Love. He would have given much to be in a woman’s bed, she faceless as Eve and with Eve’s body to comfort him, our first mother, our first mistress, her mind removed, impenetrable as God’s, in the dreams of betrayal, her brain a maze of caprice. But the love of a woman’s body was but God’s cunning device to breed more creatures for suffering. He wished, of course, to be back in bed with his mother, comforted to sleep out of the bad dreams that had brought her to his cot, a mother’s sleep ever quick to be disturbed by the cry, even the almost soundless whimper, of her child caught in the snares of nightmare, God’s gift to the innocent. But he knew now he was totally alone with the burden of a very different and perhaps useless love. No woman’s body would ever comfort him. That vision of acceptance had been the work of his nerves and muscles, announcing that the incubus of the falling sickness was at an end. Pain was henceforth to arrive from without. He was strong and girt and ready for teaching that all men have the falling sickness, a gift from Eve. He had a strange presentiment that it was against Eve that he must do battle. Eve stood silvered on that near hillock, her body sprouting breasts like monstrous warts. He dried his tears on the sleeve of his robe. Then, trying to fill his brain with love for the loveless world, he began to walk, staffless and scripless, the long road to Jerusalem.
In Caesarea early the previous day the first thing to be unloaded from the merchant ship from Puteoli was a huge crate. Marcellus the procurator and the senior centurion Cornelius knew what it contained. They stood on the wharf and watched it dragged from the hold and set, with wholesome cursing from the stipatores or stevedores, beneath the hook of the crane which would lift it, swinging from its copper binding, to the shore. Marcellus said: ‘What do I do, Cornelius?’
‘Temporise,’ Cornelius said. ‘Delay. The true art of the ruler. On the other hand, if you want a general massacre – on both sides – obey the man, or the god as he thinks he is. I needn’t point out to you the utter blasphemousness of this business.’
‘Blasphemy,’ Marcellus said. ‘Blasphemos. I hear this word all the time from the Jews. I don’t understand it. It’s not a Roman concept. I’ve had the wrong sort of education perhaps. If they believe in one god – well, why can’t they have the image of this one god in their damned Temple?’
‘Yes,’ Cornelius said. ‘A Roman education isn’t much good here. Unless all Rome wants from them is money. You must often have considered the true meaning of the name of the rank you carry. A procurator is here to procure. So nothing else matters except their obols and shekels. They ought to be glad to pretend that the image of the deified Gaius Caligula is really the image of Jehovah. Bow down before it, worship. But God has no image. And God isn’t a man.’
‘You served here how long, Cornelius?’
‘Long enough to learn about what they believe. Not long enough to learn to speak their language well enough to get their confidence. Not long enough to learn how to read their books. Now I’ve three years before retirement and a measure of spare time for getting down to it.’
‘This, you know,’ Marcellus said, ‘is all wrong. You’re not here to get their confidence or read their books. They’re a colonised people. We’re here to give orders.’
‘They’d rather die than obey some of the Roman orders. Besides, it’s laid down that their religion is inviolate.’
‘Is what?’
‘Mustn’t be interfered with. Tell them that the Emperor is God and you’re interfering with their religion.’
‘But, damn it, they have to obey the Emperor.’
‘They have to obey his tax-gatherers. No more than that.’
Marcellus groaned. The vast crate was now on the quay. A slat of oak had loosened. There was a gleam of warm metal from within. He said: ‘According to this new sect of the Jews God turned himself into a man. The slave called Chrestus.’
‘A slight confusion there, procurator, as I’ve taken the liberty of mentioning before. Chrestus is, I grant you, a common enough name for a slave. What does it mean? Cheerful, helpful, useful. But the name you mean is Christus. This man was not a slave but a son of the royal House of David. If you have in mind pretending that this statue of the Emperor is really a statue of Christus, then you’re in terrible trouble from both sides. You won’t get it into the Temple. You won’t get any image into the Temple. You’re in a cleft stick. With respect, of course.’
The dawn wind sighed and Marcellus sighed with it. ‘I must stop seeking information from you, Cornelius. You always give me too much. But I accept your advice. The divine Caligula must go into temporary storage. We make some excuse when or if that senatorial visit takes place. Or if the powers that be in Syria become inquisitive. The effigy badly cast or defaced by an angry mob, something of the kind. Our best workmen busy repairing it. We have enough trouble with these damned Jews without seeking more.’
But, as is too well known, good intentions, and this cunctatorial policy of the procurator might be regarded as good, are often foiled by the very people for whom they are implemented. It was in Rome that Judaea was put into peril of revolt. Philo Judaeus, leader of the Jewish community, demanded and obtained an interview with the Emperor himself. He wished to register a protest. He came to the gardens of the Palatine with a deputation of five of his race and faith, good Romans though heavily bearded and capped and robed in the style of their people. Gaius Caligula lounged in a garden chair, stroking the limbs of a Greek boy, taking wine but not offering it, half listening under the cypresses as Philo said:
‘The concept of a single God – not of a pantheon – Jupiter, Saturn and the rest—’ Philo looked at the pantheon of stone figures that lined a garden walk – bodies varying in musculature and implements of pseudodivine office, thunderbolt, trident, wings on heels, but all topped with the same smirking head. ‘Well, Caesar – it has long been accepted by the Roman state that the Jewish concept is to receive the respect of the occupying power—’
‘Only the Emperor,’ the Emperor said, ‘exacts respect. Your faith, which I know something about since it is the faith of my old friend Herod Agrippa, is certainly tolerated, and that should be enough. It is bizarre, exotic, amusing. It adds its own colour to the gorgeous tapestry of our Empire. It has even taught something to our Empire – this very notion of one god you talk of. The Emperor is this god, this god is the Emperor. What could be more satisfying?’
‘It is not very satisfying to the Jews,’ Philo said. ‘God to us is a spirit – unborn, undying. Even the Emperor has to die.’
Gaius Caligula squeezed the thigh of the Greek boy and made him squeal. ‘You will not speak to me of death, do you hear? A god is by definition immortal.’
‘I beg Caesar’s pardon,’ Philo said. ‘Let me confine the petition to this. Do not, we beg, for the sake of the tranquillity of your Palestinian possessions, insist that your statue be installed in the holy Temple of Solomon which is in Jerusalem.’
‘It has already been installed. To the great satisfaction of the Jewish people. At least I hear no complaints. Now they can see their God. They have a solidity to bow down to.’
‘I would be shaming the faith of our fathers if I said: yes, Caesar, that is so. But it is not so. Your procurator Marcellus appears to be a man of sense and a credit to Caesar’s capacity for choosing good administrators—’
‘I did not choose him. The Emperor Tiberius chose him. I know nothing of him. Has he,’ and he leant forward gaping, ‘has he disobeyed our orders?’
‘Letters from Jerusalem inform our community here that he has very wisely delayed his obedience. But now orders from your governor in Syria force him into a situation of immediate compliance. I need not, I hope, stress the—’
But Gaius Caligula was on his feet, stamping with his little boots. He frowned viciously at Torquatus and Strabo, two state officers in attendance. ‘Why,’ he yelled, ‘have I not been told of this? Why are things kept from me?’ They could not answer. Philo said:
‘To conclude, your procurator Marcellus
has been forced to order that your statue – We beg of you to have the order rescinded – It is in the interests of peace and tranquillity—’ Gaius Caligula frothed and danced, crying:
‘Get out of here, you unwashed Jews. I shall be rid of your oh so friendly procurator. I shall have him recalled and punished. You shall have his head in your synagogue here to croon over, your one Roman friend, alas dead. You’ve always wanted a Jewish king over Jewry, have you not, eh? Well, you shall have King Herod Agrippa, a real friend of Rome. He will see that my image is installed. He will see that it is worshipped according to the sacred imperial rites. Take your unwashed bodies out of here.’
‘With respect, Caesar,’ Philo said calmly, ‘it is you who are the unwashed people. You are also uncircumcised. It is the mission of the Jews to cleanse the world. You propose making it even more dirty. Much blood is going to flow, believe me—’ But the Emperor got his whip to them. They padded down a walk of symmetrical arbutus with such dignity as speed would permit. Then the Emperor, dressed in a kirtle of sky-blue embroidered with yellow crocuses which showed much of his hairless thighs, stormed at Torquatus and Strabo. Garotting, crucifixion, confiscation. They nodded sagely; they had heard such things before.
‘Confiscation of goods,’ Strabo eventually said. ‘I am glad that Caesar has raised the matter. Whatever you wish to be done with the Jews, your other proposal is unacceptable.’
‘What other proposal? What is unacceptable? To whom unacceptable? If a thing is acceptable to Caesar that is enough.’
‘With respect,’ Strabo said, ‘it is against all our traditions to have Roman patricians arbitrarily executed in order that their estates may be confiscated.’
‘It won’t be arbitrary,’ the Emperor said, calmer now, ‘if you fasten crimes on to them. I need money. I intend to have money.’
‘There are commodities,’ Torquatus said, ‘that may be sold at auction. Being of imperial provenance they will fetch good prices.’
‘I,’ the Emperor cried, ‘selling his own goods and chattels?’
‘Things Caesar has but does not use and will not miss,’ Strabo said. ‘There is, for example, the older of the golden chariots. The five hundred acres near Neapolis. The imperial household has more slaves than it can use.’
‘Go away,’ Gaius Caligula said. ‘Go away. Your faces make me sick. A god selling off what he has by divine right. Some of your notions are of a headswimming lunacy.’ And then he screamed: ‘Damned Jews. You, Strabo, take ship to Palestine. See that that order is obeyed.’
‘With respect, Caesar—’
‘With respect respect respect. That’s all I hear, that’s what I never see. Am I the Emperor or am I not?’
For the moment, Torquatus said to himself.
Paul arrived hooded in Jerusalem. He also arrived at nightfall. But Joseph Barnabas recognised his gait. A rumour had come through from Damascus very hard to credit. But Saul was alone and not hooding himself against mere pacific Nazarenes. Joseph Barnabas watched him make for the street where the former house of Matthias lay. He took the chance and hailed him.
‘Saul!’ Saul turned.
‘Joseph Barnabas? Yes. Has news come from Damascus?’
‘News not easy to believe.’
‘Nevertheless you must believe it. Will you accompany me to the brethren? You see me alone. I’m also unarmed.’
‘A man,’ Barnabas said, ‘doesn’t change from a hater of the faith to a preacher of the faith. Not like that, not overnight.’
‘It was much less than overnight, Joseph Barnabas. Your faith tells you to accept miracles, after all. You see a man changed. Even my name is changed.’
‘We heard that too.’
There were only Peter, Thomas and the two Jameses at home. The house was as unclean as it always had been since the Nazarene appropriation. The apostles sat around their dining table, on which a lamp sat spluttering like a poor substitute for dinner. They eyed Paul warily. Peter said:
‘What I don’t understand is this – if you’re so frightened of arrest and retribution and the rest of it, why did you come back to Jerusalem? Damn it, man, it’s right into the arms of your killers—’
‘I came back for instructions.’
‘Well,’ Thomas said, ‘that’s honest, anyway. Tell the chief priest ye’re pretending to be a Nazarene and what do I do now your holiness. Oh, very clever.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Thomas,’ Peter said. ‘He means instructions from us.’
‘A swift change, I know,’ Paul said. ‘I’m still an instrument. But now for other hands. What do you wish me to do?’ Thomas muttered something about a man that turns his coat once will turn it twice.
‘Quiet, Thomas,’ Peter said. ‘What I say to you, Saul—’
‘Paul.’
‘—is to get away from here. Think things over.’
‘I’ve thought things over. Or shall I say it was done for me?’
‘You’re no use dead and it’s dead you’ll be if you stay. Go back home. You’ll be safe there.’
‘Home? Tarsus?’
‘Get back to your father and your mother or whatever you have and your books and your tentmaking. Convert a little. Try it out.’
‘I wish to try it out in Judaea. Not necessarily here in the city. But it’s a kind of justice, preaching to the Greek Jews – that’s what I have in mind.’ His voice faltered. ‘Talking of Greek Jews—’
‘As soon as you’d left,’ James the son of Zebedee said, ‘they let your suffering lot out of the place where you’d had them put. It’s been pretty quiet since you left. But if you start preaching here they’ll chop you down and then bethink themselves of the rest of us. We’ve had enough trouble,’ he added in his innocence.
‘The Lord,’ Paul said, ‘told me what to do. He said nothing about running home to avoid persecution. I’ve a lot to make up for. I must take my chance.’
‘Look,’ Peter said, ‘you come here all humble saying you want instructions. And then you start on about the Lord telling you what to do. The Lord told you nothing. You’ve never seen the Lord. We have. And the Lord was pretty clear about everything being in our hands. So will you be told by me or will you not?’
‘What he could try,’ James the Little said, ‘is that concentration of Greeks down in Bethany. It’s a powerful weapon, you see, the big whip becoming one of the faithful. It’s a bit of a waste, sending him off home to think things over.’
‘I’ve thought things over,’ Paul said once more.
‘Go on then,’ Peter said resignedly. ‘Stick to the fringe of the city. But as soon as they break your head with a stone come back here for your passage money. Barnabas and Thomas had better go with you. See how you get on. We don’t just let anyone preach the word, you know. You can’t just suddenly know it all, just like that, with a twist of the wrist.’
‘Leave me out,’ Thomas said. ‘I’m too old for yon stone-throwing.’
Marcus Julius Tranquillus breathed northern sea air, looking out in a chill dawn across bilious green waters to a ghost of white cliffs. He had a woollen cloak wrapped about him. He admired the steam of his breathing and that of his companion on guard, Rufus Calvus, who was neither bald nor haired reddish brown. ‘Britannia Britannia Britannia,’ Marcus Julius sang, stamping on the shingle near the long line of landing craft. ‘What do the natives call it?’
‘There’s no one name. Each tribe has its own little region which it thinks to be the big world.’
‘And now the real big world rushes in. The Roman eagle spreads its wings—’ There was no need to complete the pleasantry, known, in many languages, all over the Empire. Rufus Calvus laughed guiltily. He said:
‘This is known as building an empire. Ultima Thule. The edge of the world. And what do we bring?’
‘Law. Order. Roads. Temples. For worship of the divine Caligula. A more pertinent question is: what do we take back?’
‘Slaves. Tribute. Gold. Silver. To replenish,’ Rufus Calvus spoke the wo
rds in a mockery of the senatorial rhetorical manner, ‘depleted ah coffers. Britannia as a cure for imperial poverty.’ A bucina brayed. There was soon a whole ringing consort of bucinae all over the camp that lay behind them. ‘We’d better take post.’
Vast forces for the invasion. The camp sprawled far. Troops put on breastplates round fires that had been kept alight all night long, shivering. Piled shields and pila clashed and squeaked. Drums rolled. Tuba and bucina groaned in antiphony. Soldiers lined up by companies under barking under-officers. Horses were dragged whinnying towards their sea transportation. They smelt cold and did not like it. There was a swish of swords removed for inspection and then sheathed. A forest of spears arose from the dunes. Officers bawled, faces red raw with the morning’s razor. Tents were struck and loaded on to carts that were wheeled towards the boats. Waves crashed, gulls wailed. The tribune Cornelius Sabinus inspected in preparation for the imperial inspection. Trumpets. From his tent yawning came Gaius Caligula, queasy from the night’s wine. He walked pompously, staff lined up behind him, to the inspection of the legions, to which had been attached a segment of the Praetorian Guard. The inspection was long, shivering, thorough. The Emperor complained bitterly of the cold, an affront to his divinity. The sun was well up by the time he was ready to be helped on to a cart in order to address the assembly. He addressed the assembly with due solemnity, though not well heard in the rear ranks: