The Implacable Hunter

by Gerald Kersh

‘Master, what alms? Jesus was a poor man’s Rabbi. And such Nazarenes as can afford to give are afraid to do so openly, for it appears that Jesus was a false prophet, and to follow him is blasphemy. At first, they made much of me, and feasted me, and gave me gifts. But not now. They are afraid to employ me. Lord, I am a strong man, and the best watchman in Jerusalem: did I not say that darkness was my light?’

  ‘And you want employment?’ asked Paulus.

  ‘Judge, I do.’

  ‘You have something to offer, you bat, in addition to your cripple’s qualifications?’

  ‘Yes, Rabbi –’

  ‘Who gave you leave to call me Rabbi? I’ll Rabbi you – I’ll teach you something you won’t want to know! The point: come to it.’

  ‘Sir, because I can see in the dark, and because I can hear so well, and because I can tell one man’s footstep from another, and because Jesus gave me my sight, I am watchman for the Nazarenes at their secret meetings. A Messenger is on his way to Jerusalem now, to give them heart. You, Master, have cast a great fear over the Nazarenes in Jerusalem. So someone is coming with a message.’

  ‘And money?’

  ‘A little money, I think, too. Lord, I can deliver this Messenger, and all those who are with him.’

  ‘I see that you are not particularly grateful to this Jesus for giving you back your eyes,’ said Paulus.

  ‘Noble sir, that man’s reputation was made by me! And I am ruined,’ said Nun, indignantly.

  ‘Tell me something. You saw his face, did you not?’

  Nun said: ‘It must have been the very first thing I ever saw with these eyes, sir.’

  ‘Describe it.’

  ‘Oh sir, how can I? After forty years I opened my eyes. There was a terrible light. It struck me in the heart, and I fainted.’

  ‘Ha! Good. You shall show me this Messenger when the time comes, and I shall see to it that you are rewarded.’

  ‘Thanks, Master!’

  Paulus threw him a few coins. ‘Here is something in earnest. Don’t spend it conspicuously. Be cautious.’

  Nun shuddered. ‘Lord, I will. I have no desire to be found in a ditch with my throat cut.’

  ‘I thought these Nazarenes of yours were men of peace.’

  ‘They are supposed to be, Lord, but it takes all sorts.’

  ‘Go, then. And when all is over I promise you the full protection of the law, steady employment in conditions favourable to your general condition, regular meals and housing, for life. Your enemies I shall put in chains.’

  ‘Master!’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Do your duty. Fail me, and you had better hang yourself out of hand.’

  ‘I’ll not fail you, gracious sir!’

  ‘Get out then,’ said Paulus.

  ‘One little thing, Master?’ said Nun. ‘My employment … not in Jerusalem, I hope?’

  ‘Very well. Not in Jerusalem. Ask me no more favours, blind man – you are playing with an edged tool here.’

  When he was gone, Afranius said to Paulus: ‘Give me some more wine. I have seen everything.’ Holding a filled goblet courteously in both hands, Paulus gave it to Afranius and then, in high good humour, took another for himself. Afranius said: ‘I have seen the unicorn, and I have seen the dragon; I have seen the men whose heads grow below their shoulders, and the women who make fur aprons of their lower labia; I have seen the leviathan that lives in the sea and breathes smoke a hundred feet into the air, and I have seen the ape greater than a bear that can uproot trees but lives in a nest and makes music on its belly as a drum with its fists; I have seen women with wooden lips that hang down to their throats, and I have seen Hercules his pygmies. But by all the gods, high, middle and low, a monster such as this Blind Nun I have never seen!’

  ‘He is interesting, though far from prepossessing,’ said Paulus.

  ‘And you would give employment to such a thing as that?’

  ‘Oh come, come; values are relative. He will lead me to this Messenger. That is all I require of him. I want that Messenger, I must have that Messenger, and I will get that Messenger if I have to wash Nun’s feet and drink the water, by the Almighty God I swear it!’ cried Paulus.

  ‘Pah!’ said Afranius, shuddering. ‘If I had to use such a creature, then I suppose I should use him. But having rewarded him I should banish him to some lonely island.’

  ‘What, is this your Roman faith?’ asked Paulus, pretending to be shocked. ‘I have made good Nun a promise, and I never break my word.’

  Afranius then wrote:

  ‘I have no time now to relate what ensued. A courier leaves for Tarsus tonight, so I seal this portion of my Commentary, or Report, and forward it by his hand. The rest, which will follow, is to my mind peculiarly shocking.

  Afranius.’

  8

  I WROTE a note to Afranius forthwith:

  ‘My poor friend, my ill-used Afranius, you are breaking my heart. Your sufferings are greater than I can bear. What misery, to be bathed by plump girls; and what hardship, to be told in advance that you are to dine off a piebald suckling pig with savoury stuffing! How you can tolerate it, I don’t know.

  ‘It must be dreadful to see, in the case of our young friend, the Jerusalem dagger up the Tarsian silk sleeve. It must shock your sensitive soul, innocent young thing that you are, to witness the betrayal of a benefactor by a common informer. You must have changed somewhat from that Afranius who was my comrade in arms in Germany, once upon a time, and who boasts of having seen the world.

  ‘Be grateful to me for having given you a frame upon which you may weave the fantastic tapestries of a hundred fresh stories – for the gods know your present stock has worn pretty thin. I repeat; when you come home. At present, write what you see – if I want sentiments, I will read the poets. I regret the colicky nature of Jerusalem water, some of which must have got into your head, that you produce such a diarrhoea of words.

  ‘I am most interested to know what it is that has “peculiarly shocked” you now. One of the bath-girls rubbed you with the wrong kind of oil, perhaps? Or did you find a bug in your soup? Bear up. I think Paulus is doing very well, considering. But you must not tell him I said so. And try to write so that I do not have to dive too deep and open too many oysters before I pick up some seed-pearl of cogency. Save the deathless prose for your autobiography.

  ‘My love to you,

  Diomed.’

  We were accustomed, as old friends, to exchange more or less insulting letters. Taken as a whole, Afranius’s letter was all cogent, and my heart was not as light as my reply might seem to convey: there was something in the wind, there was something in the wind! I went about my duties – not perfunctorily, for there was nothing to warrant that – let us say, with only nine-tenths of my mind; and that little tenth constantly forced itself on my attention like a sore finger.

  Late in the morning Paulus’s father came to see me, old Joseph himself dressed with rich and elaborate simplicity in the robes of a wealthy Jewish merchant, but in his speech and manner a little more Roman than any Roman ever was. He pretended for half an hour to discuss with me some legal point to which he said he attached considerable importance. Then I asked:

  ‘And is it this that has kept you from sleeping these last few nights, Joseph?’

  ‘It is true that I have not been sleeping very well,’ he said. Then, ‘It is best to be completely frank with you, Diomed.’

  ‘Yes. In fact it is a waste of time trying to be otherwise with me. What is troubling you?’

  ‘I know you hate me,’ said Joseph.

  This took me unawares. I said: ‘You know what?’

  ‘That you hate me. Or at least, dislike me.’

  ‘This kind of talk,’ I said, ‘is for girls fishing for offers of marriage, or compliments. Yours is not the kind of statement I waste discussion on. But if I did hate or dislike you, my friend, I am so constituted that it would be all the better for you if I had to pronounce against you; for in such a case, I should be compelled by
my conscience to disqualify myself as prejudiced. Similarly, if I loved you, and my decision were in your favour, I should examine myself and re-examine myself, for fear that affection had fuddled justice. What is this talk of hate, dislike, or what not?’

  ‘Forgive me! You are God’s own incorruptible man! I am not well, I am disturbed in my mind. I was going to say, “I do not believe you have much liking for me, but my heart tells me that you have a certain regard for my son Saul.”’

  ‘I said: ‘Joseph, your son saved my life, once. He went up unarmed against a madman with a club while I was on my knees. In any case, I have always had an affection for the boy.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about that. Bare-handed against a giant, a giant with a bronze club – and sent him to his knees with a look and a word of command!’

  I had not the heart to say that Iscamyl’s fall had in fact been helped by a thrust in the guts; an irradiation of paternal love had made Joseph half sympathetic, for the moment. ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘For the past three nights, every night, I have had bad dreams of Saul.’

  ‘Natural anxiety causes bad dreams.’

  ‘Is Saul in danger?’

  ‘Why should he be?’ I said. ‘He has a hand-picked guard to ride with, and I have sent my best friend to be at all times by his side.’

  ‘Yes, and I bless you for it!’

  ‘And if he were in danger,’ I went on, ‘why should he not be? He is a man. Man needs danger. Would you lock Paulus up with the women?’

  ‘No, no, I would not do that. But these are troubled times, and –’

  ‘Are they?’ I asked, interrupting. ‘Where’s the trouble?’

  ‘I mean, somewhere, somehow, there is always some trouble, some danger; and Saul is headstrong. He has no regard for himself. Where it is prudent to go back, or stand still, he goes forward. And in my dreams he goes forward, always away, and my heart tells me in my dream that I shall never see him again. And, oh sir, I love him! I am a moderately well-to-do man, a man of business, a bargainer – I confess it, I like money; and they say of me that I would rather shed blood than spend money, and I admit it is almost true – but Saul is my life and my high hope, and for him I would give everything and take a bowl and beg!’

  ‘Oh, he will make his own way in the world,’ I said. ‘Although I should be the last to deny that money is useful.’

  ‘Have you news of him?’ asked Joseph.

  ‘Oh, I see what you’re driving at,’ I said. ‘You know I’ve had dispatches from Jerusalem, eh?’

  ‘But not a word to me, and I am Saul’s father, sir!’

  ‘Well, not a word to me, either,’ I said, ‘and I am by way of being in the line of his duty to Rome. And I’m not having bad dreams. But, to put your mind at ease, I hear that he is well, is doing his work competently, and in his half-official capacity is worrying the Nazarenes like a perfect little wolfhound.’

  ‘Good, good! But he is so daring. It is possible to have too much courage. Do you know, when Saul was only seven years old, he caught a serpent with his bare hands, his little bare hands?’

  ‘A poisonous serpent?’

  ‘Well, no, it was not a poisonous serpent. But it might have been, for all he knew.’

  ‘Fine. You will excuse me, now?’

  ‘Thank you, thank you, Prefect – I had not intended –’

  ‘Not at all. My respects to your charming lady –’

  ‘Ah, she grieves, she weeps all day for Saul. If, when you write, you could find time to tell him that?’

  ‘My business with him at present is official. You are his father. It is for you to tell him, or his mother herself, or his wife Jaël.’

  He was somewhat ill-at-ease as he replied: ‘Sometimes I almost believe that his heart is not with us…. Tell me something, out of your great kindness, sir; has Saul –’ He stopped.

  ‘Has Saul what?’

  ‘Is there by any chance some woman he has met …?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Why do you ask?’

  ‘For no reason. It was a passing thought,’ he said.

  ‘And now it has passed?’ I asked.

  ‘I really beg your pardon, Prefect. My head is so full of little worries, I am talking nonsense.’

  ‘Not at all. You are sure that is not what you really came to inquire of me in the first place?’

  ‘Of course it was not! Why should it be?’

  ‘Why, what can separate a man from his family more surely than the love of a strange woman?’

  ‘For God’s sake, do not even speak of such a thing!’ he cried.

  ‘I should not have done so, if you had not raised the question. But be easy on that score, Joseph. One man in ten thousand is otherwise dedicated; your son is one of these. Now I really must beg you to excuse me, my friend.’

  ‘I owe you a thousand apologies, and thanks for –’ he began, then clutched at his throat with both hands like a man who has been poisoned ‘– Otherwise! Not a woman but otherwise? You cannot possibly mean …? You don’t imply …?’

  ‘Of course I don’t,’ I said, brutally. ‘The hole he is dedicated to has no bottom. Now I absolutely must entreat you to excuse me!’

  And so, at last, I was rid of him.

  Then I went to Soxias’s house. Gorged like a leech, preposterous in purple and gold, the magnate was sitting on cushions and inhaling steam from a vessel of boiling wine and aromatic herbs, pausing every few seconds to cough and spit into a silver bowl, while grim old Melanion struck him spitefully on the back with a kind of cushioned flail. This instrument, which was impregnated with some strong-smelling tincture, was supposed to beat medication into the skin while Soxias sucked in a complementary vapour through his lungs.

  These two played strange games with death. At the beginning of the year Soxias always said, with a groan: ‘I’ll bet a Greek talent of silver I don’t see this year out!’ ‘Taken, said Melanion. On the last day of the year Soxias always paid up, grumbling that Melanion had loaded the dice. Then the bet was renewed. It was beneath that old pirate’s dignity to pay a physician a retaining fee. There had to be some sport in it. Thus, I have seen Soxias, taken with a painful spasm, laughing at Melanion and yelling: ‘You lose, Greek, you lose, pederast! My lawyer has instructions to collect!’ – while Melanion growled: ‘Have your talent ready, hippopotamus; but play fair, and if I say lie still, lie still.’

  Now, as I came in, Soxias cried: ‘Stop!’ – and a slave took away the vessel while another wiped his face with a scented towel. ‘Diomed, what good wind blows you here?’ he asked.

  ‘Why, what but the troubled state of the world,’ I replied.

  ‘Is it in a troubled state?’ Soxias asked. ‘Really? Tell me all about it.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘you tell me.’

  ‘You receive the official dispatches,’ said Soxias. ‘What do I know?’

  I said: ‘Come off it, Soxias, come off it! Overnight, trade slackens and cash gets tight in Tarsus, what time every dog-faced money-changer comes to me whiffling and sniffling pretexts but hoping for a signal from me, some dropped word. “Troubled world,” they say, and bury their specie; “troubled times,” they whisper all over the city, putting up their shutters.’ This, of course, was, if not a lie, a bending of the truth for the only hint I had picked up was from old Joseph by accident, and then only because I have a sharp mind.

  I elaborated, however: ‘Wherever I go they pluck my sleeve, pretend official business, and whisper, “What news from Rome?” Come on, tell me, what have you heard that I have not?’

  This kind of exchange did Soxias more good than all Melanion’s steams and herbs. He replied’ ‘How do I know what you have heard?’

  I was ready for this. ‘You don’t,’ I said. ‘You know as well as I do that your merchants’ news-runners are faster and keener than Rome’s. But Soxias, my friend, bear in mind that merchants also talk, especially to me. So, what I hear I hear. Now, what is your news?’

  Here was the merest f
alse front, for I knew nothing. But Soxias said: ‘In that case, you have heard Caesar is dead.’

  I replied: ‘I have heard nothing but a rumour of it’ – which was literally true; I had heard it that very moment, from Soxias himself. ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘That Caesar is dead,’ said Soxias, chuckling.

  ‘Well, he is over seventy years old, and has lived hard,’ I said, without emotion.

  ‘Seventy is not such a great age as all that!’ snapped Soxias. ‘I am no spring chicken myself.’

  Melanion sneered: ‘Ah, but you have lived a pure and simple life, good Soxias.’

  In the suave, bantering voice that everyone feared, Soxias said: ‘Yes. And I have the best of physicians, Melanion. I have an indispensable physician. In fact I am thinking of leaving instructions in my will, that when I die Melanion be sent along to look after me. Some eastern monarchs take their women with them – why shouldn’t Soxias take his doctor?’

  Melanion’s expression changed: he did not like that. I said: ‘If Tiberius is dead, I am sorry. Rome will have worse Caesars than Tiberius before she has better…. But is he?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Soxias, ‘you are as wise as I am, I see.’

  ‘Does your intelligence name a successor?’ I asked, making the question seem rhetorical.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then, Tiberius isn’t dead.’ I was being informative now.

  ‘No. It’s a politic thing, for a Caesar to die once in a while, just so that he can see which way the cat jumps,’ said Soxias. ‘It is nice to know who will grieve and who will rejoice. And, of course, it affects the frontiers. All kinds of little secret schemes come to light, and all kinds of plots expose themselves too soon and abort. It flutters the dovecotes in the money market, also. The speculators always start selling when a Caesar dies; and when everybody sells, prices drop. At which point, I buy.’

  ‘As if you haven’t money enough.’

  ‘Oh, enough and more than enough. I don’t want the money, I want some fun. As I was saying – the Britons attack again, the Germans get bolder, and the East flares up. It helps a man to know where he stands, if he dies once in a while. Also, it teaches plotters the futility of plotting, and revolters learn something about the hopelessness of revolt.’