Damascus

by Christos Tsiolkas

  ‘Are you unwell, brother?’

  I am old. I make no answer.

  He reaches out his hand, searching for me.

  ‘We too will share your gospel at our assemblies and at our thanksgiving feasts. I trust in your faith, Timos. You will not bear false witness.’

  My response is harsh. ‘And who is it who does?’

  Locating my voice, he lowers his gaze to me. ‘Those who are seduced by the sophistry of the Greeks.’ He swallows. ‘Those who are rich and who have never worked and who want to remake our Saviour into their own image. Those who would make Jesus a womanish philosopher.’

  He wipes his mouth, as if that last word is an obscenity. His next words are the weapon he brandishes and he lets it fall. ‘And I have forbidden the delusions that come from the forsaken Twin. I will not have them read at Colossae.’

  I hate him. He is my brother in Jesus the Saviour and yet I hate him. I muster my strength; now I am not defending myself but defending him whom I love.

  I make my voice my sword and I deliver a warning. ‘Careful! You are declaring against an apostle.’

  ‘It was also an apostle who betrayed our Saviour.’ His voice is strong and defiant. ‘And to preach against the resurrection is also a betrayal. Thomas is lost to the Lord.’

  It is this disgusting former slave who is the false witness.

  ‘He was the most beloved of them all—all the apostles vouched to that.’ My righteousness lends me courage. I sit up from the bed. ‘To say otherwise is a wicked falsehood.’

  The devil dares to laugh. He cackles, he grunts, spittle sprays from his mouth. He wipes his lips, sucks and chews, and finds his voice. ‘Calm yourself, brother. We all know the love you bore the Twin. But we must be loyal to our first martyrs. It was his own brother, the apostle James, who declared against him.’

  He will not even speak his name.

  I declare, ‘I still love Brother Thomas. As we all should.’

  His mirth has gone. Only the unkindness remains. ‘Thomas is dead.’ And then, reluctantly, after a silence. ‘May the Lord have mercy on his soul.’

  I cannot give an answer. My beloved must surely be dead. I close my eyes again, to remember him, to bring him to me.

  Able will grant me no peace. ‘You are greater than I am, Timothy, and are right to correct me. It is not the beloved Twin who corrupts our faith but those who preach in his name.’

  A low chuckle erupts from his throat once more. ‘After all, he was unschooled, just like me. You must think me ludicrous to even dare attempt a gospel!’

  I answer, without thought, out of civility and habit. ‘No master and no slave, we are all children before our Father, the Lord.’

  A sneering laugh escapes from him again. I hear him rising, and then the sound of his staff on the floor. He stands above me. ‘Rest, good brother.’

  I stir, prepare to rise.

  But he will not allow it. ‘No, with the Lord’s mercy I made it here. I promise you, He won’t let me tumble down the stairs. Rest, Timos. Your good flock have promised me a thanksgiving feast today.’

  My first thought is bitter: I have not been told. And then I remember Denisia’s benevolence and my promise to her. I dread what I must reveal. Quickly, I tell Able of the desecration of the idol.

  He listens and for a long while he is silent. ‘And you are convinced this—’ he pauses, his next word hard and unforgiving ‘—sorceress hasn’t revealed this to the authorities?’

  The imputation is clear: I’m a fool to trust her.

  ‘I am convinced.’

  I force myself to rise from the bed.

  Again he brings up his hand, says, ‘No, brother, rest. All this can wait.’

  Even with the open window, the air is viscid. My neck and shoulders ache, as though my head is a weight they can no longer bear.

  I give in and lie back on my bed.

  An evil jealousy fills me as I hear his staff search the stairs. Let him fall.

  Such ugliness—to fling a curse—and such wickedness—to wish a hurt—spur me where body and spirit have failed: I get up off the bed and am on my knees. I bring my forehead to the cool plank of the floor and pray for forgiveness, pray for charity and for filial love.

  Even as I do I swear that I can hear his reedy voice from below. I pray, but rather than being soothed by the balm of selflessness and duty, my heart is struck by the poison dart of envy. I can hear the women respond to him in cheerful greeting. I can’t make out their words but I am convinced they are sharing gossip, at ease with a former slave in a way they can never be with me. Or I with them. The blood of my father flows through me. Even after years in one fellowship, I am still wary of the taint of their skin and the old laws pertaining to their caste. And they also fear my touch and are suspicious of where I came from. They know that I wasn’t born noble and that we were never wealthy, but they suspect and they are right that my father owned and tenanted land. It is vouched for; the anointed son declared that only those without property will inherit the kingdom. I have nothing now. All that we have we share. But they know whose son I am, that a Greek landowner’s blood flows through me.

  I keep my brow to the floor, though the arc it makes spears agonising pain into my back. But I accept it as a punishment and will not move.

  My trance is broken by a call at my door. How long have I been lost in my meditation? As I straighten my back to rise, my knees buckle and I collapse, my body slamming onto the floor.

  ‘Are you alright, sir?’ Her voice is as urgent as her knuckles rapping on the door. I call on my Lord, I call Him to grant me strength. I am on my knees once more.

  ‘Come in, Sister Ephemia,’ I answer. ‘I am done with my prayers.’

  ‘Good brother,’ she squeaks as she pushes aside the screen curtain, ‘all is ready for the thanksgiving.’

  As she pours water over my hands to wash them, I ask after her husband and children, but she responds as though I were a revered and distant lord, and I am quickly silent. I don’t want to torment her by compelling her to speak to me. She respects me but she cannot love me.

  The long hall is packed and filled with joyful noise, and the assembly extends out into the yard. There is a hush as I make my way through the throng. In one voice they call: ‘He has risen, brother.’ I answer: ‘Truly, he has risen.’ They respond: ‘He is returning.’ Walking amongst them, patting children on the head as I go, I reply: ‘Truly, he is returning.’ And in doing so I realise that time has made a habit of those words, that I have uttered them with neither love nor testament. Time has robbed them of meaning and portent. I quicken my stride, as though a show of purpose can remind me of my duty and calling.

  As I gingerly take my seat my hip burns, and I stifle a groan as I cross my legs. Able is already seated at my side before them. He acknowledges me by searching for and finding my hand, kissing it. I return the courtesy. We face our family.

  Words do not come. I look down at the two rugs spread out in front of us; they form a barrier that separate Able and me from the faithful. The women have been busy and have spread dishes and jugs on each rug. But the offerings are sparse: unleavened bread, onions and garlic pickled in brine. One shallow plate is half filled with cooked fowl livers, a meal I know was scavenged from a butcher’s trash. The jugs are more water than wine.

  My silence causes the assembly to stir and to whisper. I clap my hands, beckoning to Heracles, and to the two others I have chosen for my assistants, Sister Silver and Brother Emmaus. They each take a platter of bread and share it amongst the brethren. At the same time, Brother Cheerful, a tall and sinewy youth, rises and begins to sing our thanksgiving prayer.

  The divine need not speak in tongues nor in prophecy; the clarity and harmony of this former slave boy’s voice is a gift from the Lord.

  The lad’s exalted song soothes my agitation, the sense I’ve had since awakening that the world has been dislodged from its moorings, as if the day has been caught between night’s end and dawn’s sti
rring.

  Able taps lightly on my knee, subtly urging me to speak. The prayer has ended. Heracles is holding a small crust of bread to my lips.

  I begin. ‘Jesus our Saviour, on the night he was betrayed, took bread and, when he had given thanks to the Lord, he broke it and said, “When you share in this bread, remember my teachings.”’ I eat the piece of bread that Heracles is offering. ‘He then took his wine after the meal and said, “This cup is a new covenant of my blood, the preordained sacrifice that I must endure. Drink this and as often as you drink, remember: I am with you.”’

  Heracles fills my cup and that of Able.

  ‘We remember Jesus our Saviour.’ I raise my wine and drink.

  They call as one. ‘We remember you, Saviour Jesus.’

  ‘He is risen.’

  They shout, a diaphony that shakes the haphazard foundations of our dwelling.

  ‘Truly, he is risen!’

  ‘He is returning.’

  And I do as we all do. I close my eyes and shudder at the exquisite promise.

  ‘Truly, he is returning!’

  Once, at this point, I would have felt a sacred light descending upon us: the Spirit and breath of the Lord. That brilliance was as tender as a mother’s soothing touch and as comforting as a father’s protective aegis. It is a long time since I have felt that peace. That radiant silence is now shattered by the impatience and the fidgeting, the murmurings and gossip, that bedevil our communion. We are now a family that stretches into a fourth generation. I preferred the circle of thanksgiving when we were few, each of us shoulder to shoulder with our brothers.

  I call for two more brothers to assist the others in distributing the wine. They each take a jug and a cup and move amongst the brethren as they each take their sip.

  I know it will take an age for each of us to partake in this feast of our love; I beckon to Cheerful, and he rises to sing again. He chooses wisely, one of the ancient psalms that I have taught him.

  I look over to my brother. Able sits there patiently. His sight is nearly gone but he is alert to every tongue that takes bread, to every lip that sips the wine. I see again the white scars on his brow, feel that violent disfiguring. I can smell the burning flesh as the iron seal is stamped on his forehead, I can hear the young child’s abominable suffering. Pity rises in me and I lean across to him and kiss him devoutly on the lips.

  ‘He has risen,’ I call into his mouth.

  He kisses me in turn. ‘Truly, he has risen.’

  Cheerful’s song comes to an end. The brethren are all quiet, every eye upon us.

  Able looks out onto the assembly as if he can see them all, as if in the mystery of our thanksgiving the Lord has returned his sight.

  He turns to me. ‘We are ready.’

  My throat is parched, my lips dry and my tongue heavy. I swallow with difficulty and remind myself that we have feasted on love, on the bread and the wine, and that the spirit of the Lord is with us now. I look over the faces of the crowd. The very young to the very old. Widows from Judea who have lost fathers and sons, daughters who have buried mothers and infants, so many of them children of famine, siege and war. I swallow, and I breathe. I must have trust in the Lord and in His son. I must have faith.

  I was wrong.

  I begin. ‘We welcome our beloved brother Able who has journeyed far.’

  And a chorus of voices answers: ‘Welcome, brother.’

  My voice rings out. ‘Why hasn’t Jesus the Saviour returned?’

  Able, who was smiling and nodding at my greeting, flinches at my words.

  ‘My teacher was one of the chosen apostles. I am speaking of our brother Paul, may the Lord have mercy on his soul.’

  The assembled murmur and whisper, a few call out: ‘May the Lord have mercy on his soul.’

  ‘He was a Jew, as are many of you. He was a proud Israelite and a defender of the law, so much so that he was entrusted with spying on and arresting those of our way who had proclaimed the coming and death and resurrection of Israel’s saviour. Paul could not believe that a man whipped and scourged, hung and nailed to the Roman gallows could be the promised Saviour of prophecy—he was outraged by the very thought of that. For this is a scandal, a stumbling block to Jews and a folly to those who are Strangers.’

  The silence in the room is absolute.

  ‘Who here has witnessed a crucifixion?’

  I sense their caution, their confusion. So I lift my hand and then press it to my heart. Slowly a few raise their hands, then more, and then it is a wave: all those before me, beginning with my brother seated next to me, then all the men and all the women and even the youngest children, we lift our palms and bring them over our hearts. From deep within the assembled there come cries and weeping.

  ‘Our brother Bartholomew—’ and here my voice cracks ‘—he was the first I saw crucified.’

  And one by one they begin to stand. A man calls out the name of his brother, a father that of a son, another father moans and declares: ‘My son and his son.’ An old woman, her eyes white, her frailty such that she wavers and totters on her feet but she stands because she must stand, hollers in a voice that is not weak: ‘My husband and my two sons.’ The air is thick with the memory of blood and suffering, and the chamber fills with names. They are Judean and Greek, Syrian and African, names of the east and the west and the south and the north. The crying now is at a pitch that deafens the mind and scours the heart.

  I raise both my arms. ‘In the kingdom to come, they will be raised and they will be first.’

  A voice from the courtyard yells out, ‘We can’t hear you, Brother Timos!’

  I make my voice boom. ‘In the kingdom to come, they will be first!’

  I pause and wait for the sorrow to be spent. My voice is now as firm and clear as that of a young man.

  ‘How do I know this?’

  They are returned to silence.

  ‘It was vouched for by the resurrected son.’

  And next to me the whipped and beaten and branded fugitive, my brother Able, declares, ‘Amen, amen, it is the truth.’

  That word, which is Syrian and Judean and now also Roman and Greek, that word resounds amongst the brethren. Amen. Amen. A lightning bolt has been pitched into my heart and its fiery point emerges as my voice. I am speaking with the voice of the Spirit of the Lord and though my eyes gleam with that light and though my voice and my bearing are those of a youth at the height of his potency, what astonishes me most is my lucidity. I require no intoxicant, I do not rely on the holy text. My words come freely and with the power of the Spirit.

  My hungry eyes search the assembled brethren, alighting on each one of them, bringing them to the light.

  ‘The first shall be last and the last shall be first,’ I insist. ‘We are poor, we are destitute, we are hungry, we are ill and we scramble for shelter. But together we are rich and together we are wealthy and together we are sated and together we are healthy and together we are blessed. We do not declare against the orphan and the widow and we do not shun the beggar and the prisoner and we do not abandon infants and we do not deny anyone entry to our family.’

  ‘When is he coming, uncle? When will we see the risen Lord?’ The interjection is shot from deep within the heart of the assembled. A man’s voice, clear and lean.

  The fervour that has given conviction to my voice fades away from me, just as water cupped from a stream slips through our fingers. They do not understand and they cannot see.

  I raise my wine cup. ‘He is amongst us now.’

  Before me is a raven-haired youth, his sharp features savaged by war and famine, his eyes filled with doubt and mistrust.

  I have to convince them of my faith. ‘He is coming,’ I continue. ‘Truly, he is coming. That promise grounds our loyalty and our trust and love for one another. But he is also here now—that is the point of this thanksgiving, for it is also a test of your faith and your love. Stay your impatience. Whoever has ears to hear, they will hear: thus spoke the anoi
nted son.’

  I have lost them. I look at them and all I see is confusion and doubt. They want me to give them an answer that I do not have.

  Able’s hand clutches mine. ‘My brother is a wise man and a good man. He has knowledge and he is correct: let those who have ears hear.’

  He is not made anxious by their qualms. His voice, as he continues, rises and resounds across the hall, with its hastily raised rafters and cheap walls.

  ‘Why has Jesus the Saviour not returned? Why is the promise unfulfilled?’

  He leans forward. When I asked, it was in wonderment and sadness. He asks in wrath.

  ‘Do not ask that of the resurrected son,’ he commands, his voice gathering power and volume. ‘He died for us. He was nailed to the damnable Roman cross for us! Do not dare ask anything else of him.’

  Able has dropped my hand, he is pointing into the crowd. ‘You, and you. And you there!’

  It is as if his finger is his sight, each stab allots a target: this brother recoils, that sister hides her face in her veil.

  ‘This one commits adultery,’ thunders Able. ‘And this one steals food from a neighbour. This one over there sells her body to those who would deny the Lord and this one over there is fevered with perverse lust for his sister or his brother. And you ask, “Why has he not returned?”’

  Silence.

  ‘He has not come because we are not deserving. He has not come because we are not righteous. He has not come because we are not worthy!’

  First one, then another, they are on their feet, swaying, their eyes closed, their hands outstretched to the beams, imploring the heavens.

  ‘Pardon us, Lord; forgive us, Father.’ Able speaks in a hush that I can barely hear, so it is inconceivable that it was heard by anyone else. But they hear. They are all on their feet now, swaying in one movement as they pray: ‘Pardon us, Lord; forgive us, Father.’

  The pleas for atonement gather strength, the words repeated again and again, called forth from my brother next to me and echoed by the brethren before us. Without my bidding, Cheerful is on his feet and he sings the phrase, at first quietly and then proudly, and as it circles and casts itself into the gathering its munificent song cannot be separated from the chorus of voices. ‘Pardon us, Lord; forgive us, Father.’