‘You are a Greek, brother, you know it better than me. I know I sometimes make mud of your language.’
The boy always shakes his head and refuses to change a word. ‘You are inspired by the Spirit,’ he always answers.
And the union forged by their work is indeed sublime and astonishing. A bond wrought by the Lord.
Now, listening to the youth’s recital, Saul becomes aware of a gentle tapping in his head. His back stiffens, his lip trembles. It is only faint now but he fears that it will become a fierce pounding, as it has done in the past. His shaking hand reaches for the goatskin and he brings the bag to his mouth, sucking desperately as water rushes down his chin.
‘Are you ill, brother?’ asks the young man, rushing to his side.
‘Continue,’ growls Saul. ‘I did not tell you to stop.’
He is being unfair, he knows. This boy, this friend and brother, has been steadfast for over a year now. He closes his eyes and listens to Timothy’s faithful recitation. Saul listens to his own words. Days and nights—the urge to make the words real and in making them real make them truth has made sleep impossible. Saul knows that his words do not belong to him, that the foundations of all that he has to communicate, all that he believes, have been ordained a long time ago, in the ancient truths of the prophets. And as every day passes and every night ends, it is this understanding that strengthens his conviction that he has been chosen by the Lord.
In those long and ugly years in the east, he had been lost to drunkenness and wrath. It was a rage that had come out of fear: why had the Lord chosen him; why had the Lord demanded his exile from his family and from his world; why had the light, the risen Saviour, appeared to him on the Damascene road? Those questions had tormented him and his confusion and fear had led him to surrender to the darkness, to committing all those acts of wickedness that were loathsome to the Lord.
But in desert villages, in mountain hamlets, in foreign cities forsaken by the Lord, he had always found a welcome at the hearths of those who had heard the words of the man Yeshua, and who had pledged allegiance to that most incomprehensible of miracles, a crucified Redeemer. That could not have been a mere accident, that absurdity the Greeks called fate. Wherever he strayed, he would find Jews and Strangers who feared the Lord and loved the son. Even though he reeked of wine and dissolution, they had still taken him in. Even though he had cursed and abused them, they had fed him and given him shelter. Though he reeked of the sins of the flesh, they had washed him and clothed him. And he came to understand that what Ananias had first offered him—the knowledge that even in sin the Lord was there, that He would not abandon Saul even at his most wretched—that was a truth he could in turn offer to others.
So he slowly let go of his doubt and distrust, and he accepted their food and their shelter and their kindness. He returned their love. He knew the commandments and the words of the prophets were inscribed across his heart. At first reluctantly, and then with gathering awe, he realised that this would be his gift to the coming kingdom. He knew Israel. He was schooled and trained in Israel, he was of Israel. The coming of the crucified Saviour was not an aberration. His suffering and death and arising, and the redemption to follow, had been willed at the dawn of Creation. The Saviour had been nailed to the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and thus had the circle been completed.
So many of his brethren—poor and destitute, many of them slaves, unschooled and ignorant even if some had been born Jews—had heard the Anointed One’s words but could not comprehend his meaning. Yeshua the Nazarene was the new covenant. That was the truth Saul had been chosen to reveal.
And with that revelation, his thirst for wine and hunger for flesh had fallen away. Not completely—that was impossible in a contaminated and debased world. But the Lord forgives. That was the thing about the Jews that the Greeks and Romans could never understand. Their gods despised men for not being gods. This was the greatest wickedness, the worst lunacy. The Lord was the only god that forgave men as men. This was the revelation that had saved him.
The very same light had saved this boy, this Timos: his scribe, his companion, his brother. His friend, his love: eternal and indestructible. When he had come across Timos in the Anatolian city of Lystra, that boy had been lost. He had surrendered to wine, to depravity, to lust. The boy had stunk of it.
Saul, his eyes closed, is back in Lystra. He is back in Labour’s hut; they have just completed their thanksgiving. There is Labour, her daughter, Dawn, a slave named Giant, and a freedwoman, Virtue. All Strangers. Earlier, at the meeting house of the Lystrian Jews, Saul’s words had fallen on hard and unwelcoming soil. They’d laughed at his story of a crucified Saviour. They’d howled in derision and cursed in fury: ‘We want a new David, a hero who will slay Rome. We don’t want a virgin boy nailed to a fucking cross.’
So to the Strangers he goes. It is in the penury and misery of Labour’s poor dwelling that he finds those with ears to hear. The thanksgiving is done, they have shared their wine and bread, when they hear the whimpering. And then the baying—as though a beast is at the door. An animal crying out in pain and imminent death.
Giant moves the hide away from the door and Saul sees a boy, on his knees, scratching at the earth. Giant bends and takes the boy in his arms.
Dawn calls out, ‘Bring him inside.’
‘He’s soaked,’ the slave complains.
‘Bring him in.’ It isn’t an order, but a plea.
Giant enters the hut carrying the boy.
The rancid stench of man. The boy stinks of it. It is wine, it is sweat, and it is something else: the fetid odours of decay and death. Saul recognises this terrible stink; it oozes from loins, from between thighs and armpits, from arses: the stink of flesh. The boy’s head falls back, his eyes roll and then scarlet bile explodes from his mouth. Giant places the limp form on the floor. Dawn is at Giant’s side, rag in hand, to wipe the vomit away. Saul marvels at the miracle of their fellowship: a freewoman cleaning a slave.
The boy’s head is lolling in the dirt.
Saul asks, ‘Is he a brother?’
Labour nods sadly. ‘He wants to join us.’ She doesn’t bother whispering—the boy is in a state between sleep and death.
‘His mother is a Jew, like yours, Saul,’ she continues. ‘And his father is Greek. They have banished him from their home.’ Her next words are heavy and sour. ‘His shames are known throughout the town. Ours is the only house that will welcome him.’
Her daughter has poured water over a cloth and gives it to Dawn, who squeezes it over the boy’s mouth. At first he remains insensible, as if dead, his body unmoving and his eyes unnervingly rolled back, their yellow whites bisected by red veins. But then suddenly his mouth opens and his tongue strains towards the water, craving its touch. And with that, his eyes blink.
He looks up, searches the room. His gaze settles on Saul. His lips dry, his tongue heavy, he slurs, ‘Is this a brother?’
‘Yes,’ Dawn answers, ‘this is our brother Paul.’
The boy had spoken in the Lystrian dialect, but in deference to Saul their sister has answered in Greek. The older man and the youth lock eyes. As they do so, a crushing sadness overtakes Saul. This handsome lad is so young that a beard has not yet had a chance to grow. He is not yet a man, yet he reeks of a debauchery that Saul has only glimpsed in the most desiccated and destroyed of men, those who have dedicated a lifetime to wickedness and sin. He can see life leaking out of those eyes. Saul makes fists, hoping to stay the swell of misery that promises to break inside him. Misery at what the world is. At what the world can do.
The boy’s deadened eyes will not leave Saul. With a ferocious struggle, the boy jolts forward, lifts himself up and then falls onto his knees before the older man.
‘You saw him?’ The question is almost a scream. ‘They say that you saw him!’ No longer a question, now a demand.
And as suddenly as it consumed Saul, the fierce grief within him is gone. It has melted away and been repla
ced with a feeling of lightness, as if Saul is one with air. Is one with spirit. For in the depths of the youth’s despairing eyes he has perceived a shimmer. He has seen beyond rancid flesh.
Saul kneels in front the boy. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I have seen him.’
He reaches out but the boy recoils.
‘Don’t touch me, sir,’ he groans. ‘There isn’t one of the Lord’s laws that my vile body hasn’t broken.’
Saul grips the boy around his neck. He will not let him go.
‘You are forgiven. I promise you, boy, if I am forgiven, you are forgiven.’
Saul realises he is taking what was once given to him by Ananias and offering it to the boy. And he knows that this too was ordained at Creation: that the boy’s burdens will also be his.
Saul’s eyes open, he looks at the handsome young man before him, the one who unerringly transcribes Saul’s words. Timos’s skin is clear of blemishes, his eyes are wide and shining, his body unbowed. There are bruises across his neck and left shoulder, delivered some days ago by Strangers who were outraged by their allegiance to the crucified and resurrected son. Saul recalls their curses as they rained punch after punch on him and Timothy: ‘Fuck you and fuck your corpse God.’ But the bruises and scars have not destroyed the boy, they have not felled Saul. They have only marked flesh. They cannot strike at the spirit or touch the light within. Both spirit and light had been all but extinguished when he’d first met the boy who’d slumped across Labour’s dirt floor. Sin had nearly conquered him.
‘Thank you, Lord,’ Saul whispers in the garden. ‘Thank you.’
Timothy has seen the tears welling in his friend’s eyes and has come to comfort him.
‘It is nothing, nothing at all,’ Saul says, wiping his cheeks. ‘I am recalling our first meeting and thanking the Lord.’
At these words, the young man’s eyes too begin to brim and a half-smile forms on his tender lips. ‘I was so broken.’
‘I was broken too,’ Saul reminds him. ‘All of us have been broken, brother.’
Timothy sighs with such overwhelming sorrow that for a moment the youth in him disappears and Saul glimpses what he will be when he’s an old man. A silver sweep of hair, a wrinkled and unsteady neck. It is a flash and it is gone. Youth stands before him once more.
Saul clasps his companion’s hand. ‘Passover is soon upon us, brother. I have taught you well. You know the sacred texts and, more importantly, you understand them as well as I do—I have no doubt about that. You will stay here with our brethren for a while, and when I return from Jerusalem, we will resume our travels.’
And again, a great happiness floods Saul. He can see the long Roman roads, the great caravans they will join, he can feel the sea winds whipping across his face and shoulders.
‘We will go to Greece, Timos. We will bring the Lord to the world.’
But the lad’s hand has slipped from his. His face has become a mask. And Saul knows how rare it is to see hardness or defiance in Timothy’s face, and for that reason it is alarming when it does emerge.
‘Take me with you to Jerusalem.’
The older man shakes his head. His joy is gone. ‘I cannot.’
Petulant, the youth looks away. A group of young street children has entered the garden, five beggars. The oldest, thin as a reed but with the fully-formed muscles of a wrestler, is dividing up their illicit gains stolen from market stalls. The boy snarls and Timothy returns his gaze to Saul.
‘Take me.’
When are you returning, Yeshua? When? And with that question, Saul fears he does not have the strength to continue. He has baptised Timothy himself, he has brought him to Israel, to the Lord. But Saul knows that his conviction, his love for Timothy, is not shared by their brothers and sisters in Jerusalem, the first disciples of their Saviour. A stab of resentment runs through him. Their ignorant, unlearned, illiterate and uncomprehending brethren in David’s city. Fools and doubters—barriers to the kingdom. It is no wonder that Saul has been chosen by the Saviour.
Pride, his arrogant pride. Saul is ashamed by his own meanness of spirit.
‘You must be patient, Timos,’ he says finally. ‘I will make our brothers understand.’
But the lad is shaking his head. ‘Cut me. Make me circumcised.’
His words strike Saul to his soul. He is reminded of the great chasm of age that separates them. How can he counsel patience to this young man? The boy knows that the world will change and the world will end and a greater one will take its place. Saul shivers again. There are so many like his Timos, young and therefore impatient, pledged to the Saviour but in their impatience led astray. So many charlatans proclaiming that the kingdom has come. They must not take this boy from him.
As if seeing inside Saul’s heart, the lad insists again: ‘Cut me.’
Louder this time, so that the leader of the beggar boys lifts his head. He sniggers, says something, and the boys burst into laughter.
‘He is coming, Timos.’ And Saul forces sternness, not doubt, into his voice. ‘He is returning and then we will all be in the kingdom together.’
‘Saul, do you believe me to be of Israel already?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then cut me. My mother is a Jew—it is allowed. You can make me of Israel now.’ And he adds once more: ‘Cut me.’
‘I will not.’
For a moment he believes that his firmness has prevailed, that the lad is accepting.
Timothy sits beside Saul. ‘I’m coming to Jerusalem.’
‘I will not take you.’
‘I’m coming to Jerusalem, brother. I will be there for Passover.’ As he speaks, Timothy has brought his fist up to his chest, as if to thump at his breast. He swiftly drops his hand.
‘Cut me,’ he pleads softly. ‘Please, my brother. Don’t let it be Peter or James. Let it be you that brings me to Israel.’
Saul’s first thought, with sadness: I have already brought you to the Lord. Then, with spite: You are still a Stranger, look at you, wanting to bang your chest to appease the filthy Greek gods. And finally, the turmoil that renders all other emotion powerless—the jealousy that snakes around his heart so tightly that Saul believes it will crush him: not them, not Peter or James. I will not have it, I cannot allow it. He knows it is wickedness, knows that jealousy and pride are both awful sins. And that they blind him to the light, bind him to the earth. He doesn’t have the breath, the strength to ask forgiveness from the Lord for his weakness.
‘I will take you to Jerusalem,’ he says, his voice cold. ‘I will circumcise you.’
The youth falls on him, embraces him, kisses him fully on the lips. The beggar boys are open in their derision now. One of the boys grabs another, the smallest, and bends him over and pretends to rut him. Timothy is oblivious to their scorn. But Saul knows that he is committing a greater sin than such boys know is possible. It is his conviction, forged over years of aversion and confusion and finally enlightenment, that his Saviour has sent him out amongst the Strangers to preach that the Lord is truly the God of all. To the circumcised and to the uncircumcised. And now, in his cowardice, his reluctance to challenge James for fear of being excluded, is he betraying Yeshua?
He pushes his friend away, holds him at arm’s length. ‘Are you prepared, brother? Are you ready for great hardship?’
‘You are my teacher,’ Timothy answers. ‘With you by my side, I can face any hardship.’
The long Roman road is thronged with pilgrims who are also making their way to the Sacred City for Passover. Saul and Timothy set off before first light, but even then a river of humanity is already on the march: ascetics and musicians deliriously chanting their praises to the Lord; women riding mules clutching infants on their laps and to their bosoms; men and older children balancing loads on their heads and shoulders; depleted old men, skeletal with hunger and clothed only in the thinnest of cloth, sacrificial ash smeared across their foreheads; eager youth in full sonorous chorus, arms linked as they recite the Lawgiver’s sa
cred words.
Saul finds himself singing, calling forth the ancient songs of King David. He could do so freely, as there is no danger on this journey, no fear that bandits or madmen will attack this great crowd, this glorious proof of the Lord’s love for His first and most cherished of people. The calamities and the dishonour that had befallen the Jewish race were dispelled in the unity of their song and in their communal desire to make sacrifice at the altar of the Lord’s Temple.
These are not the wealthy Judean nobles who have compromised their faith by coveting the luxuries of Greece and Rome. They are not the enervated priestly caste, grown fat and indolent on privilege, spewing forth words that have long ceased to touch their hearts. These are caravans of Alexandrians, Greeks, Anatolians and Phrygians, Galatians and Egyptians: they are the true source of Israel, these virile men, these stoic wives, these joyful children. Here, amongst these poor and labouring men, farmers and freedmen, here is the coming strength of the realm promised to Abraham and championed by the prophets. These souls are the light that will defeat Rome as they had defeated Assyria and Babylon, they are the vengeance that will topple the pretender kings of corrupt Jerusalem. These are the heirs of Elijah and of Moses the Lawgiver, of the houses of David and Solomon, and of the blood of the Maccabees. This is the kingdom that the Saviour had been sent to redeem and, in saving it, to return all of the world to unspoiled Creation.
Saul’s voice cannot stop singing: these are his people and his kingdom and also the world to come. His voice rings out strong and bold. Let Rome listen and be afraid. The song has been forged in slavery, in the wanderings in the desert, in the mines and quarries of Babylon, in the choked streets and temples of the great Egyptian and Greek and Roman cities. Let them hear the ancient roar and recognise that the kingdom is coming. Rome will fall and Jerusalem will rule the world. The whole world will belong to Israel. It is promised and it is coming. Let them hear. Let them quake.
Saul grips his beloved’s hand, raises it to his lips and kisses it. ‘Thank you, Timos,’ he says, breaking free for a moment from his song, ‘for making me promise to bring you along.’
Damascus Page 20
