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For my teachers. Especially those who taught me Latin and Hebrew: the gift of double vision.
In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure.
“Musée des Beaux Arts,” W. H. Auden
THIS WAS HOW it happened.
It is important to quiet the lamb, that is the first thing. A young man, learning the skills of priesthood, sometimes approaches the task with brutality. But it must be done softly, even lovingly. Lambs are trusting creatures. Touch it on the forehead just above the spot between the eyes. Breathe slowly and evenly, close enough to the creature to inhale the meaty scent of wool. It will know if you are nervous. Hold yourself steady. Whisper the sacred words. Grasp the knife as you have practiced. Plunge the blade into the neck swiftly, just below the jaw. There must be no pausing. The knife must be sharp enough that almost no pressure is needed. Move it down evenly and quickly, severing the tendons and nerves as the blood begins to flow and the lamb’s muscles spasm. Withdraw. The entire motion should take less than the time of one in-breath.
Hold the lamb so that the blood gushes down, that it may be caught in the sacred cup. There is a great deal of blood; the life is in the blood. It is appropriate at this point to meditate on the blood in your own body, on how quickly and easily it could be released, on how one day it will cease to flow. Sacrifice is a meditation on vulnerability. Your blood is no redder than this creature’s. Your skin is no tougher. Your understanding of the events which will lead to your own death is probably no greater than this lamb’s comprehension.
The smell of it is strong: iron and salt and sharpness. A priest catches the blood in the cup. The cup becomes full. The priest scatters the blood, spatters it to the four corners of the altar. The smell increases. The lamb stops twitching. The last traces of life are gone from it. This is how quickly it happens. When the blood is drained, slice open the skin and pull it from the carcass. Now the creature is meat. Every living being is meat for another. Do you think that the mosquito—one of the smallest of God’s creatures—looks on us as anything other than food? Worms will one day devour you—do you imagine they will notice your intellect, your kindness, your riches, your beauty? Everything is eaten by some other thing. Do not think that because you have knives of bronze you are more than this lamb. All of us are lambs before the Almighty.
Remove the sacred organs from the flesh. Pull them, separating and cutting the sinews which hold them in place. Moments ago, they had purpose: like each man in the Temple, they had their functions to perform. Now they are objects to be burned in the holy fires. Take care not to pierce the bowel—the stench will be appalling. This is no ritual of the spirit, it is a matter of the body. Remember that your bowel too contains feces, that the woman whom you most desire in all the world is, at this moment as at all others, full of mucus and feces. Be humble. Remove the forbidden fats which may not be eaten: the sheet of fat across the abdomen, the fat of the kidneys.
Place the organs and the forbidden fats into the fire of the altar. As they burn, offer up praises to the Almighty, who has given us this holy duty, who has given us the wit to understand His works, who has placed us above the beasts in knowledge and in wisdom. As the fats burn, their outer membranes blackening, the soft white matter liquefying and dripping down among the burning branches, the smell will be sweet and delicious. These are the sweet savors for the Lord. Your mouth will begin to salivate, your stomach, if you have not eaten for some time, may begin to growl. You are not an angel, a disembodied spirit without desire. You are a body, like this lamb. You want to eat this flesh. You are a soul also, the more to praise your Creator. Remember what you are. Give thanks. When the fats and organs are consumed, the animal’s carcass may be removed. It will be cooked for you and your fellow priests. Thus you will share the meal with God.
This is the daily sacrifice. Every day, twice a day, morning and evening, a year-old lamb, healthy and without blemish. Every time, it is a sacred thing. Every time, the animal is slain for the glory of God, not for the mere satisfaction of our hungers. Every time, as the life bleeds out, the priest should look, and notice, and give thanks for the animal whose life has returned to its Creator and whose flesh provides sweet savors for the Lord and nourishment for His servants.
They knew it would be that day. It is impossible to follow the fortunes of a battle closely without knowing when they are reaching their conclusion. Especially when that battle concerns the city in which you live.
They had fought off the army as long as they were able. They had the advantage, to begin with: the walls were high, the ramparts thick. As the army worked below, filling the ravine with boulders and felled trees, they hurled down rocks and arrows upon them. They worked in shifts, night and day, pulling the matter out of the moat by the cellar doors as quickly as it was placed there. They struggled. But they were undone by God.
The Lord commanded them to rest on the holy Sabbath. On this day, the besieging enemy was able to gain ground. Week by week, Sabbath by Sabbath, cubit by cubit, the ravine was filled in. They worked double time, but it was not enough. The invading army worked harder. They saw that soon the ravine would be so full of debris that a platform could be erected on it, that ladders could be raised and battering rams employed.
On the day that the platforms went down, they knew the end was coming. They were not afraid: fear would be a long time coming still, they had not yet seen starvation leading to cannibalism, to murder, to infanticide. Instead of fear, they were angry. They occupied a land between the river and the sea; it was a necessary foothold for anyone hoping to hold this region. They happened to stand in the way. It seemed wrong to them that the world should operate in such a manner. They raised angry cries to the Lord.
In the Temple, the High Priest heard the battering ram pounding on the city wall night and day now. Each resounding bang did little damage by itself. A small amount of dust, perhaps a tiny shift in one of the stones. Accumulating, night and day, those cedars twice as thick as the arm span of a man would destroy the wall. The people could see the stones being bowed inward.
It was just before dawn when the first stone fell. It was towards the base of the wall, not quite at the bottom, and in the glittering early morning light the motes of dust around it seemed to shimmer as it tumbled, as it crashed to the ground. When it fell, there was a silence in the city. Outside, the soldiers whooped and shouted and redoubled their efforts. But for a moment, inside the city, there was only an astonished horror. They had known it must come and yet had not believed it until they saw. The impregnable wall was breached. Then there were cries. Bring men, bring fire, bring swords, keep the invaders back!
Inside the Temple, the young priests ran towards their master, crying out what they had heard. The High Priest watched them run, their robes flapping, their feet slipping on the blood-slick floor. He knew what they had come to tell him. Everyone in the city knew what it meant that the great banging had ceased. Were the sacrifices needed less now? Did the people no longer nee
d to be brought close to God, to understand the shortness of their own lives?
He listened to their breathless words. One pleaded with him to leave the Temple. Another demanded that all the able-bodied young priests should take arms. A third suggested that they go out to meet the conqueror with a show of welcome. The conqueror was coming, he repeated, he was making for the Temple.
The High Priest said to them, “Two lambs, without blemish. One in the morning, one at dusk. Together with a grain offering of fine flour mixed with oil. This is the burnt offering instituted at Sinai. An offering to the Lord.”
They became quiet. But, protested one, the conqueror is coming, he approaches. The others silenced him, stiffening their spines and pulling their robes around them. They hurried to their duties, their hands and legs knowing the ritual even as their minds blew here and there. This one began to burn the incense, that one to clean the ashes, those began to lay fresh wood.
As the sun rose above the horizon, they slew the lamb. They scattered its blood. Some of the priests were silently weeping. They could all hear the shouting outside the gates of the Temple. They continued nonetheless to separate the organs, the sacred forbidden fat. They heard the foot beat of the army, that terrible consolidated crunch of one hundred right feet going down in unison. The lie of uniformity. As if they could become one creature. As if each of them, like this lamb, would not be utterly alone at the moment of death. No one else will save you from your own death, that is certain.
They burned the sacred portions of flesh. The High Priest felt his stomach growl as he inhaled the sweet scent of meat, because even now he was still just a man. The noise had ceased outside the Temple. The great gates were opening. Either there was no one left to defend them or they had surrendered in the face of insurmountable numbers. Well, they would find out for themselves soon enough. They began to prepare the wheat-meal offering, singing the psalm of the day. They brought the flour cake from its store. They anointed it with oil and frankincense.
And it was as they were preparing this offering that the conqueror, together with his troops, entered the Temple.
The matter was dealt with swiftly. The soldiers poured into the inner courtyard, shouting words in their own language, issuing and obeying commands at a run. They did not pause, even at the sight of the holy rituals. One or two of the priests attempted to run and were cut down. The High Priest was pleased to note that most of the younger men simply continued with their duties: burning the incense, fanning the flames, pouring the libations of wine. And if their arms trembled or their heads jerked or their mouths cried out when a sword ran them through, would not God in His infinite mercy forgive it?
The Romans swept through the sanctuary so quickly that they themselves seemed surprised, even alarmed, at how easily the thing had been done. They glanced at each other. The city had been a fortress, well defended. Was its heart to be taken without resistance? They looked around. The only man left alive was the High Priest; they had spared him to speak to their leader, the commander who was even now arriving.
The High Priest had expected a larger man, a brute with muscles of iron and a towering height. And a young man, why had he expected that? Perhaps because his way of making war had been so energetic. Pompey was forty-five, with a rather vague air, the lines on his forehead suggesting eyebrows constantly raised. He might have been powerfully muscular once, but he had run a little too fat now. He wore not the armor of battle but the toga of state, as if about to attend a meeting in the Senate.
His centurion addressed the High Priest.
“Pompey, commander of the Eastern legions and the Euxine fleet, triumphant conqueror of Hispania, consul of Rome, first man of the Roman Empire, primus inter pares, bids you…”
The centurion continued to speak. The High Priest looked at the meal cake in his hand. Flour, oil, water, baked to a fine flat bread. He crumbled the soft cake and placed it in the fire as was his duty. The flames flickered green and blue. He watched the cake burn.
The centurion, angry to receive no response, grabbed the High Priest’s arm roughly, seemed about to strike him, when a single word from Pompey stopped him.
Pompey motioned his men to lower their weapons. Together, they watched the meal cake burn, as flour cakes and lambs and oxen burned on the altars of Rome to their own many gods. The stone floor was thick with the blood of the slain, the bodies still warm. The sweet scent of the smoldering oil and flour traced a thread of delicious aroma through the iron stench of blood. The cake was entirely consumed. Pompey uttered a word. The centurion drew his sword, grabbed the priest’s chin, pulling it up and back, and slit the man’s throat.
This had been the last offering made by a free man in the Temple.
Pompey was not an ungenerous man. His Hebrew spies informed him that it was a grave offense among the Jews for an outsider to enter the holy inner sanctuary. This prohibition could not, of course, be adhered to, but nonetheless he made his survey of the Temple with courtesy, examining the objects and having his scribe record them.
How many talents of gold?
Two thousand.
What golden vessels?
The lampstand, the lamps, the table, the cups.
Spices?
Yes, great chests of them, a prince’s ransom.
Because he was impressed by the people whom he had conquered, because he had no wish to humiliate them further, he allowed them to keep these sacred treasures. And because he wished the people to feel the magnanimity of Rome as well as its power, he summoned the other priests, those who had not had the duty to attend the Temple that day, and bade them clean the inner courtyard of the blood and bodies of their friends and to begin the services once more. In this he was an astonishingly charitable conqueror.
The position of High Priest, of course, was a powerful one which could not simply be given to the next man in seniority. Pompey put his friend in that place, a Jewish prince who had been most cooperative during the siege and whose men had fought for Rome. It was a fitting gift for a loyal ally. This business concluded, Pompey left a garrison at Jerusalem and headed back to Rome in triumph.
This was how it happened. And everything that came afterwards followed from this.
Miryam
THERE IS A dead boy on the hillside, they say. Or maybe just almost dead. The herder Ephrayim found him when he was seeking a lost lamb, and does not know how long he has lain in the shallow cave between the pathways. Where has he come from? They don’t know. The clothes look like those made in Shomron, but the shoes are Galilean. Sturdy shoes, said Ephrayim, laying thereby his claim should the boy be lost. Sturdy, but still he should not have tried to cross the hills alone. It has been six cold nights one after another. Snow has fallen although it is nearly spring.
Still, if he is dead he must be buried, and if he is not dead they must attempt, at least, to care for him. They bring him to Natzaret thrown over the back of a mule. This is where Miryam first sees him. He is breathing, just a little, very shallow breaths, and they have wrapped him in furs. As they bring him in, a crowd comes to see—is he someone’s cousin? Someone’s nephew? Why did he come to Natzaret at such a time of rough travel? No one recognizes him. They push Miryam to the front in any case, to take a good look. A mother would know her own son, however changed he might be. Though they know there is no hope and he is at least a decade too young. But just in case.
Her youngest son, Iov, tugs on her skirt and says, “Who is it, Ima? Who is it? Why does he look like that, Ima?”
She picks Iov up and passes him to her friend Rahav to hold as she stares intently at the man on the back of the mule. The half-dead man is not her son. How could he be? She notices that two fingers on his right hand are black. He’ll lose them, painfully. If he’s lucky.
They place him in Amala the widow’s house and put him to bed with the dogs, for warmth. He sleeps the night, though they expect him to die, and in the morning begins to rouse, a little, enough to flutter his eyelids and take drips of water fr
om a soaked rag. The pain from his blackened fingers keeps him moaning constantly, even in his sleep, a low keening wail like an abandoned newborn. He shivers and sweats and holds the injured hand like a claw. They fear a fever. They call for the blacksmith, who performs the necessary deed with kindness, that is to say: swiftly. He screams of course, a strangled, terrified howl, but that night he takes a little soup and sleeps deeply. He still has not spoken to say who he is, although he understands them when they say “soup” or “water.” They wonder if he is a Jew at all, and not a Syrian or a Greek.
It is four more days until he speaks. They take turns feeding him bone soup or bread soaked in milk. Among themselves, they murmur. He is not as young as the light bundle of him crumpled in the cave had suggested, but not so old as the lines on his face. His beard has not come in yet, except in mottled patches. He is perhaps fifteen or sixteen. And where are his people? There is one obvious answer. Every year, some village rebels against the Romans, refuses to pay the tax, claims they cannot pay—often it is true, they cannot pay. And the tax collectors report the rebellion, and soldiers are dispatched. Every year, some village is burned, its men put to the sword, its women and children to flight. It is not likely that a boy as young as this would have been a ringleader, would be remembered by a soldier. It is not likely that it is dangerous to have him here. Nonetheless, the old men mutter.
On the fourth day, when they come to give him his soup, they find he has woken and is patting the dog with his whole hand, keeping the injured one close to his chest. He is murmuring to the dog in good, intelligible Aramaic.
He looks up guiltily as Amala and Rahav enter the room with his soup. He knows they have heard him speaking. His good hand is twined in the dog’s fur and the animal stirs and whines as it feels him tense.
The Liars' Gospel: A Novel Page 1
