

  Saul and Thomas glance warily at each other. Since they have shared a cell, the protocol has always been the same. Saul, who is younger but looks the elder, is the first to be taken to throw out his waste and to glimpse some sun. Then the guard returns for Thomas. So why is he demanding that Thomas rise now? Saul’s blood chills. Are they being taken for execution? He finds his feet are frozen, that he has lost the ability to command his limbs. As ink disperses when spilled in water, so the panic flares. He can’t move, he can’t speak and a shadow descends on his vision. This is indeed death calling. He will fall, his bowels will release.

  Until a hand is placed against his back.

  ‘Careful, scholar.’ Thomas has taken his weight.

  He won’t allow himself to fear death more than Thomas, he won’t be bested by someone who denies the resurrection of the Saviour, who is possessed by demons that have bored into his heart and into his head—for how else could anyone account for the illiterate fool’s wrong claims? That the kingdom has come? What absurdity. That the kingdom is this shithole? That this fallen and brutal world was the Lord’s intended Creation? It is an abomination beyond abomination.

  Saul must not show fear. Rage is stronger than terror. He roars, ‘Do not touch me!’

  Separately, apart, they follow the guard.

  They are led past the cells down a corridor of the prison, and then ordered to climb rickety, dangerous ladders; their step is painstaking and careful. They are led to the first antechamber. That too is dark, but this time the guard doesn’t herd them in their usual direction. Instead they are led into a second antechamber. Stooping under the low ceiling, they emerge into an unfamiliar room and are blinded by the light of the sun, harsh and terrible. Saul covers his eyes in order to block the glare and regain his balance. He can smell the sweet exhilarating scent of wild fennel. He warily opens his eyes to see a profusion of life: plants bloom in pots studded across the light-coloured wall, and there is a blaze of wild poppies growing among the colonnades, their vermilion colour so intense that it too sears his vision. Red—how long has it been since he’s seen the colour red? Behind him, Thomas must be experiencing the same awe, for his hands are skimming the flowers until the guard barks out another order and takes them through an arch into the next room.

  Both prisoners fall to their knees. They have walked into the most intense of deliriums. They are assailed by colour, sensation, the whorls and rapid shifts of motion; it is as if the world is spinning. Saul has to close his eyes tight, to bring them to pain by that squeezing, in order to escape the ferocity on the walls and gain peace in the blackness. He hears nothing but his breath, and only guided by its gradual slowing, by the calming of the clamour of his heart, does he dare to open his eyes once again.

  This must be how the world looks to a newborn infant.

  The chamber is flooded with light that streams from an opening in the ceiling. A fountain, a statue of Hermes, stands majestically in a pool, one hand on his bow and the other hand, palm open, lifted in honour to the sun. Spread over the four walls, across the ceiling and along the tiled floor is the demon universe of the Strangers. The kneeling prisoners are looking straight into a massive depiction of Apollo, the sun god, raging from his chariot and rampant stallions. The cloak and tunic of the Strangers’ god glistens with gold leaf; from his hair sunbeams shine up to the heavens in alternating flashes of silver and gold. The god’s left hand holds the reins of his horses but the other hand reaches across the wall—across mosaics of polished amethyst, of crushed cerulean-inked stone, of agate and amber—to where the First Amongst Men, the first of the emperors, the revered and feared and adored conqueror, the great Augustus reclines naked, holding a jewelled staff and wearing a shimmering crown atop his noble head. The false goddess Roma, shrouded as a priestess, stands above him, her hands open in supplication and adoration. Above the mortal emperor made god and the goddess of the city two Latin words are inscribed into the wall. Divi Filius: The Son of God.

  This despicable and most absurd of all the Strangers’ lies returns Saul to himself and to the truth of his faith and to the righteousness of the Lord. He has seen this falsehood proclaimed from the most eastern reaches of Syria, through the breadth of Anatolia and within the very heart of the Hellenic lands. He is not moved nor cowed nor fearful. He is safe in the nobility of his truth. There is the Lord. There is only the Lord. There is nothing above or approximate to the Lord. He knows truth and the world sees only deception.

  The guards order that the prisoners prostrate themselves facing the entrance and touching their brows to the stone floor. Saul and Thomas obey; and then the guards too salute and kneel.

  Saul hears approaching footsteps but doesn’t dare look up until a voice, light and gentle as a morning songbird, commands them to rise. Even so, he is careful to keep one knee on the ground. Before them is a lady of the highest caste, evidenced by her artfully arranged plaited coiffure, the nobility of h
er stance, and the cloak of Phoenician purple covering her slender frame.

  She looks first at Saul, then at the other. They both lower their gaze.

  ‘Which one of you is Thomas, son of Joseph?’ she asks. ‘Which one of you is the twin of the Saviour?’

  Thomas is silent.

  ‘He is, my lady. But he doesn’t speak Greek.’ As he answers, Saul’s eyes stay resolutely fixed on the tiled floor.

  ‘Rise, sir,’ she commands him. ‘I am the Lady Drusilla and I welcome you.’

  For the first time he looks into her eyes. They are peaceful, unblinking, but he senses a piercing sadness within their depths.

  ‘And you are Paul, the great teacher?’

  He smiles, lowers his eyes once more. ‘I am Paul of Tarsus. But I am not great. It is the Lord who is great, as is His chosen Redeemer.’ He hesitates. Then submits. He will give the anointed son the Greek name. ‘Jesus the Saviour.’

  He senses that he is under careful scrutiny. He is aware of the disgrace of his appearance, that he is before her unwashed and ungroomed.

  She calls out to the guards, not looking at them as she does so: authoritative, dismissive. ‘Leave us.’

  The two young guards are uncertain, afraid of offending her but also of being in danger of abandoning their duty.

  She is cold. ‘I will not repeat my command. Your lord, the governor, is aware that I wish to speak to these prisoners in private. I have my husband’s consent.’

  At these words, the boys beat their chests, bow and retreat, walking backwards, still bowing.

  The lady walks across the chamber and sits on a marble bench against the wall. She carefully folds the drapes of her robes over her ankles and feet. She beckons the men over. They stand before her and Saul is reminded of schoolboys nervously approaching a tutor. He almost laughs.

  ‘Teacher,’ she says, ‘you have seen the Saviour?’