“I don’t understand.”
“We cannot fall into sin. If I am stained like Adam I will not be able to do the work for which I was sent here.”
“The—work?”
“I was born to heal the world,” he said.
The moon appeared before him in the darkened room. Its silver-white light cast everything in shadow.
The moon began to spin. No, he thought. He watched as it shattered and plummeted to earth, saw the scattered fragments hide themselves in darkness.
He cried aloud. He felt the great sadness of the world, and the doubt he had struggled with all his life returned.
“It’s broken,” he said. “It can never be repaired. I’ll never be able to join all the pieces together.”
Sarah kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Let us join together, then,” she said. “Let two people stand for the entire world.”
“No—”
“I heard you tell your followers that everything is permitted. Why are we not permitted to come together as husband and wife?”
“I can’t,” he said simply. “I have never been able to.”
He expected scorn, or pity. But her expression did not change. She held him in her arms, and eventually he drifted off to sleep.
With Sarah at his side he was able to begin the mission for which he was born. Together they travelled toward Jerusalem, stopping so that he could preach along the way.
He spoke in rough huts consecrated only by the presence of ten men joined by prayer. He spoke in ancient synagogues, with lamps of twisted silver casting a wavering light on the golden letters etched into the walls. Sometimes he stood at a plain wooden table, watched by unlettered rustics who know nothing of the mysteries of Kabbalah; sometimes he preached from an altar of faded white and gold.
His message was the same wherever they went. He was the Messiah, appointed by God. He proclaimed an end to fast days; he promised women that he would set them free from the curse of Eve. He would take the crown from the Turkish sultan without war, he said, and he would make the sultan his servant.
The lost ten tribes of Israel had been found, he told the people who gathered to hear him. They were marching slowly as sleepwalkers toward the Sahara desert, uncertain of the way or of their purpose, waiting for him to unite them.
When he reached Jerusalem he circled the walls seven times on horseback, like a king. Once inside the city he won over many of the rabbis and elders. Letters were sent out to the scattered Jewish communities all over the world, to England, Holland and Italy, proclaiming that the long time of waiting was over; the Messiah had come.
A great storm shook the world. Families sold their belongings and travelled toward Jerusalem. Others set out with nothing, trusting in God to provide for them. Letters begging for more news were sent back to Jerusalem, dated from “the first year of the renewal of the prophecy and the kingdom.” Shabbetai signed the answering letters “the firstborn son of God,” and even “I am the Lord your God Shabbetai Zevi,” and such was the fervor of the people that very few of them were shocked.
The boat docks at Gallipoli, and Shabbetai is taken to the fortress there. Once inside he sees that he has been given a large and well-lit suite of rooms, and he understands that his followers have succeeded in bribing the officials.
The guards leave him and lock the door. However comfortable his rooms are, he is still in a prison cell. He paces for several minutes, studying the silver lamps and deep carpets and polished tables and chairs. Mosaics on the wall, fragments of red, green and black, repeat over and over in a complex pattern.
He sits on the plump mattress and puts his head in his hands. His head throbs. With each pulse, it seems, the lamps in the room dim, grow darker, until, finally, they go out.
He is a letter of light. He is the seventh letter, the zayin. Every person alive is a letter, and together they make up the book of the world, all things past, present and to come.
He thinks he can read the book, can know the future of the world. But as he looks on, the book’s pages turn; the letters form and reshape. Futures branch off before him.
He watches as children are born, as some die, as others grow to adulthood. Some stay in their villages, farm their land, sit by their hearths with their families surrounding them. Others disperse across the world and begin new lives.
The sight disturbs him; he does not know why. A page turns and he sees ranks of soldiers riding to wars, and men and women lying dead in the streets from plague. Kingdoms fall to sword and gun and cannon.
Great wars consume the world. The letters twist and sharpen, become pointed wire. He sees millions of people herded beyond the wire, watches as they go toward their deaths.
The light grows brighter. He wants to close his eyes, to look away, but he cannot. He watches as men learn the secrets of the light, as they break it open and release the life concealed within it. A shining cloud flares above a city, and thousands more die.
No, he thinks. But the light shines out again, and this time it seems to comfort him. Here is the end of history that he has promised his followers. Here is the end of everything, the world cleansed, made anew.
The great book closes, and the light goes out.
In Jerusalem he preached to hundreds of people. They filled the synagogue, dressed in their best clothes, the men on his right hand and the women on his left. Children played and shouted in the aisles.
He spoke of rebuilding the temple, of finding the builder’s stone lost since the time of Solomon. As he looked out over his audience he saw Sarah stand and leave the congregation. One of his followers left as well, a man named Aaron.
He stopped, the words he had been about to speak dying before they left his mouth. For a moment he could not go on. The people stirred in their seats.
He hurried to an end. After the service he ran quickly to the house the rabbis had given him. Sarah was already there.
“What were you doing here?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” she said. Her expression was innocent, unalarmed.
“I saw you leave with Aaron.”
“With Aaron? I left to come home. I didn’t feel well.”
“You were a whore in Poland, weren’t you?” he asked harshly. “Was there a single man in the country you didn’t sleep with?”
“I was a nobleman’s daughter,” she said. Her voice was calm. He could not see her heart; she held as many mysteries as the Kabbalah.
“A nobleman’s—” he said. “You were his mistress. And what did you do with Aaron? What did you do with all of them, all of my followers?”
“I told you—”
“Don’t lie to me!”
“Listen. Listen to me. I did nothing. I have not known a man since I came to Cairo.”
“Then you admit that in Poland—”
“Quiet. Yes. Yes, I was his mistress.”
“And Aaron? You want him, don’t you? You whore—You want them all, every man you have ever known.”
“Listen,” she said angrily. “You know nothing of women, nothing at all. I was his mistress in Poland, yes. But I did not enjoy it—I did it because I was an orphan, and hungry, and I needed to eat. I hated it when he came to me, but I managed to hide my feelings. I had to, or I would have starved.”
“But you wanted me. On our wedding night, you said—”
“Yes. You are the only man who has ever made me feel safe.”
A great pity moved him. He felt awed at the depths to which her life had driven her, the sins she had been forced to take upon herself. Could she be telling the truth? But why would she stay with him, a man of no use to her or any other woman?
“You lied to your nobleman,” he said carefully. “Are you lying to me now?”
“No,” she said.
He believed her. He felt free, released from the jealousy that had bound him. “You may have Aaron, you know,” he said.
“What?”
“You may have Aaron, or any man you want.”
“
I don’t—Haven’t you heard me at all? I don’t want Aaron.”
“I understand everything now. You were a test, but through the help of God I have passed it. With the coming of the kingdom of God all things are allowed. Nothing is forbidden. You may have any man, any woman, any one of God’s creatures.”
“I am not a test! I am a woman, your wife! You are the only man I want!”
He did not understand why she had become angry. His own anger had gone. He left the house calmly.
From Jerusalem he travelled with his followers to Smyrna, the place where he was born. There are those who say that he was banished from Jerusalem too, that the rabbis there declared him guilty of blasphemy. He does not remember. He remembers only the sweetness of returning to his birthplace in triumph.
Thousands of men and women turned out to greet him as he rode through the city gates. Men on the walls lifted ram’s horns to their lips and sounded notes of welcome. People crowded the streets, cheering and singing loudly; they raised their children to their shoulders and pointed him out as he went past.
He nodded to the right and left as he rode. A man left the assembly and stepped out in front of the procession.
Shabbetai’s horse reared. “Careful, my lord!” Nathan said, hurrying to his side. Nathan was one of the many who had joined him in Jerusalem, who had heard Shabbetai’s message and given up all his worldly goods.
But Shabbetai had recognized the fat, worried-looking man, and he reined in his horse. “This is my brother Joseph,” he said. “A merchant.”
To his surprise Joseph bowed to him. “Welcome, my lord,” he said. “We hear great things of you.”
Shabbetai laughed. When they were children he had told Joseph about his visions, and Joseph had beaten him for lying. Seeing his brother bent before him was more pleasing than Shabbetai could have imagined. “Rise, my friend,” he said.
In the days that followed the city became one great festival. Business came to a standstill as people danced in the streets, recited psalms to one another when they met, fell into prophetic trances proclaiming the kingdom of God.
Only Sarah did not join in the city’s riot. He urged her to take a lover, as so many people in the city were doing, but she refused. When he called for an end to fast days she became the only one in the city to keep the old customs.
Despite her actions he felt more strongly than ever that he was travelling down the right road, that he was close to the fulfillment of his mission. He excommunicated those who refused to believe in him. He sang love songs during prayer, and explained to the congregation the mystical meaning behind the words of the songs. He distributed the kingdoms of the earth among his followers.
His newly-made kings urged him to take the crown intended for him, to announce the date of his entrance into Constantinople. He delayed, remembering the evil vision of the dark prison.
But in his euphoria he began to see another vision, one in which he took the crown from the sultan. He understood that history would be split at Constantinople, would travel down one of two diverging paths. He began to make arrangements to sail.
Two days before they were to leave Sarah came to him. “I’m not going with you,” she said.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “I will be king, ruler of the world, and you will be at my side, my queen. This is what I have worked for all these years. How can you give that up?”
“I don’t want to be queen.”
“You don’t—Why not?”
“I don’t feel safe with you any longer. I don’t like the things you ask me to do.”
“What things?”
“What things? How can you ask me that when you tell me to lie with every one of your followers? You’re like the nobleman, passing me around when you get tired of me.”
“I did nothing. It was you who lusted after Aaron.”
“I didn’t—”
“And others too,” he said, remembering the glances she had given men in the congregation. She had pitied him, and hated him too, just as he had always thought. “Do you think I didn’t notice?”
“I’ve done nothing,” she said. “I—”
“I won’t grant you a divorce, you know.”
“Of course not. If we’re married you still own me, even if I’m not there. That dream you told me about, where you took Jerusalem as your bride—you want to master Jerusalem, make her bow to your will. You want to control the entire world. But have you ever thought about how you will govern once you have the sultan’s crown? You want to be ruler of the earth, but what kind of ruler will you be?”
“What do you know about statecraft, about policy? I have been ordained by God to be king. And you—you have been chosen to be queen.”
“No,” she said. “I have not.”
She turned to leave. “I excommunicate you!” he said, shouting after her. “I call upon God to witness my words—you are excommunicated!”
She continued walking as if she did not hear him.
He watched her go. Perhaps it was just as well that she was leaving. He had known for a long time that she could not grasp the vastness of the task he had been given; she had never studied Kabbalah, or had visions of the light of God. His work in the world was far more important than her private feelings, or his.
He and his followers set sail on December 30, 1665. Word of his departure had gone before him. His boat was intercepted in the Sea of Marmara, and he was brought ashore in chains.
He sits in his prison in Gallipoli and waits for the light. He has not had a vision in many days; perhaps, he thinks, they have left him. He wonders if they have been consumed by the great fires he has seen in the future.
What had gone wrong? He and his followers had been so certain; he had seen the signs, read all the portents. He was destined to be the ruler of the world.
He puts his head in his hands and laughs harshly. Ruler of the world! And instead he sits in prison, waiting to be killed or released at the whim of the Turkish sultan.
The light of God is broken, dispersed throughout the world. And like the light his own mind is broken, splitting.
There is a knock on the door, and Nathan enters. “How did you find me?” Shabbetai asks.
Nathan appears surprised. “Don’t you know?” he asks.
Shabbetai says nothing.
“I bribed a great many people to get you here,” Nathan says. “Are you comfortable?”
“I—Yes. Quite comfortable.”
“The sultan has returned from Crete,” Nathan says. “There are rumors that he will want to see you.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Soon, I think. He is alarmed by the support you have among the people of Turkey.” Nathan pauses and then goes on. “Some of your followers are worried. They don’t believe that we can hold out against the combined armies of the sultan.”
“Tell them not to fear,” Shabbetai says. He is surprised at how confident he sounds. But there is no reason to worry Nathan and the others, and perhaps the visions will return. “Tell them that God watches over me.”
Nathan nods, satisfied.
A few days later Shabbetai is taken by guards from Gallipoli to Adrianople. They pass through the city and come to a strong high wall. Men look down at them from the watchtowers.
Soldiers with plumed helmets stand at the wall’s gate. The soldiers nod to them and motion them through. Beyond the gate is a courtyard filled with fountains and cypress trees and green plots of grass where gazelles feed.
They turn left, and come to a door guarded by soldiers. They enter through this door and are shown before the sultan and his council.
“Do you claim to be the Messiah?” a councilor asks Shabbetai.
“No,” he says.
“What?” the councilor says, astonished.
“No. Perhaps I was the Messiah once. But the light has left me—I see no more and no less than other people.”
The sultan moves his hand. The councilor nods to him and turns toward Shabbetai. �
��I see,” he says. “You understand that we cannot just take your word for this. We cannot say, Very well, you may go now. Your followers outside are waiting for you—you have become a very dangerous man.”
“We are prepared to offer you a choice,” the sultan says. “Either convert to Islam or be put to death immediately.”
The light returns, filling the room. Shabbetai gasps; he had begun to think it lost forever. The light breaks. Two paths branch off before him.
On one path he accepts death. His followers, stunned, sit in mourning for him for the required seven days. Then Nathan pronounces him a martyr, and others proclaim that he has ascended to heaven.
His following grows. Miracles are seen, and attested to by others. An army forms; they attack the Turks. A long and bloody war follows. The sultan, the man sitting so smugly before him, is killed by one of his own people, a convert to what is starting to be called Sabbatarianism.
After a decade the Turks surrender, worn out by the fighting against the Sabbatarians on one side and the Venetians on the other. Shabbetai’s followers take Constantinople; Hagia Sophia, once a church and then a mosque, is converted a third time by the victorious army.
The Sabbatarians consolidate their power, and spread across Europe and Asia. First hundreds and then thousands of heretics are put to death. Holy wars flare. Men hungry for power come to Constantinople and are given positions in the hierarchy of the new religion.
Finally, using the terrifying tools of the far future, the Sabbatarians set out to kill everyone who is not a believer. The broken light that Shabbetai saw in his vision shines across the sky as city after city is laid waste. Poisons cover the earth. At the end only a few thousand people are left alive.
Shabbetai turns his gaze away from the destruction and looks down the other path. Here he becomes a convert to Islam; he changes his name to Aziz Mehmed Effendi. The sultan, pleased at his decision, grants him a royal pension of 150 piasters a day.
His followers are shocked, but they soon invent reasons for his apostasy. Nathan explains that the conversion was necessary, that the Messiah must lose himself in darkness in order to find all the shards of God hidden in the world.
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