by Nick Tosches
I swore that with the new moon, something must be done. I thought again of the Roman argenters in Caesarea, and my trepidations. But my concern for our growing caravan of treasure now overshadowed all else.
Women of the town adorned our new donkey with colorful ribbons, and smiled to our Lord like blushing brides.
On our way north to Gennesaret, with the others moving for a while more slowly behind us, Jesus looked to our trinity of asses and let forth a laugh.
“Virtuous beasts, our friends here, don’t you think?” he said.
“I should say so. Virtuous indeed. We take the money and they carry it for us without complaint.”
“High time to give them names,” he said. “If I can give names to asinine disciples, I can give names to noble asses.”
He brought to mind something I had wondered about.
“And why do you give new names to these men?”
“Only to some of them.”
“But, even then, why?”
“To lessen their sense of identity, to take a bit of their selves from them. To lay the touch of subjugation to them.”
I asked him the names of the new disciples, and he told me.
I asked which of these were their true names, and which of them had been given them by him, and he told me. I asked him if he recalled the names of the disciples that had come and gone. He said that while he could recall some of those come-and-gone disciples and some of the names of those come-and-gone disciples, he could not recall which of them was known by which name.
“And when you give them new names, how do you choose the new name?”
“I just pluck them from the air. A man tells me his name is Simon, but to me he looks like a Peter, so I tell him that henceforth he will be known as Peter.”
Jesus then commented on Aaron, the Sadducee priest, and Ephraim, the Sadducee rabbi, whom we had met long ago, at Bethlehem, and how, when they had joined us in Simonias, it seemed they would be with us for only a time before returning to Jerusalem; and yet they still followed.
I said that it was not good that they were Sadducees, for by their being in our company, people might see Jesus as also affiliated with the Sadducees.
“You must be perceived as associated with no established sect. You are the Messiah, and you must be seen as above and beyond all known sects. We must induce the priest and rabbi to relinquish their sect and embrace in full both you and your teachings.”
“That will come,” he said, and he seemed to believe it would.
Once again, I expressed my recurrent feeling that we now had enough. We could vanish. We could live out our days in luxury and indulgence in Rome. And once again, he admitted to the same feeling, but said that this feeling in him was always followed by the feeling that we were not yet done, not quite yet.
“And to think that it was I who had to convince you of this adventure on the night that we first met,” I said.
There was from him that familiar laugh that remained silent within him, to be seen only in the smile on his face and the movement in his chest and belly.
This subject and this silence were uncomfortable. I returned idly to the matter of the disciples’ names.
“And so you changed Simon into Peter, but you let Andreas, the tick, remain Andreas.”
“That is not his name,” said Jesus.
I watched the hind gait of the new donkey. It was rather soothing and hypnotic, until its asshole opened to allow the release of a ponderous piece of shit.
“His name is Judah, or Judas, or some such thing. And he was not born at Simonias, but somewhere to the south. A place called Kerioth, I believe.”
He saw my impassive expression, and took it to be what it was not. The truth is that I was barely listening to what he said. My mind had drifted back to thoughts of Caesarea and Rome, thoughts of your dear grandmother and father, my wife and my son, to whom I wanted to return.
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t like him, either. But we can’t order disciples away from us. Their bitterness would be such that they would renounce us and make calumny against us. Their denunciation would be dangerous. One thing that we have learned is that people believe lies as readily as truth.”
He muttered something about the coin in the mouth of the fish.
In turn, with a feeling of incongruity, I heard myself mutter something:
“Trust and mistrust alike ruin men.”
These were not my words, but when I said them, I could not remember whose words they were, or where I had gotten them.
A light breeze descended. Jesus returned his attention to the asses. He looked with fondness on the dun jack donkey that was our first, with us since we crossed the plain of Sharon.
“Faith,” said he.
He looked with fondness on the second of them, the white-bellied jack of black that was the youngest of the three.
“Hope,” said he.
He looked with fondness on the third of them, the new mottled gray jenny from Magdala.
“Charity,” said he.
21
UNKNOWN EVEN TO JESUS, I HAD AT TYRE PURCHASED A good deal of opium from an importer who supplied the renowned Roman pharmacopolist of that city.
I was not interested in henbane, from whose death-like coma we had raised the young man of Nain as he lay bound for burial on his funeral bier. Nor was I interested in mandrake, that other stinking plant poison that in small doses brought phantoms and visions, and in larger doses eliminated political and personal enemies. These were drugs for murder, narcotics with which those of low class and ill-breeding played a dodgy game in seeking to lace the stupefying effects of their palled wine with crude illusions and apparitions.
It was the stuff of gods, opium, praise-sung and rhapsodied by Homer, Virgil, and Ovid; the wondrous stuff, opium, that, mixed with his cup of hemlock, sent Socrates smiling to his death as if entering a place of bliss; opium, banisher of pain and sorrow, bringer of enchantments—it was opium, and opium alone, that I wanted.
The opium of royalty, which was of prohibitive cost in large amounts, was that which bore the seal of Anatolia. The importer assured me that the opium of Egypt and India surpassed the Anatolian, and that the higher price and prestige of the latter had more to do with the glamour of its luxury seal than with its quality. I was also told by him that the best grades of Egyptian and Indian opium were often of higher purity than the Anatolian, whose weight was often augmented by adding undetectable shavings from the lanced poppy pods to the thick opium juice that these pods yielded.
He told me this not because he had no Anatolian opium in stock, but because I had presented myself as a potential long-term buyer, and he surmised that honesty would in the end prove more profitable than the wiles of single-purchase selling.
A libra of Egyptian opium, round and wrapped in linen, was set before me. It was expensive, he admitted, but it was also the best to be had. Pure, unadulterated, uncontaminated, from the recent harvest, which was one of the finest in years. He unfolded the linen and lightly pressed his forefinger into the black substance to illustrate how very fresh and soft it was.
The big, thick, heavy libra was far more than I wanted. Its weight was about that of an old Republican cast-bronze coin. He brought down several unciae of the same opium: much smaller rounds in smaller wraps of linen.
I asked him how much opium, taken at once, might kill a man through poisoning. He looked at me suspiciously and asked me why I wanted the opium. I told him that it was for cultic purposes, to be used in rites. I told him that I was the agent of a priest, who knew much more than I. I told him I was merely curious, and that I wanted to be party to no mistakes or mishaps.
“The cult of Ceres?” he asked casually.
“No, another,” I answered casually.
“Liquid opium is for killing,” he said. He gestured to phials on a shelf. “It is also good for rites,” he said, “as it mixes well with wine. One bottle of that size, a mere hemina, half a sextarius, can kill any man
. The same bottle can produce a dozen or more cups of most potent ritual wine.”
He fetched a parcel, drew back its linen, and revealed to me several lumps of about the size and color of walnuts.
“These cakes contain, each of them, the equivalent of a cup of cultic wine. They are of the best Theban opium, the same as we have here”—he passed a hand over the big libra and the lesser unciae—“mixed with honey, egg, almond paste, and fruit. Uncooked, unbaked, these cakes may be eaten quite delightfully.”
As they appeared to be roundish lumps, or misshapen balls, I asked him why he called them cakes. He told me that he called them cakes because that was what they were called. He brought the heel of his hand down hard and fast on one of the lumps, flattening it into a small roundish thing that looked like a fritter waiting to be fried.
“Behold!” he announced. “A cake.”
Sensing the merchant’s growing impatience, and growing doubt that I might be the potential long-term buyer that I had presented myself to be, I said at last, to ease his impatience, renew his hope, and ensure a good price: “I shall take some of each.” And so I purchased six uncials of pure opium, six phials of liquid opium, and two dozen cakes. As he counted the coins I pushed toward him, he gave me the recipe for the cakes, should I wish to make more with the pure opium I had bought. He said in a confiding manner that chestnut honey was the best to use.
The opium was hidden amid the treasure carried by our good dun donkey. I knew that I wanted it for a purpose, but I did not know what the purpose was. Now, on our way to Gennesaret, we came upon a very small settlement of so few people that it seemed more an encampment than a place of residence. The families dwelled in modest tents. They told us that there once had been more families, more tents. Now they were all that remained. They called this place Tabgha, and they were rightly proud of the natural beauty that was to be seen in every direction, all around, from this place that was barely a place.
It was then that I knew.
They had heard tell of the anointed Jesus, and they were most honored to have his presence. They had but one small young lamb with which to feed themselves on this day, but they asked if they might share it with us, even though our number was almost equal to their own.
We could smell and see the roasting kid that was being slowly turned on its spit over smoldering embers. I had Jesus instruct the others to proceed ahead of us to Gennesaret. I had him tell them that he felt a vague sense of having been summoned to this unknown place, for something that was not known to him.
They wished to take one or two of the donkeys with them, but Jesus stayed them.
Their figures grew small in the distance. I called Jesus to me, and told him of my design. He was disinclined to it. He said that it was not right to experiment on these poor and kindly people. I told him that it would be a gift to them that they would cherish always.
At last, he agreed to play his part. He said that he would follow my lead. This would be impossible, I told him. These people spoke no Greek or Latin, and I spoke no Hebrew or Aramaic. It must be he who guided their vision. I would lead them to the threshold of that vision, but mine was not a speaking role.
From what I did, what I saw, and what he later told me, I give you my account of what transpired in that place that was barely a place on that sigh of a spring afternoon that became a sigh of infinity.
Jesus told them to bring forth their goblets, that they might share in good wine with him. The men smiled happily and fetched their homely drinking-bowls, most of which were of wood, and a few of which were of hammered metal. The women among them held no cups, and we feared that they would not drink.
“No man nor woman ever became drunk on this wine,” Jesus said. “It is the wine of the grapes of Eden, to whose wild-growing vines my Father did lead me.”
The men gave their assent. All was ready: our wineskin, filled with good wine from a vineyard near Magdala; our waterskin, filled with good water we had drawn that morning from dewy rocks near here; one of the phials of opium; and one cake for each of the tent-dwellers. While preparing their potions, I could hear the voice of one of the men, followed by the voice of Jesus.
“We have heard from some who have passed our way that you are the savior for whose coming men have looked to the East for as long as there have been men. If you are that savior, will you save us?”
“From what do you wish to be saved?”
“From this forsaken existence, in which the beginning of life is the beginning of death. As you have said, it is beautiful to look on the world from here. But the world does not look on us. We are all that remain of a forgotten, dying tribe.”
“Your tents tell me that you are nomads. Why do you not resettle near a place of more people?”
“Our tents tell you wrong. It is true, we once were nomads. Our people were, long ago. But here these tents came long ago to rest, to be moved no more. A place of more people would not be a place of our people. This alone is the place of our people. So I ask you: can you save us from our end?”
“But your end will be in glory. Where you see death, I see rebirth.”
“You will save us, then?”
“You have been saved, but yet do not see it. Salvation is yours.”
I saw that they were all gathered on the grass, and that as the man and Jesus had spoken, the rest had listened. I distributed the cups and the cakes, which I had pressed into rounds. Each man and woman recognized and raised a hand for his or her own cup. For Jesus and me, I reserved simple wine and water.
Jesus looked to the kid on the spit, which faced skyward, unturned and weirdly still, over the smoking embers.
“That lamb once trembled, but trembles no more. He will feed many.”
He held his goblet of wine and water in his left hand. In his right hand, he held one of the small discs of cake. He held these things to the center of his breast.
“This is my blood,” he said, in a plain-speaking way, raising his goblet of wine. “Drink of it.”
We all took our draughts.
“This is my flesh,” he said, in a plain-speaking way, looking for a moment to the spitted lamb, then raising the round of cake. “Eat of it.”
The mystery of his words overtook them, and me as well. They ate. There was relish in their eating of the cakes and their drinking of the wine.
Though most of them were silent, Jesus conversed calmly with others of them, softening and slowing his voice as he did so, guided by the looks of languorous pleasance that softly and slowly stole across their faces. The emptied drinking-bowls sat or lay beside them.
The blend of potion and cakes seemed to be potent. All seemed to have entered a peace of rarest sweet dreams.
One man opened his eyes. Bearing his weight on his elbow, he did his best to sit upright. He smiled at what he saw, or did not see, or thought he saw. The rest of them lay as if slumbering, but were awake in their reveries.
There was but one child among these people. It could not be seen, but could be heard to cry. I followed the sound of its cry, tilted the dregs from one of the cups to its lips, and soon it slept and did not cry. The quiet was now such that, except for the song of a bird far away, all that could be heard was an occasional faint crackling from the embers under the lamb.
“Look at me,” whispered Jesus to the man nearest him, and he placed his hand on the man’s bare shin. The man stirred only slightly, and did not open his eyes.
“Do you see them?” asked Jesus, in a voice that could be heard by all.
They remained as if in sleep.
“A thousand and more,” said Jesus. “There, in the valley. Your people. They have returned.”
There was much smiling among those who lay upon the grass with eyes closed. Here and there, a sigh of happiness could be heard among them.
“An elder comes first. Then a bride and husband. They are young. What a wedding feast this is to be! Beyond the thousand, another thousand, and still more.
“They call your names. They
say beautiful things. Their tidings are wondrous. They are so very joyous to see you here.
“I have but two more cakes, and little wine. But on this blessed day, two will become as two thousand, and little will become as an endless flowing. All will eat, and all will drink. This feast will not be forgotten. Tabgha will be celebrated.
“Do you feel the embrace of those who have returned to you?”
As winds pass through leaves, deep and visible undulations of felicity passed through those who lay in the grass. We could hear the sough of dreamers who did not sleep.
Moving stealthily, we strewed among them bright ribbons from our mottled gray jenny-ass, Charity, two half-eaten sweet-smoked fish of Magdala, a crust of barley bread, some coins of brass and some coins of silver—cryptic evidence and mementos of the great wedding feast that never was.
We stole away, toward Gennesaret. The moon was pale in the afternoon sky, like the ghost of a moon from another age.
“There,” I said. “That wasn’t too difficult, was it? Now tell me the nature of our miracle, before I hear it twisted all round by a complete stranger who was not there.”
“You have attended a wedding feast. A most marvelous wedding feast. The living and the dead were there. Thousands of them. Neither vanishing Tabgha nor the world, neither you nor I nor anyone else, has ever before known the likes of such a feast.”
“They were good people,” I said after a while.
“Now they are better,” said our Lord.
It was good to travel alone, just the two of us, if only for this short distance. As we walked toward Gennesaret with the setting sun, we devised a sort of code by which Jesus could address me and gain my attention in the presence of the disciples without attracting their notice.
As Jesus contrived, whenever he henceforth uttered the phrase “the beloved disciple,” or “the beloved disciple,” it would be a signal that he spoke to me, or of me, or for my ears specifically.
He expressed a desire to indulge in opium, to experience that place of peace, contentment, and rare sweet dreams that was descried in the faces of the tent-dwellers. I told him that there would be time and opium aplenty for this in Rome. We could not now risk the possibility of our Lord making inappropriate revelations.
