The Jews did not give offerings, not to spirits or to Herakles and especially not to bulls. They had been punished in their past for honouring golden calves, and they would not be fooled again. Only in the distant Jerusalem Temple could the Jews make sacrifice to their God. Saul’s father, as citizen Jew, occupied a curious position. He could not thoroughly take part in the life of the metropolis, as his Tarsean citizenship entitled him and almost obliged him. Yet he had paid the required 250 drachmas — more than a year’s wage for most men — so citizen he was, among the elite, and citizen his son was by inheritance. Citizenships to great cities, and the privileges and protections they bestowed, were bought and sold across the civilized world. Though that rank most sought after, which few could afford, was, of course, to be Roman. A Roman could not be flogged or fined or executed, except by order of Rome.
There were few Romans in Tarsus. But those there were, soldiers and traders, brought their own cult of the bull with them: Mithraism. Its doings were secret, but the Jewish boys whispered to one another about what was known. Gleanings of what went on in the Mithraeum temple were more scant and secret than those about sex, since the latter acts — in cramped, city-walled dwellings — were frequently performed by their parents and others within earshot, when not in plain sight. Mithraism, on the other hand, was alien: a mystery religion; an initiation religion; a thing of brother-bonded devotees and shared sacred meals, with foreign concepts of everlasting abundance in heavenly eternity. On holy dates, or upon induction of a wealthy neophyte, it was said that a blindfolded bull — cloth wrapped about its eyes to make it compliant — was led aloft a scaffold and its jugular was cut to drench the new devotee below in a tide of blood. They would wash with it, rubbing the hot life force into themselves, lapping it from cupped hands, caressing it frantically into every crack and crevice of their naked flesh. All the followers of Mithras drank the blood of the bull when they could; an idea anathema to the Jews, for whom the consumption of blood had been prohibited by God. But bulls are costly and blood is messy; it was said that outside festive events, the gatherers in the Mithraeum chamber would symbolically pass a chalice of wine, a surrogate that became blood, and just as effectively blessed them with immortality.
‘They say that devotees of Mithras will live for ever,’ Saul told his father once, as they passed the Mithraeum’s descending stepped entrance.
‘Well, it’s nonsense. And we don’t believe in such upstart muck,’ his father said, looking for a moment as if he might cuff Saul, but just as suddenly softening again. ‘We believe in an ancient God. Not all that is new is good. And ours is a jealous God. Remember that, Saul, and remain faithful to Him.’
Saul did so, though he still saw the passion in the eyes of the worshippers of Mithras, as they left their vaulted cellar temple; he saw that they believed and with what fervour. And he heard the revelling, on the twenty-fifth day of the twelfth month, when they celebrated the birth of their god, born in a manger. But righteous Jews didn’t believe in frivolous rituals, heavenly hereafters, or wine that turned into blood, so he hardened his heart against it all. And he thought no more either of the civic ecstasies of Herakles-Taraz, who arose from the dead each spring. Or of the hanged god Attis, virgin born, who died for the sins of others and was resurrected three days later, whose followers ate his body in the form of bread. Such fripperies were put right to the back of Saul’s mind.
One Year after the Crucifixion
Saul has never seen Annas, the high priest, laugh before. But now his face is creased with it. He puts a palm upon his chest as if to stop a mirth so fulsome that it hurts him. His eyes are wide and watery, like a camel’s. He wheezes, as if the sudden humour has left him short of breath. He has a horrible laugh: screechy and repetitive; it echoes around the chamber. Saul hates that laugh. Saul hates being laughed at. And now every laugh directed against Saul for the rest of his life will take him back to this one.
Annas lifts himself upright, from where he was apparently bent over with the hilarity of the situation. He wipes his beard with the back of his hand, as though it must be drenched with saliva from such drollery. He makes a great and deliberate show of straightening his mouth, as if it was a trial of strength, and then he releases a final deep pant, heavy as a high noon dog’s.
‘Oh, Saul,’ Annas says, ‘when you made an appointment to see me, I was afraid you wanted your wages raised. But now you have quite made my day. Marry my daughter, you say.’ He looses another little chuckle. ‘No, I’m sorry to say that I can’t accommodate you there. Mariamme is a charming girl and I don’t doubt that she’s caught your eye, but I’m afraid I was rather hoping for a more equal match. You are a sturdy enough man, Saul. Not entirely without prospects. I’m sure that some father will be pleased to call you son, but not me.’
Annas pours himself a worked-stone beaker of water from a glass jug, with great ostentation. He does not offer Saul one.
‘Do you know who made this pitcher, Saul? Ennion of Sidon made it, one of the finest craftsmen in the world. Do you know how much it cost? No, neither do I, it was a gift, but it is probably worth more than you will ever see in your life. Do you understand? My daughter can’t marry you — in fact, I’m slightly taken aback that you thought she could. She will marry someone of her own station. She will live in a house a little like this one. Perhaps not quite so grand, but similar, and I don’t intend to pay for it. My line is of the Kohanim, greatest of the Levites, the only tribe of Israel still able to call itself such. I am a high priest. My son-in-law Kayafa is the current high priest. My son may well be high priest one day, if the Roman prefects continue to be as greedy and fickle. My family has been of priestly class since the days of Moses. And you? You are a guard, a guard from Tarsus. You would have been much better off, in fact, asking for a raise …’
And at this Annas doubles over again, roaring with laughter. Veritably bursting with merriment. Saul would like to take his sword and strike the high priest’s white-turbaned head from the shoulders draped in luxurious linen, but instead he retreats from the room. Walking demeaningly backwards as he does so, as convention dictates.
Saul’s chest feels tight about him, as he returns to the malodorous streets outside the mansion. It is as if some great force is crushing him. As if boulders were piled upon his ribcage. He loosens the straps that hold his leather breastplate in place. But it does nothing to ease the constriction.
He feels the loss of Mariamme as surely as if he had really known and possessed her; his mind is quite capable of fictive leaps. Her breasts like twin young roes; honey and milk under her tongue. Her garments scented like camphire and Lebanon, her hair of calamus and cinnamon. Her body a garden of delights, swollen with moist aloes and pink pomegranates. But Saul will never now go into that garden and enjoy those pleasant fruits. It is henceforth a garden enclosed, a fountain sealed. Or sealed to him at least. She will belong to another man, and this knowledge scorches Saul even deeper than the failure. Jealousy as cruel as the grave scourges him.
He used to wake hard and aching from Mariamme’s dream visits, so real he swore he still heard her breathing in the night and was unable to reclaim sleep for the sound. He would find himself smiling whenever he whispered her name. A name so strong and sacred, it carried a sense that it should not be spoken out loud at alclass="underline" a half Yahweh; a djinn who mustn’t be summoned.