Jonathan Trigell - The Tongues of Men or Angels

But here comes his opponent now, prodded out from one of the arena entrances. The iron-latticed portal that closes behind him is quite poorly made, ill-fitted for filling the doorway. Wherever this place is, it is apparently somewhere with a dearth of decent blacksmiths.

Logically, they should have chosen an absurdly skinny man as the second fighter, to make the contest even more entertaining, but perhaps they were out of luck in the ranks of those sentenced to the arena, because he is quite normal-sized. He is altogether unremarkable, in fact. We cannot see his face beneath the all-concealing helm, but his body is distinctly Everyman. He could be a neighbour or the fishmonger. The only thing we know for sure is that he is a donkey thief, because the programme announcer said so, and this land — wherever it is — would doubtless be a better place with a bit less animal larceny. The crowd was jeering too much to hear what the announcer said the fat guy had done, but you can be pretty confident that it, too, was something well deserving of this fate.

They do a lot of proclamations at the arena: it’s a good way of getting information spread, particularly among people who are illiterate, as virtually everyone probably is in whatever Empire’s-edge place this is. There’s a messenger waiting to do a proclamation after this bout. Some important news has just arrived: there’s been a change of emperor.

He’s already been in power a few months, truth be told, but it takes a while for news to filter to the provinces. He’s only seventeen, the new chap, a bit of a turn-up for the books. Claudius held power for thirteen years, a good spell, but now he’s dead and his adopted son Nero is the ruler. Doubtless there will be some big shifts in Rome, but round here nothing much will happen, except the face on the few newly minted coins in circulation will be different. Imperial intrigues don’t amount to a whole lot in Bithynia or Cappadocia or wherever the hell this place is.

At least one man will never even hear the news. It’s probably going to be Fatty — he looks exhausted already from his strikes at emptiness. Though a layer of lard is a definite advantage in some ways: there’s extra weight behind your blows and it keeps the vital organs better protected from sword cuts. And you never can tell with the andabatae anyway: one lucky slash can sometimes decide a fight. Other times they manage to get a grip on one another and stab and grapple in a brutal brawl that might see both injured before it’s through. Prone on the sand to have their skulls smashed by Charon’s hammer.

They are close to each other now and they know it. Inching their feet onwards, pushing little mounds of sand as they come. The one who strikes first will give away his position and be left open if he misses, but might just land a devastating wound if he connects. What are they thinking, under those helms? Have they reached a point of strange warrior-calm, a readiness to face this and do their utmost to win? Or, like the Empire itself, do they keep moving forwards only because if they stop they may collapse?

From Cyprus the three preachers catch a ship north to the Mediterranean mainland. Saline winds smell of victory: a Roman governor converted and a miracle publicly performed. Final proof, if any should need it, of the apostleship of Paul. A name still glistening, like a cocoon-damp butterfly, veined wafer wings drying in the sun, exhausted from the effort of emergence, but proud of this alien form.

For a second time, Paul is embarking on a mission to a strange land with a letter tucked into his tunic, but on this occasion he is confident of his election and in elation.

John-Mark’s hair is a tangled wild globe, like the head of a thistle, though in his manner he is imperturbable and precise. His eyes have almost no discernible colour around the pupil and look still and black. He is a good person to have along on such a mission as this. Not only because of his faith. Or just because his mother was one of the first Jerusalem followers of The Way; the Three Pillars frequently still meet in her house. But because he is young and he is strong. Roads and boats both are haunts of robbers and worse.

John-Mark, however, is sullen as they trudge lateral to the coast towards the city of Perga, along roads curtained with undulating silver-green grasses.

‘Personally, I would sooner have no dealings with Romans beyond absolute necessity, but if you must preach to them, don’t you think you should have insisted that Sergius Paulus and his household become circumcised?’ John-Mark says finally, revealing the tick that has been biting him. ‘They cannot be committed to The Way yet not be Jews — that makes no sense. And they cannot be Jews and not be circumcised.’

Paul gives a cheery clasp to his back, as one might to a downcast child. ‘Don’t worry. All that is coming to pass is as it should be. That’s all you need to know.’

John-Mark shrugs Paul’s hand from him and strides onward at an increased pace, heels coughing up little mushrooms of dust. Paul and Barnabas share a wary glance.

They pass abundant fields, worked by iron-collared slaves, evidence of a region as rich as Paul had heard. Perga, when they approach it, is a fortified city, walls the off-white of a rock-rose, boosting from the flat coastal landscape. In the safety that Roman domination has bought, tiled villas, some quite imposing, have spilled out beyond the defences.

Barnabas himself had such an estate at one time — he was a wealthy man — but he sold all his possessions and gave the money to James the Just and the poor ones of Jerusalem. Now he travels as emissaries of the Nazarenes are supposed to, like those Yeshua first sent throughout Judaea, with just a staff and a single cloak, no bread, no bag and no money in his belt. Paul carries the purse.

On the Sabbath they go to Perga’s synagogue and preach in turn. John-Mark tells the gathering about The Way, about its founding by John and the baptism practised by him to purify and regenerate. And of his follower Yeshua — or Jesus, as they call him when they speak in Greek — who proved to be greater still. About the necessity of redoubling piety to prepare for the new age shortly to arrive. Barnabas talks about the communal meal, about the fellowship instituted by Jesus, about the last coming first. And Paul? Paul talks about different things entirely.

Afterwards John-Mark comes to him. ‘Where are you getting these ideas?’ John-Mark asks. ‘I have never heard from James or Cephas that praying to Yeshua will cleanse sins. That sounds more like a scoffable pagan tale about Osiris or someone. We shouldn’t even need sins forgiven — we have the Day of Atonement for that — and do we hate ourselves like tormented harbour-side harlots that we think our every action is a sin? Those who worship God faithful to the Torah have no reason to doubt His mercy. As the psalmist says: He does not treat us as our sins deserve, or repay us according to our iniquities .’

‘You needn’t quote scripture at me,’ Paul says. ‘Don’t forget that I have spoken to the Lord Jesus.’

‘That’s another thing. Why have you started adding “Lord” every time you say the name Jesus?’

‘Shouldn’t we respect the Messiah?’

‘Yes, of course. But for those who read the Torah and Prophets in Greek you are using the same word as for God: “ Kurios ” should not be applied in a synagogue to describe a man, even a king, even the King who will return. Neither should you be telling people to pray to one. You are coming perilously close to declaring that Yeshua is a god. There is only one God, Saul.’