Naomi Alderman - The Liars' Gospel

They attempted it, early on. Just a little statue of, let us say, the Blessed Augustus. Just one, here in an outer courtyard. The battles were so long and so bloody that even the Romans became sickened by the slaughter necessary to keep that little figure in its place. These people would rather die, each one of them, even the children, than give up the sanctity of their holy places. It is an unusual and puzzling level of dedication to a god who cannot be seen or touched or felt.

But Rome is nothing if not flexible. Within limits. Annas, who was High Priest at the time, suggested a way around so many difficulties.

“We cannot worship your God-Emperor,” he explained sadly to the Prefect, “the people will not tolerate it. But we can dedicate some of our worship to him.”

And Rome sighed and said, “Very well.”

So, instead of the forbidden statue in a courtyard, there is this. Caiaphas slaughters a lamb every day, just one sacrifice among many, but this one dedicated to the health and well-being of the Emperor Tiberius, whose reach stretches even to this distant province.

And there are those who call him a traitor for this. In general, the young priests are so eager to perform Temple services that they race to compete for them, or draw lotteries to see who will get the honor. But not for this sacrifice. They go to it grudgingly, having to be summoned repeatedly. Even the lambs do not behave, bucking and bleating and kicking out.

But what can one do? One lamb among so many, to keep Rome happy. But, say the mutterers, nothing can keep her happy. But we must try to keep her happy. This is my task, he says to himself as he brings the knife towards the lamb, this is my duty, this is how we keep the Temple standing and the services being offered. This, this, only this.

In the private predawn light when the household is sleeping, Caiaphas takes a horn of ink and a quill and a strip of vellum cut from the end of a letter he had written to save it for another occasion. He dips the sharpened feather into the rich black ink. Holds it so that the bead of excess liquid drips back into the horn. Tamps it against the silver-rimmed edge so that his first stroke on the vellum will be clean and clear.

He holds the parchment still with his left hand and begins to write with his right. It is the words of the curse against adultery. “If you are defiled by a man who is not your husband, the Lord shall make you a curse and a watchword among your people. And the bitter waters of the curse shall go into your bowel and make your belly swell and your thighs wither.”

He takes particular care over one of the words. The short horizontal line of the yud with its tiny tail at the right, like a tadpole. Then the house-like structure of the letter hei: a solid horizontal line held up by a long vertical coming down on the right, and a small vertical line inside, as if it were sheltering from the rain. Then a vav, proud and tall, like a yud grown to manhood. Then the final hei. The pen scratches on the parchment. The black ink runs minutely into imperfections in the vellum. It is done. There is the name of God.

He waits and watches for the ink to dry. It seems wrong to leave the paper. He has turned it into one of the holiest things on earth. So he just waits, as the ink soaks in and changes color slightly. He blows on it a little. It does not take very long. The sun is just peeping over the horizon when it is done. The ink is dry. He holds the vellum in his hand. This thing is so holy now that, if it were to become worn or tattered, it must be buried in a grave, like the body of one whose soul is departed.

He places the ink horn and the quill back on their appointed shelf. He goes to the well in the courtyard of his house. He fills a small slender-necked jug with water. He sits beneath the vines and fruit trees as the birds begin to call out with joy for the start of a new day.

He looks at the parchment for a long time, taking in the letters. The curse which cannot harm unless harm has already been done. The name of God. An impossible tense of the verb “to be,” which suggests somehow at the same time something which is and was, something which has been and will be. It is entirely forbidden to destroy this name once it is written. Except for one sacred purpose.

Without thinking too hard, at last, he plunges the paper into the water. Waves it to and fro. Watches as the letters dissolve until there is nothing on the paper at all. The name of God is now in the water. The curse is in the water. They are bitter waters. He takes from his belt the folded-over piece of linen he keeps with him always. He retrieves from it the pinch of dust he took from the outer sanctuary. Drops it into the water. Shakes the jug to dissolve it.

He brings an empty wineskin from the kitchen — the servants are just beginning to rise, he can hear them moving slowly upstairs. He pours the holy water into the skin. Holds it close to his beating heart, as if he can feel the name of God inside it. It is done.

A week goes past with no disturbance. Then two, then three. Shops and market stalls begin to reopen. The barber in the road next to Caiaphas’s city house sings one morning in the late summer as he used to do. The maker of pots produces a new design of interlocking wheat sheaves, very pretty. No one fulminates in the market square or passes seditious notes from one hand to another. It is like the silence after a thunderclap.

It has been a little while since Annas came to visit. He comes now cheerfully, as if that moment of self-doubt is entirely expunged from his mind. He bears scrolls of parchment with some good news. The harvest in the north is successful. And Pilate has received a sharp note from Syria about the massacre in the square.

“They have warned him that if this continues he will be recalled,” says Annas, as his daughter pours for them the wine of the evening.

And the daughter, Caiaphas’s wife, looks up suddenly and says, “If this continues? So you are saying we will have to have another massacre before he can be sent home?”

If she were another man’s daughter, or merely Caiaphas’s wife, Annas would have raged at her. Caiaphas has seen his rages: terrifying and cold when they arrive, and sudden. Caiaphas prepares himself for the onslaught, feels the muscles of his shoulders tensing and his thighs bunching and his heart beginning to race.

But there is no rage. She has taken the fire out of him with a few words. As a man’s daughter can, sometimes, if she knows him well.

Annas stares off into the distance. His face crumples. He looks older suddenly than he did. He is becoming elderly, he is nearing sixty.

“Yes,” he says, his voice deep and rumbling. “Yes, I think we will have to have another massacre before they recall him. I think that is what will happen.” He looks at her. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

She raises her eyebrows. “I wanted to know that you knew it.”

She brings another wooden chair from the covered part of the garden and sits with them. She sits closer to Caiaphas than to her father. She covers Caiaphas’s hand with hers and squeezes it. There is a reason that he married her. Not just because of who her father is, but also because of who she is for being his daughter. He did see her, when he agreed to marry her. He could not see through her skin, but he did see something.

“You’ve put Caiaphas in a hideous position,” she says, “I suppose you know that.”

“Is it my fault?” starts Annas, and then, “No, you are right. In the southern kingdom they’ve already sent word that they want you removed, Caiaphas. They have their own man for the job.” He shrugs and chuckles. “He wouldn’t be any improvement, let me tell you.”

“Removing you solves nothing,” she says to Caiaphas, “I think Pilate will trust you a little more after all this. Because it ended so badly, because he lost control of his own men. He thinks you’re in it together now. Despised by your own side. Neither of you wanting to admit how it happened.”