The Implacable Hunter

by Gerald Kersh

  Now I understand something more. It had come into my mind when I said that Absalom was the son of a king, and had died hanging from a tree. The rumour persisted that Jesus Christ was of the blood royal. Pilate, splenetic by nature, and at his most pointlessly spiteful when he was in a jocular mood, had pinned over that filthy and degraded carcass on the cross, a sign saying: ‘This is Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.’ After all, if Jesus had not made this claim, he never denied it. This was more than Paulus could bear. He might have forgiven the Nazarenes their heresies. He would never forgive them their Jesus. He loathed Jesus, in his heart of hearts, as a kind of ghostly usurper of his private throne, an interloper coming between himself and his hopeless, magnificent dream. And now every Nazarene was a little Jesus, and his personal enemy.

  And here, too, was the origin of Paulus’s ‘loneliness’.

  Poor young man! He could take your love for granted, but he felt that he would never know anyone big enough to receive his own. Unrolled, the love of Paulus – vain man! – was great enough to spread over a kingdom; it would suffocate anything less.

  Perhaps one day some philosopher will synthesise my proposition; that our most abrupt, unpredicted and mad actions have been the longest in secret premeditation. They are old, imprisoned dreams bursting the seals. If they burst in the right direction and at the right time, you are a great man. If they do not, you are a madman.

  I said: ‘Well, well, there is a kingly quality in any true soldier. In battle he feels in him a certain greatness, once his first fear is gone. He has been drilled to know that he is only a part of his company, yes. But when the critical moment comes, he feels that his company is only a part of himself…. And touching the matter of that, do you know that there has been a stink of The Fish in the Damascus garrison?’

  It may be remembered by the likes of Tibullus that the secret symbol of the first Nazarenes was the Sign of the Fish, thus:

  It could be made, as it were accidentally, as I did while I was talking, in three movements of a wet wine-cup. Some said that it had been evolved by one or other of Jesus Christ’s disciples, one of the Galilean fishermen whom Jesus had promised to make a fisher of men. Others, that it was brought in by Sidonians who used to worship the fish-god, Dagon. Others again said that the Fish symbolised everlasting life, resurgence, the death and resurrection of the body – that, in short, it was nothing but the eternally erect penis of the old god Priapus, borrowed for the sake of convenience. There was talk, also, of Poseidon, or Neptune; however this may be, for a little while we referred to Nazarene influence as ‘A stink of The Fish’.

  ‘Among Roman soldiers?’ Paulus asked.

  ‘Why not? If there is one thing the Nazarenes are not, it’s exclusive. They are astonishingly catholic. A large proportion of them are Jews, of course, it being a Jewish cult. But there are no fees, no mysteries, nothing. All you have to do is say you believe; and be you circumcised or otherwise, black African, blue Briton, dog-faced Scythian, they wash you in water and your past is gone and forgotten, and you are with Jesus from then on. So, one fine morning, while the officer was inspecting his company on parade, two legionaries stepped out of the ranks, dropped shield and spear, drew their swords, and offered them hilt first to the amazed centurion in the name of King Jesus, the Son of God! Non-violence, as you know, is one of their tenets.’

  ‘I know about their apish tenets,’ said Paulus. ‘But what happened?’

  ‘Oh, I imagine the men were flogged to death without much delay, in the presence of all the rest. But the matter gives one food for thought. A sect like that could be truly dangerous – the slave laughs at the whip, the criminal laughs at the judge, the soldier offers his sword to the enemy, crying: “King Jesus! King Jesus! King Jesus!”’ I watched Paulus; his mouth tightened a little. ‘King Jesus is all very well, so long as his kingdom is not of this world, as I am told he said. But when we come around to obstruction and passive mutiny, it seems to me that his followers are acting with a distinctly temporal as well as spiritual effect.’

  ‘Will Rome tolerate this?’ asked Paulus.

  ‘It remains to be seen how long our patience will last. I’ll tell you one thing, though – it is regarded as very unlucky, just now, for a soldier to hold up his sword with the hilt pointing away from him; and civilians are regarded as suspect, out Damascus way, who wear their knives or daggers in that fashion or even cross their fingers to avert bad luck. Such things are well worth noticing, Paulus. The sword reversed is the universal sign of submission, surrender, non-resistance, self-immolation if you like, and it is the easiest sign in the world to make – with a finger dipped in wine, with two sticks, with anything you like; the sign of the gallows, so:

  – convenient, useful, in fact unavoidable in architecture, bridge-building, the making of domestic furniture, arms; and even in arithmetic, because you can’t calculate without the use of the X, which is the same figure with a short arm turned sideways. If I were a Nazarene organiser, I’d adopt that sign; everybody has it. And if I were you, I’d watch for its being made out of place; because the Nazarenes are already a kind of secret society, and they must have a quick, easy sign, and a countersign. For all these little things you will keep a sharp eye open, because as soon as real pressure is brought to bear on them, the Nazarenes will go underground.’

  ‘Yes, they would not fight,’ said Paulus bitterly.

  ‘Why should they? Fight, and be exterminated for armed revolt, and they a scattered handful? Fanatics they may be, but they aren’t complete fools. Besides, they are pacifists, and if they die for their faith, why, there is waiting for them Jesus of Nazareth, Son of God, King of the Jews, in whose bosom there is eternal bliss. They are one with the Oneness of things.’

  ‘And yet they shall fight,’ said Paulus, through his teeth.

  I pretended to sigh. ‘Such a lot of trouble out of such a little village! Nazareth. Mud huts! But what was Rome, once upon a time?’

  ‘Does Diomed mention Nazareth and Rome in the same breath?’ asked Paulus.

  ‘Why not? Believe me, my boy, concerning mud – the gods play with any clay that keeps their hands occupied. “Nazarene” is as good a stamp as any. Theirs is a faith for slaves, and most men in the world are slaves.’

  ‘Under Rome,’ said Paulus, spreading his hands like a shopkeeper and bowing his head in mock humility.

  I said: ‘You know what happened when the razor tried to sharpen itself at the expense of the file? It ruined itself. Only fools try to split meanings in order to be clever. I was about to say, every man is a slave who has a hunger, be it for bread or love or power or peace; and the Nazarene was a hungry man’s prophet. He can take on something of the colour of his surroundings, therefore. So he is the helpful fallen log that turns out to be a crocodile, the patch of shade in the desert that becomes a lion, the bright green grass that is a quicksand. He dresses himself in your immediate need. He is sweet flesh for the leper, a new sensation for Little Lucius, a fresh speculation for Soxias – and a stepping-stone for high-climbing Paulus. Eh?’

  Thoughtfully tracing little crosses with his finger-tip, Paulus said: ‘If you offer the hilt, you get the point. If the Nazarenes submit, they perish; if they resist, they perish. But I think they will resist. And oh, then …!’ He drew a hissing breath.

  I said: ‘I hope they do, just a little, for your sake.’ And I thought: ‘If you imagine that I am to let you whip up an important insurrection, so that you may have the glory of putting it down, my dear young friend, you are mistaken.’

  He read my thought, and said: ‘It is a bad doctor who lets the wound heal before the pus is drained. They are a mixed lot, as you say; and surely some of them must draw iron. The slave concept is very pretty in the preaching, but can a wolf turn into a lamb overnight?’

  ‘If not overnight, then never,’ I said. ‘The lamb was there all the time; when the wolf’s skin wore thin, the lamb came out … or vice versa. I know men who have changed heart overnight.’
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  He saw that I was hinting at what he had told me about himself and his mother, for he darted a sharp glance at me, and then looked away. I went on: ‘A little provocation is sometimes necessary, judiciously applied. Your analogy of the doctor is apt; but sometimes the life of the patient comes out with the pus. The body has its own ways of healing itself, and these the good doctor must know – ask Melanion. Did Rome wipe out Judaea because a few orthodox fanatics took up arms?’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘There is no but. Where we are sending you, you will behave with disciplined moderation in your temporary capacity as acting peace officer and magistrate on circuit.’

  ‘You are sending me? Where, Diomed, where?’

  ‘To Jerusalem and Damascus, to begin with. It pleases Rome, for the time being, to support your Temple in its suppressive action against the Nazarene agitators.’

  ‘Oh, Diomed!’

  ‘Yes, I know, I know,’ I said. ‘It is “Oh, Diomed” and “Oh, Diomed”, and this is what you have been praying for, and all that. But this is not a holiday, and an affair for kicking up the legs. It is a very serious matter, like a man’s first battle. It is a mission, and you must accomplish it almost alone. By this I shall learn what you are worth. Success or failure depends upon your cool judgment and your correct conduct.’

  ‘I am proud,’ said Paulus, ‘I am very proud to have been chosen.’

  ‘So you ought to be,’ I said. ‘It is a matter of life or death for you. I don’t mean that it is at all dangerous; only if you fail us, well, you might as well resign yourself to selling hides and lending money to the farmers for the rest of your life – and that would be death to my friend Paulus, I think.’

  ‘It would!’ He appeared cool enough now; but a pulse had begun to beat in his throat.

  ‘Several names were considered. All were eliminated but two – yours and one Lazar of Lachish.’

  ‘Son of Isaac of Lachish – woollen cloth, fine leather, and parchment – a weakling,’ said Paulus, blowing away an imaginary feather.

  ‘Very likely. I had a voice in the matter, and my vote went to you. Keep still, keep still – the fact that I regard you as a sort of very young brother, or, if you like, half-grown son, had nothing to do with it. I voted, as I think, wisely. And for the first time in my life I believe I shall have had the good fortune to please everybody in the course of duty. When you were last in Jerusalem your father’s friends liked you for what they called – believe me or not – your “learning, zeal, piety, and pleasing demeanour”. And your father has almost as many friends as he has enemies – he knows how to make them, in the right quarters. But your father’s enemies agreed with his friends on this occasion, saying among themselves: “Pride goes before a fall. Give that haughty little fastidious Pharisee his head, and he will make a perfect fool of himself. He is too young, too hot-headed, and too inexperienced for such a mission. He will come back in disgrace, and that pious old fraud Joseph will never hold his head high again.” Such Romans as know you say: “Really, for a Jew, Paulus is almost half civilised. A Jew isn’t necessarily a bad sort, once he has learned white men’s ways. Send little Paulus to purge the Nazarenes, by all means – an educated Jew hates wild Jews as a dog hates wolves”…. Something like that.’

  He showed no emotion. I continued: ‘You will take these points of view for what they are worth, which isn’t much. You will force your passion to serve the work in hand. I will have no fine frenzies, no smitings hip-and-thigh. You will handle the Sanhedrin with the utmost discretion: you must seem to obey them in everything, while at the same time you enforce the will of Rome. This, in itself, is a game at which older and wiser men than you have failed miserably. They will want blood. But you will kill only where killing will so some good; that is to say, with extreme discrimination. You will take plenty of prisoners, though, but try and get them young and strong; we want men for the mines, the roads and the circuses. A sturdy fisherman generally makes a good net-and-trident man, if you catch him young, and there is a shortage of retiarii in Rome…. But there is plenty of time for your instructions in detail.’

  His jaw dropped. ‘Plenty of time? When am I to go, then?’

  ‘In a week, let us say.’

  ‘And what is my rank or official position?’

  ‘You haven’t got one. This appointment is a special civil one. Your present ambiguous position of Tax Examiner gives you latitude enough.’

  ‘Do I go in armour on this occasion?’

  ‘No. Better dress as usual in some rich but plain manner, with a judicative touch about it. But if I were you I’d wear helmet and body armour and a good sword on the road. The passes are dangerous. But you will ride with an escort this time – one of the younger officers and ten soldiers – and an Unofficial Observer.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Someone who will bring me a dispassionate, unbiased report of the affair, apart from your own official statement. I think I shall send Afranius. He has nothing better to do, and his eye is clearer than most. Besides, he likes you.’

  ‘I like Afranius,’ said Paulus, pursing his lips and nodding gravely; he was the cool administrator, now, in counsel with his peers. ‘Yes, Afranius is not a fool, and I think he is an honest man.’

  ‘I am sure Afranius would be flattered,’ I said. ‘Now there is one other thing I particularly desire you to do, Paulus. It is in the nature of a secret inquiry, or, perhaps, a confidential errand.’

  ‘You know you can trust me, Diomed.’

  ‘I know I can. It is confidential and secret because I cannot yet make it official. I can give you only some broken threads to follow, some smeared tracks, and by these you will try and find me a certain man, and bring him back alive.’

  ‘Name him and I will find him,’ said Paulus.

  ‘This is no part of your official duty, Paulus.’

  ‘That is all the better – name the man!’

  ‘Jesus of Nazareth, so-called King of the Jews,’ I said.

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  HE paused, then laughed. ‘What with the good wine and the good news, Diomed, the blood must be a little thick in my head, and my ears are playing me tricks. Do you know, I could almost swear I heard you say “Jesus of Nazareth”!’

  ‘That is what I said.’

  ‘But you said “a man”.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘Oh, I think I understand. You were speaking figuratively. You meant, the man who has inherited this Jesus’s mantle, so to speak?’

  ‘You don’t. I wasn’t. I didn’t. I meant exactly what I said. I want you to bring back Jesus of Nazareth.’

  ‘But he is dead!’

  ‘Then bring me his corpse,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Diomed,’ said Paulus, tapping his words out steadily and carefully, as goldsmiths do with gold-dust when they shake it out of a horn spoon on to a balance, ‘if you speak to me again as to a wanton child who must be kept quiet with mockery and riddles, upon my honour I leave your house, and we are no longer friends! I’ll gather taxes, I’ll sell hides, I’ll finance ventures, I’ll ride with the caravans – you go too far, you presume too much!’ He leapt up, his hands clenched and his face set, struck to the heart with a sense of pathos.

  ‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘I was not playing with you. Even if I had been, you should have kept still.’ Sudden exaltation is a tricky thing; a young man is no more fit to hold his balance on a freshly-realised hope than a fledgling is to fly. A breath may send him spinning, a thought may turn him.’

  ‘Pardon,’ said Paulus, sitting again.

  ‘Granted. Jesus Christ is dead, you say, is he not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your evidence, please.’

  ‘Evidence? Firstly, he was tried and sentenced in a Roman court. Secondly, the sentence of death was carried out. Thirdly, he was pronounced dead, and was buried.’

  ‘Pronounced dead. By whom?’

  ‘He was sentenced to die on the cross.’

  �
�Let that pass for the moment. Buried. Where?’

  ‘I understand that his friends obtained permission to bury him in a private tomb, like a person of quality.’

  ‘Correct. Then where is his body?’

  ‘In the tomb, no doubt.’

  ‘Well, it is not. What do you make of that?’

  Paulus said: ‘Nothing much. His followers being blasphemers and fanatics, no doubt they wanted to make some kind of holy place, or shrine, of the spot where their “king” was to lie. The Egyptians worship dung-beetles and filthy ibises and desert dogs; the Indians pray to cows and monkeys; then why should the Nazarenes not say their prayers to a carrion carpenter? They carried away their Christ’s carcass to nuzzle his rotten bones in peace and quiet in some hole in a hill.’

  ‘Plausible,’ I said, ‘only it appears they did nothing of the sort. Some angels came and carried Jesus up to heaven like Elijah.’

  ‘You don’t believe that?’ cried Paulus.

  ‘Of course I don’t. Angels do not bother to pack your clothes for you when they carry you away, as they seem to have done in the case of Jesus Christ. They remembered to include a quantity of linen bandages and some ointments, too – for which, I trust, we shall have no further use in the other world.’

  ‘Then who stole the corpse of Jesus?’

  ‘Nobody. Considering the matter, in idle moments, I have arrived at a half-formed conclusion that there never was any corpse of Jesus to steal.’

  ‘You mean, it was laid in some other burying-place?’

  ‘No. I am considering the matter solely as a police officer now. The religious aspect of the matter does not concern me. If Jesus Christ is dead, so be it – leave him to the gods – Hades holds court beyond my jurisdiction. It is my conjecture that he is alive.’

  ‘Your evidence, please?’ said Paulus.

  ‘What kind of evidence would you like? General grounds for a particular belief, as in metaphysics? Or eye-witnesses’ statements that tend to establish the point, as in law?’