by Paulo Barata
But the recent demise of Agrippa had abruptly changed some of these habits. The gymnasium now closed much earlier than before, and in the agora there were less lectures and even fewer who attended them. We were all living under uncertainty, and talk of rebellion against the Romans was still heard throughout the city. The Romans, all too aware of this, now more than ever continued with their repressive attitudes and did not allow any gatherings. The temples were closely watched, and to augment the local garrison, the tribune recruited a local militia of volunteers, mostly made up of civilian Romans and Greeks. Eventually we had two distinct factions, and all too frequently, disturbances occurred between the two groups. Fights began with verbal assaults from both sides, and if not soon dispersed, they would turn into nasty scuffles and even the throwing of stones.
It was now dangerous to be out in the streets at certain times, something that I had never seen or felt in Caesarea, and when I had to leave the house I usually took with me one or two of the servants. Ruth, always more of a recluse, would not go to the market or even to the temple, but it was Yeshua who worried me the most, insisting on his usual outings.
“And where are those two going now?" asked Ruth looking out the window.
“Who?”
“Your son and Alexander.”
“I don’t know. They didn’t say anything?”
“No, and soon it will be time for dinner.”
“They know that. Since when those two were ever late for a meal? They have probably gone over to Ioanis house.”
“That Alexander is a bad influence. Too restless.”
“What are you saying? Alexander is a good boy.”
“He always wants to go out to the gymnasium with Yeshua. I hear them speak. And, by the way, Yeshua must go to temple more often. It would do no harm to him to learn more of the scriptures.”
“Well, that’s not the case today, is it?”
“You should make him go, Ahasver.”
“To the temple?”
“Yes!”
“All right, I’ll take him one of these days" once more being ambiguous.
But we never went.
On that same day they brought him in.
It was late in the afternoon, a dusk filled with the ever eternal murmur of the sea, the soft whining of breezes perfumed by the chinaberries, and the almost aggressive trill of the blackbirds retiring to their slumber. All the smells and the sounds, the signs of the living, of existence. And not all the moments I have lived since, nor all the good and ugly remembrances I carry, will ever hide the first sighting of that cruel wound on his forehead, or erase the metallic smell of his blood-soaked hair, blood that was too black and dense, obscenely streaming down his face to the throbbing pulse of final gasps and erratically blinking eyes.
And the loud wailing that received that body also masked that same breeze, the trilling and even the sweet smells of the berries. All that remained were the sounds of spastic breathing, and the recriminations and regrets that my imagination now insisted in carrying. Suddenly, I saw my real enemy and his name was Time.
How clear was that revelation!
How was it possible that I had never before understood so well the true and horrifying value of Time? And this Time, that fraction of that very moment, I could not let escape. I had to hold it. Secure it. Make it eternal and everlasting… Everything else now seemed superfluous, for as long as I could hold onto Time, hope would live. There would be a tomorrow. There would be a Yeshua.
Time… thou shall not want for time — Who said that? Where was he who promised me that? Was it real or just another of life’s cruel jests?
And amidst my feverish thoughts I caught erratic shapes that came and left, dull-grayed shadows that carried him to a bed, and arched eyebrows that stared at me with haunted eyes. I also felt Ruth feverishly holding unto me, shaking me, adamant in bringing me back to that unwanted haunted reality.
The succeeding hours lasted just seconds… or was it centuries? What was real? Where was reality?
There are some who claim that time drags on in the more difficult moments of our life. But I can guarantee that this is not true! The more we want it to slow down, the faster it moves and moves. It was that fast, in two so short days and nights — two miserable seconds it seemed — when I could hold it no longer, and it departed carrying my Yeshua. And too cruelly, it just as quickly returned, alone, when I had no further need for it in that house. It was back, more ominous and more present in those interminable days and immeasurably long nights of mourning and loss.
I don’t really know how long that turpitude lasted, centuries or eternities, but I do recall of how amazed I was when I came out of that pit and saw that the world was still there. So similar to what I remembered of it.
It was as it had always been.
The same Ruth. The same scattered furniture. The same servants, and even the same house. How do we lose a part of ourselves and all remains the same, alien and indifferent to our loss? How was it possible that there was still a sky, a sea, the same trilling, the same ululating winds and the same whispering leaves?
Ironically, it was also my old enemy, Time, who in the end softened the senses and numbed my feelings, helped by Ruth who had stubbornly held unto the reins of reality.
Today I know that I managed to hold unto sanity because of her.
Ruth was my anchor, my safe haven in that inconsolable storm.
She began by being an ever present shadow, always near, always vigilant, a presence that interrupted my nightmares, and held onto me, both of us glued by feelings and tears, whispering words of encouragement and sweet nothings.
Thus, little by little, I returned from that dark place, that oblivion of feelings and senses.
Poorer, cruder, more melancholic, and wretched with envy for all those who seemed secure and firm in this reality we inhabit.
Slowly I crawled back and took to explore every stone, every route, every road and street of that city, searching for that magical moment of recognition, when memory suddenly resurrected what had once existed, granting me glimpses of happier times. And sometimes I would be so engrossed and abstract in that unconscious search that I would find myself lost, when I got pulled back into the real and the now.
It was at such an awakening, somewhere in that city, that my eyes focused on the gaze of Cephas.
“Cephas!” I gasped in surprise to find a familiar face amidst my turmoil.
“Brother Ahasver, may peace be unto you in this difficult moment” he greeted me in that so pleasant oratorical voice.
“Cephas, how long…” searching for words that made some sense, still inebriated with that sudden return from where I knew not.
“It hasn’t been that long. I’ve seen and greeted you a few times, but I don’t think you noticed or wanted to acknowledge me.”
“No, no… I do apologize, it’s only that I have been inattentive. Sometimes I think I see familiar faces, but not always sure if they are real or just my imagination playing some trick.”
“I understand, you are in mourning, I can see that your gown is torn, but not as much as your spirit, I think. But I would like you to believe that your son is safe, close to Yeshua.”
“How do you know about my son?”
“We have heard about it.”
“Cephas, listen, I need to ask you something… something that has been on my mind for a long time, that has been tormenting me.”
“Certainly, if you think I can help…”
“Please, do help me as I’ve always helped you…”
“Brother, but of course…”
In short and fast sentences, I told him of the words that his messiah had said to me on that day, and I asked if he had any opinion about their meaning. Why? I do not know. I guess I was holding to straws, considering all possibilities, as far fetched as my imagination and my irrationality could afford.
“Brother Ahasver, our Messiah very often spoke to us, and to his followers, through parables and allegories. I can
assure you that His words were of wisdom and sacred significance, and He did not speak in vain or of trifling matters. I am sure that these words that you have just told me are also relevant in some way.”
“Is there someone in your brotherhood who could interpret them?" I asked eagerly, fervently and irrationally, hoping that the Nazarenes, amidst their stranger beliefs, were also proficient with augurs and divinations.
“There might. Someone enlightened by the divine Spirit" he answered meditatively.
“But they might not mean anything at all, as well…” I offered, almost regretting having started that conversation.
“Everything He said is important for us sinners,” he confirmed with that expression of conviction and confidence that I envied right there, “and if you allow me, I’ll share these words with my scholarly brothers. Some are closer to His wisdom.”
That meeting with Cephas was, somehow, rewarding. It shocked me back into reality, and I returned home determined to share my questions and doubts with Joseph, someone who I had forgotten during my despair.
THE PIOUS