He read on. ‘Niobe married Amphion, a Phrygian king and son of Zeus, with whom she had fourteen children, seven sons and seven daughters. She told the people of Thebes, where she lived, that she was more worthy of their adoration than the mother goddess Leto. Leto was invisible, while everyone could see Niobe. Moreover, Leto had only two children, while she had fourteen. A typical case of hubris, overconfidence, something for which the gods always meted out severe punishment. Leto’s children, Apollo and Artemis, murdered Niobe’s children, whereupon Amphion, her husband, committed suicide. Niobe fled to Mount Sipylus, the mountain on the photo, and turned to stone. The locals say that it’s her face you can see in the rock, but it’s more likely to be Cybele, another mother goddess …’
He scrolled down to the bottom of the page. ‘There’s even a chemical element named after her, Niobium. Nb, atomic number 41—’ he muttered.
‘Give that to me for a moment,’ Awram interrupted him, taking the photograph from Peter’s hand to bring it close to his eyes. ‘It’s definitely a face,’ he said.
‘She’s cried since that day,’ Peter explained, drawing on his own knowledge now. ‘The rock is made of limestone. When the rainwater seeps through it, it really does look as though she’s crying. A river starts where her tears fall.’
‘But what does this have to do with Judith?’
‘Everything, or so it seems … it’s all to do with loss, grief, death …’ Peter thought aloud.
The poem The Raven was about the loss of a loved one too, without the hope of seeing each other in the afterlife.
Did this mean that Judith was in grave danger, he thought, and a jolt of fear went through him. Was there much more at stake than he had realised?
‘This really is extraordinary,’ Awram said as he walked over to the chuppah. He gave the photograph back to Peter, who followed him in the hope that he would find something there that would clearly show him what the next step was supposed to be. Did they want him to go to Turkey? Is that what they were trying to tell him?
Awram stood under the sheet that hung from the chuppah. He took hold of one of its corners and spread it out. There was a hole in the middle, more of a slit, in fact, embroidered all around with grey flowers. He dropped the cloth again and let out a heavy sigh.
Now Peter picked up the corner of the sheet and spread it out, just as Awram had done. ‘What sort of sheet is this?’ he asked.
‘This is …’ Awram laughed dolefully. ‘This is one of those things … Look.’ He took the sheet from Peter’s hand and angrily yanked it loose. It drifted onto the floor. He picked up one side of the cloth. ‘Take hold of those two corners,’ he ordered.
They spread it out, making it easier to see that there was an opening in the middle of it, a slit.
‘This is one of those persistent stereotypes,’ Awram said bitterly, ‘that just won’t go away. In some very orthodox groups, a couple lays this sheet over the woman when they’re having sex. The man puts … well, I’m sure you understand what I mean. The idea is that while sex is a duty within marriage, particularly the sex that leads to procreation, one must be careful not to derive too much pleasure from it. It could lead you to fall away from God. Before you know it, you’re addicted to sex to the exclusion of all other pursuits. It’s never been an established part of Jewish culture, it was never a widespread practice. But you’ll still find this story everywhere, even in serious journalism. It speaks to the imagination … It’s rather sensational stuff, of course.’
Peter helped Awram to fold the sheet up again.
‘What now?’
‘Maybe the sheet is the clue?’ Awram suggested. ‘This sheet is so out of the ordinary … If it was just about the photo, they would have used a length of string, wouldn’t they?’
Peter nodded. A thought slowly began to form in his head. ‘I need to think about this properly. The sheet … It’s something you just said …’
Awram looked at him sympathetically, wanting to help him, but not knowing how. ‘The sheet … sex as a duty …’ he offered, but Peter shook his head.
‘Being careful not to derive too much pleasure from it,’ Awram went on. ‘Addiction …’
Peter buried his face in his hands. ‘It’s about self-control,’ he said at last, rubbing his hands over his face.
‘That’s what Judaism strives to achieve, yes. Although I think that’s true of all religions, isn’t it? Curbing the impulses so as not to be constantly carried away by one’s passions. It leaves you free to focus on what is actually good, on God …’
‘It’s a battle …’
‘A little like Plato …’
In Phaedrus, one of his classic dialogues, Plato compared the soul to a charioteer who must control a pair of horses. The good horse represented the human will and determination, and the bad horse represented lusts and passions.
‘Yes, exactly. But it’s a common trope, overcoming appetites and desires. In Buddhism, they’re thought to be the cause of human suffering. In Hinduism, if you focus on the transient, things that are temporary, you get stuck in an endless cycle of reincarnation. Your soul is trapped in the material, in the physical. It’s an ancient theme that crops up in many stories. All those knights fighting dragons, the famous Saint George slaying his dragon, it’s all about triumphing over our animalistic nature.’
Peter had the feeling that he was getting closer, but couldn’t quite put his finger on exactly what it was that he was closer to. ‘In Christianity there’s the Apostle Paul, of course. He was concerned with …’ he said tentatively. The more he thought about it, the more he felt it was something to do with Paul. The messages in Wickr, the references in the note, the scripture from Romans …
‘Paul …’ Awram repeated, thinking out loud with Peter. ‘Paul said it was better for man not to touch a woman. There was nothing wrong with marriage, but it was better to remain single.’
‘And that if you couldn’t control yourself, then you ought to get married. Because it would be better to be married than to burn with passion,’ Peter added. ‘It’s about the battle … Paul used the language of war in a lot of his writings.’
They were silent for a few moments.
‘So then, let us cast off the deeds of darkness,’ Peter said, quoting Paul’s words, ‘and put on the armour of light.’
‘That’s if it is about a battle … and if it’s about Paul the Apostle …’
‘I don’t know, it’s intuition. I feel like I’m getting closer.’
‘I’m sure you’re familiar with the scripture in Ephesians? Paul tells the people to put on the full armour of God so that they can defend themselves against the devil. The war isn’t being fought against man.’
‘Yes,’ Peter said enthusiastically, ‘and it’s followed by that text describing a Roman soldier’s uniform …’
‘Exactly.’
‘It might be what I’m looking for, but …’ Peter said, sounding uncertain. ‘To go from a sheet to a Roman’s soldier’s armour … I don’t know.’
‘It’s not a direct link, but if you think that you need to be looking at Paul, then it’s really not that far-fetched,’ Awram reassured him.
Peter had an idea. ‘Could I borrow your phone?’ he asked. ‘I want to call someone.’
He didn’t want to use the phone that he’d found. Someone might be listening in on it somehow.
They went back downstairs to the study, and Peter sat at the table.
Awram handed over his mobile phone. ‘The battery is almost dead. Sorry. My charger is at home. But I think it will last long enough for a quick call.’ Then he opened a cupboard and placed the folded cloth inside. He shook his head. Peter couldn’t tell if it was from vexation or disbelief.
Peter hardly knew any phone numbers by heart these days, but he could remember Fay Spežamor’s. She was a professor and the curator of Roman and Etruscan Art at the National Museum of Antiquities. If anyone could tell him about the uniforms of Roman soldiers, it was her.
It was late, quarter past twelve. But he decided to take the chance.
He tapped in her number. Fay answered before the second ring.
‘A very good morning to you,’ she said cheerfully.
‘Hello, Fay,’ he said. ‘It’s Peter, Peter de Haan. Sorry …’
‘Peter!’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘Gosh, that’s weird. I was just thinking about you. What’s going on? I heard they were looking for you!’
‘Listen,’ Peter cut her off, ‘this is very important. It’s true, they are looking for me, but it’s not … It’s complicated.’
‘I’m listening.’
Peter hesitated. He didn’t know where to begin, or which details were most important.
‘I’ll give you the short version. My good friend Judith Cherev, you know her, she’s missing. I have to find her.’
‘But the police …’
‘I’m not allowed to ask for help.’
‘So what are you doing right now?’
‘I think they just mean the police. But listen … They told me I had to follow the black raven. Quintus has a pair of stuffed ravens, so I went there … I found a book with a note inside that led me to the synagogue on the Levendaal. That’s where I am now. They had set up a chuppah, you know, what the bride and groom stand under.’
There was silence on the other end of the line, as though there was nobody there.
‘Are you still there?’ Peter asked, sounding desperate.
‘Yes, yes I’m here, I’m just processing it all.’
‘I’m sorry for calling you so late,’ he went on, ‘but right now I can’t think of anyone else who might be able to help me.’
Another silence.
‘They left another clue here in the synagogue. It looks like following the clues will lead me to Judith. Someone is playing a very strange game with me. The problem is, I don’t know how to explain it. Just now, Awram and I, we—’
‘A raven,’ Fay interjected, ‘a bridegroom …’
‘Yes, what about them?’
‘I think I can help you.’
‘Really?’ Peter asked hopefully.
‘I know what you’re looking for,’ Fay said with certainty.
‘What? What do I need to find?’
‘You’re looking for a soldier.’
THE SECOND VISION
And behold, I saw the young man again, a few years older now, standing on the square in front of the great temple, haggling with the high priest, a pile of hides already on his cart. He buys wholesale with his fellow craftsmen, the tent-makers like himself, the sandal-makers, and anyone else who makes things from leather. The hides are costly, an important source of income for the priests. The tent-maker is the spokesman for his group, silver-tongued, despite his limited command of the language of the Jews. He speaks Greek, and Latin also, and in a strange hotchpotch of these, peppered with Aramaic and a word of Hebrew here and there, he gets a good deal, time and time again.
And behold, she walks out from the atrium, the daughter of the high priest, how beautiful she is! Her eyes are like doves behind her veil. Her hair flows in waves like a herd of goats coming down the hills of Gilead. Her teeth are as white as ewes: like a flock of sheep coming up from washing, ready to be shorn, each one bearing twins and not one of them missing. Her lips are like a scarlet ribbon, her mouth is inviting. Her smile sparkles, her cheeks are like halves of a pomegranate behind her veil. Her neck is like the tower of David, built with courses of stone and hung with a thousand shields, all of them shields of warriors. Her breasts are like the twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies.
And the tent-maker thinks: show me your face, let me hear your voice;
for your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely. You have stolen my heart, my bride, with one glance of your eyes, with one jewel of your necklace.
The high priest looks upon the young man who stands there as though he has been struck by lightning. And he looks at his daughter who nods at them kindly. He sees the leather worker with the filthy cap in his hands, the dirty nails, and the hands stained with blood and lye, the muck in the creases of his face, standing there on bow legs like a lovesick calf.
And the young man decides: I will have myself circumcised, I will change my name. From now on, I will be Saul, like the great king of old. For the Jews, I will be a Jew. He leaves the house of his Father, who lets him go, but with sorrow, for he has recently reached the second rung of the ladder. He undergoes the seven ritual baths, abstains from unclean food, and studies the books of the ancients, the Septuagint, since the Hebrew is too difficult for him.
And behold, he has himself circumcised, but a clumsy hand makes a bloodbath of it, a mutilation of his manhood. Time heals all wounds, but this disfigurement will last a lifetime. Urination is painful. He joins the temple guards to indulge the high priest. He is fanatical, zealous about the law, intolerant of deviations from doctrine. He is at the forefront of the battle, to be a Pharisee is his goal. His orders come from the high priest, and how the young man looks forward to each meeting with him and the opportunity it brings to see her, the most lovely of all women. Like a lily among thorns, so is his love among the young women.
And hark, there is Stephen speaking: ‘You stiff-necked people, uncircumcised in heart and ears, you are forever opposing the Holy Spirit, just as your ancestors used to do! Which of the prophets did your ancestors not persecute? They killed those who foretold the coming of the Righteous One, and now you have become his betrayers and murderers. You are the ones that received the law as ordained by angels, and yet you have not kept it.’
And behold, when the people hear these things they are enraged, and grind their teeth at him. They cover their ears and all rush together at him, shouting loudly. Then they drag him out of the city and begin to stone him. And the witnesses lay down their cloaks at the young man’s feet and they stone Stephen, who calls out, ‘Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.’ Then he kneels down and begs, ‘Lord, do not hold this sin against them.’ And when he has said these words, he dies. And Saul approves of his execution.
And behold, the labourer is rewarded fittingly. The high priest sends him on a secret mission to Damascus with a letter. He is entrusted with this, he has been chosen. And at last upon his return, he will be found worthy. He will ask for the daughter’s hand. How sweet is your love, my bride! How much better is your love than wine, and your scent sweeter than any spice! Your lips drip nectar, my bride, honey and milk are under your tongue, the fragrance of your garments is like the fragrance of Lebanon.
And he goes on his way, with his helpers, the letter in a leather bag, hanging at his breast by a leather cord around his neck. As he spurs his horse on over the rough road that leads to Damascus, he thinks:
I am a Bridegroom.
15
MILES
SOLDIER
Twenty-one years earlier, spring 1994
In 1994, the archaeological theme park Archeon opened its doors in Alphen aan den Rijn. This presented the priest and his ‘Knights of Christ’ with a new target. The park was a living museum of the Stone Age, the Roman era and the Middle Ages in the Netherlands. There were buildings in the style of each period, and the staff dressed in costume to perform historical re-enactments of typical activities like baking bread on open fires, pottery making and archery.
There was also a temple dedicated to Nehalia or Nehalennia, a fertility goddess from the region now known as the Belgian North Sea Coast and Dutch Zeeland. She was a Celtic or Germanic goddess, worshipped by travellers, particularly sailors and merchants. Her devotees made offerings of food to her and pledged to erect altars to her upon their safe return.
When one of the knights told him about the park, the priest was initially unsure how it might be relevant to their war on faithlessness. But when he understood that the park not only had a pagan temple, but that the public was entertained there twice a day with ritual offering ceremonies, he knew he had to act. While these rituals looked like
innocent fun, they were disturbingly real. Two ‘history interpreters’ dressed as priestesses lit a flame in an offering bowl and invited the spectators to offer leaves, berries or ears of corn and beseech the goddess to bless all their endeavours. Though they thought it was only make-believe, it would allow Satan to gain access to the unsuspecting audience. Even worse, to the innocent souls of the little children who did not yet know that the devil prowled around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.
One of his fellow knights suggested that they take their own offering bowl with them, pour water over the wood inside it and then ask God to send down fire from heaven, but he would not allow it. It had worked for Elijah once, of course, but would God give such a sign these days? Their plan would literally be dead in the water if the fire from heaven did not arrive. Much simpler would be to kick over their burning offering bowl, and tell the crowd a story about Jesus as the light of the world. They would draw a parallel between the flames of the burnt offering and the fires of hell that awaited them if they did not repent and come to the true and only God.
There were thirteen of them that day. They bought tickets at the entrance, some of them grudgingly, complaining that they didn’t want to give Archeon any financial support. They rode to the temple on the white bicycles that the park provided free to visitors. ‘I’m a knight on a steed of steel,’ one of them joked.
The twelve knights pedalled behind the priest, two-by-two.
Afterwards, some of them said that the fit had been triggered by the stroboscopic flickering of sunlight through the trees. As the temple came into view, he was suddenly surrounded by a light from heaven. He fell from his bike and heard a voice saying to him: ‘Why are you persecuting me?’
The priest replied: ‘Who are you?’
The answer came: ‘I am who I am. I have many faces. I am the one you are persecuting. It hurts you to keep on kicking against the goads.’
The men who had travelled with him were stunned. Some said that they heard a voice but saw no one speaking. Others said later that they had seen the light but heard no voice.
St Paul's Labyrinth Page 11
