‘I followed him through Galilee. And he preached and some listened and a few joined us. He rattled off prophecies and commandments everywhere we went. He kept telling me, “I’m bringing the words of the Lord and of the judges and the prophets to our people, brother, that is my purpose.”’
Thomas has his head back and is laughing. ‘All bullshit. It was the road he really loved. It was being on the road and away from work and responsibility and family and village gossip.’
Thomas winks. ‘Me too. I’d been working since I was a boy, I was happy to be travelling. You too, Saul, I know that you love the road, no matter what punishments it has brought you. That’s what really unites us—we are a friendship of the road.’
Saul takes Thomas’s hand. ‘But you believe that he is the true Saviour; that you don’t deny. When did you come to understand that?’
Thomas grips tight to the proffered hand, then releases it. His voice is a snarl. ‘We were peasants, Saul, we didn’t know anyone who owned slaves. It was on the road that Yeshua saw the evil that man can do to fellow man.’ Thomas spits on the tiled floor. ‘And it was on the road that he realised, Roman, Jewish, Samaritan, Arab, Greek, none of that mattered. It’s how you treat your neighbour, the stranger, the exile—only that matters.’
But for Saul, this is no answer. ‘When though?’ urges Saul. ‘When did you know he was the promised Saviour?’
Thomas turns to Saul and Saul is witness. To light. To Spirit. The man’s eyes are the fire of the sun. ‘You don’t comprehend, do you, scholar? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if my twin is or isn’t the Saviour.’
His hand is again at Saul’s cheek, a smack meant to be playful, but delivered with some force. ‘Maybe you’re the Saviour, Saul? Maybe that’s why Yeshua came to you?’
Saul pushes Thomas away, gritting his teeth in fury. ‘I forsook everything, you wretch, I gave up everything. And yet you make a joke of your twin’s meaning and teaching, of his suffering and death. You are worse than his friend who denounced him, you are even worse than the Romans who nailed him to the cross. You are his worst betrayer.’
Thomas’s next words are equally hard, carrying a warning. ‘Careful, Saul, you were not there.’ Thomas raises his hands. ‘These hands lifted his body off the gallows, Saul. These hands were wet and stinking from his blood and his spilling guts.’
The two old men, eyes unyielding, face each other. Saul sees it, the fall of Thomas’s shoulders, a peace that scatters passion. Thomas reaches for Saul’s cheek again, he strokes it tenderly.
‘On our travels, Saul, on the road, that’s where I understood. We were without work or family or coin, we had no property or children or belongings, and yet we were all happy. And we were generous and we were fulfilled. That’s why I think Yeshua is my Saviour, Saul: with him we were in Eden. We were walking in the garden of the Lord.’
He turns to Saul, he grips Saul’s hand once more, puts one arm around Saul’s shoulders, drawing him in. ‘That I saw, brother,’ he whispers into Saul’s ear. ‘That I witnessed, that miracle occurred. I was in the beauty of the world, I knew it as the Lord knows it. The colours of it, friend, the creatures in it, the light within it, the sky that is endless and the sea that rolls to the end of Creation. I gave thanks for the friendship and the love and the sympathy contained within it. This world can be the kingdom, can’t you see that?’
Even weakened, his strength is such that Saul knows this man could snap his neck if he wanted to. Saul marshals all his will, and shrugs Thomas’s arm from his shoulders.
‘How can this be the kingdom?’ he asks incredulously. ‘How can we live content in this world amidst such misery? To say that is to betray your brother again.’
Thomas is unshaken. ‘Be as a passer-by to this world, Saul. You cannot undo Creation. That is what Yeshua realised and that is why the Zealots rejected him.’
Thomas bangs his fist on the stone, as if to break it. ‘Underneath these damned tiles, below this vanity and wealth, there is earth. It dies in winter and is reborn in spring. That is the meaning of resurrection.’
The terror seizes and wrings Saul’s heart; he fights for breath. Doubt, that many-headed demon, is inside him and is strangling his heart, which is love, and squeezing his lungs, which are hope, and crushing his head, which is faith.
Saul looks up at the brazen reliefs and paintings that adorn the walls: the false goddess and her lost daughter, six pomegranate seeds in the girl’s hand that reaches out to the one the Strangers call the Mother; and behind her, dragging her daughter away, the god of the underworld. The unlearned, rooted to the earth, to the world: they cannot be broken away from those ties. Thomas is such a man and cannot be unshackled from those chains.
And Saul understands that this is why he is in this chamber and why he is with this tormented man. Doubt unclenches, loses its hold and falls away.
When he speaks, it is with severity. ‘The kingdom is to come. Without that promise, not only your twin—his agony and suffering and violation and death—not only is his life without purpose, but so is the life of Israel.’
He must try once more to bring Thomas back to fellowship. ‘This world is not enough, brother; we can’t offer hope if this world is all there is. This world is beautiful, and yes, on my travels I too have been in the garden. But the world is not just. My Lord cannot be a bystander to a perverted Creation. This world is not enough.’
Saul hesitates, begs his Lord for guidance. ‘Don’t you want to see your twin again?’ he asks finally. ‘You must want that.’
The great light that shone in the Twin’s eyes has been cupped and extinguished. They well with tears. ‘My twin is dead. I buried him. I was the one who washed the hands and feet that had been pierced by nails. I was the one who wrapped him in his shroud and who placed him in his pariah’s tomb. My brother is dead. But his words live.’
Thomas’s body is upright, he calls on strength and he summons certainty. Yet all is false, as perishable as the forms and colours of the idols that surround them. Saul sees that Thomas’s face is not skin or flesh but it has the contours and shape and horror of the skull. This is what doubt is: the face of death—that is its only promise.
And with that knowledge his blood flows and he can exhale and his head is released from the grip of torment.
Saul sits back on the tiled floor. ‘You are lost, brother. That is why the Saviour does not come to you. You doubt and so all you have is this world. May it be enough for you.’
And with that he turns his back to Thomas. To combat doubt he must make his heart stone. Saul turns his back on the man’s weeping.
Blessedly, not long after, the guards bring with them his nephew Gabriel and his beloved Timos. How faithful, how loving and how true they have been. How many days and nights have they spent petitioning for Saul’s release? But as his nephew’s arms wrap around him, as their tears fall on each other’s shoulders, Saul perceives that Timothy has rushed to the other man, is clutching Thomas as though he will never release him. That ferocious love, that adoration fired by blood and heat as much as by faith and loyalty, how it pains Saul.
Gabriel releases his uncle and shudders at the sight of the naked and blasphemous idols that adorn the walls. Timothy, raised as a Greek, does not experience shock at such immorality. But Gabriel only knows Judea and Galilee, the desert borders of Syria; in his time in Tarsus and Antioch he was apprenticed to a faithful Jew—he has never entered even a humble home of a Stranger. He knows little of Greek worship and of Roman splendour.
‘Are we free to go?’
At Saul’s question, Timothy finally turns towards him, stretches out his hand to him. But Saul winces, seeing how the boy’s other hand still clasps that of Thomas. It is forbidden for him to extend such friendship to the outcast.
Saul has spoken in Syrian, to include Gabriel, but Timothy, aware of the guards, answers in Greek.
‘Yes, you are free to leave Israel. The brethren at Rufus’s house await us, we have prepa
red a thanksgiving.’ He nods towards Gabriel. ‘Your nephew has vouched security for your release. We are committed to take you to Rome—you will stand trial there.’
Again, he glances at the guard. ‘Governor Felix has been kind, as has his wife, Drusilla. He will not return you to Jerusalem. He cannot release you from the charge of sedition, but he agrees that no fair trial is possible here in Judea. He has agreed that you will be allowed to petition the First Amongst Men himself.’
Timothy’s happiness seems infinite. ‘We will travel together, brothers, we will go to Rome. We have arranged passage on a ship that leaves tomorrow. Beloved, you are taking the words of the Lord and of the Saviour to Rome.’
Only then does he speak in their language. ‘As it was written and as it was foretold. Let them who have ears hear.’ And then he almost bellows, ‘Brothers, we are going to Rome!’ Thomas releases Timothy’s hand. ‘I’m not coming with you.’
Gratitude floods Saul’s heart.
But his Timos is distressed, uncomprehending. ‘You have to.’
Thomas, ignoring Timothy, addresses Gabriel. ‘Am I to stand trial?’
‘No,’ says Gabriel, shaking his head. ‘You are free to roam.’ He hesitates, as if afraid to say his next words. ‘But you can’t stay in Judea. You are not safe even in Galilee. If you stay, you are a condemned man. They’ve declared you apostate. The governor can do nothing about that.’ Gabriel’s voice hardens and becomes stern. ‘We sin for even having communication with you, sir. You are no longer of Israel.’
Thomas nods soberly at this censure. He forces a smile and turns to the distraught Timothy. ‘You see, lad, I’m not welcome on your travels.’
And pretending enthusiasm, Thomas waves his hand around the chamber, indicating the day and the city and the world beyond the entrance. ‘Leave me. I have a promise to fulfil for the highborn lady, Drusilla. This, my Timos, must be our farewell.’
‘No!’ Timothy has fallen on Thomas, is clutching the man’s arms, his tunic, is beating his fists against the man’s chest. ‘No,’ he repeats, and then gulping for air he pleads, ‘or I am coming with you.’
Saul notices the leer on the guard’s face, the Stranger’s pleasure in witnessing this dishonourable abandonment. And it is shameful. Timothy’s childish distress, his unmanly craving. This is not love. This is perversion.
This is the evil that doubt creates. It contaminates anyone who comes in contact with it; it is a tincture that floods and spreads from body to body, from soul to soul. You have poisoned the lad. But Saul cannot open his mouth, he cannot release those words. To release them is to concede. He closes his eyes. He will not faint, he will not stumble. He calls on the light. And the light comes but not with warmth this time; it comes in cold and severe conviction. His love of the Lord is greater than any love for man.
Saul opens his eyes.
Thomas’s hands have gripped the younger man’s shoulders, he is shaking him, his eyes narrow and his mouth clenched. ‘I don’t want you with me. I don’t want to be reminded of what we have become, of how we have spurned and polluted my twin’s example. You are weak, Timothy, you make me sick with your weakness.’
The younger man cannot hear, or refuses to hear. He is still struggling to be with Thomas, as if by force or will or magic they might conjoin in flesh and become one. He will not let go.
‘Friend, friend,’ cries Timothy, ‘I am yours. Whatever you believe, I believe—whatever you are, I am.’
Thomas’s hands push against the writhing, desperate boy, they reach for Timothy’s shoulders. Saul wonders in terror if he will break the boy’s neck.
Their mouths are almost touching.
‘Your lord is not my Lord. Your god is not my God.’
Thomas releases one hand and his extended finger takes in the four corners of the room. ‘The god that sits in the Temple is as false as the gods on these walls. He is not the Lord.’
The guard has been pulling at Timothy, to prise him from the old man. But there is now no need. Thomas’s words are as sudden and final as the thrust of a sharpened sword into flesh. That blasphemy is truly the silence that will be found at the end of the world: the staggering utterance has separated Thomas from Timothy, from Saul, from Gabriel, from Galilee, from Israel. From his twin, from the Saviour.
He has called death upon himself, Saul marvels, he has cleaved himself from the very Lord. He is humbled and shaken by the glorious sacrifice. To allow Timothy to live, Thomas has forfeited eternity.
Gabriel, his face raging with disgust and loathing, turns to his uncle. ‘We must go. Now. If I remain here any longer, I will kill this animal.’
Timothy is ashen, his lips moving but making no sound, his body shuddering, collapsing. Gently, Saul takes his beloved and gives him over to the care of his nephew. ‘Take him,’ he says. ‘I will follow.’
The two old men watch Gabriel escort the almost benumbed Timothy out of the chamber.
Saul knows that he must not and that he cannot, but he places his arms around Thomas and brings him close to him. Their mouths touch.
‘Thank you,’ he whispers.
Thomas’s laugh booms. But his eyes are wet and hold no light. ‘Take care of him.’ And then, his voice breaking, ‘I love him. He’s the only son I’ve ever known. But I can’t bring him into my exile.’
His fingers playfully squeeze Saul’s chin; and again Saul senses the hale force of the man, how he is of the earth. And he will return to dirt and dust, like all men who will not reawaken to the kingdom.
‘He doesn’t have your strength,’ Thomas says, and then adds, ‘Do not betray him to zealotry, promise me that.’
This Saul can do. ‘I promise you that. I will counsel restraint.’
‘Good. Be as my brother instructed.’ And he laughs. Abrupt and curtailed. ‘Be as a passer-by.’ Thomas releases Saul.
I was wrong, thinks Saul, this is not death I see on him; it is the likeness of our Saviour.
Thomas shrugs, as if finally free to reveal his exhaustion. ‘But you can’t do that, can you, brother?’ he says. ‘You need to change the world.’
And with another shrug. ‘Go, man, take your leave from this wretched sinner—go preach your fine bookish words to the world. The world’s your home now.’
And now his smile is mischievous, and his smile is a dance. ‘Let those who have ears hear.’
Saul has just stepped into the antechamber when he hears Thomas shout and looks back at him.
The man is standing in the middle of the glittering chamber, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. He calls out, ‘And I forgive you, brother.’
Saul’s arms rest on the salt-encrusted deck rail. The lacquered wood still hints of the forest that gave birth to it. But the tantalising promise of that scent is overcome by the stench of the ocean weeds knocking gently against the dock and lapping against the hull of the ship, and the smell of brine, and the sharp rankness of gutted and scaled fish. Cats slink along the pier to the very edge of the docks, scavenging and fighting for scraps of fish gut.
Across the length of the port, altars to the Strangers’ gods have been lit, the incense barely discernible above the calamity of odours. Only the wisps of smoke spiralling to the false heavens indicate the presence of the altars. Sailors and their kin are the most devout of the false worshippers—Saul has always found it so, from the very beginnings of his travels amongst the Strangers. That is because death is promised in every tempest and by the invisible mountains beneath the seas. He will pray as well, of course he will, but to the living Lord, the Lord who has no need for incense and statues, a Lord who has abjured even sacrifices. The Lord has sacrificed His son. The old world is done for.
Saul can see the myriad forms of the gods along the port, on the prows of the ships and on the steps to the temples and forming the very columns that support the houses of worship. He believes he can see beyond; shielding his eyes from the still rising sun: there lies Egypt, Phoenicia, Judea and Syria; there begins Arabia an
d Persia. Generations of ruined temples and generations of statues disappearing under the earth.
The ship sways as the waves push it against the dock. But Saul has become master of the journey over time, on land and by sea, and his stride is assured as he walks over and leans across the railing on the starboard side. Facing west now, there is only the open sea. The men are still loading the ship and Saul is growing impatient, eager for his travels to begin.
His Timos is below deck. The poor lad has never got used to voyaging by sea. So he retreats below, alone with his tightly woven basket; if he is to be ill, only the Lord will be witness.
Gabriel is not with them. The lad has a wife and children, and a mother to care for in Jerusalem. These bonds, made to the Lord, cannot be unmade and Saul would never insist he do so. He gave his nephew a thousand kisses and set him on his way. Even though that was surely their final parting, for none of them know what Rome will bring, Saul’s heart is glad. On the final evening, in the modest home of the freedman Rufus, his wife Clemency, his daughter, and two slaves of their acquaintance—the only brethren of their fellowship in Caesarea—Gabriel partook of their feast of love and even drank their wine and ate their bread. Saul, exultant, wanted to take him that very night and immerse him in the creek that feeds the Roman aqueducts. ‘No,’ the younger man had replied, ‘I will be baptised when I return to Jerusalem.’
Jealousy flares and pricks at Saul. What a joy it would have been to bring Gabriel to the Saviour rather than that pompous untaught James. Saul quells the thought and acknowledges his pride. James is their brother, all are equal as brothers in their fellowship, and what matters is that Gabriel will be there in the kingdom to come.
If he is indeed baptised. Saul thinks about his sister, his brothers, and how they will rant against such a commitment. It is possible the lad won’t have the strength to overcome such opposition. For they are his family and the bonds that tie Gabriel are those of blood and flesh. The sea breeze whips at his face and Saul wonders anew at his terrifying faith. That is what the coming of the Saviour has inaugurated: the almost intolerable rupture that is the forsaking of blood. Can he remember himself as a young man? Can he recall that man possessed by the sins of lust and greed? How could he have wed his poisonous body to another, to a wife, or to the children they would have brought into the world? The yearnings of his flesh were like a disease: he would have infected all. But his affliction was scoured and overcome by the outpouring of light brought by his Saviour.
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