Paul

by Howard Brenton

  MARY. You won’t stop it.

  JAMES. Mary, yes?

  MARY. It’s what people want. They want a god, rising up in light, out of his grave! They want a figure shining in white, shooting up into the air! Angels and trumpets round his head! Whatever he really was or wasn’t, it doesn’t matter. My husband’s disappearing. He’s becoming a ghost and so am I. They want him to be God’s son and how can God’s son have slept with a whore, who has an Assyrian winged god tattooed on one buttock and Isis and the moon on the other? No no, he’ll have to be pure. Oh a lot will have to change! Even his birth. I mean, how did his cow of a mother get pregnant?

  JAMES. Stop this.

  MARY. Oh come on! He’s changing before our eyes into something called Jesus Christ, no earthly father for him, surely. God sent ‘the word’ and that impregnated the holy mother Mary, yeah. People will say God fucked her in the ear.

  PETER. I . . .

  JAMES. Be silent!

  A beat.

  MARY. I’ll never be in the stories, not as his wife. I’ll be some tart he made holy. On the edge. No face. No body.

  Enter YESHUA.

  YESHUA. Paul is ill.

  JAMES and PETER rush from the room.

  Scene Thirteen

  Rome, AD 46. Prison. PAUL and PETER.

  Anger has left PAUL. He is calm, reflecting on what PETER has told him.

  PAUL. You thought I was a madman.

  PETER. Deeply religious men can be deeply embarrassing.

  PAUL. No no no. You saw me as crippled, in my mind.

  PETER. What you call your thorn in the flesh, I . . .

  PAUL. You think my ministry has been driven by my affliction?

  PETER. James did, at first. But when he learnt of your success, and when you came back to Jerusalem fifteen years later, the leader of Christian communities throughout the Roman Empire, and with that huge sum of money . . . I don’t know. I don’t know what James thought. Yes I do. The way the story of your renamed Yeshua, your ‘Jesus’ spread like wildfire . . . he couldn’t bear it. It killed him. I should have been with him when he died.

  PAUL. But you weren’t.

  PETER. No.

  PAUL. You were preaching what you call ‘my’ Jesus, with me.

  PETER. Yes.

  PAUL. Have you ever believed it?

  PETER. I did for years.

  PAUL. But now, hours before our death, you don’t. And all that we’ve done, the people we’ve baptised, the congregations we’ve started . . . you say all that’s a lie?

  PETER looks down, exhausted.

  PETER. Let your mind be filled with everything that is true, everything that is honourable, everything that is upright and pure, everything we love, with all that is good and worthy of praise.

  PETER. Do you know you’re quoting one of your sermons at me? That I have heard over and over and over again? Your force of will can’t change what I know.

  PAUL. The Holy Spirit will help you.

  PETER. Yeshua didn’t die on His cross.

  PAUL chants to reassure himself. He is in great distress.

  PAUL. Christ died for our sins, in accordance with the scriptures, He was buried, on the third day He was raised to life, in accordance with the scriptures, and He appeared to Peter . . .

  PETER. . . . No, it was a story . . .

  PAUL ignores PETER’s protests.

  PAUL. . . . and later to the twelve followers . . .

  PETER. . . . true but they knew He didn’t die . . .

  PAUL. . . . and next He appeared to more than five hundred of the brothers at the same time . . .

  PETER. . . . a terrible mistake, they went mad, they misunderstood . . .

  PAUL. And then to James and then to all the apostles, last of all He appeared to me too, me, the misshapen, the abnormal child.

  A beat. PAUL is breathing heavily, near fainting. PETER tries to comfort him.

  PETER. Paul . . .

  PAUL turns and blazes at him.

  PAUL. If Christ has not been raised then our preaching is without substance. And so is our faith. If Christ has not been raised our faith is pointless. And we have not been freed from our sins. And all those who have died in Christ are utterly lost.

  PETER. So absolute!

  PAUL. It is absolute!

  PETER. The teachings are good, there’s a kindness in them, they have an everydayness . . . isn’t it enough that they tell us, simply, how to live?

  PAUL. No. If our faith in Christ is only about this life, then what are we? Deluded, pitiful creatures. If He did not rise then we are liars and there is no point to us or to life. All we could say is eat, get drunk, for tomorrow we die.

  PETER. Forgive me.

  PAUL. For what?

  PETER. For killing the great story.

  PAUL. If it was never true then it was never alive.

  PETER. No.

  Enter the CHIEF GAOLER with others.

  CHIEF GUARD. Now your visitor is here. And there are rules of behaviour. You lie on your faces. Do it!

  The other GAOLERS force PETER and PAUL to lie on their stomachs.

  If you are invited to stand, you do not, you stay on all fours. And you do not look at him. And you do not make any movement toward him at all. Got that?

  A beat.

  Got that!

  PAUL. Yes!

  PETER. Yes!

  CHIEF GAOLER (close). If there is any incident at all, my skin will be flayed but that will be nothing to what will happen to you. We could delay your executions for a week of tortures. So. Sensible behaviour please.

  PETER. Who is it, who is coming?

  CHIEF GAOLER. Nero Claudius Caesar, Emperor of the world.

  They step back.

  Enter NERO. He is magnificently dressed and is wearing the mask of a woman’s face.

  NERO. Or Emperor of the known world. Because there must be others, must there not? I mean, this shit-hole existence can’t be all there is. What do you think, Christians? Are there other worlds for me to rule? You may stand.

  The GAOLERS are vigilant. PAUL and PETER raise themselves on all fours.

  Which one of you is the Roman citizen?

  PAUL. I am.

  CHIEF GAOLER. I am, Caesar!

  NERO (to the CHIEF GAOLER). Leave us.

  CHIEF GAOLER. Caesar I . . .

  NERO. If they kill me it will be a whimsical death. But power is such a whimsical thing.

  A gesture from NERO. The GAOLERS withdraw.

  Did I condemn you in my court?

  PAUL. Yes.

  NERO. I don’t remember. I expect I was drunk.

  PAUL. I asked to be crucified.

  NERO. Like your god, ah. The clerk of the court said no of course.

  PAUL. Yes.

  NERO (to PETER). But you are to be nailed up?

  PETER is terrified.

  PETER. Yes, Caesar.

  NERO. Good good, so we are clear. You are both in effect dead men. That’s why I’m here. I like to talk to the dead. Only they can keep my secrets.

  He takes off his mask revealing an exhausted face.

  Don’t . . . kneel there like dogs, please. These little humiliations, these rituals. I know they maintain power. Along with the fear.

  PAUL and PETER sit back.

  Rituals. Repeated patterns of behaviour. To shore up belief. To stop chaotic behaviour. In the end it is the ritual that matters in religion, not what it means, mm? Like you imagining you’re drinking the blood of a dead god?

  PAUL about to say something.

  No no, I am aware you don’t kill babies, imperial spies have been to your ritual of the last supper.

  PAUL. Spies?

  NERO. Oh yes. You have long been seen as a political danger to the Imperial State.

  PAUL. You persecute us because we threaten your gods.

  NERO. You don’t threaten our gods, what are you talking about, man?

  A glance away and he lowers his voice.

  Our gods don’t exist. And I
speak as someone who will be made into one when I’m dead. It’s happened to most of my family, even Claudius. No, the threat from you is political.

  PAUL. We are not a political threat.

  NERO. Oh you are. You do know your so-called congregations have always been riddled with informers?

  PAUL. No.

  NERO. No?

  NERO laughs.

  PAUL. Why do you think we are a threat?

  NERO. Because you’re leaders of a death cult. Death cults always give the state problems. We don’t like them. Mithras, well, that we’re getting to grips with. The Eleusian mysteries in Greece, Rome has never liked: Persephone into the underworld, reborn in the spring. Not good. Too secretive, too personal. But there’s only one ceremony every year and we have learnt to police it. Bribing priests usually works. But for now you don’t have priests you have ‘apostles’, appointed only by crazed visions of ‘faith’, the ‘Holy Spirit’ . . .

  PETER is startled.

  PETER. You know . . .

  NERO. Yes yes, Jew, I know a lot about Christianity. I am an artist after all. Only an artist can really understand religion.

  PAUL. Christianity is not a threat to the Empire.

  NERO. You thought it was before you changed names. And sides.

  PAUL. The Kingdom of God was never to be a rebellion in Judea. I stopped that nonsense. The Kingdom of God is not of this world.

  NERO. Yes, you have made some theological progress. You’ve laid the grounds to make your cult acceptable. And you probably do sense what its future could be.

  PAUL. There is no future. Christ is about to return.

  NERO. Oh please! I’m talking to the most intelligent dead man I’ve got hold of for years . . . don’t spoil it with mumbo-jumbo. Listen. A state secret for the dead to take to their graves. In the next few years, Rome will destroy Judea.

  PETER. Destroy?

  NERO. We will flatten your country, Jew. Disarm and execute all the militias. All the fanatics on the roads, in the deserts. But not just the lunatics on the fringe. We will destroy all the priests, your Pharasees, your Sadducees, your Maccabeans. Then we will tear down the Jerusalem Temple, we won’t leave a stone upon a stone. It will be so beautiful, like a song.

  PETER. Destroy the Temple . . .

  NERO. Destroy the whole country. It will no longer exist.

  PETER. This is a . . . prophesy?

  NERO. No, it’s a well-advanced military plan. You won’t be able to shout out about it tomorrow, you know, you’ll have your tongues cut out.

  A silence.

  PAUL. Christ will come any day now . . .

  NERO. He won’t. And you know it. But look: when Judea is destroyed, your cult will have its chance. It can cut itself off from its Jewish roots, leave all that garbage about the Law of Moses behind. And basically your teaching is fine: it’s quietist, it’s authoritarian, its views on divorce are socially stabilising, it stresses respectful behaviour, particularly amongst women. And when you have priests, Antioch, Corinth, Byzantium, Ephesus and Rome, above all Rome . . . a good hierarchy of bribable gentlemen in fine robes, like any other religion . . . Why, then you will do business with the state. A hundred, two hundred years from now, Christianity could be the Empire’s official religion.

  PAUL. Then why not release us now?

  NERO. No no no, have you understood nothing? History needs your story. First the martyrdoms, the diaspora, the despair, then the full flowering of myth and poetry.

  Smiles.

  You only preach two things, Paul: resurrection and the end of the world. Hardly any story at all! Christianity will need much more than that. But history will embellish: you as saints, me as one of the worst singers who ever lived. History is all lies. Goodnight gentlemen.

  He turns away.

  PAUL. Creature of darkness. Man of despair. Demon-ridden man. Godless. Lost. Listen to me.

  NERO turns back to him.

  I believe Jesus died on the cross and rose again on the third day, to save us from our sins. And that at any moment He will return in glory and we will be counted.

  NERO. Counted?

  PAUL. It’s not too late even for you to be saved, Caesar.

  NERO leans close to PAUL.

  NERO. Pedlar of illusions. Man of false teachings. Ridden with a false god. Lost. You listen to me. We are mud. And to mud we will return. We all secretly know it and it’s our glory.

  PAUL. I’ll pray for you.

  A beat. They are staring at each other.

  Then suddenly NERO turns on PETER.

  NERO. What about you? You’re silent. Do you believe . . .

  Satirically, sing-song.

  . . . they stuck him up and pulled him down and up he popped from the grave and now he’s on the right hand of God and watch out, humankind! He’s coming back, any day now, to burn your backsides off if you’re not on your knees? Hunh?

  A silence.

  Well? Do you believe it?

  A silence.

  PETER. Yes.

  He looks at PAUL.

  Christ died for my sins and rose from the dead.

  NERO. The poetry of delusion is so strong.

  He is about to go.

  PETER. When I die tomorrow I don’t want to be crucified like Him.

  NERO. Oh don’t start begging and gibbering for your life, you were doing so well.

  PETER. No. Not the way He was. I’m not worthy. Crucify me upside down.

  NERO looks at him. Then shrugs.

  NERO. If that’s your fancy.

  And he holds the mask up to his face. They stare at each other for a moment.

  Exit NERO.

  A silence.

  PAUL. Peter.

  PETER. They’ll tear our tongues out.

  PAUL. Peter.

  PETER. Do that too.

  PAUL. Peter.

  PETER. I lied to him.

  PAUL. No.

  PETER. I couldn’t . . . tell that thing who came here . . . it was a lie.

  PAUL. It’s not.

  PETER. I couldn’t tell him the truth.

  PAUL. You did.

  PETER. Yeshua is buried in Syria. In a place called . . .

  PAUL. No, no, hush hush.

  PETER. He didn’t rise . . .

  PAUL. Hush.

  PETER. What have we done?

  PAUL. Just say it.

  PETER. No.

  PAUL. Say it. And believe it.

  PETER. I can’t. I can’t.

  PAUL. Say it, my brother, my fellow apostle, first father of the Roman congregation. Say it.

  A beat.

  Low to a crescendo.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is risen.

  PETER. Christ is risen.

  PAUL. Christ is . . .

  A blackout.

  End.

  HOWARD BRENTON

>   Howard Brenton was born in Portsmouth in 1942.

  His many plays include Christie in Love (Portable Theatre, 1969); Revenge (Theatre Upstairs, 1969); Magnificence (Royal Court Theatre, 1973); The Churchill Play (Nottingham Playhouse, 1974, and twice revived by the RSC, 1978 and 1988); Bloody Poetry (Foco Novo, 1984, and Royal Court Theatre, 1987); Weapons of Happiness (National Theatre, Evening Standard Award, 1976); Epsom Downs (Joint Stock Theatre, 1977); Sore Throats (RSC, 1978); The Romans in Britain (National Theatre, 1980, revived at the Crucible Theatre, Sheffield, 2006); Thirteenth Night (RSC, 1981); The Genius (1983), Greenland (1988) and Berlin Bertie (1992), all presented by the Royal Court; Kit’s Play (RADA Jerwood Theatre, 2000); Paul (National Theatre, 2005); In Extremis (Shakespeare’s Globe, 2006 and 2007); Never So Good (National Theatre, 2008); The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists adapted from the novel by Robert Tressell (Liverpool Everyman and Chichester Festival Theatre, 2010); Anne Boleyn (Shakespeare’s Globe, 2010 and 2011); 55 Days (Hampstead Theatre, 2012); #aiww: The Arrest of Ai Weiwei (Hampstead Theatre, 2013); The Guffin (NT Connections, 2013) and Drawing the Line (Hampstead Theatre, 2013).

  Collaborations with other writers include Brassneck (with David Hare, Nottingham Playhouse, 1972); Pravda (with David Hare, National Theatre, Evening Standard Award, 1985) and Moscow Gold (with Tariq Ali, RSC, 1990).

  Versions of classics include The Life of Galileo (1980) and Danton’s Death (1982) both for the National Theatre, Goethe’s Faust (1995/6) for the RSC, a new version of Danton’s Death for the National Theatre (2010) and Dances of Death (Gate Theatre, 2013).

  He wrote thirteen episodes of the BBC1 drama series Spooks (2001–05, BAFTA Best Drama Series, 2003).

  A Nick Hern Book

  Paul first published in Great Britain as a paperback original in 2005 by Nick Hern Books Limited, The Glasshouse, 49a Goldhawk Road, London W12 8QP

  This ebook edition first published in 2014

  Paul copyright © 2005 Howard Brenton

  Howard Brenton has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work

  Cover design: Ned Hoste, 2H

  Typeset by Country Setting, Kingsdown, Kent CT14 8ES

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 78001 501 9 (ebook edition)

  ISBN 978 1 85459 886 8 (print edition)