Damascus

by Christos Tsiolkas

  He surveys the sea of pilgrims.

  ‘This is the kingdom promised by our Redeemer.’

  They enter the desert that cleaves Syria from the Lord’s northern kingdom. On a sun-bleached plain, a giant cloud of black flies descends, to attack and feed. The pilgrims light torches so their smoke will repel the insects, but the great swarm only rises then descends once more in fury. The air is filled with the sound of their thunderous buzzing, and with the wails of children, the curses of their fathers and the laments of their mothers. Lice also make their attack, burrowing under veils and robes, into beards and folds of flesh and hair. Lines of fresh blood stripe the exposed skin of the pilgrims, marks of the incessant scratching, and every person is in torment.

  Saul too cannot bear the relentless assault of the insects, the relentless itching and biting, yet he does not want this journey to end. On this long road he is at one with his beloved and he is at one with his Lord and their people.

  All decent accommodation—inns, taverns and meeting houses—along the way has been taken. Across the inhospitable hilltops, villagers are eager to rent out rooms and stables, even the most derelict outhouses. The tavern owners, as is their wont in this holy season, ask for double or even triple the usual amount to house the pilgrims. Those who can afford it pay, but most of the travellers refuse, saving their coin for the sacrifices of Passover. They look for any bed they can find in the yards of the meeting houses. But even they close their gates once their courtyards are full and will not open them again, no matter who comes calling, till the rising of the sun.

  Saul and Timothy are happiest when sleeping out in the open and don’t bother to secure lodgings. On a night of a diminished moon, along with a group of young men who have travelled from the Pontus, they make their bed in a cave, its mouth yawning from deep on the side of a steep mountain.

  It is in that cave, in the dark, damp hollow, body lying against body, the relentless scratching and the rumble of snores broken by a narration of the Lawgiver’s defiance of the enslaving Pharaoh, that Saul is first challenged on the road. As the chorus recites the words of Moses, a single high-pitched voice interjects with the warnings of the prophet Jeremiah. It is a youth lying next to Saul; his ardent denouncements of the sins and capitulations of Israel soon quiet those who are still awake: of Her betrayal of Her people and Her becoming a whore to the seductions of first Alexander and now the Caesars. ‘Amen, brother,’ he is answered solemnly. ‘Amen,’ calls another.

  ‘The Saviour is coming,’ the protesting youth announces defiantly. ‘He is coming and will wipe away the filth that corrupts our lands.’

  Saul fastens his stare onto a glimmer of wet stone glinting above him on the low rock ceiling. The only light. The nails driven into the Saviour’s feet, the wounds of his torture, the agonising death on the cross. Saul must find such courage. Breaking through the answering cries, he lifts himself up on his elbows and dares to speak.

  ‘The Saviour that was promised has come. The one anointed by the Lord has come,’ he proclaims.

  Beside him in the dark, Timothy finds and grips Saul’s hand. It is only then that Saul realises the danger of his having spoken. Not for himself—that he can bear—but for his beloved. The youth is of the kingdom that is coming, he is convinced of this: the boy is circumcised in spirit if not in flesh. But this truth is not known to the ignorant pilgrims all around them. Uncircumcised, the youth remains a loathed Stranger. He has put his Timos in danger. The boy should not be here with them.

  A voice threatens in the darkness. ‘Who is this Saviour who has come?’

  Saul will do what he must to save the lad. ‘The signs are being fulfilled with each passing of day,’ Saul answers meekly. ‘He must be coming.’

  This time he is answered by a grunt. And from deep in the cavern, an answering call. ‘He is coming.’ And the chorus agrees.

  Saul does not speak. The flesh on his neck, on his cheeks, it bursts into flame. Of shame. Of fear. Of exile.

  Timothy squeezes his hand and then lets it go. He knows that the youth will have brought his hands over his sex, cupping his loins in fear and in shame.

  Forgive me, Lord, Saul prays silently. Forgive me.

  It is the open sky that first announces their proximity to the Lord’s city. The sheet of endless blue above them starts shimmering at its edges as they turn their backs to the coast and ascend the rising path. The roads are clogged with the multitudes making their pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

  After hours of negotiating the massive crowds along the way, they decide to find a place to rest for the night. They have to be ready for the icy night ahead.

  Saul watches as Timothy gathers twigs and branches and builds a small pyre in a hollow on the ground. The youth strikes stone against rock, sending out sparks of silver and blue, and the twigs soon smoulder. On their knees the men blow into the smoke and glowing twigs. There is a crackle and the fire is lit.

  As the day fades, fires are burning all along the slope that falls in gentle undulations to the far valley below. Around them are huddled groups and families, exhausted pilgrims knowing their grail is close. There are slender youths whose ragged clothing declares their zealous devotion. There are those with broken, twisted limbs and those disfigured by leprosy and other cruel diseases. There are children possessed by the evil spirits of madness or imbecility. All are preparing for their final night of sleep. By the next nightfall, under the gathering strength of the moon, they will all be—the Lord willing—in Jerusalem.

  Saul beckons to Timothy. The youth reluctantly moves away from the fire and joins his companion on the peak of the hilltop. The darkness shrouds the landscape but through the broad cleft of the valley a thin white line glimmers as it plays and catches the light of the burgeoning moon before disappearing again behind the solid black of the next hill.

  ‘Do you see it, brother? That is the Jordan River. That is where our Saviour was baptised by the prophet John.’

  Saul traces the air as if it were a solid stretch of parchment, as if his fingers were pen and ink. ‘This is the only point where we will see it,’ he continues. ‘Tomorrow we march south.’

  His finger darts to the ghosts of the mountain face across the valley. ‘And beyond there, you will see our city.’

  Timothy stretches his hands out across the night, as if seeking to hold the whole of Judea: the distant river, the desolate peaks, the dark valleys and the bleak sky; as if he could step forth and leap into the lap of the land.

  Saul laughs and ruffles the youth’s hair. ‘Day will come soon enough. But first you must sleep.’

  Timothy starts down the narrow path back to their fire. He turns around. ‘Aren’t you coming, brother?’

  ‘Soon,’ Saul replies.

  But he remains standing on the peak for an age, watching the moon travel almost halfway across the sky. He gazes into the dark, his heart and spirit contorted and restless, as if there were angels within him, wrestling for dominance. One is light, eager to enter the gates of the city and breathe once more the holy air. The other is night, choosing to stay on the hilltop, fearing those with whom he was once bonded, those he considered kin and friends. He knows that many in the Sacred City do not welcome him.

  When he finally returns to their camp, the fire is all but extinguished. His arms around Timothy, shivering in the cruel night on the mountain, Saul finally finds sleep. He lets the angels continue their wrestling in his dreams.

  They arrive mid-morning at a hut on the far side of Mount Scopus, a house belonging to Benjamin, son of Emmanuel, and to his wife, Agatha. They are devout Jews, poor but generous, and they too proclaim the resurrected son. Saul has been grateful for their kindness on his previous journeys to Jerusalem. But as he and Timothy make their way down the mountain, there is fear in his throat. Will they reject Timothy? Will they refuse him as a Stranger?

  There is a tremor in his voice as he calls out from the yard. ‘Friends! The Lord bless you. It is your brother, Saul.’

&nb
sp; Agatha’s shadow is at the door; and then she runs through the tiny yard as fowl scatter from her and a skinny dog starts madly barking. She embraces Saul, kissing him and greeting him joyously: ‘The Lord bless, the Lord bless,’ and then, ‘He has risen,’ and Saul answers, ‘Truly, he is returning.’

  He had nothing to fear. She welcomes Timothy with kisses and with an equal embrace. Timothy has pledged himself to the Saviour. That is all that matters. Tears come to Saul’s eyes and will not cease. Fear is vanquished and he is in light.

  Agatha feeds them a meagre meal, but it feels more like a banquet to Saul, so enraptured is he by her kindness and acceptance. The Judean sun is fierce but Timothy insists they eat in the yard so he can look onto Jerusalem, at the glorious sight of the towers of their Temple rising in the distance across the valleys and hills. Respectful as always, the boy had wanted to eat separately, away from Saul and Agatha, but she had refused and chided him gently, ‘Didn’t Yeshua eat with Strangers?’ She was looking at Saul as she asked this and he had been unable to answer, overcome by gratitude. Here was an illiterate woman, an uneducated peasant to most eyes. But not vainglorious, not stupid, not deaf nor blind. The tears welled up again. Unable to speak, he’d nodded. They three eat their meal at the same table.

  Saul is about to sip from a second pouring of wine when he hears Benjamin’s voice. He turns around and his smile of welcome is frozen across his face. For there is his friend, a clutch of timber across one broad shoulder—but behind him is another man. Benjamin puts down the wood and rushes forward, his strong arms gathering Saul to him. But Saul feels neither his friend’s embrace nor his kisses. His eyes are on the other.

  He cannot speak. He cannot move.

  It is Agatha who has to introduce Timothy to her husband and the other man.

  ‘Brother Timothy,’ she said, ‘this is one of our Lord’s disciples: this is Thomas, this is Yeshua’s twin.’

  Saul knows that when the coming kingdom is established, this moment will be impossible to forget or to deny. This moment will be with him forever. As if time has slowed, he sees Timothy on his knees, bowing to Thomas, having forsaken all that Saul has taught him. As if the Twin were an idol—as if blood were more important than spirit. He sees how the youth’s downcast eyes shine with adoration for the man before him. Thomas is not handsome. His face is broad and scarred by sun and work and time, his neck is thick and lined, his grey hair thinning. But he is vital and strong. The jealousy is a punishment, it abrades beyond flesh and lashes at his soul. When all other defeats had been dispelled in eternity, this scouring could not be forgotten.

  ‘Get on your fucking feet!’

  That rough Galilean voice, the snarl of it.

  ‘Don’t you dare bow down to me, boy. Don’t you dare bow down to anyone!’

  Swiftly, Thomas turns to Agatha. ‘Sorry, sister, I should cut out my filthy tongue.’

  His hand reaches down and effortlessly pulls Timothy to his feet. ‘Promise me, lad,’ he bellows, ‘promise me that you will never bow down to anyone again.’

  And before the bewildered youth can answer, Thomas has kissed him hard on the mouth.

  Only then does he turn to Saul. Letting go of the boy, his arms fold around Saul. The kiss he delivers is harsh. It burns.

  Thomas pulls away. ‘How are you, scholar?’

  So much derision and anger in that final word.

  Thomas smacks his belly. ‘Have you left us any food?’

  Thomas falls on the meal as if he has not eaten for days. He fills his mouth with bread and date paste, swallows, and reaches immediately for more. Saul can’t stop watching his Timothy, how the youth’s eyes do not waver from the Twin. The boy seems besotted, as if he has not ever seen anything as marvellous as this coarse and thick-limbed man. Thomas is sitting cross-legged on the warm stones of the yard, his fleshy thighs appearing shockingly naked, his dark skin covered by even darker flushes of hair. As if he were an animal, Saul thinks sourly. The delight he has taken from his time on the road, it has gone.

  The boy’s awed gaze reminds Saul that Timothy is a Stranger, that he is more his father’s son than the child of a Jewish mother. As a Greek, Timothy sees gods and sprites everywhere: the unholy foolishness he was born to makes nymphs out of rivers and streams, and believes trees and sky and seas to be gods. Does he believe that Thomas being Yeshua’s twin makes him equal to the Saviour? As if the Saviour was created through blood, not the Spirit—the breath of the Lord? Can the foolish boy really believe that the Lord gave birth to the Saviour, does he think the Lord has a womb? That He laboured and birthed the Saviour and his twin? Timothy looks at Thomas and believes that he is gazing upon a man that is near immortal. Saul must be deranged to have brought this Stranger to Jerusalem.

  Thomas wipes at his grease-spattered chin, picking crumbs from between his teeth. ‘Is this your first Passover in Jerusalem?’ he barks at Timothy.

  The boy, shamed, finally turns away. ‘Yes,’ he replies. And then, his face reddening with the humiliation, he blurts out, ‘My teacher is to cut me.’

  ‘What?’

  Timothy’s Syrian is crude. Thomas has not understood the lad.

  ‘The boy’s mother is a Jew,’ Saul says, stuttering in his rush to explain, ‘but he himself has never been circumcised.’

  Thomas roars with laughter. He turns to Saul. ‘Have you changed your mind, scholar? Are you now demanding circumcision of the brethren?’

  Saul scowls. ‘No. The boy demands it.’

  Thomas leans forward, putting his hand on Timothy’s knee. He playfully flicks a finger across the lad’s cheek.

  His voice now stern, he asks, ‘Do you believe my brother Yeshua was a prophet, the man chosen by the Lord to be our Saviour?’

  And Timothy, in ecstasy, his eyes now closed, is nodding. ‘He has risen,’ he says.

  And the boy waits. But there is no answer. Thomas says nothing. And the boy still waits. Such, thinks Saul, will be the silence at the end of this wretched world.

  Timothy opens his eyes, shocked by the lack of response from Thomas.

  It is Agatha who answers, quietly yet firmly. ‘Truly, he will return.’ She starts gathering the empty bowls.

  Thomas sits back and takes a swig of the wine. He then looks up at the sky, squinting, as if wanting the glare to burn away the sadness that has appeared on his face.

  ‘Has the lad been baptised?’ he asks.

  ‘Paul baptised me.’ In his confusion Timothy has answered in Greek.

  ‘I baptised him, Twin,’ Saul interrupts quickly, aware that Thomas knows little of Greek.

  Thomas glares at Saul. ‘Then you know there’s no reason to cut the lad—he is of the kingdom.’

  ‘To come,’ adds Saul, with equal savagery. ‘The kingdom to come.’

  Timothy, perceiving an enmity he cannot fathom, babbles, ‘I’m doing it to honour my mother, sir. She always spoke of the Lord’s city, of our Temple. I am doing it for her, to honour her blood.’

  Timothy’s words banish Saul’s distress. This is why he loves this boy, why he has chosen him for his companion: the lad is honourable, dutiful.

  As for Thomas, he seems about to explode. But then the anger is gone. ‘Suit yourself,’ he says with a shrug. ‘As long as you don’t pretend you are doing it for my brother, Yeshua.’

  His hand sweeps the ground for a twig. He splits it and starts picking at his teeth with a large splinter. A silence falls.

  Saul knows he should get up and make his preparations for entering the Sacred City. Distress again begins to swirl in him, to burden his thoughts. He knows he has to go, but he is reluctant to leave this company. He doesn’t want to leave his Timothy with this man.

  And as if the man is indeed a demon, as if he can read minds, Thomas asks, ‘Are you sure that my brother James will permit you to cut the lad? You know how stiff-necked he can be.’

  ‘The boy is a Jew.’

  ‘I know that.’ Thomas laughs loudly. ‘But you have to convinc
e James. Have you a gift for him?’

  ‘We have tithes from the brethren in Antioch,’ Saul answers flatly.

  ‘That’s good.’ Thomas is still chuckling. ‘That’s probably conviction enough for James.’

  Abruptly he is stern. ‘Do you know he has made us royalty?’

  ‘Enough!’ Benjamin is standing, looking down at Thomas. ‘He is your oldest brother and you owe him your respect.’

  But Thomas flings open his palms in plain disgust. ‘He claims that we are of the house of David. He claims that Yeshua came from a royal line of kings.’

  Benjamin’s tongue clicks harshly, indicating his annoyance. ‘I said enough, Twin.’

  Saul’s head is pounding. He is struggling to make sense of it.

  Thomas won’t be silent. ‘He corrupts my brother’s teachings; he is creating a dynasty in Jerusalem—wants to make his son a king. He makes poison of Yeshua’s words. He declares Yeshua the Saviour, but he shits on his teachings.’ And at this, Thomas spits. ‘As if Yeshua cared for kings, as if Yeshua didn’t damn for eternity all the rich and the kings! The last thing my brother would claim is kinship with the arse-rutting, corrupt descendants of King David.’

  There is a gasp from Agatha, an outraged moan from Benjamin. Then there is silence.

  Yes, thinks Saul, this appalled silence will be what is heard at the ending of the world.

  And with the pounding now in his mouth, in his chest and lungs and loins, Saul stands abruptly, grabbing Thomas’s ragged tunic. Saul’s hand is raised, and though he knows he is weak he knows he must act to avenge such profanity. He gathers all his strength and strikes Thomas across the face.

  He will tear my head off, thinks Saul, he will kill me.

  Thomas leaps up and his hand does become fist.

  Saul closes his eyes.

  And then the kiss.

  In the blackness, Saul thinks it is Agatha who is sobbing. But he opens his eyes to see that it is Timothy crying. Saul can feel the wetness that Thomas’s lips have left against his cheek.